Mrs Robinson Juergen ghebrezgiabiher


This is the BBC from London
It is with the greatest sorrow
that we make
the following announcement:

London Bridge is down

The first plans for London Bridge date back to the 1960s, before being refined in detail at the turn of the century. Since then, there have been meetings two or three times a year for the various actors involved (around a dozen government departments, the police, army, broadcasters and the Royal Parks) in Church House, Westminster, the Palace, or elsewhere in Whitehall. Participants described them to me as deeply civil and methodical. “Everyone around the world is looking to us to do this again perfectly,” said one, “and we will.” Plans are updated and old versions are destroyed. Arcane and highly specific knowledge is shared. It takes 28 minutes at a slow march from the doors of St James’s to the entrance of Westminster Hall. The coffin must have a false lid, to hold the crown jewels, with a rim at least three inches high.
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The Conspiracy of Good Taste.Stefan Szczelkun


This is a redrafted edition of Stefan’s tirade against classism. The life and activity of three leading mediators of working class culture are considered in separate chapters. These are William Morris, Cecil Sharp and Clough Williams-Ellis. A theory of oppression that may be new to some readers is given before tracing the philosophical justifications of good taste as a signifier of social class in Britain and Germany. This is brought into the C20th with a review of Pierre Bourdieu’s sociological critique of good taste: ‘Distinction’. 

You can buy the ebook on iTunes or Kindle!

Some kind of Italy: Mario, Jacopo and the cherry tree.


fratyricon

Inclined as I am to a chronic indolence, I should enjoy those Italian moments, by my own, by my parents-in-law, by the shadowy side of the green, while I am eating cherries.
And I do enjoy them (moments ans cherries), with a sort of intimate delay (should I say I did?), writing down disorderly sketches of my Italian journey.

A different inclination, more courageous, endured the cherry tree since 1994, when a tremendous lightning – out of a memorable storm – hit its log.

Grandpa Mario planted the cherry tree when Cristiana, first of his six grandchildren, was born. Mario, ninety years old, gently and slowly is now heading to his tree, to me and Jacopo, his great-grandchild.

Walked by his daughter, with the aid of a cane, a bit stooped and with humid blue eyes, Mario is looking at Jacopo, somehow lost in his thoughts… thoughts, we can only guess.

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