A Northern Interlude II

I have, dear reader, completed my first day as a delegate at an academic conference. But more of that anon. First I must correct my initial impressions of the good city of Hull. I had obviously, with my unerring radar, honed in on the shitty end of town when first I arrived. I retract. The University campus and its surroundings are elegant and the people are unfailingly friendly. I can see why Philip Larkin liked it.

Also liked Hull

Now for the life academic.

We assemble outside the hotel for the bus to the university. Old friendships are renewed (not by me - I have no friends in this milieu) and congratulations for published works are loudly exchanged. An unprepossesing bunch physically - I could take all of this lot in a fight even at my age - except that girl in the black dress. We embus (yes that's now a word). I sit upstairs which feels nostalgic on this the forty-fifth anniversary of my first day at King Edward's Aston. Should I engage someone in conversation? I decide not. The majority are women and I fear appearing predatory. In any event it is already apparent that the opening question is always, 'Are you presenting?' Too bloody right I'm not. The Boy Roberts is here to listen and observe and see if he can hack it intellectually.

I register, having found the courage to engage an Irish scholar in light conversation. He is presenting. Oh well. First up is a brilliant lecture by Professor Tiffany Stern on Renaissance ballads - a tour de force that ends with a speculation about the market economy around Shekespearean live arts. I make a mental note of some comparisons with the modern economics of popular music and then summon the courage to share them with some fellow delegates. No one laughs. Out loud. There follow panel presentations on Shakespeare as the conscience of Czech alternative theatre, and the problem of the English national poet as performed in Ireland's national theatre. I keep my thoughts to myself. This, we judge, is wise.

Most telling moments during the panel sessions come courtesy of a late arrival. His tardiness is not his fault - he and many more have spent a painful few hours captive on a delayed train. He sits next to me at the back and proceeds to peruse and reply to text messages. I'm sorry but that's just rude. I decide I don't like him. He asks a pertinent but self-referential question. At this juncture I twig that he is a leading Shalespearean - an academic behemoth. At the drinks reception which follows he wears his sunglasses indoors. This misstep is matched by the two males who wear hats indoors. I decide they must be 'characters'. Whatever. 

Most people are nice but there is at all times a faint popping sound - the sound of of delegates disappearing up their own arses. Your correspondent is not immune to this but he is, in his defence, self aware. Hopefully.