Begorrah - 'tis time for the Oirish.

Apparently there have been formal complaints about Ant and Dec mentioning Irish stereotypes on one of their recent Saturday night programmes. I've seen a clip of the offending item and, oh dear, if the complainants found that offensive, what would they make of Spike Milligan's entries in the Irish Stereotype Competition? I offer as evidence two items from his Q series (possibly the funniest programmes ever shown on UK television) - the Irish Astronaut and Irish O'lympic sketches. Hooray for non-PC times and a double, nay treble, nay quadruple, hooray for Spike.



The irony, for those who did not know, was that Spike was an Irish citizen which came about in a typically Milliganesque fashion. In 1962, the British Government refused to renew Spike's passport because they did not consider him a British citizen. They told him he could apply for citizenship, but this required swearing an oath to the Queen, which Spike refused to do. By this stage, Prince Charles was one of Spike's biggest and probably most famous fan. Prince Charles even sent him a letter saying, ‘Come on, you know, I had to swear allegiance to the Queen and it's not that painful for God's sake' and Spike wrote back and said, ‘Well, it's okay for you, she's your mum'."
So Spike set out in search of a country that would have him as citizen without him having to grovel. Spike really felt he deserved British citizenship unconditionally, after serving for six years in the British Army during WW2. When it became apparent they wouldn't make it that easy, he went to the Irish Embassy and said, "Can I be Irish?". Spike's brother Desmond Milligan recalled that the Irish Ambassador, Eamon Kelly, spoke to Spike personally and said, "Oh, you're that bloke on the telly. Of course you can become an Irish citizen. We're terribly short of people". A bottle of whisky and the passport followed.

Glimpses of the past: it wouldn't happen today.

When I started at Bassaleg Grammar School in September 1959 (gulp! Was it really that long ago? Yes, unfortunately it was.) I went into Form 1 South and our Form Master was Mr Brian Selby. If memory serves me correctly, we arrived at the school at the same time and we were his first form. He was a very gentle, decent man who taught Biology and RE (Religious Education). He was a great lover of the outdoors and, a few years later, when we were in Form 3 and a little older, he organised a series of day hikes locally and longer 'expeditions' in the Brecon Beacons. It wouldn't happen today, of course: little paperwork (was there any?), no risk assessments, no set routes, no more than two members of staff for around 15 children and no parental contact from start to finish.

I loved going on them and have vivid memories of some of the things we got up to. Many of our exploits were recorded in 'The Log', of which I seem to be the current minder. I haven't looked at it for a few years now but I dipped into it today to try and check up on a detail of one trip. Here are just a few glimpses of a golden age that present day children probably will never get a chance to enjoy the freedoms of.

The title page of 'The Log', written by Mr Selby.

This one is from a day hike in June 1961. It started in Lower Machen and took in the ruins of Ruperra Castle before ending in Bassaleg. It must have been an impressive 7 to 8 miles. The photograph shows some of us on the old bridge over the River Rhymney at Draethen. I'm the gurning loon in the middle.

A more ambitious 5 day expedition to the Brecon Beacons in June 1963. Here we are outside of the Youth Hostel in Crickhowell. Note the stylish woollen bobble hat that I seemed to be attached to. I obviously thought it was cool: I was wrong. Memories of Crickhowell YHA? Cold dormitory, salty porridge but next to a café with a juke box with Cliff Richards and Elvis Presley records.

On the banks of the Newport to Brecon Canal at Llangynidr. You may be wondering what two of us have between our teeth? Knives, that's what. Every boy carried a single bladed knife as normal practice. Definitely not something that would be allowed today.
I can remember most of the names and it's interesting to recall what happened to some of them. We've got an opera singer/Celtic folk artist, a teacher, a solicitor, a scientist (me), a manufacturing executive, an airline steward and a graphic artist (who worked on Star Wars animations). One, after a spell in prison, ended up in a suicide pact with his girlfriend. And, not surprisingly, one of the two embracing in the foreground was gay and has a very long term same sex partner. 

Same location just before we were told off for throwing rocks in the canal. We thought splashing each other was great fun until an official came up and made some of us wade in and retrieve what we had thrown in. He said that the rocks were a hazard to canal traffic. We discovered much later that there had been no boats on this stretch for about 50 years and wouldn't be for at least another 20. How we laughed: how he laughed.
Seeing the photograph of me (still wearing the bobble hat) made me wonder what, if I had the opportunity now, would I say to my younger self. What words of advice would I offer? That's easy to answer: I'd say absolutely nothing. Nothing for fear of influencing what turns out to be a good life. I'm in a very happy place now and I wouldn't want him not to end up in the same spot.

On our way up Table Mountain near Abergavenny. Close inspection reveals my knife on my belt. And where's my bobble hat? Where has it gone? Is that why I'm looking a little bereft?

Ah, there it is. On the disused railway track running alongside the Talybont Reservoir. Wonderful countryside and countryside that I've relished eversince.

 

More political postcard joy.

I think it is a great pity that we don't have political postcards any more. Back in the early days of the twentieth century, if you wanted to make a political point to your Uncle Sid or Aunty Flo, you could seek out an appropriate postcard, pen a suitable curt message on the back and consign it to the post. One hundred years ago, there were a whole range of postcards representing a wide range of political viewpoints: you just plucked your argument off the display stand, stamped it and sent it. Over the decades, sadly, the practice has fallen out of fashion and I suppose the modern equivalents are to post a YouTube video or post a blog entry rather than post a postcard. They just don't have the same colour or romance, do they?

 

I came across the postcard featured above during some research on the EU Referendum and it had some interesting modern resonances. It was used postally in 1904 and relates to the argument which, at the time, was destroying the Conservative Government led by Arthur Balfour. The Conservative Party was being torn apart by the clash between free trade and tariff reform (does this remind you of the current in or out of Europe debate?). Balfour tried to be clever by allowing the chief proponent of tariff reform in his Cabinet, Joseph Chamberlain, to tour the country speaking in favour of protectionism whilst he and the rest of the Cabinet sat on the fence and waited to see what the electoral response would be. The postcard shows Chamberlain in the water whilst Balfour and the rest look on undecided.

Balfour's attempt to stand back whilst others tested the political water ended in one of the biggest ever landslide victories for the Liberals in the 1906 election. Perhaps the moral of the story is that it is better to be decisive and loose than to vacillate and be routed. We are seeing shades of both at the moment, proving, yet again that there  is nothing new in politics.

Mr Punch and a Prime Minister

Once upon a time I used to spend hours down on the Barbican in Plymouth happily browsing around that rarest of creatures, an old second-hand bookshop (the kind where books are stacked like firebricks and filed according to some long-forgotten system). One thing I particularly looked out for were old copies of Punch Magazine and I'd try to make sense of political cartoons (using cartoon in the sense of a drawing intended for satire, caricature or humour) which were so far past their sell-by dates that the meanings were obscured by the mists of time. This one from 1889, that I've just come across in a completely unrelated context, featuring William Ewart Gladstone is an excellent example of what occupied my time - and still would, if I had the, um, time. Who says I don't know how to have fun?

In June 1889 Gladstone, a Liberal, was Leader of the Opposition and a tireless political campaigner despite having reached the age of 79. Where others would take long summer holidays, Gladstone would fill his time delivering political speeches in all parts of the country and the cartoon shows Gladstone on a train heading for the West Country and another round of political meetings. At this stage in his life, he was becoming more and more radical in his views, flirting almost with an early version of democratic socialism.

One is tempted to look back across the political years and conclude that little has changed. People were making fun of politicians back then, and many of the events of 1889 - aristocrats involved in sex scandals, people demanding a decent living wage, Wales losing a rugby international - have a degree of familiarity.  Some things have changed, however, and not necessarily for the better. A politician prepared to face the people - without a carefully selected audience and a carefully placed autocue - would today be as rare as an empty railway carriage. A Leader of the Opposition who was entering his eighties and still destined to serve a further term as Prime Minister, would today be as unthinkable as a self-penned speech. And a politician who was getting more radical as he got older would today be as hard to find as a decent second-hand bookshop.

Footnote: Mrs P and I went to the same grammar school and we are of the generation who, when William Ewart Gladstone is mentioned, will have a Pavlovian response and come out with 'GOM/MOG - Grand Old Man/Murderer of Gordon'. A phrase from our History master, Mr Percival, that alludes to Gladstone's falling out of favour when General Gordon was killed at the Battle of Khartoum. Actually it should be 'Gwand Old Man/Murdewer of Gordon' as Mr Percival (nicknamed Pinky because of his fresh complexion and rosy cheeks which, with knowledge gained since, may have been due to his liking for drink) had a pronounced lisp (spelt L I S P but pronounced lisp).
 

It looks good, it tastes good...

After all the heavy work I've been doing in the garden recently, it's time I took a well earned break. And it's time for a glass of Mackeson's Milk Stout. You can still find tins of this if you search for it (I use it in a rather tasty recipe for spiced Hot Cross buns), but Mackeson from a tin somehow seems all wrong. It should be served in a bottle, in a dark Snug Bar, in an old back street pub. Like the Rovers' Return perhaps? With Ena and Minnie in the corner enjoying a glass of the black stuff.

In the words of Bernard Miles in the old adverts: "It looks good, it tastes good, and by golly it does you good".  I suppose such adverts these days would have to be accompanied by a statutory public health warning and some medical research to substantiate the claims of benefit.

For those unfamiliar with this type of beverage, "Milk Stout" is brewed with the addition of lactose (a sugar derived from milk) which is not converted into alcohol during the fermentation process, making the resulting brew both relatively weak and very sweet. It was the brew supposedly favoured by elderly ladies and nursing mothers. It was far too sweet for my palate but made for a passable tipple when mixed with a half of a decent bitter: a sort of Black and Tan. For some years now, apparently, Mackeson has been a 'ghost brand' in the UK: still produced and sold but without advertising or promotion. I'm not sure what the logic behind this is: perhaps the major markets are overseas?

Footnote: I could have called this post "Thoughts occasioned by the finding of an old Mackeson tin in the garden". Little did I know then that, in a split second, my mind would wander from the tin to Ena Sharples and Minnie Caldwell via Bernard Miles. I wonder how many other people remember them?
 

Three requiems and a graphic

A delightful time was recently spent enjoying a Music Day with the East Cornwall Bach Choir rehearsing Mozart's Requiem in D minor for a 'scratch' performance in the evening. What a wonderful work to get immersed in and a work with a fascinating history, which I'll come to shortly.

As is my customary practice when doing a bit of note bashing, I take a look at what's on YouTube that might be useful. For such a well known work as the Requiem, there's a lot to view but one clip particularly grabbed my attention. It was the first movement performed by the Bezdin Ensemble, under the direction of Adina Spire, with a striking graphical score by a YouTuber called Smailin. I've always found that visuals enhance my understanding of musical ideas and structures and Smailin's does this in a way that really hits the spot for me. It's just a terrific device to depict a masterwork and has really added to my pleasure of experiencing Mozart. For any nerds reading this, try following the written score whilst watching Smailin's visuals and, well, just enjoy the ride.

To come back to the history of the piece is to come back to an intriguing tale, shrouded in uncertainty and not a little mystery. That it was Mozart's last work in not disputed but the facts have often been coloured and embroidered. Mozart wrote it in the last weeks of his life and it seems to have been an anonymous commission. The commissioner's envoy, in order to preserve anonymity, paid Mozart several unannounced visits, like a messenger from another world. One account describes Mozart as being possessed by a feverish desire to complete the Requiem, being conscious of his approaching demise. It was his own requiem - a musical composition for his death.

The association of the Requiem with Mozart's death brought to mind two contemporary pieces that could also be regarded as requiems. The first of these is David Bowie's 'parting gift' Lazarus. Both poignant and chilling, it was written and recorded when he knew he was dying of cancer. His own requiem - a musical composition for his death.


The above clip gives the lyrics but if you want to see the 'official' video, you'll have to link to it here.

And the second is Hurt sung by Johnny Cash. OK, I know he didn't write it (that honour belongs to Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails) but his is such a powerful rendition that, for me, he 'owns' the song. It was recorded when he also knew that he was dying of cancer. His own requiem - a musical composition for his death.

Man Of A Thousand Faces

I've mentioned my favourite podcast - The Best Radio You Have Never Heard - several times in the past and, as a service to all lovers of classic rock music, I thought I'd bring your attention to this tribute compilation to David Bowie. Just click on the link to get access to the download link on the top right. It's a goodie and, with my joss sticks perfuming the air, my companion in the wee small hours. Enjoy y'all - especially Julie.
 

Compiled, Mixed and Edited by Perry Bax.
NEW FOR JANUARY 11, 2016

Man Of A Thousand Faces - The Best Radio You Have Never Heard - Vol. 275 - Special Edition
Now playing a new roles as a heavenly voice. A tribute to David Bowie.
1. Ashes To Ashes (live) - David Bowie
2. Hurt (live) - David Bowie and Trent Reznor
3. Starman - David Bowie 
4. Life On Mars (live) - David Bowie 
5. Lady Stardust (early) - David Bowie
6. Lazarus - David Bowie 
7. Warzawa - David Bowie and Brian Eno 
8. Heroes (live unplugged) - David Bowie 
9. The Man Who Sold The World (live) - David Bowie w/ Lulu
10. Penny Lane - David Bowie
11. See Emily Play - David Bowie 
12. Shapes Of Things - David Bowie 
13. Hang On To Yourself (early) - David Bowie 
14. All The Young Dudes - David Bowie 
15. Aladdin Sane - David Bowie 
16. This Is Not America - David Bowie, Pat Metheny Group 
17. Rock 'n Roll Suicide - David Bowie 
18. Ziggy Stardust (live) - David Bowie

Curing a case of earworms

Music has a way of invading your mind. For no reason, without any provocation, it can either mount a full-on assault or the sneakiest kind of covert infiltration. Tunes and lyrics can leach into your subconscious with osmotic determination and take you places you never thought of going. Once they are in your mind, they are difficult to ignore. Some people call them 'earworms' and I know what they mean.

 

An infection of earworms in someone else has prompted these ramblings. Someone who comes to our IT Club related a bad case: she'd been plagued with a snatch of lyrics that had been playing havoc with her mind for a while. She couldn't remember the song, which she associated with her mother, and could I help to track it down? With the lines she could recall, Mr Google soon came up with the rest. It was a George Gershwin number called 'But not for me'. I love the way he rhymes try it/riot and Pollyannas/bananas. The first verse goes:

 

   Old man sunshine listen you

Never tell me dreams come true

Just try it and I'll start a riot

Beatrice Fairfax don't you dare

Ever tell me he will care

I'm certain it's the final curtain

I never want to hear from any cheerful Pollyannas

Who tell you fate supplies a mate

It's all bananas

 
Just to show her what else we could find, we searched under the song title and came up with the following YouTube clip of the Judy Garland version. And, bingo, that was the version she remembers coming out of her mother's gramophone. Another satisfied customer thanks to Mr Google.

And this is where my OCD curiosity kicked in. Once I had solved the mystery of which song it came from, I began to delve more deeply into the question that started to drive me crazy: who was the Beatrice Fairfax mentioned?

 

This, of course, is the kind of query which must have occupied a fair amount of your spare time before the internet age. The Great God Google, however, allows you to wander through the poppy fields of trivia with comparative ease.

 

Beatrice Fairfax was the brainchild of the American author Marie Manning, who invented the name when she initiated America's very first personal advice newspaper column. Readers were invited to address their most intimate problems to "Dear Beatrice Fairfax" protected by nothing but some anonymous initials. Marie Manning started a trend that has been a central feature of journalism ever since. 

 

I suppose the twenty-first century equivalent of Beatrice Fairfax is, in fact, Mr Google himself. Whether we want to know the exchange rate for the Yen, whether or not to tell our nearest and dearest of our proclivity for leather underwear (joke!) or to discover who the hell was Beatrice Fairfax, what we do is to write to "Dear Mr Google".

A nice March afternoon

What a nice way to spend an afternoon with friends in early March. Lunch on a cliff top restaurant with great food and views (Check it out: The View overlooking Whitesands Bay), followed by a church visit and a drive around. One to be repeated, especially as it will be our turn to pay.

The view from just in front of the restaurant looking out to sea over Whitesands Bay. Just to the left Rame Head is visible and those with very keen eyes might just spot the Eddystone Lighthouse just under the horizon in the middle. At this point it's about 8 miles off-shore.

St Germanus church at Rame, commonly known as Rame Church. It dates from the 13th century, probably with earlier foundations, and is one of the few in Cornwall with a spire on its tower. It is perched on a cliff and has been used as a visible navigation marker for centuries by ships heading to Plymouth and Devonport. 

Another unusual feature of Rame church is that it has no electricity and is lit by candles, hence the forest of wooden candle holders.

An interior view showing the main altar, rood screen and yet more candle holders.

I liked the sunlight on these slate gravestones.

Keeping an eye on the dial.

Here are some thoughts prompted by some human interactions I observed at an event recently. The event will remain anonymous so that any regular readers won't be able to make any guesses as to identities.

Probably only people of my vintage would remember what a rheostat was. It's what we used to control the volume on our superhetrodyne receivers. And those are ....radios. Many of these volume controls were actually numbered.


More often than not, they were accompanied by another control.


Can you guess where I'm going with this? I'm going to ...People!

There are those who control their emotions much like the numbered knob above controls volume, very seldom ever reaching the highest output. Sometimes they can be quite frustrating because their reaction can be very difficult to gauge. Then there are those whose volume control is always set at ten and just turn emotions on and off.

Me? I am a firm believer in holding something in reserve and try to keep my volume set at around 1. I'm leaving 10 for the hopefully never to come 'big one'. Unlike Donald Trump who is another who seems to operate with the dial on maximum.