Jonathan Bowden’s Craze, Part 1
Questions on Artificial Intelligence, Feminism, Modern Art, & the Monday Club

You can buy Jonathan Bowden’s Reactionary Modernism here.

5,321 words

Part 1 of 5

Edited by Greg Johnson and Peter Jacobi

In 1995, Jonathan Bowden self-published his Collected Works in 6 volumes (London: Avant-Garde, 1995), edited by Jürgen Schwartz, one of Bowden’s pen names. The six volumes comprise 27 distinct books, 12 of which had been previously published. Altogether, the Collected Works contain more than 2,600 pages of rare early Bowden.

Craze is the fourth book in volume 2. It was first published as a distinct book under Bowden’s name  (London: Avant-Garde, 1993). We will publish it online in 5 instalments.

Craze is written as an interview, but there is little overall unity to the line of questioning, but broadly there are two foci: modern art and a lesbian couple Bowden knew.It is unclear who Bowden envisioned as his interviewer and his audience. He was writing over the heads of his peers to a potential future audience who could appreciate him. Let us hope he finally found it.   

As usual, real people appear under pen names. In some cases, it is easy enough to guess who Bowden is talking about. For instance, Gaudier Louter-Finiscue of the Monday Club is Gregory Lauder-Frost. Given that Bowden had a penchant for peddling fictions about his own life as fact, it is probably prudent to treat everything in this book as fictional until proven otherwise.

Eventually, a fully annotated version of Craze will appear at the Jonathan Bowden Archive. It will then be followed by similar editions of the rest of the Collected Works, plus a couple more early volumes that were not included.

We are publishing it now at Counter-Currents to crowd-source information for the notes. In particular, if you have any idea who the following people actually are, please share information in the comments below: Elizabeth Doolittle, Marjorie, and the Jewish-American family in London. — Greg Johnson

Question: What do you understand by the “Banff” manifesto?

Answer: The “Banff” manifesto is a document which originated in Canada and purports to be the statement of a conference that was held about artificial intelligence and its relation with the arts. The idea was to draw together a wide range of persons from various disciplines and with various forms of expertise, only then to set them a problem: How should we react to artificial intelligence? This was itself the idea that machines can think—or that in accordance with Isaac Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics, for instance—machines might be induced to deduct information in a human manner. At the very least the idea that whole areas of space, time and will are opening up—in relation to machine technology—is admittedly a fascinating time to be alive. Yet an unfortunate side-effect of this was that the conference drew to it a large number of feminists and their ideological fellow travellers, whether male or female. Basically, because they are fascinated with the idea that technology has hitherto been regarded as a male preserve, a bastion of the male—a place where technology, the metal sheen of the flesh, essentially took on the attributes of a distended Priapus; a form of penile architectonics, as various forms of feminism would see it. Indeed, this modern—if not modernist—conservative thrust (if you pardon the expression) was best seen in the work of that ultra-modern advocate of a technology of the Right, Ernst Jünger—a man who was an architect, along with others, of the paradoxical formulation in German letters which was known as the Conservative Revolution. Nevertheless, the purpose of this feminist meeting-point, insofar as only some of the conference delegates could be described in this way, was to prevent the idea of the masculinity of this technology—the fact that it “erred” in the direction of the heroic, in accordance with its validation of the warrior technician. The proof of which can be seen by picking up any science fiction comic book, primarily for the young male market—where the technology of the future is indisputably seen as a carry-over from the warrior mythologies of the past. This itself was a mixture of Mad Max, the old Hurricane, War “comix” and the technical ingenuity of Batman and Daredevil, both of whom are ordinary—if superbly fit—men who are blessed with a mastery of technical forms. When the purpose of a feminist critique of such ideas, such ideas and concepts, is to enforce the idea that they are illegitimate and that a new form of sensibility, a form of compulsory androgyneity, needs to be the order of the day. This vision of the new technology is somewhat bizarre, in that it sees modern developments in technics as capable—in some undefined way—of being “feminized.” It ultimately believes in the feminization of the carapace of steel; the detumescence of the erect pylon, as it were. The extent to which something as formal and as logarithmic as the artificial limb, if not the iron lung, can plug into a different definition of technics—a subjective, unnecessarily intuitive and amasculine form of logic. Whereby science and technology can be agglomeratised to the screaming silence of stones—to make use of an analogy which is drawn from Radical Feminist folklore. To the extent that the female subject, feminine identity and so on, is so arcane and mysterious—or has been forced so far underground—that it ceases to be animate, even to have any possible definition within language (according to Kristeva). So the spirit of the female, in turn, becomes enraptured by a certain metamorphosis into natural objects, even into inanimate objects, objects of pain, utility and bereavement—the psychotic onrush of the wind; the screaming silence of stones. This is something which even the “feminine” side of the novelist John Cowper Powys flirted with in his dotage. When in extreme old age he produced fables where even inanimate objects—stones, clubs, tables and chairs—could come alive and dance!

Another interesting aside in relation to this feminist ideology, however, is the falseness and imprecision of a type of logic which passes as logic, the form and futility of the language used. When we have to remember that these ideas—the demasculinization of technics; the destructive influence of the male; the need for a subjective cybernetics et cetera—are maddeningly imprecise. They lack all real precision, meaning and identity. They are mere signposts in language—to use a post-structuralist device in a humorous vein! They are gobbets of verbiage, purely verbal suggestions of thought! In a sense they are meaningless—mere intellectual conceits dressed up in language, forms of language and excess, belletristic concepts which do not relate to things out there in the real world. All of which relates very much to the type of language that is used to describe these ideas—a sort of diction which resembles the sort of technology it wishes to oust or at least the values of which it wishes to change. In that the language resembles the delirious dance of fireflies above a swamp—at least when viewed from a distance—because the language seems toneless, colourless, queerly mechanical—technical and spectral in its meaningless conclusions. It is, in short, a form of jargon, the heedless “discourse” of “radical” cultural criticism in the area of fine art—a sort of in-house language which is used in the editorial as well as the reviewers’ sections of so-called advanced magazines like Artscribe. Nevertheless, this language does signify something, it does mean something, at least something more than the technical use of language in relation to a specialised area, i.e., avant-garde art. This is something which was itself part-and-parcel of the social or intellectual exclusivity, the ruthless cultural elitism which modernism always practised—a healthy development in itself. No. What differentiates this type of language is its cultural solipsism, its inwardness and introversion. The fact that it is essentially a closed and somewhat “politically correct” form of language. Not only is it a small group of Pseuds gesticulating around the post-modernist corpse—it is also an attempt to shape reality, to make certain preconditions invalid. Ultimately it is a schematic—an almost deindividualised form of language—which is used to discount debate. Because to respond to the art that it habitually deals with in a different manner, in a way which does not use this language, is to put yourself outside the debate. Hence a type of language which draws upon certain self-selecting and left “nihilist” forms, such as lettrisme and the language of the situationists, for instance, is actually a hindrance to cultural debate—insofar as it seeks to lay down norms as to how that debate should be constructed.

When we remember that situationist language—and these meta-languages do exist—is essentially a form of distended Hegelianism, desiccated Marxism and the fleshed-out antitheses of the New Left, the student left. All of which points to the fact that modernist discourse is protective, involuntary, arcane, “learned” and handed down, in some respects a barrier to intellectual debate and the clash of ideas. It is as if modernism—advanced post-modernism—it is all truly “post”—lives on only in those who create fashions of artistic belief and interpretation.

When most people look at pictures in accordance with how they have been told to look at them.

In short, modernism is dead!

Question: Have you been affected by the death of Francis Bacon in other ways (?)—in the last section of Blood, for instance, you said some highly critical things about Bacon, have you anything else to add?

Answer: The main reason for criticising Bacon, if indeed it was criticism rather than direct statement, was in anticipation of the laudatory and somewhat ridiculous reviews which would follow his death. In a sense it was an articulated mood (Stimmung); an attempt to undercut the hypocrisy, which is released on such occasions, particularly when it concerned an individual who always eschewed sentimentality. Nevertheless, what I ultimately have to say about Bacon is very laudatory indeed, if laudatory is the right word. In that Bacon has almost single-handedly kept art alive since the Second World War. This is a particularly sweeping statement, I agree, but it is not entirely inaccurate. It is usual to say that he kept figuration, the use of the figure in art alive. When in actual fact he did much more than this. He turned his back on abstraction; he devoted himself to traditional painting within the lines of the modernist aesthetic. If you like, he went back to representational forms in order to revive fine art—to get it to understand that it had to look outwards towards life and the depiction of human beings, if it was to achieve anything at all.

Yet the best way in which Bacon’s art can be criticised is to look at the paintings. As Wyndham Lewis remarked—in The Demon of Progress in the Arts—far too few people actually look at paintings these days, instead they prefer to evaluate works of art theoretically. Indeed, as Bacon himself commented in the taped Interviews with David Sylvester “no artist really knows if he is any good or not” because it takes about a century for artistic evaluation to free itself from theory, for pictures to free themselves from the ideas which have formed about painting. So if we take a particular work, such as Head II (1949), for instance, one sees a painting which has been worked over and worked in to a certain extent. This is something which is liable to over-extend itself; to beguile its own presence from amidst the layers of paint. All of which conjures up a particular remark of Bacon’s when he said: “painting is not about colouring in flat surfaces.” This is something which inevitably leads to the idea that painting is about layers or levels of experience—although not necessarily in the manner of Frank Auerbach—where levels are piled on top of one another, a veritable mountain of paint. What Head II actually signifies, however, is pain and anguish in relation to the execution of the form, as well as the destructive component which lurks in Bacon’s practise of art. The destructive moment is complicated in that it is auto-destructive; mutilatory and self-fulfilling. It is, in short, a desire to destroy what has been put down at the moment it is put down, as well as in the manner of its execution. For instance, it is widely rumoured that Bacon does not “base” his canvases properly; in other words, that in several hundred years they will rot away to nothingness. When the sole point of much of fine art is the fact that it will last. It will be seen to last the test of ages—when in fact the true test of art is that it does last for ages. Another fact about Head II is its lack of a verifiable historical moment; an instant in time which it relates to. Although the extemporised Angst of the immediate post-war period, circa 1949, can be taken to be a general reference point—given the nature of post-war anxieties, as is seen in the work of Sartre, Camus, the destruction of left-wing solace in Koestler’s Darkness at Noon, and the humorous fatalism of the early Beckett works, as yet unrecognized at the time. Indeed, there is an interesting side-line in the fact that the cover of the Penguin edition of Koestler’s Darkness at Noon features Man in a Blue Suit by Francis Bacon. Nevertheless, the picture is not solely dedicated to anxiety and degradation, even though these are components which should not be forgotten. In that it is also quite evidently about paint; paint in the thickly layered manner to which Bacon refers—because much of what troubles many viewers—the horror and inadequacy of Bacon’s work—its inability to transcend psychic vulnerability and absence of nourishment—are merely technical problems as far as he is concerned. The sort of problems which he mulled over with David Sylvester, namely how do you present the image in a way which comes back onto itself with renewed force and urgency. In a representational age how do you make the image come alive, so that it comes onto the nervous system in a way which is direct and palpable. As a consequence, Bacon is not particularly concerned with the brouhaha which surrounds his work—its concern with horror, mutual self-loathing, and the like. He is only concerned (and the interviews with David Sylvester make this quite clear) with technical problems that arise in the working. As far as he is concerned, he is not dealing with the issues of human horror at all—although he may admit that he has a certain psychological disposition towards the “darker side” (as Jung might put it), but no more than this. (Interestingly enough, Bacon despises an accredited artist of horror like Fuseli, primarily because the element which he has always fought shy of intrudes so palpably into the other’s work. Ultimately Bacon wishes to achieve the fixity of the image—not narrate the impossibility of doing so.) For him painting is about paint and the realization of the impossibility of the image. It is his concern with bringing the notion of animal attack—insofar as it pertains to the image—to bear on the visual sense of the viewer. He ultimately wanted to create an image that would sum up the Europe of his time—an attempt to do in paint what Robert Musil attempted in his multi-volume work The Man Without Qualities. In a sense Bacon failed to bring this off—partly because it is impossible anyway—but also because all of his work is like a preliminary draft for the absolute image, the image which will sum up all the others and make them redundant. This is something which he never really wished to achieve—because it would involve surrendering the possibility of images in the future—and Bacon wished to live a long time, although he has just died.

Question: What was your response to the Miriam Hyde reception at Australia House?

Answer: Miriam Hyde is a 77-year-old composer from Australia whose work has been championed in this country by Elizabeth Doolittle[1] (name changed), an impresario of women’s music. Primarily because she believes that the sounds produced by the weaker sex, the weaker vessel, have to be protected and enhanced. In a sense she believes that she is a sort of ambassador for the female sex; a plenipotentiary of wonder, i.e., someone who inevitably has to untangle the limitations imposed by gender. As well as somebody who genuinely believes that female composers, artists (viz. Germaine Greer’s book The Obstacle Race) and writers, albeit to a lesser extent, have been ignored by virtue of their sex. Whatever the truth about this (and there is a certain amount of truth) the reception went off swimmingly and Miriam—whose work I have never heard—made a triumphant exit—only to be carried up to Oxford to visit various female friends in the city’s old people’s homes. While I was at the reception, the sort of low-level society do where polite small-talk is exchanged between exquisite mouthfuls (all produced by Elizabeth) I met Marjorie,[2] an opera singer—a woman who has sung Brünnhilde at Bayreuth and is apparently admired by the Wagner family, despite or because of her semi-Jewish antecedents was never made clear. Marjorie, it turns out, has trouble with her son—a young man who has been traumatised by a series of household disasters. First, there is the incapacity of his father as a result of a multiple series of strokes; second, the fact that a black nurse who ministered to his father’s needs, he is paralysed after all, was discovered by Marjorie in the act of masturbating her incommoded spouse. All of which puts me in mind of another set of Elizabeth’s acquaintances, a Jewish-American family[3] in Hendon, North London, that has endless problems with two of their children, a daughter and a stepson. The stepson, apparently, is a fixer; a mover-and-shaker—a man who would have been described as a mountebank (with the exception that he is more manipulative, less upper-class, and less sophisticated than that). Particularly given the fact that he is a bi-sexual impresario with a delicious Italian girlfriend; an ex-and-continuing drug addict (crack or ecstasy, take your pick) and, so it is believed, a rent-boy. While the daughter, on the other hand, is scarcely less desirable and she is a sort of walking vulva; a demi-monde G-string; a woman who seems to yearn for clitorial stimulation with her whole being. Apparently, she is only eight months married and yet she has already taken to fornication with the dust-man—her own Mellors,[4] as it were—because he can give her the satisfaction which she has not been able to obtain from her husband. She has also, like her stepbrother, been a drug addict—the offending substance seems to be heroin in her case—and while the family was living in California she ran an escort agency—where (it is believed) she did not restrict herself to just being the “Madam.” So it appears that this family has two children out of three who are junky whores. In her case, however, it seems to be a form of delirious rebellion against the perfection (real or imagined) of her father. When she had this ridiculous view of her father, seeing him as a whited sepulchre, a pillar of perfection—a man who in his inner delicacy can do no wrong—in short, a “splendid chap,” and she has reacted against this. Indeed, I once saw a situation involving a Polytechnic female lecturer and her middle daughter that was very similar. Where the daughter became bitter and twisted over nothing whatsoever, essentially in relation to the prospect of the parent’s perfection. It was little more than a cussed form of ill-adaptation—where the child tied itself in knots so that it would have an identity.

Question: What was your impression of the “Sounds Positive” concert in the Purcell Rooms on the South Bank?

Answer: In the first instance one might say that this orchestrated sound resembled catgut stretched raw; a sort of corrugated echo—a shrill matter of whistles and pops, devoid of purpose. Nor is this necessarily a Daily Mail response; a philistine-like and charlatanish performance. One which is without prior merit and deleterious in its purpose—in short, little more than a collective V-sign in the direction of the post-modernist avant-garde. Since, as Lady Bracknell once put it, in Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest “everyone judges by appearances”—which we could alter in these circumstances to the phrase “everyone judges instantaneously,” at the first moment they are called upon to judge, with the first indigenous spasm. All of which is not to say that one’s first impressions are necessarily the truest, the surest and the most reliable, merely that they are the impressions which one first makes. Indeed, there almost has to be a particularly negative reaction to such a performance; a type of infantile derangement—a disagreement with the facts of dissonance, of atonality, as they are scored in the music which regales the senses. Nor need this necessarily be a negative response—born of philistinism; a heedless and purposeless rage at the desecration of sound—because it can always be allied to a view of this work which refuses its innermost essentials. This is the extent to which it denies the work its inner intellectual validity. When we remember that this work is predicated on linguistic assumptions, on an analysis of the defects of structure within language, a concern with form as well as a transgression against form, the possibility of rubbing up against the implausability of form. In a sense there is a concern with the microcosm as against the macrocosm; an understanding of delimited depth—mortality in a futile moment and the number of angels that can dance on the tip of a needle in the manner of the Spanish mediaeval schoolmen. It is as if Saussure’s concern with structure, with architecture, has been rendered meaningless by the over-intellectualization of the possibility of meaningless statement. In a sense this movement represents a dead-end, an irretrievable moment of condescension in relation to the possible resurrection of modernist forms. In Singer’s work, for instance, one hears echoes of the late Dallapiccola, the Italian composer—but despite the fact that they are accompanied by a great purity of sound one has to confess that they fail as pieces of work. If you like, they are self-indulgent set-pieces, moments which retrieve the meaningless misstatement of a piece. In that they articulate a broken road; an axial redundancy, a moment of glaucoma which restricts the retina either prior to blindness or a new astringency of vision. We might say, therefore, that these pieces lack something. They lack a sense of larger orchestration—of a living tradition, with the exception of the semantics of atonality, the increasingly reductio ad absurdum element which is to be found in the work of post-Schoenberg groupies, the devotees of the twelve-tone row. Nevertheless, there are things which can be said in favour of this type of art, particularly the idea for an unselfconscious form of musical reflection, a purity of sound, an understanding of the dissonance which is necessary to make a contemporary note. Yet ultimately this type of work does not succeed because there is a certain purchase made against the absence of its own success, the success of its own absence. It is as if this art can only go in one of two directions—in the direction of mass media communication, the junket of the sit-com jingle—indeed, an interesting side-line to this argument is the fact that Malcolm Singer composed the theme tune for the BBC’s coverage of the 1992 election campaign—or it can transgress an opposite pole. It can become more and less elitist at one and the same time. It can reconnect with tonality or at least semi-tonality, bringing with it the possibility of a heightened purity of sound, or it can die. In other words, it has to go back in order to progress; it has to surprise a singular promulgation of the human. The truth of the matter is that Theodor Adorno’s idea, in Aesthetic Theory, that minimalism is a refuge of the fractured “bourgeois” subject no longer holds—if it ever did. It is redundant—a merely entrepreneurial form of minimalism at a time when people are frightened of saying anything meaningful at all. In an era when the power of artistic misstatement is very high and most artists, whatever the media they have chosen to work in, are frightened of the big issues—traumatised by inadequacy and a form of New Left “petit-bourgeois” complacency, impotence, and smallness of vision.

Question: What was your attitude towards the “monsters” which the artist Diligent Observer[5] (name changed) produced for the Hippodrome’s Halloween?

Answer: The monsters were produced as part of a relatively tacky show at the Hippodrome, and yet they tended to take on a life of their own. They were constructed in a low, musty, dank cellar which is hidden away in the depths of the venue and that were once used as auxiliary dressing-rooms, since crude mirrors with bulbs around them were fixed to one wall. One of the disconcerting aspects of this cellar was the fact that the floor was covered with sawdust; like a butcher’s shop—a premonition of the blood that was about to be spilled. When we remember that to sketch a monster in the air is to partly will it into existence, to conjure it up, like a magician from the ether. It is to abandon one’s prejudices, one’s psychological scruples and modernist undertones and let the imagination take over. For as Charles Lamb once remarked in an essay, the whole point of Faeries and nether beasties was that they conjured up something about ourselves, something blind, inconstant and bewildered, the confused sensibility of the reptilian part of the mind.

The whole point of the show was that the artists who had been commissioned by the Hippodrome, London’s largest club, were to design monsters for Halloween. Yet the management was too mean to provide them with the wherewithal necessary to fund these sculptures. So the artists had to take material from wherever they could find it, such as from skips and garbage pails left all over the city. Initially they were constructed from bits of wood knocked together—strange, spectral beasts—ghouls—and phantoms of the night, which were actually made out of plaster, black bin liners, papier mâché, glue and the foam interiors of gutted sofas. The monsters themselves often had a lurching and abandoned element to them; a quality which is tall, oblong, distended, and slightly beyond its own reckoning. Indeed, it is the fact of Frankenstein’s size which makes him so forbidding. The hint of the fact that he can dwarf our idea of the human, that in relation to him we are somewhat inhuman, somewhat inadequate, lacking in prior form. It is the sheer size, the gigantic thrust of the shoulders which daunts. The fact that he seems to rear up, vertical and rectangular, as if a box, a cube of flesh, was actually bursting up through his shoulders. It is this which gives one food for thought in those moments when we are liable to take such things too easily. Other monsters consisted of a small devil; in actual fact, a child’s jump-suit or shell suit that has been discarded in a skip, filled out with wastepaper, topped with a mask from a “joke-shop,” and finished off with a pair of wings attached to the back. While a final creature depicted God—almost in a semi-blasphemous way—as a sheet of brilliant white; a stark, sudden whiteness—brilliantine snow—topped with a purple/pink head. This was a large sphere which had been reduced or punched in at either end, atop which was a meaningless and ridiculous grin, a smile without mirth, tacked onto the face.

Question: Why didn’t you take over the Monday Club?

Answer: The truth of the matter is that we almost have taken over the Monday Club—certainly judging from the performance which the Chairman gave at the AGM.[6] It appears that Mr. Malcontent Meaning,[7] a surgeon-general at a South London Hospital who habitually deals in abortions, had a very torrid evening indeed. It appears that he had not effectively mastered his brief, primarily due to the absence of Gaudier Louter-Finiscue,[8] an obscure Scottish non-noble, who had until relatively recently been his right-hand man. It appears that Meaning—a purely venal charlatan if ever there was one—had allowed Finiscue to believe that money would be forthcoming for various Anglo-Soviet—or as they became—Anglo-Russian deals. In that Finiscue wished to establish a book-dealing service in relation to the Commonwealth of Independent States—once the Soviet Union. This is a truly bizarre state of affairs it must be said (!)—because Russian shoppers are increasingly desperate. They do not have bread or sausage in the shops, never mind anything else. So it is relatively difficult to see them parting with anything for books—a few roubles for vodka, girlie magazines, and the odd anti-Semitic pamphlet, perhaps, but for books. No—such a thing is very unlikely. Particularly given the prevalence of cheap Russian editions, often printed on filthy paper, which are available just about everywhere. In a sense they resemble crude Western proofing editions, not even page-proofs, but a form of still-born galleys, of corrective assaults on the nature of what it is to bind a book. Finiscue, for his part, was the least likely entrepreneur one could imagine—a man who was particularly unsuited to run a business—to engage in the cut-and-thrust of commercial life.

Finiscue was a man who partly lived his own fantasy—the phantasy of a late twentieth century aristocrat. He was a man born out of his time and beyond the comprehension of others. He was a singular man, a man who was born with a certain degree of Imperial blood—birth in India and upbringing in Australia—before settling in the Mother Country as a somewhat arch Colonial; a white colonist, a neo-colonial—an honorary member of the Kenyan white Establishment without the pomposity, drugs, ennui, and moral indifference. Yet the accusation has been made that he is a criminal—a man of no substance—or perhaps a man of considerable substance who goes about acquiring it outside the provenance of the law. Nevertheless Frauder-Lost[9] (as he is sometimes known) is partly carrying on a fraudulent demeanour; in the sense that he is impersonating a character which is playing himself. Even the Saki-like demeanour, the impression of riding-to-hounds Siegfried Sassoon-like, of trailing behind one a certain amount of sub-Edwardian cross-dressing—all of this fits in with his demeanour. As a friend of his once told me: various “Gays” would ring up his answer-machine—if they knew of its existence—just to listen to the campness—the deliberate archness, the fey, indulgent tones of a lethargic Noël Coward—which is left recorded on it. Even though Louter-Finiscue is completely “straight,” heterosexual, and lacking in a complex of the feminine. He is nonetheless prone to a bohemian rhapsody, the trappings of an upper-class mien which is over-done and camped up as a consequence. Apparently Finiscue’s wife, of Polish descent, left him some time before and this was primarily due to the fact that he left her to while away the week in Scotland with next to nothing to do. She began to look elsewhere, not unsurprisingly, and finally decamped to the United States where a messy custody battle ensued.

Notes

[1] Who is Elizabeth Doolittle?

[2] Who is Marjorie?

[3] Who is this family?

[4] “Mellors” is a character in D.H. Lawrence’s novel Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

[5] Probably Derek Ogbourne

[6] Annual General Meeting

[7] Probably Mark Mayall

[8] Gregory Lauder-Frost

[9] Gregory Lauder-Frost again