View from the Boundary

I'm looking forward to seeing Geoffrey Hill in London on Sunday. The high priest of English poetry has not always been quite to my taste but recently I've had the opportunity to at least appreciate some of his poems and if I'm never going to be a complete devotee I do at least want to take advantage of this rare chance to share in the spare austerity of his point of view. The price of a drink on the South Bank is alarming for a provincial thirsty man and so if you recognize me there by the hat (not the pink one), before I have to get back to Victoria, please feel free to buy me an after show glass of beer.

This December outing to London replaces what I've done for the last two years which has been a day at the London Chess Classic, which can be watched from the comfort of one's own terminal here right now, http://www.livestream.com/LondonChessClassic . The story so far is early dominance by young Magnus while it is being suggested that my personal favourite personality, Anand, is being careful to show nothing that he might have prepared for his forthcoming world title defence against Boris Gelfand. But I do recommend some time spent with the commentators live from the venue if their dubious suggestions and meanderings might be the sort of entertainment you prefer to Strictly Come Dancing or Celebrity Ratings Grabber on the telly. Chess players seem so nice these days, accessible and media-friendly as the age seems to demand - it's been Levon Aronian today, World number three on his day off. Has it gone the same way with poets, too. Do we miss the madmen and ladies, the off-beat, unapproachable genius, the Fischer or Ezra Pound, that never had to explain itself so often in interviews and as casually approachable human beings but could hide in a reclusive mist of unexplaining hero status.

Somewhat less cerebrally, I've been reading John Francome's Back Hander for cheaper thrills. I notice that although the Greatest Jockey of All Time has his name on the front of the book, the copyright is shared with another, and apart from the inside knowledge of particular racetracks and what it's like to ride a racehorse, I'm not sure how much is Francome and how much his helpmate. While we hear that Alan Hollinghurst delivers a typescript that needs virtually no editor whereas Jefferey Archer provides a story written in capital letters in pencil on the back of a Corn Flakes packet and someone else makes a blockbuster out of those thin beginnings, the Francome method must lie somewhere in between. Even so, this opus seems to have a high body count, a sensational rather than tense approach to plot and doesn't seem as well done as what I remember of Dick Francis. But as long as it has horse racing in it, I don't mind. You could tell me a story of a trainer called Jack who has a horse called Dobbin, he runs it in a novice hurdle at Uttoxeter and it comes third and I'd be gripped.

We have had such stories here every Saturday if anybody has cared to follow the Saturday Nap and I'm pleased to say that Sizing Europe was a confident tip last weekend and won like one. It means that we have had four winners out of eight selections and now, with three weeks to run before ending on Boxing Day, one more winner will put us into clear blue profit. I'd imagine that if Bobs Worth runs in the three mile novice chase at Kempton at Christmas, that will be where we'll go for a big finish.

That will conclude that little series and I wonder if we can replace it with a series on My Whole Life in poetry, tracing my own mundane career as a poet from its earliest genesis in Infant School in Nottingham in the mid 1960's up to now. I hope it might provide a diverting little excursion into poetry as well as revisiting for the first time in decades some esoteric examples of poetry. It will begin in January, all being well. Don't forget to tune in for that.