The Why I Hate England and Book Burning Literary Festival

Forgetfulness The name of the author is the first to go, followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, as if one by one, the memories you used to harbour decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones.  Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye  and watched the quadratic equations pack its bag and even now as you memorise the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.  Whatever it is you are struggling to remember it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.  It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, well on your way to oblivion where you will join those who h...

A vexatious title to the First Literary   Festival at Stable Cottage is – Sorry Theo – really just too challenging for me. ‘Why I Hate England’ does not inspire words except to contradict, deny and distance myself – all so very negative.  Who came here with trepidation or with anger and pent-up rage?  Hate is such a strong word – a destructive emotion don’t you think?  Make a list of your ‘hates’ and mostly they will be actually gripes, annoyances, irritations, grievances. Frustrating but the English are a race of mutterers and gentle complainers – patiently freezing or baking waiting for delayed trains, sitting in traffic jams, shuffling in queues, baulking at bumbling  belligerent bureaucracy, obeying ‘Keep Off the Grass’ and ‘No Ball Games’, ‘Children not Allowed’, ‘Dogs not Allowed’, ‘Keep to the Left’ signs to control our latent barbarism – woad ready and waiting for Boadicea.   The instant indignation of the French, the florid fulminations of the S...