It's not that I wasn't already backing the bid - I am and I genuinely believe a win would be a huge boost to this misrepresented city - but seriously, Portsmouth...?
So here are a pair of characters you might (or might not*) recognise, at the Stoke-on-Trent for City of Culture 2021 launch event...
'I cannot see a thing from here. Why do I always get the tallest bloke in the crowd, carrying his kid on his shoulders, standing in front of me? I'm moving round a bit, pet.'
Daphne Randall had thought she had picked a prime spot to watch the show, with a clear view of Hanley Town Hall. Five Pierrot-faced drummers in illuminated suits were pounding out a samba beat and exhorting the crowd to clap along in unison. Daphne stretched and craned her neck for a better view. There seemed to be movement up on the balcony above the front door. As her companion had remarked, the eerily floodlit Victorian Gothic edifice bore more than a passing resemblance to the Addams Family's mansion.
'That's the new MP for Stoke Central, duck. Gareth Snell. I might try and grab a quote for Monday's edition. Ruth Smeeth is over there too. I reckon she'll have a word...'
Daphne grabbed his arm. 'Not so fast, Harry Biddulph - it's your day off and we're on a date! One of your mates from the Six Towns Gazette will be on the case; don't you fret about that. Stick with us, or I'll lose you in this crowd.' She steered him away. 'Why are all the MPs in this city so tall? They make me feel like a hobbit!'
'We might be getting some new ones soon. They might be nearer your size - or even shorter!'
'I'm happy enough with the Red Giants, thanks! They're better than Blue Meanies, anyways.'
'It would be headline news, duck. A good story...'
'A good story indeed! Get away with you, Harry! I know when you're winding me up.'
The drumming ceased. The Town Hall glowed in fiery tones and, from the balcony, a young woman began singing a lament.
'Well, that's brought the mood down and no mistake!' grumbled Harry. 'What was that all about?'
'It was the story of the Little Mermaid. The Hans Andersen fairy-tale, about the sea princess who becomes human to woo a prince but is doomed to die if he marries someone else. Not exactly a favourite with us feminists!'
'What's that got to do with Stoke?'
'Nothing. No more than an electric samba band. It fits with the theme of the performance, I suppose - Something in the Water.'
Harry scowled. 'That's the trouble with these arty events. They're all put together by blow-ins from out of town who know nothing about local culture.'
'What local culture is that then?' Daphne bit back, smarting at the blow-ins reference. 'An out-of-key chorus of Delilah in a football ground named after a telephone betting chain? You know perfectly well there's more to it than that, and that your culture is made by born-and-bred Stokies and the people who've moved here. That Northern Soul show you had on the radio driving in, for instance - it's local culture all right, but with Black American roots, and the gems in your Staffordshire Hoard are from all over the known world.'
'Give over with the equal ops lecture, woman!' Harry sighed. 'I aren't getting at you. It's just all this weird stuff will go over the heads of ordinary folk. And it's all going on Up 'Anley, as usual. It's about time they took these things out to Bentilee or the Abbey, Fegg Hayes or Blurton. What do you reckon those lasses outside the bingo hall are making of this funny bloke in the dressing gown? And what the fook is he up to now? It looks like he's stripping off!'
'Mind your language, pet - there's bairns about!'
'They didn't think of that when they included this lad. If it weren't for that shell, he'd be leaving nothing to the imagination!'
The performer was standing on a classical plinth wearing a white body-stocking, a wreath of gold leaves on his head and a gold scallop shell at his groin. Another man, dressed as a butler, seemed to be inserting a hose into his bottom.
'That'll get the attention of your ladies by the bingo hall, pet!' laughed Daphne, as a stream of water jetted from the shell. Moments later, fountains were erupting from the golden crown and from the man's outstretched arms as well.
'Well, that's different,' Harry remarked. 'I conner manage that, even on seven pints of Titanic!'
'Do shut up being snarky. They're building up to the finale. Don't you think that's rather beautiful?'
The man on the plinth had stopped spouting water and stood with his head bowed. Dancers in white with pale umbrellas fluttered around him. Against the darkening sky and blue-toned projections, they luminesced under a shy crescent moon, peeping between the clouds.
'I suppose so, duck.'
Daphne frowned at him. 'You'll never win if you cannot be more enthusiastic than that, man!'
'Why does it matter to you if we do? I'd have thought you'd be set against pouring money into this when essential public services are being cut.'
Daphne watched the strange tableau before them. The almost ghostly figures, fountains behind and around them and streaming from their fingertips. Wasn't it all an extravagance this city couldn't afford? The City of Six Towns was an outsider for the accolade anyway. The cost of this show alone would probably employ a couple of social workers for a year, or keep a Children's Centre open, or even secure her own post and that of several colleagues. On the other hand, what was life without art, laughter and fireworks? Why shouldn't there be enough for both in a rich, first world country - even in Stoke-on-Trent?
'We cannot have Sunderland winning it, pet. I'd be mortified. I have to do whatever I can to stop that! Stoke can do it. It just doesn't know it yet. So you sometimes need outsiders like me to tell you how much beauty and talent you have here.'
Harry bent forward and kissed her, just as the first of the fireworks ignited. She jumped, accidently smacking him on the nose.
'If you say so, duck,' He put his arm around her shoulder. 'I'll back this bid. I saw what happened in Hull, though. If the buggers think I'm taking all my kit off and letting someone paint me blue in the name of art, they're very much mistaken!'
Daphne Randall had thought she had picked a prime spot to watch the show, with a clear view of Hanley Town Hall. Five Pierrot-faced drummers in illuminated suits were pounding out a samba beat and exhorting the crowd to clap along in unison. Daphne stretched and craned her neck for a better view. There seemed to be movement up on the balcony above the front door. As her companion had remarked, the eerily floodlit Victorian Gothic edifice bore more than a passing resemblance to the Addams Family's mansion.
'That's the new MP for Stoke Central, duck. Gareth Snell. I might try and grab a quote for Monday's edition. Ruth Smeeth is over there too. I reckon she'll have a word...'
Daphne grabbed his arm. 'Not so fast, Harry Biddulph - it's your day off and we're on a date! One of your mates from the Six Towns Gazette will be on the case; don't you fret about that. Stick with us, or I'll lose you in this crowd.' She steered him away. 'Why are all the MPs in this city so tall? They make me feel like a hobbit!'
'We might be getting some new ones soon. They might be nearer your size - or even shorter!'
'I'm happy enough with the Red Giants, thanks! They're better than Blue Meanies, anyways.'
'It would be headline news, duck. A good story...'
'A good story indeed! Get away with you, Harry! I know when you're winding me up.'
The drumming ceased. The Town Hall glowed in fiery tones and, from the balcony, a young woman began singing a lament.
'Well, that's brought the mood down and no mistake!' grumbled Harry. 'What was that all about?'
'It was the story of the Little Mermaid. The Hans Andersen fairy-tale, about the sea princess who becomes human to woo a prince but is doomed to die if he marries someone else. Not exactly a favourite with us feminists!'
'What's that got to do with Stoke?'
'Nothing. No more than an electric samba band. It fits with the theme of the performance, I suppose - Something in the Water.'
Harry scowled. 'That's the trouble with these arty events. They're all put together by blow-ins from out of town who know nothing about local culture.'
'What local culture is that then?' Daphne bit back, smarting at the blow-ins reference. 'An out-of-key chorus of Delilah in a football ground named after a telephone betting chain? You know perfectly well there's more to it than that, and that your culture is made by born-and-bred Stokies and the people who've moved here. That Northern Soul show you had on the radio driving in, for instance - it's local culture all right, but with Black American roots, and the gems in your Staffordshire Hoard are from all over the known world.'
'Give over with the equal ops lecture, woman!' Harry sighed. 'I aren't getting at you. It's just all this weird stuff will go over the heads of ordinary folk. And it's all going on Up 'Anley, as usual. It's about time they took these things out to Bentilee or the Abbey, Fegg Hayes or Blurton. What do you reckon those lasses outside the bingo hall are making of this funny bloke in the dressing gown? And what the fook is he up to now? It looks like he's stripping off!'
'Mind your language, pet - there's bairns about!'
'They didn't think of that when they included this lad. If it weren't for that shell, he'd be leaving nothing to the imagination!'
The performer was standing on a classical plinth wearing a white body-stocking, a wreath of gold leaves on his head and a gold scallop shell at his groin. Another man, dressed as a butler, seemed to be inserting a hose into his bottom.
'That'll get the attention of your ladies by the bingo hall, pet!' laughed Daphne, as a stream of water jetted from the shell. Moments later, fountains were erupting from the golden crown and from the man's outstretched arms as well.
'Well, that's different,' Harry remarked. 'I conner manage that, even on seven pints of Titanic!'
'Do shut up being snarky. They're building up to the finale. Don't you think that's rather beautiful?'
The man on the plinth had stopped spouting water and stood with his head bowed. Dancers in white with pale umbrellas fluttered around him. Against the darkening sky and blue-toned projections, they luminesced under a shy crescent moon, peeping between the clouds.
'I suppose so, duck.'
Daphne frowned at him. 'You'll never win if you cannot be more enthusiastic than that, man!'
'Why does it matter to you if we do? I'd have thought you'd be set against pouring money into this when essential public services are being cut.'
Daphne watched the strange tableau before them. The almost ghostly figures, fountains behind and around them and streaming from their fingertips. Wasn't it all an extravagance this city couldn't afford? The City of Six Towns was an outsider for the accolade anyway. The cost of this show alone would probably employ a couple of social workers for a year, or keep a Children's Centre open, or even secure her own post and that of several colleagues. On the other hand, what was life without art, laughter and fireworks? Why shouldn't there be enough for both in a rich, first world country - even in Stoke-on-Trent?
'We cannot have Sunderland winning it, pet. I'd be mortified. I have to do whatever I can to stop that! Stoke can do it. It just doesn't know it yet. So you sometimes need outsiders like me to tell you how much beauty and talent you have here.'
Harry bent forward and kissed her, just as the first of the fireworks ignited. She jumped, accidently smacking him on the nose.
'If you say so, duck,' He put his arm around her shoulder. 'I'll back this bid. I saw what happened in Hull, though. If the buggers think I'm taking all my kit off and letting someone paint me blue in the name of art, they're very much mistaken!'
*If you haven't met Daphne and Harry yet, the Kindle version of "Grand Union" is free today.
No comments:
Post a Comment