A recent Graun review of Jon Richardson’s comedy and our own escalating plans for a kitchen renovation came into conjunction this week.
Richardson’s comedy is often based on his obsessive-compulsive disorder. He hypothesizes two types of people: Putters and Leavers. Putters, as the name suggests, put away things that are left out (compulsively in Richardson’s case) and Leavers are, of course, the folk that leave things hanging around until a Putter comes along.
Richardson’s partner, the comedian Lucy Beaumont, is a Leaver and this conflicts with him domestically and is where a lot of his comedy arises. In our family we reverse the rôles, with me the Leaver and Management the Putter (Me: “Where’s my [insert any item that was left lying around]?” She: “I moved it!“).
Meanwhile, on the kitchen front, our plans include provision for a dog bed in the utility room, and this reflects our continuing conversation about getting a dog when I retire, which is where things crossover into Richardson’s world of Putters and Leavers. Discussions about how a dog would fit into the reshaping of our kitchen moved on to it being trained properly and that made me think: Is it possible to train a Leaver to be a Putter and vice versa?
I speculated that to avoid domestic disharmony, I could try to train Management to be a Leaver or she could try to train me as a Putter. In fact, it would be quite funny if we both tried successfully to train the other and managed to reverse our rôles. Her response was cutting: “Just you train the dog and leave me to train you!”
I know my place!
A puppy’s most likely to chew A slipper, a sock or a shoe But as you are slovenly I’ll tell you (quite lovingly) “You train the dog; I’ll train you!”
My sister has a labrador retriever called Benjo. I was mulling this over the other day as I am 18 months into a two-and-a-half-year conversation with Management whether we should get a dog when I retire.
Labradors (retrievers or otherwise), spaniels (springer or cocker), trail hounds (a Cumbrian speciality), beagles and border collies have all come under consideration and a collie is now favourite.
We saw one, a real character, at the local rehoming centre the other week; an eight-year-old called Sam. Sadly I was still too far off retirement to try for him, but we were pleased to see that he didn’t have to wait long to be rehomed by someone else.
So what have dogs got to do with the header for this post? Well, Firstborn returned from my mother’s 90th birthday celebration with this pic of my sister laying into some wine …
Run out of rosé? Easy – just try equal parts of red and white!
… which, firstly, inspired this week’s ALAW:
An artist of sorts she just shrugs When told to use glasses not mugs “I’ve got the capacity To drink with rapacity” She said as she showed off her jugs!
and then it made me think. She shouldn’t have a labrador retriever. What she really needs is …
So, social media gives us several ways to recycle old posts, such as: #TakeMeBackTuesday, #WayBackWednesday, #ThrowbackThursday and #FlashbackFriday. Not much for Saturday, Sunday or Monday, though, and, as I am rather keen to recycle one of my old posts (to become an annual event at this time of year!), why don’t you click on the link below (#SentimentalSaturday) …
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?
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!”
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.
Just another bad hair day.
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.”
A nest of vipers, not a dickhead!
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
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)😎
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.)
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!
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).
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.
