Adrian Mitchell

Adrian Mitchell died yesterday and Michael Kustow has written a very swift obituary in The Guardian yesterday.

He seemed to have been with us almost for ever. I was one of the young sixth-formers who attended the performance of Peter Brook's US for which Mitchell wrote 'To Whom It May Concern'.

To Whom It May Concern

I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I've walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn't find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames.
Made a marble phone book and I carved out all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

I smell something burning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.


There was a blithe certainty about his work from the beginning. The blitheness was heady then and was to remain likeable. And he was very funny. This is his often quoted Suez poem.


England, unlike junior nations,
Wears officers’ long combinations.
So, no embarrassment was felt
By the Church, the Government or the Crown.
But I saw the Thames like a grubby old belt
And England’s trousers falling down.


No one did it better than that. And he wrote this for David Mercer:


I like dancers who stamp.
Elegance
Is for certain trees, some birds,
Expensive duchesses, expensive whores,
Elegance, it's a small thing
Useful to minor poets and minor footballers.
But big dancers, they stamp and they stamp fast,
Trying to keep their balance on the glob.
Stamp, to make sure the earth's still there,
Stamp, so the earth knows that they're dancing.
Oh the music puffs and bangs along beside them
And the dancers sweat, they like sweating
As the lovely drops slide down their scarlet skin
Or shake off into the air
Like notes of music.
I like dancers, like you, who sweat and stamp
And crack the ceiling when they jump.



I think he spent far too much time striking stamping attitudes, nor do I think stamping is all. The SS stamped too. But the blitheness remained, blitheness and, at best, a thoroughly good-hearted brio. Mitchell was a socialist, a pacifist and a Blakean, a Sixties man emerging out of the Fifties. I only met him once at a reading opposing the Iraq War in 2003 (yes, I opposed it.) Since no-one introduced us at the time he wouldn't have known me from Adam but he gave me a big sloppy hug. He gave everyone a hug that evening.