BARTIE-BLOG

Last Night Out Of The Year - First Night Out Of A New Era

2012-07-03T21:31:00.001+01:00

New Year's Eve 1975 was a day I still remember, even after all these years.

The Sex Discrimination Act had come into effect only two days earlier, and one of the many things it outlawed was discrimination between, and segregation of, the sexes in pubs.

In those days, most pubs had multiple rooms, where the smartly decorated and carpeted lounge bar or saloon bar charged a few pennies more for their drinks than the rougher public bar did. The other difference was, that until the practice was outlawed, only men were permitted to drink in the public bar: women were excluded. Some more liberal pubs had relaxed those rules years ago, but from the 29th December 1975, the rest of them were forced to by law.

I'd arrived at my girlfriend, Anita's house, (She's now my wife,) and since we had no party to go to that year, we intended to make our way to my house for midnight celebrations with my family, having a couple of drinks in some of the pubs along the way.

I'd heard earlier that day, that the local pub on Anita's estate was still doing it's best to avoid serving women in the public bar. Anita was livid about this, and though I was a little annoyed myself, it didn't bother me quite as much, because it had always been our choice to drink in the lounge bar, and anyway, the pub in question: The Drum and Cymbals wasn't one we tended to frequent.

There was of course, the appeal of being the first couple to enforce our rights and break their gender ban, and partly because we were both stroppy teenagers in those days, we popped into the public bar of the Drum as our first stop.

Anita sat down at one of the tables, and immediately got strange looks from the old gents on the adjacent tables; a couple of them even shuffled along their seats, away from her as if she were diseased in some way.

I approached the bar, and ordered our drinks from a middle aged barmaid (yes, a woman - they had no problems with women in there to serve!) The lady in question was frowning just about as much as I imagined the old chaps at the tables behind me were, and I suspected she didn't approve as she tutted audibly when I asked for my pint of bitter and Anita's Cherry B (that wasn't her usual tipple, but we wanted to order something we were certain wouldn't be on the shelves in that bar - like I said, we were stroppy teenagers.)

She pulled my pint, then still tutting and grumbling she went off into the other room, the saloon bar, and returned with the required bottle and a glass to pour it into, (the public bar being only equipped with pint pots, half pint glasses and short glasses.) As she approached me at the bar, she glanced over her shoulder; I looked in the same direction to see the landlord standing half framed in the doorway.

I feared at first that we may have a problem then, because though Anita was 18, I was still almost three months short of reaching my own majority. I knew the landlord from the occasional visits I'd made to that pub in the past though and at nearly 18, I admit I did look quite a bit older than my age. It wasn't as common in those days to have your id checked in pubs, probably because hardly anyone carried adequate id then, (remember that this is in the days before photographs on driving licences.)

I nodded toward the landlord and caught his eye. I half smiled as if to dare him to object to us being there, but he just nodded back, and the transaction between the barmaid and I was completed. I returned to the table and sat with Anita and we began to enjoy our drinks, though it was so uncomfortable, we were hardly savouring the occasion.

I glanced from side to side to see that the other five or six men in there, all much older than me, were staring right at me, though they seemed to be deliberately avoiding looking anywhere toward Anita, so much so that when I looked back at any particular one of them, they'd frown at me; that amused me and when Anita saw me grinning, she'd look toward the old chap in question and he'd immediately look away as though he feared she had a gorgon's gaze or something.

Then the grumbling started. At first it was just a hardly audible muttering, but then one of the old blokes went to the bar to refresh his drink and he said something to the barmaid, who replied in quite a loud voice "He should be bloody well ashamed of himself bringing a woman in here." I looked at Anita as I heard that. She didn't react, so I presume she hadn't heard what was said, (or I'm sure she'd have been ready to speak up and defend both my honour and her own.)

She stayed quiet, so I did too. When we didn't react, the grumbling became more obvious with remarks like "I don't know why they don't just bugger off into t'other room" and "I come drinking in 'ere to avoid bloody women" amongst them.

Just as I was about to tell them that I didn't care at all about what they felt, the door opened and in walked another man. This guy was big, and he was bald, (his head was shaved, probably to enable people to see the tattoos on his scalp) and he was built like a rugby player, a professional wrestler and a weight lifter all rolled into one.

He looked around the pub, and then straight at us. He then walked across to the bar, where the barmaid already had his drink waiting for him. He turned and leaned on the bar and I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck (I was right, Anita told me later that he was staring and scowling right at us both.)

The old men in there sat up straight and seemed to puff themselves up a bit now. Now their grumblings were less to each other and more directly toward us. They seemed to have a new found confidence and bravery since this man mountain had walked in.

In the end, I'd had enough so when one particularly aggressive old git said to me "Just piss off will you. You're not welcome here," I replied "I don't care. We've bought our drinks here and we're both going to drink them here."

At that point, the big guy at the bar shouted: "Oy!" which seemed to strike silence into the room, and I must admit, put the fear of god into me. Then he continued: "Shut the fuck up you old farts and let them enjoy their drinks in peace. It's the fucking law now, so live with it!"

When is a Lake a Lake? Or a Mere? (or a Maer?) Or a Water? (or a Vatr?)

2012-07-03T09:17:00.002+01:00

If you're at all familiar with the English Lake District in Cumbria (or spread over Cumberland, Westmorland & Northern Lancashire for the traditionalists,) you'll know that amongst the myriad of tarns, pots and smaller bodies of water, there are nineteen major lakes.

You might also be familiar with the standard trivia quiz question that arises from time to time:

"How many lakes are there in the Lake District?"

...to which the answer is surprisingly "Only one!" This is down to the fact that only one of them actually contains the word 'lake' in its name, the others being an assortment of 'meres' and 'waters'.

But this all stems from the fact that the names we have for them now are all corruptions of the names they've traditionally had in various languages.

Historically, in what is now Cumbria, there have been various languages in use, by the different communities, the different classes and in the different areas. These include:

Cumbric which was a variation of Brythonic Celtic and was similar to modern Welsh, Cornish and Breton.
Old English, spoken in many parts of the area from the 8th century onwards.
Old Norse, as a result of the Norse colonization of areas of Cumbria in the 10th century, and predominant in many areas until the 12th century.
Anglo-Norman which came into use after the Norman conquest and co-existed with the more traditional languages, being spoken or at least written in some areas until the advent of Middle English in the 12th century.

Most of the places in the Lake District were named in one or more of these languages, and most of their names are still in use today. The origins of the names of each of the nineteen major lakes are as follows:

Bassenthwaite Lake : (Bastun Thveit or Beabstan Thveit) which means "Bastun's clearing" from 'Bastun' an Anglo-Norman nickname (for an Old English name Beabstan) and Old Norse thveit for clearing.

Bassenthwaite Lake "The lake in Beabstan's clearing"

Brother's Water : (Brooirs Vatn) There are legends of two brothers drowning there. From Old Norse brooir for brother and vatn for lake.

Brother's Water "The brothers' lake"

Buttermere : (Butere Maer) from the Old English for "Lake by dairy pastures."

Buttermere "The lake by dairy pastures"

Coniston Water : (Konigs Tun Vatn) "Lake in the kings pasture" from Old Norse konigs tun for 'kings pasture' and vatn for lake.

Coniston Water "The lake in the king's pasture"

Crummock Water : (Crumbaco Vatn) "Lake of the crooked river" from Cumbric crumbaco for 'crooked river' and Old Norse vatn for lake.

Crummock Water "The lake of the crooked river"

Derwentwater : (Derwentio Vatn) "Lake of the oaken valley" from Cumbric derwentio for 'oaken valley' and Old Norse vatn for lake.

Derwentwater "The lake of the oaken valley"

Devoke Water : (Dubaco Vatn) "Lake of the little dark one" from Cumbric dubaco for small/dark and Old Norse vatn for lake.

Devoke Water "The lake of the little dark one"

Elter Water : (Eltr Vatn) "Lake of swans" from Old Norse eltr for swan and vatn for lake.

Elter Water "The lake of swans"

Ennerdale Water : (Iain Dalr Vatn) "Lake of the valley of the cold river" from Cumbric Iain for cold, and Old Norse dalr for valley and vatn for lake.

Ennerdale Water "The lake in the valley of the cold river"

Esthwaite Water : (Est Thveit Vatn) "Lake in the eastern clearing" from Old Norse est thveit for 'east clearing' and vatn for lake.

Esthwaite Water "The lake in the eastern clearing"

Grasmere : (Graes Maer) from the Old English for "Lake in pasture."

Grasmere "The lake in pasture"

Haweswater : (Hafs Vatn) "Lake of the he-goat" from the Old Norse hafs for 'male goat'; and vatn for lake.

Haweswater "The lake of the he-goat"

Hayeswater : (Either Vatn or Eith Vatn) which means "Eithr's lake" from an Anglo-Norman nickname 'Eith' (for an Old Norse name Eithr) and Old Norse vatn for lake.

Hayeswater "Eithr's lake"

Loweswater : (Lauf Saer Vatn) "Lake by the leafy place" from the Old Norse lauf saer for 'leafy place'; and vatn for lake.

Loweswater "The lake by the leafy place"

Rydal Water (this is a modern name, named for the valley of Rydal;) it was previously called...
Routhmere : (Rauoi a maer) "Lake of the trout river" from the Old Norse rauoi a for 'trout river' (the River Rothay) and the Old English maer for lake.

Rydal Water (Routhmere) "The lake of the trout river"

Thirlmere : (Thyrel Maer) from the Old English for "Lake with a gap"

Thirlmere "The lake with a gap"

Ullswater : (either Ulf Vatn or Ullr Vatn or Ulphus Vatn) "Ulf's lake" or "Ullr's lake" or "Ulphus' lake" from the Old Norse for either Ulf (a norse chief) or for Ullr (a norse god) or from Ulphus (a local saxon lord) and from vatn the Old Norse for lake.

Ullswater "Ulf's lake"

Wast Water - originally Wasdale Water : (Vatns Dalr Vatn) "Lake in the valley of water" from Old Norse vatn for lake/water and dalr for valley.

Wast Water (Wasdale Water) "The lake in the valley of water"

Windermere : (Vinandr Maer) "Vinandr's lake" from an Old Norse personal name 'Vinandr' and from Old English maer for lake.

Windermere "Vinandr's lake"

Pesonally I feel that if instead of using the corrupted names, we used the translations of their names from the original languages, they'd sound a whole lot more romantic:

"The lake in Beabstan's clearing"

"The brothers' lake"

"The lake by dairy pastures"

"The lake in the king's pasture"

"The lake of the crooked river"

"The lake of the oaken valley"

"The lake of the little dark one"

"The lake of swans"

"The lake in the valley of the cold river"

"The lake in the eastern clearing"

"The lake in pasture"

"The lake of the he-goat"

"Eithr's lake"

"The lake by the leafy place"

"The lake of the trout river"

"The lake with a gap"

"Ulf's lake"

"The lake in the valley of water"

"Vinandr's lake"

...and it would finally put an end to that stupid trivia trick question!

Welcome Home...

2012-02-01T16:04:00.001Z

When they come home in aeroplanes and boats, how will they be met?

Welcomed by friendly family faces?
Greeted by cheerful children dressed in Sunday best?

Or will there be grim generals in smart tailored uniforms?
And sombre faced politicians, there at last to do their duty?

Will the flags be carried aloft and waved before them on their way?
Or will they be draped gently over the boxes they've come home in?

Should flowers to be cast before them in their victorious march?
Or laid upon the ground in quiet remembrance?

Will cheers be heard as we place wreaths upon their heads to bless their brows?
Or will other wreaths be placed upon their graves in silence?

Are rousing speeches to be made telling tales that celebrate brave deeds?
Or will there instead be doleful eulogies recited in hushed tones?

We promised them glory.
We offered them the world.
We said they'd be heroes.

Did we forget to mention that might be dead heroes?

"Available At All Leading Stores!"

2012-01-25T09:21:00.003Z

The face of retail in the UK has changed incredibly over the past couple of decades. With Sunday trading becoming more common, out of town shopping becoming the norm, and more and more stores opening 24 hours per day, the way we shop and the times we shop nowadays bears little resemblance to how we used to 20 or 30 years ago.

Right up until the mid '70s, the local corner shop was a common sight, whether it be a grocers or a general store, many streets had them, but with competition from the supermarkets these gradually disappeared until there was little other than local newsagents and tobacconists remaining.

Then for a while in the '80s there seemed to be a resurgence in local stores. This new type of local shop was invariably run by hard working immigrants from the Indian sub-continent, and their policy was to provide whatever the local community might require, no matter that it meant that they'd have to work unsociable hours for very little pay. OK, so sometimes the prices were exorbitant, but it was often the convenience the customers paid the price for.

My friend Mick lived in a street of terraced houses in Leeds back in the late 1980s. At the end of the street was a shop run by an old Pakistani gentleman, who prided himself on being able to provide just about anything his customers wanted, at whatever time of day they required it.

Mick didn't make use of this shop very often, except for when his friend from London visited.

Mick's friend was bewildered by the mere existence of this shop, since they had nothing like it where he lived, and was astounded at the range of goods on offer, so much so that whenever he visited Mick in Leeds, they'd play a little game, where he'd challenge Mick to buy something from the shop which he was sure wouldn't be available. Mick always won this little game, because whatever his friend demanded was always in stock.

One day Mick received a phone call from his friend to arrange a visit up north that weekend. He'd be arriving early Friday evening, and he said to Mick: "...and this time, I've DEFINITELY thought of something the shop won't have!"

So it was that on their way to the pub on Friday night, Mick and his friend popped into the corner shop. His friend walked up to the counter and said to the proprietor: "Good evening. I'd like a can of BLACKBOARD PAINT please."

The shopkeeper looked a little confused and replied "Blackboard paint sir?"

"Yes," replied Mick's friend, "You know the stuff. It's black and you use it to touch up blackboards."

The shopkeeper said that he'd check his stock if they'd care to wait and disappeared into the store room at the back of his shop.

Mick and his friend waited for what seemed like about ten minutes before his friend said: "He's not going to have any, is he?" to which Mick reluctantly replied: "No. I think you've got him this time. It looks like you've finally won the game."

They waited a while longer, certain that the shopkeeper would eventually emerge and apologize for not having the required item, until the store room door opened, the shopkeepers head appeared around it and they heard him say: "I'm sorry sir...."

"Yes?" replied Mick's friend, confident in his impending victory, but being more smug than was really necessary.

"Would you like a large tin or a small tin?" replied the shopkeeper.

A Couple Of Anecdotes

2012-01-23T12:27:00.007Z

Now that it's becoming increasingly likely that my career in IT is all but over, I thought I'd share a couple of anecdotes with you. I hope you're as amused by them as I was when the episodes occurred, and as I've been when I've retold them over the years.

-------------------- 1 --------------------

Back in my mainframe days, there was a 'punch girl' who worked in the data prep department who was particularly well endowed in the chest area. One day in summer, someone mentioned that she'd decided to not bother with a bra that day and was wearing a quite flimsy t-shirt. My colleague John was particularly enamoured with this lady, and that day he'd arrived at work a little late, and was told about this particular dress choice of hers. He quickly grabbed some papers from his desk drawer, picked up a couple of floppy disks (eight inch ones, back in those days,) and headed down to the data prep room.

When he arrived, the object of his desire was in conversation with one of her workmates, so he spent some minutes waiting, while he gazed lustfully at the assets she had on display.

Eventually, having finished with her conversation, she turned to him and said: "Hello John, what can I do for you?"

To which John unfortunately replied: "I just wondered if you could punch up this couple of tits for me!"

-------------------- 2 --------------------

A business analyst colleague of mine was once walking past one of the offices in the building where we worked, when he heard the phone ringing. He knew there was nobody there to answer it, because even though it was a shared office, one of its occupants, a Glaswegian chap, had left the company about three weeks ago, and the other, my colleague's own manager was away on a business trip.

He went into the office and answered the phone on his manager's desk. He was greeted by a strong Glaswegian accent asking for his manager by name.

"I'm afraid he's away on business today," he replied; then because he was sure he recognised the voice, he added, "and how are things going for you there then? Everything ok?"

"Yes, I suppose so," the caller answered, and then politely added "And how are things there? OK?"

"Could be better," my colleague replied, "We're having a few problems with your countryman."

"My countryman? Who do you mean?"

"That new twat of a financial director. He's an absolutely awkward bastard. It's not enough for him to tell us what he wants. He insists on telling us exactly how we should go about providing it for him. I can tell you, the bossy tosser is causing us all types of problems. I wish he'd just shut the fuck up and leave us to do our jobs, and stop with his frigging interfering."

At this point, the voice on the telephone asked "Do you know who you're speaking to?"

This was the first time that it crossed my colleague's mind that this might not be a social call from his manager's ex office mate.

"No," he replied sheepishly, "Who am I speaking to?"

"This is that 'twat of a financial director.' You know: the 'absolute awkward bastard' you were talking about."

There was a moment of silence while my colleague took stock of the situation, after which he could only say "Oh. And do you know who you're speaking to?"

"No I don't"

"Well thank fuck for that," replied my colleague and put the phone down.

Campaign Debriefing

2011-11-01T13:29:00.000Z

Memorandum

To: The Supreme Commander, Galactic Invasion Force
From: Senior Intelligence Officer, Observation Saucer Number 4, Earth Expeditionary Force.
Subject: Campaign Debriefing

Commander,

It is with great regret that I inform you of the failure of our attempts to invade the planet Earth. Our entire offensive force has been wiped out to a man. Of the observation saucers accompanying them, the first three were all shot from the sky; my saucer alone survived, enabling me to report back to you with this grim news.

Our forces vastly outnumbered those of the earthlings and our firepower was eminently superior, so it would seem that it was our strategy that was at fault, since it should not have been possible for a single earthling defender to wipe out some sixty of our most battle hardened troops.

The earthling defender was equipped with an inferior single shot weapon, but still managed to destroy every one of our attackers, with nothing more to defend him than a handful of fragile barrier structures. Our troops had some success in inflicting damage on these barriers, but didn't manage to injure the sole defender himself in any way whatsoever. It seemed that he had some two or three of his compatriots in reserve as reinforcements, but frankly he didn't need them.

Should we attempt to risk any more of our comrades' lives on a further venture, may I suggest the following changes to our strategy:

I cannot see the advantage of our usual attack formation. Standing in five rows of twelve and simply shuffling from side to side makes us an easy target for our enemies. This is, I'm sure, excellent tactics for line dancing, but in the realms of armed combat it falls somewhat short of ideal.
I assume the coordinated raising and lowering of our arms as we move is meant to instil fear into our enemies, but it clearly doesn't work; additionally it had the effect of distracting the men from the task in hand since they had to keep checking that they were keeping time with colleagues adjacent to them.
Our troops MUST be retrained in the use of their weapons; today I saw the majority of our men simply firing randomly downward toward Earth with no attempt whatsoever to aim at specific targets. Also, when our enemy did take cover behind one of his defensive structures, we should have pressed home our advantage by concentrating our firepower to either edge of the said structure, to prevent him from escaping, instead of simply continuing our fixed formation allowing him to intermittently pop out from behind his defences to take sniper shots at us.
On the occasion when our forces, or what was left of them, did get close to the Earth, to their credit, they did speed up their attack, but rather than seize the advantage and attack en masse, they blindly followed orders by continuing with their fixed attack formation, making themselves sitting targets to be picked off one by one
We must consider using stealth to our advantage. If we did, we could probably be upon the Earth before its defenders were even aware of our presence. It does NOT help if our forces continue to announce their arrival by chanting "dum-dum, dum-dum, dum-dum, dum-dum" repeatedly as they advance. Likewise, my own saucer would have had improved chances of overflying the battle arena with less risk of attack if we hadn't been forced to go "woowoowoowoowoowoo" as we passed.

FFS Parents: Wake Up!

2011-08-10T09:32:00.004+01:00

You worry about your kids, don't you? It's only natural.

But I don't like to interfere in my son's life too much. I asked him where he was going once, and he gave me such a look, I decided I'd respect his privacy in the future, so now I don't ask.

I was a bit worried about some of the other teenagers he was hanging around with, but he comes home safe every night: well, I must admit he doesn't actually come home at all some nights, but when he does, he comes home safe. I don't know where he's been all night when we don't see him. I don't like to pry.

I suggested to him a few months back that now he's fifteen, he might like to consider getting himself a part time job. "It'll give you some spending money of your own," I told him. I wanted to say that it might teach him a bit about responsibility too, but I didn't mention that, in case it upset him.

"Don't worry about it mum," he said, "I'm ok for money. I have it all in hand"

I must say I was worried about how he'd manage. Of course his dad and I give him whatever pocket money he needs, any amount he asks for in fact. But of course he needs things like smart phones and iPods. And those designer labels and trainers don't come cheap you know. After all, we don't want him to appear deprived when he's with his friends.

Anyway, it seems my worries were unfounded. He is ok for money. He must be, though I don't know how, (I don't like to pry,) but the other day he came home early in the morning and I suspect he must have been working hard on a night shift somewhere because he was exhausted, almost like he'd been running all night.

But the money he's getting must be good, because he seems to have already done all his Christmas shopping. He's got everybody a pair of Reeboks. (I don't know when I'll wear mine, and I'm sure his gran won't be too impressed, but it's the thought that counts.) He's also got his little brother a new games console, and one of those new iPad things. He's bought me and his dad a lovely plasma telly, though not quite as nice as the one he now has in his own bedroom. But then, if he's gone to all the trouble of getting them, he deserves the best for himself.

I've just switched his on while I'm cleaning his room. It's a lovely picture. Even the news looks beautiful and I don't usually watch the news, (well, I don't like to pry.) Oh! what's all this about riots and looting?

What's in a name?

2011-08-01T08:50:00.011+01:00

A little piece to highlight the ridiculously counterintuitive pronunciations we have for some words and names in English. Hopefully it will amuse you too.

So there I was sitting in the reception area waiting for my interview to begin.

I was surprisingly relaxed: this wasn't the usual type of interview. For the first time in my life I'd actually been head hunted. I'd received a phone call from a selective recruitment consultancy to tell me that this company were particularly interested, and after a couple of emails and a letter, they'd confirmed that the job was mine.

I'd received a further email the following day, arranging this meeting. They'd described it as more of a 'get to know' session than an interview, but I'd always been particularly cautious, and my subconscious self kept insisting that until I was officially on the payroll, the job wasn't really mine, and to me, this was still an interview.

I looked around the seating area in reception. There were two or three other guys there waiting for meetings, but each of them had what looked like full briefcases and laptop bags. One had a flip chart under his arm and another seemed to be overwhelmed by samples. They were all clearly salesmen. I realised that I must look a lot more relaxed than any of them did.

The lift doors opened and a young girl emerged. She went over to the reception desk for a moment and when she turned to face the seating area she was carrying one of those clip-on 'visitor' badges.

"Saint John?" she called. We all looked up, then the salesmen started looking from one to another. "Saint John," she repeated, "Is Saint John here?"

I stood up, and was immediately met by puzzled looks from the others present. The girl walked over to me. "Are you Saint John?" she asked.

"Sinjun," I replied, "It's pronounced Sinjun."

"What?"

"My name; it's spelled St John, but it's pronounced Sinjun."

"It's pronounced Saint John, as far as I've always been taught."

"When used as a name though, It's pronounced Sinjun."

"Fair enough. It's your name. Would you put this badge on, and follow me please?"

She led me toward the lift and we got in. I watched as she pressed the button. Fourteenth floor. Bugger! We'd be in the lift for quite a while then. I hated using a lift with a stranger. It always seemed so difficult to make conversation in a lift, though I always felt that bit more compelled to try.

We both stood facing the front and I gazed at the lights above the door as the numbers illuminated one by one. 4... 5... I shuffled my feet a little... 6... 7... The girl sighed... 8... Suddenly, the urge to converse was too much for me to ignore. And though I regretted it as soon as I opened my mouth, I came out with the most ridiculously inane thing I could possibly have said: "So, you work here then?"

She glanced down from the numbers for a brief moment, turned her head to face me, just long enough for the dirty look she gave me to register, and replied "Well, yeah. Of course I do."

"No, I meant to say, how long have you worked here for?"

"Almost two years now," she said, "I'm Trudi's, Mrs James' PA." She emphasized the 'PA' bit as though she was really proud of it.

"It's Trudi James that I'm seeing," I said, latching on to the name I recognised, then realised what an absolutely pointless statement that was.

"Yes, I know," she replied, "That's why I'm taking you to her office."

I expected another dirty look at that point; this girl had clearly already decided that I was a bit of an idiot. Then the 'ding' of the lift sounded and I looked up at the numbers over the door: 14.

I was confused. I was sure I heard the whoosh of the doors opening, but I was still staring at the expanse of shiny steel facing me.

"This way." I heard the girls voice. I turned and realised that the lift had two sets of doors. The one's we'd been staring at all the way up here only opened on the ground floor. All the other floors were accessed via the doors that had opened behind me. She turned and began walking down the corridor as I followed behind her. She was shaking her head slowly from side to side, and I was sure I heard her mutter something like 'Dick'

She showed me into an office where a woman and a guy, both about my age were sitting. The woman stood as I entered and walked around the desk with her hand reaching out to shake mine. "Saint John?" she said.

Before I'd had chance to say anything, my escort spoke up. "No," she said, "It's sinjun, apparently." She emphasised the 'apparently' as though she was convinced I'd been lying to her.

"Thank you Janice," my host replied, "will you get us some coffee please?" Janice left by the door we'd just come through. Trudi, as I realised this was, turned to the man still seated: "This is Ben, my assistant," she said, "You and he will be working at the same level, my two lieutenants." She chuckled. She'd pronounced 'lieutenants' the American way, though in what was clearly a Manchester accent. I felt the urge to point out it was 'leFFtenants' but decided to hold my tongue.

Ben stretched out his arm to shake hands, though didn't bother to stand. "Sinjun? That's an odd name," he said, "especially spelled like that."

"Tell me about it," I replied and forced a chuckle. I wasn't really amused at all. I'd been through situations like this so many times.

"Talking of names, and spelling," Trudi said, "Your surname isn't going to be easy to remember either, or to spell. I've never met anyone with a triple barrelled name."

"I know," I said, "It's the result of having a father from a stuck-up English family, and a mother from a pretentious lowland Scottish family." I realised that I was being a little pretentious myself, feeling it necessary to point out that mum's family were not just Scots, but Lowland Scots.

Ben reached over and pulled Trudi's notepad toward him: "Marjorie-banks-Chol-monder-lee-bel-voowar" he read slowly. "About the only bit of that I'll remember is the Marjoribanks bit. Was that your mother's name then: Marjorie Banks?"

"It was my mother's surname," I replied, "and it's pronounced 'marshbanks'."

"So why's it spelt Marjorie Banks then?"

"That's all part of the pretentious clan culture my mum's family stems from," I said, "though my father's English family, the Chumly Beavers were no less snobbish. I just got stuck with both names."

"The Chumly Beavers?" laughed Ben, "sounds like a bloody cartoon series. What the hell is that?"

"It's the obscure pronunciation of my name again," I replied, "Cholmonderley-Belvoir is pronounced 'Chumly Beaver'."

Ben was doing his best to stifle a giggle by now. Trudi was looking puzzled. "So exactly how is your full name pronounced?" she asked.

"Well," I said, (I'd been through this routine so many, many times,) "it's spelled 'St John Marjoribanks-Cholmonderley-Belvoir' but it's pronounced 'Sinjun Marshbanks-Chumly-Beaver'. I know, it's a pain, but it's something I've had to live with all my life."

"What would you prefer us to call you?" Trudi asked as she smiled sympathetically.

"Sinjun will do nicely," I replied.

"Not BEAVER then?" chuckled Ben, "I quite like the idea of that. I don't know if I'll feel comfortable calling you Sinjun all the time, when I know it's really Saint John. Don't you have a middle name?"

"I do," I replied. I took a deep breath, knowing the confusion that was to come, so I pronounced my middle name as slowly as I could, "it's Dee-ell"

"And what does that stand for?" asked Trudi.

"It doesn't stand for anything," I replied, "It's just Dee-ell. It's actually spelled D-A-L-Z-I-E-L. It was my mother's father's name, lowland Scottish again."

"So he was called Dee-ell Marshbanks," Trudi said, "but it was spelled Dalziel Marjoribanks?"

She was getting the hang of it. "Yes," I replied, trying not to look too annoyed.

"Hey," Ben said as he chuckled, "Do you have a sister called Elsie?"

"No, I don't have any sisters," I replied, looking puzzled.

Ben laughed. "No," he said, "I thought if your parents gave you initials as middle names, they might have a daughter called Elsie - L C, get it?"

I forced a half laugh, "Oh yeah, very amusing. I haven't heard that one before." I actually hadn't. I'd heard hundreds of others, but nobody so far had been sad enough to make jokes about my name by making up girls names.

"That's enough Ben," said Trudi, "We'll get the hang of Sinjun's name soon enough." She grinned at me as she said 'Sinjun' as though she was really pleased with herself for saying it correctly. I smiled back and gave her a congratulatory nod.

"Or even Ivy," Ben was chuckling to himself now, "You see: Ivy - I V. Are you with me?"

Janice knocked and walked in with a pot of coffee and cups on a tray. She put it down on a table at the side of the office.

"I know names can be quite embarrassing some times," Trudi said, "before I got married I was a Longbottom. I hated that. Janice has an embarrassing middle name too."

"Nobody," Janice said as she turned, "I repeat NOBODY, is ever going to learn what my middle name is. It's far too embarrassing."

"I'm a Pratt," Ben said.

I couldn't resist it. "You certainly seem like one to me Ben," I said. Trudi sniggered, Janice laughed out loud. Ben wasn't pleased but knew there was little he could do about my quip.

"I'd rather be a Pratt than a Beaver," he said, "Hey Jan. Did you know that Saint John Diesel here is a Beaver?"

"Can someone tell me where the gents is," I asked.

It was Trudi that replied. "They're down near the main office," she said, "Janice will show you the way."

I followed Janice out of the office and we walked further down the corridor to where it widened into a big open area where about fifteen or twenty people were working. A few of them looked up and one of them walked over and said hello to Janice. He looked at me. Janice decided to introduce us.

"George," she said, "this is your new boss." George reached out and we shook hands. "This is George Phillips," Janice said, "and this is Mister Marshbanks-Chumly-Beaver."

"You pronounced it exactly right," I said to Janice after George had gone back to his desk.

"Did I? Oh good," she replied, "I was taken aback a bit by the Saint John, Sinjun bit, so while the coffee was brewing I got out your file and looked up each bit of your name on the internet."

I smiled. I was beginning to like this girl.

"And don't you bother about Ben," she said, "You were dead right about him being a prat. Never did anyone have a more fitting name than that!"

Taking the Kids Camping...

2011-07-26T14:35:00.009+01:00

What the government, with such little imagination, refer to as 'Early May Bank Holiday' in England was a bit special back in 1995. It was special in general because it was the first and only time since this bank holiday was instigated that it didn't take place on the first Monday in May. This was due to the proclamation by the government, that they had decided we all should celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of V.E. day, but that to save them the trouble of giving the nation an extra bank holiday, they would be moving the existing holiday back a week to May 8th.

For me, it was special, because that was the weekend I decided to introduce my two eldest children to camping.

Preparations....

The two weekends before, we'd taken them out shopping, for general camping equipment, plus we had to buy them rucksacks and walking boots.

Finding rucksacks for a 6 year old and a 7 year old that actually served the required purpose was difficult, since most of the ones for kids of that age were designed to carry not much more than P.E. kit and a ninja turtles luchbox, but we managed to find two reasonably small sacks at our local camping supplies shop that despite being very limited in capacity, still had all the devices for attaching equipment with straps. We tried them on the kids while we were in the shop, and they looked massive on them, but that seemed to be part of the appeal for them, so we bought them.

We almost gave up on finding walking boots: it seems that walking boots for children only exist in the most expensive brands, and since they'd hardly use them at all before they grew out of them, I was a little reluctant to spend almost twice as much on a pair of boots for each of them than I'd spent on my own earlier that year. We'd just about resigned ourselves to letting them make do with sturdy trainers instead, when we spotted some reasonably priced leather trekking boots in children's sizes as a one off line in a discount shop in town.

We decided that we'd visit the Lake District. We already had a family rail card; using that would provide a 33% discount on my train fare, and in those days, the kids went for a flat fare of £1.

The night before we left they were excited and wanted to pack their own rucksacks, but we decided to let them put in their clothes, their mugs and their cutlery, and told them to leave the rest to their mother and I.

The morning after, we were all up early. My own backpack looked a little daunting. The few clothes I was taking, along with a single pair of light trainers didn't pose a problem, but the four man dome tent, my sleeping bag and roller mat, and all the rest of the camping equipment either contained within or fastened outside with straps, made me wonder how the hell I was going to manage to walk with it. I tried it on though, and once I'd hoisted it high on my back and fastened the shoulder straps (a little too) tightly, it didn't seem so bad.

The kids wanted to put their own packs on even before they'd got dressed but we managed to persuade them to have their breakfast and then dress themselves before they bothered.

Each of their sacks carried their clothes, a change of shoes and their personal equipment like cutlery, a white enameled tin plate and a tin mug (camping is so much more exciting when you eat and drink from tin utensils.) In addition, they each had a sleeping bag strapped to the bottom of their sacks and a rubber sleeping mat, rolled up and fastened under the top flap of their rucksack.

My seven year old daughter was the first to don her rucksack. She seemed to struggle a little at first, until we'd tightened her straps, and told her about the importance of carrying it high and not hanging down in the small of her back.

My son, who was six at the time was very small, even for six, and I worried how he'd cope. But he seemed to have a point to prove and wanted to outdo his sister, so he helped as we hoisted his sack onto his back, then braced himself as we pulled the straps tight. He then stood up straight.... and promptly fell over backwards.

After some distribution of loads, I ended up setting out with a sleeping back attached to either side of my pack, as well as having my own hanging underneath, and with what little room was left inside my pack, crammed with most of my son's equipment, and a few items of my daughter's.

I strained under the weight as we left the house. My wife asked if I was sure that I could manage. I wasn't sure I could, but I wasn't going to call off the trip, so I'd just have to.

So with what we thought was everything we needed, we set out. It turned out that there were two things we'd left behind: my camera, (so all the pictures in the rest of this post have been lifted from Google Maps,) and my hat, but more of that later.

Saturday May 6

Hull to Windermere and the ferry at Bowness...

The way to the Lake District from where I live in Hull requires us to cross the entire country from East to West. It involves two train journeys of about two hours each, with a change in the middle at Manchester. Piccadilly railway station in Manchester is a large station, and sod's law states that the platform we arrived on from Hull, was as far away as it possibly could be from the platform we needed for the train to Windermere.

I thought there'd be plenty of time to change trains, but that didn't take into account the time taken to strap everyone into their packs, then unburden them again when they wanted the toilet. This was before the days of the travelator at Piccadilly, and the lifts were out of order too, so we ended up running to our platform, the kids racing ahead in front, while I followed behind as best as I could, being burdened with my load and carrying a smaller rucksack in each hand.

Despite it being a bank holiday weekend, and even though I hadn't thought to reserve our seats, we managed to get a table to ourselves for most of this second leg of our journey. I thought it was because people felt sympathy for me struggling with two small children and three rucksacks, but everyone seemed keen to chat with my kids for the duration of the journey, so I don't think sympathy for me had anything to do with it.

As we left north Lancashire and entered Cumbria, the kids got excited to see the landscape becoming more hilly and rugged, (where we live is totally flat, so hills held a special appeal for them, and for me too if I'm honest,) and my daughter and son sat at opposite sides of the table from each other in the seats by the window looking out as the scenery got more and more interesting.

My daughter was troubled for a while by the sun shining in her eyes, and I thought about swapping places with her, where I sat, beside my son, but she insisted she wanted to sit by the window. After a while she seemed to be managing much better and I asked if she was OK now.

"Yes," she replied, "the sun was blinding me, but now it's gone behind a mountain."

My six year old son was tutting and shaking his head. "The sun hasn't gone anywhere," he corrected his sister.

I was quite impressed by that, so I said to him: "Well done son, you're right, it isn't the sun that's moved."

"So what has happened then?" his sister asked.

"It's obvious," he replied, "the mountain has moved in front of the sun!"

Our destination once we'd left the train was Hawkshead on the other side of Windermere between that lake and Coniston Water. Once we'd arrived at Windermere station, we had two choices: Catching a bus around the top of the lake, via Ambleside, or walking down to Bowness-on-Windermere and catching the Ferry. Of course this would mean we'd have a fair amount of walking to do once we'd crossed the lake too, so my own personal preference was for the bus. The kids chose the bus too, as soon as they'd seen the open topped buses. I didn't fancy dragging our luggage all the way up the stairs, but thought we'd be able to leave it safely in a rack downstairs.

It turned out though that the open topped buses didn't go anyway near Hawkshead; that service was provided by smaller vehicles, almost minibuses, and the kids decided that they'd rather walk instead. Despite my pleading with them, I finally resigned myself to their decision, and we started the trek down to the lake side at Bowness.

I'm glad we did actually, because the scenery on the way was lovely, even though it was mostly through built up semi-urban areas. To me it brought back memories of earlier visits to the lakes; to the kids it was the excitement of being somewhere new that was attractive.

Now, at that time, we'd often keep the kids occupied while we were out walking by encouraging them to play a little game. What they had to do was to watch out for those four wheel drive cars carrying their spare wheels at the rear; whoever spotted one first would point and call out 'wheel on the back' while myself or their mother kept score. A simple game, I know, but exciting enough for kids of that age, and it had served to provide a lot of peace from squabbling and such on past days out.

The problem was that out in the Lake District, being rural, and being somewhat more affluent than where we came from, there were a hell of a lot more 'all-terrain' vehicles around. Everywhere we looked there seemed to be one, so as we walked, my journey was accompanied by an almost constant chant of "Wheel on the back!" from one or another of the kids, and often by both in unison.

"What's the score dad?" my son asked me as we walked down the road into Bowness bay.

"I'm not sure son," I said, "I think I lost count at 196 to 187. Let's just count it as a draw."

Bowness bay stands out against the rest of the Lake District in seeming a little over-touristy. Once you get to know the place, you realise it isn't, but it's very commercial and well visited, especially on bank holiday weekends. The kids were entranced by it: "Can we go on the boats, dad?" "Can we feed the swans, dad?" "Can we ride on that road train, dad?" Requests bombarded my ears. We didn't have time to ride on anything, so we fed the swans for a while, then I got them an ice-cream each (the kids that is, not the swans,) and we carried on down to the ferry.

Waiting for the Windermere ferry

We'd just missed the boat when we got there, so we sat on a low wall alongside the queue of cars waiting for it's next crossing. The weather had turned very warm, and I regretted not joining the kids in an ice-cream. I'd forgotten to bring my hat from home, and the sun was really bothering the top of my 'follicly challenged' head. I had a large white handkerchief I'd been wiping my face with as we'd walked in the heat, and as we waited, I started to tie a knot in each of the corners. The kids asked me what I was doing, and I just told them to wait and see. I placed the knotted handkerchief on my head which reduced the kids to fits of giggles. I laughed, removed it and put it back into my pocket. The ferry arrived and we boarded for our crossing.

Bowness through the Sawreys and on to Hawksead...

At the other side, we started walking, The route was through the two villages of Far Sawrey and Near Sawrey, then along the east side of Esthwaite Water and from there into Hawkshead.

There are two ways to Far Sawrey: via a steep rugged climb up Claife Heights, or up the more gentle rise along the road and around, which though much further, seemed preferable considering our load and the hot sun. The sun really seemed to be beating down now, and after a while, since we were virtually alone on the road, I donned my four cornered knotted hanky again. The kids laughed at me of course, but that was something I could put up with for the comfort afforded to my head, and if people in passing cars should see me, well 'so what?'

Eventually after what seemed like ages, the road curved to the north-west and we reached the southern edge of Far Sawrey. There's a pub there with a pleasant beer garden, so we decided to stop for refreshment.

The Sawrey Hotel - scene of my crushing embarrassment

I helped the kids off with their packs, which we propped up against each other on the grass and 'installed' both kids at a table in the beer garden, then I went over to the public bar of the hotel to order our drinks.

Being the public bar it was full of locals, rather than tourists; I was pleasantly surprised when first one, then another smiled and nodded at me as I entered. I ordered our drinks and while waiting for my change, turned to see an old couple beside me at the bar, beaming at me. I smiled back. The barmaid returned my change and I asked her if she had a tray. She smiled back at me and said she'd get me one. By the time she returned with the tray, she was smiling so much, it was as if she was almost giggling. I took our drinks outside, passing more locals, all of them raising their glasses and smiling broadly as I passed.

When I reached our table in the beer garden, I gave the kids their drinks and said to them something like: "I must say, the people around here are ever so friendly."

The reply I got from my daughter wasn't one I'd expected, but it was more enlightening than anything else she might have said at that time. She said: "Dad, do you know you still have your hanky on your head?"

After our stop, we walked on through Near Sawrey and down the road toward Hawkshead. We passed Esthwaite water and it looked so cool and inviting, that when we found an area accessible from the road, we walked over to a bench there and stopped for a rest. The kids asked if they could have a little paddle. It was warm and I suspected their feet might benefit from it, so I said OK. Afterwards, after helping my son get his socks and boots back on, I helped my daughter lace up her boots properly and we prepared to continue.

My son however had decided at this point that he'd carried his rucksack just as far as he possibly could and to avoid arguments, I picked it up and slung the straps over what unoccupied part of my shoulder I could find. Of course a couple of miles later, the same thought occurred to my daughter, and not one for missing an opportunity, she pointed out that since I was carrying his pack, it was only fair that I carried hers too.

So as we turned the final bend in the road, and walked into Hawkshead, the kids' feelings of excitement were matched by my feelings of relief. I could see the multicoloured sight of the campsite just outside the village and so could the kids, as they ran ahead. They were standing at the gates when I eventually caught up. We booked in and pitched our tent and once finished I lay back exhausted. Then one or the other of the kids said: "What are we going to do now, dad?" I didn't want to move. I was tired, hot and thirsty. Then one of them said: "What are we having for tea?" I brightened up as I told them: "As a special treat kids, tonight, we're going to eat in THE PUB!"

The first evening and the longest night...

Eating in a pub, to the kids was like eating in the finest of restaurants. To be honest, as an experience, even to me it wasn't much like eating in a pub back home.

On the bright side, the menu was much more varied than the standard 'pub grub' I was used to, though the children's menu seemed to consist of the usual 'with chips and beans' range of burgers, fish fingers, chicken nuggets, etc.

On the not so bright side, the prices were a hell of a lot more expensive than I was used to, especially when the kids both wanted to choose something from the adult menu. I asked at the bar if they did children's portions of the meals on the main menu, but was met with a look of astonishment. I quickly and casually checked my head for knotted handkerchiefs, before I realised the astonishment was because I wanted to feed my children something other than deep fried junk food. As it happens, the kids both wanted the same thing from the menu, so I managed to collar one of the ladies serving the food and sweet talked her into providing us with an extra plate and cutlery so that they could share a meal.

The Red Lion, Hawkshead - Dinner Saturday Evening

The food was pleasant, the beer more so, (I assume the cola and lemonade was of an acceptable standard too, since there were no complaints from the kids,) so after eating we decided, since it was a warm night, we'd move to one of the tables outside for more drinks. Obviously I didn't want to get anything like drunk, since I was solely responsible for the kids in a strange place away from home, so I decided to pace myself.

Drinking slowly often provides a sense of relaxation that you don't get when you're in a group of friends, each one keeping pace with the rest. There are times when you realise that the point isn't to drink, it's to enjoy your surroundings, and the drink just serves to relax you and to help you enjoy it that little bit more.

I was settling in for a pleasant evening of relaxation. The kids had slowed down and were being less boisterous than I remembered them being for a long time. I'd had three pints, though over such a long period, that I wasn't feeling the effects at all. I decided that having another wouldn't show me up as an irresponsible parent, so I asked the kids what they wanted.

"I want to go to bed," My son said. His sister agreed.

"But I thought you wanted to stay up late," I asked them, "I thought you were looking forward to staying out until it got dark." I looked around, the sun had sunk but it was hardly dark, just pleasantly dusky.

"Let's go to bed dad, please," they both asked. So we made our way back to the campsite. On the way, I popped into the village store to buy groceries for breakfast. "You're open late," I said to the shopkeeper.

"You just caught us before closing," he answered. "We're open until eight pm every night though."

So by eight thirty, the kids were changed for bed, and tucked up in their sleeping bags. There was nothing else for me to do, but to get to bed myself, and I was still a little weary from the journey, so for the first time in more years than I could remember, I was in bed and asleep by nine o'clock.

I was awoken at about ten thirty by screams of panic coming from my son's sleeping bag. I awoke with a start. It was an adult sized sleeping bag, and he'd sunk down into it in his sleep, to the extent that when he'd woke up he was curled up in the bottom quarter of it. He couldn't uncurl himself and couldn't get out so he panicked, and screamed out loud, waking me and probably almost everyone else on the campsite, though noticeably NOT his sister.

I found a solution: I took one of the webbing straps from my rucksack and fastened it tight around his sleeping bag about halfway down, (after rescuing him from it of course; I was hardly likely to imprison him in it; what kind of parent do you take me for?) so after I'd shortened it I persuaded him that he wouldn't get stuck again and managed to get him to go back to sleep.

What seemed like moments later, my daughter woke up. She needed the toilet. The toilet block was only about fifty yards or so away, but I couldn't let her go by herself, but then I couldn't leave her brother alone in the tent either, so after struggling into my trousers and waking my son, the three of us trooped over to the toilets. Having made certain that they'd both made use of the facilities, we returned to our tent; I shortened my daughter's sleeping bag like I had her brother's and all of us finally got back to sleep.

Now I'm an early riser; I always have been: I'm usually up between five and six am every morning. So when I'd been asleep, since nine, it was very unlikely that I was going to sleep through even until that time.

So it was that I suddenly awoke. I realised where I was after a second or two, and then lay there in my sleeping bag between two slumbering children. I was wide awake. I wondered what time it was. I reached out for the camping light and shone it onto my watch. Five past four: too early to start breakfast then. The problem was that my watch was telling me it was the middle of the night, but my body was telling me it was time to get up. I thought about trying to force myself back to sleep, though I had no idea how. Not only that, how would that leave me by eight thirty tonight, when the kids' bedtime came around again?

I struggled out of my sleeping bag and once more into my pants. I reached out and retrieved my cigarettes, unzipped the tent and stepped outside. It was dark. Living in the city, you don't realise how incredibly dark it does get in the country. I sat cross legged on the grass and lit a cigarette. It was a warm night and sitting there was very pleasant indeed. I reached into the tent and retrieved a carton of milk. I opened it and sat on the grass, drinking milk and enjoying a smoke. I realised I should have done this at nine o'clock the day before. It wasn't a bad way to spend the evening.

It was then that I heard footsteps, and a middle aged lady in a bright ruby red velour dressing gown and slippers walked past me. She had curlers in her hair and her handbag tucked under her arm as she headed toward the toilet block. She gave me a strange look, but I just looked back and took another swig from my milk carton and another drag from my cigarette. She returned a few moments later on her way back to her tent. She was frowning at me again, looking at me as though she thought I was some kind of lunatic. I thought I ought to say something. "Morning," I said. It seemed like the logical greeting at the time; however early it was, it was after all 'morning'. She stopped in her tracks and just looked at me. She had obviously decided I was a lunatic and was now determining exactly which kind. I leaned over and my hand fell on my cigarette packet. I don't know what made me do it, but I just picked up the pack, flicked open the top and inquired of her: "Would you like a cigarette?"

She ran. I could hear whispering coming from one of the nearby tents for a few minutes until eventually I heard a man's voice saying "Just shut up and go to sleep woman".

Sunday May 7

Hawkshead to Coniston in the rain, and back in a minibus...

to be continued...

Mythology Closer to Home?

2011-07-25T09:02:00.005+01:00

As I've mentioned in earlier posts, I've had an interest in mythology since I was very young. That's probably what first sparked my interest in fantasy as a literary genre.

To begin with, I was fascinated by Greek and Roman mythology and to a lesser extent, that of the early Scandinavian races. This was probably due to the diet of Greek and Roman stories (more often than not, the boundaries were blurred) and also Norse tales, all served up to my generation mainly by Hollywood.

There are other mythologies that originate from throughout the world though: Arabic, Persian, Chinese, Indian, and I've briefly dallied with all of them with varying levels of interest.

It seems strange though that in the UK, we seem to be almost ignorant of the various Gallic/Gaelic mythologies, strange because they were once well known throughout much of the British Isles, in the form of Scottish, Irish, Welsh, Cornish tales, etc.

My interest in Irish mythology was first aroused when I was 15, in 1973 when I first heard The Tain by the Irish band Horslips. Horslips were a Folk-Rock band; unlike many bands of that type, they didn't just play traditional folk music in the style of rock, with modern instruments: their music was more a fusion between Irish folk and rock.

The Tain was a concept album, which took as its theme, the tale of Tain Bo Cuailgne or 'The Cattle Raid of Cooley', which is part of the heroic and epic Ulster Cycle of stories. Horslips interpreted the tale in their own way, to say the least, but at the time, I wasn't aware of that, and the intrigue of the mythology added something to my enjoyment of the music.

What follows are the sleeve notes from the album, (acknowledgement to Outlet Recording Co. Ltd, the copyright holder.) They give a brief overview of the story and should give you just a taste of the depth and complexity of Irish mythology, but it goes much, much deeper than could be illustrated here. (Note: the italic portions in speech marks within the text are references to lines from the songs on the album)

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Concerning the Tain

Ireland's most exciting saga is, undoubtedly, Tain Bo Cuailgne (The Cattle Raid of Cooley), the centrepiece of the Ulster cycle of Heroic Tales.

Normally referred to as "The Tain", it deals with the conflict between the forces of Connacht and Ulster for the possession of a prize bull.

The events of the Tain are estimated to have taken place in Ireland approximately 500 B.C. The earliest written version of the Tain known to us is contained in the Book of the Dun Cow, which dates from the 12th century. Before this the story was kept alive by storytellers.

Two other manuscript versions are also available, the 12th century Book of Leinster and the 14th century Yellow Book of Lecan. The Tain, as Ireland's equivalent of the Aeneid, has long intrigued historians, academics and writers.

The Story

One night in bed, the promiscuous Connacht Queen, Maeve, quarrels with her husband Ailill. They argue over who has the most wealth. Ailill doesn't like the suggestion that he's a kept man. "Her words were sharp, they cut him deep, in a war between the sheets". Ailill's magnificent White Bull is the deciding factor in their subsequent measuring of possessions. Maeve's a bad loser. Macroth, her messenger, goes to Cooley to rent the famed Brown Bull for a year, thus giving Maeve the decider. "I once told her where she could find her dream". The bull's owner is agreeable until MacRoth and his party get very drunk and reveal that had they not been allowed to borrow the bull they would have taken it by force. The deal breaks down. They go home empty handed. Maeve decides on war

Having marshalled all her warriors and allies from Munster and Tara, and with Ailill's six brothers and their armies standing by, Maeve receives favourable omens from her Druids. The long march to Cooley begins. "The Champions and the Seven Sons are come to take away the Donn". However, a sorceress appears and warns Maeve of impending defeat at the hands of Dearg Doom, Cu Chulainn. "Saw the host stained red in war, saw the hero-light around the head of a dragon-boy".

The warning is ignored.

Meanwhile, the men of Ulster are ill with labour pains - the legacy of a curse put on them for their inhuman treatment of a pregnant woman. The one man exempt from this curse is Cu Chulainn, whose very birth is shrouded in mystery. Single-handedly he takes on the defence of Ulster, harassing Maeve's soldiers, "And like a hawk I'll swoop and swoop again", beheading those who stray from the main force. "You can hear me shout, 'two heads are better than none. One hundred heads are so much better than one'". Cu Chulainn is a hard man. Originally called Setanta, he became known as Cu Chulainnn, the Hound of Culann, because of his savagery. As the Connacht losses grow greater, the deposed King of Ulster, Fergus MacRoich, who is having a secret affair with Maeve, meets Cu Chulainn and arranges a treaty. Cu Chulainn agrees to single handed combat with any Connacht champion provided Maeve's army does not advance. One by one, day after day he defeats each warrior until eventually he faces his old foster-brother and close friend Ferdia. Cu Chulainn pleads with Ferdia to leave. "But Ferdia just laughed and shook his golden head and then they fell to battle again". For three days they fight at a ford and appear evenly matched until on the third day Cu Chulainn flies into a rage and lets loose his supernatural javelin, the terrible Gae Bolga, which destroys his friend. As Ferdia falls Cu Chulainn catches him and carries him to the riverbank, lamenting. "Life was a game, Now I miss your name, your golden hair". Then overcome by despair Cu Chulainn abandons the fight.

Maeve's army moves south with the stolen bull. The Ulster men rally and with Cu Chulainn back in their ranks they give chase. "But before you hit off, let me say that you bit off more than you can chew". The Morrigan, Queen of Demons, who has been encouraging slaughter all along, prophesies the outcome, In the battle which follows the Connacht army is routed. "It seems our fortunes lied despite our gain. Our tears fall like our pride". Maeve's life is spared by Cu Chulainn, As the Ulstermen are taking the Brown Bull home they meet Ailill's Bull, the White Horned One. The Donn immediately attacks the White. "You can fool them alright but can you fool the beast?" All day and night they are locked in combat. Morning sees the the Donn victorious. The armies consider destroying him, the cause of all their suffering, but leave him as, dying, he staggers homewards.

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If you can find the album, buy it.

After becoming familiar with The Tain, as limited as that was, my interest in Irish folk mythology was sparked again in the early days of computer games, when titles like Tir na Nog and Dun Darach appeared, which featured many of the heroes I'd heard of before. But these titles were very much based around contemporary works of fantasy that merely borrowed characters and some locations from the original mythology.

Lately I've rediscovered the original album of The Tain and have played it frequently over the last couple of years. As a result I've delved into Irish mythology in more detail by means of online research and discovered that there is so much more depth to it than I knew. I hadn't even scratched the surface. The Ulster Cycle is only a part of the wealth of stories there are, and the complexity is on a par with that of Greek mythology.

I intend to delve a lot further, though must admit at the moment to being overwhelmed by how complicated the whole area is.

I'd encourage any of you out there who've ever had an interest in other forms of mythology, to look into Irish and other Gaelic forms. You won't be sorry.

I fully intend to post more. As I sift through the various forms of each story and discover more about the detail of each, I'll try to post simplified versions of the more interesting ones here on this blog.

It would have been a great party if it hadn't been for you meddling kids!

2011-07-11T16:37:00.004+01:00

David Mitchell and Robert Webb are a TV comedy double act. Their shows consist of one-off sketches, recurring sketches with regular characters, and scenes where they play characters who are meant to be themselves.

One of their recurring sets of sketches is known as 'Friends of...' and always takes the form of two characters (played by Mitchell and Webb of course,) sitting in their apartment deciding on a guest list for a forthcoming party. Each sketch centres on discussion of a particular famous character or characters as they discuss the pros and cons of inviting them to the party.

What follows is a transcript of what is probably one of the funniest sketches from the 'Friends of...' series; I'm not sure if anyone outside of the UK will be familiar with Mitchell and Webb or with their work, so I'd be particularly interested to read comments from people with their first impressions....

Webb: Oh well, if we're having Freddy, we've got to invite Daphne and Velma as well.

Mitchell: Oh yeah; those three are absolutely priceless, especially when Velma does her 'losing her glasses' routine.

Webb: Yeah, that kills me. Why doesn't she get contacts?

Mitchell: Oh, I think it's a lesbian thing.

Webb: Ooh! I've just had a thought.

Mitchell: What?

Webb: Well, if we invite Freddy, Daphne and Velma, there's a chance they'll bring that other one.

Mitchell: Oh God! The scrawny one? The one that doesn't wash? What's his name?

Webb: Well, we don't know. I mean, he calls himself 'Shaggy' but I certainly don't believe that's his name. I think it's some kind of hollow sexual boast.

Mitchell: I think it definitely is. He's desperately trying to present himself as some sort of stud, despite being quite ugly and incredibly cowardly. The last time I saw him, he was literally shaking, and he spent most of the evening scampering up and down a very long corridor that happened to be there.

Webb: Well, that's certainly no way to make people have sex with you; but maybe we're being harsh on him. I mean, he's so thin and he's always shaking. He's probably in the throes of some gritty smack battle. Let's ask him along.

Mitchell: Yeah. I mean, how much harm can he do? (pauses) All though....

Webb: What?

Mitchell: Well, there's a chance, just a small one, that he might bring his dog.

Webb: Oh! Not his bloody dog! He won't bring his dog. People don't bring their dogs to parties.

Mitchell: Shaggy does. If anyone is going to bring a dog to anything, he is going to bring his dog to this.

Webb: He treats that dog like it's a person. It's creepy. You know, I think that dog must have been mistreated in the past: it's incredibly nervous. You remember that Halloween party that Shaggy was at? Every time a new person came in dressed as a ghost or whatever, the dog would have an absolute fit, make the most unnatural noises and jump into Shaggy's arms. I was convinced it was going to shit everywhere!

Mitchell: Yeah well, I tell you, that's not the worst of it. You remember at Jodie's do? You remember Jodie: her dad owns that disused fairground; well, I was just popping to the kitchen for some more ice, and who should I find but Shaggy and his dog, assembling the two tallest sandwiches I have ever seen.

Webb: I know. They made one the last time they were here, (takes a three foot tall sandwich from the fridge,) but they had a freak out before they could eat it.

Mitchell: I think it's cruel to make a dog eat that.

Webb: I tell you what: I think Shaggy must be very bitter, because he's obviously invested a lot of time in teaching that dog to talk, and it just can't. Maybe he thought he was going to get it on "That's Life" or something, but it's just not happened.

Mitchell: Yes, which is a pity really, because the dog's nephew, also a dog, a little puppy, actually talks very well.

Webb: Oh that's right! I've met that little dog, and it actually speaks very good English. It's also quite a lot braver, if a little impetuous.

Mitchell: It is a little impetuous, yes, but I think you have to forgive that of a talking dog.

Webb: Yes, I think you do. I think you do.

Prankery On The High Seas

2011-07-11T08:26:00.004+01:00

These days, there aren't many people left in Hull that work in the fishing industry, and most of those that do are involved more with the fish processing side than with the practice of bringing the fish home in the first place.

But I remember as a child, that the area I lived in was almost entirely populated by families that had people who worked either on the docks or on the fishing boats themselves.

My own father had worked on the docks after he left school at the age of fourteen, but by the time I was born, his 'career' had taken a different turn, though I did have a number of uncles that still worked in the industry. I can't remember whether this story was told to me by one of them, or by one of my dad's friends, but I remember thinking how amusing it was at the time, so I'm going to share it with you here:

Whoever it was that told me this tale, let's call him 'Jack' for want of a better name, told me how when he first started out on the fishing boats, he'd been a young lad, and had managed to get himself employed as an 'apprentice stoker'.

In those days, a lot of the trawlers that went to sea were steam powered, so a stoker's job was an enviable position. Not only did it seem to ensure that you'd have a job for life, but also, as a stoker, you spent most of your time below deck, (though he did tell me that he was expected to help out with the general fishing duties sometimes,) instead of having to brave the weather handling trawl nets, or gutting the catch in arctic conditions up on deck.

Jack told me that these trawlers were very basic, being designed for getting to and from the fishing grounds and doing the job once they got there, and that modern conveniences were conspicuous by their absence. Bunks were limited and were usually shared by one man off duty while one man was on. Washing was very basic, being done over a bucket of water on deck, and toilets just didn't exist at all.

Of course, people still had to 'go' but being all men together, they'd usually just 'go over the side' into the sea. There were times though, when the sea was so rough that it wouldn't be very nice to even go up on deck, let alone to drop your pants once you got there. It was times like this when visits to the boiler room by members of the crew would become more frequent.

Urinating wasn't a problem. That could be done over the side in reasonable weather, and even when times were rougher, as long as you could 'direct it' onto the deck, you were ok, because of course, the decks were being constantly 'rinsed' with sea water. By our present day standards and values, this doesn't seem at all pleasant, but that was the way life was at sea: you had to do what you could, when you could do it.

Other 'toilet functions' required a little more care, and that's when the visits to the boiler room became necessary. The method used would be that a crewman would visit the boiler room, take a shovel from where they were stacked, lay it on the floor and do what had to be done on the shovel. Then whatever was on the shovel would be thrown straight into the furnace to supplement the ship's fuel.

Nobody bothered at all when this occurred. In bad weather it happened so frequently that the guys working in the boiler room would just ignore it and carry on with their work. That was except for when the Skipper was caught short.

The Captain required a little more respect than the regular crewmen, so when he came down below and picked up a shovel, everyone would know why he was there, and so as not to be seen watching him, the entire boiler room crew, to a man, would face away, and politely wait until he'd finished.

Everyone except Jack, that is. Jack had been somewhat of a practical joker when he was younger, and he told us of the time when he looked over his shoulder and saw the Skipper with his back to the rest of them, 'doing what had to be done' on the shovel. A wicked thought came into Jack's mind, and he smiled as he waited, watching the Skipper attend to his biological needs. Then just as the Captain had finished and was 'attending to the paperwork' so to speak, Jack crept up behind him, quietly removed the fully laden shovel, and replaced it with an empty one!

He tells of how the Skipper turned, looked down and froze on the spot, how he glanced frantically around the boiler room, frowned, scratched his head and finally went back above deck, but he also told of the puzzled, almost constipated look the Captain had on his face for days afterwards.

Those Explosive Coffee Moments...

2011-07-07T10:13:00.008+01:00

In the modern office environment, with drinks vending machines appearing in our workplaces more these days, many people will take refreshment at their desk as and when required: the tea/coffee break seems to have become a thing of the past.

There was a time though when the break was a time for fellow workers to interact on a more personal, social level, whether between everyone in the office or just amongst a few, it was the time when experiences were shared and plans for more organised socialising were made. Often, people would share things that had happened to them, with the rest of the people present; this would often trigger interest or even sympathy from fellow workers, or more often than not, shared amusement.

Occasionally though, someone would come out with a revelation, so badly timed and badly placed that the rest of those present felt awkward or even shocked. Sometimes the timing would be so far off the mark, that the shock of hearing it would seriously disturb or surprise the listener; sometimes, so much so that if it unfortunately coincided with the imbibing of hot beverages, it would result in what all those who've experienced it will recognise as an 'explosive coffee moment' - When the effort of at least appearing to keep your composure becomes so difficult, that the effort of holding onto that mouthful of hot coffee at the same time becomes impossible.

Many years ago, during my early twenties, I'd often share my coffee breaks with one of my female colleagues. We'd both started a couple of years earlier as fellow trainees and had become good friends, to the extent that Mrs B (then Miss W,) and I would have regular nights out with her and her soon-to-be husband.

During one coffee break, she told me how she had borrowed one of those self-help, sexual advice books from one of her female friends, and how she and her boyfriend had read it together. Though I was a little uncomfortable with the conversation, in a 'too much information' kind of way, I listened politely as we drank our coffee.

She then went into more detail, telling me that both her and her guy had been particularly attracted to the practice outlined in the book of licking whipped cream from each other's bodies, particularly from each other's genitals.

I was getting particularly uncomfortable as I quietly listened to this, and tried to cover up my embarrassment by taking larger gulps, more frequently from my coffee cup.

Unfortunately this meant that I had a mouthful of hot coffee just as she came out with her revelation: "But we didn't have any whipped cream, so we used salmon paste!"

BANG! - An explosive coffee moment!

The Bonfire Wars

2011-07-05T11:45:00.004+01:00

For the first 11 years, 2 months and 12 days of my life I lived in the same house: that's except for the three separate weeks I spent in caravans on seaside holidays, and for the extended hospital stay I had with meningitis when I was two.

It was more common in those days for mothers to give birth at home, so I was born in the front bedroom of the Victorian two-up, two-down that my parents had lived in since they'd married six years earlier. Eventually in June 1969 the entire area was demolished as part of a slum clearance program and we moved to the semi where my mum still lives today, and where my father lived for the remainder of his life. The novelty of separate bedrooms for my sister and I, and of actually having a garden was nothing compared to the luxury of an inside toilet, and a bath that didn't hang inside the back yard wall until we dragged it inside to fill it, once or twice per week.

So I experienced my early childhood in a very different environment to my later years, and in totally different circumstances to how my own children experienced theirs; The area where I was born was rough: there's no denying it, but my parents made up for that by doing their best to make the inside of our home a contrast to the miserable exterior. My sister and I had everything money could buy; unfortunately the money there to buy it was always limited, as my dad worked in various jobs throughout his working life as a milkman, an unskilled factory worker and a window cleaner, so though my parents often only just managed to 'make ends meet,' their own willingness to go without so that their children wouldn't have to made me, as an innocent child, feel as though I was a lot better off than I really was at the time. I remember being always well fed, well dressed and well loved.

The house I lived in was on one side of Salmon Terrace a cul-de-sac off Liverpool Street. Older relatives told me that the houses on Salmon Terrace had once had little 'postage-stamp' sized front gardens, similar to the houses on other terraces off the street, but during the Second World War, they'd all been commandeered and dug up to build a communal bomb shelter. I'd always wished we'd had a garden to play in, but also used to think that the shelter, had it still been there, would have been an incredible place to play. Unfortunately, it had been filled in and covered with tarmac at the end of the war, so Salmon Terrace was left with a large hard-surfaced communal area, which I suppose was as good a place as any to play.

As a small child, of course, most of my time was spent indoors, but as I have a sister who's five years older than me, I was also allowed to play outside the house in the terrace, where my sister and I were under standing orders to play only where my mum could keep an eye on us from the front window of the house. Somehow though, at times, I managed to slip away from my sister, and to momentarily avoid parental attention, and being a little bit adventurous I'd slip around the corner of the terrace onto the main street to join some of the other kids playing there. Of course at this age, I never dared to break the number one rule: DON'T CROSS THE ROAD!

I don't remember what age I was when the rules were relaxed, But by nine or ten I knew the entire area like the back of my hand: every local street, every 'back passageway' that ran between and behind the blocks of houses, and most of all, the areas where most of our play took place: the 'bombed buildings'. These were areas that had been badly damaged by air raids during World War Two and had subsequently been demolished and cleared. Redeveloping places like this wasn't economically viable at the time, so while the surviving residents were rehoused miles away, often in 'temporary' prefabricated homes (which survived well into the 1970s) the sites of their previous homes were left as a reminder of what wartime life had been like when our parents had themselves been children.

There were two such areas in Liverpool Street. There was the area known by the local kids as Bommies which was where a block of three or four houses had once stood next to the local grocers shop. Further down the street was the area called Field. To my young eyes this place was massive and looking back on it, I think it must have once been the site of about ten blocks of houses. Field was the central point of Liverpool Street's juvenile community. We played football there, we floated homemade boats in the enormous puddles after the rain had filled many of the deep hollows, and best of all, Field was the site of the annual Liverpool Street bonfire.

November the fifth was important to us in those days. The kids from every street in the area would organize their own bonfire on a piece of waste land. Now I'm not talking about little bonfires here: these were massive! It's a fact, that in those days, when local people decided to buy new furniture, they'd do it in October, because they knew they had a way of disposing of their old table, old couch or chairs just by mentioning to the local kids that they could have the wood for their bonfire. It would be the sole purpose of kids in the street during October to gather whatever combustible items they could and build up the street bonfire pile, until it towered way over our heads.

Rivalries would develop between the local kids at this time of year. Friendships at school with kids from neighbouring streets would be put on hold. They were the enemy because it was their aim to build a bigger and better bonfire than ours. Our spare hours at that time of year would be spent partly gathering items for the bonfire, but we'd also guard our bonfire from the attempts of those criminals from neighbouring streets to steal our wood. Of course it was only right that we organised raids on their bonfires too.

In the 'Bonfire War' Liverpool Street's closest neighbour, biggest rival and worst enemy was Brighton Street, the next street along. From the bottom of our terrace, if we got a 'leg-up' to scramble up the wall dividing it from a similar cul-de-sac on Brighton Street, we could actually see the site of their bonfire, over on the opposite side of their road. This surveillance was necessary on a regular basis: if their hoard was noticeably smaller than ours, then we'd know to expect raids; if however they had a lot more than us, then it gave us a chance to have a crafty look at what we could possibly pillage.

It was October, 1967. I was nearly ten and as a result was looked upon by the younger kids as a Bonfire War veteran. The lads, who were supposed to be guarding our pile, had let us down and we'd lost a lot of stuff to Brighton Street recently. We'd even had a raid from Manchester Street, the enemy on our opposite frontier, who'd run off with a lot of smaller items: dining chairs, bedside cabinets, etc. It had been a surprise attack: loads of Manchester Street kids had swooped down and grabbed the most easily portable items they could get their hands on and then retreated before the alarm could be raised. Small items would normally have been too high up on the pile for them to get a hold of, but we'd been having trouble stopping our bonfire from falling over for a couple of days, ever since the last raid from Brighton Street had resulted in the loss of two supporting armchairs and a mattress we'd used for bracing. This was a dirty, underhanded trick, since they'd attacked when they knew there'd be nobody about. We suspected that they were actually using 'big lads' since the raid had occurred well after every respectable eleven year old's bedtime.

It was a Thursday night, and I was due on bonfire guard duty after I'd had my tea. Returning from the front door, Mum dropped a bundle on the settee. The paper man had just brought our weekly delivery of TV Times and Radio Times (you needed both in those days,) Weekly News (for Mum,) and 'Dandy' and 'Beano' (supposedly for my sister and I, but Dad would often grab them first.) I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and noticed I had about twenty minutes before I was on guard duty. Dad was reading one of the comics and my sister Karen had grabbed the other, so I picked up the TV times and went straight to the page for Saturday teatime.

'Batman' was the cult TV programme at the time and every week, episodes on Saturday and Sunday ('same bat-time, same bat-channel') featured one particular villain. Originally, Batman had dealt with The Riddler, The Joker and The Penguin on a three or four weekly cycle, (with occasional appearances by Catwoman,) but just recently a few new enemies had been introduced, like King Tut, Egghead and Ma Parker and they didn't really appeal as much. But this Saturday, The Joker was back! It occurred to me that as soon as word got about that there was a good Batman adventure this weekend, the streets would be devoid of kids, for at least half an hour on Saturday and Sunday. I worked out a plan in my head and rushed out for guard duty and to explain it to my colleagues!

I should have realised when I told them, that there was a flaw in my plan; I should have noticed that their eyes lit up when I informed them of the Joker's return, a lot more than they did when I explained my plan to raid Brighton Street on Sunday teatime. I was as keen to see Batman on the TV as the rest of them, but it seemed that they weren't as ready as I was to sacrifice this privilege for the sake of our bonfire.

So when Sunday teatime came, only me and two seven year olds turned up. If our mission was to be successful, we couldn't afford to wait, so after persuading one of the youngsters that his plastic sword wouldn't be much use at all, we armed ourselves with stout bits of wood, (being the leader, I got the heavy chair leg,) and started the short journey up Liverpool Street and along Witty Street to the corner of Brighton Street.

It was late October, so by now it was getting quite dark. It was as much about glory now as it was about gathering wood, so the plan was to creep up quietly to their bonfire site, then grab the largest, most prestigious items we could find and leg it back to the safety of our own street. I told the youngsters to stay hidden in the shadows of the fish and chip shop whilst I surveyed the terrain. It was almost a clear run from the bonfire site back to this corner, and then we'd be home free if we avoided the road works we'd just passed on Witty Street.

We crept along Brighton Street with all the skill of commandos, (or even with the stealth of ninjas, had we known what ninjas were at the time.) We reached the Brighton Street bonfire after a few minutes and straight away I spotted one of our armchairs. It was providing strategic support to a couple of wooden pallets that had all manner of small items piled on them, and removing it would have brought the whole lot done, probably accompanied by enough noise to bring kids rushing from nearby houses. Then I spotted our mattress; at least it looked like our mattress: all old mattresses looked very similar, but I thought I recognised the pattern of stains on it. I cautiously lifted one corner of it to see if it could be safely removed, though a mattress lacked a little of the 'trophy' value I was hoping for. I wasn't sure if my daring raid was in itself enough to give me kudos among my friends, unless the prize was also enough to impress.

As I lifted the mattress, I spotted the sofa underneath it. It was standing flat on the ground, and didn't seem to be supporting any other weight on it. I instructed my two troops to hold the mattress clear, then I grabbed the sofa and carefully though firmly began to drag it out from the core of the bonfire. I was surprised at how easily and quietly it cleared the pile, and realised that it had something to do with the castors it was on. I considered whether we could push it along, and even toyed with the idea of riding it triumphantly as my lackeys pushed me home, but realised that probably wouldn't be a very good idea. I looked it over. It had only one arm, and was open at the other end. Looking back, I suppose it could have actually been a chaise longue, but it's very unlikely that anyone in Brighton Street would have ever had such exotic furniture; it's more likely that the arm at the other end had been pulled off. I instructed my fellow raiders to take the open end of the sofa, and throwing my chair leg onto the seat cushion I lifted the end with the arm, and we began to run as quickly and as quietly as we could up the street toward the Witty Street chippy.

Whether I'd lost track of time, or whether Batman hadn't been particularly good this week I don't know, but we were suddenly met with shouts behind us as the Brighton Street 'gang' emerged from houses all along the street as we passed. Fear helped me find that little bit extra from somewhere and I ran faster than I thought I possibly could. I could hear the little lads on the other end of the sofa audibly crying and screaming in terror by now, over the shouts and threats coming from our pursuers. We were level with the last block of houses before the corner, when suddenly the door to a house in front of us opened and a lad of about sixteen emerged and stood before us snarling. I ran full force into him and knocked him over sideways before he even knew what had hit him. We continued our mad dash toward freedom.

Suddenly we slowed down. Even though I was still running as fast as I could, it seemed like I was dragging the whole sofa along the street by myself now. My suspicions were confirmed as my two compatriots passed me; they ran screaming around the corner into Witty Street, one empty handed, one carrying a plastic sword. I stopped and turned. The enemy were still a fair distance away, and the lad I'd knocked over hadn't even got up yet. I wasn't going to surrender my prize so I picked up my chair leg from the sofa's seat cushion and prepared to face the enemy. I counted them: six was it? Maybe seven? No, eight of them. Most of them bigger than me and all tooled up with various makeshift weapons. They stopped momentarily as they drew level with the sixteen year old who'd got to his feet by now. He was looking really, really angry as he grabbed a piece of wood from one of the others, then gave it back as he spotted one of the other lads holding one he preferred: this one had a large nail sticking out of it.

I wasn't going to face this lot alone, so I had a decision to make: should I cut my losses and retreat empty handed, or should I risk being caught and try to still escape with my booty. I remembered the castors on the sofa then, and without thinking I dropped my weapon, and raced around to the other end of the sofa and began to push. It moved, almost as quickly as we'd been able to carry it earlier. I don't know exactly how I negotiated the corner, but somehow I managed it, though I seemed to have gone down the kerb and was now pushing my prize along the road on Witty Street rather than along the pavement.

I heard the sounds as my pursuers turned the corner themselves. I estimated the distance they were behind me, and realised that since they were running that bit quicker they'd probably catch me before I'd reached safety. I began to wish that the street wasn't so flat, that if I'd been travelling downhill, I could have ridden the sofa on its castors like a cart. I was exhausted and had got to the point where I knew I would have to stop soon. The thought popped into my mind that at least I had something to lie down on for a brief rest before my pursuers fell on me. I felt ashamed as tears welled in my eyes, though I realise now that this was less a show of emotion and more a reaction to terror. I was a young lad of under ten, and I had no idea what older kids and teenagers were capable of, to the extent that right at that specific moment I seriously believed that I was going to die.

I realised that the sofa had gathered some momentum by now, and decided that rather than just stop, I'd try to use that momentum to go a little further. So it was that exhausted, I dived head first onto it as it rolled. My weight going forward seemed to add to its momentum and my speed increased as I rode the sofa on my belly. For a brief moment I began to believe that I might actually escape after all. That was until I hit the road works on Witty Street.

Any safety barriers that might have once surrounded the shallow hole in the road had long since disappeared (Well, roadworks barriers were all made of wood in those days, so they were probably hiding inside somebody's bonfire pile, possibly ours,) so one edge of the sofa tipped sideways into the hole as the castors struck it, sending me rolling off onto the road toward the pavement. This was it then, they had me. I remember finding a little consolation in the thought that at least I'd come so far that after they'd killed me, they'd have the trouble of carrying their sofa all the way back before the police arrived. I glanced toward it, hoping that the hole was deep enough to cause them some trouble in recovering it, but though tilted to one side in the shallow hole, it was still easily retrievable. Then two things happened at once, though what I saw registered before what I heard: The gang of lads from Brighton Street had stopped and were backing away slowly, and then one by one they broke off from the group, turned and ran. I could hear it now: The calls of the horde of Liverpool Street lads charging up from behind toward me, every one of them ready to defend me (or more likely to defend the sofa.)

The Battle of Witty Street had only just begun and already, victory was ours.

We recovered the sofa from the roadworks with three of its four castors still attached, and it was pushed the rest of the way back to our bonfire. I'd cut my leg when I fell, so I got to ride on it. Some kids had run ahead and spread the news of what had happened, so from the corner of Witty Street all the way down to Field, I heard the cheers of the kids from our street. I was a hero, if only for a short time: I was the hero of the hour, and I can tell you, I milked it for all it was worth.

My Favourite Poem And How I Found It

2011-06-26T15:27:00.012+01:00

"Oh, these are the voices of the past, links of a broken chain, wings that can bear me back to times which cannot come again, yet God forbid that I should lose the echoes that remain."

Back at the end of October and the beginning of November, 1975, as part of my A level biology course, I spent a week at Flatford Mill Field Studies Centre near East Bergholt in Suffolk.

Flatford Mill was once the family home of the British painter John Constable, and the surrounding area provided subjects for many of his landscape paintings.

While there, I slept in Willie Lott's Cottage, which features prominently in what is probably Constable's most famous painting: 'The Haywain' (It's on the left of the picture there, look.)

During my stay there, I slept in a ground floor bedroom, but outside in the hallway, there was an open area under the stairs, where we discovered someone had once carved the verse above, into the wood of the staircase.

We could tell by the state of the carved wood that it had been there for a long time, but it was still just readable, so we all found it fascinating, and having never heard it before I remembered it, and in later years tried to find out where it originated from.

As it turned out, the staircase predated the carving by about three hundred years. The cottage (and presumably, the staircase inside it,) had been around since the 16th century, but the verse was from a poem written by the 19th century poet Adelaide Anne Proctor (1825-1864).

Proctor was apparently Queen Victoria's favourite poet as well as being a great friend of Charles Dickens. As well as writing poetry, she also worked with unemployed women and the homeless, and died of tuberculosis aged 38.

I discovered that the verse carved under the stairs in the cottage was the last verse of the poem that follows. It's main theme is one of nostalgia, and of past memories and reflection on what once was.

As I've become older, the theme has become more relevent to me and it has become my favourite poem.
Here it is:

"VOICES OF THE PAST" by Adelaide Anne Proctor

You wonder that my tears should flow in listening to that simple strain,

That those unskilful sounds should fill my soul with joy and pain,

How can you tell what thoughts it stirs within my heart again?

You wonder why that common phrase, so all unmeaning to your ear,

Should stay me in my merriest mood and thrill my soul to hear,

How can you tell what ancient charm has made me hold it dear?

You marvel that I turn away from all those flowers so fair and bright,

And gaze at this poor herb 'till tears arise and dim my sight,

You cannot tell how every leaf breathes of a past delight.

You smile to see me turn and speak with one whose converse you despise,

You do not see the dreams of old that with his voice arise,

How can you tell what links have made him sacred to my eyes?

Oh, these are the voices of the past, links of a broken chain,

Wings that can bear me back to times which cannot come again,

Yet God forbid that I should lose the echoes that remain.

An Apologue For Today

2011-06-26T10:36:00.007+01:00

While you sleep, Today appears quietly at the window of your room.

He creeps toward your bed, a little tentatively at first. His presence disturbs the birds outside, causing them to stir you with their clamorous song. Then with an uncalled for urgency and an unearned familiarity, as if he presumes to already know you , he shakes you awake by shining light across your face.

Your eyes are open now and you see this newcomer before you. You know him for who he is and look upon him with apprehension. You always expected to meet him, but now he's here, you find your feelings are mixed.

(Suspicion) You've known so many like him in the past, so will this newcomer prove as disappointing as all the ones you've known before that bore the name Today?

(Hope) Could this Today turn out to be one of the good ones? Could he be one not unlike those scarce few that you still remember fondly?

(Resignation) You know in your heart that good or bad, this new friend or new adversary will soon be gone, that he'll be subject to the same caprice that all of his predecessors were, that despite how he appears to be now, he is just as fickle as all those that came before him, and that he will desert you when he must.

Time goes by and you get to know him. In certain ways you're pleased. You're more than relieved to find that he's an improvement on his most recent antecedents; but as your acquaintance with him develops, as you grow closer and more relaxed in his company, so your expectations rise, and you begin to anticipate more from him than you first dared to hope he'd deliver.

As you should have expected though, what he proffers and bestows, falls well short of what was promised; but still Today hasn't turned out too bad: you've had better than him but you've known many that were much worse.

He may not be the today you'd have chosen for yourself, but now you've got to know him, you're comfortable with him, and he takes your mind off the anxiety you usually feel about whatever may come in the future.

Then as the sun begins to sink in the west, and you start to wonder where all the time went, how the hours have flown by, you see him gazing apprehensively toward the east. As much as you wish you could stay awake to spend more time with him, as his unease increases, so too does your weariness.

Eventually you fall asleep knowing that Today will be gone when you awaken, for you know that in looking east, he has spotted Tomorrow on the horizon, and by the time the sun rises again, he'll have scurried off to hide in yesterday.

Something for the Weekend

2011-06-25T14:59:00.006+01:00

Don't worry, I'm not offering you anything strange or embarrassing. I just thought if lazing around in the sun/sheltering from the rain (delete where not applicable) this weekend gets a little boring, or if you're in danger of entering a vegetative state from watching too much boring tennis, that you might like something to exercise the grey matter a little. So I thought I'd let you all try out a little logic puzzle. Here goes.

Win a Million Quid (No! not really - it's just pretend)

Imagine that you're offered a chance to win a million pounds, by using your intelligence. How lovely that would be, eh? But of course, like all chances to win, there's a gamble: You must gamble your own stake and risk losing it.

The good news though, is that you're allowed to determine how large or how small the stake you gamble is. You can gamble as little as a pound, or as much as you like, if you think that will improve your chances of winning. In effect, you determine your own odds. That can't be bad, can it?

You're shown to the entrance to a room, and informed that inside the room is a million pounds, all in pound coins, laid out flat on a number of tables.

It's explained that almost all of the coins are lying tails side up; however, somewhere within the million coins are twenty that are lying heads up.

The room inside is too dark to see which side up the coins are lying, but still light enough for you to see the coins.

You are not allowed to touch the coins yourself, but will be assigned a servant who will be at your disposal; he'll follow your instructions to the letter (but only as far as the rules allow.)

On entering the room, what you have to do first is to decide what your stake will be, and instruct your servant to move that number of pound coins onto a separate 'stake' table.

You can select whichever coins he moves from whichever of the other tables you choose, and each one selected will be moved so that it lies with the same side facing up as it originally did.

Once your stake has been isolated on its own table, you can then instruct your servant to turn any number of coins over, either from the coins on the stake table or from any of the other tables.

When you've done this and you're happy that you're ready, then comes the reckoning.

If the stake table contains EXACTLY the same number of heads-up coins as the remainder of the fortune left on the other tables does, then the entire million pounds is all yours to take away, (though I hope you'll at least buy your unpaid servant a drink from your winnings.)

If however there is even as much as one heads-up coin difference, you have to match the number of coins on the stake table from your own pocket and forfeit that amount.

So what do you think? Could you win a million?

If you can work out the method of winning please don't put it in the comments below, because you'll spoil it for everyone else; instead email your solution with your name, to bartieblog@KirklandsIT.karoo.co.uk and I'll shower you with praise in the comments myself (or I can cast scorn upon you if you've got it wrong, but if I do that I won't do it publicly in the comments, I'll do it by return email, with the correct solution.) or if you give up you can just email me at the same address, for the solution if you like.

Patience of Poppies

2011-06-17T13:38:00.016+01:00

When the world was young, plants covered the Earth and grew wherever they would; The land was green; trees had mastery then and forests covered much of the earth. In these forests and in the fields and plains between them, other plants prospered too.

With each year that passed, the plants would prepare to bring forth their young; they'd stand tall and proud displaying their glory in the masses of flowers that burst forth when the season was right, and later they would spill their seeds upon the land all around them so that their offspring could thrive and grow.

Then man came, with his desire to master the land and to claim it for himself. He cut down the trees, he chose which crops to grow to suit his own purposes, and he strove to cover the fields only with the plants that he desired.

The other plants saw what man was doing, and knew that their fate was sealed. Many did nothing and man cut them down and destroyed them; even their seeds were lost; they died and were no more.

Others in their arrogance, knew that man saw their beauty and believed that he would turn from destroying them. For a time, man saw them, enjoyed their colours and the scent of their flowers and stayed his hand from cutting them down, but as man's desire for more land increased, even these were destroyed.

Others retreated into the ground with their seeds and prepared to fight man for the land when the time was right; but their patience wasn't sufficient: every year their seeds would cause new plants to spring forth again, determined to share the land with the plants of man, but man would always cut them down, uproot them or destroy them with poison.

One plant looked upon the arrogance of the others and as it's delicate, fragile crepe-like petals fluttered in the wind, it knew that man could not be swayed by its beauty alone. It saw the other plants retreat into the earth and knew it's own life would soon end, so it decided to save its children. It sent its own seeds down into the earth, not to emerge again soon like the other plants though; it sent its children deeper, and prepared them to wait, for as long as they needed to: for one year or for ten, or for decades if necessary. It knew it couldn't fight man, so it buried its children down away from the land of man, until the day might come when man's attention had turned elsewhere, or even for the day when man was no more.

But man's desire for land didn't only cause him to kill the plants; the animals that served no purpose for him were soon destoyed too. He even fought with other men who desired the same land, and as the years went by, man began to wage war amongst his own kind in the very fields he'd once seized from the plants.

Above the ground man fought against his fellow man and killed his own kind, his brothers. Thousands upon thousands died, but still it went on; For a time it seemed there might never be an end to it, and in the fields where they fought, even man's own chosen plants were destroyed as the very land itself was turned and broken, until there was nothing remaining but the earth itself, until even the men who had fought upon it had died in their millions.

Deep in the earth, the sleeping seeds sensed the upheaval of the earth above them; they sensed that man was waging war with himself, and after a time, when things had calmed and a new silence had fallen, they thought that perhaps the time had finally come for them to emerge.

So it was that the seeds that had slept for so long, finally brought forth plants that struggled up through the broken earth, and emerged into the sunlight above. They grew proud and strong again, without man there to destroy them, and as the seasons changed, for the first time in decades their bright proud flowers were seen again.

But man had not gone away. He stood nearby and looked over the fields where the plants now bloomed. He gazed at the sea of flowers before him, and their beauty overcame him. But more than that, the sight of something so beautiful, emerging from somewhere that had seen such destruction, overwhelmed him. The thought that anything at all could have survived the battles that had raged there amazed him.

The red of the petals reminded him of the blood of his fallen comrades who had been killed, and of the blood of his enemies who he had killed, and he saw the flowers that grew there as a symbol of the war that had been and of the peace that was to come.

He smiled through his tears, and he let the poppies grow there undisturbed, for a time at least.

Dedicated to my friend Kitty, (who loves poppies.)

A Radio Comedy Classic

2011-06-11T09:22:00.010+01:00

Much of the best radio comedy from the fifties and sixties is now lost, since nobody had the foresight to keep permanent recordings of many of the original broadcasts.

There are some exceptions to this: some of the original 'Goon Show' broadcasts still exist, though unfortunately many more of them are lost forever, except in the form of scripts; re-creations and 'cover' performances never seem to have the same appeal as the originals though.

Tony Hancock died back in 1968, so his talent is unfortunately lost to us forever, but at the height of his immense popularity, someone had the excellent idea of releasing the best of his radio broadcasts on records for the public to buy. Many of these records still exist and have now been made available online, by their owners, and often by the BBC themselves.

This is from one such record. The audio quality isn't too good, but you should be ok with your volume up high. Just in case, I've included a full transcript after the clip, so you can follow any parts you might miss.

The sketch also features the late Kenneth Williams, and you might recognise other voices, amongst them Bill Kerr, Hattie Jacques and Sid James. Every one of these were excellent comedy performers in their own right but sadly, only Bill Kerr is still with us. Enjoy a sample of the work of Hancock and Williams here:

Hancock: Wing commander Hancock reporting sir.
Kerr: Ah, come in Hancock. You know why I've sent for you?
Hancock: I can guess sir. P64?
Kerr: P64 it is. According to specifications it should top well over two thousand miles an hour.
Hancock: Jolly good show.
Kerr: But quite frankly, no-one knows exactly what will happen when you get up there. All we know is, that at that speed metal does peculiar things. Once you've gone through the heat barrier, metal can melt into jelly.
Hancock: What flavour sir?
Kerr: Same, same old Hancock. Does nothing frighten you?
Hancock: Nothing in the air, sir.
Kerr: Well now, here's a scale model of the aircraft. As you can see, the design is quite revolutionary.No wings. Vertical take off. You lie flat on your stomach in the cockpit, and you'll notice it's approximately half the size of anything else we have.
Hancock: Ah! I'm a bit worried about that sir.
Kerr: Ah, so you are human after all. What's worrying you eh?
Hancock: Will there be enough room for my moustache?
Kerr: Hmm, you're a cool customer: no different now as you were when you destroyed the German airforce in '43.
Hancock: A little older sir?
Kerr: Good luck Hancock. England is proud of you. It's in the hanger waiting for you. Everything depends on you.
Hancock: If.. if anything should go wrong sir... promise me, I...
Kerr: Ah, anything Hancock.
Hancock: Don't abandon the project sir. Keep 'em flying. Melt all me medals down and build another one. There are plenty of other good chaps waiting to have a crack. Goodbye sir.
Kerr: Goodbye Hancock. Sergeant James!
James: Sir.
Kerr: Show Wing Commander Hancock to his plane.
James: Sir.

James: Don't forget it's a vertical take off sir.
Hancock: I know. Don't bother to open the hanger door. I'll go out through the fanlight.

Hancock: H for Hancock calling control tower. Levelling out at eighteen hundred miles per hour. Everything going to plan. Fine plane, tell the designer chappie.
Jacques: Control tower, control tower to Hancock. We're worried about possible sabotage. The mechanic who was working on your aircraft is missing. Think you should come down. Land immediately. LAND IMMEDIATELY.
Hancock: Nonsense. She's going beautifully. I don't know a thing about any mechanic. Taking her up to two thousand, four hundred miles an hour.
Hancock: Hancock to control tower. Something strange is happening. There's a peculiar knocking sound on the windscreen. It seems to be coming from outside the plane. I'm slowing down to eighteen hundred miles an hour. Will slide cockpit open to see what's wrong.
Williams: Good evening. It ain't 'alf cold out 'ere. Can I come in?
Hancock: What's that?
Williams: I say it ain't 'alf cold out 'ere. Can I come in?
Hancock: There's no room. Get off!
Williams: Oh, don't be like that. Move over: I'll sit on your lap.
Hancock: Get your boot off me joystick. Do you mind? Who are you?
Williams: Me? I'm the mechanic. I was still working on the tail when you took off. Ooh honestly, it frightened the life out of me. I mean I wasn't expecting it. I was just sitting there, singing happily to meself, and then the next minute: Whoosh! I was up 'ere.
Hancock: Sit still. I can't control the plane with you jumping about.
Williams: Well, I'm only trying to get comfortable. All these knobs and levers 'ere, sticking in me. 'Ere, what's this one?
Hancock: DON'T TOUCH IT!
(BANG!)
Williams: Ooh! It's the ejector seat. Come back! Where are you?
Hancock: I'm out 'ere, sitting on the tail!
Williams: Ooh no, stop messin' about! No, come back in. It's no use sittin' out there sulkin'. I can't drive the thing.
Hancock: Well go into a dive, so I can slide down!
Williams: All right! I'll try this lever
(BANG!)
Williams: Hello! You might have told me there was another ejector seat.
Hancock: All right, well we're both out here. Now what do we do?
Williams: Ooh look. We're going up.
Hancock: Well what do you expect when we're both sitting on the tail?
Williams: Isn't life funny? In the paper this morning, the stars said it was my lucky day.
Hancock: If we keep going up at this rate, you'll be able to tell 'em they're wrong!
Williams: No well, come on. We've had a little skylark and a little giggle. Let's go down.
Hancock: How can we go down? Look, we're finished. The engine's falling off.
Williams: Oh that's all right. They've got plenty more down there.
Hancock: We want one up 'ere. We're going into a dive. We're out of control. We can't get back to the cabin. Give me a piece of string.
Williams: Ooh, I'm scared. Ooh!
Hancock: Don't panic man! Don't panic. This is the RAF. Where's that stiff upper lip?
Williams: It's above this loose flabby chin.
Hancock: Give me that string. I'll get you down safely.

Kerr: How did you manage it, sitting on the tail like that?
Hancock: Quite simple: I took a piece of string and lassoed the controls and steered it home. Lucky I was a cox at Oxford eh?
Kerr: Ah, brilliant work Hancock. You've won another medal. You'll go down in history as the most courageous and most decorated pilot in the RAF
(Fades)

Don Quixote's Quest

2011-06-06T16:15:00.010+01:00

I'm really getting into these wordle generated word clouds. (Go to www.wordle.net to generate your own from blog posts or from sampled text.)

Today, June 6th is the anniversary of the death in 2001 of the musical theatre lyricist, Joe Darion. His most famous achievement was that he penned the lyrics for 'Man of La Mancha,' the musical that told the twin tales of Don Quixote and of his creator Miguel de Cervantes.

The most well known, and also the most inspiring & rousing song from that musical is 'The Impossible Dream (The Quest)' You can hear a rendition of it and see it performed, elsewhere on my blog *here* but as a tribute to Joe Darion, here's a word cloud created from his lyrics.

For those that are interested, the full lyrics of the song follow:

To dream the impossible dream,

To fight the unbeatable foe,

To bear with unbearable sorrow,

To run where the brave dare not go,

To right the unrightable wrong,

To love, pure and chaste from afar,

To try, when your arms are too weary,

To reach the unreachable star.

This is my quest, to follow that star,

No matter how hopeless, no matter how far,

To fight for the right, without question or pause,

To be willing to march into Hell for a heavenly cause.

And I know if I'll only be true to this glorious quest,

That my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I'm laid to my rest.

And the world will be better for this,

That one man, scorned and covered with scars,

Still strove with his last ounce of courage,

To reach the unreachable star.

Inspiring stuff!

Thoughts...

2011-06-06T14:43:00.003+01:00

(acknowledgement to www.wordle.net)

ON THIS DAY - June 2nd

2011-06-02T08:48:00.008+01:00

A date in the calendar and the significant things that happened on that day.

Go to June 1st

Birthdays: Thomas Hardy, writer (1840); Edward Elgar, composer (1857); Johnny Weissmuller, swimmer and actor (1904); Johnny Speight, TV writer (1920); Milo O'Shea, actor (1926); Charlie Watts, musician (1941); Marvin Hamlisch, composer and musician (1944); Keith Allen, actor (1953).

Only a year ago, on June 2nd 2010, Derrick Bird, a 52 year old, self-employed taxi driver, shot his twin brother David dead in Lamplugh, Cumbria in the UK. He then travelled to Frizington, where he shot and killed Kevin Commons, 60, his family's solicitor.

A few minutes after 10:30 that morning, police received reports of another shooting incident close by a taxi rank in Whitehaven where Darren Rewcastle, a 43 year old taxi driver had been shot dead. It emerged that Rewcastle was known to Bird, and Bird was later confirmed as the killer.

Whatever Bird's motives in these killings, it appeared that they had been planned. What happened next though seemed to be senseless random actions. Shots were heard as further shooting incidents occurred and residents of Whitehaven, Egremont and Seascale were advised to stay indoors as Bird drove through the towns firing, apparently at random.

Susan Hughes, 57 and Kenneth Fishburn, 71 were shot and killed on the streets at Egremont.

In the village of Wilton, Jennifer Jackson, 68 and her husband James, 67 were both shot dead.

Isaac Dixon, a 65 year old mole catcher, was killed in a field at Carleton.

Former rugby league player Garry Purdham, 31 was shot dead outside a pub near Gosforth.

In Seascale, three more people, 23 year old Jamie Clark, Michael Pike, who was 64 and Jane Robinson, 66 were all killed bringing the death toll up to 12.

At 12:30pm police confirmed that there had been a number of killings, and that they were attempting to locate a suspect. Bird abandoned his car in the village of Boot, and the pursuit continued on foot.

At 2pm it was announced that a body and a rifle had been found in a wooded area nearby. It seemed that Bird himself was his 13th victim.

Derrick Bird was a licensed firearm holder. He'd held a shotgun certificate since 1974 which had been regularly renewed, and in 2007 he'd obtained a firearms certificate for a rifle.

Whatever Bird's motives were, they died with him, but various suggestions have been made:

Unconfirmed suggestions that he had previously sought local hospital help for his fragile mental state
Speculation that he had been involved in a family dispute over his dead father's will
He was subject of an ongoing investigation by HMRC for tax evasion, and was worried about the outcome

Jamie Read, the local MP for Copeland said the incident was "the blackest day in our community's history"

ON THIS DAY - June 1st

2011-06-01T00:07:00.008+01:00

A series of posts, looking at specific days and the significant and meaningful events that happened on that date.

Go to May 31st

Go to June 2nd

Birthdays: John Masefield, novelist and poet (1878); Frank Whittle, engineer and inventor (1907); Marilyn Monroe, actress (1926); Bob Monkhouse, comedian (1928); Morgan Freeman, actor (1937); Colleen McCullough, novelist (1937); Ronnie Wood, musician (1947); June Louise Laurenson, supernurse (1971); Heidi Klum, model (1973).

In Bosnia, June 1st 1993 was the third day of Kurban Bajram (Festival of Sacrifice,) one of the most important muslim festivals of the year. Of course, 1993 happened to be during the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina, but the Sarajevo suburb of Dobrinja was supposed to be within a United Nations 'safe area' and though shelling was known to still occur there despite the UN 'protection' the local football pitch was surrounded by high-rise buildings and so was thought to be protected from artillery attacks. A youth football match was arranged there as part of the morning festivities with approximately 200 people attending as spectators.

At around 10.20am, the centre of the pitch was hit by a mortar fired from Serb-held positions. The spectators ran to give assistance to those people involved in the first impact and another mortar hit moments later. In total 13 people died in the double mortar attack, including four children; another 133 people were wounded. Because of the obvious difficulty in shelling such a protected space in a built-up area, it's generally accepted nowadays that the football game was deliberately targeted.

In the aftermath of the attack, the Bosnian president Alija Izetbegovic described the UN safe areas as "no more than death traps."

No direct action was taken against the Bosnian Serbs by UN forces as a result of this attack, but the UK foreign secretary at the time, Douglas Hurd said he hoped there would be a UN Security Council resolution on secure havens in Bosnia imminently.

Two years later, only 50 miles to the east, the 'safe haven' of Srebrenica was overrun by the Bosnian Serb forces of General Ratko Mladic. Thousands of Bosnian Muslim men and boys were separated from their families and slaughtered, despite the presence of Dutch UN troops.

Recently, Mladic was finally captured and yesterday (31st May 2011) he was flown to the Hague tribunal in the Netherlands, where he'll finally face charges for genocide and for his other atrocities. However, the international community as a whole, and specifically the United Nations must also be held partly responsible if only by their inaction at the time.

ON THIS DAY - May 31st

2011-05-31T11:54:00.012+01:00

In this series of posts, which will perhaps be regular, perhaps occasional, I'll look at a specific day as it occurs, and try to find a meaningful event, or something significant that happened on that day.

Go to June 1st

Birthdays: Walt Whitman, poet (1819); Heath Robinson, cartoonist (1872); Denholm Elliott, actor (1922); Clint Eastwood, actor, director, politician (1930); John Prescott, politician (1938); John Bonham, musician (1948); Lea Thompson, actress (1960); Brooke Shields, actress, model (1965); Colin Farrell, actor (1976).

On 31st May 1957, playright Arthur Miller was found guilty of contempt of congress for refusing to declare the names of alleged communist writers who he'd attended meetings with in New York in 1947.

The offence was said to have occurred during an investigation by the House of Representatives Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) into a 'communist conspiracy to misuse American passports'.

During the six day trial, government representatives accused Miller of having joined the Communist party in 1943, a charge that Miller denied, claiming that he had never been a party member.

Between 1947 and 1957, 320 people were barred from working in the film industry in the USA because of their alleged membership of, or sympathies with the Communist party.

Miller clearly had strong feelings about the moral, ethical and political rights of the investigations into Communist activities, the concept of McCarthyism in general and the Hollywood blacklist in particular. In 1953 he'd written a play: 'The Crucible' that dramatised the Salem witch trials of 1692/93 and which was clearly and openly an allegory to the McCarthyists' activities; it had the effect of bringing Miller to the closer attention of the HUAC.

Miller's defence in not revealing the names he was requested to was that "his conscience would not permit him to give the names of others and bring possible trouble to them". In a period when the attitude of panic and of 'selling people out to save yourself' was common, Miller's moral stand against his investigators was an example to others.

The case called into question the concept and system of congressional enquiries and their intrusion into individual rights and privileges.

Miller's lawyers took the verdict to appeal immediately and on 7 August 1958, the Washington court of appeals quashed Miller's conviction. In the following years, many more similar convictions were overturned; as a result the influence of the HUAC declined and it was eventually abolished in 1975.

This happened primarily as a result of Miller and people like him, refusing to do what they were expected to do, what they were ordered or bullied to do, or what they were made to feel obliged to do; instead Miller and his contemporaries did what they knew was right.

New Days

2011-05-29T17:53:00.007+01:00

The sunset is not for my eyes now. The fond memories it held for me are fading. Once I shared the sunset with my love: a sight for us both to bring us closer together as we watched, times before we said goodbye each night, times that left us hoping for tomorrow. But now the sun has set forever on what we once had and our new day will never dawn again.

Now my windows are covered as evening light begins to fade, and my sight averted from orange skies. When that time comes, no gazing west for me: for in looking there I would be looking back into the past. She is there: in the west and in the past too, where she always will be now.

I avoid the sunset even if I cannot avert the sunset, and as darkness begins to take hold, as I look toward the approaching night, there may well be a time of sad and solitary thoughts ahead of me, but it is ahead of me, and at least I'm looking forward.

Let the sun set for her and let her be alone with her memories if she will. For me, the dawn will still come. It can never be our dawn again, but it will be my dawn, and though my hopes will not be the same hopes they once were, they will always be my hopes, and each sunrise brings another day, not for us, but for me.