A Limerick A Week – Page 21 – A View From The Lanterne Rouge

A limerick a week #64

Innocent but Profumed guilty

The early 1960s sex and spy scandal, the so-called Profumo Affair, led to the downfall of John Profumo, the UK Secretary of State for War, and, it is believed, both Harold Macmillan as the British Prime Minister and his successor’s Conservative government.

Christine Keeler, a central character in the drama that unfolded has just died at the age of 75. She was not a paragon of virtue by any means but should be remembered now as a victim and not a culprit.

Profumo successfully redeemed himself off-grid by quietly volunteering for decades at an east-end charity in London, but the reaction of the day was for the establishment to look after its own without any concern for the price paid by others.

One of those others was Stephen Ward, an osteopath and socialite who killed himself in the midst of later court proceedings that related to trumped-up charges of living off immoral earnings; a case now believed to be both a miscarriage of justice and an act of revenge in behalf of the establishment. Another was Keeler who, in the 1970s, defined her later life as surviving not living.

Growing up through the 1970s, my generation was fully aware of the scandal, where it was posited in terms of good-time girls on the make corrupting a highly thought of politician. In fact history shows it to have been down to the self-perceived entitlement of powerful men within the establishment to do as they please.

Keeler’s early life had been one of poverty, abandonment and sexual abuse. She arrived in London, vulnerable, in her teens at a time when the 1960s free-love revolution was about to take off. Her participation in that revolution, which she freely acknowledged, led to the subsequent condemnation of her as a cheap tart whereas it now bears all the hallmarks of the abuse of a woman by men in powerful positions. The recent revelations about Harvey Weinstein et al simply revisit that behavioural paradigm.

Keeler’s son put it well in a comment that he made to the political correspondent Lewis Goodall soon after her death, “I hope we now live in a time where we stop blaming women for the urges of men”, a view reinforced with clarity by the journalist Josh Lowe, “Apt time I guess for us to remember a young woman mistreated by powerful men then painted as the architect of their downfall.”

The veteran writer and political commentator Harry Leslie Smith also opined tellingly: “I hope Christine Keeler found some measure of happiness in later life because she was horribly abused by men, the press and a system that favoured the entitled. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

So, it’s a serious limerick this week …

The Minister that tried to conceal a
Licentious and lewd misdemeanour
Paid for his vice
At a fraction the price
That was paid by the ill-starred Ms Keeler.

In contrast to the advantage taken of her by others, when faced with an obligation for a nude shot that Keeler didn’t really want to do, the photographer, Lewis Morley, cleared the studio of others and had her sit against the back of a chair (a copy of the classic Arne Jacobsen design). Thus was she fully naked as contractually obliged, but without any onlookers and with all the naughty bits concealed (at least that is one account – according to Keeler herself she was still partly clothed, either way Morley respected her in a way that few others in her life had).

I don’t think it is gratuitous to show it here. It is, after all, a photograph in the realm of fine art and not voyeurism and it is certainly one of the most iconic photographs of the 1960s

An image that defines the word ‘iconic’.

Captured on medium format 120 film rather than 36mm stock, ‘that’ picture was the last shot taken during a studio session to promote a film that, ironically, was never made.

Here’s the contact print from Morley’s photographic negatives:

Morley’s contact sheet of prints. Interesting isn’t it, that the iconic shot just stands out a mile from the others?

A limerick a week #63

Playing hardball …

The New Scientist magazine’s latest podcast is all about a worrying decline in the fertility of western men. Apparently sperm counts have more than halved in the past 40 years and the more sensationalist reporting of it has suggested that the human race is doomed due to a collective failure to reproduce sufficiently.

Personally, my count reduced to zero at some point in the 1990s when I went under the surgeon’s knife. Still, if I got a good enough offer, I may consider having the ‘procedure’ reversed to do my bit to avoid the ending of humanity. I could become a prima gravidad (except it wouldn’t be prima obviously, but I had to work hard enough to get that pun into this post without worrying about details like that).

On the other hand, I have no real ambition to undergo the ordeal of undoing what was done back in the 90s! My clearest recollection of the occasion was a surgeon of Asian origin, clearly unversed in the British film industry’s Carry On humour, announcing to me and the assembled theatre staff “Just a little prick, sir” as he lent forward to jag one side of me with local anaesthetic. (And that is not made up; he repeated the same words as he jagged the other side a few minutes later). Cue stifled laughter from the theatre team and a confused look on the surgeon’s face.

Anyway, that resulted in the following limerick which lies in my archives and that I now present to the world …

Although it may make you feel sick
(And it’s not an experience you’d pick)
You’ll end up abashed
If your scrotum is slashed
To a chorus of “Just a small prick!”

and abashed I was!

A limerick a week #62

#iseesnakes – not a fallacy!

In Greek mythology, the gorgans are hideous looking women whose features include a coiffure that comprises living snakes instead of hair, and whose visage will turn you to stone if gazed upon; you get petrified – literally.

While the three best-known of the gorgons were the sisters, Stheno, Euryale and Medusa, the latter was the most notable of all. Legend has it that she was slain by Perseus who avoided petrification by looking upon her indirectly through her reflection in his shield.

I first came across their mythology as a kid watching a Hammer House of Horror film, The Gorgon, in which Megaera, the last of her line, was responsible for some mysterious deaths in a remote German village.

This all came back to me a few months ago when a colleague posted an article on Yammer by the Classics professor, Mary Beard. It was a thought-provoking article, based on earlier lectures in which she traced the history of the lack of a public voice for women back to the classical civilisations. It also provided a horrifying picture of the internet abuse that she has received as a woman speaking publicly in the modern-day.

Her lectures, which have now transformed into a short book, Women and Power: a Manifesto by Mary Beard, in part discusses the evil image of a harridan that was fomented by the gorgon myth, and how that translates directly today into the visual and verbal abuse directed at Hillary Clinton by, you’ve guessed it, Donald Trump.

Nevertheless, I do take issue with Professor Beard’s comment on the symbolism inherent in the gorgons’ snakes-as-hair imagery. She wrote:

“It doesn’t need Freud to see those snaky locks as an implied claim to phallic power.”

I think that is nonsense. I see snakes! When I pointed this out to my colleague, her reply was along the lines of “I’d love to see you argue that with Mary Beard!“. But actually, I would.

When I saw Megaera in my youth, I saw snakes, not a willy-derived metaphor, and I still see snakes. My view is that you do have to be a Freudian to interpret the gorgons’ serpentine barnet as symbolic of phallic power; as I wrote in The Tall Child’s autograph book when he was wee: “It’s not what you look at that makes you different, it’s what you see” and I strongly suspect that most people see snakes – I can’t be that different from other folk!

I’m not qualified to critique Professor Beard’s interpretation of any of the other classical symbolism in the silencing of women. It seems mainly to relate to Greek Gods and Goddesses and there is some criticism of it in a second Graun review, but that does not detract from its powerful central message in either my mind or that of the Graun’s reviewers. It remains a good read that is both interesting and educational.

… and, just to raise the tone a bit, it also inspired this week’s limerick:

There once was a Classics professor
Whose lecture notes claimed to address a
Freudian thought
Of the Serpentine sort
‘Bout a dickhead with a dodgy hairdresser

A limerick a week #61

In at the deep end …

Years ago, a friend mentioned that he’d told his wife about an uplifting insight he’d had about some issue or other, to which she replied (in a broad northern accent with vowels wide open) “Oh, John, don’t be so deep!”.

I thought about that when my inamorata told me she didn’t follow the links in my blog because I went into things too deeply. (Meantime, my dear old mum lost interest in it because I used too many long words!).

So I was amused to see this cartoon from an Aberdeenshire-born artist, which seems to sum up my domestic readership:

… and the same domestic readership inspired this week’s limerick:

Your essays can put me to sleep,
Hence a rule to which you should keep.
‘Cos it’s really a slog
To plough through your blog.
So from now on just don’t be so deep!

Postscript: I’m not deep, I just sank to the bottom (plus I have internet access)😎

A limerick a week #60

Ordure, Ordure!

If you are old enough, you will remember The Two Ronnies TV show when the titular duo were at the peak of their fame. You might even remember the mini-serial that threaded through their shows in 1976: The Phantom Raspberry Blower of Old London Town.

I thought about that when new episodes started to appear in the current soap opera surrounding the pervasive and inappropriate behaviour of powerful men in the Palace of Westminster. Each new instalment seems to introduce another ‘actor’ in the risible life of what passes for the UK Parliament and its band of lecherous cronies. Only, now, the name of the mini-series has changed as we are beginning to find that the miscreants are well-known to the gossip-mongers of the Westminster village (and the Parliamentary whips).

In fact, they are so well-known that some have been given their own nicknames. So what should our mini-series be called? How about The Phantom Taxi Tickler of Old London Town, a phantom whose modus operandi is to accost fellow passengers in the back of a London cab (where, of course tickler is a mere euphemism).

Or could it be the Phantom Lift Lunger of Old London Town, whose speciality is to lunge at otherwise unaccompanied women in elevators? Apparently the Lift Lunger is so well-known for his misdemeanours that young women are advised never to be with him if otherwise unaccompanied. It makes you wonder what they mean when they talk about being ‘elevated’ to the House of Lords.

(Unfortunately, Happy Hands does not fit into the standard Two Ronnies title, so we would have to re-phrase it slightly, Happy Hands: The Phantom of Old London Town and that just doesn’t work, does it?)

The thing is, if the offenders are so well-known then why has nothing been done about it until now other than to give them alliterative nicknames? Why have shameful (or worse) behaviours been allowed to continue until they become almost institutionalised when they could, and should, have been nipped in the bud? Time for a clear-out methinks.

Meanwhile, here is this week’s limerick:

You don’t need a magician to conjure
A scandal to wantonly plunge a
Patriarch-ridden
Political midden
Into ordure; just ask the Lift Lunger.

Postscript: Jo Brand showed how to nip things in the bud this week when calling out the all-male panel on Have I Got News For You this week when it made rather too light of sexual harassment. It’s not often that you see the likes of Ian Hislop with his tail firmly between his legs. A quietly-stated but very powerful intervention from her.

(And talking of Hislop, “yes” I do know that this post’s heading is not original. It originates from Hislop’s periodical: Private Eye.)

A limerick a week #59

A political fallacy

So, another sex scandal in British politics! Men in power abusing their position and sexually harassing young women. What a surprise!

Despite their shameful behaviour, Parliamentary etiquette demands that these morons be referred to as “The Honourable Member for [constituency] …” when it is simply a fallacy that there is anything honourable about them at all (or their ‘members’). And it isn’t confined to a single political party despite what you may read below …

There once was a Tory MP
Who fondled a young lady’s knee
‘Cos the lecherous old prick
Kept his brains in his dick
And his ‘honour’ was a mere phallusy!

A limerick a week #58

It’s the Domino effect (or ‘How to segue from R&B to Cajun’)

I was just about to turn off DJ Chris Evans’ radio waffle this morning when he played a medley of Fats Domino hits to mark the R&B maestro’s death at the age of 89. I would never say that I had been an active listener to his songs, but I was amazed at how many of them seemed so very familiar. I guess that’s due to growing up with the radio often playing in the background.

The three songs that most resonated with me must have been among his best-known recordings: Blueberry Hill, Ain’t That a Shame, and Jambalaya (On the Bayou).

IMHO Domino’s version of Blueberry Hill, with his trademark R&B piano playing, trumps that of another famous son of New Orleans, Louis Armstrong, whose jazz version is just, well, jazz – not my favourite genre.

Sadly, the history of Ain’t That a Shame reflects the history of coloured performers in the United States as it came to national attention only after being recorded by the (white) singer Pat Boone. More encouragingly, and according to legend, Domino was impressed by Boone’s version (and the royalties it brought) so he once invited Boone on to the stage, showed the audience one of his big gold rings and said: “Pat Boone bought me this ring!”

Jambalaya (On the Bayou), despite its seemingly Cajun origins, was originally a country song albeit one set to a Cajun melody and with faux Cajun lyrics sung in country fashion. Its originator was Hank Williams who had a mega-hit with it and Dr Google suggests that its popularity was due to a dilution of the ethnic origins of the music so that an audience could relate to it “in a way that it could never relate to a true Cajun two-step led by an asthmatic accordion and sung in patois” (I love that quote!). So Domino’s bluesy rendition of it is not a betrayal of any Cajun roots, but is instead a New Orleans R&B interpretation of a country classic and, as Domino’s origins were French Creole and his first language was Louisiana Creole, it all adds to the mix.

So here’s the limerick-as-eulogy for the late Antoine Dominique ‘Fats’ Domino …

There once was a pianist called ‘Fats’
One of R&B’s aristocrats
But the Grim Reaper came
(now Ain’t That a Shame)
And turned all of his sharps into flats.

Postscript: You can find loads of cover versions of Hank Williams’ Jambalaya (On the Bayou on the internet and it’s really interesting to compare versions. For example, at one end of the spectrum there is the saccharin-sweet Carpenters’ version, redeemed solely by Karen Carpenter’s hauntingly beautiful and honeyed voice, and Sonny and Cher’s light entertainment Comedy Hour duet that showcased Cher’s real talent in the days before she became a parody of herself.

A more energetic version that I really like is that from Creedence Clearwater Revival. Although its southern rock musical accompaniment is country-ish in origin, their vocals are closer to the harsh, slightly discordant tones of the Cajun tradition.

In fact, it seems that the ‘ethnic dilution’ inherent to the original version of Jambalaya has distanced the song from the purer Louisiana French and Creole traditions as it is nigh-on impossible to find a rootsy Cajun or Zydeco version on the internet. There are some that claim to be one or t’other, but they generally bear as much resemblance to ‘backyard’ Louisiana as mainstream country does to bluegrass. The nearest that I could find was a version by El-Jo Sonnier (and it’s okay other than it still betrays its country origins).

And what of the man himself? Well, this is his version.

Finally, there is an interesting cover of Domino’s Blueberry Hill

It is performed by a world leader oft implicated in the silencing of opposition and dissident voices, seen here to be murdering a song as well. Dear Reader, I give you ‘Fats’ Putin.

A limerick a week #57

Ill blows the wind …

Weather bomb! Sounds dramatic doesn’t it? Explosive cyclogenesis! Sounds even more dramatic! Paired words that I can imagine voiced with a booming, stentorian roar by Tom Baker’s incarnation of Doctor Who as the world faces up to cyclones and storms of unimaginable ferocity; a confrontation with nature’s pent-up fury released as a cataclysmic tempest that seeks ruination of the land …

As I type, the UK meteorological Office has issued a weather warning for the south and west of the UK and forecasts strong winds arising from such a weather bomb. In fact, it is predicted to be a storm of sufficient magnitude that they have given it a name.

So what have they called this child of a weather bomb? Brian, that’s what! Brian! I mean, with all the best will in the world to all the Brian’s of the world, what scale of pent-up fury can you imagine being unleashed by a Brian?

Now, there are some very well-known Brians: Wilson, Blessed, May, O’Driscoll and Cox (times two) to name but a few. In fact Blessed may be the man who roars (see what I did there?), Cox#2 may understand the secrets of the universe, and May may be Under Pressure, but none of them approach the realms of a furious cataclysm.

Elsewhere, we have Brian the snail (remember him) and the Brian to whom the Python’s gave Life (“Vewy well! I shall… welease… Bwian!“). LinkedIn claims profiles for 90+ Brians Gale and The Arctic Monkeys even recorded Brianstorm, but nowhere, absolutely nowhere should we have ‘Brian-offspring-of-an-explosive-cyclogenesis’! Here’s my take on it:

This storm will roar like a lion
Says the forecast that we all rely on,
But our climatic nemesis
(A fierce cyclogenesis)
Needs a name that’s more brutal than ‘Brian’!

(No offence is intended to any of the Brians out there, especially the ones that I know!)

A limerick a week #56

Take me to your leader …

Political groupings don’t consider everyone to be leaders within their ranks. They-who-are-to-be-led look for leadership from the top and plus or minus some ~~back-stabbing~~ debate, they then follow their leader whose charisma is such that they carry their troops with them even if the journey they undertake is perilous. (Aye right😂)

Which brings me to the Conservative party’s ‘strong and stable’ UK government and its ragtag coterie of political drones whose idea of collective responsibility appears to be that of Caesar’s assassins. How can we define its leadership?

Here’s the limerick:

In her recent political homily
Theresa May be an anomaly.
‘Cos she claimed “strong and stable”,
But, in truth was just able,
To show that she’s both “weak and wobbily”!

(BTW, I do know it’s spelled ‘wobbly’ and I also know that “strong and stable” was an election phrase and not a party conference outpouring. Please, give a chap some literary licence!)

A limerick a week #55

Offaly good caramel …

We’re back from our Irish travels and we have since heard that Management’s welcoming relatives, with whom we stayed for a couple of days, had later won an award at Blas na hÉireann (the Irish Food Awards) for their Dulce de Leche product. So, well done Clara Fields on your Chef’s Choice award (and my apologies for the clichéd ending to the limerick that it inspired)!

Here goes:

When your taste buds demand you procure
A gustatory affaire d’amour
Then please let me fetch ya
Some Dulce de Leche
From Clara … To be sure, to be sure!

(and the limerick’s anapestically correct too – woohoo!)

Postscript: One longstanding ambition of mine had been to visit Achill Island in the northwest of the Irish mainland, and Keem Bay in particular where an historic basking shark fishery once took place. It was well worth visiting anyway, but made all the more so by my former professional interest in fisheries for the sharks.

Looking down on Keem Bay, Achill Island, co. Mayo.

and some other assorted views elsewhere on our tour …