Robert Fripp's Diary

Bredonborough Same sky more drama

10.27

Bredonborough.

Same sky, more drama…

More drama at the back…

The electrician has not arrived at 08.00 as booked, the time of his choice. Even small discontinuities generate repercussions. These repercussions, presumably, fall to me to absorb.

Meanwhile, while waiting for the electrician to arrive...

Bookshelves acquired from my Father’s auction room. And on one shelf, fourth book from the left…

… continuing the recent theme in this Diary of nonconformism, it’s Barbara Marriott’s Wesleyans In Wimborne.

Surprisingly, for a subject of not universal interest, Japanese readers may also acquire the title.

The foundation stone of Wimborne’s Methodist chapel was laid in 1868. This chapel was demolished in 1966 & replaced by another building, one that stirs my spirit about as much as looking at a Barratt’s home of the same period. A question much asked at the time was: why demolish the chapel? The question continues to be asked today, and by myself whenever I walk by the dud that replaced it.

Queen Elizabeth’s Grammar is next door…

… of which I was a pupil 1957-62. 

There was another small chapel, possibly Baptist, in Chapel Lane off West Borough, where my Parents, Arthur & Edie, were married on Christmas Day1939, at 08.00…

Grandfather Austin’s house, Beicos, was just around the corner…

… built for him in the 1930s, following his return to the area from the Eastney naval barracks near Gosport, via a few months in Middlehill (down from Colehill), and a few years in the cottage next to Witchampton Church. Grandpop became a postman, delivering even on Crhistmas Day. This is Uncle Bill in front of Beicos on August 7th. 2003, when we were out together on a Fripp Family History hunt.

The house was named after the village Beicos…

… where Austin was billeted with the Royal Marines during the attack on Gallipoli.

Austin’s Wife, nee Elizabeth Bennet, believed that her husband had a mistress in Beicos. I asked Uncle Bill, do you think it was true? Uncle Bill: probably.

Uncle Bill, retired Squadron Leader in the RAF & German POW 1939-45, has been featured in this Diary on several occasions.

On August 7th. 2003 Uncle & I walked around the corner from Beicos to the chapel, presumably the same walk taken by my Parents some 54 years before…

The back cover of Wesleyans In Wimborne I…

II…

… is of the Corn Market. The Old Ebenezer Chapel was the place of Wesleyan worship before the Methodists moved to the front cover, and is now the Masonic Hall where goat-riding continues to this day.

The building, on the corner to the right of the Chapel, is now Minster Books (a site of recent bibliotaphistical tumescence). In the 1980s, it was Arthur Mason’s antique shop. Arthur was a retired policeman, his hearing much damaged by gunnery in the Royal Navy during the unpleasantnesses of 1939-45. Over there, on the right from this computer…

… on top of the 1920s roll-top desk…

… is the bible-stand repaired for me by Arthur c. 1982…

… the c. 1850 painted-panel it presently supports acquired in Bridport, from a now-retired dealer, when we lived in Evershot.

On the bookshelves to the right of the desk…

… a volume has been artfully extruded…

… my Mother’s Methodist Hymn Book.

Dedication…

… a Christmas present in 1930…

The first World HQ is the white, 3-storey building to the immediate upper right of the right Minster-tower. The Corn Market is horizontally left along the lane.

One day in the early 1980s, while sitting in the White Hart with a pal, a young man walked by our table & put a handwritten note on it, before walking out the back door. The note had this: the only good guitar playing you’ve ever done was with Bowie and the rest is crap (close paraphrase).

In addition to being my home, my piece of earth, Wimborne was an earthing-mechanism for me. I saw how many young men, of my professional & personal acquaintance, changed on becoming “rock stars”; this following new-found status, acclaim, flattery, a high level of attention, plus deliberate manipulation; their lower natures were often humoured, tolerated & even encouraged, that they might be better controlled & kept on board the train delivering gravy.

On some occasions, subject to comparable pressures & flattery, my personal rules (formalized in NYC) were three:

Wherever possible:

Ride on public transport.

Do your own grocery shopping.

Do your own laundry.

The overall & governing injunction was: return to Wimborne, whenever possible. Very few people in the locale of our arisings will be likely to humour any pretensions we might hold; and, certainly, not in this particular part of Dorset.

A deeply-ingrained aspect of Englishness is, regrettably, envy. Resentment of others, notably those we imagine to have something that we do not, seems to permeate the natives. Who do you think you are? is the question addressed to those who are perceived to be aspiring to a position a little above their station, who have forgotten their place. To aspire to the mundane, to the average, to the unexceptional, is a laudable aim in English affairs, and more than should be kept close, private & unspoken. If an English person pursues excellence, in itself an American expression, then they had better be prepared to meet the animosity engendered especially in those who believe they know us best; that is, family, friends, acquaintances & persons of the locality. A mere ordinary-animosity is the province of those not intimately or closely connected to the perceived-personage.

A defining incident: one of the most joyful events in my early-adulthood was buying Thornhill Cottage in Holt, 2.5 miles from Wimborne. The sale was agreed, I was very, very happy, and showed the cottage details to four people with whom I had close acquaintance. The face of one of them, the “closest” to me, instantaneously locked into a white mask of rage. The anger & bitterness towards me has remained since. The English injunction is therefore:

If something wonderful has happened for you, do not tell your friends:

they will hate you for it.

Especially, do not tell your best friend:

they will hate you even more than that.

My guitar playing with Bowie, and Eno, is some of my very best (one of the main reasons is a level of encouragement found rarely elsewhere). Where there is positive, there is negative; and the stronger the positive, the stronger the negative in response. And there in the White Hart, a young man’s response to exceptional guitar playing was deliberate unkindness. (His was not the only such expression of Englishness towards that guitar-playing with Bowie).

Opposite (the former World HQ) & Alan Cosgrove is Wimborne Minster

Wimborne Minster, north side

where I was confirmed in the Anglican Church c. 1959 & subsequently became a server; ie one who assists the officiating clergy in the Holy Communion. The Rev. Stanley Epps (go down to Hidden History) was the vicar responsible for preparing me, and told my Mother: make sure your son keeps up his Latin. That is, Rev. Epps saw me as a future Anglican minister, in which vocation Latin was a useful adjunct.

Now, where is the electrician?

14.12  The electrician arrived punctually at 14.00, unaware that he had specifically asked for 08.00. So, just as I’m leaving for DGM HQ, having delayed my departure for a day, here he was. But I am not. He will/may/may not return next Monday at 08.00.

21.31  DGM HQ.

En route to DGM, I drove via the Wantage area for tea with Work Wrinkley Mary P., carrying cakes from The Old Fire Station in Bredonborough. Tea with Mary is always informative, always enjoyable.

The office is a mess. Punk has been visiting DGM, preparing for his about-to-be-becoming available viddy-blog. Punk is a disgusting, dirty little man & hopefully the detritus that surrounds his life will be swiftly removed.

In addition to other arisings, today has been a day dealing with various violations. The infringements folder is expanding rapidly.

Workstation…

Sleepstation…