Cheltenham Lit Fest

The programme was pretty overwhelming.  So much choice, so many people I’d love to hear speak; topics I’d love to know better; books I wish I understood more deeply.  And then the inevitable angst: did I choose the right ones? Maybe I should have gone with my gut instinct instead of reading the detailed description and googling every single author and panellist.  But here we are, my cousin Siobhain and I, at the Cheltenham Literary Festival, tickets in hand, programme in our pockets and a feeling of smug self importance simmering just below the surface!

 

It’s pretty posh this festival, added to or perhaps influenced by the gentile and gentrified surroundings of Cheltenham Spa. It’s a beautiful town, with unending historic buildings, pretty shops selling extraordinarily expensive clothes and coffee shops and wine bars tripping over each other. Each hanging basket, dripping colour and festivity, is better than the last.

Our first session is about post menopausal women. It’s light and fun and engaging, whilst some important and hefty issues do get referenced in the midst of the irony and self effacement. We leave giggling and laughing, thinking about Cathy Lettes’ pronouncement that our women friends are the human equivalent of our wonder bras: they support us and uplift us and with them we look far bigger and better.  So true. Queuing for the loo afterwards, on seeing  the inevitable queue for the women’s toilet, several of us head to the men’s. Some of us are no strangers to peeing beside urinals but for others this was clearly a new experience, and their glee at this expression of their emancipation was contagious. We stepped out into the late September sun with our heads held high, determined to follow the mantra of the authors, and to be loud and proud.

 

The crash wasn’t far away, and at the afternoon session on ‘gender battles’ we listened to five women (all white, all middle class, all under forty), tell us how to be a feminist.  We heard them debate whether you can care about clothes and still be a feminist (yawn); whether housework is a ‘women’s issue’ or more one of equity (god help us), and whether the media’s portrayal of women actually influences our thinking and behaviour (Zzzzz).  The discussion deteriorated from those delirious heights into somewhat hysterical screeching on a couple of occasions and we left deflated and disappointed. These may well be regarded as the current heavy hitters, the women with gravitas, the ones to watch and listen to, but they had nothing new to say, and they trod the old, well worn path with a brittle, uncomfortable determination to say something clever and brilliant.  They failed.

Matt Haig saved the day with his self effacing, warm and honest reflections on how he has managed to learn to live with depression, agoraphobia, OCD and anxiety. I didn’t like to ask but what I was most curious about is what coping strategies and supports his partner had drawn on to get her through the last fifteen years. She must really love him!

 

Our final talk, on Sunday morning was entitled ‘Celebrating Clive james’ and it was a beautiful eulogy to a man who in his own words, is somewhat embarrassed to still be alive after writing ‘the Japanese maple’ as his farewell ode. The discussion was facilitated by Clive Anderson, whose staccato and edgy speech I could listen to all day. The other panellists (a hugely eccentric Australian poet and university chum of Clive James, Germaine Greer etc – Christ,  who would have wanted to teach that class?) and a Times columnist and ex Blair speech writer. Their discussions were interspersed with recent footage of an interview with the eloquent Aussie, who is clearly very unwell but remains witty, incisive, and seemingly determined to use this last period of his life to honestly reflect on his legacy – warts and all.  It was a moving morning.

 

The highlight of the Lit Fest for Siobhan and I however, had nothing to do with the discussions or authors; it wasn’t the ambience of the gorgeous town or the aromas exuding from the inviting restaurants and coffee shops surrounding the festival tents. It wasn’t even the magical book stores, with tables propped high with volumes signed by people I can now say I met and (kind of) know.  None of these were what lay beneath our grinning faces, our persistent smiles and our frequent giggles. No, it was our host, the inimitable Bill Hews.  Bill, the man with the flowery Doc Martens and equally flamboyant Hawaiian shirts; Bill with the beautiful house, polished wooden floors, and bookshelves brimming over with cricket biographies and classics, all well thumbed and much loved.  Bill, whose love for his two children and deceased wife is clearly unshakable, immovable, irrefutable. Bill who questioned and challenged us; wined and dined us (although apparently not enough of the former for his liking); informed and entertained us; welcomed and embraced us. What a truly wonderful, warm, witty and wise man he is. One word of warning though. Bill is a rubbish tour guide, despite being hugely knowledgeable about local history, architecture, gossip and traditions. Why? Because it’s not possible to walk further than one hundred yards before someone (generally a woman if truth be told) runs towards him, arms open, gushing and simpering as they mwah mwah his cheeks and deliver a stream of inevitable compliments and sentimentalities.  We stand aside as they unceasingly happen upon us, until I start wondering if (a) we’re being stalked; (b) Bill is actually wearing an anklet bracelet that gives out his exact location or (c) if he is paying these women to make him look good. I decide it’s non of these fiendish schemes and rather it’s plan and simple: everyone loves Bill. And now, so do we.