Books in Brief: Catherine Merridale, Matthew Kneale and Chickenshed Theatre

Three new books you may have missed.

Red Fortress: the Secret Heart of Russia’s History
Catherine Merridale

The Kremlin is more than just a place, writes Catherine Merridale: it is an idea. Created in the 12th century as a military fortress (much of the compound was designed by Italian architects), it has been a symbol of absolute power for the best part of 1,000 years. Its roles have included palace, religious centre, military operations hub and very centre of both monarchies and communism. Along the way, it has stored the Russian crown jewels and, in 1941, a cache of radium. In the minds of Russians and the rest of the world alike, the Kremlin is Russia in bricks and mortar.

Allen Lane, 528pp, £30

An Atheist’s History of Belief
Matthew Kneale

Matthew Kneale is an atheist but not a militant one. In this unusual and personal history, he seeks not to disprove belief in its various forms but to discover why we believe and what has shaped those beliefs. He looks at the great faiths and at other, less numinous creeds, such as Marxism. Kneale is a former Man Booker Prizenominated novelist. He structures his book as a collection of stories, lucidly told. He is not interested in institutions but in religion as a fundamental need – it is, he argues, “humankind’s greatest imaginative project”.

Bodley Head, 272pp, £16.99

Chickenshed: an Awfully Big Adventure
Elizabeth Thomson

The Chickenshed Theatre Company was founded in 1974 by Jo Collins, a musician and composer, and Mary Ward, a teacher and director, in the belief that everyone has a talent that can be put to good use. Their inclusive model has attracted support – both financial and moral – from Alan Bennett, Elaine Page and Guy Ritchie (“This is the England I want,” Ritchie has said). Their story is told in this celebratory coffee-table book, with spotlights on individual company members and an affectionate foreword by Judi Dench.

Elliott & Thompson, 248pp, £25

Books on the beach in Sydney, Australia. Photograph: Lisa Maree Williams/Getty Images.

Michael Prodger is an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman. He is an art historian, Senior Research Fellow at the University of Buckingham, and a former literary editor.

This article first appeared in the 23 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Russell Brand Guest Edit

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt