A King Among Pawns

Christmas 1988 Lowering clouds in a darkening sky cloaked the looming stonework of York Minster like a dismal, grey overcoat. The massive central tower was a barely visible pale splash against the wintry sunset. Heavy rain drummed relentlessly on the waiting line of taxis as I turned out of the station. It was bitterly cold. Even in a heavy coat, my head down against the chill wind, I was shivering. It wasn’t only the wind, though, I hadn’t got over the brawl on the train. I had been lucky to get away without a scrap. I am not a man who excels in violence or self-defence. To do with my profession, perhaps. Whatever, I was still shaking. What a dump, an offensive and violent dump. I picked my way through the abundant dog mess and occasional pools of vomit staining the cracked and uneven paving stones. That anyone should consider this state of affairs acceptable on the eve of the new decade appalled me. I suspected that if I stopped a chance passer-by and shared my thoughts, I would meet with the universal and pathetic ‘But things aren’t as bad as all that’, apathy born of impotence. Or perhaps a mindless pseudo-intellectual, cackling on about the lovely carols last night with ‘so many nice people there’, as if that meant there were nothing wrong. There was a lot wrong. How blind, I wondered, did one have to be, how many self-imposed lies did a society have to inflict on itself, not to notice what was happening? How many credit card aphrodisiacs and placebos? Not to see that the entire country was moribund, its economy, its cultural heritage and its importance in shaping the world on the brink of extinction. A socio-political compost heap, the ‘multi-cultural society’ in which, for millions, culture was a dirty word. My feelings were coloured, of course, by the reason for my visit, and the brawl on the train. But not only that. For God’s sake, this wasn’t some backwater valley town suffering from recession and gross unemployment. This was York, a major tourist centre, one of the few cities in Britain where the railway station had signs in four languages. And one of many with dog mess all over the kerb. Night was falling, and I was feeling less and less secure as I cut across the car park from the railway bridge through the litter-ridden back streets. I hadn’t been to Britain for more than five years, and not to York for much longer, but never in my wildest dreams, nor my summary glances at the ‘Daily Telegraph’, had I imagined that things could have fallen so low. Rather than face the tedium of ploughing through Aunt Mary’s tin box, still less hunting out a few choice antiques for myself, I stared at the newspaper advertisement in indecision. I didn’t want to spend the evening in the smelly flat, still less make up a bed there, but I knew the latter was inevitable. On a sudden impulse, I decided to go to the Pantomime anyway. Live music and a laugh. I recalled that at that very moment I was supposed to be playing at Lausanne Beaulieu concert hall, Bruckner’s ‘Romantic’ symphony. I wished to God I had not had to come near York. There was nothing romantic about this parody of Bethlehem and its Miracle plays. I didn’t find the pantomime fun after all. The audience seemed to, but perhaps they understood the corny jokes and the Ugly-Sister-Thatcher barbs that I found to be in thoroughly bad taste. The so-called musicians were a Limited Company PLC, consisting of two synthesisers and a drum kit. It was scarcely musical and entirely mechanical. If we had played like that back in the sixties, the theatre would have been empty. There appeared to be a total absence of anything approaching discrimination. Of the three theatres in York, I wondered whether I had picked the bottom of the barrel. Finally, I had forgotten the depths of vulgarity that Panto might plumb. When the man playing Cinderella’s putative mother-in-law appeared with two enormous and sprouting pineapple halves attached as breasts, I decided enough was enough. I left the theatre, drew my coat round me in the chilly breeze, and set off for a long walk that I intended should help me sort out some of my ideas. It did nothing of the kind.