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Archive for the ‘Reality’ Category


I remember a time when: 

arts subjects in schools were encouraged and children under 11 were helped, not to pass tests, but to blossom as individuals and to love learning. In my secondary school I had the chance to learn French, German, Latin, Greek & Spanish, art & pottery.

Teachers were happy to give up their after school time to arrange sports matches, direct plays, and help us with drama competitions, including, at my school, teaching us how to be a Greek chorus.

The Belgrade Theatre led the way with a permanent Theatre in Education company that went into schools and performed plays of relevance to their young audiences. Theatre in Education enabled children to enjoy live theatre for the first time; quality writing and performance of this theatre spoke directly to their hearts and growing minds,respecting their experience.

The network of Theatre in Education companies has vanished, along with the philosophy that arts funding should extend to children and people who cannot afford theatre tickets. Arts are now a business.

Like Thatcher, I came from a working class background – both my parents left school at 16. We had no money to spare for holidays abroad – we went and stayed with my grandparents. My education relied on free and excellent public libraries and a grant system that enabled me to go to university [the first person in my family to do so]. All through my childhood and young adulthood I could absolutely rely on free health care. 

As a result of this upbringing, I did not have a burning wish to make money. I wanted to work with people who had very little opportunity to make their voices heard. I worked in the poorest districts of Newcastle on Tyne, with travellers in Scotland and the west midlands. I saw there was still poverty and hopelessness where people felt left out of the affluent society that Thatcher encouraged. Her dreams were of goals that could simply be achieved by having more money. She was always a woman who knew the price of everything, and the value of nothing. And those values entered into the minds of a whole generation of children who now hold the reins of power and cannot understand that some people would rather spend their time helping other people.

That was society as I knew it. I still know people who cherish this idea, but they are getting older and the vision that we once shared is no longer accepted as anything but batty individualism. 

I’ve been an actor, director, puppeteer, playwright and novelist all my working life. Choosing the arts as a profession guarantees living on a shoestring. I’ve been lucky. I have never drawn the dole, or felt constricted by a lack of money. My life has been so rich in other things that matter more to me. 

Today as her funeral procession moves through London my heart will be with the silent protesters who will turn their backs on her coffin. I mourn what we have lost. I mourn the lack of strong and principled politicians who could stand up to her juggernaut of confident delusion, and show us, society, their voters, that there are other ways of thinking.

 

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Reblogged from Síle Looks Up:

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On Saturday I went to Inis Bearachain in Conamara with my sisters, their husbands, two small people and a friend whose father came from the island. We were going to visit a very particular art exhibition as part of Tulca, a multi-venue visual art festival. This is our afternoon in pictures.

We drove to Leitir Calaidh, got on a boat at the pier and sailed out to the island.

Read more… 628 more words

My friend Sile sent shivers down my spine with this post. It's like the haunting tune of 'Cape Clear' - yearning, joyful, lonely, questing.

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Last night I was watching a series of films made by the admirable Humphrey Jennings in the early 1940s. ‘London can take it’, ‘Spring Offensive’, ‘The First Days’, were all made for morale boosting propaganda purposes, but nevertheless painted a realistic picture of what the people and their government were doing to improve national health, educate people about their union rights, and inspire the population to further efforts.

One thing comes across with dazzling clarity. The genuine wish, translated into actions, of the war cabinet of the day, to enable everyone to be as healthy, as well cared for, and as informed as possible. No outsourcing or private companies stood to make profits. The priority was ourselves, the ordinary people, and these films show how much the government of the day valued its citizens and respected the conditions they were enduring.

Of course, having a war to fight helped. We had a common purpose and a shared vision. But is this what it takes to make politicians care about us? What a tragedy. It seems we have learned nothing from recent history. The nation’s health improved; we took more exercise, our diet was better, even our teeth and eyes were looked after, because those in power over us believed we mattered.

These films should be required viewing for the present day cabinet, who have forgotten what a resource we could be. If they cared.

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Revelations about the abusive behaviour of celebrities have a perversely hypnotic power to others apart from tabloid journalists. If you were abused as a child, you don’t need to ask how such things could happen. You knew that the adult world turned a blind eye to what was happening. You suspected that if you spoke out, no one would believe you. And worst of all, there was so much of it about, how could your own sad little case be worse than anyone else’s?

I was working in the BBC in the 80s and 90s and one of the criticisms aimed at our programme, which was for 3-6 year olds, was that it was too ‘politically correct’. It was the brainchild of the education department [which no longer exists], created by a team of young parents, some of whom had learned their skills in the Open University or as teachers.

Our passionate belief was that children deserve respect and that giving them a voice meant listening to what they were saying. The scripts that I wrote for ‘You and Me’ were inspired by hearing my children and their friends. And working with other kids, who had no one to be their advocate.

So now we have a national scandal and renaming of monuments to airbrush from history the name of a man whose personality must have been so overwhelming that he was able to get what he wanted and get praised and decorated by a grateful nation. I never met him, or anyone in the BBC who groped, raped, or behaved or spoke inappropriately. The culture around our programme was happy and healthy, to the extent that camera crews would keep working if we hadn’t quite finished on the dot [normally they pulled the plugs].

So I am glad we didn’t stop being politically correct.

Who invented that term? or, what man, because it surely wasn’t a woman?

If I see it happening, I will speak out. Injustice makes me angry. Abuse is the worst kind of injustice.

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Yes, I really need your help.

I have a stack of friends’ books to read [long overdue] and have just joined a public library where I can take TWENTY books out at one go. I am overwhelmed and delighted.

However, I note that a new novel has just been published. A novel about the underclass, or lumpenproletariat, or disadvantaged marginalised minorities. An area in which I have lived in my imagination [and earlier, in reality] for a long, long time.

So,  help, please. Whereabouts on my list should ‘The Casual Vacancy’ go?  Top five? Bottom fifty? Shades of unfortunate, you might say……

HELP

I am awash with literature [not complaining, just noticing]……

 

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I was thirteen when, shaking with nervous excitement, I went through the impressive doors of Bush House. The commissionaire – even more impressive – nodded me towards the lifts and  we [me and my mother, who was required to be my chaperone], ascended to Radio.

I was a contestant in the Children’s Hour programme ‘Regional Round’ – a not very demanding quiz game hosted by Geoffrey Dearmer, a kindly man with a gong, who responded to a wrong answer with a ‘gentle gong, Geoffrey’.

Luckily I did not earn a gong, but a BBC book token. I still have the stub, even though I can’t remember the book I bought with  it.

I dreamed of returning, perhaps as a child actor in one of the Children’s Hour serials. But fame eluded me, until I made it into Television Centre [another BBC giant that is now no more] as a regular on ‘You and Me’.

Bush House went dark at midday today. An era in broadcasting is over.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-18801251

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Sorry to be doing this, but there seems to be a theme emerging this summer. I’ve just read Brian’s obituary in today’s Guardian:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jun/19/brian-hibbard

My memories of Brian are linked to summer 1976  in Newcastle on Tyne, when his theatre company ‘Road Gang’ joined forces with ours ‘Mad Bongo Theatre Group’ for a sparky, hard-hitting musical tribute to the 1926 General Strike, supported memorably by local NUM branches and some famous men of those days, including Will and Alf, the Lawther brothers, who praised our play for its truth and power in a short and passionate speech that moved us to tears.

We hit new heights of fame with the show, ‘Strike Alight’, when we performed in front of 700 people at the Durham Miners’ Gala [including the then head of the Labour Party, Michael Foot]  - but those celebrity gigs were not our style, and my memories are more of the rehearsals where we forged our script through impro and research, me with baby Rosie often in my arms, and a pub landlord supplying sandwiches.

Brian was terrific fun to work with, and his compelling singing voice could silence any rowdy pub or club. He was a kind friend, a great babysitter, a committed political theatre activist, and in those days that were overshadowed by illness in our family, he gave us unconditional support.

I wish I could say something appropriate in Welsh – but this will have to do: Thanks for all the memories and the theatre and the songs. May you live on in all of them

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The last post I wrote was about my own mortality, and now I discover the world is poorer by the loss of the unforgettable, extraordinary and generous man that was Victor.

I first met him in Wyndham’s Theatre in London, where he was one of the brilliant ensemble cast of Joan Littlewood’s ‘OH WHAT A LOVELY WAR’. I was fifteen. I had no idea, as I took my seat in the stalls, that my life was about to be changed for ever.

It began just after the curtain rose, when Victor, as MC, pointed at me and my friend and spoke directly to us. In all my years of going to West End theatres, I had never been noticed, let alone spoken to, by an actor onstage. It was scary, wicked, exhilarating.

My friend and I moved nearer the front, as he suggested,, and for the rest of the evening I was breathless with excitement, not because of who we were – I soon forgot myself  - but because the story of the Great War was new and shocking to me. The raw talent, the passion and the commitment of Victor and the rest of the cast sent me reeling into the night, determined to find out more and to come back and see the show again.

I returned five times to that theatre; every time it was a new performance, with new ad libs and new business.

This experience formed my ideas about what theatre could be. Not sterile, encased in immovable text, but comic, tragic, musical, free flowing, telling dark truths with power and panache.

Joan Littlewood, I salute you. You were the innovator. But Victor, one of your prize pupils, who afterwards became my friend, was in his element in your world. His kindness to a starstruck teenager was typical of the man whose stories charmed me and whose smile concealed worldly wisdoms I knew nothing of in those innocent days.

Adieu, Victor. You were my favourite actor for so many years.

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and YOU can win this! It’s so easy. Here’s how:

ENTER TO WIN  MAY 7- JUNE 11

Simply leave a message at www.kristingleeson.com

Winner picked at random June 11

don’t forget to mention – A BUMPER SACK OF SUMMER READS ! or you won’t go in the draw!

Selkie Dreams by Kristin Gleeson  www.kristingleeson.com

Belfast, 1889.  A young woman haunted by her mother’s death embarks on an Alaskan adventure among the Tlingit Indians.

Micka by Frances Kay www.franceskay.wordpress.com

Ten year old Micka wants a puppy and his brothers to stop bullying him. Eleven year old Laurie wants his life to be more ordinary.  Together the two dream up something different. Something secret and unpleasant

The Gallows Curse by Karen Maitland www.karenmaitland.com

1210 and King John has seized control of the Church.  In the village of Gastmere  Elena, a servant girl, is dragged into a conspiracy to absolve the sins of the manor 

The Assassin’s Wife  by Moonyeen Blakey  www.moonyeenblakey.com

The War of the Roses divides 15th Century England.  Nan, a young girl destined to serve in Middleham Castle, is burdened by visions of two noble boys imprisoned in the tower.

Catching the Eagle  by Karen Charlton   www.karencharlton.com

Easter Monday, 1809: Kirkley Hall manor house is mysteriously burgled. When suspicion falls on Jamie Charlton, he and his family face a desperate battle to save him from the gallows.

The Chosen Man by J.G. Harlond  www.jgharlond.name

Early spring 1635: A storm and pirate raid wreaks havoc with rogue Italian merchant Ludovico da Portovenere’s routine voyage from Constantinople to Amsterdam, disrupting his plans and entangling others in his secret commission.

Song at Dawn by Jean Gill  www.jeangill.com

Provence 1150.  Love, music and political intrigue surround Estela in the royal court of Narbonne. 

Mrs. Jones by B.A. Morton  www.bamorton.weebly.com

A New York cop tries to protect a young English woman who witnesses a murder and he finds that both sides of the law want to question her.  Is she all she seems?

The Fenwold Riddle by Dave Edvardson www.daveedvardson.com 

Brave young Marshal Dominic Bradley is charged with finding a way through the impenetrable wall that encloses the land of Fenwold.

And there you have it.  Such a tempting bunch I want them all myself!

Good luck!

 

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For a writer, an unhappy childhood helps. So does the hot whisper of death down the back of your neck. Hospital procedures – I take notes. One day I might want to write about how a doctor breaks bad news. The only thing that isn’t good news for a writer – especially a procrastinating type like me – is the sudden realisation that my time is finite.

I just had a close shave, but think I scraped through.

Mystified? Ask questions.

Going through the same kind of stuff? Please let me know your experiences.

Blessings from the great Breath of the Universe [could be ironic, you won't know unless you ask]

Frances.

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