A Maying Song

This delightful young lady, Bella Hardy, sang in the choir at my wedding.
She probably doesn't remember that strange guy who wobbled off the train at Edale in 1994.



Well done, Bella.

Arran Boat Song

I bought my concertina through EBay from the nice guy on the left. I would REALLY like the one he's playing here, but he tells me it's not for sale.



Nice tune, Martyn, let me know!

The Foggy Dew

I have recently encountered this Australian folk enthusiast on Youtube. (See http://uk.youtube.com/user/raymondcrooke). He has a fine repertoire and gives very helpful information about his material. He reminds me of someone and he seems a very nice bloke. Here he is with The Foggy Dew.



Here are the lyrics I have. Raymond seems to have acquired two more verses and I await response to my formal enquiry.

The Foggy Dew
(Fr. P. O'Neill)

'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When Ireland's line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum,
Did sound its dread tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.


Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Britannia's sons with their long-range guns
Sailed in from the foggy dew.


'Twas England bade our wild geese go
That small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
On the fringe of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Valera true,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
'Neath the hills of the foggy dew.


The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide
In the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze in deep amaze
At those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.

Easter uprising 1916. I believe Fr. O’Neill wrote more verses and that. Originally, ‘Valera true’ was ‘Cathal Brugha’, otherwise known as Charles Burgess, who was second in command of the IRA during the uprising.

Thanks, Ray!

No offence intended, but I just had to add this. Here's Sinéad and The Chieftains:

US Presidential Election, 2008.

Thank the US populace that this election didn't have to be settled by the questionable deliberations of a biased Florida judge!


Many congratulations, Senator (President-elect) Obama.

Now do your job and make a difference.

As you traverse the great abyss of inequality, may your journey be carbon-neutral.

Walk upon water like I know you can.

Carpe diem, Barack.

Do these things, and I might learn to love you. (No tongues, now!)

The Meaning, Value and Relativity of Time.

This post could take some time!

Here's a conundrum. You ask me, "What time is it, please?" I consult my Rolex and tell you precisely what it shows. Instantaneously the time I told you is past, lost and gone forever. Is this an example of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, having something to do with quantum physics?

A couple of weeks ago my wife and I went for lunch with her delightful sister. She, of course, is my sister-in-law. She lives with her partner; I suppose that makes him not-quite a brother-in-law. He has sons by a previous relationship. Let's suggest that they might be my almost-step-nephews.

Got that? Good!

Now, reading this has cost you nothing in financial terms, but, so far, I have expended five gratuitous minutes composing it. In a previous professional life my time was valued at £1.00 per minute; that would be £5.00. In a more recent life-episode, as a purveyor of light bulbs earning the national minimum wage, my minutes were valued at something less than one penny each. Was it worth getting out of bed?

To continue, the conversation with my quasi-relatives at the aforementioned luncheon included the enquiry, "Well, what do you do?" An existentialist might simply have responded, "I am." The elder of my two almost-step-nephews (not an existentialist) responded more interestingly, "I trade in international minutes."

Pause, lasting several standard seconds, for curiosity while you study the graphic below:



Now, ponder the following question: I know that there is interplanetary variation in the length of a year, but is there a global geographical variation in the duration and value of one minute?

Now, there's a thing. Here's my almost-relative who buys and sells TIME. No, I don't mean Swiss clocks and watches. He really meant the enigmatic fourth dimension of the universe!

After some circumlocution it became clear that my almost-step-nephew is involved in communication technology. This fortunate and charming individual drives an expensive motor car, affords the petrol, enjoys exotic foreign holidays and has a pretty fiancee. (Now, what distant almost-relative will she become?) Clearly this trade in something totally ephemeral is highly profitable. He sports one of these elegant timepieces:

Where am I going wrong? How can I engage in this enterprise? Are international minutes recyclable? What is the carbon footprint of these minutes? How are they stored, packaged and distributed? Do they have a sell-by date? I have been unable to sell any of my spare moments on EBay. Would I be better off describing those moments as 'international minutes'? After all, unless a Japanese minute is shorter/longer than a European one, you can use them anywhere in the world.

Now follows some circuitous philosophy. If time didn't exist, nothing would ever change. We would all suffer even more boredom than you, dear reader, if you've got this far, are now experiencing. I would have no birthday to celebrate. I wouldn't be 58 years old. Indeed, I would not have been born. The question, "When was...?" would be meaningless, as would the notion of tense of any verb. Dr. Who would be out of a job, and you would not be required to learn history at school. In fact, NOTHING would ever HAPPEN and that adverb 'ever', derivatives thereof and other words like 'now', 'then', 'last', 'penultimate' and 'next' would have no meaning at all, whatsoEVER!

My considered conclusion is that time is a cunning strategy of the Almighty whereby we are all called to rest every seven days. Admittedly, most take no notice of that, but time still ensures that sentient creatures are spared the tedium of nothing ever changing, whilst (there's another time-orientated adverb) benefitting from the glory of planned obsolescence.



PS. The lunch was delicious!

A Demonstration of the English Concertina and a Creaky Armchair.

A traditional song called Searching for Lambs:



OK, I know I'm not very photogenic. Please regard this post as entirely experimental!

John Blunt

I have borrowed this temporarily from my friend Raymond. I am planning to learn it.



Why does Ray insist on the key of E? That's all the black notes on the concertina!

The Banks of the Nile

Here's another 'look what I found today' offering. I still have the album Fotheringay on vinyl. This particularly haunting track is scratched beyond the scope of digital remastering.



"Cursed be those cruel wars ... !"

How to manage a husband.

I received this message from a female friend. She's lovely, but I'm glad I'm not married to her!

A couple was celebrating their golden wedding anniversary on the beach. Their domestic tranquillity had long been the talk of the town.

"What a peaceful & loving couple." The local newspaper reporter was inquiring as to the secret of their long and happy marriage.

"Well, it dates back to our honeymoon," explained the man.

"We visited the Grand Canyon in Arizona and took a trip down to the bottom of the canyon by horse. We hadn't gone too far when my wife's horse stumbled and she almost fell off. My wife looked down at the horse and quietly said, "That's once." We proceeded a little further and the horse stumbled again, this time causing her to drop her water. Once more my wife quietly said, "That's twice." We hadn't gone a half-mile when the horse stumbled for a third time. My wife quietly removed a revolver from her purse and shot the horse dead.

I shouted at her, "What's wrong with you, Woman! Why did you shoot the poor animal like that? Are you crazy??"

She looked at me, and quietly said, "That's once."

"And from that moment... we have lived happily ever after."

The Anthem of St. Anley

Now, why should St. Anley like the Electric Light Orchestra?



The answer is: because he's incandescent and utterly confused, of course.

St. Anley is one of those sad people who engage so-called popular music two or three decades after everyone else. I remember liking this band and recently sent my ancient audio-tape of the album Discovery to a charity shop. Let's face it, who uses magnetic tape these days?

This post is of the 'look-what-I-found-today' variety. Don't you just have to admire the guy who can play an electronic keyboard and a grand piano simultaneously?

I wonder why ...

Why do people write blogs?

This one started as an experiment. Everyone else seemed to be doing it. Would my own technological apparatus prove adequate for the task? There was an interruption for about a fortnight after I posted an image of underwear; I can't imagine why.

Then I found youtube.com. Although initially I could upload my own videos to the site, I was repeatedly advised that I lacked the appropriate software to view them. The only way I could view them was to 'embed' them into a blog. This explains some of the early rubbish I posted. More recently I have resolved that difficulty and I found that I can download and embed other people’s far superior material. Increasingly, these inclusions in the blog have become a 'look-what-I-found-today' exercise. Is this legal? I ask.

There is the notion of a diary, I suppose. No, I don’t mean the ‘I woke up this morning, passed water, made tea, washed and shaved …’ sort of chronicle that most children have abandoned by 7th January every year. It is the documentation of transient thoughts and passing fancies that would otherwise be lost in the tedious routine of everyday life. Frequently such thoughts seem to mutate into something that might form the foundation of a letter to someone important. On the other hand, maybe it’s the other way around, whereby blog posts are a proxy for more meaningful correspondence. “Why should I write to someone important?” I ask. After all, my blog is in the public domain; it is available for all people of great importance to comment. Interestingly, no one does, not even creatures of no importance whatsoever!

Importantly, there is creativity, like that stream of consciousness that might be described as ‘poetry’. This is an evolutionary process that involves continual re-visiting and editing.

Finally, I have to conclude that the above is complete self-justifying BOLLOCKS. Blogging is nothing more than a gratuitous, self-indulgent, self-glorifying and self-celebratory activity that occupies the spare moments of sad people who can't sell such spare moments on Ebay, and have nothing better to do with them than to demonstrate their familiarity with the semi-colon!

(Thanks to outaspaceman for that wonderful line about 'stream of consciousness ...') ;;;

Don't believe in fairies?

I do now:



Clever, or what, eh?

Mairead Nesbitt, in diaphanous costume, live at Slane Castle. She was one of the fiddlers who featured in Mr. Flately's Lord of the Dance.

If she plays her cards right, she can come home with me!

Here she is again with Jay Ungar's Ashokan Farewell:



(My spelling of 'Ashokan' is correct.)

Remembrance

I have always had some ambivalence about celebrations of 'the eleventh hour on the eleventh day ...'

I repent!

Listen, Watch ... and weep with me now:



Thanks to Coope, Boyes and Simpson, and someone called Ollie who put together the splendid montage.

St. Anley's fall from grace.

It is said that a good treatment for hypothermia is to share a sleeping bag with another person. Here I present a frightening tale of anthropomorphism that might make you question that received wisdom.

I will call it a 'Child (-ish) ballad', and give it a number. Thereby, people might be persuaded that it relates to some real event steeped in the history, folklore and legend of this celestial sphere. I wonder: one day, will someone collect this from a time-capsule and write learned footnotes about its origins? Will those alien intellects-to-come in their UFOs realise that it is simply the product of a teasing and disordered pseudo-brain occupying Earth-time's third millennium?

Here it is:

Saint Anley, the Maglite and the Spider.
(Child-ish # 7.259)



Saint Anley was a-walking all on a winter’s day.
With snow upon the usual paths, he quickly went astray.
He had no map or compass to show him his direction.
When darkness did around befall, he found he’d no protection.

He struggled ’gainst the icy blast over field and fell.
And then, perchance, he met a maid who said her name was Nell.
“How come you here this bitter night?” this maiden she did say.
“A walk for pleasure,” he replied, “and I fear I’ve lost my way.”

“Why, Sir, if pleasure you do seek, I’ll be of some assistance.”
She took him by his ice-numbed hand. He offered no resistance.
“You shall come home and share my cot and shelter from this storm,
And through the night we’ll sport and play and keep each other warm.”

Her offer was not idle, and he quickly followed after.
A stirring in his loins he felt and he thought, “This night I’ll have her.”
Her dwelling was a gloomy place, no light could Nell provide,
But quickly she climbed into bed and dragged him in beside.

St. Anley, being an innocent, uttered no objection.
The sport and play lasted many an hour (and that, without protection!)
In ecstasy St. Anley cried, “I must behold your face!”
But not one candle could be found within that humble place.

St. Anley delved within his pack and said, “I have the answer!”
He found illumination, by which he meant to glance her.
“It operates from batteries; they create a potential difference,
And when I turn it on like this, we shall have incandescence.”

Electrons flowed from pole to pole as the Maglite came to life.
Whilst dazzled by the light, he said, “I want you for my wife!”
Then slowly, --- oh so slowly, --- his vision did adjust.
An ugly crone before him lay and he lost all his lust.

A wart-covered face did he behold, with bits migrating south.
The hair that should have crowned her head was all around her mouth.
Her teeth that should've been pearly white, they were just blackened pegs.
Imagine his sheer horror when he found she had eight legs!


Her crooked smile was soon transformed into an evil glare.
St. Anley stood, as if transfixed. He was trapped in a spider’s lair.
“I have you!” cackled the arachnoid beast, “I hold you to our tryst:
You’ve vowed to be my husband. On that I do insist.”

Is there a moral to this tale of bestial deception?
Some say the Saint could’ve done with a mite more preparation.
An OS map and compass would have set him right,

…And ne'er again in all his life will he turn on that Maglite!


Footnote:

If you visit this post regularly, you will notice that it continually changes. Please regard it as work in progress. I am trying to find a tune for it, but scansion is difficult with so many polysyllabic words. Most of the narrative fits into an 85 85 85 85 meter, in the fashion of The English Hymnal notation. I am not qualified to explain that, nor am I sure really understand it. All suggestions welcome.

Follow-up to Tess of the D's

I told you I like this, didn't I? See earlier posting about Tess.



Aren't the bathroom accoustics wonderful?

Alistair, sweetheart!

Dear Mr. Darling,

As UK tax-payers, my wife and I have stakes in the recently-nationalised Bradford and Bingley Building Society, Northern Rock and, as of yesterday, part shares in three major high street banks. How much did yesterday's little enterprise cost? £37,000,000,000, did I hear?

It must be such a heavy responsibility looking after all those noughts! I sympathise, honey bunch, and offer my humble assistance.

Now, how many UK tax-payers are there? (Let's give that number the value 't'.)

What would be our personal share of all that expense?
(= 2 x £37,000,000,000/t.)

When may we expect to receive our share certificates?

Will we have to pay capital-gains tax when we sell? Bear in mind, of course, that you have used our tax revenue to pay for these so-called investments in the first instance. Will the treasury pay US in the event of capital-loss?

As shareholders in these various institutions, do we have voting rights? Is there a vacancy for me on a board of directors? Please understand that, being of independent means, I expect no financial remuneration for my services. A luxury apartment at Canary Wharf, a chauffeur-driven executive motor car and unlimited free access to a respectable escort agency seems reasonable. Oh, yes, a private jet, with pilot always at my disposal, would be good too. Failing all that, a new bicycle will suffice!

Yours faithfully,
Your generous and ever-obliging tax-payers,
Mr. Teekle and his wife, Skep.

PS. Why haven't your eyebrows gone grey?

Climate Change = Global Economic Meltdown.

Well, what more evidence for the reality of global warming do we need?

Yesterday one of Iceland's banks collapsed!



Yes, I am affected by this.

For some years I have made a monthly donation to a respected British charity. Like other private individuals, I regularly receive appeals from various charities, all of which express a sense of urgency.

Today I learn than British charities are at risk of losing £120 million following the collapse of an Icelandic bank.

When I donate, I expect my money to be spent in assisting those who are less fortunate than I. I do not intend it to be used by the charity to speculate on the global economic market.

Would I be better advised to regularly purchase numerous copies of Big Issue?

Perhaps I should be asking a similar question of my local council regarding council tax. I feel a letter to the paper coming on here!

Positively Fourth Street

I just had to duplicate this from my suspended blog. Move over, Bob, there ain't room in my universe for both of you!

Tess of the D'Urbevilles and various shades of dubious green.

Did you see that?

The first episode of this recent, and otherwise excellent, BBC TV production was roundly criticised on Points of View for using the hymn How Great Thou Art. That was composed in the 1930's (?) by Carl G. Boberg and R.J. Hughes, and well after TH's Victorian setting for the story.

Then, in the final episode, why, oh why, do we find Angel Clare traversing Dorset in a train hauled by a locomotive of the South Eastern and Chatham Railway? Horror of horrors! GWR, I could forgive, but the SECR belongs in Kent!

In know that Tess is a very sad story, but this travesty brought unnecessary tears to my eyes.

I recognise the loco used in the film as the Wainwright class 01, number 65, preserved at the Bluebell Railway in East Sussex.


Isn't she lovely in Wainwright loco green?
Yes, BUT, with an 0-6-0 wheel arrangement, you would expect her to be hauling freight.

Then we saw Fenchurch, another loco preserved at the Bluebell, and originating with the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway. This is an example of what was known as a Brighton Terrier. Wonderful, here she is:

The livery shown here is described as umber, introduced in 1905, a bit late for Tess (published in one volume in 1892).


Mr. Stroudley (C.M.E. of the LB&SCR) had colour blindness and was famous for inventing 'improved engine GREEN' which was, in reality, an attractive shade of ochre. Here is Gladstone, so adorned:




Gladstone is a Stroudley 'B' Class 0-4-2, no 214, built in 1882 and now preserved in her resplendent so-called-green at the National Railway Museum in York. I want to take her home with me!

Dorset in Hardy's time was largely served by the London and South Western Railway, the Great Western, and the Somerset and Dorset Joint Railway, but never the SECR nor LB&SCR!



A more realistic passenger locomotive might have been an Adams 4-4-2T 'radial tank' of the LSWR. There was one in steam (No. 488, built in 1885) the last time I visited the Bluebell. OK, that was a long time ago, and I believe she now needs a new boiler.


Note the authentic LSWR passenger livery (described as 'apple-green') and the stove-pipe chimney, so characteristic of Adams' locomotives. The coaches, in Maunsell green, however, are the wrong colour. LSWR livery for passenger rolling stock was described as 'salmon and pink': a bizarre purplish hue (not to be confused with GWR chocolate) below the waist, and cream above, thus:

Very few LSWR coaches survived 'grouping' into the so-called 'big four' (1923) and subsequent nationalisation (1948). I have yet to discover a restored example correctly liveried. Above is somebody's commendable model of a six-wheeler.

Is my anorak showing yet? Does my bum look big in it?

Couldn't BBC producers have anticipated that fans of Thomas Hardy might be knowledgeable clergymen, who know about hymns, and sad, frustrated, aspirant engine-drivers like me, who know a little about the history of Britain's railways?

After that excursion into arboriculture (you know: 'wood', 'trees', visual impairment and all that!) I have to commend the producers of Tess. The scenes were credible and gave an authentic feel to the conditions, tribulations and moral hypocrisy of the time. The Snow it Melts the Soonest...was a charming, and probably contemporary, inclusion. Here are the lyrics as sung by Anne Briggs:

Oh the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing
And the corn it ripens fastest when the frosts are setting in
And when a young man tells me that my face he'll soon forget
Before we part, I'd better croon, he'd be fain to follow it yet

Oh the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing
And the swallow skims without a thought as long as it is Spring
But when Spring blows and Winter goes my lad and you'd be fain
With all your pride for to follow me, were it 'cross the stormy main

Oh the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing
And the bee that flew when Summer shone in Winter he won't sing
And all the flowers in all the land so brightly there they be
And the snow it melts the soonest when my true love's there for me

So never say me farewell here, no farewell I'll receive
You can meet me at the stile, you kiss and take your leave
And I'll wait it till the woodcock crows or the martin takes its leave
Since the snow it melts the soonest, when the winds begin to sing

(Courtesy of www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de/~zierke/anne.briggs/songs/thesnowitmeltsthesoonest.html)

After correcting the punctuation, I must learn that song.

There's something else to do in my spare moments!

My Instruments

This is my favourite: a mandocello unconventionally tuned to DADG.


Actually, this one isn't mine, but it looks similar. Mine doesn't have the same shapely headstock, nor the interesting tail-piece that looks like it will accommodate ball-end strings. Doubtless the one illustrated was considerably more expensive than mine, but you'll get the idea.

Below is the third concertina I have owned. It is 'English' in contrast to 'Anglo-German'. That means it is fully chromatic and, when depressing a key, you hear the same note on the pull as on the push. The Anglo operates more like a harmonica which gives different notes depending on whether you're sucking or blowing. It is slightly unusual in having brass reeds. These give a more mellow sound than the bright sound you hear from steel reeds. Most vintage concertinas would have started life with brass reeds and these are commonly replaced with steel at refurbishment. My first concertina had a mixture of brass and steel; you could tell the difference.

It is Victorian. That means it's very old!




I call it the KMT Memorial Concertina because my mother was very old when she died and I bought it from the proceeds of her legacy. She wouldn't have liked it!

Then I bought this mandolin for £35.00 on EBay. I had to replace all the strings (which cost me another £14.00) before it became playable. Well, I mean playable by some; I'm still struggling!



Perhaps I'm most competent on this. Please note that the idea of competence is a relative term.


Is that A-minor?
No, it's A-geriatric!

Blogger's Nightmare

For the past week and more my browser has been unable to display any pages containing the word 'blogspot'. I wonder, was it the underwear image that caused offence? It's still there, blowing in the wind. I seem to be forgiven for the moment.

In severe frustration I began a new blog as 'househusband' at http://st-anley.blog.co.uk/. Some of the material has been duplicated and I cannot justify the time involved in keeping two of these self-glorifying activities on the go. So, in the hope of everlasting cyber-life within 'blogspot', I have suspended the activities of 'househusband'.

Very many thanks to the pretty teenaged lady from Indonesia who generously invited 'househusband' to be her friend. Perhaps she wanted me to do her washing and ironing! St. Anley will bless her if she'll join me here!

Shipping Forecast

"The sky's took a turn since this morning. I think it'll brighten up yet ...," wrote Marriott Edgar (1880-1951).



Hey, why is this ship going backwards?

Caveat Emptor

19th. September 2008

I understand today that the Bush administration is about to contribute vast sums of US tax-payers’ money to some large financial institutions in an attempt to avoid domestic economic melt-down, largely attributed to their struggling real-estate market. Recently the UK government colluded in a similar exercise (similarly motivated?) to save Northern Rock. It is rumoured that our treasury is considering following these precedents.

As I read the news, I discern that financial institutions seem to have nothing to sell but bad debts. Would you buy one? Should they be on Ebay?

The market is supposed to be self-regulating. Adam Smith must be turning in his grave!

JMK might have something to say too:

What more evidence do I need to demonstrate that governments/politicians (I generalise) are motivated by self-interest, money, and are in the pockets of big business establishments?

Consider this: if I purchase a dodgy domestic appliance from a retailer, I may have some protection under trading standards legislation. There may be a manufacturer’s warranty. Understandably, there is a time limit on such guarantees. Beyond those limits, when my dodgy washing machine breaks down, I have no redress. It is my responsibility to finance its repair/replacement/disposal. Hopefully, I will not have bought a dodgy washing machine in the first instance, but if I have, do I expect the government to bail me out?

The debts being traded by the financial institutions have little assurance of being repaid. Mortgage terms are measured in decades. Security is nothing more than the negotiable equity in some one's property. These financiers do this knowing the risks of long term and historically catastrophic variations in the market over which they have little direct control. So, as they fail, they now receive a reassuring message that governments will throw tax-payers’ revenue at them!

Maybe I misunderstand this stinky-poo situation and I acknowledge my good fortune in having minimal immediate personal exposure to banking institutions. But, I pay tax!

There are certain things governments must do: look after the political and material infrastructure of the nation, oversee education, health-care provision, law and order. These things they do, unless you live in Zimbabwe, with some degree of debatable competence.

There are other things that governments historically have not done well at the tax-payers expense:

like wage wars

and RUN BANKS!

..............................................................................................

There, I’ve got that off my chest. For a change I’m being serious. Perhaps I’ll copy this post in a letter to the Guardian.

OH, God, is St. Anley a Guardian reader?!

Reynardine

Eureka!

I have been baffled about the inability to publish audio on blogs. This guy's solved my problem.

• You set up your videocam focused on the record sleeve. If you haven't got that, a totally unrelated subject will suffice. In this case, any passing fox will do!
• Press record on the videocam.
• Quickly, in the immediate vicinity, you play the track on whatever external audio device you are using. (Disinterested fox wanders off at this point; don't follow it!)
• After recording you pursue the usual time-consuming process of downloading from the videocam, edit as you think fit, upload to youtube.
• While all this is happening, take the opportunity to track down the fox and rescue fair maiden from his brightly-shining dentures.
• By the following morning you may have a recording you can embed into your blog.

• If that works, and you're really fortunate, you might find said fair maiden beside you as you wake!
• Relish in the sublime expressions of gratitude demonstrated by fair maiden.

Bear in mind that the above-described activity is probably totally illegal. Whatever you do, do NOT take your dog with you as you track the fox!

It might be wise to disable public viewing on youtube.

Did you like that? It's Sandy Denny again.

Fotheringay

At last! I've been trying to discern the lyrics of this song for years.

Here's my lovely wife ... undressed ...

She declined to pose. I guess this will have to suffice!

The real St. Anley

Here's a stained-glass image of St. Stanislav, the patron saint of Poland; what a fine figure of a man.

Bishop Stanislav was put to death by King Boleslav 'the bold' in 1079. He was canonised in 1253. His shrine is at Skalka, Krakow's oldest shrine. His blood stains are still visible on the wall.


No mention of light bulbs, but note the following:


"Since the 1880s some Polish most illustrious luminaries were posthumously awarded with ceremonial burial in its crypt that is open to the public." [sic] http://www.krakow-info.com/skalka.htm






What more justification do I need for my earlier fiction?

Pearls of wisdom heard at a local Folk Club

Oh dear, I have given myself away; one of my pastimes is to sing folk songs!

Aaarrgh!

At the club I attend the MC regularly documents the musical offerings we hear. See http://cityfolkclub.blogspot.com/.

I would like to chronicle some of the amusing banter between performances. As an afterthought I will include anecdotes/enigmata (new word) from other venues. I will update this posting as-and-when.

Friday, 12th September 2008:
The notice in the Gent's toilet saying "Wet Paint" is NOT an instruction! ... Bill 1.2


Friday, 19th September 2008:
I have a good friend who would prefer to remain anonymous. He is follicularly challenged about his scalp but he proudly sports a luxuriant beard. He recently returned from a holiday in Istanbul. His wife reports that a native was heard to say in perfect English:
"Your head is upside-down, Sir. May I take a photograph?" ... MH

Here's the result:




Tuesday, 23rd September 2008:
I don't hold with these new-fangled compact risks. The one I bought yesterday ruined the stylus of my gramophone! ... Terry Wogan

(Oh, no! Not just a Guardian reader. He listens to Radio 2!)

Friday, 3rd October 2008:
"I can't count up to twenty-one without removing my trousers!" ... DC

Sunday, 5th October 2008:
Heard on BBC1's programme The Story of the Guitar, relating to Shakespearian times when gentlemen awaiting their turn at the barber's were invited to play upon a musical instrument conveniently hanging on the wall:

"She is but a guitern*. Any man may play upon her!"
(* ?spelling)

Idumea

In explanation of, and atonement for, that previous post, the words of the prayer of St. Anley are a PARODY!

I have undertaken appropriate self-mortification.

I came across Idumea on a recording of the Watersons. (Frost and Fire; Topic; 1965.) They attribute the words to Charles Wesley. I question that credit. Certainly, with additional verses, it appears in The Methodist Church Hymnal, but did CW write it?

Subsequently it was used in a sacred-harp arrangement in the soundtrack to the film Cold Mountain. And that title, Idumea? ... It bears no immediately obvious relationship to the lyrics. Is that the title of the tune, or the hymn?

My transcription from the Watersons' recording is as follows:

And am I born to die;
To lay this body down?
And must my trembling spirit fly
Into a world unknown?

A land of deepest shade,
Unpierced by human thought,
The dreary regions of the dead,
Where all things are forgot.

When from this Earth I go,
What will become of me?
Eternal happiness or pain
Shall then my fortune be.

And at the trumpet sound
I from my grave shall rise,
And see the Judge in glory crowned,
And see the flaming skies.

One Biblical reference appears to be Isaiah 34.5: “For my sword shall be bathed in heaven: behold, it shall come down upon Idumea, and upon the people of my curse, to judgment.”

Oh, dear ... !

Here's a Sacred Harp rendition:




Please understand that the introduction is not people vocalising ecstasy in synchronised glossolalia. Sacred Harp singers always begin with a 'fa-so-me-la-re' (in some semblance of order) run-through.

So, what/where is Idumea?

Historically it was a region of Judea.

Look out, here comes Charlton Heston portraying Moses. He's got those blessed stone tablets I told you about!

Oh, no ... wait ... it's Indiana Jones. He's seeking the Holy Grail!

(Don't worry, it's only my good friends, Ken and Mave, visiting Petra.)

She Moved Through the Fair

Here's charming Sinead O'Connor with a captivating performance one of my favourite songs:



I forgive, and understand, Sinead's genger-pronoun substitution. After all, she has lovely teeth!

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I was seriously offended recently by a performance of a parody of this deeply heart-felt work of Padraic Collum.

I have been known to wax lyrical regarding my opinion of parody. See comment for 29th. August at http://cityfolkclub.blogspot.com/

In summary:

• Those who can ... do.
• Those who can't ... do parody.
• Lesser mortals write blogs!

St. Anley prays as follows:

Oh, Lux Eternam, if ever I unwittingly indulge in the satanic activity of PARODY, may I be cast forever into that land of deepest shade, unpierced by human thought ... where I might be forgot.

WHOOPS! ... Who turned out the lights?

Sorry, Reverend Wesley!

Thanks, for your intercession, Charles. I'm still alive!

• Those who can't write blogs are invited to post stupid comments!

Here's my lovely wife (on the left) ... dressing ...

... Lovely crab!

Spare moments

Here's an idea.

I am accused, justifiably, of having too many spare moments.

Would it be possible to market these excess 'moments' on EBay? Of course their condition would have to be described as 'new'. After all, nobody would want my used ones. They should be listed in the category 'ephemera'.

In an earlier life professional time was valued at £1.00 per minute. I can significantly undercut that, but why bother?

Such 'moments' will be supplied in original boxes. A photo of the box will accompany the listing. Bidders will be invited to visualise the contents.

I have yet to decide on the cost of carriage. (How much does a moment weigh?) I must insist on a 'no returns' policy since moments naturally deteriorate during transit. If your moments haven't arrived: you prove it within a very short time-limit!

Have I got a goer here?

Should I go for 'Buy it now'? After all, it'll be gone in a moment!

The Happy Man

Well, now I've got the hang of uploading videos I'll go for it. This strange individual with a concertina turned up in my garden a couple of weeks ago. Does anyone know who he is?

He seems very happy, anyway.

On the effects of seafood

At last I have permission. Here is my wife, arm in arm with a strange woman.

... In my dreams, of course!

Oh, Susannah!

Here is my extraterrestrial friend successfully confusing some stupid people.

Some participants might be available for gigs. Others will gratefully accept money (preferably of the folded variety) to stay away.

King Arthur

"Oi, mate," shouts the guy on the track, "Wait till I find the puncture repair kit!"

Who invented the light bulb?

Here's my self-glorifying rhyme for the day:

Some say it was Swan,
Others argue Edison created incandescence,
Verily, I say unto you,
Blessed St. Anley brought us luminescence!

(Why does spellcheck always try to change 'incandescence' to 'incontinence'?)

Well, who was St. Anley?

St. Anley is the patron saint of illumination. His annual festival of light is celebrated during September in a famous seaside town ... in the north-west of England.

I don't share this secret widely but my middle name is STANLEY! (Aaaaargh!)

Throughout life this has caused significant hostility between my parents and me. I fabricated the existence of St. Anley when I became a purveyor of light bulbs. Here is the limerick of St. Anley:

St. Anley the incandescent

Married a compact fluorescent,

When she turned him on, his filament had gone,

So fertility is sadly deficient.

Notwithstanding this fiction, I was reassured by coming across the 'Pool of St. Stanislav' in Krakow earlier this year. It is said that St. Stanislav's water has healing properties. What price should I put on the contents of MY bladder, then?

Here he is below:

His outflow is above. (I think he needs attention to his prostate.)

The water didn't taste too good. I didn't die painlessly and my paranoid tendencies persisted. In the end I opted for more traditional remedies:



If you look carefully in the foreground of this picture you will discern a glass of Polish beer. The background was completely (and delightfully) accidental. I must return to this scene and get the focusing right!

Lilla Veneda

I would post a photograph of my lovely wife, but she won't let me. Instead I'll show you a picture of my fantasy woman. I stumbled across her in Poland this year.

She's a hard woman.

"Touch my breasts and you're dead!" said Lilla.

My wife won't let me do that either!

Introduction

Greetings, bloggers, this is me (I?) posing as an unlikely creature in the middle of a field of lavender somewhere near where I live.

Can you see me yet? I'm in the middle.

"Over here!" I cry.

My insignificant being goes unheard and, lest my memory is lost for all time, I've created a 'blog'!

"What's the theme?" a friend asked. Well, nothing really, just a diary/scrapbook of disordered thoughts captured during ephemeral intervals of consciousness.