Making Hay in the mud

Finally managed to go to the literary festival at Hay-on-Wye this year. The town itself has always seemed to have that slightly magical aura that very few places in the world seem to retain. I mean, there is hardly a town in the country that doesn't have an identikit High Street with identikit burger bars and spotty teens in hoodies just getting there from Central Casting.

Actually, that's unfair - there are at least two or three basic models of High Street. At the more tasteful, 'upper-income' end, you have the Henley-on-Thames/ Windsor model, where the thrift shops have better books, even the burger chains have mock-Tudor frontages and there isn't a 'Texa Fried Chicken' within smelling distance. Further down, you have the Reading/ Croydon model, where there is still a pedestrian area, the Waitrose has been downgraded to a Sainsbury's and Cafe Rouge is a hotbed of exciting cuisine. And then, at what we can euphemistically call the 'cash-efficient' end of the market, we have the Hayes model. Here, the FARA thrift shop looks like Selfridges, you pop into Argos but not too often because you might go dizzy with the excitement, there's a guy at the Barclays ATM complaining to his friend about the lack of information on his receipt ('It said "Do you want an Advice Slip?". I thought it was going to give me some advice - this is just a receipt!') and the culinary choices veer between Greggs, Baker's Choice and ... um, that's it!

How did I get on to this? Ah Hay.

Yes, that there is still a town in this country where there really isn't much of a High Street and there are more book stores than any other kind put together, now that's something! Small book stores, large book stores, second hand book stores, new book stores - heaven! Every time I dipped into one, I swore blind that it would be the last store I even entered. And then I'd come to the next one. It was when I hit the store which was selling new books for £ 1, every book! that I really lost it. Carrying the whole lot back from Cardiff by train was much less fun. Much much less.

Highlights:

1. A 1930s, large format compilation of H. M. Bateman's elaborate cartoons. The first work of his I ever saw was the memorable 'The Boy Who Breathed On The Glass At The British Museum'.

2. 'The Dictionary of National Celebrity'. Superbly funny stuff. Co-written by William Donaldson, who died recently at a ripe old age after a rich career of boozing, shagging and all round debauchery. He was also the author of the Henry Root letters and the excellent 'Brewer's Rogues, Villains and Eccentrics'. It cost me £1, but I would happily pay five times that for a volume that enriches my life with the knowledge that 'Victoria and David Beckham' also forms the acronym 'Bravo! Victim and dickhead'.

The festival itself - as a first time visitor, I loved it. J and I went up to Cardiff, met up with her cousin and his partner and drove up to Hay-on-Wye. In spite of the crowds, we managed to take in at least one talk each - I attended a talk by one of the few Britons to come out of Guantanamo Bay - Moazzam Begg. I had in fact seen him arrive earlier in the afternoon. In the middle of the busy ticketing tent, a short, darkish, bearded Asian man with his young son and a folded umbrella was wandering around slightly confusedly - only because I had seen photos of him did I realize that this slight, innocuous man had actually been through experiences and hardship that would make most of our lives look like a gentle stroll in the park.

His talk was fascinating not just for the content, on which more at a later time, but because I found myself in an interesting position. The strength of his religious beliefs as well as his stated conviction on the issue of Kashmir, both of these were points on which I disagreed strongly and with as much conviction. However, even to my mind those did not in any way even begin to justify what he had to go through with the Americans, especially at Guantanamo. He's written a book which I intend to pick up, even if I see myself arguing with it loudly on public transport. What I did find remarkable was his even-tempered dry wit, even when talking about what must be his darkest hours.

A sample was this anecdote he offered: At one meeting/ interrogation where representatives of the British Secret Service where present, they offered him a copy of Jeremy Paxman's 'The English', apparently as a peace offering. According to Begg, it provided him a great deal of comfort in trying to reconcile his identities as a Muslim and a Briton. When he was out and actually met Paxman, he mentioned this to him and even showed him the copy in question, with a stamp of 'Approved by U.S. forces' on the flyleaf. Begg said that for once, Paxman was open-mouthed and stunned into silence, before recovering enough to point to the book and say 'Well, there's evidence of torture right there!'

On a related, rather ridiculous note, I see from a Village Voice report that the US Army says that detainees being interrogated at Guantanamo sit on a chair that looks like a more comfortable version of the Barcalounger. I am reminded of the Spanish Inquisition sketch from Monty Python - are these 'evildoers' really being interrogated with an American version of 'Bring out the comfy chair'?

Tom Lehrer is supposed to have retired as a satirist after he learned Kissinger had won the Nobel Peace Prize, declaring that satire was dead. This looks like the remains were exhumed, spat on and then rendered for burger meat at the local meatpackers.