Andy of the Five Towns
It seemed like a good idea at the time: I would buy an Explorer ticket and go and photograph the beach shelter at Margate and pick up a book by Levinas in Whitstable. To fill up the rest of the day I could check out Horseclans novels in Ramsgate and maybe have a coffee at Westwood Chaos or in Ramsgate. The only thing was to be at the campus on the hill for Sean Hughes.
First - after chatting with my elderly neighbour's daughter - was to go to Boots to pick up this month's pills, and catch a bus out to Margate. It might have made more sense to go to Ramsgate first - but I'm not sure how early the bookshop would open, and the light was with me. Against the law that the bus you catch is late and the one you miss is early, this one kept stopping to mesh with its timetable. Curses.
I got off at the Royal Seabathing Hospital, snapped a few shots, and walked along the promenade towards the beach shelter where it is thought Eliot worked on The Waste Land, specifically part three. It has a late Victorian station look to it - wooden seating, curly iron work, toothed wooden surrounds.
Although it's agreed to list the structure, there's no plaque, no sign, although there's a poetry sculpture across the road, toward the station. Staying up at Cliftonville (and I must yet go to see the spot), Eliot would catch a tram down here and sit and scribble. I doubt that this was ever a burnished throne, nor is there a wall of Thebes (although there are some chunky walls nearby) and the sea's a little far out to fish (was it an arid plain here before the sculpture?). Less than a hundred yards away is Dreamland, with its scenic railway, and - I like to think it provided inspiration - the Shakespeare pub. A couple of panes of glass are missing, and the words FALSE TEETH have been stuck on the main wall of windows.
I look around for Lil, and her five kids, but the passers by are all men - dog walkers, workmen, the odd cycling youth.
Down on the beach, where people connect nothing with nothing, there are two long mounds of sand - perhaps as a winter protection, or perhaps a clean-up operation after the summer. In the distance, the long protective hug of the harbour pier, the crane marking the site of Turner contemporary - Margate has a plaque for JMW Turner - a Primark (I see hordes of people walking round in a ring), and out to sea, boats queuing for the channel.
I walk along the beach, listening out for mermaids, and cross the road to Dreamland. There's a back road, which gives a better view of the waste land in front of the scenic railway, yet to be repaired. Empty barrels of lager and beer are scattered. At the end of the road: Dreamland Beds. Of course.
There's a couple of charity shops on the main shopping street, and I pick up a Nigel Slater volume.
The Thanet loop is speedier for getting to Ramsgate than staying on the original bus, although I suspect it's just quicker to get to Westwood. For once I don't get off at Westwood, but do at Waitrose and work my way down the charity shops to Michael's Bookshop. I spend along time in the RSPCA, trying to decide whether it's two copies of The Godwhale or Half Past Himan I have, and I think I've jumped the right way, and then I pick up a copy of Measure for Measure and a Horseclans # 6. I look at the cookery books, as I'm looking for a volume on pickles and preserves, but the one they have is too expensive. I grant myself an hour or so to have a coffee, and read the paper. Then there's another row of charity shops on the way down to the harbour - I pick up an Angela Carter collection of Fairy Tales, although I suspect I already have this rather than volume two.
I have to get back to Margate for a bus to Herne Bay but - it is only every hour and it's a different bus company. I could get the 8 to Westgate and catch a train, of course. But it's a Thanet Loop bus that is waiting, and that's heading toward Broadstairs, which is seven minutes quicker than going clockwise. Ah, at least I get to do the whole loop. There's an old man on the bus, sounding like he's the dog out of the Churchill adverts - and his oh yeses are driving me mad. It's a relief when his companions get off, but he keeps up a monologue. Fortunately he gets off before I do. We pass a garden centre with a Julian Graves and a The Works, but I'm not to be distracted by that, nor Broadstairs itself. I am, however noticing rail replacement buses, and I check the Blackberry for the engineering works. It'll be a bus from Westgate.
At Westgate, it's not at all clear where the buses are going from, and there's certainly no one around to guide you as there would be at Fav or Canterbury. There's a timetable, but no details. I buy a ticket with my railcard - probably the last use before it expires for this yes and go to the platform to see if there's any sign of information there. A mother and three children call down from the bridge to a chap who's sat upon the platform, who assures them that London trains are on the south platform. I ask him if he's seen any trains recently, aside from the maintenance one positioned on the opposite platform. He assures me that the trains to London go from the opposite platform, and I again point out there are no trains today. I give up and return to the street, where I spot a bus replacement sign. I go and rescue the family.
The bus is behind schedule, of course, and decorated for Christmas. All very nice - but it's over a month to go still. And I can't say Wizzard would help my mood if I were on a long distance journey. Somewhere behind me the mother is talking about Hull, and how it has nothing to offer but a bridge. My opinion of her plummets. It's getting dark, and we seem to be taking an age. Maybe it would have been smarter to go straight back home and out again, or to Sturry and onto a 6.
I'd planned to spend a little time in Herne Bay, maybe an hour, but the station is not near the high street and the timing of the 6s are erratic to say the least. It's trying to rain and finally the sunsets. I'll be content to get to the Harbour Bookshop before it shuts at this rate. The bus arrives a couple of minutes behind schedule, and sets off; I try to look through the windows to see where we are but there's too much reflection. There's a deco house I wanted to photograph, but that's another trip. The guy opposite me is talking on the phone about his coke habit and his rehab.
It turns out I have plenty of time to do the bookshop, and yes the Levinas book I want is upstairs. I'm also tempted to the Deleuze, part one of his book on cinema, although I can't see my reading it any time soon. Then there's the cookery section, and I finally decide to buy a book on chutneys, preserves and pickles, as nothing has shown up second hand in weeks of looking. I buy a card for a birthday, and a new mug. Ouch. Rather pricier than planned. But there's time to buy tea from the supermarket and make the next bus that goes to campus.
I see Sean Hughes arrive, and he's locked out the auditorium. He doesn't look much older - there was a time, like Tony Slattery and Nick Hancock, when he was everywhere, but I can't recall the last time I saw him. An ITV cop show? Someone in a Marple or a Dalziel and Pascoe? A warning for Michael McIntyre, I guess. And certain Corden and the t'other one. I use my new mug for a coffee, but have to remind them of the discount. Is it worth it?, I wonder.
Hughes seems rusty, but it is actually toward the end of the tour. He does both halves, rather than having a support, and it's a mixture of amusing bits from the local papers and getting old. Early on he clocks that someone has crutches, and he returns to the incident where they snapped a tendon repeatedly. He is part of a row of drunks, at the extreme left of the stage, who keep needing the toilets, at the extreme right. I have to say it feels like he crosses the line between laughing with and laughing at. The couple next to me leave at the interval. He's funny, but it felt strained.
Out into the rain, and the walk to the bus. Number eight of the day. I can only say I got my £5.50's worth. Ahead of me is 45 minutes at the pub, and seeing Big O for the first time in what feels like months. He offers me a lift home, and I'm happy to take it.
First - after chatting with my elderly neighbour's daughter - was to go to Boots to pick up this month's pills, and catch a bus out to Margate. It might have made more sense to go to Ramsgate first - but I'm not sure how early the bookshop would open, and the light was with me. Against the law that the bus you catch is late and the one you miss is early, this one kept stopping to mesh with its timetable. Curses.
I got off at the Royal Seabathing Hospital, snapped a few shots, and walked along the promenade towards the beach shelter where it is thought Eliot worked on The Waste Land, specifically part three. It has a late Victorian station look to it - wooden seating, curly iron work, toothed wooden surrounds.
Although it's agreed to list the structure, there's no plaque, no sign, although there's a poetry sculpture across the road, toward the station. Staying up at Cliftonville (and I must yet go to see the spot), Eliot would catch a tram down here and sit and scribble. I doubt that this was ever a burnished throne, nor is there a wall of Thebes (although there are some chunky walls nearby) and the sea's a little far out to fish (was it an arid plain here before the sculpture?). Less than a hundred yards away is Dreamland, with its scenic railway, and - I like to think it provided inspiration - the Shakespeare pub. A couple of panes of glass are missing, and the words FALSE TEETH have been stuck on the main wall of windows.
I look around for Lil, and her five kids, but the passers by are all men - dog walkers, workmen, the odd cycling youth.
Down on the beach, where people connect nothing with nothing, there are two long mounds of sand - perhaps as a winter protection, or perhaps a clean-up operation after the summer. In the distance, the long protective hug of the harbour pier, the crane marking the site of Turner contemporary - Margate has a plaque for JMW Turner - a Primark (I see hordes of people walking round in a ring), and out to sea, boats queuing for the channel.
I walk along the beach, listening out for mermaids, and cross the road to Dreamland. There's a back road, which gives a better view of the waste land in front of the scenic railway, yet to be repaired. Empty barrels of lager and beer are scattered. At the end of the road: Dreamland Beds. Of course.
There's a couple of charity shops on the main shopping street, and I pick up a Nigel Slater volume.
The Thanet loop is speedier for getting to Ramsgate than staying on the original bus, although I suspect it's just quicker to get to Westwood. For once I don't get off at Westwood, but do at Waitrose and work my way down the charity shops to Michael's Bookshop. I spend along time in the RSPCA, trying to decide whether it's two copies of The Godwhale or Half Past Himan I have, and I think I've jumped the right way, and then I pick up a copy of Measure for Measure and a Horseclans # 6. I look at the cookery books, as I'm looking for a volume on pickles and preserves, but the one they have is too expensive. I grant myself an hour or so to have a coffee, and read the paper. Then there's another row of charity shops on the way down to the harbour - I pick up an Angela Carter collection of Fairy Tales, although I suspect I already have this rather than volume two.
I have to get back to Margate for a bus to Herne Bay but - it is only every hour and it's a different bus company. I could get the 8 to Westgate and catch a train, of course. But it's a Thanet Loop bus that is waiting, and that's heading toward Broadstairs, which is seven minutes quicker than going clockwise. Ah, at least I get to do the whole loop. There's an old man on the bus, sounding like he's the dog out of the Churchill adverts - and his oh yeses are driving me mad. It's a relief when his companions get off, but he keeps up a monologue. Fortunately he gets off before I do. We pass a garden centre with a Julian Graves and a The Works, but I'm not to be distracted by that, nor Broadstairs itself. I am, however noticing rail replacement buses, and I check the Blackberry for the engineering works. It'll be a bus from Westgate.
At Westgate, it's not at all clear where the buses are going from, and there's certainly no one around to guide you as there would be at Fav or Canterbury. There's a timetable, but no details. I buy a ticket with my railcard - probably the last use before it expires for this yes and go to the platform to see if there's any sign of information there. A mother and three children call down from the bridge to a chap who's sat upon the platform, who assures them that London trains are on the south platform. I ask him if he's seen any trains recently, aside from the maintenance one positioned on the opposite platform. He assures me that the trains to London go from the opposite platform, and I again point out there are no trains today. I give up and return to the street, where I spot a bus replacement sign. I go and rescue the family.
The bus is behind schedule, of course, and decorated for Christmas. All very nice - but it's over a month to go still. And I can't say Wizzard would help my mood if I were on a long distance journey. Somewhere behind me the mother is talking about Hull, and how it has nothing to offer but a bridge. My opinion of her plummets. It's getting dark, and we seem to be taking an age. Maybe it would have been smarter to go straight back home and out again, or to Sturry and onto a 6.
I'd planned to spend a little time in Herne Bay, maybe an hour, but the station is not near the high street and the timing of the 6s are erratic to say the least. It's trying to rain and finally the sunsets. I'll be content to get to the Harbour Bookshop before it shuts at this rate. The bus arrives a couple of minutes behind schedule, and sets off; I try to look through the windows to see where we are but there's too much reflection. There's a deco house I wanted to photograph, but that's another trip. The guy opposite me is talking on the phone about his coke habit and his rehab.
It turns out I have plenty of time to do the bookshop, and yes the Levinas book I want is upstairs. I'm also tempted to the Deleuze, part one of his book on cinema, although I can't see my reading it any time soon. Then there's the cookery section, and I finally decide to buy a book on chutneys, preserves and pickles, as nothing has shown up second hand in weeks of looking. I buy a card for a birthday, and a new mug. Ouch. Rather pricier than planned. But there's time to buy tea from the supermarket and make the next bus that goes to campus.
I see Sean Hughes arrive, and he's locked out the auditorium. He doesn't look much older - there was a time, like Tony Slattery and Nick Hancock, when he was everywhere, but I can't recall the last time I saw him. An ITV cop show? Someone in a Marple or a Dalziel and Pascoe? A warning for Michael McIntyre, I guess. And certain Corden and the t'other one. I use my new mug for a coffee, but have to remind them of the discount. Is it worth it?, I wonder.
Hughes seems rusty, but it is actually toward the end of the tour. He does both halves, rather than having a support, and it's a mixture of amusing bits from the local papers and getting old. Early on he clocks that someone has crutches, and he returns to the incident where they snapped a tendon repeatedly. He is part of a row of drunks, at the extreme left of the stage, who keep needing the toilets, at the extreme right. I have to say it feels like he crosses the line between laughing with and laughing at. The couple next to me leave at the interval. He's funny, but it felt strained.
Out into the rain, and the walk to the bus. Number eight of the day. I can only say I got my £5.50's worth. Ahead of me is 45 minutes at the pub, and seeing Big O for the first time in what feels like months. He offers me a lift home, and I'm happy to take it.