BOOKS
HAIL TO THE CHIEF, by Ed McBain. A street cleaner finds six dead bodies in a roadworks. They have been carefully shorn of identifying features. The cops have to find out who they are, then somehow bring their killers to justice. Ed McBain wrote countless books in his "87th Precinct" series, and they're all strong on authentic police detail, which brings them to life in a way a lot of detective-type thrillers don't. I fear, however, that this was not one of his best. Still pretty good though.
PHINEAS FINN, by Anthony Trollope. A young Irish politician is gifted a seat in Parliament and finds himself drawn into the highest echelons of London society. My wife, who has read the entire canon of Trollope's work, selected this one for me as an "entry level" Trollope. And bloody good it is too. Trollope was a master of dialogue, and today, perhaps like Dickens, he would be at home writing for Corrie or Eastenders. I greatly enjoyed his meticulous style, and look forward to delving more deeply into the good postmaster's oevre.
SELECTED POEMS AND LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS, edited by Robert Gittings. My wife and I were watching Jane Campion's biopic of Keats called "Bright Star" the other night. We both found it so irritating we turned it off after 20 minutes. But it tweaked my interest. I (who know little of Keats) asked my wife how she rated him in the pantheon of English literature. She replied: "Massive". OK then, I thought. Time to investigate the guy. I looked him up in our Oxford Companion of English Literature, which was as effusive as my spouse in his praise, and includied a quote from TS Eliot, who pronounced his letters "the greatest written by any poet at any time". Good then, that my book included a number of his letters as well as extracts or complete versions of his greatest poems. What can I say? What can I add to the reams that have already been written about one of our greatest word magicians? Only, perhaps, that I was entranced, transported and moved, and profoundly so.
FILMS
INCEPTION (2010) D-Christopher Nolan. In a world where the technology exists to enter someones dreams and manipulate them, a master operative is hired to place sub-conscious thoughts into a business rival's mind. Things do not go according to plan... Mark Kermode pronounced this the best film of 2010, and who am I to argue with the good doctor? It is undeniable that the film looks great; the production values are peerless, and the acting and direction are top drawer. But it is a little confusing. Right from the opening sequence I found myself thinking that annoying thing: "hang on, what's going on here, exactly?", and it never went away. OK, maybe that's the directors intention, to keep you guessing in order to somehow simulate the strange, unreal landscape that is a dream. But for me, excellent film that it is, it is not cinematic art at the highest level.
VIVRE SA VIE (1962) D-Jean-Luc Goddard. An intelligent, middle class young woman makes a conscious decision to explore the world of prostitution. Now, this is what I'm talking about! Here is a really terrific film, full of innovative and imaginative bravura, laden with surrealist and even Dadaist symbolism, it leaves one almost breathless at the end of its brief run. Goddard keeps unsettling you in unexpected ways, filming subjects from behind, jump-cutting just where anyone else wouldn't even think of and generally staying a couple of steps ahead of the viewer. Now THIS is truly great movie making.
DAY OF WRATH (1943) D-Carl Dreyer. And so is this. In 17th century Denmark, a repressed parson leads a witch-hunt against local women, but the real witch is much closer to home... Frightening and powerful story of love, lust and black magic set among the night and fog of Scandinavia. Brilliant.
DESPICABLE ME (2010)D- Pierre Coffin and Chris Reynaud (animation) Gru, an aspiring super-villain, needs money to carry out his fiendish plans, but along the way somehow adopts a couple of kids from a local orphanage. Highly successful cartoon which has proved a great hit with "the young people" and even I, a has-been old git enjoyed it rather a lot. Steve Carrell's voicing of the anti-hero is excellent, though Russell Brand's casting was probably a mistake.
HOUSE OF CARDS (1968)D- John Guillermin. A young American man is employed as tutor to the son of a Parisian socialite, but becomes involved in a neo-nazi plot. I am thinking of writing an essay about Inger Stevens, the Swedish beauty who was making a big impact in 1960s Hollywood when she was found dead in mysterious circumstances in April 1970, and this might be considered part of my "research". This was perhaps one of her best roles as the slightly unhinged wife of a Parisian scion, who sees in George Peppard a way of escaping her private hell. Although the film has dated a lot since it was made, the chemistry between the two stars shines vividly, and it is indeed a shame she was never to achieve her full screen potential.
THE FRONT (1976)D-Martin Ritt. A blacklisted Hollywood writer uses Woody Allen as a "front" to get his work out there. A highly authentic and troubling insight into the terrible world of fifties Hollywood, where McCarthy's witch hunt against all things "Un-American" destroyed the careers of many a talented, but slghtly left of centre film maker. Martin Ritt himself was blacklisted as was the screenwriter, Walter Beernstein, so they should know...
THE DAY OF THE LOCUST (1978) D-John Schlesinger. An aspiring screen writer tries to carve out a career in 1930s Hollywood. A stange mix of "Thoroughly Modern Millie" and "Sunset Boulevard". Yet again it seems to take a foreigner (like Louis Malle with "Atlantic City") to hold a mirror up to the American dream and show what a soulless thing it is at heart. A very fine movie.
GREENBERG (2010)W-D-Noah Baumbach. A recently released mental patient struggles with life on the outside. Ben Stiller shows that a good comedic actor has to be a plain good actor deep down, as he turns in a terrific performance as the on-the-edge loonie given every opportunity to settle into "normal" life, but for whom demons from the past and from within threaten to destroy everything he values. Excellent.
THE LORD OF THE RINGS (animation) (1978) D-Ralph Bakshi. Bakshi established his reputation with a screen version of Robert Crum's "Fritz the Cat" and after years of hard work shmoozing the money men, he finally got the cash to make his animated version of Tolkien's classic tale. The money ran out about half way through;
the intention was originally to make a scecond film, though in the event that never happened. Using the "rotoscope" method, an extremely laborious technique which, frame by frame, blends live action with animation, this film ends about halway through the second book, but still leaves us with a fragment of remarkable skill and power. Required viewing for LOTR fans, and anyone else interested in the movie art.
Monday, 31 October 2011
Sunday, 30 October 2011
man's ego dented part deux
The winners of the Rhys Davies short story prize being announced by then of October, and having heard nothing from them, I can only assume I have not won or even been placed. I can ascribe this to the following three possible explanations:
1. My stories were not good enough.
2. The judges don't know a good story when they see one.
3. My stories were good, but that even better ones were submitted.
I have been trying not to be too disappointed by this development, reminding myself that many great writers never won a competition in their lives, and also that sometimes competitions are fixed. Franz Kafka won a short story prize early in his twenties, and the victory marked the blossoming of his career. Decades later it emerged that his publisher had nobbled the jury to ensure his success.
But then, just as I was resolving not to let this reverse adversely affect my morale, an even more bitter blow struck home. I read one of my better stories to a close friend who had not read any of my other work. She pronounced the ending "weak" and my general style "flowery". Could there be a worse condemnation of one's work? I think not. The listener was not a writer herself, but an avid reader, and therefore a legitimate judge at least at one level. Flowery! I am still reeling from this devastating dismissal of my literary efforts. One thought is never to write another word, a feeling which I am struggling to get past and somehow regain my confidence. But how?
1. My stories were not good enough.
2. The judges don't know a good story when they see one.
3. My stories were good, but that even better ones were submitted.
I have been trying not to be too disappointed by this development, reminding myself that many great writers never won a competition in their lives, and also that sometimes competitions are fixed. Franz Kafka won a short story prize early in his twenties, and the victory marked the blossoming of his career. Decades later it emerged that his publisher had nobbled the jury to ensure his success.
But then, just as I was resolving not to let this reverse adversely affect my morale, an even more bitter blow struck home. I read one of my better stories to a close friend who had not read any of my other work. She pronounced the ending "weak" and my general style "flowery". Could there be a worse condemnation of one's work? I think not. The listener was not a writer herself, but an avid reader, and therefore a legitimate judge at least at one level. Flowery! I am still reeling from this devastating dismissal of my literary efforts. One thought is never to write another word, a feeling which I am struggling to get past and somehow regain my confidence. But how?
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
william saves the day
A difficult and onerous task faced me today: going to mum's bank to register my lasting power of attorney. First I had to find the place in a town not familiar to me, though in the event Google maps came through for me. Once in the bank the mechanics of the process were not particularly hard, but the emotional overlay, the underlying significance of the occasion cast a deep shadow, which I think perhaps embraced the pleasant female assistant manager who dealt with my case.
My gloom lifted entirely on the return journey, however. Radio 4 broadcast Richmal Crompton's deathless piece of prose: "Mr and Mrs Pennyman Pass on the Torch", beautifully read by Martin Jarvis. If I may lapse into textspeak, I LOL'd several times during the reading, and I was transported briefly to my childhood, where the "Just William" tales afforded me endless hours of pleasure.
I have already mentioned Frank Richards' "Billy Bunter" and Anthony Buckeridge's "Jennings" stories in these pages, but I have been remiss in not mentioning hitherto these classics of children's fiction. If you journeyed through your childhood without these friends by your side, especially the inimitable William, I pity you.
Radio 4 followed this up with a 15 minute spot on insomnia; a fascinating little journey through the agony of this most human of conditions. Proust was an insomniac, so was Dickens, the Brontes and Sylvia Plath. But they should have mentioned Richard Gwyn. His semi-autobiographical novel "The Vagabond's Breakfast" contains within its pages one of the greatest expositions on this subject to be found anywhere in literature. It is gripping, intriguing and terrifying. I Thank God every day that I have never really had a problem with that slide into death-like unconsciousness that is a good night's sleep...
My gloom lifted entirely on the return journey, however. Radio 4 broadcast Richmal Crompton's deathless piece of prose: "Mr and Mrs Pennyman Pass on the Torch", beautifully read by Martin Jarvis. If I may lapse into textspeak, I LOL'd several times during the reading, and I was transported briefly to my childhood, where the "Just William" tales afforded me endless hours of pleasure.
I have already mentioned Frank Richards' "Billy Bunter" and Anthony Buckeridge's "Jennings" stories in these pages, but I have been remiss in not mentioning hitherto these classics of children's fiction. If you journeyed through your childhood without these friends by your side, especially the inimitable William, I pity you.
Radio 4 followed this up with a 15 minute spot on insomnia; a fascinating little journey through the agony of this most human of conditions. Proust was an insomniac, so was Dickens, the Brontes and Sylvia Plath. But they should have mentioned Richard Gwyn. His semi-autobiographical novel "The Vagabond's Breakfast" contains within its pages one of the greatest expositions on this subject to be found anywhere in literature. It is gripping, intriguing and terrifying. I Thank God every day that I have never really had a problem with that slide into death-like unconsciousness that is a good night's sleep...
Sunday, 23 October 2011
memoirs are made of this
I am now well into my new big writing project: my autobiography. Why not? everyone else seems to do it, right down to 21 year-olds who have barely begun to live. Sometimes, less often, they write them themselves. I at least have lived long enough to have something to write about, though thus far my energies have been directed to dredging up memories from the distant past.
After about 18,000 words I have nearly finished the 4th chapter, which covers my time at medical school, finishing with my qualification in 1974. I have noticed an interesting phenomenon while setting the words down, and one confirmed by a close friend who has also been working on his memoirs: the more one thinks about the past, the more comes back, including things thought to have been long buried and decayed under the welter of years. It is actually quite amazing, akin to remembering dreams. At first you can't remember a thing about them, but then when you begin to think about them or discuss them with another person, they begin to seep back into consciousness. It really is true: nothing is lost, only secreted away in a dark, safe place, waiting for the mental archaeologist to excavate them. I shall keep the reader advised of my progress, though I expect it to be a full year before I have completed it. Whether anyone other than me will be interested in reading it is, of course, another story entirely.
TV SUPPLEMENT
THE DOG WHISPERER (National Geographic Wild Channel)
I have never owned a dog. I have always thought of them as dirty, slavering creatures that crave affection from man in a way a cat would never stoop to. Also they can be dangerous, snapping and biting in an unpredictable and frightening way. So watching the extraordinary Cesar Millan work with "troubled", or out of control dogs, or at least dogs whose owners are unable to control them, is a revelation. With patience and a brilliantly clear and practical intelligence, he invariably identifies the problem within minutes of arriving at the family home. Almost always, it seems, it is the same problem. The human, who should always take the role of "pack leader", fails to assert him or herself through poor self esteem, a misplaced sense of kindness or just abject stupidity. It's a bit like child psychiatry, I suppose. I remember an eminent psychiatrist telling me once:
"There is no such thing as child psychiatry; only the psychiatry of parents."
But dogs want their masters to be pack leader, and don't really know what to do with their power when they find themselves de facto pack leaders themselves.
The programme makers put together a highly professional show, allowing Cesar to work his unique magic, which he usually succeeds in doing within a very few minutes. You can see the humans having their "Eureka moments" as Cesar shows them how easy it is to modify a dog's behaviour by the calm display of power and consistency.
"Your mind is stronger than the dog's" he explains to little ladies frightened of their sometimes massive dogs. "Remember, a cat can control a Dobermann in certain circumstances; it's not a matter of physical power." It's true: sometimes we see how how a toy poodle can effortlessly control two adult humans- until Cesar shows up.
And there we have it. In the space of an hour he will have solved the problems of 3 or 4 pet owners, almost always with the same anthem:
"You are the pack leader, not them."
After watching one programme I turned to my wife and said: "
I guess I'm the pack leader in this house."
"Yeah, right", she responded. "You go on believing that..."
After about 18,000 words I have nearly finished the 4th chapter, which covers my time at medical school, finishing with my qualification in 1974. I have noticed an interesting phenomenon while setting the words down, and one confirmed by a close friend who has also been working on his memoirs: the more one thinks about the past, the more comes back, including things thought to have been long buried and decayed under the welter of years. It is actually quite amazing, akin to remembering dreams. At first you can't remember a thing about them, but then when you begin to think about them or discuss them with another person, they begin to seep back into consciousness. It really is true: nothing is lost, only secreted away in a dark, safe place, waiting for the mental archaeologist to excavate them. I shall keep the reader advised of my progress, though I expect it to be a full year before I have completed it. Whether anyone other than me will be interested in reading it is, of course, another story entirely.
TV SUPPLEMENT
THE DOG WHISPERER (National Geographic Wild Channel)
I have never owned a dog. I have always thought of them as dirty, slavering creatures that crave affection from man in a way a cat would never stoop to. Also they can be dangerous, snapping and biting in an unpredictable and frightening way. So watching the extraordinary Cesar Millan work with "troubled", or out of control dogs, or at least dogs whose owners are unable to control them, is a revelation. With patience and a brilliantly clear and practical intelligence, he invariably identifies the problem within minutes of arriving at the family home. Almost always, it seems, it is the same problem. The human, who should always take the role of "pack leader", fails to assert him or herself through poor self esteem, a misplaced sense of kindness or just abject stupidity. It's a bit like child psychiatry, I suppose. I remember an eminent psychiatrist telling me once:
"There is no such thing as child psychiatry; only the psychiatry of parents."
But dogs want their masters to be pack leader, and don't really know what to do with their power when they find themselves de facto pack leaders themselves.
The programme makers put together a highly professional show, allowing Cesar to work his unique magic, which he usually succeeds in doing within a very few minutes. You can see the humans having their "Eureka moments" as Cesar shows them how easy it is to modify a dog's behaviour by the calm display of power and consistency.
"Your mind is stronger than the dog's" he explains to little ladies frightened of their sometimes massive dogs. "Remember, a cat can control a Dobermann in certain circumstances; it's not a matter of physical power." It's true: sometimes we see how how a toy poodle can effortlessly control two adult humans- until Cesar shows up.
And there we have it. In the space of an hour he will have solved the problems of 3 or 4 pet owners, almost always with the same anthem:
"You are the pack leader, not them."
After watching one programme I turned to my wife and said: "
I guess I'm the pack leader in this house."
"Yeah, right", she responded. "You go on believing that..."
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
one Israeli is worth a thousand Palestinians
COMMENT
Is I suppose how the Israeli government justified its actions to its people, some of whom are furious at the prisoner exchange taking place today. An Israeli journalist was interviewed on Sky News this morning, who displayed, for a member of the press, an alarming lack of objectivity when asked about the affair. She explained how one noble young man is being swapped for "a thousand murderers", though this is scarcely the case. True, many have been convicted of murder, though by Israeli courts, not exactly the body of people most likely to give a hated Palestinian a fair hearing. Many were simply caught throwing stones at Israeli soldiers, armed in their turn with fully automatic rifles.
The reality is that the Israeli leadership has probably been pressured to do this by the Americans, anxious to be seen to be doing something positive in a region that needs all the positive moves it can get. But nearly 10,000 Palestinians remain in Israeli jails, most of them guilty of no more than protesting their treatment at the hands of a brutal and racist regime. And they aren't likely to taste freedom any time soon.
Is I suppose how the Israeli government justified its actions to its people, some of whom are furious at the prisoner exchange taking place today. An Israeli journalist was interviewed on Sky News this morning, who displayed, for a member of the press, an alarming lack of objectivity when asked about the affair. She explained how one noble young man is being swapped for "a thousand murderers", though this is scarcely the case. True, many have been convicted of murder, though by Israeli courts, not exactly the body of people most likely to give a hated Palestinian a fair hearing. Many were simply caught throwing stones at Israeli soldiers, armed in their turn with fully automatic rifles.
The reality is that the Israeli leadership has probably been pressured to do this by the Americans, anxious to be seen to be doing something positive in a region that needs all the positive moves it can get. But nearly 10,000 Palestinians remain in Israeli jails, most of them guilty of no more than protesting their treatment at the hands of a brutal and racist regime. And they aren't likely to taste freedom any time soon.
Sunday, 16 October 2011
hunting highs
Yesterday, under glorious azure skies and temperatures that might persuade us the Indian Summer had returned, we travelled to the South Wales valleys to climb a mountain above the former great steel town of Ebbw Vale. A nasty, steep little pitch of nearly 300 metres got us up to the trig point at 551 metres, affording impressive views of the area where, a generation ago, thousand upon thousand of Welshmen mined coal and turned iron ore into steel. Today all is quiet, in a setting that is almost a rural idyll.
This time of year is perfect to find magic mushrooms, "psylocibe semilanceata", also known as liberty cap mushrooms, or "laughing mushrooms", to use the term of my mother's Derbyshire childhood. Each one contains a small amount of the potent psycho-active alkaloid psylocibin. Eaten fresh, about 10 will produce a potent hallucinogenic experience which lasts for about 6 hours, before fading and leaving no after-effects. When dried in the sun, in which condition they remain active for years, about 30 will be needed to produce the same effect.
They are free, and until recently, legal, until the alcohol lobby, concerned that their profits might be eroded to even the tiniest degree, were able to influence parliament to proscribe it. Magic mushrooms offer a less intense trip than LSD, and a completely safe transcendental experience for those with the pluck to give it a try. Although taking too many would not necessarily produce a very pleasant expereince, it is impossible to overdose on them, and no one has ever died as a result of their use. Which I think is a little more than you can say about alcohol...
This time of year is perfect to find magic mushrooms, "psylocibe semilanceata", also known as liberty cap mushrooms, or "laughing mushrooms", to use the term of my mother's Derbyshire childhood. Each one contains a small amount of the potent psycho-active alkaloid psylocibin. Eaten fresh, about 10 will produce a potent hallucinogenic experience which lasts for about 6 hours, before fading and leaving no after-effects. When dried in the sun, in which condition they remain active for years, about 30 will be needed to produce the same effect.
They are free, and until recently, legal, until the alcohol lobby, concerned that their profits might be eroded to even the tiniest degree, were able to influence parliament to proscribe it. Magic mushrooms offer a less intense trip than LSD, and a completely safe transcendental experience for those with the pluck to give it a try. Although taking too many would not necessarily produce a very pleasant expereince, it is impossible to overdose on them, and no one has ever died as a result of their use. Which I think is a little more than you can say about alcohol...
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
grimmer monday
Dealing with the problems of loved ones is one thing; one's own problems naturally are even more onerous. Yesterday a young man whom I know well sat down and regarded me coolly before speaking.
"I thought you should know I'm thinking of suing you, but I felt I wanted to have it out with you face to face before I did anything."
Not a good start, then. He went on to expound at length his grievance, which was long and complex. Some years ago, apparently, I had mistreated him in some way that had caused him to develop an ulcer, which later perforated, nearly bringing about his death. I advised him that his version of events would be challenged vigorously in court should it get that far, which was highly unlikely in view of the circumstances. His manner and delivery were extremely insulting as well as being factually inaccurate, and I was about to call a halt to proceedings, intending to close with a line like:
"You go to your lawyer then. It's your right, but I warn you it won't get you very far." But he had one more brickbat to hurl:
"I heard about your son, by the way. So sad he died like that, of a heroin overdose."
This, as they say, was the last straw. Angrily I pointed out that an exhaustive post mortem and subsequent inquest had been unable to find a cause of death and that a toxicology screen had failed to show any drugs in his system, prescription or otherwise. And with that I threw him out fairly unceremoniously. But I was left badly shaken by the incident. This morning I apprised my practice manager of the events of the previous day; she relayed it to the senior partner who, much to my gratification, was horrified. She examined the records and confirmed my own belief that there was no foundation to the young man's accusations. But it was his parting shot that disgusted her most of all. She intimated that bringing personal issues of the doctor into the consulting room was completely out of order, and ordered him to be struck off the list immediately. I have to say that on hearing this news my day brightened considerably.
"I thought you should know I'm thinking of suing you, but I felt I wanted to have it out with you face to face before I did anything."
Not a good start, then. He went on to expound at length his grievance, which was long and complex. Some years ago, apparently, I had mistreated him in some way that had caused him to develop an ulcer, which later perforated, nearly bringing about his death. I advised him that his version of events would be challenged vigorously in court should it get that far, which was highly unlikely in view of the circumstances. His manner and delivery were extremely insulting as well as being factually inaccurate, and I was about to call a halt to proceedings, intending to close with a line like:
"You go to your lawyer then. It's your right, but I warn you it won't get you very far." But he had one more brickbat to hurl:
"I heard about your son, by the way. So sad he died like that, of a heroin overdose."
This, as they say, was the last straw. Angrily I pointed out that an exhaustive post mortem and subsequent inquest had been unable to find a cause of death and that a toxicology screen had failed to show any drugs in his system, prescription or otherwise. And with that I threw him out fairly unceremoniously. But I was left badly shaken by the incident. This morning I apprised my practice manager of the events of the previous day; she relayed it to the senior partner who, much to my gratification, was horrified. She examined the records and confirmed my own belief that there was no foundation to the young man's accusations. But it was his parting shot that disgusted her most of all. She intimated that bringing personal issues of the doctor into the consulting room was completely out of order, and ordered him to be struck off the list immediately. I have to say that on hearing this news my day brightened considerably.
Sunday, 9 October 2011
grim sunday
The atmosphere in our house is pretty dour this weekend. On Tuesday we shall be seeing the social worker for my father in law in order to decide what is to be done with him. We have had reports that he is repeatedly going to the church (which he attended for most of his life) at inappropriate times, bursting in on yoga classes or playgroups or half way through services.
The vicar himself is as sweet as could be, but last week during a choir practice it was noticed that my FiL had wet himself, leaving a large puddle, but appeared to have no awareness of what he had done. This and other incidents are slowly drawing us to the belief that he can no longer sustain a life of his own and will very soon need to be admitted to a home where they specialise in residents with memory issues.
Naturally my poor wife is in a dreadful state about this momentous step, knowing that it might well bring about his death in short order (as often happens in such cases) and it has "all gone to her stomach". But we have nailed our courage to the sticking post, and will go with that decision if the social worker agrees this is now the only option. Even then there will be a delay of perhaps months, and everyone involved is afraid for what could happen to him in the interim.
Meanwhile my own mum's condition continues to deteriorate on the same trajectory, running a year or so behind my father-in-law. She has now lost her car, as I reported in earlier blogs, and her life too is slowly contracting towards a single point. God help us all...
The vicar himself is as sweet as could be, but last week during a choir practice it was noticed that my FiL had wet himself, leaving a large puddle, but appeared to have no awareness of what he had done. This and other incidents are slowly drawing us to the belief that he can no longer sustain a life of his own and will very soon need to be admitted to a home where they specialise in residents with memory issues.
Naturally my poor wife is in a dreadful state about this momentous step, knowing that it might well bring about his death in short order (as often happens in such cases) and it has "all gone to her stomach". But we have nailed our courage to the sticking post, and will go with that decision if the social worker agrees this is now the only option. Even then there will be a delay of perhaps months, and everyone involved is afraid for what could happen to him in the interim.
Meanwhile my own mum's condition continues to deteriorate on the same trajectory, running a year or so behind my father-in-law. She has now lost her car, as I reported in earlier blogs, and her life too is slowly contracting towards a single point. God help us all...
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
man's ego dented
Last week I took my mum for a day out. We took a walk along a beach in divinely warm autumn sunshine, and got talking to a man with a dog. Then my mum moved away to examine a nearby tree (she likes trees). Then the man said: "Your wife seems very interested in plant life."
I have to admit I was shattered. "You think that's my wife? Actually she's my mum."
"Oh, sorry", he replied, "but she is very well preserved."
But I couldn't leave it there.
"Well, I thought I was quite well preserved too, so I don't know where that leaves us. Either she is very well preserved or I am very poorly preserved."
To which he could only shrug. In order to preserve my ego, the only course I could take was to conclude he must have been a fucking idiot. But the incident continues to rankle. Do I really look that grizzled? And with my new teeth too? This is terrible.
I have to admit I was shattered. "You think that's my wife? Actually she's my mum."
"Oh, sorry", he replied, "but she is very well preserved."
But I couldn't leave it there.
"Well, I thought I was quite well preserved too, so I don't know where that leaves us. Either she is very well preserved or I am very poorly preserved."
To which he could only shrug. In order to preserve my ego, the only course I could take was to conclude he must have been a fucking idiot. But the incident continues to rankle. Do I really look that grizzled? And with my new teeth too? This is terrible.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
warm weather at wrong time of year: how annoying!
While you're basking in some of the highest temperatures ever seen at the beginning of October, spare a thought for the hapless clothing manufacturers. Poor things! Just as they launch their autumn and winter collections onto the high street, the punters are looking, not for coats and corduroys, but shorts and sandals. My God! This may mean a loss of profits for them of anything up to, ooh, 1%. I swear if they could make it rain or snow right now they would. But their shareholders shouldn't worry too much. The Indian summer (and screw the PC brigade, who have nonsensically branded the term racist) is due to fizzle out by the middle of next week, and then Primark, Peacocks and the rest can go back to making money like they're used to.
LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
I am working on my autobiography at the moment, and as I am currently writing about my childhood I have devoted some time to recalling the books that I enjoyed in those far off days. Chief among them were the exploits of the fat owl of the remove, Billy Bunter, created by Frank Richards (real name Charles Hamilton). Set in a minor public school, Greyfriars, the books conjured a disappeared world where England ruled the waves and where decency and "playing the game" ruled in the classroom. It was an easy, comfortable and secure world to enter, and the skill of Richard's writing was to welcome you in in such a way you almost felt you were one of the "Famous Five" yourself. Sure each book would usually feature some sort of bad apple, but he was always vanquished or reformed by the end.
Hamilton wrote hundreds of books based on this formula and was also the principle writer for the famous "penny dreadfuls" of the early 20th century, "The Gem" and "The Magnet". It seems almost impossible for one person to have written all this, and indeed George Orwell in his famous essay, "Boy's Weeklys", believed there must have been a team working under Hamilton's supervision. There wasn't. It was all him. At his peak, he was churning out anything up to 80,000 words a week, and in his lifetime he is estimated to have written 100 million words, placing him as the most prolific writer (for whom a word count has been established) who has ever lived. Or was he?
In my 1965 edition of the Guinness Book of Records, the actual award should go to the 16th century Spanish writer Lope Felix de Vega Carpio. Known to his contemporaries as "the Phoenix of Wit", and familiar to Samuel Pepys, who attended readings of his tranlslated works, he was responsible for:
"...About 1800 comedies (of which only 470 survive), 400 autos sacrimentares, 2 novels and an immense amount of poetry."
Take that, Charles Hamilton!
LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
I am working on my autobiography at the moment, and as I am currently writing about my childhood I have devoted some time to recalling the books that I enjoyed in those far off days. Chief among them were the exploits of the fat owl of the remove, Billy Bunter, created by Frank Richards (real name Charles Hamilton). Set in a minor public school, Greyfriars, the books conjured a disappeared world where England ruled the waves and where decency and "playing the game" ruled in the classroom. It was an easy, comfortable and secure world to enter, and the skill of Richard's writing was to welcome you in in such a way you almost felt you were one of the "Famous Five" yourself. Sure each book would usually feature some sort of bad apple, but he was always vanquished or reformed by the end.
Hamilton wrote hundreds of books based on this formula and was also the principle writer for the famous "penny dreadfuls" of the early 20th century, "The Gem" and "The Magnet". It seems almost impossible for one person to have written all this, and indeed George Orwell in his famous essay, "Boy's Weeklys", believed there must have been a team working under Hamilton's supervision. There wasn't. It was all him. At his peak, he was churning out anything up to 80,000 words a week, and in his lifetime he is estimated to have written 100 million words, placing him as the most prolific writer (for whom a word count has been established) who has ever lived. Or was he?
In my 1965 edition of the Guinness Book of Records, the actual award should go to the 16th century Spanish writer Lope Felix de Vega Carpio. Known to his contemporaries as "the Phoenix of Wit", and familiar to Samuel Pepys, who attended readings of his tranlslated works, he was responsible for:
"...About 1800 comedies (of which only 470 survive), 400 autos sacrimentares, 2 novels and an immense amount of poetry."
Take that, Charles Hamilton!
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