Wednesday, 18 June 2008

Strong women and grim years

Went to Charleston Farmhouse the other day; this is the Sussex retreat where the Bloomsbury group hung out during and after the First World War, and is maintained as a sort of shrine to them. We have little interest in this bunch of posturing ninnies, but there is an annual festival there, now in its 19th year, featuring writers, performers and artists in debates, interviews, discussions, readings, illustrated talks and dramatisations in a marquee in the grounds.

This year we wanted to go when Tony Benn or Polly Toynbee were there but were too late for these stars and settled for biographer Virginia Nicholson, daughter and grand-daughter respectively of Quentin and Vanessa Bell, and historian David Kynaston, talking about books they have recently published: both were fascinating, perhaps more so than Tony or Polly would have been.

Nicholson's examination of the way in which two million women survived without men after the First World War showed that they did not merely cope courageously with poverty, childlessness and frustration, but challenged conventions, campaigned to better their lot, proved that there is more to life than men and helped to change our society. I asked her whether she had any knowledge of how the achievements of the 'surplus women' in, for example, France and Germany, where the losses were even greater, compared with those of the British women she had written about; her answer, quite reasonably, was 'No'—she had decided not to write the much longer book that wider coverage would have entailed. As it is, Singled Out fills an absorbing and inspiring 272 pages.

We bought the paperback and got her to sign it, but when it came to David Kynaston's mammoth and equally absorbing Austerity Britain 1945-1951 we thought we had spent enough on the evening, and I only hope that Kynaston gets some benefit because I got his book out of the library—the Public Lending Right's website doesn't tell you what the current pence-per-loan rate is. Anyway, two weeks later I have reached page 106 out of 633, and have already found on page 19 something worth quoting in the next post, on Friday.

Monday, 16 June 2008

Mudhorse fishermen

According to Matthew Fort in the Guardian, Adrian Sellick is not the last of the mudhorse fishermen: he is passing on his skills to his children. Here he is, setting off across Bridgwater Bay in Somerset, pushing his sledge-like barrow, or barrow-like sledge, across two miles of mud flats with a load of buckets and nets. When he gets to the place where he set his nets, he collects his catch, replaces any damaged nets and then pushes the mudhorse two miles back to land. Helped by his father, he sells whatever he has caught from a shack beside the road to the beach.
Clearly, this requires fitness, strength, detailed knowledge of the mudflats and the ways of fish, and also courage, for it would be easy to get cut off by the tide. It is good to know that there are still Englishmen who choose to make what must be a very modest living in such a hard way.

Saturday, 14 June 2008

If it looks too good to be true...

...it is probably a fraud. Yes, I know; however.....

I like lieder, particularly Schubert's, and have a modest collection of recordings on disk or cassette, now never played, and on CDs, now copied to my Mac so that I can pluck heathroses, chat up the mill girl or sing on the water while I toy with some tedious database or pointless website. I recently added one song by downloading it from iTunes (this cost 79p).

A couple of weeks ago I logged on to the iTunes Store to look for some more and found that there was an album available for download containing four hundred and sixty-three Schubert lieder sung by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau accompanied by Gerald Moore, at a price of just under eight pounds sterling. This would fill about twenty CDs, and works out at 1.725 pence for each song.

There were some reviews by purchasers expressing amazement and delight so I reckoned this was no fraud and clicked to download; a couple of hours later, there they all were on my hard disk. It will take over twenty-four hours to listen to them, so I shall probably spread the session over a few months: even Dietrich and Gerald might pall if I try to play the lot in one go.

When I got the invoice I found that 79p had been deducted for one of the songs included in the album because I had previously downloaded and paid for it.



This photo of Fischer-Dieskau was taken in 2005, when he was eighty. The collection was issued around that time, though most of the recordings on it were made earlier.



Naturally I told friends about this treasure, but it was too late for them to share in it: within a few days the download price for this album had changed to $127 on the US site and GBP129.85 on the English one.

I suppose the first price must have been a mistake on Apple's part and I hope that hundreds took advantage of it before it was corrected. In a quarter of a century of playing with computers (only PCs until recently) I have had some miserable times arising from the greed and arrogance of hardware and software vendors, and it is pleasant to think that on this occasion one of them has given me a happy experience, even if it was by accident.

Thursday, 12 June 2008

The end of the greengrocer

Dr Tim Leunig, professor in economic history at LSE, tells us that the lucky ones among greengrocers forced out of trade by the supermarkets are those who own their stores and can sell them to the new kids on the block.

And who are the newcomers? According to the good professor, small independent shops are being replaced by "small independent aromatherapists, cosmetic surgeons, weight control clinics, makeup artists, reflexologists and sauna parlours."

So that's all right then, our High Streets are not dying as many had feared. You may have to drive out of town for apples or carrots, but right in the centre you can get nice smells and a new nose, or lose a couple of kilos, or have your lipstick applied and your feet massaged, or just work up a nice sweat.

Tuesday, 10 June 2008

Overdue biography

I see that a book about Fazab al-Basry Hashid is being published in the autumn. I was surprised to find that not only is this apparently the first time that anything about him will be published in Europe, but that there does not seem to be a reference to him anywhere on the internet. Many other major Sufi writers and poets, such as Jalalud'din Rumi, Al-Ghazali and Mahmud Shabistari are widely known, but there is nothing to be found about Fazab al-Basry, although in some ways he was one of the most eminent.

I have always admired his writing, though I have only read translated snippets of it in anthologies. He was of course a mystic, though what kind of a mystic he was remains a mystery. However, he may have been one of the most influential men in the Islamic world in the early part of the thirteenth century, and it will be fascinating to learn the story of his life—though in fact very little is known about him—when the biography comes out. I suppose I shall have to buy it, for I doubt if it will be serialised in any of the Sunday papers.

Sunday, 8 June 2008

No money changes hands

There are few activities made possible by the internet which are without question salutary; many of the things we can do on line are, or can become, corrupting, addictive, expensive, dangerous, mind-rotting or just a complete waste of time.

However, it is difficult to see any downside in a website which helps us to give away things we no longer want to people who can make some use of them. Groups such as Free-Cycle encourage this and make it easy; this concept originated in Tucson, Arizona; there are now 459 groups in the UK, moderated by volunteers, with over a million members.

You just register with your local group, choosing an ID and a password (or using a Yahoo! one) and giving a few details, none of which are published. Then you offer things you want to get rid of or ask for things you want; anyone interested in an entry is put in touch with you and then it is up to you to tell them where and when they can collect what you offered, or arrange to go and pick up what they have.

I have made use of my local Free-Cycle group six times in recent weeks, offering a 14" TV, a laser printer, a cast iron firebasket, a scanner, a 19" CRT monitor and four years' back numbers of Private Eye. In every case someone contacted me within a few hours, then called and went away away cheerfully lugging their acquisition. It's nice to give people pleasure while at the same time getting rid of things you no longer need.

Friday, 6 June 2008

Scorpion de Rooftrouser...

...was one of the twelve red-bearded dwarfs whose exploits were chronicled by the journalist Beachcomber. The de Rooftrouser family were well known, of course, but none of its other members had such an unusual first name.
Here are twenty-five more uncommon (to an English ear) first names; each one has been borne by at least one (fairly) famous person. Twenty-two of them are dead and the other three never lived.

How many surnames can you add?

1 Richmal
2 Rudyard
3 Keir
4 Dwight
5 Willkie
6 Denholm
7 Endeavour
8 Praise-God
9 Pelham
10 Canaan
11 Dodie
12 Molonay
13 Millard
14 Plantagenet
15 Linus
16 Maya
17 DeForest
18 Kublai
19 Django
20 Brigham
21 Aphra
22 Branwell
23 Orde
24 Alma
25 Gerard

Answers HERE

Wednesday, 4 June 2008

Higgins and Eliza

Last week I saw Peter Hall’s production of Pygmalion at the Old Vic and realised that I had never seen the play on the stage before, though I had always vaguely imagined that I had, having read it at school and seen the 1938 Asquith/Howard film and, of course, My Fair Lady.

One line struck me as odd, and with the help of the invaluable Gutenberg Project I was able to check that I had not misheard it (and at the same time read Shaw’s preface and appendix). It came towards the end of the scene after the ball, when Eliza says she is leaving:

…ELIZA. All I want to know is whether anything belongs to me. My own clothes were burnt.
HIGGINS. But what does it matter? Why need you start bothering about that in the middle of the night?
LIZA. I want to know what I may take away with me. I don't want to be accused of stealing.
HIGGINS [now deeply wounded] Stealing! You shouldn't have said that, Eliza. That shows a want of feeling.
LIZA. I'm sorry. I'm only a common ignorant girl; and in my station I have to be careful. There can't be any feelings between the like of you and the like of me. Please will you tell me what belongs to me and what doesn't?
HIGGINS [very sulky] You may take the whole damned houseful if you like. Except the jewels. They're hired. Will that satisfy you? [He turns on his heel and is about to go in extreme dudgeon.]
LIZA [drinking in his emotion like nectar, and nagging him to provoke a further supply] Stop, please. [She takes off her jewels.] Will you take these to your room and keep them safe? I don't want to run the risk of their being missing.
HIGGINS [furious] Hand them over. [She puts them into his hands.] If these belonged to me instead of to the jeweller, I'd ram them down your ungrateful throat. [He perfunctorily thrusts them into his pockets, unconsciously decorating himself with the protruding ends of the chains.]
LIZA [taking a ring off] This ring isn't the jeweller's: it's the one you bought me in Brighton. I don't want it now.

Brighton? BRIGHTON? Taking a girl to Brighton or to its neighbouring resort (...people will say we’re in Hove...), and buying her a ring there, has an implication quite foreign to everything that is clear about the relationship between Higgins and Eliza; there is no reference anywhere in the play to them going there with Colonel Pickering for a jolly day at the races. Was this carelessness on Shaw’s part, or was the old devil just dropping a mischievous hint to confuse us?

[Oh, another line in that scene has Eliza saying “..the like of you and the like of me…”. The likes, surely?]

If the stage directions are clear and comprehensive—as Shaw’s usually are—reading the text of a play can tell you just how closely a production is following the playwright’s intentions. The very last scene in Pygmalion goes like this:

LIZA. Then I shall not see you again, Professor. Good bye. [She goes to the door.]
MRS. HIGGINS [coming to Higgins] Good-bye, dear.
HIGGINS. Good-bye, mother. [He is about to kiss her, when he recollects something.] Oh, by the way, Eliza, order a ham and a Stilton cheese, will you? And buy me a pair of reindeer gloves, number eights, and a tie to match that new suit of mine, at Eale & Binman's. You can choose the colour. [His cheerful, careless, vigorous voice shows that he is incorrigible.]
LIZA [disdainfully] Buy them yourself. [She sweeps out.]
MRS. HIGGINS. I'm afraid you've spoiled that girl, Henry. But never mind, dear: I'll buy you the tie and gloves.
HIGGINS [sunnily] Oh, don't bother. She'll buy ‘em all right enough. Good-bye.
[They kiss. Mrs. Higgins runs out. Higgins, left alone, rattles his cash in his pocket; chuckles; and disports himself in a highly self-satisfied manner.]

As the curtain falls on the Peter Hall production, Higgins (the excellent Tim Pigott-Smith), alone on the stage, allows the self-satisfaction to drain from his face, and at the last second his expression suggests that he has realised that Eliza is lost to him. Although Shaw didn’t call for this, it is a fair interpretation, for in the appendix he explains exactly why Eliza will marry Freddy (and tells us what their future life will be like), and it is not unlikely that Higgins  finally worked this out.

Saturday, 31 May 2008

Speak roughly to your little boy...

...And beat him when he sneezes
He only does it to annoy
Because he knows it teases

James Thurber was once asked by a publisher to provide the illustrations for a new edition of Alice in Wonderland, but he knew where his talent lay. 'No,' he said, 'keep the Tenniel drawings and I'll re-write the text'.

Thursday, 29 May 2008

The real Professor de Worms

In G K Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday an actor successfully takes on the identity of a distinguished academic. He tells how this came about:

"When I was on the stage I mixed with all sorts of Bohemian and blackguard company. In some den of exiled dreamers I was introduced to the great German Nihilist philosopher, Professor de Worms. I did not gather much about him beyond his appearance, which was disgusting, and which I studied carefully. He was lame, shortsighted, and partially paralytic.
When I met him I was in a frivolous mood, and I disliked him so much that I resolved to imitate him. If I had been a draughtsman I would have drawn a caricature. I was only an actor, I could only act a caricature. I made myself up into what was meant for a wild exaggeration of the Professor's dirty old self.

When I went into the room full of his supporters I expected to be received with a roar of laughter, or (if they were too far gone) with a roar of indignation at the insult. I cannot describe the surprise I felt when my entrance was received with a respectful silence, followed (when I had first opened my lips) with a murmur of admiration. The curse of the perfect artist had fallen upon me. I had been too subtle, I had been too true. They thought I really was the great Nihilist Professor. I was a healthy-minded young man at the time, and I confess that it was a blow.
Before I could fully recover, however, two or three of these admirers ran up to me radiating indignation, and told me that a public insult had been put upon me in the next room. I inquired its nature. It seemed that an impertinent fellow had dressed himself up as a preposterous parody of myself.
I had drunk more champagne than was good for me, and in a flash of folly I decided to see the situation through. Consequently it was to meet the glare of the company and my own lifted eyebrows and freezing eyes that the real Professor came into the room.
I need hardly say there was a collision. Those all round me looked anxiously from one Professor to the other Professor to see which was really the more feeble. But I won. An old man in poor health, like my rival, could not be expected to be so impressively feeble as a young actor in the prime of life. You see, he really had paralysis, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn't be so jolly paralytic as I was.
Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself.
'I don't fancy,' he said, 'that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.'
I replied quite scornfully, 'You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.'
It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe.
But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit.
'I see,' he sneered, 'you prevail like the false pig in Aesop.'
'And you fail,' I answered, smiling, 'like the hedgehog in Montaigne.'
Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne?
'Your claptrap comes off,' he said; 'so would your beard.'
I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty.
But I laughed heartily, answered, 'Like the Pantheist's boots,' at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory.
The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining."

Tuesday, 27 May 2008

Two into one

Ogden: what a man he was! Linguist, philosopher, inventor of Basic English, co-translator of Wittgenstein's great Tractatus, co-author of The Meaning of Meaning (which quoted the inimitable phrase "The gostak distims the goshes"), described as America's laureate of light verse, creator of memorable couplets such as "If called by a panther / Don't anther"; "You can have my jellyfish / I'm not sellyfish"; and "The Lord in His wisdom made the fly / And then forgot to tell us why" and, most famously, the poet who replied to Dorothy Parker's dictum "Men seldom make passes/At girls who wear glasses" with:
A girl who is bespectacled
She may not get her nectacled
But safety pins and bassinets
Await the girl who fassinets.

But actually he wasn't a man; he was two men, and I foolishly conflated them in my mind for many years. Now I have got them sorted out: one of them was called C K Ogden (1889-1957) and the other wasn't; he was called Ogden Nash (1902-1971). W
hat I listed above were the achievements of one or the other of them, and very creditable too.

Confusion of this kind has not come to me with the passing of the years: I have always been prone to it. When I was very young I saw at a cinema in Dijon a film called Méfiez-Vous des Blondes, starring Martine Carol or possibly someone else. The behaviour of the character she was playing seemed to me to be quite inexplicable: sometimes she would be a sweet young blonde happily married to a bank clerk, and at others she would be member of a vicious gang planning a robbery; even her hair style would change from scene to scene in what seemed to be a random manner, though she remained startlingly blonde. The plot became a total mystery to me, for I couldn't understand her motivation at all, or anyone else's.

Yes, you've guessed it: towards the end of the film she appeared to meet herself in a bar, and I at last tumbled to the fact that there were two different blondes in the film. My grasp of French was such that I had simply failed to realise that they were not the same person. They weren't supposed to be twins or anything like that and when they were on the screen together I saw that they didn't even look much alike.

Ever since then I have méfied myself of all blondes, with the exception of my blonde daughters who are identical twins; they really do look alike, but when they were born I knew almost at once that there were two of them, and never had any difficulty at all in distinguishing between them, even when they were very small.

Wednesday, 21 May 2008

No "reform"

A resounding raspberry was delivered in the House of Commons last night to Cardinal O'Connor, David Cameron, Ruth Kelly, Nadine Dorries and other assorted nasties who had proposed amendments to the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Bill. Many of these were disingenuous, part of a campaign to scupper the bill altogether or to use debate on it to block or reverse enlightened changes.

Happily, all were defeated. They were free votes and it is encouraging to see that a majority of Labour MPs do still have consciences in good working order. It is unlikely that many of these were influenced by the fact that the Prime Minister shares their views, but Gordon Brown will have had a much needed boost to his morale.

Saturday, 17 May 2008

Life is not widescreen

I can remember the thrill of seeing the Cinemascope version of The Robe. When it opened the screen got wider and wider and we all gasped in amazement as we turned our heads from side to side to scan the stunning panorama. However, after 135 minutes of Richard Burtonism and Victor Maturity, with only Jean Simmons and Ernest Thesiger (as Tiberius) to relieve the boredom, we had stopped feeling the width and were minding the quality of what was really just another slab of epic piffle.

The super-wide Cinemascope on the New Miracle Curved Screen didn't last. Here there is comprehensive note on widescreens generally and here is a detailed list of film formats from 1888 to the present.

It is a complicated story, but the sad fact is that the 4:3 format which largely dominated the first two-thirds of the history of the cinema and the whole of TV history except for the last few years is now dead, and 16:9 rules, whether we like it or not.

I don't like it, much. It seems to me obvious that widescreen is best suited for showing either vast prairies or scenes where one or two people are lying prone or dozens are marching or standing still facing the camera in a long line (it's significant that formats in photography called portrait and landscape).

For almost anything other than corpses, the Last Supper or Alberta, 4
:3 is artistically, dramatically and practically much better. For one or two talking heads, which after all account for a high proportion of what goes on drama, widescreen is pointless and distracting. It's not as if the format can be adjusted to suit the action: letterboxing and pan-and-scan can only be applied to the whole film.

However, one gets used to 16:9 after a bit, and when it comes to watching old films at least the format can be changed at the press of a button. I find I am offered a choice of seven ways of handling 4:3, though if you leave it on Auto you get the one that simply stretches it sideways, so that everyone looks like the late Stubby Kaye.

[Computer monitors have always had something like a 4:3 format and the screen is the wrong way round if you are working with documents, which most of us are, most of the time; ideally, you need to turn it round to portrait and have a widescreen one as well.]

Thursday, 15 May 2008

For beauty and for virtue she was of far renown...

Funny how things stick in the mind. It is many years since I last heard tell of a girl named Nancy Brown, and I thought I had forgotten the story, but Hillary Clinton's win this week has reminded me that Nancy lived in the hills of West Virginia...
...Now she went up in the mountains
With the deacon one fine day
And came rollin' down the mountains
A wiser girl they say
She came rollin' down the mountains
She came rollin' down the mountains
She came rollin' down the mountains, mighty wise
But she didn't give the deacon
That there thing that he was seekin'
She stayed sweet and pure as West Virginia skies.

Now there came along a cowboy
With laughter and with song
And he took her in the mountains
But she still knew right from wrong
She came rollin' down the mountains
She came rollin' down the mountains
She came rollin' down the mountains, mighty wise
But in spite of all his urgin'
She remained a blessed virgin
Just as sweet and pure as West Virginia skies.

Then there came a city slicker
With his hundred-dollar bills
And he drove her in his Packard
Right up in them thar hills
And they stayed up in the mountains
And they stayed up in the mountains
And they stayed up in the mountains all the night
Then she came down bright and early
More a woman than a girly
And her pappa kicked that hussy out of sight.

Now she's livin in the city
Now she's livin in the city
Now she's livin in the city, mighty swell
And her life's all beer and skittles
And she dines off fancy vittles
And the West Virginia skies can go to hell.

Tuesday, 13 May 2008

Archetypal French melodrama of the thirties

I have just been watching Le Quai des Brumes, Marcel Carné's 1938 film with Alexis Moncourgé, better known as Jean Gabin, Michèle Morgan and Michel Simon. It was acclaimed for its melancholic realism, downbeat poetry, foetid atmosphere and unity of time, space and action, and as an early exemplar of the doomed lovers syndrome which Hollywood picked up after World War Two. This still from it suggests, perhaps partly because of the dreadful hats, that it was a kind of French Brief Encounter, but of course it was nothing of the sort.

It's not really all that enjoyable nowadays, not as good as other Gabinerie of the period such as La Grande Illusion, La Belle Equipe and above all Pépé le Moko, with which it shares its ending—a ship sailing off while the hero dies. It is many years since I last saw the film, and I had remembered only Gabin's line which many of us have found worth stealing: T'as de beaux yeux, tu sais, and the bit where he lies in the street with several bullets in him and whispers with his last breath: Embrasse-moi, vite! On est pressé...

The villain was played by Pierre Brasseur, who had apparently been unkind to Michèle Morgan while they were filming. Gabin was much angered by this, and when they came to shoot a scene in which he was required to clout Brasseur twice he did not fake it in the usual way. Thus it was that "...on obtint alors l'une des plus belles paires de claques de l'histoire du cinéma".

Sunday, 11 May 2008

Laughing Sickness

I posted a note recently about the misunderstandings that can be caused by constipation and constipado. This sort of thing happens often with the Romance or half-Romance languages because they are similar and yet different, as you will discover if you travel to Portugal with the idea that your small knowledge of Spanish will be useful. It probably won't; it is more likely to confuse you as well as the locals with whom you try to converse.

This does not happen with German. This is a language characterised by accuracy and precision: you can build cars with it. You have to say what you mean; it is not as easy as it is in English to have grammar, syntax and vocabulary absolutely correct while being at the same time totally incomprehensible.

But in a piece he wrote forty years Michael Frayn observed that there is one big problem with the German language which is that it must be very difficult to keep a straight face if, when you go to visit a relative in hospital you have to ask for the Krankenhaus, or when you want the way out you must ask for the Ausfahrt.

Frayn suggested that life for Germans must be just one long struggle to keep themselves from laughing at their own language:

...That would explain a lot. That's what the object of all that iron Prussian discipline must have been. That's what all those duelling scars were for—to camouflage all the dirty grins on the face of people inquiring about the Ausfahrt. Now that the old traditional codes of discipline have gone it's terrible. The approach to every Ausfahrt, Einfahrt and Krankenhaus in the Federal Republic is jammed with people falling about and holding their sides. But that's nothing to what it's like inside the Krankenhaus. Inside it sounds like 14 different studio audiences trying to earn their free tickets simultaneously, as the patients describe their various comic-sounding symptoms to the staff. Here's a new admission scarcely able to speak for giggles as he tells the doctor he has a pain in his elbow:
'A Schmerz in your Ellenbogen?' repeats the doctor without any sign of amusement—he's heard the joke before, of course. 'Which Ellenbogen?'
'Both Ellenbogens,' replies the patient, trying to pull himself together. 'I also get agonising twinges which run up and down my leg from my ... from my ...'
But it's no good—he's off again. Unable to get the words out for laughing, he points silently from his thigh to his ankle.
'From your Schenkel to your Knöchel?' says the doctor, the corner of his mouth twitching very slightly in spite of himself. The patient nods helplessly.
'And sometimes,' he gasps, 'and sometimes ... all the way down my ...'He closes his eyes and vibrates silently, shaking his head from time to time to indicate that speech is beyond him.
'Come on,' says the doctor, frankly grinning himself now. 'Get it out.'
'All the way down my ... my Wirb ... my Wirbel ...'
'You'll start me off it you're not careful. Your what?'
'My Wirbelsäu-hau-hau-hau-hau-hau-hau ...'
'Your Wirbelsäule? Your backbone?'
The patient nods, his eyes covered with his hand, his shoulders shaking rhythmically. The doctor bites his lip hard to stop himself giving way.
'Any other symptoms?' he demands gruffly.
'Yes,' croaks the patient weakly, 'verstopfung!'
At this the doctor can hold out no longer. A great snort of laughter forces its way past his clenched jaw muscles, and he puts his head back and laughs until he cries.
'Verstopft, are you?' he manages at last. 'Constipated?'
'Verstopft up solid!'
Eventually they both simmer down a bit, and sigh, and wipe their eyes, smiling anywhere but at each other.
'You know what your trouble is?' says the doctor. 'You've got Kniescheibenentzündung. Housemaid's knee.'

'Don't!' pleads the patient, 'You'll start me off again!'
'And a rather bad dose of ...'

'No, honestly, I've got a pain as it is ...''No, listen, a rather bad dose of Windpo-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho ...!'
'Stop! Sto-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho...!'
'Wind ... Wind-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi...!'
'Oh ...! I swear I'm dying ...!'
'Windpocken! Chickenpox!'
'No, honestly, shut up ...!'
'And ...'
'I'm not listening!'
' ... You've sprained your—no, listen—your nostril, your Nasenflügel ...!'
Well, the poor devil's in stitches already, of course. By the time he's had a splint applied to his Nasenflügel and been wheeled out towards the Ausfahrt, he's probably just about what German doctors call blühendekopfabgelacht—laughed his blooming head off. That's going to take a stitch or two to fix; it's yet another case of someome coming out of the Krankenhaus a whole lot kranker than he went in.
Gott, as one might say, in Himmel! It makes you glad to be English.

Friday, 9 May 2008

Guarding Old Redsocks

Nowadays his minders are just like those of any other celebrities: highly trained, inconspicuously dressed, watchful eyes in expressionless faces, weapons concealed but ready for instant use. In earlier times they were much prettier although possibly less effective; today the Swiss Guards still exist, but have only a ceremonial function.

The one pictured here looks a bit sulky. This might be because he knows that he will never have a chance to defend the Pope heroically like those being commemorated at this wreath-laying ceremony (they were all slaughtered in May 1527), or merely because he feels a bit of a buffoon standing to attention in a fancy hat and comic pantaloons.

And, the little man in the black suit behind him is undoubtedly up to something.

Wednesday, 7 May 2008

For Pierrot and Columbine

When I was very young I heard an old Russian folk ballad called Volga, Volga mat' rodnaya or Stenka Razin and thought Hullo, that's a good tune, no copyright, I could put English words to it, get a group to record it, make a great deal of money. Of course I didn't actually do it, but years later Dusty Springfield's brother Tim did, and in 1965 The Carnival Is Over was a very big hit for The Seekers in the UK and Australia.
Stepan (Sten'ka) Timofeyevich Razin was a Cossack leader who led a major uprising against the Russian nobility in the seventeenth century. Legend tells that once, while he was sailing the Volga in a pirated ship, his men almost mutinied because he was dallying with a Persian princess he had captured and neglecting his chieftainship, so to appease them he threw the Persian princess into the river to her death. The song describes this event and HERE is what the great Russian bass Boris Shtokolov made of it.

Apart from the melody, the Seekers' version has something else in common with the legend, for it also tells of someone dumping a partner (though not quite so literally) with some regret ("... I will love you till I die"). So same tune, similar sentiment but a very different style: Stokolov booming away is not a bit like Judith Durham warbling sweetly while swaying gently from side to side on a fifties kind of stage (actually this version was recorded in 1968).

However, as a corrective to the blandness of their presentation, the bass player has a face made of wax and wears some really scary spectacles.

Monday, 5 May 2008

The Periodic Table

With its Saturday edition The Guardian gave away a pretty multicoloured chart of the periodic table. I remember finding the one on the wall of my classroom a depressing sight, partly because it had over the years turned a rather nasty shade of beige. It may even have contributed towards my lifelong dislike of chemistry, which then and now seems to me to be basically about uninteresting substances in menacing little glass jars. It is pleasant to think that thousands of classrooms will now have a lovely new chart, replacing the faded and dusty one that's been pinned up there for years.

But even smartened up, it's not something that lifts the heart. It took the combined talents of Sir Arthur Sullivan, Tom Lehrer and Mike Stanfill to make The Elements really amusing. If my chemistry teacher had presented something like this to the class I might have paid more attention to his lessons, though I doubt if it would have influenced my career choice (which turned out to be a big mistake anyway).