There was a time were in my bag was a collection of books by the one man that i had a massive reverence for, Harold Pinter, his plays like the Homecoming and No Mans Land, or simple works of poetry like the Christmas party and scripts he did for The Quiller Memorandum, French Lieutenants woman and the Dumb Waiter all glowed in this bag of mine like tracts written by god himself, there is a reference to Pinters work being rather Bleak, but yet inside the sparse text that had some similarities to Becketts work were blindingly simple words, simple images that weighed so heavy in their effects, they made me as a younger bloke believe what other world was London.
Like way before my first visit i had this picture of a long shadowed figure walking towards a phonebox to his death, still now getting to London town we always pass Hackney Downs on the Standstead express, i imagine him in his study below the world carving away at the thick sadness and making light shine with pen. I miss him. I never meet him but seen him in the Collection at the Gate theatre at the top of O’Connell street and thought he could be my father, he looked kind of like my father but sadly wasn’t although i loved [still do] my own father it seemed like he was omnipresent in a fatherly way, I was safe, things were okay, only because Harold Pinter was in London and if it all went to shit he would be there standing under big Ben and those thunder chimes waiting for them to end so he could say “It’s okay i made a phone call”. And then it did, he got that dreaded cancer which lasted 7 years in the throat but according to reports, fought the best in verbal battles, got funnier and then also tore it up onscreen accepting his Nobel prize and manhandling America at the same time, whatever about Obey / Faireys contribution, Pinter was listened to and the heavies looked on and muttered “Shit” he said that. See for yourself here [try not to lose your mind putting up with the adverts].
When the world seems like moronic and third class he needed no class accreditation, he was above class. Thankfully his only class move akin to our mundane actions was leaving all his manuscripts to the National Library so that we could go see them and re-live his genius over and over, it’s me and you who can be considered lucky, i know i feel that way whatever you think.