I've mentioned my favourite podcast a few times previously - The Best Radio Show You Have Never Heard - and its producer and host Perry Bax has just created a full composite of the Who's Tommy that encompasses the masterpiece from its inception to this year's remastered release. He has combined tracks from a variety of sources, including: • the 2013 remaster
• demos, outtakes & unreleased tracks from The Who and Pete Townshend
• live tracks from the 1969 - 70 Tommy tour
The episode is called Smash The Mirror - Tommy Reconstructedand it really is very good. In fact, I'd forgotten how good Tommy is as I haven't listened to it in its entirety for years. It's going to be a main part of my Xmas 2013 Soundtrack (Yaa boo sucks to Slade, Wham, Wizard, Band Aid and all other purveyors of seasonal muzak dross) and, for those interested, here is the track listing - as if you'll need any inducement. Enjoy. 1. Overture (live) - The Who
2. It's A Boy (live) - The Who
3. 1929 - Pete Townshend
4. Amazing Journey (live) - The Who
5. Sparks (live) - The Who
6. The Hawker / Eyesight To The Blind (live) - Pete Townshend
7. Christmas - (live) - The Who
8. Cousin Kevin Model Child - The Who
9. Cousin Kevin - The Who
10. The Acid Queen - The Who
11. Underture (live) - The Who
12. Do You Think It's Alright? - Pete Townshend
13. Fiddle About (live) - The Who
14. Pinball Wizard - Pete Townshend
15. There's A Doctor - Pete Townshend
16. Go To The Mirror (live) - The Who
17. Success - Pete Townshend
18. Tommy Can You Hear Me? - Pete Townshend
19. Smash The Mirror - Pete Townshend
20. Sensation - Pete Townshend
21. Miracle Cure - Pete Townshend
22. Miss Simpson - The Who
23. I'm Free (live) - The Who
24. Welcome - The Who
25. Tommy's Holiday Camp (live) - The Who
26. We're Not Gonna Take It (alt) - The Who
27. See Me, Feel Me (live) - The Who
28. Trying To Get Through - The Who Gulp! I've just realised that next year is the 50th anniversary of the first time I saw them - at Sophia Gardens in Cardiff. Suddenly I feel so old.
I've mentioned previously that I'm in the process of writing a book about those mentioned on our local WW1 memorial. One such whose biography I've just completed is William Richard Conibear. He was serving as a Driver (of horses rather than anything mechanised) in D Battery of the 106th Brigade of the Royal Field Artillery when he was killed during the 'softening' up activities prior to the Battle of Messines near Ypres on June 4th 1917. Each man I'm researching is unique in their own way and with William Conibear there are a few things that stand out: 1. He was Welsh by birth and spent the early years of his short life in Barry, South Wales.
2. He is one of the few men for whom I've managed to obtain a photograph.
3. He is one of the few men for whom I've been able to trace a living relative.
Not a close relative but a relative nonetheless and one who has shared with me William's militaria that has come into her care, such as the 'death penny' received by his family as a formal recognition of his death.
4. He is one of the few men whose exact time and place of death I can trace through documentation.
The documentation relevant here are the War Diary of the 106th Brigade and the personal diary of the officer commanding the 106th Brigade at the time, Lieutenant Colonel Ralph G.A. Hamilton, Master of Belhaven. I've quoted them both below as they are worth reading. The Brigade War Diary entries are brief but do mention that D Battery was hit by a gas shell on June 4th, with nine casualties, one of whom would have been William Conibear. The personal diary of Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton's is far more expansive and paints a vivid picture of life at the front at that particular time and what men such as William had to endure. William was buried very close to where he died, in the Railway Dugouts War Cemetery.
From the 106th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery War Diary for June 1917: Friday June 1st:Batteries wire cutting on Mt Sorrel zone. (meaning firing barrages to destroy enemy barb wire defences). Saturday June 2nd:Ditto. Batteries also fire in support of small raid on Spoil Bank Sector.
Sunday June 3rd:Practice barrage at 3.15pm. Batteries wire cutting.
Monday June 4th:Brigade Commanders Conference at Busseboom. 2.30 pm. Railway Dugouts shelled with gas shell. D (Battery)/106 shelled 9 casualties. Total Brigade casualties for first week 34.
From Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton’s Personal Diary:
Zillebeke 4th June, 1917:What a 4th of June! I wonder if they are having the procession of boats at Eton today; certainly we can compete with them for fireworks; there has been nothing like it before. Our guns and the Germans' roar night and day and never stop for a moment. To-day General Sheppard had a conference of group commanders at his Headquarters in the vicinity of Poperinghe. He sent a car to meet us near the Asylum on the road to Vlamertinghe. Colonel de Satche and I walked over to meet it and had a rough time, as the Hun was shelling the whole area heavily, We had to make detours to avoid burning dumps of ammunition, which were exploding gaily in all directions. We were nearly caught going through Kruistraat, a big shell hitting a house not far off and blowing out the whole of the side of the house facing us. It was tropically hot and we had to keep off the roads because of the shelling. The fields are thick with long tufts of grass and full of shell holes, so by the time we had done 8 miles I was about exhausted. It was a relief indeed to reach the car. For the first mile or so the car had to pick its way among the holes in the road, but after that we bowled along the road merrily, and reached Divisional Headquarters, which are a collection of well-made huts. The general and everyone asked after my wound, and we adjourned to their mess for our conference. General Sheppard read out a letter from the army commander saying that he realised what a bad time the gunners were having and much appreciated the good work that was being done. We discussed every detail of our plans and the general made several excellent suggestions. I saw our brigade major and staff captain and made all sorts of arrangements, and asked for all the maps I wanted. They are a delightful staff to work with -always anxious to help in every possible way. This is not the case with all staff officers by a long way. After the conference we drove to our wagon-lines, where I had tea and saw the horses. They are looking much better than I had expected after the tremendous work they have had. C Battery horses were caught last night in a gas shell barrage and had a bad time. Their horses were still gasping for breath and looking very sick, but none have died and they will probably be all right in a day or two. After tea I had my trumpeter and an orderly with a horse-holder and started back for the line. I took the new sand track and was able to canter for the first two miles without drawing rein. I could have ridden farther, but when I got into the area that is shelled at night there were so many dead horses lying on the road that my mare began to object. I don't blame her, as she could not hold a handkerchief to her nose like I did. I accordingly got off and sent the horses back. The orderly and I walked the last two miles to Bedford House. I passed a 6 in. howitzer battery in my old position near Voormezeele and inquired whose it was; to my surprise I found Birch in command-now a major. He was my captain in A/106 when I went home in November last. He gave me a drink and we exchanged news. He is very lucky, as, being a "silent battery," he has not been spotted by the Hun yet, and has had a peaceful time since he arrived here.
On arrival at my own brigade I found that A and D had been heavily shelled whilst I was away. D had bad luck, a 5.9 shell crashing into one of their gun-pits and killing two and wounding seven men. I do not think it was meant for them at all, but was a bad shot for A Battery. The Hun has "bracketed" them with a 25-yrd bracket, so I have warned Dallas to look out for trouble. The general has given me two more officers, both of whom I have posted to A Battery, as they are very short. To-night the Hun has put a large number of gas shells round our dug-outs. I did not put on my gasmask quickly enough, with the result that I got a nasty whiff of it that made me cough and splutter. It catches one by the throat and the eyes are affected, so that tears pour down one's face. Our new gas-helmets are a great improvement on the old flannel bags. I was so tired that I half went to sleep with it on. The Hun has shelled my Headquarters intermittently all day, but has not caught many people fortunately.
I came across this recently in a search for something else. I like it for its exuberance and because it's a counterpoint to the rather dreary weather we've had today. It's by Harry Reser. I defy you not to enjoy it.
What makes us read novels more than once? It can hardly be because of a suspenseful plot as we already know how it unfolds. It might possibly be the quality of writing - I have read Thomas Hardy and George Orwell on many an occasion just for the sheer pleasure of the words - but it is a rare writer who can achieve such heights consistently. It might, of course, be familiarity: a kind of literary comfort food - apple tart printed in Times New Roman.
The question comes to mind because I have just started reading Anthony Trollope's 'Barsetshire Chronicles' sequence of novels again: for the third time. I suspect it is a personal thing, a relationship between characters real and characters fictional, that brings me back to these six linked novels. As I read the books I keep coming across fragments of my life, people I remember and people I have forgotten, incidents and events, even places: all mixed up, shuffled around, out of context as if in a jumbled dream. All in all, a rather pleasant exercise.
I have just embarked on the first in the series - The Warden - and there are another five waiting for me. In a moment of unnecessarily maudlin introspection just now, I thought to myself "this will be the last time I read the sequence". Possibly true but I suspect I can manage one more full reading before I hand in my Reader's Card and leave the Library of Life.
Have you got the right
kind of point on your pencil? Do you know how to achieve the perfect
point for the kind of work you need out of that pencil? Have you even got the right lead in your pencil? I thought not. What you need to read is a gem of a book by professional pencil sharpener David Rees entitled How To Sharpen Pencils: A Practical and Theoretical Treatise on the Artisanal Craft of Pencil Sharpening for Writers, Artists, Contractors, Flange Turners, Anglesmiths and Civil Servants. In this book, part manifesto and part fully-illustrated guide to the many, many, many ways to sharpen a pencil, Rees
reveals the secrets of his craft. By the time you’re through this book,
you will know how to get the perfect point on your pencil without
injuring yourself. This
indispensable manual answers all the questions you’ve ever had about
pencil sharpening, plus thousands of questions you didn’t know you had,
but would have eventually had if you’d thought about it for a really
long time, like the author has. I learnt a lot from it and I don't think I'll look at a rod of carbon encased in a wooden shell in quite the same way again. I'd call it an essential read for anyone who aspires to use or who has ever used a pencil.
And it's not a joke. Deep in New York’s Hudson River Valley, craftsman David—the
world’s number one #2 pencil sharpener—still practices the age-old art
of manual pencil sharpening. In 2010, he began offering his artisanal
service to the world, to the jubilation of artists, writers, draftsmen,
Argos shoppers and bingo players everywhere. Take a look at his website - Artisanal Pencil Sharpening and see the man himself in action in the clip below. It's well worth spending 5 minutes or so to enter the world of THE pencil-meister.
Duplicitous, mendacious, devious, disingenuous - not very flattering adjectives but common parlance when describing politicians. How do they get away with it? For what they are worth, here are my thoughts on the subject. The Great British Electorate let them. As might be deduced from the general tone of my more political posts, I don't hold the Great British Electorate in high esteem. Gullible, comatose and disengaged, is it any wonder that the politicians know that they will never properly be held to account for what they do? We get what we deserve. Depressing, isn't it?
They are masters of the black arts of propaganda. We all know they are but we all continue to fall for their spin. If you want to find out more about the techniques they use, let me recommend a fascinating little book called Spinfluence: The Hardcore Propaganda Manual for Controlling the Masses by Nick McFarlane. In `10 easy steps` the use of propaganda as a
tool for influencing public opinion (ie. me and you) is explained through punchy text, striking info-graphics and bold black, white and red illustrations. It covers such fun techniques and tactics as emotional hijacking,
brainwashing and hysteria harnessing and shows how spin and propaganda are used to to bend the truth and control the masses (ie. me and you - again). It is written as if its target readership is crooked politicians, media manipulators and corporate
big-wigs, in fact anyone interested in how to exploit people for profit or
power. But, of course, it is really for anyone interested in learning how to see through the techniques. Once you've got the knowledge, it's amazing how easy it becomes to spot the subject matter being put into practice. Read the book and then watch any politician in an uncomfortable position in action. Behold, the motes shall be removed from thine eyes.
They rewrite history. Sometimes the truth is very uncomfortable and wouldn't it be great if any skeletons in the political cupboards could be removed? We've seen a brilliant example of how to do this recently as the Conservatives tried to remove from the internet all speeches and press releases dating from the time before Posh Dave became prime minister. Of course, once it was realised what was happening, it naturally led to everyone on the internet reminding themselves - and us - of all the things Cameron once said, to compare them to things he had done, and to understand immediately why he would want them deleted. This demonstrates the first rule of rewriting history – it only works if people don't notice that you've done it. Posh Dave obviously hasn't read Spinfluence.
When I'm feeling depressed by worldy affairs, I find that a quick burst of Petula Clark singing Downtown soon perks me up. Hard to believe that the clip comes from 1964, around about the first time my IWC accepted my offer of a trip to the pictures in Newport. Perhaps we should make Downtown 'our' song?
Downtown I like but Downton me no like. And I'm not the only one. Here's what Rachel Cook, TV critic for the New Statesman, writes in the latest issue of that excellent magazine. Lovely stuff and I've just added a few photographs that seemed appropriate.
A sad week, should your tastes extend to dotty costume dramas. At Downton Abbey, the big house of ridiculousness and anachronisms where this column begins, Julian Fellowes' cheap little rape plot line reached a feeble denouement in the final episode of the series (10 November, 9pm) when Bates (Brendan Coyle) pushed the valet who'd attacked Mrs Bates in front of a bus and killed him - an excellent use of his precious day off, one has to admit.
Meanwhile, Violet, the dowager duchess
(Maggie Smith), having somehow intuited that her unwed grand-daughter Lady Edith (Laura Carmichael) is up the duff by her
bounder of a newspaper editor boyfriend, decided that the best solution all round - pass the smelling salts! - would be an all-expenses-paid, five-month-long trip to Switzerland. At least there, she'll be able to blame her swollen belly on too much Toblerone. Most unexcitingly of all, Lady Mary (Michelle Dockery) now has two hot-ish chaps dancing her attendance: Lord Gillingham and Charles Blake, both of whom must first have appeared in an episode I missed (that is, all of them) and both of whom look like Thunderbirds puppets, only with fob watches instead of strings. Dullards, the pair of them; Lord "Tony" Gillingham's only claim to fame is that it was his valet whom Bates so swiftly despatched.
Some viewers will perhaps be hoping for a threesome in series five, though how Dockery's acting skills would cope with such a scenario, one can only imagine. Would a sex troika in the king-size she once shared with the ineffably boring Matthew Crawley render her any the less plank-like? I fear not. I've seen walnut commodes more animated than Lady Mary.
Lady Mary? Walnut commode?
What is to be done about Downton Abbey? I don't know! ITV will, I fear, keep flogging this particular dead horse - "I'm sorry to have to tell you, Lord Grantham, but your favourite hunter was knocked down early this morning by Tom Branson, who was in a particular rush to get to a political meeting where he hoped to meet Miss Bunting, who had promised to show him her red bloomers; yes, I'm afraid these socialist girls are terribly easy, m'lord" - until such a time as the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences (one of the groups that hand out the Emmys) begins to ignore it.
So let us hope that is soon. Or that ITV grasps just how bad a writer Julian Fellowes is and locks him in a room for a month
with only Chris Morris and some classic Coronation Street on TV for company. Or until Maggie Smith storms off (I don't believe the show could survive without her). Or that Fellowes is made the new presenter of Daybreak, which would leave him too knackered to worry about butlers at a Time of Great Social Upheaval.
As for all of you people who still watch it, what is wrong with you? Seriously. Are you gripped in an ironic, postmodern,
sneery, let' s-count-the-extras-at-Lady-Sarah's- village-bazaar, tee-hee kind of a way? (On this point, I spotted two: one in a sack race, the other manning the test-your-strength attraction.) Or are you simply waiting to see if Lady Mary's expression is ever going to change?
Confession time. In truth, all my negativity towards Downton Abbey is just sour grapes. Not many people know that I did once audition for a part but didn't get it. Bates and I just didn't get on. He wanted to be called Mister but I couldn't stop myself from calling him Master and sniggering in a very schoolboy-ish way. However, they did give me one of the auditions stills as a momento.
A walk in the nearby Duchy Woods down at Broad Mill Ford with two of our three grandsons today. Throwing stones in the stream, splashing in puddles and generally getting wet and muddy. The boys enjoyed it as well.
There were lots of these fungi growing in the leaf mould under the trees. I think they are Tubaria hiemalis (Winter Twiglet),apparently one of the more common species which grows from September to February. And before you ask – no, it’s not edible! Not poisonous, but simply tastes bad. A shame because it wouldn't take long to fill a bucket with them.
The trees laden with moss and lichen give a good indication of the prevailing climate in this part of the world - damp and relatively mild.
Hard to believe that this view incorporates mining evidence dating from the 1300s (the flat floor of the valley due to early tin streaming) to the late 1800s (the 'line' seen running across the photograph above the stream is the course of an old leat carrying water to power wheels for various mechanical processes). All gone now and the sites reclaimed by nature.
...........Let's not forget that Iain Duncan Smith's leaders have both been economical with the truth in the post. Remember the following?
And I really can't ignore dodgy Grant Shapps or should that be Michael Green. As well being accused of misusing benefit statistics by the UK Statistics Authority (just like his boss IDS), he's also been implicated in some very shady business dealings (he's made his money running a string of spam websites under a false name).
What a shower! Something to bear in mind when it comes to voting in the next General Election?
Iain Duncan Smith has this remarkable ability to lie - and there's no room for doubting that he does this. He is an inveterate liar and does it even when he knows his audience will find him out. If he told me that two plus two made four, I'd ask for a second opinion.
A good example of his mendacity came last week when he said that he was "very pleased that the Supreme Court unanimously upheld" his programme to force the unemployed to work without pay or lose their benefits. "Ultimately, this judgment confirms that it is right that we expect people to take getting into work seriously." Not so, Iain, as you know full well: the Supreme Court had, in fact, found against him on every ground of appeal he had raised. Even though he had protected his department's hard line on the young by rushing through retrospective legislation, the Supreme Court still hammered him. The government had not provided "sufficient detailed prescribed description" of the work placement schemes on offer, the judges said. The unemployed could not make an informed decision on how best to find work.
Duncan Smith has form when it comes to twisting the truth. Remember when he said that around a million people have been stuck on a working-age benefit for at least three out of the past four years, despite being judged capable of preparing or looking for work? His claim was false. Remember when he claimed that his benefit cap had encouraged 8,000 people to find work? Not true either as the UK Statistics Authority pointed out in a strong reprimand. Remember when he claimed he could survive on around £50 a week, carefully omitting to say that he was living in a mansion on his baronet father-in-laws estate? Remember when he claimed (falsely) that he had attended a prestigious public school.?Remember when he claimed (falsely) that he had graduated from a prestigious Italian university?
Why does he keep doing this? The short answer is that his department is falling apart and he has to spin and bluster to cover the shambles he has presided over. His once-grand plans for a universal credit to cover the whole country have shrunk to a pitiful pilot project. His equally overhyped "reform" of disability welfare payments looks as if it is going the same way. The work programme, launched two years ago, doesn’t work. The hardest cases are neglected while private providers profit from shuffling the easily employable into jobs.
It is one thing to be an individual fantasist, telling flattering stories about yourself. It is another to insist that government policy should be directed by fantasy: reality stubbornly refuses to comply.
However, it's not all bad news for Duncan Smith. At least he's getting a good coverage from the political cartoonists. Here's one from yesterday's Observer and another from today's Guardian.
This day, Remembrance Day, was made the more poignant when the two old soldiers in our family died. They were both very reluctant to talk about the darker side of their experiences but I have a feeling they would agree with Harry Patch's assessment (see previous post) - "Thepoliticians who took us to war should have been given the guns and told to settle their differences themselves".
Royal Marine Derrick Parsons - D-Day, Walcheren and HMS Belfast
Royal Army Service Corps Driver Harry Laws - Desert Rat, Tobruk and Italy
For Derrick (dad) and Harry (father-in-law): Remembrance For their descendants: A peaceful future
The above headline is taken from an editorial published in The Guardian on
The great contest to define the Great War's legacy ahead of this year's remembrance, and next year's centenary, is getting going, as we report. Roadshows will reveal untold tales of home front heroics, competing with battlefield art at the Imperial War Museum, and – no doubt – new editions of the warrior poets of the age, exposing bloody futility. But it is not necessary to dig so deeply into the trenches of time to grasp the real lesson; one need only listen to the Last Fighting Tommy, Harry Patch, who was with us until 2009. In his 2007 book of that name, Mr Patch (born 1898) did what he had never felt able to do until he reached 100, and looked back in anger. The "politicians who took us to war", he argued, "should have been given the guns and told to settle their differences themselves, instead of organising nothing better than legalised mass murder". Who better to nail "The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est. Pro patria mori"?
And if you are wondering where the last line came from, it's from the poem Dulce et Decorum Est written by Wilfred Owen. The text is below, together with a reading by Sam West (who, incidentally, has signed the No Glory in War petition I've previously mentioned - here) included in a BBC programme on the War Poets in the mid-1990s.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime.-- Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
And here's a biography of the short life of Wilfred Owen, taken from a BBC Education website:
Owen was born in Oswestry, Shropshire in 1893. Failing to win a scholarship to university, he took an unpaid post as a lay assistant to a vicar near Reading. His interest in the Church would wane, but the language of the Bible would live on in his poetry. He was in France when war broke out, working as an English tutor, and came back to enlist in 1915. After being trapped underground while fighting at the Somme, in 1917 Owen was invalided back to Craiglockhart Hospital in Edinburgh, suffering shellshock. There he met the poet Siegfried Sassoon who showed Owen how to channel his nightmarish battlefield flashbacks into his poetry. Their meeting has inspired many books including Pat Barker's Regeneration trilogy. Under Sassoon's influence, the romantic poetry Owen had been writing since his boyhood in imitation of John Keats was transformed. His poems now were vivid with flesh and blood detail, and peppered with explosive fragments of direct speech.
Although he could have avoided a return to the front, Owen felt a pressing duty to record the experiences of his comrades. "All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful," he wrote. Owen was killed in action a week before the war ended, in November 1918. The telegram of his death reached his parents as the bells were ringing out to announce the Armistice.
Remember the old joke that it’s impossible to name five famous Belgians? Well, I can but I'm keeping the list to myself - with the exception of one: Jacques Brel. Chanson extraordinaire and an inspiration to the likes of Leonard Cohen, David Bowie and Lou Reed. It was listening to Leonard Cohen that brought Brel to mind and got me humming the tune of his song Amsterdam. Here's the man himself giving the song a passionate outing.
He's singing in French (and heavily accented French, at that) so, for the linguistically challenged, here's a snippet of the lyrics:
In the port of Amsterdam There's a sailor who sings Of the dreams that he brings From the wide open sea
In the port of Amsterdam Where the sailors all meet There's a sailor who eats Only fish heads and tails He will show you his teeth That have rotted too soon That can swallow the moon That can haul up the sails.
But the words are not enough, you really need the music: the speeding, stormy, tempestuous music. Scott Walker (remember he of the eponymous Brothers?) gave an excellent interpretation (in English) way back. Both versions are there to be enjoyed.
Believe it or not, I had no intention of mentioning that christening again until a friend bought me a copy of the souvenir edition of Hello Magazine. Such joy. Such inspiration. Such temptation. Too hard to resist for me and the latest issue of Private Eye. I should be in good company in the Tower.
A short post to bring our St David's sojourn to a close. We decided to stop off for a night at Laugharne to pay a very small homage to Dylan Thomas.
This is the Boathouse garage/shed in which DT wrote Under Milk Wood. Although set in Llareggub (read it backwards) it was based on Laugharne and its characters.
DT was an inveterate editor of his own works and went through many drafts before he was satisfied. These are the waste bins into which he threw his discarded manuscripts (allegedly).
Even normally rational people are seized by the poetic muse when within the orbit of DT's writing desk.
The view from the main tower of Laugharne Castle looking down the estuary towards Pendine Sands.
......have something in common: we are both rubbish at reading poetry. As evidence of the royal inadequacy I offer you his recent reading of Dylan Thomas's Fern Hill. It's a poem I like and it's named after a farm in Carmarthenshire, not far from Laugharne, belonging to his aunt and which Thomas used to visit as a boy. I identify strongly with his evocative and poignant description of his “green and carefree” days there, when he was “prince of the apple towns”, before musing, in later years, “the farm forever fled from the childless land”. You'll have to take my word that I'm little better than his royalness at versifying. But what about others? What about the man himself? I always think that Thomas has more than a touch of John Gielgud's 'luvvy' intonation in the way he reads his own work. Of the usual list of Welsh voices, I've clipped in Richard Burton, Anthony Hopkins and Philip Madoc reading the same poem. There is absolutely no doubt that it needs reading with a Welsh accent and Richard Burton hits the spot for me. He's the boyo for this one! Hardly surprising really as he came from the same area of Swansea as Thomas and has the same rhythym in his voice.
