November 17th, 2007

The Oldham Riots

The Oldham Riots of May 2001 (see previous post) were the single most important historical event ever to have happened in my general vicinity. We live less than a mile away from Glodwick- where the action was fiercest - and lay awake listening to the police helicopter chug-chug-chugging in circles overhead.

I thought and still think the riots were a good thing. Riots usually are. Nothing highlights injustice and advances the argument for social change better than a bit of arson and stone throwing. Of course, everyone in authority pretended to be shocked and horrified and the supposed ringleaders got sent to jail, but nothing would ever be quite the same again. The hitherto docile British Asian community had announced it wasn't standing for any more shit. Point made, point taken. 

Here's a poem I wrote at the time .

THE SECOND NIGHT

 

I wake at three to a knock on the door

And lie there quaking. There’s no-one there.

Oh, you can tell- there’s no feel of a person,

No tremble of presence in the ether,

No human vibe. I must have been dreaming.

What I took as a flurry of taps

Was the rattling of the helicopter,

Sweeping in circles above the house,

Watching the trouble that’s happening in Glodwick

This second night.

 

                              Last night the nazis

Broke some windows and bashed up a car

With a Pakistani woman in it

And so the young men on the estate,

Pakistanis and Bangladeshis,

Took to the streets, attacked three pubs

Where the nazis were drinking (or so they believed)

And petrol-bombed and bricked the ranks

Of heavily armoured riot police

Till dawn. They’re sick of being dissed

And over-looked.

 

                             When my pulse has slowed

To something like normal I leave the bed

And go to the window and look about

And there’s the chopper behind the trees,

A tiny, brilliant constellation,

Wheeling, with its searchlight beaming,

Down through drifting cloud or smoke,

To where the fight for respect is happening

Up on the hill. But our street is empty,

Grey and eerie. If I squint down

At an angle I can see the space

In front of our door where there’s nobody stood.

1599

1599 by James Shapiro. Faber 2005.

Forget the Cate Blanchett in a breastplate view of English history. 1599 was a year of terror alerts and national humiliation. The Earl of Essex was in Ireland, fucking up the imperial project and going increasingly Kurtz in the head, the Scots and the Spanish were threatening invasion, there were worries about the harvest and the Queen- ever more pettily tyrannical as she aged- was racking up the angst by refusing to allow the question of the succession even to be discussed. And there in the thick of it was William Shakespeare- forging a new kind of theatre, writing plays that reflected the febrile national mood- Henry V, Julius Caesar, As You like It, Hamlet- whilst trying to keep on the right side of the jumpy political authorities- a balancing act that only he- among his distinguished contemporaries- managed to perform without taking a fall. Kyd had been arrested for treason, tortured and silenced, Marlowe had been assassinated, Jonson had spent time in gaol. Being a playwright was a dangerous trade.

Also very risky to the pocket. 1599 was the year Shakespeare and his fellow sharers built the Globe Theatre- a business gamble hedged around with lawsuits. It was also the year Will Kempe- the company's star comedian and popular favourite- walked out on them (whether pushed or not we've no way of knowing). So- crisis, crisis, crisis!

Shapiro's book relates the playwright to his world. We don't know much about Shakespeare as a personality but we do know a great deal- a surprisingly great deal- about what was going on around him. And knowing what was going on around him illuminates the plays. Henry V is as much about Essex and the Irish campaign as it is about Agincourt, As You like It reflects the crisis in the Elizabethan countryside, Hamlet is the essential fin de siecle document- full of inwardness,and anxiety. Questions that have puzzled critics for generations are cleared up by reference to the everyday nitty-gritty. Why did Shakespeare renege on his promise to feature Falstaff in Henry V? Quite simply because Kempe- who played him and had become indissolubly associated with the role- was no longer available- or was being forced out. 

This is a terrific book.  By placing Shakespeare in his own time, Shapiro brings him up to date. This isn't the unapproachable Swan of Avon, the poet for the ages, but a working dramatist, grappling with tricky political issues, reacting to the stuff that's being thrown at him, doing the business.

And now I really need to read the plays again.