I spotted a rather funky scarecrow this morning. At least, I think he was a scarecrow: transplant him to the Tate Modern and he’d easily pass for one of the exhibits. Standing around 5ft tall, he has a face and body made from black Guinness cans and white Stella Artois cans. I wonder if his creators drank them all in one go, or whether they saved up the cans, Blue Peter-style? I reckon I know what his artistic interpretation is though: Newcastle United-supporting farmer turns to drink due to single payments scheme cock up…There is a scarecrow festival held not far as the crow flies from where I saw this splendid specimen standing stark in the early morning sun. Each August Bank Holiday, Rennington is taken over by tableaux of scarecrows in a variety of attitudes. There is a bride and groom, a farrier, dancers, even a scarecrow cop with a gatso gun.
I am very fond of scarecrows. I like to think that, Worzel Gummidge-like, they awaken when the sun goes down. Unlike the sinister china dolls that pretend innocence, then spring to life the moment the door is closed, I believe scarecrows are benign. Just like the Jolly Green Giant, I find it comforting to imagine them striding across the night-time fields, keeping the crops safe from harm.
