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Sport in Art in Ancient Greece

Posted by barneyspender on February 19, 2019
Posted in: Culture, Greece, Greek sporting legends, History, Olympics, Running, Sport. Tagged: Antikythera Youth, Athens, Heinrich Hall, National Archaeological Museum, Satyros of Elis, Zeus. 1 Comment

Ancient runnerHeinrich is a special kind of guide. A trained archaeologist with the appropriate eye for detail and a professional guide, used to dealing with people and armed with a quirky sense of humour that betrays the various strands of his roots.

Born and bred in Germany, Heinrich spent nine years at University College, Dublin before moving to Athens to head up the Irish Institute. When his term was over, he remained in Athens, parking his slippers in a corner of the lively Exarchia district and his pipe (metaphorically speaking) in a cracking little bar called Archondia on the platea.

I first met him at the Irish Institute around about 2005. I forget why I went along or who the speaker was but I do remember spending some time taking beer with Heinrich. I forced him to come on to my radio show to talk archaeological sites and he duly became a weekly fixture, always enlightening and amusing about different sites in Attica which may be of interest to the passing tourist.

Heinrich hall

German football expert (and occasional archaeologist) Heinrich Hall in the studios of Athens International Radio during Euro 2008

His knowledge of football also came in handy during Euro 2008 when I hosted a daily show which blended the comings and goings in Austria and Switzerland – in Greece’s case it was mainly goings – with a splash of appropriate cultural chatter.

Heinrich often slipped into the studio to be my expert on the German team. We watched the final together in the James Joyce pub, not a good evening for Heinrich as it marked the start of the reign of Spain.

Archondia is little more than a smallish room with about six tables. I have never seen it full. The landlady – also called Archondia, yes she named the bar after herself – brushes back her red hair and greets everyone as if she has known them for at least 20 years which in most cases is probably about right.

Ten years after the EU banned smoking in public places, it is all but obligatory to roll a cigarette and puff away in full sight of the law. I have been an irregular regular there, sipping the Kaiser beer which always seems a suitable choice of beverage for Heinrich.

The last few times I have been to Athens, Heinrich was away, probably on some fancy yacht guiding dollar-rich tourists through the ancient sites of the Aegean. I am not jealous. Honest.

Anyway, the point I am making is that whenever you head to one of the world’s major museums, it is good to have a guide like Heinrich.

Agamemnon

The disputed death mask of Agamemnon (By Xuan Che)

He was keen, eager even, when I informed him I was coming to Athens and determined to do something I had never managed in my near 20-year association with the city: visit the National Archaeological Museum.

“I don’t want to do the whole lot Heinrich,” I said. “I am too old for that. I will have forgotten room one by the time we get to the toilets. Just give me ten things that I should see.”

“Ten things. Yes, we can do that. Maybe we can find you some sport….”

Well I am not going to give you ten things, I am not even going to mention Agamemnon’s golden death mask, mainly because although it is golden and quite arresting and comes from the ancient palace at Mycenae, it is not Agamemnon. At least not according to Heinrich.

“Agamemnon, if he existed, would have lived around 1200 BC but the mask is more like 1550 BC,” he says with great vigour.

So let’s just focus on the sport.

 

ZEUS

The only place you can start is with the king daddy himself. Zeus. He is the reason that the Olympic Games came into being in 776 BC.

The honour of being the Ancient Greek Baron Pierre de Coubertin lies with King Iphitos of Elis, who is said to have visited the oracle at Delphi in a bid to bring an end to the civil wars that were plaguing Greece. The priestess advised that he should restore the Olympic Games in honour of Zeus.

According to the Greek historian Pausanias, meanwhile, writing in the 2nd century AD, the dactyl Iraklis (not to be confused with he of the 12 Labours) and four of his brothers raced at Olympia to entertain the newborn Zeus. This is very possibly fake news, or myth as it was once known, but it is a good tale.

For sure we know that Zeus was the main man at Olympia. There was a massive statue of him (not the one below) in the temple at Olympia, made from ivory and gold, standing over 10 metres tall created by Phidias around 430 BC. It is believed to have been destroyed in a fire in the 5th century AD. Hundreds of cows were slaughtered in his name for the feasts that were part and parcel of the Games.

Ancient Zeus

The bronze statue we find here of Zeus was probably made around the same time, after the Battle of Marathon in 490 BC when Athens became a hive of creativity. It then appears to have been claimed by the Romans and in the 2nd century BC shipped off towards Pergamon. But it never got there as the vessel that was transporting it sprung a leak and sank to the bottom of the Aegean at Cape Artemision in northern Euboea. It was only discovered  in the 1920s.

There is some debate about whether it is Zeus or Poseidon, depending on whether you think he is gripping a thunderbolt or a trident. It seems that the archaeologists now favour Zeus and I tend to agree with them, partly because his downward look suggests a throw from on high and partly because it fits better with this particular article. When I write about the America’s Cup or the Boat Race I may change my mind.

What is glorious about the statue though is the musculation. Whether it is Zeus or Poseidon, this is the body of an athlete with a beautifully observed flex of the bicep and a six-pack that could have been modelled by the younger Heinrich. The sculptor has captured a feeling of power, calm, focus and motion, all vital elements for any athlete.

You can read more about the Ancient Games at Olympia here

 

HORSE RACING 

Ancient horse1First stop after Zeus is our link with equestrian sports for no other reason than that this roughly lifesize statue of the boy on the horse was found at the same time as Zeus at Cape Artemision. Imagine being the fellow delivering the news of that loss at sea.

“Well guv’nor, we had a bit of weather and the ship went down.”

“Losses?”

“Yeah well guv’nor, the crew all drowned.”

“Just as well. If any had dared to survive, they would be swinging now from a gibbet with their guts feeding the crows. Anything else?”

“Er, well, the whole cargo went down too.”

“By Jupiter, that’s bad. The bronzes?”

“All gone, guv.”

“Guards! String this traitor up!”

 

Ancient horse1 (2)
Ancient horse2

There were three horse racing events at Olympia, two with chariots and one with a rider. Could this be an Olympic winner? It is a magical piece of work which dates from around 140 BC. The details in the horse (even though the middle section of the body was never found) and in the boy rider whose clenched muscles, gripping the reins and whip which are now lost, low lean and eager visual intensity suggest a real desire to win the race.

The position of the horse, resting on its back legs, is full of movement and speed.

I had seen pictures of this statue many times but nothing prepared me for its impact when I came face to be face. I stopped and stared for many minutes, prompted to leave only by Heinrich’s promise of some further surprises.

 

ATHLETICS

Ancient oil scrape

Athlete using a stlegida (Pic: Barney Spender)

The track and field events at the Hellenic Games were much the same as today with running races, long jump, javelin and discus.

Of the runners the name Leonidas of Rhodes stands out as the finest, his achievements eclipsing those of modern legends such as Carl Lewis, Mo Farrah and Usain Bolt.

Between 164 and 152 BC, Leonidas won all three running events at each of the four Olympiads. This consisted of the short distance race called the stade-race, which was one length of the stadium, the diaulos, which was two lengths of the stadium and the dolichos, a long-distance race covering around 24 lengths of the stadium. Not a bad effort when you remember that all three events were run on the same day.

The figurine above, found in Myrina in Attica and dating from the 1st century AD, shows an athlete using a stlegida to scrape the olive oil from his body after competing.

The athletes would compete naked – no women were allowed in to watch – and the oil was used to loosen the muscles in the way of Deep Heat. There are suggestions that it was also used for aesthetic purposes so as to make the athletes glisten in the sun. By the end of the race, the oil would have mixed with the sweat and the dirt to create a greasy film which the athletes would scrape off.

 

Ancient runners
Ancient pots

Above left we have a pot from Attica using black figure skyphos to depict a foot race  apparently made by a fellow known as the Camel Painter around 540 BC. Note the pointy penises. As I mentioned earlier, the athletes used to compete naked but there were some laws of etiquette to observe. One of these demanded that the runners conceal the gland at the end of the penis. To expose it was definitely not the done thing.

So the athletes used a kynodesme, a “dog tie”, a cord or leather strap that they looped around their foreskin – Heinrich tells me there was no circumcision in Ancient Greece. Apart from good manners, this also had the added benefit of keeping the penis clean. The last thing a chap needs is a grain of grit or sand under the old foreskin. Devilish irritating.

The final image of the three pots from the 4th century BC show three separate athletes, two of them looking a bit fagged out and certainly reminiscent of my good self (without the kynodesme) after I have been out for a morning run with Doggo. The third athlete appears to be taking part in a torch relay. Fortunately the British didn’t get to compete so no nasty accidents caused by dropping the torch.

 

FOOTBALL

Ancient keepy-uppyThis was an astonishing discovery: they played football of some sort in Ancient Greece. Heinrich led me to this funeral stele, only part of which still exists. It is the important part as it clearly shows “a nude youth practicing with a ball in the palaestra”.

This was found in Piraeus so presumably he is the earliest Olympiakos fan on record and evidently he is pretty handy at the keepy-uppy.

“It reminds me of a young Beckenbauer,” murmured a rather dreamy Heinrich.

As we gazed at the stele, wondering how much this round ball legend achieved that he should have such a fancy gravestone and just what was his relationship to the young lad on the left, the museum guide dashed towards us and pushed his phone to our noses.

There we saw a picture of Cristiano Ronaldo kissing the Euro trophy after Portugal’s win in 2016. On the trophy…the same image. I have never been slow in dismissing UEFA as a bunch of fatcat charlatans but for this they actually deserve some credit for reaching back into history.

Ronaldo trophy

 

 

HOCKEY

As with the football this not only surprised me but shocked me into silence. I always thought hockey was yet another 19th century offspring of the British Empire. It appears I was wrong. This looks for all the world like two players bullying-off at the start of a hockey match, albeit the sticks are upside down. Anyone who started playing hockey after 1981 might need to look that last bit up.

There only appear to be two players taking part although in the full frieze which dates from 510 BC there are two other figures watching on so it may well have been a one-on-one game. Or maybe it was early hurling. Who knows?

Ancient hockey

 

BOXING

Fighting was a staple part of the Ancient Games, coming in the forms of boxing, wrestling and pankrateon.

Boxing, as a sport, is reckoned to go back to Minoan and Mycenaean times while the Greeks like to think that Apollo beat Ares in the first ever boxing contest at Olympia.

When it came to mortals fighting, the rule books, which did exist, seem to have gone out of the window. Almost any type of blow with the hand was allowed although eye-gouging was not permitted. Some bouts lasted hours and the only way to end these was for the two fighters to slug it out by taking it in turns to take an undefended punch at the other man.

Ancient boxerIn one case at the Nemean Games a lad called Damoxenos jabbed his opponent Kreogas under the ribs with outstretched fingers so violently that he pierced his flesh and tore out Kreogas’ guts. It was a phyrric victory for Damoxenes; in accordance with the customs of the time victory was awarded posthumously to Kreogas while Damoxenes collected a lifetime ban from the stadium.

What we have here, though, is a remarkable bronze bust of a boxer found at Olympia. It is extremely well preserved with wonderful facial details such as cauliflower ears and flattened nose. We can also see that he has been crowned with a kotinos, the olive wreath awarded to winners of the Olympic Games, although only the stem remains. That, though, has allowed historians to dip into their Rothmans Yearbooks and work out who this is.

The answer is Satyros of Elis – the same neck of the woods as King Iphitos who is said to have started the Olympic Games – who won numerous titles at the Games in Nemea, Olympia and Pythia. He may have commissioned this himself or it may have been done via public subscription. In either case it was made by the Athenian bronze sculptor Silanion between 330 and 320 BC.

I wonder if the infamous statue of Cristiano Ronaldo will also enjoy such longevity.

 

THE FAN

Ancient malaka

Officially this is Antikythera Youth, a bronze statue of a young man that was found in 1900 by sponge-divers in the area of an ancient shipwreck off the island of  Antikythera.

Unofficially he is Hellenic Ultra, notable for the salute he is offering to the judges.

I enjoyed many sporting events in Greece none more heated or electric or thrilling than the derby matches between the Athens-based Panathinaikos and their fiercest rivals from just down the road in Piraeus, Olympiakos. Even when away fans were banned, which was always, there would be street battles in the lead-up to kick-off and this went for football, basketball, volleyball, handball, water polo, tavli, the lot.

At one game in Leoforos Alexandrou I witnessed Panathinaikos fans fighting among themselves presumably because one of them had a great aunt who once upon a time took a ferry from Piraeus.

When they aren’t fighting each other, the fans, often stripped to the waist in the middle of winter, usually take out their rage on the referee. This is signified with the sign of the mούντζα (mountza), a five finger spread on an outstretched arm which is then wobbled rapidly as if to signify a shakey floor. And here he is, the original Greek Ultra.

Heinrich Hall works as a guide for Peter Sommer Travels – you can read his archaeological insights here

©Barney Spender 2019

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Malcolm is On the Mend

Posted by barneyspender on February 12, 2019
Posted in: Culture, Film, Greece. Tagged: Malcolm Brabant, Sanofi Pasteur, Trine Villeman, Yellow Fever. 1 Comment

MalcolmFive years ago, I wrote a review on this blog about a book called Malcolm is a Little Unwell by the veteran journalist Malcolm Brabant.

The book tracked Malcolm’s descent into psychotic madness as a result of a yellow fever vaccination and vividly described a hellish journey that had him believing that he was, in no particular order, Jesus, Satan and Winston Churchill.

It is a fine book and, having been published online, really does deserve a physical publication.

The good news is that Malcolm has fully recovered from his two-year absence, winning the prestigious Peabody Award in 2016 for his reporting of the Syrian refugee crisis in Greece. And he has also completed a mesmerising documentary about his illness, like the book titled Malcolm is a Little Unwell.

If the book was harrowing in its descriptions then the film goes to another level. As a vocation journalist, it was entirely natural for Malcolm to record himself during his illness. His wife Trine Villemann is also a journalist and had no qualms about keeping the camera on, even when it is turned on her own snotty nose, bloodshot eyes and raw lips, sick with worry for the sanity and life of her husband.

“I don’t know if he will survive this,” she whimpers in chilling fashion. “I don’t know if I want him to survive because he is suffering so much.”

Her face when Malcolm announces that their son Lukas is the Messiah and that she is the mother of the Messiah is a picture of grief and hopelessness.

mlcolm2

Trine Villemann and Malcolm Brabant, enjoying life again (Pic: M Brabant)

Trine, though, reveals herself to be a woman of immense strength and love as she drags Malcolm back from the brink of suicide to good health.

“Through sheer will power, she saved me,” Brabant admits.

There are moments that could pass for Monty Python in the film as Malcolm who, in good health has a barrel-chested boombox of a voice, declares to his neighbours from the balcony of his Greek apartment about his realisation that he is in fact Jesus and how the RAF are going to come and rescue him.

“Did you see the meteorite?” he asks.

On another occasion he turns seriously to camera to utter the line: “I am not the Messiah, I am the wise man.”

You want to laugh and shout at the screen that, in fact, he is just a “very naughty boy” but you stop because you remember that this is real life. This is a man fighting for his sanity and his survival. It really isn’t very funny at all.

The film opens with Malcolm on a boat working on a story about the refugee crisis in the Mediterranean, looking back on his battle for sanity. On April 15, 2011, while living in Athens, he had gone to get a jab for yellow fever that he needed to travel to Ivory Coast to shoot a couple of films for UNICEF. The reaction was immediate and severe as it effectively fried his brain.

We meet doctors and specialists, we see Malcolm in and out of hospital, fighting demons and scaring the living daylights out of Trine and their young son Lukas.

The knock-on effect of such an illness for a freelance journalist is even more severe. There is no such thing as sickness pay or state benefits; the family purse is stretched on all fronts.

The Brabants leave Athens and move to a cramped, pokey apartment in a seedy part of Copenhagen where at least they had Trine’s family for support and a welfare system that would help them.

malcolms3

Brabant had to undergo several rounds of ECT (Pic: Malcolm is a Little Unwell)

“Darkness consumed me,” says Malcolm who was finally admitted to a psychiatric ward where he came close to killing himself and had to undergo electro-convulsive therapy.

“My happy husband has been turned into a psychotic wreck,” says Trine.

The film takes us through the therapy and through Malcolm’s recovery, a moment marked by the triumph of the Peabody Award.

These days, the Brabants are based in England and Malcolm is back to his ebullient best. But the scars remain, not least in their son Lukas who still suffers from the fear of witnessing his father’s tangle with the demons.

Malcolm is a Little Unwell is a raw documentary.  It picks at the nerves and in remarkably candid fashion shows a deeply ugly journey.

It is just a pity that, in spite of a number of requests from the Brabants, the makers of the yellow fever vaccine Sanofi Pasteur declined to contribute. It seems they are in total denial about the side effects of their vaccine.

“Yellow fever vaccine saves lives but sometimes it harms, even kills, people,” says Trine, words that echo loudly following the death in January 2019 of the top cancer scientist Martin Gore died following a yellow fever vaccine.

Sanofi-Pasteur might want to man up a little bit and accept that they need to do something about the vaccine. Or would that be too close to admitting responsibility?

You can rent the film or buy it here

Malcolm is a Little Unwell is available as an e-book through Amazon

©Barney Spender 2019

Follow me on Twitter @bspender

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Kissing the feet of Leonidas

Posted by barneyspender on February 5, 2019
Posted in: Culture, Film, Greece, History, Spartathlon, Sport. Tagged: Kyriakos Liarakos, Peloponnese International Documentary Film Festival, Rajesh James, Sparta, Spartathlon, The Road to Sparta. Leave a comment

Peloponnese doc festWhen a runner completes the 246-kilometre Spartathlon he or she earns a rare privilege. A last stretch of honour up the main drag in Sparta, soaking up the applause of the  crowds, the blisters and fatigue accrued over the last day and a half  forgotten for an instant. And the sight of Leonidas, the statue of the great Spartan king, looking proudly, sternly and defiantly in the direction of Thermopylae, the site of his glorious last stand.

Some runners bound effortlessly up the steps towards the statue, others shuffle steadily towards the great prize. Their name is called out, a young Spartan woman steps forward to present them with an olive wreath for their head and a bowl of cool sacred spring water.

But first they pay homage. This is the moment of truth, when the pain and effort not just of the last two days pays off but of the last few months or even years of dedication and training.

When the runner reaches the statue of Leonidas they lay a hand on his foot. Then they bend slightly and kiss it. And clutch it some more. Some might choose to lay a flushed cheek against the bronze.

No big fat cheque, no multi-million sponsorship deal for completing the greatest race. Just the chance to kiss the feet of Leonidas. It is a beautiful moment.

For the last four and a half years I have dreamed of kissing the feet of Leonidas, of earning that right.

Last month I did it.

rts-crew

The RTS crew in Sparta: Standing Marius, Roddy, Barney. Seated: Tryfon, Andreas, Vasilios (Photo: Marius Ulevicius, 2014)

As some of you may know – apologies for the barrage of articles and tweets you have had to put up with – I made a documentary film called The Road to Sparta. It is a 60-minute feature about four runners who take on the race, interwoven with the tale of Pheidippides and set within the context of an Athens facing the threat not of the Persian but of Austerity.

On a shoestring budget my co-director Roddy Gibson and I shot the 2014 race and then spent the next two years editing before its Athens premiere in October 2016.

The shoot was tough. Not as tough as for the runners perhaps but arduous nonetheless.

We arose at 4am on race day and didn’t sleep again until the following evening.

I lie. As the driver, I insisted on an hour’s kip somewhere near Nestani in the dead of night. With Andreas and Tryfon composing music in the back of the van, we were back and forth up and down the road tracking our runners, lugging kit, setting up, jumping back in the vehicle, taking wrong turns, constantly planning the next move and stressing about the state of Mark, Dean, Angie and Rob, the four guys we were following. Would any of them finish the race? (No spoilers, you can breathe easy).

When we had completed the race shoot and the post-race interviews the following morning, we knew we had the bones of a decent film but we recognised that we hadn’t actually finished our Spartathlon. Hence no one from the crew even thought about kissing the feet of Leonidas.

Spartans

The Spartans arrive to pay tribute to Leonidas (Photo: Spartathlon)

Pushing the film forward in the post-production was equally tough. Once a month I would hop on the Eurostar in Paris and spend the next four days editing with Roddy in London. It went forward slowly and steadily, like many of the runners. The music came in from the musicians at Old House Playground and the poems from Alicia Stallings. It all took time and patience.

Even after the Athens premiere we weren’t done. Roddy and I spotted some small points that we could improve on, notably the sound. We went back into edit mode and cleaned it up, making a couple of small cuts in the process to help the rhythm and dramatic impetus of the film.

The film went on the road in 2018 with festivals in Europe, Africa, Australia and the US, picked up some prizes along the way – Best Director at the Enginuity Festival in Las Vegas, Best Documentary at Satisfied Eye in Epsom and Best Poetry at the Motion Pictures Film Festival in Lagos – but we closed the circle when we were selected to screen at last month’s Peloponnese International Documentary Film Festival.

We were given two screenings, one to close the festival in Kalamata and the other a day earlier … in Sparta.

This was the moment.

Kyriakos Liarakos was my driver for the day and another director Rajesh James, an exciting young filmmaker from India, came with us for the ride. Rajesh had never been to Sparta and so the three of us strolled through the archaeological site. We strode through the ancient theatre and climbed up to the Akropolis, looking out across the rooftops of modern Sparta to the mountains where the ancients would abandon their children to test their strength.

Kissing the feet of Leonidas

Barney Spender finally gets to kiss the feet of Leonidas (Pic: Kyriakos Liarakos)

There was no feast of Carneian Apollo to whisk us back in time, just sporadic cheers from a lively crowd watching the local junior football team in the nearby stadium.

We had parked close to the statue of Leonidas. I couldn’t help myself being drawn up the steps. I turned to my two companions.

“It has taken over four years to get here. But tonight we screen in Sparta. We have earned this.”

And with that, and on behalf of everyone who has helped with the making of The Road to Sparta, I finally got to kiss the feet of Leonidas.

 

I would like to offer a special thank you to Aegean Airlines for organising my flights between Paris and Athens and to Gina Petropoulou and her team for their hospitality and friendship during a wonderful festival.

©Barney Spender 2019

You can keep up to date with all developments on The Road to Sparta by following our website 

Follow us on Twitter @theroadtosparta or on Facebook @TheRoadToSpartaFilm

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The House that Ubu Built

Posted by barneyspender on January 16, 2019
Posted in: Corbeil-Essonnes, Culture, France, History, Sport. Tagged: Alfred Jarry, Corbeil-Essonnes, Le Phalanstere, Pere Ubu, Rachilde. Leave a comment
jarry-bicycle-r

Alfred Jarry riding his Clement Luxe outside Le Phalanstère in 1898

For the last 12 months I have been getting stressed. About a house. Not my house you understand, which by and large stands of its own free will, but a dilapidated building nearby which overlooks the river Seine in the heart of Corbeil-Essonnes.

Until last week, this stress related to the disintegration of this square-chested house with its crumbling walls and shattered shutters. This is a fate that hits many unloved structures, their owners deliberately leaving them open to the elements to hurry the rot and collapse of the building and thus speed the emergence in its place of a faceless peachy apartment block.

What made it worse with this house on Quai l’Apport was its special significance. Its postal address is just a number – it has juggled between 19 and 21 over the last 120 years – but for around eight months in the spring, summer and autumn of 1898, it was known by a name: Le Phalanstère.

Its occupants at that time were a group of writers, most of them forgotten now, who lazed away the summer under the pretence of seeking inspiration and exploring new ideas.

Rachilde was the matriarch of Le Phalanstère
Rachilde was the matriarch of Le Phalanstère
André-Ferdinand Hérold had the best beard in the house, very possibly in France
André-Ferdinand Hérold had the best beard in the house, very possibly in France
Jarry watches Alfred Vallette at work with brush and easel in the graden
Jarry watches Alfred Vallette at work with brush and easel in the graden

Gold stars to anyone who remembers the names of Marguerite Eymery, known better under her pseudonym Rachilde, her husband Alfred Vallette who founded the literary review Mercure de France, the opulently bearded André-Ferdinand Hérold, and Marcel Collière and Pierre Quillard who had collaborated a decade earlier on a translation and phonetic study of the ancient Greek poet Theocritus.

Hardly household names, unlike the sixth who was the latest hotshot of the Paris theatre. Alfred Jarry.

And yet when I first parked the car to take a closer look between the bushes, there was no recognition of Jarry’s occupation of Le Phalanstère, no plaque to mark the fact that one of the great innovators of 19th century theatre, creator of the immortal Pere Ubu and father, uncle, grandpa, dog – depending on where you stand in the literary argument – of absurdism, surrealism, dadaism and ismism had slept in his little room on the top floor, drunk here prodigiously (two bottles of wine before breakfast), hung out in the garden painting and shooting at the birds in the trees (sometimes at the same time).

jarry house 4 18
jarry house 3 18
jarry house 2 18

Apparently the landlady objected to Jarry firing off his gun at every opportunity, on one occasion telling him that he was endangering her children.

“Madame,” he leered. “We can always make more children.”

Jarry is unlikely to have too many admirers in the #metoo movement. He was, it seems, a misogynist with little or no respect for women authors apart, it seems, from Rachilde who became something of a mother figure for him.

The most famous photograph of Jarry, perched on his bike, suited up as if for Sunday Mass, was taken in front of Le Phlanstère (see top of the article). Dodge the cars and you could get the same photo today.

jarry hotel 2

The Hotel de la Mairie where Jarry used to drink with his namesake. You will see the name Jarry still daubed on the wall (Photo: B Spender)

Jarry never paid for his bike but he travelled miles on it, pre and post-inebriation. He also kept a boat on the river, for gliding and fishing and reflecting, and regularly he would travel the 400 metres or so across the square in front of the Mairie of Corbeil to a hotel run by another gentleman called Jarry where he would drink absinthe and, ever so slowly, continue the process of killing himself. You can still see the faded name of Jarry stencilled across his namesake’s old hotel.

And during that summer, Jarry also wrote. Not Ubu but Docteur Faustroll whose contribution to Jarry’s notion of Pataphysics is immense. Sadly, the book was only published in 1911, four years after Jarry’s death at the age of 34.

Jarry’s association with Corbeil lasted longer than a single summer. The following year, with the Phalanstère no longer available for lease (the landlady valued her children more than the potential rent), Jarry shuffled a little further down the Seine, finding a small hut called Le Tripode, close to the barrier in the neighbouring town of Coudray. Rachilde and Vallette lived in a bigger house next door. He bought a plot and had plans to build a house when the drinking finally killed him on November 1, 1907.

But his house at Quai de l’Apport was a concern. At first sight it was unloved and tumbling, on the verge of disappearing from sight and memory. Initial inquires found that it had been the property of the mill next door since 1917, now a part of Groupe Soufflet. They didn’t answer my email.

alfred-jarry-r

Alfred Jarry , creator of Pere Ubu, by l’Atelier Nadar (1896).

My thought was that it would make a fantastic writer’s retreat or even a small Jarry Museum. Why shouldn’t Corbeil capitalise on his name to create some cultural tourism? Heaven knows we need it. The main stage in the local theatre is named after Jarry but in the street there is little to remind the local or the visitor that the town once played home to such an eminent playwright.

I spoke to the Mayor of Corbeil whose response was: “Who is going to pay for it?”

I contacted the theatre director Declan Donnellan whose recent Cheek by Jowl production of Pere Ubu had been quite a success. He sympathised with the plight of the house but said, quite reasonably, he was too busy to get involved in any kind of preservation campaign.

“I remember going crazy when they built flats on the site where Hamlet was performed,” he wrote. “I got a brick from the site. I have been there and failed.”

And I got in touch with David Thomas, the force behind the band Pere Ubu. We chatted briefly after a gig at the Borderline in London in May 2018 but his mind was elsewhere and I did not push it. He is not the kind of man to push, I suspect, if you want things to turn out well.

And then I got busy on other matters and Le Phalanstère drifted from my thoughts. Until last week when I drove past again and noticed the bushes had been cut back, supports had been placed in the window frames and the wall at the back of the building had been knocked down.

It didn’t look like demolition time. I parked up and went closer, walked around the back to stand in the truncated garden where 110 years earlier Jarry and Vallette had been photographed at the easel.

Le Phalanstère in January 2019
Le Phalanstère in January 2019
From the garden
From the garden
Looking up to Jarry's bedroom
Looking up to Jarry’s bedroom

I found a site worker who explained that the mill was undergoing some work.

“They are being preserved,” he said. “They are to be the new offices for the mill.”

I have been put in touch with the gentleman responsible for the restoration of the site. Fingers crossed I will be able to bring more news soon.

I am sorry that the house will not be a writer’s retreat. Nor even a museum. But Le Phalanstère is rising again. That is the good news as it keeps the town in touch with a small shard of its history. No more stress. The spirit of Ubu lives on in Corbeil.

©Barney Spender 2019

jarry square

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The Spender Oath

Posted by barneyspender on August 18, 2018
Posted in: History, Spender. Tagged: Arthur Edmund Spender, Donald Trump, Edward Spender, Tregonhawke, Western Morning News. Leave a comment
edward spender

Edward Spender, founder of the Western Morning News and architect of a Journalistic Code

Hardly a day goes by without President Trump launching an attack on the press. Not just the individuals on the White House lawn but on the very concept of the freedom of the press. His persistent declarations of “fake news” and his insistence on “alternative facts” poison the mind of the public and weaken the pillars of an honest profession.

Over the years, there have, of course, been publications and individuals who have blurred the lines between newsman, rabble-rouser and gossip-monger. And the establishment of the internet as the primary news source for most people today has blown the industry wide open. Many people who are not journalists in the strict sense of the word now wrap themselves in the title as if grasping for a cloak of credibility.

Journalism is at a crossroads. I am an old hack, a journalist with 30 years chalked up on my inky sleeve. I look out wearily on a battlefield of broken oaths. How much more difficult and confusing for the youngsters coming into the trade, wondering what the hell they are supposed to do. Imagine the confusion among the medical profession if the President of the United States were to declare war on the Hypocratic Oath.

So, what should be the guiding principles?

Doubtless, every hack has come up with his or her own ideas about truth, honesty, integrity, balance and so on. I am lucky in that I can consult my family.

I never knew my great grandfather, he drowned with his two eldest sons in Whitsand Bay, Cornwall in the summer of 1878, 85 years before I was born.

The memorial in his honour that was erected overlooking Tregonhawke Bay has now been put up for listed status.

However, I can still tap into his his views on the profession that we both share.

Edward Spender was 26 when he set up the Western Morning News with his brother-in-law William Saunders. Published out of Plymouth and, with careful use of the railway timetables to make it the biggest newspaper in the south-west of England, the first issue appeared on January 3, 1860.

WMN First issueThe copy I have in front of me which only runs to four pages has blackened slightly along the creases, the result I am afraid of being stowed away for some years in a wooden box in Zimbabwe’s Eastern Highlands; but that is another story for another day.

The front page of the first issue is filled with small advertisements as was the custom. Fine Old Port and Sherry Wines are to be sold at auction at Skardon & Sons at Plymouth Commercial Showrooms that very day; the Newly-Invented Stereoscope (50 to 100 views) is for hire at WH Luke’s in Bedford Street (just up the road from the thump and grind of the presses of the Western Morning News); and Miss ME Grigg of 8 Crescent Place, Mulgrave Street “begs to state that she continues to give LESSONS in DRAWING”.

The rump of the News follows inside. The international news is headed by the French Emperor Napoleon’s reception of the diplomatic corps at the Salle de Trone while the Spaniards “displayed great bravery” under an attack by the Moors in the Morocco War.

The Police Intelligence section is particularly busy. Shoemaker Richard Joyce was charged with assaulting his wife and a police officer, the result it seems of a monster session of binge-drinking. Mrs Joyce doesn’t come out of this too well either: “The most disgusting language appeared to be common between them and they were in the habit of drinking together for days,” cites the report.

WMN First issue boySpare a thought for a couple of 10-year-old boys too. John Ridden was charged with stealing four penny puddings from the stall of Mrs Sarah Cundy in the market while Thomas Roberts was charged with pinching a magic lantern from the store of Mr Jonathan Herder in Buckwell Street before selling it to another boy for two pence. Both boys were imprisoned for seven days and whipped.

There is even a murder, 64-year-old man killing his wife and dumping her in her night clothes outside their own front door at Roche, near St Austell.

The first issue also has a Letters column, notably an account from Spectator of “barbarous cruelty” perpetrated by workers at Millbay Pier as they attempted to move a bullock “suspended by its horns from a crane!”

However, at the heart of this first issue of a newspaper which is still going strong almost 160 years later, and the item which rings particularly loud in this Trumpian Age of Alternative Facts, is the Editorial. Perhaps Mission Statement would be a better description.

It was written by my great grandfather who lays out the principles behind this new publication, including what might be seen as the principles of journalism. I won’t quote the whole thing but here is a section that all journalists, whether they are old hacks or young thrusters, would do well to consider and take to heart.

“In matters of Politics and Religion, we shall be strictly independent. We do not hold a brief for any party, in Church or State. The journalist should aim at a higher office than that of the advocate retained to defend a client, or to blacken an opponent. If he have a right idea of his vocation he will strive to be the impartial judge, rather than the ingenious but one-sided counsel. He will carefully seek to avoid the misrepresentations of motive and perversions of fact that too often disfigure the Press in its treatment of public men.

“But let it not be supposed that independence involves neutrality or silence. Although we have drawn up no confession of faith, we shall not be found wanting in the expression of opinions. Bound to no party, we shall have no hesitation in criticising any.

WMN edditorial

“We have heard it remarked that strict justice is impossible: that we must of necessity join one of the two great factions that rule the State and vex the Church. To us, however, it seems far more easy to write vigorously as well as truthfully, if allowed perfect freedom of speech, than if we were pledged by secret promises, and hampered by stringent contracts.

“Every inducement that can influence will concur in preventing us from giving any party indiscriminate support. We cannot honestly assert that the Conservative is always a selfish traitor , or the Liberal a generous hero. Neither can we endorse the dicta that “Providence is always on the side of the Tories” and that “the Devil was the first Whig and Cain the second.” Extreme opinions of this kind suppose a happy indifference to the facts of history, and the events of daily life, which we have not yet attained. It is not probably that we shall reach it just yet. In the meanwhile we hope to prove that there is both honesty and bravery in the ranks of Free Lances. We shall have equal liberty in discussing local matters as in dealing with matters of general importance. We shall have no interests to serve, nor classes to uphold, and thus we shall best advance all.

“Our columns will be open to the opinions of those who differ from us: and we shall ever be ready to give a fair hearing to our correspondents so long as they observe the good old knightly rule of Christian courtesy.

“Public speakers of whatever creed shall be faithfully reported. We have never yet found it happen that all the orators on one side are eloquent while those on the other side are fools. Wisdom and folly are generally fairly apportioned; and whether it is in the House of Commons or on the Platform correctness of thought and clearness of expression are, for the most part, equally shared by every section.

“We shall carefully exclude from our pages all such advertisements and criminal reports as are morally objectionable

“We have set before ourselves a high standard. Being but human, we shall no doubt often fall short of it. Nevertheless we believe that English men and women are always ready to forgive occasional failings , when they see the hearty desire manifested to serve the cause of truth with vigour and honesty.”

WMN insigniaHaving set up the Western Morning News, Edward Spender moved to London in 1863 where he and Saunders set up the Central Press agency in Hatton Gardens. He continued to contribute to the Western Morning News as well as numerous other publications and published a book Fjord, Isle and Tor in 1870.

After his tragic death in 1878, links to the Western Morning News continued in the family. Another brother-in-law Russell Rendle served as managing director, a role that Edward’s son Arthur Edmund, my grandfather, would also fill when he came of age.

Sadly it stopped after Arthur. When I applied for a place a rookie back in the 1980s, I was politely told there were no vacancies but that my details would be kept on hold. I am still waiting for the call to follow in the family footsteps.

Not really.

I do sometimes feel, though, that I was born in the wrong age. The dystopian Trumpian values, the crumbling of the Fourth Estate, the despicable phone-tapping antics of fellow hacks and the deliberate narrow lens of political chicanery all seem wrong. They make me question my own role as a journalist.

But the words of Edward Spender, written over 150 years ago, reiterate the power and nobility of a truly great profession. And, I suspect, a rather fine man.

©Barney Spender 2018

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The Sale of the Century

Posted by barneyspender on February 22, 2018
Posted in: Culture, History, Spender. Tagged: Arthur Champernowne, Dartington Hall, Domenichino, Rubens, Titian. 1 Comment

The Roman Triumph by Peter Paul Rubens (National Gallery, London)

The guide at the National Gallery in London wasn’t entirely sure where I might find Rubens. She furrowed her brow and scratched her chin.

“Oh they have been messing about again,” she said. “They keep moving him. Last thing I knew he was in two rooms. Margaret?”

She summoned over her colleague who had been enjoying what can only be described as a quiet moment in her chair by the door of the neighbouring room where I had just moments before gazed on Titien’s Noli Me Tangere. To be fair it was a Sunday and the gallery was closing in the next 30 minutes.

Margaret sprang into action and bustled over to join us.

“Rubens? Oh what do you want him for, Judy? Can’t bear Rubens.”

“Can’t bear Rubens? Crikey. I love Rubens.”

“No,” said Margaret. “Very overrated. I wouldn’t want one on my wall, thank you very much.”

Fascinating though their debate was, I was feeling the feathery tickle of time. I also needed to find Domenichino’s Saint George Slaying the Dragon over in Room 37.

“Is he in 18 or 31? They split him up didn’t they,” said Judy, my original guide, wanting to emphasise her disgust at the gallery authorities.

“Oh no. That’s changed,” came back Margaret, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “He’s back in one room.”

“Is he? When did they do that?” Judy lowered her voice, tucked her chin into her neck like a courting pigeon and murmured in a conspiratorial manner worthy of Catesby and Fawkes.

The National Gallery in London, home to eight of Champernowne’s collection

“They do this. They get these nonsense ideas, move everything around and no one ever tells us anything. So we end up sending people to the wrong rooms. They never tell us anything.”

I nodded understandingly and was about to say “It was the same with the moon landings” when Margaret chimed in again.

“Which one is it you’re after?”

“It is called A Roman Triumph. It is a procession…”

“…with the elephants? And the lions and stuff?”

“Yes that sounds right.”

“Well why didn’t you say so. Room 18. Through this door here, down to the end, turn left and keep going.”

I thanked them both and began to move off.

“Why do you want to see that one in particular?” asked Judy who had been a touch sidelined by Margaret’s instant and efficient placement of the Rubens.

I stopped and wondered about how I should reply.

Pride or Humility?

“Oh erm family reasons I suppose….We used to own it.”

 

THE CHAMPERNOWNES OF DEEPEST DEVON

The Champernowne coat of arms at the time Sir Arthur moved the family into Dartington

When I say my family used to own the Rubens, or  Titian or Domenichino for that matter, I don’t mean the Spenders. They never had the wherewithal to scour the palaces and galleries of Europe and nor, I suspect, did they have the inclination to lay out the family capital on works of art.

The Spenders were about business; from tavern owners in Bradford-on-Avon to doctors and newspapermen. My great grandfather Edward Spender set up the Western Morning News in Plymouth; his nephew JA became a highly influential editor of the Westminster Gazette. JA’s brother Harold was a less distinguished journalist although his son Stephen would go on to establish the Spender name in the literary sphere.

But no. We are not talking about Spenders here; we are talking about the Champernowne family and that is because on April 26, 1906, Arthur Edmund Spender, who was also a newspaperman, married Helen Frances Champernowne. My grandparents.

According to my great aunt Bessie, who wrote a mighty tome on the family history, Burke (as in Burke’s Peerage) “introduced, the pedigree of Champernowne with the fanfare; “The family of Champernowne which, in splendour of descent, yields to few in the West of England…”

She continues: “And yet it is remarkable that in spite of their erstwhile vast possessions, they never seem to have aspired to any higher title than that of Knight, and we do not find them standing out in the pageantry of English History but continually identified with local interests and activities and thus forming part of the background “behind the scenes” of English history and local government, on which our country has been built up.”

Coming from Normandy – Thomas de Cambernon had lined up against Harold at the Battle of Hastings – they only established themselves in England after 1120 when Jordan de Cambernon of UmberIeigh married Mabira, the illegitimate daughter of Robert FitzRoy, the 1st Earl of Gloucester, himself the illegitimate son of Henry I.

The Champernownes were not all bastards though.

Arthur Champernowne, art collector and great great great grandfather of the author. Painted by William Brockedon, an artist he championed and pattronised.

They set up shop in Devon; in 1554 Sir Arthur Champernowne acquired Dartington Hall, where they proceeded to live the landed life quite happily. They married into all of the local nobility so the likes of Sir Walter Ralegh, Sir Humphrey Gilbert and, later, Sir Redvers Buller all pop up in the family tree.

So, fast forward to the late 18th century when a snot-nosed seven-year old called Arthur took over as lord of the manor.

This involved a little legal sleight of hand as his predecessor Rawlin had died without leaving an heir. Young Arthur was actually the son of the Reverend Richard Harington, the rector of Powderham Castle, but as his mother was Rawlin’s sister Jane, there was nothing that deed poll couldn’t fix.

In accordance with the will of his grandfather, he took the name and arms of Champernowne on May 3, 1774.

As Arthur grew up he became a sympathetic landlord and for a while represented the area in Parliament as the MP for Saltash. But his passion was art. He had a big estate in Devon and he wanted to use it to build one of the finest collections in Europe.

And he did.

I defer once again to my great aunt Bessie, known more formally as Elizabeth.

“Arthur Champernowne’s great interest lay in pictures and prints, his travels abroad, his drawings and sketch books, and also in his collection of minerals.

When seventeen years old he went on a tour with a companion whose name is not given; and in his diary he describes his visits to Stourhead, Fonthill, Wardour Castle, Wilton House and Longford Castle.

He mentions the Chinese or Roman temples in the gardens, describes the rooms with their dimensions, and lists all the splendid pictures.  Then on to Cambridge and South Wales; after which they crossed to Calais, and passing through Arras, Cambrai, Lille, Rheims, Strasburg and many other places which he describes, they came to Heidelberg and Frankfurt.

At Karlsruhe they introduced themselves at Court and dined with the Margrave, his Princess and the Princes.  The Margrave spoke English like an Englishman, “was very affable and quoted lines from Pope”.

He spent considerable sums over a period of years on pictures, of which he bought a good many at the Orleans sale in 1798.  Although he notes in the diary in 1795 that he would bind himself to twenty-five pictures that he might not lay out so much money in forming a capital collection, he probably spent more than his income would justify.”

Noli mi Tangere by Titian (National Gallery)

Arthur didn’t stint himself. The records show a long list of great works spinning their way to Devon.

The Memoirs of Painting by the art dealer William Buchanan, published in 1824, gives a catalogue of the collection, the names of purchasers and the prices realised, and mentions several bought by Champernowne including Titian’s Noli me Tangere and the Repose in Egypt and two by Rubens, A Roman Triumph and Rainbow Landscape, which he had from Buchanan in exchange for Guido’s Lot and his Daughters.

He also imported Agostino Carracci’s Baptism of Christ in Jordan and several of the finest pictures by Andrea del Sarto.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. One look at the catalogue of paintings in the Christie’s sale of June 30, 1820 which came almost a year after Arthur died, shows a Celebrity Who’s Who of Old Masters.

Alongside Titian, Domenichino and Rubens, sit Rafael, Rembrandt and Reynolds; Guido and Gainsborough; Caravaggio, Correggio and Carracci; Poussin, Murillo, Bassano and Van Dyke.

There is even a Leonardo de Vinci. The painting is described in the catalogue as “Virgin and child, painted with much sweetness of expression”. It sold to the Piazetta for 52 pounds and 10 shillings.

As it was, collecting art was a costly business and when Arthur died in 1819, he left his widow and eight children, one of whom was born after his death, with debts of almost 25,000 pounds. Hence the auction.

The sale, though, was not a great success as a lot of the paintings went for less than expected. The sale raised just over 6,187 pounds; the remainder of the debt was raised by selling the family estates in Cornwall and the London townhouse in Montague Square. It was the start of the inexorable decline of Dartington Hall which would be sold off just over a century later.

Adoration of the Shepherds by Murillo (Wallace Collection)

At the top end of the sale came Domenichino’s St George slaying the Dragon, the one to be found today in the National Gallery, which fetched 431 pounds and ten shillings. Murillo’s Adoration of the Shepherds, currently in the Wallace Collection, and Andrea del Sarto’s A Holy Family (“an elegant and finely coloured chef d’oevre” according to the catalogue) both sold for a pound less that St George.

The poet Samuel Rogers bought two Rubens, paying 341 pounds for The Roman Triumph (which would sell for 1102 pounds in 1856 after his death) and The Horrors of War for 162 pounds. Another of Champernowne’s old Rubens, the Rainbow Landscape also ended up with Rogers. It would fetch  4,550 pounds in 1856.

Today they would fetch millions.

 

BACK IN THE GALLERY

Domenichino’s St George slaying the Dragon (National Gallery)

I know, I know. Pride won over Humility. Not attractive but it remained as I gazed on each of the three paintings.

I am not sure I was looking at them properly though, not as works of Titian, Domenichino and Rubens but rather as paintings that had once graced the walls of the family. These were paintings picked out and cherished by my great great great great grandfather, Arthur Champernowne.

I wondered about this man and his family whose blood I share. Would we also share the same values?

Had he looked deeply, as I did, into the luscious red folds of Mary Magdelene’s cloak? Or run his fingers, as I most definitely didn’t, down the frames? I wondered what had stopped his eye, what had raised a smile.

Hell, what is six generations and 200 years? For a few minutes the two of us had shared a moment.

And that, strangely, is quite humbling.

©Barney Spender 2018

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The Uncomfortable Promise of Veganuary

Posted by barneyspender on January 14, 2018
Posted in: Dryathlon 2013, Vegan. Tagged: Cruelty-free, Earthlings, Foie-gras, Jamie Oliver, Joaquin Phoenix, Veganuary. Leave a comment

VeganuaryA few years ago I took the pledge and did the Dryathlon in January. It seemed like a good idea unless you were a brewer or local café owner.

It wasn’t about faith or belief or ethics; it was just a way of giving up the grog for a while, allowing my body to flush out some of the toxins it had built up during the previous 12 months and my liver to begin its process of self-restoration. It helped me to start running again, losing a bit of weight in the process.

No arguments were involved; to be honest no one was remotely interested apart from myself.

That was then. Now, though, in 2018 the landscape appears to have changed.

It seems now that giving up the grog isn’t enough; you have to do Veganuary. This is actually the name of an organisation that promotes the benefits of going vegan; for the environment that you don’t threaten, for your body which you don’t harm for the animals that you don’t destroy. Three good reasons to do it.

If you go to the veganuary.com there is plenty of useful information about the merits of veganism, ie where do vegans get their protein? Answer: everywhere.

jamie-oliver-1001x640And it looks as though plenty of people are giving it a crack. According to veganfirst.com around 150,000 people have signed up while tv chef Jamie Oliver (pictured left) has been tweeting vegan meals to his 7m followers.

On the face of it this is a very exciting time for vegans. Instead of being laughed into a corner they are moving into the mainstream. The Spread Eagle in Homerton has just ruined many vegans’ Dryathlon by opening up as the first totally vegan pub in London. And in the suburbs outside Paris, vegan products are appearing on the supermarket shelves. Sacre bleu, this is France, the land of frogs’ legs, pigs’ trotters and all manner of spleen and gizzards drenched in a thick, creamy sauce. The times, they are certainly a’changin’.

But (and this is a “But” delivered with furrowed brow and uneasy hand on the keyboard) the hype around Veganuary makes me uncomfortable.

WHY ON EARTH ARE YOU CONCERNED? 

Well, when I did dry January I dreamt of February 1. I wasn’t giving up the booze to see if I could go tea-total, I was counting down the days until I could pull the ring on a tin of beer or uncork a half-decent bottle of red. It was a chore. A challenge. One that I knew was good for me but one which I resented.

My concern is that Veganuary will have the same effect on all the well-intentioned people who give it a go. Resentment.

They will grit their teeth to get through the month and then celebrate the end of the month by tucking into the biggest steak they can find. My rather unpleasant cynical self says they will then proceed to bore people over the years to come with the line: ”I went vegan for a month and their food is appalling”. Or words to that effect. Temporary convert equals lifelong expert.

Of course, I shouldn’t reduce everyone else to my low level. I am sure there are plenty of people out there for whom this will be the first step in the journey and I applaud them.

I just wonder, though, whether it could do more damage than good.

The point about veganism is that it is more than just a diet; it is a way of life. Some people connect with it instantly, for others it can take a little longer. I was vegetarian for 20 years before I became a vegan. I was lucky because my entire family had already made the move; I was the last to shake off the cheese addiction.

That family unity (we argue about pretty much everything else) led us all to examine different aspects of our daily lives. The fridge was the natural first stop. That meant longer in the shops checking the ingredients on various foods; bad news for the kids in the sweets aisle.

Then there was the wardrobe – out went wool and, obviously, leather – and the bathroom which involved lengthy searches for cruelty-free products. Remember that although some companies may claim to be cruelty-free in Europe all bathroom and beauty products sold into China have to be tested on animals. Hence a company like L’Oreal is not cruelty-free.

Vegan BaileysYou may even have to keep an eye on the booze cabinet:  for many vegans Christmas 2017 was a special time as they were able at last to nestle down in front of the fire with a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream – made with almond milk.

MORE THAN JUST A DIET

Going vegan really does become a mindset. Once you have made the intellectual decision to go down that route then there really isn’t any turning back; February 1 does not exist.

There is no hardship involved in this decision. It is just the way it is. Once I had learnt more about the abuse of the cow (and the male calf) in the cheese-making process, Stilton stopped tasting of Christmas. It tasted of death instead.

Yes there is the environment and the health of the individual human but – please forgive me if this is stating the obvious – veganism is first and foremost about animal welfare.

If a person isn’t interested in that then there is little chance they will ever want to adopt a vegan lifestyle. Why should they?

This is not to say that many omnivores don’t care about animals. Of course they do. Many people have cats and dogs and goldfish in their homes; others stable horses. And in spite of what a lot of vegans say there are farmers out there who care about the cows, sheep, pigs, chickens and turkeys that they tend – at least up until the point that they are put to death.

earthlingsFrom this group there will undoubtedly be a percentage who want to explore the full vegan lifestyle. And that is great. That is the future. That is the process by which we will continue to see a rise in veganism to the point that one day, yes, we will be able to lose certain farming abuses (beginning I hope with the truly despicable French “delicacy” foie gras).

It would be wonderful if the 150,000 people who signed up for Veganuary didn’t just eat vegan but actually learnt about the ethics of veganism. How about all of them taking 90 minutes out of their life to watch the Joaquim Phoenix-narrated documentary Earthlings?

I hope this doesn’t sound as though I am trying to turn people away from trying veganism. I am not.

I am just concerned that Veganuary is rather like Vegan Light. And if that is anything like any of the Light beers that I may have tasted over the years, then it won’t be very good. And it won’t last. And that will be a shame.

Not least for the animals.

©Barney Spender 2018

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The Road to Sparta movie

Official website for the documentary film The Road to Sparta

London Historians' Blog

Random musings about London's history

Walk to Agincourt

from Harfleur to Agincourt October 2015

runningactress & pathrunner in runderwear

De Mar a Mar

My Blog

Just another WordPress.com weblog

barneyspender
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