Like a breath I knew would come ...

I thought I had 'blogged' this some while ago, but I was confused ...



Words and music are by John David.
John David was the bass player for Love Sculpture (Sabre Dance) and later, Dave Edmunds (I Hear You Knockin').

I have to thank my good friend, Ken, for that intelligence regarding the origin of this smashing piece.

There exists a recording (inaccessible on youtube) by Airwaves that, in my humble opinion, is better.

I thank my friends, Lynda and Paul, for performing this song for me at the City Folk Club recently.

I reach for the new day...

It's an age-old problem ...

Or is it just a problem advancing age?

Now, why can't I find this book that I so desperately seek? ...

My friend, who lived and occupied some spare time taking obscure photographs in Hong Kong, sent me this possible explanation.

Perhaps you are looking in the ...

Thanks, Bill!

A pre-Christmas circumlocution ...

A new day has dawned.

That is so exciting!
I have been preserved.
The world is still there.
The reason for, and the orchestrator of, this preservation remains a mystery to me.
Yet, I am inexplicably grateful.

Grateful to whom?
I don’t know.

Thus, I wake in trembling anticipation …

What will happen today?
Who will cross my path?
Will the postman bring some unexpected offer that will cost me nothing?
What new music will I hear?
What ancient music shall I reiterate on youtube?
What new friend will I make?
Who shall I encourage?
Who will encourage me?

How much more carbon dioxide will we pump into the atmosphere?
Which nuclear establishment will go into critical meltdown?
How will the weather be?
Does that matter?

Is the apocalypse imminent?
Is today to be the final judgement?
Will the seventh trumpet be heard? (Rev. 11:15)

“Who may abide the day of His coming?” (Malachi 3:2)
Will I behold a pale horse bearing the personification of death? (Rev. 6:8)

Will the Earth give up her dead?
I hope not; Auntie Ethel never liked me!

Will God change his mind?
Is there a Biblical precedent?

Couldn’t the Almighty send the odd squadron of celestial beings to range the skies announcing, in perfect harmony, the complete forgiveness of all human-kind?

Some would argue that He already did.

NHS to fund road-gritting ...

Did I hear this correctly?

I can’t quote verbatim, (being overcome by laughter,) but the news report I have just heard on the radio suggested that an NHS Trust in County Durham is to contribute £1,000,000 towards gritting of roads and footways this coming winter.

Now, I can understand the preventative motivation of this activity, but I fail to see that such expenditure is the remit of the NHS.

I am rather depressed about the state of our national economy. I wonder if that same trust would care to supplement my income before I become suicidal!

Now, where did I put my psychotropic medication?

My thought for the day ...

There is at least one thing wrong about a free-market economy.
By nature it is competitive!

The market should be co-operative and compassionate.
The global market needs to recognise the interdependence of humanity.

Hereby I present my manifesto as the only credible candidate for EU presidency.

They’re Coming to Take Me Away, ha ha!

My wife believes my mind is disturbed,
That something is wrong in my brain,

My incessant rambling leaves her perturbed.

She thinks I am going insane.

I speak with things inanimate.
I converse with the walls and the floor.
With hardware I am intimate.

I’m in love with the knob on the door.

In gobbledegook I am well versed,

Progressing to nonsense by noon.

My divers tongues are so well rehearsed,

I’ll be speaking in bullshit quite soon.

By my tee-shirt I will advertise,

“Garbage spoken here!”

My condition I will not disguise,

I’m not infectious, have no fear!

I’m connected to the National Grid

Of voices that come through the walls.

My imaginary friends, Gertrude and Sid,
Assist me in talking sheer balls.

My doctor says, “It’s drugs that you need,

Psychotropics are good.

Then again, there is ECT

For rapid improvement of mood.”

No need have I for these mind-bending tools.

I’m happy the way that I am.

Pills such as Prozac, they’re just for fools.

If I’m mad then, who gives a damn?

The world’s convinced my mind’s deranged.

No doubt that opinion is right.

From reality I am estranged,
And I’m really enjoying this plight!

(CT, August 2007)

Crib Goch ...

I have a friend who justifiably boasts of having achieved the summits of The Wolf's Jaws somewere in the US.

Well done, Dana!

This is an image of one of the ridges (sometimes known as 'pinnacle ridge') approaching the summit of Snowdon in North Wales. Note the weather conditions. That's the best you can expect!

Done that.
Got scared.

Wife cried!

A Flower is no more ...

This week we learned that Mary Travers, at the age of 72, passed away.

I am saddened.

I wonder … how many people of my generation had their first taste of (what we then thought was) folk music on hearing Peter, Paul and Mary?

Was it folk music?

It became so, and remains so.

Some might argue that it was 'twee' popular music for a commercial market.

I disagree.

Who cares? Let’s not go there!

PP&M produced music that was pleasing to many.

In folk clubs of the 1960s and 70s someone from the floor would always offer a cover of their material. It happens even now.

Was it not only couple of weeks ago that our very own Mike performed ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ at the City Folk Club? Didn’t we all join in?

‘Pleasing’ is too trite an adjective. Much of their music was socio-politically motivated. It spoke of opposition to the Viet Nam war, of pacifism, and of support for the civil-rights movement. There were, and remain, powerful messages in much of what they performed. Social awareness was raised. Consciences were stirred.

That, of course, was before we all became hippies!

So, where have all the flowers gone?

Is the answer really ‘blowin’ the wind'?

Wrongly-addressed mail ...

A friend emailed me this image with the subject heading 'tighten your what?!'

Is there a subliminal message for me here?

Does my wind cause offence?

Titan is, of course, a satellite of Saturn (not Uranus), and lies several astromomical units away from Hong Kong!

Not known at this address.

Return to sender!

Welcome, Ed ...

There is someone out there called Ed Searl.
He has just become a ‘follower’ of this blog.
I can’t think why, but thank you for your interest.

Enlighten me, Ed, please.
Do I know you?
Have we met?
How did you find me?
(Well, I trust!)
Do you share my interest in publishing disordered and banal thoughts?
Do we both have too much spare time?

In spite of my fictional canonisation, you don’t need to genuflect, just respond as a ‘comment’!

PS. Alternatively, while I decline to put my email address in this public domain, I do receive messages via youtube. My channel is at http://www.youtube.com/user/nolicnotrut?gl=GB&hl=en-GB.
There's nonesense there too!

Say Goodbye to it all ..

"These were only boys ...

... who will never know how men can see the wisdom in a war."
(Chris de Burgh, Borderline)
See - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29yXef8TqkY

Comfort in Bereavement ...

The very last of my elderly relatives died recently. This generated tears at her funeral.

Me next?

Door-Step Evangelism ...

I have just been blessed by a visitation from some really nice people.
I invited them in for tea.
We had an interesting exchange.

What follows summarises (?) my contrary argument …

Bishop Ussher (1581–1656) declared that this Earth was created in 4004 BC. He based this assertion on genealogy of Adam’s offspring documented in the Holy Bible. Now, I do not have the time, patience or resources to verify that succession, although some of it seems to be exhaustively chronicled.

I don’t believe it.

The Genesis story gives an account of creation in six days (plus one for a rest). I have a problem here. For one ‘day’ to exist, we need a benchmark of time. In this instance, it requires a pre-existing, spherical and rotating planet, wherefrom a pre-existing sun can be regularly observed. Some argue that the chronological order in which earthly things came into being is probably correct. There are those who contend that God’s ‘day’ is something beyond the understanding of we earthly mortals.

This biblical account was written from the then incomplete wisdom of the author, possibly Moses, for acceptance by the partial understanding of the listeners of that time.
That was brilliant! It worked. It survived. It continues to be promulgated.
Many who continue to believe it are very worthy souls.
Some have simple minds.

But, it is scientific nonsense!

Have I just committed heresy? Should I be tortured until I recant lest I be burnt at the stake? Is my very soul in jeopardy?

Scientists tell us that the Universe is about 14 billion years old. Earth is a youngster at 4.6 billion years. They can produce evidence, (most of which I fail to understand), that this is so.

I am inclined to believe this, not only because such knowledge gained me a Bachelor’s degree from the Open University!

I ask this question: if you’d said ‘desoxy-ribose-nucleic acid’ to Moses, what would he have understood?
What would Moses have known of quantum physics?
Would he have heard on ‘tele-evangelism’?

Of course, none of that is Moses’ fault; he was simply working from the partial knowledge of his time.
What do tele-evangelists really know?

Do I come across as an atheist?
My visitors thought so.
I am NOT!
I subscribe to the Heisenburg uncertainty principle ...

“Lord, I believe. Help, thou, mine unbelief!” (Mark 9: 24)

Ignore poverty and it will go away ...

I was recently frivolously engaged in debate on another blog regarding the commercial basis of music. My response was utterly irrelevant to the original contention, but I became possessed of an original, albeit lateral, thought:
‘Poverty is the collateral damage associated with the free-market economy.’
I thought that was fairly clever. My exposition follows.

In my understanding, limited though that may be, the following are key words and phrases that underlie a free-market economy: supply and demand, competition, speculation, accumulation, self-regulation and unrestricted trade.

Imagine, if you will, that I am poor.
My demands, requirements necessary to survival, are considerable. The supply might be around, but my poverty denies me access to that supply.

Having sold my dwelling and land, eaten my livestock and having abandoned my ungrateful offspring to their uncertain fortunes in a faraway city, the only commodity with which I can speculate is my labour.
Now, we have all seen how fragile the labour market can be.

Speculation, by its very nature, involves risk. As exemplified by the recent banking crisis, it does not always lead to accumulation.

My desperation might even lead me into a life of crime. It is said that crime never pays. My arrest, conviction and subsequent imprisonment would render me disenfranchised. Thereby I have no voice; that is another major feature of poverty. I am then released from captivity. I have no address. Thereby I become unemployable and my credit-rating is zero. Having no gainful employment, I have no access to permanent accommodation. Herein lies the inexorable spiral of poverty.

Consider now ‘unrestricted trade’. Do we have that? Have we ever? My meagre means ensure that my ability to trade is very seriously restricted. I cannot compete. My poverty begets destitution, starvation and death.

Does that matter?
The US administration of George Bush regularly demonstrated gross complacency on this issue, and seemed to have the attitude that, if you ignore poverty, it will go away. Witness the tardy response to the devastating flooding of New Orleans.
On the subject of climate change we heard Mr. Bush say, “The American way of life is not for negotiation.” Is that in context? Yes, be assured that global warming will lead to widespread poverty.

Indeed, it is probably true that ignoring poor people might eventually make them disappear, whereby poverty, as a concept, ceases to be a problem for those who remain.






We have another example on our own shores. I refer to the utterly inadequate response (some would say intentionally so) of the British government to the Irish potato famine of 1845. The Irish population (consisting of largely unwilling British subjects at that time) was decimated by starvation, disease and emigration.

See – it almost worked!



Now, do I believe what I have just written? I think I have justified the hypothesis intellectually in economic, historical and self-indulgent imaginary terms.

Is it right?
I mean morally.
That, of course, is another question.
I think not.

Will our national leaders ever begin to seek something more than another term in office?
When will they engage at least a degree of compassion and altruism?
When will the relief of human suffering become a priority in their minds?
Can they be persuaded that poverty is blight on our global society, that wealth is to be shared and that, as long as poverty exists, it remains a communal responsibility?

It is a responsibility that needs to be addressed by us all. The eradication of poverty is not the function a free-market economy. This issue needs strategies more than the forlorn hope that poverty will simply go away.

Do my politics look big in this?

And my wife says, "You're not having one of those, either!" ...

Take a tip from me.

Never, never, never, search for 'hurdy gurdy' on youtube!

The results can be excrutiating.

The Last WW1 Veteran ...

Harry Patch died last week.



This man of great dignity and compassion said, "War is just organised murder, and nothing more."

When will they ever learn? ...

I am moved to publish these words from John Tams:

Scarecrow

I see the barley moving as the mowers find their pace.
I see the line advancing with a steady timeless grace,
And there's passion in their eyes, and there's honour in their face,
As they scythe down the castles and the courts.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.

I smell the smoke of stubble when the harvest is brought down.
I see the fire a-burning as it purges all around,
And the field is turned to ashes, and the only living sound
Are the skylarks as they try to reach the sun.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.

I see the barbed wire growing like a bramble on the land.
I see a farm turned to a fortress and a future turned to sand.
I see a meadow turn to mud, and from it grows a hand,
Like a scarecrow that is fallen in the rain.

Blame it on the fathers, blame it on the sons.
Blame it on the poppies and the pain.
Blame it on the generals, blame it on their guns.
Blame it on the scarecrow in the rain.


God bless you, Harry.

Ma femme, elle dit, "NON!" ...

Shortly we will be visiting northern France.
I want to buy a bombarde.
"What's a bombarde?" I hear you ask.

Watch and listen...



From wikipedia: "The bombard, or bombarde (in Breton) is a conical bore double-reed musical instrument from Brittany. The bombarde is blown by the mouth; the reed is held between the lips. Typically pitched in B flat, it plays a diatonic scale over two octaves."

Fortunately the sporting of bleached hair and wearing of a skirt are not prerequisites!
In spite of that, my wife continues with her objections.

Product review ...

A few weeks ago my wife insisted on purchasing a wild bird feeding station. It looked something like this...



Initially the parts didn't fit together properly but after three return visits to the garden centre, we managed to plant it.



After one week it had germinated and looked thus ...



Notice the miraculous appearance of coconut shells and various devices for holding seed and peanuts.

Notice also - no birds!

I suggested taking the thing back for a refund since it clearly didn't work.








After a further week we witnessed this ...

This solitary bird didn't know how to use the device. I tried to show it, but it flew away.

Once again I urged my wife to return the product to the retailer as it seemed unfit for purpose.






YESTERDAY ...

Avian war broke out!


I will take this thing back myself.






I don't just want a refund;
I demand compensation for disturbance of my peace !

I think I woke up this morning ...

... and I have vague recollection of hearing this on Radio ... (can't recall)!



My day was enlightened.
Then I think I shed tears!
For whom? - I forget.

Never mind - cogito ergo sum!

Should I increase my medication, Doctor?

Midsummer Eve ...

Well, here we are at the end of Imbolc (Celtic for 'lactation of the ewes'). Tomorrow's sunrise marks the Celtic festival of Beltain, the first day of summer. This will be a season of partnerships and fertility. New couples will proclaim their love for each other. 'Writings from the puritanical elements during the English civil war show the festival was alive and well in the 17th century. We have quotes such as- "Couples would go into the woods at night and ne'er a third returned undefiled!"'

Ref: http://www.gallica.co.uk/celts/calendar.htm

There were no such activities for me and my friends that evening. There was much benign derision, but no one was defiled. However, here's Fiddlin' Bill performing Cripple Creek, while admirably ignoring bum notes from the out-of-sight concertina player.

Astute viewers will notice the vertically-challenged lighting engineer struggling unsuccessfully for attention!

Now let's all set off for that henge-thingy ...

A Gracious Woman ...

I have a friend who has a charming and delightful wife. In some recent correspondence I urged him to 'value her'.

This is how my friend responded:

I've had [my wife] valued. Despite being an older property of considerable character with a pleasant facade and a satisfying interior, the high maintenance required affects the value rather badly. Or in my case, baldly. For myself, a striking, if unusual, frontage is affected by some seepage at times and a tendency to cracks and dry rot. Roof needs attention to avoid damage by sun, wind and rain. There are some marks left by previous repairs, and everything creaks. All in all, a newbuild would be a better choice, but they are in high demand, and the owners prefer first-time buyers.

Remember, my friend ...

Who lives in a house like this?

The clues are here...

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/mps-expenses/5360873/MPs-expenses-Furious-David-Cameron-orders-Tory-grandee-to-quit-over-duck-island.html

I/you/we paid for this floating abode.
Shall we all become ducks take up residence?

Alternatively, the magnanimous thing that Sir Peter could do is to be persuaded to make it available the homeless PEOPLE of his constituency. Unfortunately, they'll all have to have webbed-feet, brilliant plumage and be less than 5 feet tall. Having no fixed address, many such people are disenfranchised, of course.

How much more nonsense are we to tolerate before we re-establish the authority of our monarch?!
Come on, Queen, dissolve the lot. Constitutionally, and historically, you have that power.
I wish you longevity because I might change my view after you've gone!

Can I clean your moat, Ma-am?!

Gabriel's Oboe ...

I just found this on youtube.
I had to post it.



It is one of the most beautiful melodies I have ever heard. Ennio Morriconi composed the soundtrack for the film The Mission. The melody doesn't need words, but this is both charming and triumphant.

I love it!

The Stinky-Poo Parliament …

Given the recent disclosures of expenses claimed by our parliamentary representatives, I find myself in a mood of indignation. The word 'corruption' comes to mind. In an economic scenario that may soon see the UK having the GDP of a ‘third-world country’, one of my representatives has claimed an annual expense which is worth more than the current value of my home.

Many MPs have come under the spotlight. Here are some of the offered explanations/excuses/justifications, and my immediate thoughts:

“I did nothing wrong. It was all within the rules ...”

Perhaps there’s something wrong with the rules then.

Now, just who made those rules?

“I made an error of judgement ...”

Yes! Possibly the electorate made an error of judgement at the polling station too!

“I made a mistake …”

Really? Many of us think that you’re just milking the system.

“I needed somewhere to spend time with my family …”

Don’t we all? That’s usually a given reason for resignation.

I could go on.

Bring back the authority of our Head of State, say I.

What has she got to say about all this? Unlike some of our present elected rulers, our Queen is a good person. She has integrity and a considerable amount of experience. As a tax-payer, I willingly contribute to the upkeep of her royal residence. (Well, perhaps not all of them!). Does she claim expenses for horse-manure or dog-food?
Who cleans her moat?

Having said that, I remain cautiously circumspect about the qualities of her immediate successor.

Where are you, Mr. Cromwell?!

Did someone say, "Such a parcel of rogues ...?"

Is Morris Dancing an Exclusively Male Activity?

There are those purists who opine that women shouldn't do this.

I disagree. Here's the women's side of Oyster Morris optimistically invoking the spirits of economic recovery outside a bank in Canterbury ...


The gymnastic red-haired lady was particularly attractive!

Happy Easter...

Truth ...

In a recent conversation with a friend, we discussed the correct placing of punctuation within parentheses. My friend, a follower of Ms. Truss, wrote, "I am merely a seeker of truth."
I believe that his soul may be in danger.



I wrote as follows:

Surely, you've been on this Earth long enough to realise that 'truth' is ephemeral.

First we had God. He was followed, after a 14,000,000,000 year-long gestation, by Jesus. He said, " ... I am the truth ..."

Many mortals came after.
Bishop Ussher declared that the world was created on 23rd. October, 4004 BC, (by the Julian calendar).
Darwin caused uproar.
Thomas Malthus said we should be extinct by now.
Richard Dawkins confounded everyone with 'intelligent design', while Noel Edmonds engaged in 'cosmic ordering'. (He needs it.)
NOW even the Pope confesses to fallibility! (We all knew that, anyway.)

The only absolute truth, according to nobody else but me, (in whom I have complete faith), is as follows:

If you wish to parenthesise a complete sentence, perhaps as an afterthought, the final full-stop belongs before the closing bracket.
See below:

(Otherwise, truth is nothing but myth, legend and superstition.)
It would silly like this: (Otherwise, truth is nothing but myth, legend and superstition).

In Memoriam...

Another cat died yesterday. This was unexpected and untimely. It must have been shocking for her carers. Holly was rescued and nurtured to become the much-loved companion of my good friends Berry and Brenda. I have reason to share their pain.

This is for them...



Sand and Water

All alone, I didn't like the feeling.
All alone, I sat and cried.
All alone, I had to find some meaning
In the center of the pain I felt inside.

All alone, I came into this world.
All alone, I will someday die.
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby,
Sand and water, and a million years gone by.

I will see you in the light of a thousand suns.
I will hear you in the sound of the waves.
I will know you when I come, as we all will come,
Through the doors beyond the grave.

All alone, I heal this heart of sorrow.
All alone, I raise this child.
Flesh and bone, he's just
Bursting towards tomorrow,
And his laughter fills my world and wears your smile.

All alone, I came into this world.
All alone, I will someday die.
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby,
Sand and water and a million years gone by.

This is for you, Berry and Brenda, with our love and sympathy.
Don't worry, Misty will be looking out for her!
xC&J.

Who's got gold these days?

Youtube has fallen foul of the Performing Rights Society (PRS) in UK.
I had to upload this before it disappears.

I haven't a clue what Neil Young's lyrics are about:
Drugs? Armageddon? UFOs?
Does it matter?



I woke up to this rendition by Prelude on the radio the other day.

I remain stunned!

Listen NOW!
This video might self destruct, taking your PC with it, within the next few days.
THEN, blame the mendacity of PRS!

Something about "Quantitative Easing" ...

Now, look here, Mervyn, what load of nonsense is this?
Here is my government's banker proposing to print money!
Surely, money has to be earned, not just printed!
















I could print money.
"I promise to pay the bearer b***** all," it would say.

I am no academic economist, but I derive from some earlier-received wisdom that such a strategy is a recipe for inflation. That would mean higher prices, increasingly widespread poverty and a devaluation of the odd pound in my pocket. I can put that pound in my bank (risky) or I can secrete it beneath my mattress. Wherever, it remains at risk of devaluation.

I have every sympathy with those who are threatened with redundancy, unemployment and repossession of their properties. I acknowledge my own good fortune in not being so threatened (yet.) Unfortunately, now we are witnessing the fruits of an overconfident, credit-orientated economic system which has come to disadvantage us all.

In youth my parents encouraged me to save. I did.
In adult life my bankers invited me to borrow. I did.
Now, in later years, my government implores me to spend.
I suppose I must!

What's your terminal bonus going to be, Mr. King?

....

On top of all that, I learn that the Royal Mint (with my government's approval) is to abandon the image of Britannia on our coins of the realm.

"Shame on you," I say, "How very dare you?!"

I wonder: what does the Queen have to say about this?



Rule Britannia! (But mind where you're putting that trident!)

Pompey wins the FA Cup ..

Most of you probably think the Portsmouth striker is a bloke, don't you?



Actually, I am married to her!

I am the chimp on the left ...

The person who sent me the following clip prefaced it with a derogatory title about Irish people and their Darwinian heritage.

PC requires that it do NOT reproduce that introduction.

This sender should be kneecapped, tarred and feathered.
(Is 'tarred' a correct verb?)



I complain to the director that, apart from the opening frames, I receive minimal exposure. What's the one in the middle got that I haven't!

Now look here, Bill (1.however-many decimals,) this is parody in the extreme. The Riverdance productions were a complete delight.

I remain very fond of my Irish friends.
Darwin was pretty bright, too!

Anyone for tea? ...

Good,eh?!

Kipling and vampires...

Philip Burne-Jones' picture, "The Vampire" (first exhibited in 1896,) depicts a woman mounting a sleeping/unconscious man.

(Oh, lucky man!)




In 1897 Rudyard Kipling was reputed to have been inspired to write his poem “The Vampire” after viewing this image. Here it is:

The Vampire

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair--
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent,
(Even as you or I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,
(Even as you or I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside--
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died--
(Even as you or I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white-hot brand--
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!

(I don't understand either!)

The Dream of St. Anley ...

Those of you who have had the patience to follow this blog, you will know that St. Anley the Incandescent is an illiminated and imaginary figure.

He is also St. Anley the Imaginative. He has several imaginary friends. (They are always best friends.)

Today he woke up and imagined receiving a telephone call. He didn't quite catch the caller's name, but she directed him to this masterpiece on youtube:



St. Anley was transported into continued imagination and further slumber.
He dreamed that she said, "I'll be along on Friday."

Then he woke up.

Reality dawned!

Oikan Anis Bethlehem...

Somebody commented , kindly, on a video I posted on Youtube.
These are the English words of a carol originally written in Manx gaelic:

Oikan Anys Bethlehem

Now let us keep this feast,
And keep it with pure hearts,
In remembrance of Jesus Christ:
Baby in Bethlehem.


He left the courts of his Father,
Taking on our human form,
Born of a pure maiden:
Baby in Bethlehem.


The angels of heaven were glad,
And came with news to us,
Telling of the Saviour born today:
Baby in Bethlehem.


Is it not great the meekness
Which was in Christ the Lamb?
When He took on a servant’s form:
Baby in Bethlehem.


Glory up to God above,
Who rules in happiness.
Goodwill of God is shown to us:
Baby in Bethlehem.

I hope that helps.

The foolhardy might want to follow this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GtPZkQ6uv8&feature=channel

Into the West...

Here's some more for Misty...

(Originally I posted a video incorporating Annie Lennox singing 'Into the West'. Understandably, that was removed from youtube because of copyright infringement. Here's Enya singing 'Exile' instead.)



[Gandalf]...and all turns to silver glass,
and then you see it...
White shores, and beyond - a far great country,
unto a swift sunrise.



I suppose Gandalf will be the next to be disallowed!

Play 'Misty' for me...

I watched our family cat die last week.
Her name was Misty.



Sadly mist!

How do you walk in those shoes?

Attached to this elegant foot is my wife's shapely body. She is too modest to allow me to publish any more of her desirable form.

A grumpy old man's reflections about winter in the North

Please have in mind that I am writing of the austerity-years of the 1950s. The location is a small industrial town in Lancashire. God made it. Then, it has been rumoured, He forgot about it. It was a time and place where people were born, dubiously-raised, educated, worked, married, procreated (not necessarily in that order) and died without ever having strayed further than the great metropolis of Manchester.

Occasionally there might have been a coach-trip to Blackpool. (Such was the corporate entertainment of the time.)

Life was very different then. Perhaps it was more parochial and pragmatic, than it is now. Car ownership, and many other modern conveniences, were far from universal. (Lots of less-than-modern conveniences were inconveniently situated in the back yard. They were a Victorian builder's afterthought. The plumbing regularly froze!)

Personal transport, if you were fortunate, was a rusty-chained bicycle that needed new tyres. The concept of 'Commuting' was a rumour. It was what rich people were said to be doing around faraway London. Here it was not a consideration. Most people lived where they worked ... and enjoyed vivid dreams.

(I meant about bikes!)

There were proper railways then. As well as passengers, they would transport freight and livestock. Interminable rakes of mineral-wagons were hauled, rattling through the night, bringing fuel from the Yorkshire coal fields to centres of manufacture.

The permanent way had sleepers that had been lovingly hewn from solid timber, not those inorganic concrete things we see now. The rails were of bullhead profile, held in ‘chairs’ with wedges.

Steam was king!

Drifting off to sleep, the comforting noise of shunting in the nearby goods yard echoed around the valley. You felt you wanted to 'bottle' that sound. It made every young boy dream of owning a Hornby-Dublo train set, and of growing up to be an engine driver.

Mills were operating throughout day and night. You knew that life continued as long as you could hear those shuttles flying.

People had jobs there. Everybody did. Whole families relied on the mills for their sustenance. Parents had no greater expectation than that their offspring would follow them into similar employment.

"What will we do if Johnny passes his 11-plus exams?" asked many an anxious mother.

Factory chimneys were tall and branded. They had personality. We loved them. Their emissions were a constant reassurance that all was well in our small world.

Fred Dibnah (bless him) had triumphed over the hazardous life-crisis of adolescence. He began fearlessly and famously climbing tall architectural structures. Little did we know what was to come.
(Some say that Fred never grew up!)



Dr. Beeching was yet to take over responsibility for the railways. What qualified him to usurp the responsibility of the fat controller?


(Does this anorak suit me?)

Winter came at least once a year. It would snow.
Heavily!
Every year it would snow.
Oh, what joy!

The sledge your dad had made came out of the shed/attic/outside loo. Woolworths would regularly sell them from November onwards, but your pocket-money was never enough, and the one your Dad had made was always better.

.
The weather wasn't bad, just a minor inconvenience. You lived with it. You adapted to it. Schools did not close; we were simply advised to wear more clothing. Getting changed for PE in front of your peers became acutely embarrassing: "Your mother knitted THAT?!" they'd enquire in total disbelief.

The school milk that came in third-pint bottles was always frozen.



Then, we’d never heard of the ‘school-run’. It wasn’t necessary to be accompanied; you walked or cycled to school. We trusted Charlie, the friendly lollipop-man, to see us safely across the main road from Rochdale.

There were no parking difficulties outside my school. The only person who had a car in those days was the headmaster. It was a much-coveted Triumph Mayflower, in silver-grey, if memory serves me correctly. (Mr. Fenwick even possessed some snow-chains!)


Buses still operated on roads that had been cleared by public-spirited farmers coming down from the surrounding hills with their tractors. Points on the railways did not freeze; they’d been in continuous use throughout the night. We never had the ‘wrong sort of snow’.

While we youngsters attended school, our elders went to earn the daily bread, negotiating waist-high snow-drifts. They just set off earlier.

Only occasionally did they freeze to death on their way home.



We unfailingly walked to chapel (three times) on Sunday, where a fearsome minister exhorted the congregation to endure shivering throughout the sermon as ‘righteous suffering’. Only Auntie Muriel (the organist) succumbed to hypothermia.

The postman uncomplainingly struggled to deliver Her Majesty's mail. His worthy mission did not depend upon motorised transport; he walked from the sorting office. Mother regularly asked him in for a cup of tea and a 'warm-up'. He seemed a nice man; I liked him. However, even before the kettle had boiled, Mum would wrap me up in my warmest clothes, gloves and balaclava, and send me out to play.

In Mum's defence, I must add that I am not aware that I have any younger siblings. Nevertheless, after that, I briefly toyed with the aspiration of becoming a postman!


The doctor, carrying a worn Gladstone-bag full of mysterious substances, would visit if requested. Even the doctor couldn’t afford a car. I had measles at the time. The doctor's breath had a spiritous odour. Mother recoiled, while Father thanked God for Aneurin Bevan. I wondered, "Who on Earth is he?"


On Christmas Eve the town band continued to regale the populus with carols, as we children marvelled at these beautifully-formed hexagonal crystals that fell into, and transformed, our world.

There was one slight casualty when the euphonium-player's lips became frozen to his instrument's mouth-piece.

Life went on, and it was good. We accommodated the weather. How could we do otherwise? Mum would do old Mrs. Irwin's shopping. My brother and I were provided with shovels to clear the paths and pavement. Then we'd build a snowman in the middle of the road.

Dad used to supplement the family income by signing up to deliver the Christmas post. He walked miles through snow-filled tracks to remote farms and villages. I went with him once. It was a glorious, albeit exhausting, experience.
(We were never invited in for tea and a 'warm-up'!)

The Ebenezer Baptist Sunday-School's football team, of which I was a faithful, undersized and otherwise-undistinguished member, played whatever the weather. We regularly lost by double-digits to nil. I scored a goal once, (an own goal!) I never played again.

Yes, I admit to some unreserved sentimentality here, and only a little fanciful exaggeration. This week’s media hysteria regarding so-called bad weather irks me considerably. Shortly, harnessing all my courage and resolve, I intend to traverse a snow-laden and icy pavement in order to post a letter.
Is this wise?
Is my journey necessary?
Should I perform a risk assessment?
Will the postman (in his van) collect the letter?

So, there you are, that's how it was. In spite of the good times, I never owned a Hornby-Dublo train set, but I still have the catalogue...


I think that's the Duchess of Hamilton on the left. The Duchess continued to occupy my dreams until Jenny Agutter came along in the BBC's serialisation of The Railway Children.

(I digress; that was quite a bit later, by which time we had acquired a second-hand TV set. Father had recanted his view that the cathode-ray-tube was an invention of the antichrist. I was 18 and hopelessly in love; puberty was just around the corner!)

Here's Jenny...



(I never got to drive a steam engine either!)

Where did my life go?
Where have all the real winters gone?
Am I too old for any of my dreams to be fulfilled?

(Ooooh, Jenny ... !)

PS. I offer a prize (a thermal vest) for anyone who can identify the town. Within the fantasy are hidden several genuine clues.

Lord Colon of Borborygm

THIS

PLUS
EQUALS ... ?

There was once a noble Lord Colon of Borborygm, who is much-revered by sufferers of IBS. He was famed for methane production, and only a lighted-match away from incandescence.

Here's his eulogy:

Lord Colon of Borborygm,
So-called for alimentary grumbles,
In life committed no serious crime,
But was famed for tummy rumbles.

One day he dined on vindaloo
With poppadums for starters,
A little lime pickle and raita too,
Before he joined the martyrs.

Sweat appeared on furrowed brow.
There was copious lacrimation.
“I think I'll use the nan bread now
To mop this perspiration."

Those subtle spices burned his mouth
And made the mucus flow.
A strange sensation then moved south
And stormy winds did blow.

From the kitchen there came wailing,
Nose-holding was in the bar.
Faces all around were paling.
Customers cried, “Fetch the car!”

’Twas thus that Colon's end was met,
By methane-oxidation.
Someone lit a cigarette...
There was instant conflagration.

Glossary:
IBS: Ian Bunkum-Smith. Sorry, I meant irritable bowel something.
Borborygmi: A medical term for a noisy abdomen associated with overactive intestinal peristalsis. 'Borborygm' rhymes with rhyme!
Methane-oxidation: An exothermic reaction: CH4 + 2O2 → CO2 + 2H2O

(BANG!)