Two Chaps Talking

T san, or Mon Vieux as I prefer,

Tell me Old Top, through your gin soaked reverie, have you noticed a certain shall we say multi-culturalism creeping into my syntax of late? I know I know, a true son of Albion has travelling in his blood and with two years of schoolboy Latin under his belt how could the merest whiff of m-c not creep into his s? True enough, but my current deviation from our mother tongue comes as much from my locale as my heritage.

Fine. But where I find myself this week is a place that acted decidedly un-preux during the Second Little Unpleasantness and continues not to inspire love peace and understanding in our elders and betters. Remember when our honourable and dignified Veterans turned their backs on the visiting Emperor during his ride down The Mall?

Not that my current hosts were alone in playing off a crooked bat. Everyone knows that a certain Austrian with a penchant for looking cross was in the driving seat. But at least the Chippy Bombers said sorry in the end and when all's said and done one has to take a chap at his word. Alas my current hosts haven't yet done the square thing.

One has to be mollified to a certain extent by their owning the second largest car company in America thereby giving the Septics a bloody nose. And it doesn't hurt that they make all those smashing little shiny things that one keeps buying knowing not what they do. But it has to be said, the time has come to demand that they do the right thing and take it on the chin. I mean, for gawd's sake, I gather they're still not coughing up for the nasties they did to the fairer sex from one of their neighbours. As I said, all terribly un-preux.

Anyway, far be it from me to chuck the first brick in these days of dŽtente and all that. No, what I wanted to talk about this Fortnight was something entirely different. At least I think it was. That was before the second bottle of sake. I think. Err.

(Two days later back in the Fragrant Harbour).

Now where was I? Oh yes. You know the hell that is 'Cultural Disease' (as opposed to what they call it - 'Cultural Imperialism' - to which I reply with a hearty yet scornful Tchah!). So we all know this CD spawns such ungodly filth as McDogmeat and Kentucky Fried Rat. Well, if we're honest (and we do try to be don't we? Or else Arkela will find out and we'll be demoted from Sixer to Second or worse) anyway, if we're honest, when one's in a god-forsaken hell hole miles from civilisation and frankly not far off being hung from a low-reaching bough by a sheriff whose family tree doesn't branch out and whose sister married his mother etc. then the one place we might seek solace is one of these CDs that I shall refer to as Star-not-entirely-undrinkable-but-over-priced-and-too-much-Kenny-G-and-what-happened-to-the-old-place-Bucks.

Now don't go getting all in a two-and-eight. I yield to no man in my abhorrence and loathing of all things corporate. And if by throwing my limp and fey corpse before a digger I could prevent just one Nan and Gramps tea room from being bulldozed aside to make way for the above bastardcorp then just try holding me back. But I'm afraid it wouldn't make a jot of difference. Except perhaps a touch of class would be imparted to the digger until I got washed off it. What would one wear I wonder?

Hang on, that's not the point. I shall wrestle myself firmly back in the direction I'd intended. So,

(Ten minutes pass)

Ah right you are. Just remembered my point. You know how I live on an island? Well over here the aforementioned vile and foetid bastard corporate murderers at least have the decency to sell, wait for it,

- sausage rolls.

I know. I know. Incredible. And I don't mean 'sausage rolls' neither (Michael Caine accent crept in. Sorry). They're proper. The kind that our 11 pence a day went on at school. Little sachet of HP, fine Irish linen, bone china and the filigreed silver and you're away my son (sorry, MC again).

And don't go getting all Fire and Knives on me Old Love. They are down-to-earth honest-to-goodness pork bangers in a thoroughly decent pastry. They've not been near a 'microwave' (whatever that may be) and they brighten my journey to the Star Ferry. For which I would give unto half my kingdom on the mornings after a particularly nourishing night out when I feel 'special'.

I think it's the heat. Or the humidity or something. Don't know. Feeling feint. Or do I mean faint, which I did recently, rather spectacularly, in a crowded restaurant. Pretty poor show actually but I'll come to that another time. Must dash. Noon Day Gun about to fire which means it's six o'clock somewhere in the world and I have to go to bloody LA LA land next week.

Cocktails?

Yours in his cups,

S

PS Have you noticed a surfeit of inverted commas, dashes and brackets in this missive? So have I. I shall have to look into it.

Posted by S at 10:41 AM | Permalink

Dear Boy,

I have never claimed, even in my most Bohemian moments, soaked in Absinthe and surrounded by young muses, to be a designer. No, when it comes to things artistic (by which I mean matters pertaining to art rather than buggery), I lurk in your shadow - a mere hack with a tyro's understanding of things webbish.

All of which made the events following our last edition of the Gazette even more hurtful. I had, you will remember, attempted to ginger up our flagging organ with a new background. It was inspired, as I'm sure you will have noticed, by the gay shirtings we purchased together on your last visit to Blighty. The sort of candy stripe which would have graced an Action Man's deckchair.

Did I receive encouragement and kind words for my poor efforts? Did I fuck!

Several subscribers with skills in the department saw fit to describe the results as 'illegible'. You, unkindly I felt, remonstrated. Agentleman from Norway was rude in extremely precise terms and an academic from Tuscaloosa has threatened to sue for causing persistent nosebleeds and random fitting.

Am I downhearted? Perhaps a lesser man would be but I have returned to the library, sought inspiration and, I hope, have created something which will find recognition, if not favour, with you and our kind readers.

The head of the page, is, of course, inspired by the original two-shilling Penguin paperback. Oh! the happy hours we have spent between those musty covers. I have a few I've inherited and too many I've bought. 'Decline and Fall' and Stephen Potter's 'Oneupmanship' sit before me as visual stimulus and a couple of metres of others sit in silent splendour on the shelf to my right. My young cousin J, a design historian of some note, expressed a quite laudable enthusiasm for Orwell recently and I felt moved to press my prized 'Down and Out in Paris and London' upon him. I fancy it will serve him as well as it has me.

I live, as you know, in North London. Camden Town, to be precise. A sort of retirement home for left-leaning intellectuals of the last few generations. In many London boroughs you can roam the streets on a Winter's evening and see all manner of vulgar display through people's front windows. Camden is different. It is de rigeur to have a subtly lit floor-to-ceiling bookcase right next to the window, displaying yards of original, orange spined Penguins.

For me, the most splendid part of the Penguin, quite aside from its impeccable literary, social, political and design pedigree is the typeface.

I know little of typography but, that glorious, in your face, circular 'O' indicates that we are looking at Gill Sans - a typeface of such abiding beauty that I have specified it for my gravemarker.

Not only is the font transcendent but the man who created it might justly be regarded as a Two Chaps idol - a candidate for the Pantheon.

Eric Gill was born in Brighton in 1882. He was the very model of the Arts and Crafts Bohemian espousing Catholicism and Free Love with equal passion. His life is a model for our own in licentious excess but just a few anecdotes will suffice to make the point.

Gill was commissioned to carve the statue of Prospero and Ariel on the prominent front of Broadcasting house. Not only did he work on the high scaffolding in a homespun robe and no underwear, (causing young ladies to make pilgrimage to the site to gaze up at his vasty orbs) but he also carved the membrum virile of the infant Ariel to gigantic proportions. The grandees of the BBC had to cover it with a tarpaulin until they could persuade him to chip it back to more modest dimensions.

Throughout his life, Gill experimented sexually to an extent that we would now characterise as satyriac. His erotic woodcuts are still treasured by elderly gentlemen who's tastes run to the Pre-Raphaelite (Oh Dear!) and, Deo Gratia, he kept a detailed diary. He ran the usual gamut of casual liaisons, mŽnages ˆ trois and homosexuality but distinguished himself with a fetish for underage servant girls and latterly his own relations. His crowning glory was revealed in two diary entries, shortly before his death...

'Expt. With dog in eve' (the rest has been obliterated) and, five days later....

'Bath. Continued to experiment with dog after and discovered that a dog will join with a man'.

There is a glorious power in Dylan Thomas's raging 'against the dying of the light' and Lear's last rantings - but having the sheer randiness to take a leisurely bath and then slip one to Fido while staring death in the face... well I just hope I have the strength.

One last thought for an Englishman, settling into his new home. The London Undergound Typeface was designed in 1915/16 by Edward Johnston. He lived with Gill and his family in an artistic community in deepest Sussex . The men worked closely together on the early development of the face and Gill acknowledged that Johnston's work was a major influence on his later Gill Sans.

What is most important to any Englishman is that, any time he feels homesick, he can crank up his laptop, open a document, select Gills Sans 72pt, type the word UNDERGROUND and his heart will swell with nostalgic recognition.

Posted by T at 09:45 PM | Permalink