I love to watch Gilbert and Sullivan opera but I am very tired of living in one. Our very model of modern major generals live in stately homes, waited on by small armies of servants. IN ORDER TO ENTERTAIN. We do not pay them to entertain. We pay them to kill strangers. If they wish to entertain there are scores of empty civic theatres, built as an indulgence by councils with no funds left to pay for theatre companies.
Another army stands behind the Major Generals. The Ministry of Indefensible has proved time and time again it couldn't minister to a sick hamster. It buys military hardware so complex as to be unusable, with money we have not got. It currently spends thirty seven billion pounds and rising which is not even budgeted for. If I bought things I could not afford with money I had not got I would go to prison. They merely agitate for two new toys, 50 billion on aircraft carriers to fight a war which may not happen.
The frightening truth is that for future wars we won't need any costly equipment, nor warriors either. A real soldier, Richard Williams, who commanded 22 SAS Regiment, warns that the weapons of the future, which ironically are already being used by Al Queda, Somali pirates and Mexican drug cartels, are the lap top, the mobile phone and social networking websites. They are free of military teaching or experience.
"The British miitary," he says, "will always be short of enough equipment and men to be able to dominate its opponents by force alone. It can dominate the information space. It should be able to paralyse the opponents' decision making equipment via cyber attack and physical strike. He who has the best information - and denies the enemy information - wins."
And our major generals, like sheep, may safely graze.
And what of the Board of Directors of Great Britain Inc? Inc standing for Incomprehensible, one assumes. Pure Iolanthe, in which, you recall, we are governed by men who are half fairies. There is no possible doubt whatever that the Labour Party based its leadership election on "The Gondoliers" in which, you may recall, the brothers Palmieri are wrongly elected leaders of Barataria. In the present election only one wrong brother was elected with Peter Hain in the Don Alhambra Grand Inquisitor role. The MPS didn't want Ed - or Deadhead as he will be bound to be known; the constituencies didn't want him and not all that many members of the unions which did elect him are card carrying socialists. He is, it must be said, a gift for the cartoonists and I expect Rory Bremner will be sending them flowers.
Parliament's working hours are based on the Victorian Season with a long break for grouse shooting. In order to function, their Palace must be re-opened every year by an old lady in a glass hat and an evening gown and a long fur cape. She arrives by horse and cart accompanied by her hubby, the most upwardly mobile Greek since Icarus, who by his own efforts became a naval lieutenant and an admiral of the fleet by marriage. So now he is a ruler of the Queen's Navy, an even more bizarre promotion path than polishing the handles of the big front door. Pure Pinafore. They have a son,The Prince of Wails, a commonplace young man, a matter of fact young man. An out of the way young man straight out of "Patience" who talks to plants, interferes in areas where he has no knowledge and runs a holiday home with twelve fulltime gardeners.
Nor are they cheap. They cost each of us two shillings for which we have much better use and on top of that have just presented us with a an eye watering bill.Nearly £100,000 for cleaning chandeliers and £14,000 on a curtain to protect wine bottles in the Buckingham Palace cellars.Refurbishing a staff canteen and games room cost £808,000 while turning a private cinema into a State function room was £458,000Its a fulltime job being Her Genie. She is forever rubbing her lamp.
Alas,this misgovernance by MPs, whose office building groans with bars that are open 24 hours a day which explains some of their decision making which has resulted in half the world hating us. They managed it by their attempts at trickery at what has been called the Peace Conference which passeth all understanding at Versailles in 1919. Wilson, Lloyd George and Clemenceau between them wrecked Germany thus opening the way for Nazism and broke their promises to the Arab world.
UP WITH THIS I HAVE TO PUT
One of my oldest friends is the former Daily Mail columnist John Edwards. In retirement he is still fascinated by words. He sent me this:
This two-letter word in English has more meanings than any other two-letter word, and that word is 'UP.' It is listed in the dictionary as an [adv], [prep], [adj], [n] or [v].
It's easy to understand UP, meaning toward the sky or at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP? At a meeting, why does a topic come UP? Why do We speak UP, and why are the Officers UP for Election and why is time UP and why is it UP to the secretary to write UP a Report? We call UP our friends, brighten UP a room, polish UP the Silver, warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen. We Lock UP the house and Fix UP the old car.
At other times this little word has real special meaning. People stir UP trouble,
Line UP for Tickets, work UP an appetite, and think UP excuses. To be dressed is one
Thing but to be dressed UP is Special.
And this UP is confusing: A Drain must be opened UP because it is stopped UP. We Open UP a store in the morning but we close it UP at Night. We seem to be pretty mixed UP about UP!
In a desk-sized Dictionary, it takes UP almost 1/4 of the page and can add UP to about Thirty definitions. If you are UP to it, you might try building UP a list of the many ways UP is used. It will take UP a lot of your time, but if you don't give UP, you may Wind UP with a hundred or More.
When it threatens to rain, we say it is Clouding UP. When the sun comes out, we say it is clearing UP. When it rains, the earth soaks it UP. When it does not rain for awhile, things dry UP. One could go on & on, but I'll wrap It UP, for now........my time is UP!
I will shut UP.
Monday, 27 September 2010
Saturday, 25 September 2010
A TURD WORLD
I think that Cardinal was quite wrong to claim the crowds at our airports resemble a third world country. It is so much worse than that. The sight of multi-uncultured Britain at play, wrapped in swaithes of dreadful denim, fills one with loathing. A rough rule of thumb: if the hair is combed and the clothes ironed, it is foreign. It makes one wonder whether the journey from the trees to the airport foyer was worth all the trouble.
However, the sight of a patently amiable old man tootling round his adoring flock in his Immaculate Contraption does the heart good.
As a shy man, it must be agony for the Pope, but he stands in the ashes of his religion and says the right thing about the evils of his own countrymen, his fellow priests and the world that is his parish. He deserves praise even from non-members of his club.
Does he get it?
In a pig's ear. He gets a gaggle of purse-lipped harridans, a covey of self-regarding cranks complaining the Queen should not have welcomed him. We shouldn't, they say, spend a fraction on his visit of what we spend on dog food because the Vatican isn't a state within the meaning of the act.
We are living in the world of Gulliver's Travels.
As a a Buddhist Presumptive, it really has nothing to do with me but I cannot help wondering why Pope Benedict XVI is being blamed for being a catholic. He is generally regarded as one of the greatest intellects to have held that office in several centuries, a man of great philosophical scholarship, rigour and originality, as well as an accomplished writer, linguist, practical administrator and musician.
The black mark against him, but not oddly against his papal predecessor the more popular Pope John Paul II who shares the blame, is that he tried to cover up evidence of child abuse. If one spends one's life in an institution one's instinct is to protect it, even against evidence.
To enforce celibacy is to attract the sexually malajusted. Reason could resolve. But the mincing mob would rather pile imaginary faggots round his feet and set fire to him. I must say as one who spent his childhhood being groped by a teacher, as were the rest of our class, I do not sense harm done. I would have been more upset if I had been the only child in the class who wasn't.
Successive popes have been covering up shameful acts since Pope Joan, who posed as a man and had a baby on what is still known as "The Street of the Woman Pope" in Rome. A shrine to Pope Joan on the street was moved on the orders of the Vatican.
In the Middle Ages Adam of Usk writes of a ceremony where new popes sat, before the congregation, in a seat with a hole in the middle whilst a cardinal explored their private parts. Asked by the congregation, "Does he have testicles?" the examiner replies cheerfully, "He has two and they hang well." In Latin, of course.
Give the opportunity, the Catholic Church always leaps to absurdity.
In subsequent centuries the Vatican insisted the female pope was a myth. However, Peter Sandford in his illuminating book "The She Pope" published a photo of the "seda secoriara", a throne with a hole in the seat as Adam describes, which is kept in the Vatican Museum.
Pope John XXII (1316-1334) committed repeated incest upon all his illegitimate children, male and female. He was charged by 37 clergy and witnesses with fornication, adultery, incest, sodomy, simony, theft and murder. He maintained a convent-cum-brothel in Boulogne of 200 girls. He personally murdered a number of these girls and nuns during and after sexual encounters as part of satanic rituals within cathedrals and the main churches of Christianity. He has been called the most depraved criminal who ever sat on the papal throne.
The Church writes its own history. Even so, the beatification of Cardinal Newman is puzzling. The church abhors homosexuals but there is considerable doubt about Newman's sexual orientation.
Some believe Newman may have come close to the line — if not in actions, then in preference.
"It's not unreasonable to think he might have been homosexual," says the Rev. James Martin, a Jesuit priest and author of 'My Life with the Saints'. "His letters and his comments on the death of one of his close friends are quite provocative."
He asked to be buried on top of his lifelong friend Ambrose St John. When it was clear Newman was on the path to sainthood, the Catholic Church ordered the cardinal's body to be exhumed and the corpse moved to a grander resting place in Birmingham Oratory church.
"The idea of pilgrims coming to the grave and seeing John Henry Newman on the tombstone and, above him, the man he lived with for 37 years, the Rev. Ambrose St John, gave off bad vibes," wrote the Rev. Martin. It was certain to raise eyebrows, he said.
One would have thought on these grounds alone the Pope would have found favour with Stephen Fry. Not so. That hedgerow intellectual led a crowd of cranks in complaining the Vatican was not a sovereign state because it was created by Mussolini. Does that mean we should slow down Italian trains and dig up the autobahn because they are the creation of dictators? Forget Shakespeare. The good men do lives after them, surely?
It must have escaped those mighty brains that Germany and Italy were not sovereign states until the 19th century when they were created, like the Vatican, by elected Heads ofState.
Frankly, none of these messages from the past bother me. As an outsider, I am more impressed by the hundreds of priests, like my friend Father Brian, who loved their fellow man in a more conventional way. But, as I say, it's nothing to do with me. We don't even venerate the Lord Buddha. He told us not to.
WELLIE I NEVER
A documentary on the Wellington bomber reminded me of George Thomas, a Chester friend who had been a navigator in one.
Returning home from a bombing raid on which they had been badly strafed and holed, the pilot radioed the crew: "We'd better jump out before we fall out,"
My friend said it was a pleasant summer day and he enjoyed the descent. He was interested to see he was going to land in a holiday camp. In fact he landed in the camp's paddling pool. The moment it touched water the life-saving equipment moved into rescue mode. The rubber dinghy on his back inflated and turned him over. Legs in the air like an upturned tortoise, he made stately circuits of the pond. Next, the container on the dinghy opened and a purple dye spread across the pool, making it easier to spot him from the air. Then the aerial of the beacon on his chest soared into life and began the loud transmissions of a radio signal.
My friend had been too engrossed with these happenings to look about him. A rousing cheer attracted his attention and he saw the pool was ringed by a jubilant crowd who made no attempt to pull him out, so much were they enjoying the show. Eventually he scrambled onto dry land where was accosted by the manager:
"I dunno who you are," he said, "but if you can drop in like that every Saturday you are on to a fiver a week."
However, the sight of a patently amiable old man tootling round his adoring flock in his Immaculate Contraption does the heart good.
As a shy man, it must be agony for the Pope, but he stands in the ashes of his religion and says the right thing about the evils of his own countrymen, his fellow priests and the world that is his parish. He deserves praise even from non-members of his club.
Does he get it?
In a pig's ear. He gets a gaggle of purse-lipped harridans, a covey of self-regarding cranks complaining the Queen should not have welcomed him. We shouldn't, they say, spend a fraction on his visit of what we spend on dog food because the Vatican isn't a state within the meaning of the act.
We are living in the world of Gulliver's Travels.
As a a Buddhist Presumptive, it really has nothing to do with me but I cannot help wondering why Pope Benedict XVI is being blamed for being a catholic. He is generally regarded as one of the greatest intellects to have held that office in several centuries, a man of great philosophical scholarship, rigour and originality, as well as an accomplished writer, linguist, practical administrator and musician.
The black mark against him, but not oddly against his papal predecessor the more popular Pope John Paul II who shares the blame, is that he tried to cover up evidence of child abuse. If one spends one's life in an institution one's instinct is to protect it, even against evidence.
To enforce celibacy is to attract the sexually malajusted. Reason could resolve. But the mincing mob would rather pile imaginary faggots round his feet and set fire to him. I must say as one who spent his childhhood being groped by a teacher, as were the rest of our class, I do not sense harm done. I would have been more upset if I had been the only child in the class who wasn't.
Successive popes have been covering up shameful acts since Pope Joan, who posed as a man and had a baby on what is still known as "The Street of the Woman Pope" in Rome. A shrine to Pope Joan on the street was moved on the orders of the Vatican.
In the Middle Ages Adam of Usk writes of a ceremony where new popes sat, before the congregation, in a seat with a hole in the middle whilst a cardinal explored their private parts. Asked by the congregation, "Does he have testicles?" the examiner replies cheerfully, "He has two and they hang well." In Latin, of course.
Give the opportunity, the Catholic Church always leaps to absurdity.
In subsequent centuries the Vatican insisted the female pope was a myth. However, Peter Sandford in his illuminating book "The She Pope" published a photo of the "seda secoriara", a throne with a hole in the seat as Adam describes, which is kept in the Vatican Museum.
Pope John XXII (1316-1334) committed repeated incest upon all his illegitimate children, male and female. He was charged by 37 clergy and witnesses with fornication, adultery, incest, sodomy, simony, theft and murder. He maintained a convent-cum-brothel in Boulogne of 200 girls. He personally murdered a number of these girls and nuns during and after sexual encounters as part of satanic rituals within cathedrals and the main churches of Christianity. He has been called the most depraved criminal who ever sat on the papal throne.
The Church writes its own history. Even so, the beatification of Cardinal Newman is puzzling. The church abhors homosexuals but there is considerable doubt about Newman's sexual orientation.
Some believe Newman may have come close to the line — if not in actions, then in preference.
"It's not unreasonable to think he might have been homosexual," says the Rev. James Martin, a Jesuit priest and author of 'My Life with the Saints'. "His letters and his comments on the death of one of his close friends are quite provocative."
He asked to be buried on top of his lifelong friend Ambrose St John. When it was clear Newman was on the path to sainthood, the Catholic Church ordered the cardinal's body to be exhumed and the corpse moved to a grander resting place in Birmingham Oratory church.
"The idea of pilgrims coming to the grave and seeing John Henry Newman on the tombstone and, above him, the man he lived with for 37 years, the Rev. Ambrose St John, gave off bad vibes," wrote the Rev. Martin. It was certain to raise eyebrows, he said.
One would have thought on these grounds alone the Pope would have found favour with Stephen Fry. Not so. That hedgerow intellectual led a crowd of cranks in complaining the Vatican was not a sovereign state because it was created by Mussolini. Does that mean we should slow down Italian trains and dig up the autobahn because they are the creation of dictators? Forget Shakespeare. The good men do lives after them, surely?
It must have escaped those mighty brains that Germany and Italy were not sovereign states until the 19th century when they were created, like the Vatican, by elected Heads ofState.
Frankly, none of these messages from the past bother me. As an outsider, I am more impressed by the hundreds of priests, like my friend Father Brian, who loved their fellow man in a more conventional way. But, as I say, it's nothing to do with me. We don't even venerate the Lord Buddha. He told us not to.
WELLIE I NEVER
A documentary on the Wellington bomber reminded me of George Thomas, a Chester friend who had been a navigator in one.
Returning home from a bombing raid on which they had been badly strafed and holed, the pilot radioed the crew: "We'd better jump out before we fall out,"
My friend said it was a pleasant summer day and he enjoyed the descent. He was interested to see he was going to land in a holiday camp. In fact he landed in the camp's paddling pool. The moment it touched water the life-saving equipment moved into rescue mode. The rubber dinghy on his back inflated and turned him over. Legs in the air like an upturned tortoise, he made stately circuits of the pond. Next, the container on the dinghy opened and a purple dye spread across the pool, making it easier to spot him from the air. Then the aerial of the beacon on his chest soared into life and began the loud transmissions of a radio signal.
My friend had been too engrossed with these happenings to look about him. A rousing cheer attracted his attention and he saw the pool was ringed by a jubilant crowd who made no attempt to pull him out, so much were they enjoying the show. Eventually he scrambled onto dry land where was accosted by the manager:
"I dunno who you are," he said, "but if you can drop in like that every Saturday you are on to a fiver a week."
Friday, 17 September 2010
GO WITH GOD,OLD FRIEND
Remember the story I told you last week about the Priest,the Bishop, the Pope and the stolen umbrellas?
His name was Father Brian Jones and the day the new Pope arrived, he died. I must say summoning him to Head Office was coming it a bit strong. A lot of fuss over six umbrellas.
I can make that sort of tasteless quip because he would have loved it and would certainly have said something similar if I had gone first.
Indeed the first time he took the umbrella for an airing was to play golf at a municipal course with my wife. As they teed up a wild storm blew up.
"Oh heck," said Father Brian, "He has spotted the Pope's umbrella."
They drove off. It looked as though my wife had driven nearer to the pin. Along came a greensman and moved it to within a foot of Brian's ball.
"That is what I like about Him," said Brian, "He doesn't bear a grudge.
Once in Menai Bridge my car stalled as he past by. He gave me a thumbs up, waved his hands over the bonnet and it started at once.
"He is very good with cars," he told me.
There were great depths of seriousness. One Easter I invited him to mark the day on my radio programme. I thought he would be good for a laugh. No chance.
He began by saying, "We all talk glibly about crucifixion. But we never really understand what that means..." And he gave us the most horriying account of the methods of crucifixion I have ever heard,
ending: "Never forget. That is what Our Lord suffered for love of you."
Glad I didn't die before him. He threatened to come to my bedside when I was dying and just as I was nearing my last breath he would baptise me into the Catholic faith."
Father Brian had the most spectacular ordination. There were only chapels in Ruabon, the North Wales village in which he lived. So the Catholics for miles around got together and built him a church.
He was obviously designated for high office. The church sent him to Valladolid, the Spanish Theological College where the High Honchos are educated.
Father Brian would have none of that. He lived and died a Parish Priest. His parishoners loved him. The local poacher used to tie braces of pheasants, salmon and wild duck to the vestry door. He loved fine wines and was at his most sparkling at the dinner parties given by his devoted friend Dr Margaret Wood, a superlative cook who gave him a home in his retirement. He called her his Spiritual Sister and we should all have sisters like her.
I covered his ordination but we lost touch. Years later I moved to Anglesey. Visiting us, my Catholic father-in-law came back from Mass in Menai Bridge. He said, "I have just heard the most wonderful sermon ever. And the only one that included jokes. No wonder the church was packed."
Later the same week in my local pub I saw a priest surrounded by an admiring crowd who were hooting at his jokes.
"My father-in-law has told me about you," I said,
"Ah yes," said the priest, "that will be Dr Lucas." He had taken the trouble to meet the stranger. We became instant friends and have remained so for over thirty years.
When my great friend Walter Payne died in Chester, his sisters asked me to do the eulogy at his funeral but the Vicar would not hear of a lay person officiating at a funeral in his church. On the day, Father Brian marched up in his full canonicals, commandeered the pulpit and read my speech.
It was no wonder his parishoners loved him, a love which he returned fourfold.
He loved to tell stories like the one about the little boy who came for Christmas wearing his new cowboy outfit. "He marched up the aisle to the crib, pulled out his sixshooter and shot the Virgin Mary."
A succession of bishops were less enamoured. One tried to punish him by sending him to Llandidrod Wells. "The armpit of the Catholic Church," Father Brian told him, and refused to go. So the Bishop sent him to Llanwrst where he spent many happy years.
This blog ends here. I usually like to end with a funny story. Not today. I know better than to follow Father Brian.
R.I.P
His name was Father Brian Jones and the day the new Pope arrived, he died. I must say summoning him to Head Office was coming it a bit strong. A lot of fuss over six umbrellas.
I can make that sort of tasteless quip because he would have loved it and would certainly have said something similar if I had gone first.
Indeed the first time he took the umbrella for an airing was to play golf at a municipal course with my wife. As they teed up a wild storm blew up.
"Oh heck," said Father Brian, "He has spotted the Pope's umbrella."
They drove off. It looked as though my wife had driven nearer to the pin. Along came a greensman and moved it to within a foot of Brian's ball.
"That is what I like about Him," said Brian, "He doesn't bear a grudge.
Once in Menai Bridge my car stalled as he past by. He gave me a thumbs up, waved his hands over the bonnet and it started at once.
"He is very good with cars," he told me.
There were great depths of seriousness. One Easter I invited him to mark the day on my radio programme. I thought he would be good for a laugh. No chance.
He began by saying, "We all talk glibly about crucifixion. But we never really understand what that means..." And he gave us the most horriying account of the methods of crucifixion I have ever heard,
ending: "Never forget. That is what Our Lord suffered for love of you."
Glad I didn't die before him. He threatened to come to my bedside when I was dying and just as I was nearing my last breath he would baptise me into the Catholic faith."
Father Brian had the most spectacular ordination. There were only chapels in Ruabon, the North Wales village in which he lived. So the Catholics for miles around got together and built him a church.
He was obviously designated for high office. The church sent him to Valladolid, the Spanish Theological College where the High Honchos are educated.
Father Brian would have none of that. He lived and died a Parish Priest. His parishoners loved him. The local poacher used to tie braces of pheasants, salmon and wild duck to the vestry door. He loved fine wines and was at his most sparkling at the dinner parties given by his devoted friend Dr Margaret Wood, a superlative cook who gave him a home in his retirement. He called her his Spiritual Sister and we should all have sisters like her.
I covered his ordination but we lost touch. Years later I moved to Anglesey. Visiting us, my Catholic father-in-law came back from Mass in Menai Bridge. He said, "I have just heard the most wonderful sermon ever. And the only one that included jokes. No wonder the church was packed."
Later the same week in my local pub I saw a priest surrounded by an admiring crowd who were hooting at his jokes.
"My father-in-law has told me about you," I said,
"Ah yes," said the priest, "that will be Dr Lucas." He had taken the trouble to meet the stranger. We became instant friends and have remained so for over thirty years.
When my great friend Walter Payne died in Chester, his sisters asked me to do the eulogy at his funeral but the Vicar would not hear of a lay person officiating at a funeral in his church. On the day, Father Brian marched up in his full canonicals, commandeered the pulpit and read my speech.
It was no wonder his parishoners loved him, a love which he returned fourfold.
He loved to tell stories like the one about the little boy who came for Christmas wearing his new cowboy outfit. "He marched up the aisle to the crib, pulled out his sixshooter and shot the Virgin Mary."
A succession of bishops were less enamoured. One tried to punish him by sending him to Llandidrod Wells. "The armpit of the Catholic Church," Father Brian told him, and refused to go. So the Bishop sent him to Llanwrst where he spent many happy years.
This blog ends here. I usually like to end with a funny story. Not today. I know better than to follow Father Brian.
R.I.P
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
WISHING ON A STAR
I missed my chance with The Beatles. In the days when Brian Epstein's musical empire was a trestle table in his dad's Liverpool furniture store, my chum Allan Williams was their booking agent. That was in the days when they were all hair, adenoids and sweaty T-shirts. Allan was a diligent Atolycus snapping up trifles which have become a golden pension. Another pal, Gordon Vicars, appalled by their long hair, barred The Beatles from his River Park Ballroom in Chester. Had I only thought, I could have cut their hair, saved the discarded locks, collected their cigarette ends and sold them all for a handsome profit.
I spent a very enjoyable evening with the Rolling Stones when they played a Chester cinema. Trouble was their conversation on the American Civil War was so stimulating I forgot to ask for their autographs.
No souveniers either, beyond a mention in his book, of a Welsh choirboy call Aled Jones who worked for me on my radio programme. I took him on at the request of his dad, a chum of mine, as a junior reporter when his voice broke.
When I sold my picture collection Bryn Terfel was one of the interested viewers. In the Fifties my drinking companions included the American bandleaders Stan Kenton, Count Basie, Armstrong and singers like Frankie Lane and Guy Mitchell who played Manchester when restrictions on American artistes were eased.
I spent a golden morning in a suite in the Adelphi whilst Hoagy Carmichael plied me with whisky and played the piano. Didn't even keep the label of the bottle we emptied.
Not going to make the same mistake again.
I have asked The Head Ferret to get the autograph of her 12-year-old cousin and to keep her eyes open for any old broken Barbie dolls or plastic ponies.
The cousin on whom I am pinning my hopes of fortune is Isabel Suckling, a chorister at York Minster, who is the youngest ever solo classical artist in history to sign for a major record label.
At the beginning of the year Universal Music sent talent scouts round the British cathedrals to look for new stars. York put forward Isabel and the moment the scouts heard her they made an offer which would bring your eyes out like chapel hat pegs. As I write, she is promoting her debut album and rehearsing for the Classic FM Live Annual Concert at the Albert Hall on 30 September.
She was on Daybreak on ITV yjis morning and when Classic FM played the first recording on Monday the presenter forecast she would be Number 1 in the Classic chart by Christmas. On "Daybreak"that idiot Chiles (4 million quid?) had great fun with her surname "Suckling". It is of course the family name of Lord Nelson of Trafalgar, of whom he has probably never heard, from whom Isabel descends. In my day when programmes were still employing professionals a golden rule was never to mock guests)
Isabel moved to Italy with her parents and three-year-old brother Jack before she was two months old. For the next six and a half years the family lived in the depths of the Tuscan countryside, about 50 miles south of Florence. Her American father (who writes about wine) is still based there today.
Isabel started learning the piano when she was four and sang along to CDs on daily drives through the Tuscan countryside. Among them was a compilation of Anglican hymns, bought not out of religious fervour but her mother's vague feeling that the children should not grow up completely ignorant of their English heritage. From a very early age Isabel was chirruping along to the likes of "All Things Bright and Beautiful" and "Onward Christian Soldiers". The "Battle Hymn of the
Republic" was another favourite.
She seemed to pick up the words quickly, her mother told us, but it never struck her unmusical
parents that she had any particular talent for singing. Her grandmother doubted Isabel had a single musical bone in her body!
Within a year both Isabel's grandparents died, her parents separated and Isabel moved back to the UK with her mother and brother. York seemed as good a place as any in which to settle, although the family knew no one there. Isabel's piano teacher suggested she try for a scholarship at York Minster School and, to the family's astonishment, she won the most valuable girls' choral scholarship in the UK, with the church paying 80% of the school fees. Jack (who by then was too old to be a chorister) was also awarded a music scholarship at another school. He is now an accomplished pianist.
Isabel spent a year as a probationer, during which she and three other girls had daily singing lessons before school and learnt how to process and behave in services. In September 2006, at the age of eight, she became a full chorister and took to it straight away: up at 6.30am every day, generally two choir practices a day, at least four services a week, no free weekends during term time, singing through Christmas and Easter and for two weeks during the summer holidays. The girls sing in English, Latin and German; are expected to behave and perform as professionals; sight-read everything from Byrd to Britten; are unfazed by live broadcasts and visiting grandees; and most play instruments to a high standard (Isabel is currently preparing for her Grade V11 piano and cello and Grade VIII singing).
Isabel began singing short solos at the age of nine and now is often treble soloist in major works (recently, for example, in the haunting Vaughan Williams Mass in G Minor,which she has sung three times since Remembrance Sunday 2009).
Her debut album with Universal, "The Choirgirl, Isabel", comes out on November 22 under the Decca label. She has already recorded duets with Bryn Terfel and Aled Jones, who with characterstic kindness has agreed to be her mentor.
The first time I heard Aled sing was in the kitchen of my home on Anglesey. The moment he opened his mouth I felt my back hair rising because I realised I was in the presence of a God given gift. I have never felt that with any other singer until I heard Isabel on this video clip
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Choirgirl-Isabel/dp/B003ZUWCSA
THE UMBERELLA SONG
"Tens of thousands of pilgrims in Glasgow will have to get to next Thursday's event at Bellahouston Park on public transport after their private coaches were cancelled.
Umbrellas have been banned, there will be no seating provided, and pilgrims will have to stay in the pens provided ."--NEWS ITEM
A friend of mine, a priest, took his congregation to share the last Papal visit. Each priest was given an umbrella in the Papal colours. My friend was so taken with his that he didn't give it back. He was stopped by his Bishop as he sneaked off the ground.
"My son, I am ashamed of you," said the bishop. "Don't steal one. Steal six. They will think you are collecting them."
I spent a very enjoyable evening with the Rolling Stones when they played a Chester cinema. Trouble was their conversation on the American Civil War was so stimulating I forgot to ask for their autographs.
No souveniers either, beyond a mention in his book, of a Welsh choirboy call Aled Jones who worked for me on my radio programme. I took him on at the request of his dad, a chum of mine, as a junior reporter when his voice broke.
When I sold my picture collection Bryn Terfel was one of the interested viewers. In the Fifties my drinking companions included the American bandleaders Stan Kenton, Count Basie, Armstrong and singers like Frankie Lane and Guy Mitchell who played Manchester when restrictions on American artistes were eased.
I spent a golden morning in a suite in the Adelphi whilst Hoagy Carmichael plied me with whisky and played the piano. Didn't even keep the label of the bottle we emptied.
Not going to make the same mistake again.
I have asked The Head Ferret to get the autograph of her 12-year-old cousin and to keep her eyes open for any old broken Barbie dolls or plastic ponies.
The cousin on whom I am pinning my hopes of fortune is Isabel Suckling, a chorister at York Minster, who is the youngest ever solo classical artist in history to sign for a major record label.
At the beginning of the year Universal Music sent talent scouts round the British cathedrals to look for new stars. York put forward Isabel and the moment the scouts heard her they made an offer which would bring your eyes out like chapel hat pegs. As I write, she is promoting her debut album and rehearsing for the Classic FM Live Annual Concert at the Albert Hall on 30 September.
She was on Daybreak on ITV yjis morning and when Classic FM played the first recording on Monday the presenter forecast she would be Number 1 in the Classic chart by Christmas. On "Daybreak"that idiot Chiles (4 million quid?) had great fun with her surname "Suckling". It is of course the family name of Lord Nelson of Trafalgar, of whom he has probably never heard, from whom Isabel descends. In my day when programmes were still employing professionals a golden rule was never to mock guests)
Isabel moved to Italy with her parents and three-year-old brother Jack before she was two months old. For the next six and a half years the family lived in the depths of the Tuscan countryside, about 50 miles south of Florence. Her American father (who writes about wine) is still based there today.
Isabel started learning the piano when she was four and sang along to CDs on daily drives through the Tuscan countryside. Among them was a compilation of Anglican hymns, bought not out of religious fervour but her mother's vague feeling that the children should not grow up completely ignorant of their English heritage. From a very early age Isabel was chirruping along to the likes of "All Things Bright and Beautiful" and "Onward Christian Soldiers". The "Battle Hymn of the
Republic" was another favourite.
She seemed to pick up the words quickly, her mother told us, but it never struck her unmusical
parents that she had any particular talent for singing. Her grandmother doubted Isabel had a single musical bone in her body!
Within a year both Isabel's grandparents died, her parents separated and Isabel moved back to the UK with her mother and brother. York seemed as good a place as any in which to settle, although the family knew no one there. Isabel's piano teacher suggested she try for a scholarship at York Minster School and, to the family's astonishment, she won the most valuable girls' choral scholarship in the UK, with the church paying 80% of the school fees. Jack (who by then was too old to be a chorister) was also awarded a music scholarship at another school. He is now an accomplished pianist.
Isabel spent a year as a probationer, during which she and three other girls had daily singing lessons before school and learnt how to process and behave in services. In September 2006, at the age of eight, she became a full chorister and took to it straight away: up at 6.30am every day, generally two choir practices a day, at least four services a week, no free weekends during term time, singing through Christmas and Easter and for two weeks during the summer holidays. The girls sing in English, Latin and German; are expected to behave and perform as professionals; sight-read everything from Byrd to Britten; are unfazed by live broadcasts and visiting grandees; and most play instruments to a high standard (Isabel is currently preparing for her Grade V11 piano and cello and Grade VIII singing).
Isabel began singing short solos at the age of nine and now is often treble soloist in major works (recently, for example, in the haunting Vaughan Williams Mass in G Minor,which she has sung three times since Remembrance Sunday 2009).
Her debut album with Universal, "The Choirgirl, Isabel", comes out on November 22 under the Decca label. She has already recorded duets with Bryn Terfel and Aled Jones, who with characterstic kindness has agreed to be her mentor.
The first time I heard Aled sing was in the kitchen of my home on Anglesey. The moment he opened his mouth I felt my back hair rising because I realised I was in the presence of a God given gift. I have never felt that with any other singer until I heard Isabel on this video clip
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Choirgirl-Isabel/dp/B003ZUWCSA
THE UMBERELLA SONG
"Tens of thousands of pilgrims in Glasgow will have to get to next Thursday's event at Bellahouston Park on public transport after their private coaches were cancelled.
Umbrellas have been banned, there will be no seating provided, and pilgrims will have to stay in the pens provided ."--NEWS ITEM
A friend of mine, a priest, took his congregation to share the last Papal visit. Each priest was given an umbrella in the Papal colours. My friend was so taken with his that he didn't give it back. He was stopped by his Bishop as he sneaked off the ground.
"My son, I am ashamed of you," said the bishop. "Don't steal one. Steal six. They will think you are collecting them."
Saturday, 11 September 2010
A BETRAYAL TOO FAR
You are 18 and so fit your body squeaks. Your muscles ripple under taut skin; you are a crack shot and you can carry 100lbs of kit for miles; your eyes shine with purpose. A grateful country gladly spends one million pounds bringing you to your peak. You have a loving family, or perhaps no family at all, but you are not lonely. You have your regiment, your ship or your squadron. Truly a band of brothers who would die for each other and too often do.
Thanks to the finest medical skills, you know that there is a greater chance than in any previous war that you will be brought back from the gates of death. You do not mind when your government sends you to war for reasons that would hardly provoke arguments between neighbours. You hardly allow yourself to imagine mutilation but even here there is room for hope. Your GOC has ruled that however badly you are wounded the armed services will be your home. It is little remarked in civilian circles but in the services it is possibly the most humane action in history.
After the Armada had been defeated, the navy reduced its fleets and hundreds of sailors were thrown on the street. I had an ancestor who was a Marine Corporal on HMS Arab at Trafalgar. He was killed and so was spared the empty years as a beggar when most of the navy's ships were mothballed after the war. Charles II is the only monarch who has appreciated the needs of old servicemen. He founded the Chelsea Pensioners which replicates the uniformed service life that is so important for their self esteem.
With the GOC's decision we sought to emulate this humane act. The Service, the wounded thought, would still be home when the sticks of dynamite exploded at the roadside. Even though muscles are shattered, limbs disintegrate and the pain that will be there for the rest of life is all too evident, life begins its daily routine.
Sadly, despite its promises, the government sees the wounded in the cushy jobs units have invented for them. It sees the millions that the public has given to Help the Heroes and the British Legion and it has a brilliant idea.
It will kick out the maimed to be cared for in the future by those noble charities.
A leaked document, Management of Army Personnel who are Medically Unfit for Service, says five per cent of the Army is no longer fit for combat. It says the least able 1,500 will go first, with another 750 a year following.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1309297/Betrayal-heroes-Army-force-injured-recruit-new-soldiers.html#ixzz0yk8uA123
I was ready to welcome a Coalition Government because I believe in coalitions. I do not care if Parliament houses more representatives of the third sex than there are daisies in a meadow. The simple truth is that a goverment which betrays its young loses the right for respect.
This government is happy to spend millions on a referendum about voting, though understandably fewer of us than ever vote. More millions are ring fenced so that we can go on helping foreigners. Fifty million will be spent on Trident. For a fraction of that cost it could increase the military establishment, thus ensuring its wounded heroes would keep their homes and be protected from the horrors of civilian life.
I will continue to give a quarter of my pension to charities because I will not be a party to this shabby device and I will certainly post this blog to my MP. May I suggest you contact yours whilst this infamous suggestion is still in the "try it on" stage?
It may be wise to point out that the Sultan of Dubai (a state which is on the verge of bankruptcy and will no doubt soon qualify for aid) is locked in mortal combat with a Russian oligarch to own the biggest multi-million private yacht. The Sultan proposes to add a private beach to the stern of his yacht. The £300,000 million Oligarch's Yacht is already the size of two football pitches.
NONE FOR THE ROAD
My attitude to people who buy bottles of water for purposes other than calming whisky can be judged by spelling Evian backwards.
I had great difficulty in becoming a teetotaller. Perhaps that is why I tire of reading those articles by recovering alcoholics which fill the Sunday papers. A recovering alcoholic in my book is someone who is getting over a hangover. I have spilt more drink down my shirt than most of these pious people have swallowed. The chap for me is he who takes antabuse tablets to see how many he can swallow before drink makes him sick.
I remember an interview I had with a Dr Madden of the Deva Clinic in Chester. He was one of Britain’s great authorities on the sauce and its abuse.
“What do you drink?” he said.
“What have you got?” I asked
“How much do you drink?” he demanded.
“How much have you got?” I countered cunningly.
“Do you find you reach for a drink in moments of stress?”
“ No,” I replied firmly.
“A good sign,“ he remarked.
“Not really. I have usually already got one in my hand,” I said.
“I have just described to you the classic pattern of the alcoholic,“ he told me.
“You have just described everyone I know,” I said.
The best head waiter in history was my friend Jimmy Godwin who left the Blossoms Hotel in Chester in high dudgeon when he was asked to slice a Stilton cheese . As everyone but a barbarian knows, Stilton should be scooped.
Jimmy had a heart attack and when the doctor asked him what he drank he said gin and tonic. "That's what's doing it," said the doctor. So Jimmy gave it up. He changed to whisky and tonic and had another heart attack. “I know what’s doing it,“ he told the doctor. “It’s the tonic!”
Us drunks all know that you can choose not to drink if you don’t want to, whatever proselitising alcoholics tell you. I preferred being drunk to being sober, though I was only an alcoholic between 6 pm and 8 pm.
The advantages of sobriety? I have just emerged blinking from a depression that turned the world into grey mist. Vast quantities of whisky dulled the pain when I was dropped by BBC Wales for the crime of being English; sorrows were eased when I was forced to sell my dogs, my library with its collection of 18th century first editions and my paintings, gifts from leading Welsh artists. It even eased the pain when my favourite dog, Amy, my bloodhound, died of a stress related disease.
In my life I have been in a military prison, unhappily married (the second one has been a joy, but we've only been together for forty years so it may be a mite early to say). I have been sacked more times than a potato harvest.
A contemporary tells me he is depressed to realise how few Christmases he has left. With me, that knowledge acts as a consolation. At the end of the month a new lump is being examined. My doctor puts a third cancer as an even bet. I think about it a lot and I think of Damon Runyon's column "Why me?" when he was diagnosed with throat cancer and I approve of his conclusion "Why Not?".
The Daily Mail’s take on the Wayne Rooney affair:
Miss Wood, 23, a university lecturer’s daughter, and Miss Thompson, 21, the privately-educated child of a wealthy oil company executive, have turned out to be flag-bearers for the celebrity-mad, lascivious culture that has consumed the nation.
And at the bottom of the piece?
Have you got a story on a celebrity? Call the Daily Mail showbusiness desk on 0207 938 6364 or 0207 938 6683.
Thanks to the finest medical skills, you know that there is a greater chance than in any previous war that you will be brought back from the gates of death. You do not mind when your government sends you to war for reasons that would hardly provoke arguments between neighbours. You hardly allow yourself to imagine mutilation but even here there is room for hope. Your GOC has ruled that however badly you are wounded the armed services will be your home. It is little remarked in civilian circles but in the services it is possibly the most humane action in history.
After the Armada had been defeated, the navy reduced its fleets and hundreds of sailors were thrown on the street. I had an ancestor who was a Marine Corporal on HMS Arab at Trafalgar. He was killed and so was spared the empty years as a beggar when most of the navy's ships were mothballed after the war. Charles II is the only monarch who has appreciated the needs of old servicemen. He founded the Chelsea Pensioners which replicates the uniformed service life that is so important for their self esteem.
With the GOC's decision we sought to emulate this humane act. The Service, the wounded thought, would still be home when the sticks of dynamite exploded at the roadside. Even though muscles are shattered, limbs disintegrate and the pain that will be there for the rest of life is all too evident, life begins its daily routine.
Sadly, despite its promises, the government sees the wounded in the cushy jobs units have invented for them. It sees the millions that the public has given to Help the Heroes and the British Legion and it has a brilliant idea.
It will kick out the maimed to be cared for in the future by those noble charities.
A leaked document, Management of Army Personnel who are Medically Unfit for Service, says five per cent of the Army is no longer fit for combat. It says the least able 1,500 will go first, with another 750 a year following.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1309297/Betrayal-heroes-Army-force-injured-recruit-new-soldiers.html#ixzz0yk8uA123
I was ready to welcome a Coalition Government because I believe in coalitions. I do not care if Parliament houses more representatives of the third sex than there are daisies in a meadow. The simple truth is that a goverment which betrays its young loses the right for respect.
This government is happy to spend millions on a referendum about voting, though understandably fewer of us than ever vote. More millions are ring fenced so that we can go on helping foreigners. Fifty million will be spent on Trident. For a fraction of that cost it could increase the military establishment, thus ensuring its wounded heroes would keep their homes and be protected from the horrors of civilian life.
I will continue to give a quarter of my pension to charities because I will not be a party to this shabby device and I will certainly post this blog to my MP. May I suggest you contact yours whilst this infamous suggestion is still in the "try it on" stage?
It may be wise to point out that the Sultan of Dubai (a state which is on the verge of bankruptcy and will no doubt soon qualify for aid) is locked in mortal combat with a Russian oligarch to own the biggest multi-million private yacht. The Sultan proposes to add a private beach to the stern of his yacht. The £300,000 million Oligarch's Yacht is already the size of two football pitches.
NONE FOR THE ROAD
My attitude to people who buy bottles of water for purposes other than calming whisky can be judged by spelling Evian backwards.
I had great difficulty in becoming a teetotaller. Perhaps that is why I tire of reading those articles by recovering alcoholics which fill the Sunday papers. A recovering alcoholic in my book is someone who is getting over a hangover. I have spilt more drink down my shirt than most of these pious people have swallowed. The chap for me is he who takes antabuse tablets to see how many he can swallow before drink makes him sick.
I remember an interview I had with a Dr Madden of the Deva Clinic in Chester. He was one of Britain’s great authorities on the sauce and its abuse.
“What do you drink?” he said.
“What have you got?” I asked
“How much do you drink?” he demanded.
“How much have you got?” I countered cunningly.
“Do you find you reach for a drink in moments of stress?”
“ No,” I replied firmly.
“A good sign,“ he remarked.
“Not really. I have usually already got one in my hand,” I said.
“I have just described to you the classic pattern of the alcoholic,“ he told me.
“You have just described everyone I know,” I said.
The best head waiter in history was my friend Jimmy Godwin who left the Blossoms Hotel in Chester in high dudgeon when he was asked to slice a Stilton cheese . As everyone but a barbarian knows, Stilton should be scooped.
Jimmy had a heart attack and when the doctor asked him what he drank he said gin and tonic. "That's what's doing it," said the doctor. So Jimmy gave it up. He changed to whisky and tonic and had another heart attack. “I know what’s doing it,“ he told the doctor. “It’s the tonic!”
Us drunks all know that you can choose not to drink if you don’t want to, whatever proselitising alcoholics tell you. I preferred being drunk to being sober, though I was only an alcoholic between 6 pm and 8 pm.
The advantages of sobriety? I have just emerged blinking from a depression that turned the world into grey mist. Vast quantities of whisky dulled the pain when I was dropped by BBC Wales for the crime of being English; sorrows were eased when I was forced to sell my dogs, my library with its collection of 18th century first editions and my paintings, gifts from leading Welsh artists. It even eased the pain when my favourite dog, Amy, my bloodhound, died of a stress related disease.
In my life I have been in a military prison, unhappily married (the second one has been a joy, but we've only been together for forty years so it may be a mite early to say). I have been sacked more times than a potato harvest.
A contemporary tells me he is depressed to realise how few Christmases he has left. With me, that knowledge acts as a consolation. At the end of the month a new lump is being examined. My doctor puts a third cancer as an even bet. I think about it a lot and I think of Damon Runyon's column "Why me?" when he was diagnosed with throat cancer and I approve of his conclusion "Why Not?".
The Daily Mail’s take on the Wayne Rooney affair:
Miss Wood, 23, a university lecturer’s daughter, and Miss Thompson, 21, the privately-educated child of a wealthy oil company executive, have turned out to be flag-bearers for the celebrity-mad, lascivious culture that has consumed the nation.
And at the bottom of the piece?
Have you got a story on a celebrity? Call the Daily Mail showbusiness desk on 0207 938 6364 or 0207 938 6683.
Friday, 3 September 2010
THE PEACE THAT PASSES ALL MISUNDERSTANDING
Arab humour reached its apogee when Wilson Kepple and Betty toured the music halls with their hilarious "sand dance" and I was delighted when a friend sent me a clip from YouTube. He also sent a routine by Jackie Mason, a Rabbi who I believe to be the funniest man on the planet.
This week Jews and Arabs premiered a new theatrical enterprise. A farce called"Peace Talks".
This latest attempt of World Theatre is unlikely to succeed. Hammas, the Arab equivalent of the IRA, didn't bother to apply for an audition. President Obama hasn't got the theatrical genius of Blair who brought the IRA to the Peace Table by legerdermain of a high order. Top terrorists got top jobs in the Ulster Government; sinecure election to Westminster without irksome attendance; terrorists were freed from prison; wholesale murders wiped off history's page. Even subsidies for dead terrorists all but succeeded.
.
It is to be hoped that someone persuades Obama to read "The Balfour Declaration. The origins of the Arab Israeli Conflict" by Jonathan Schneer. So far as I am aware, this is the first attempt at a complete investigation of the sleight of hand by Welsh wizard Lloyd George, of whom a cabinet colleague said, "He would leave anyone in the lurch anywhere if he thought it suited his purpose." He did not declare an interest in Israel alrhough his family law firm acted for the Zionists. Despite Lord Balfour's offer of a homeland for the Jews, Lloyd George subsequently offered it to the Ottoman Empire, the current occupiers, in return for a promise to join the Allies against Germany. Although a trety existed to split the Ottoman Empire between France and Britain he offered it to the Arabs
Schneer writes:
"Chaim Weizmann, the leading spokesman for Zionism in Britain, a Russian-born chemist, began to solicit support among the British soon after he settled in Manchester in 1904. He could hardly speak English in those days: his first contacts with British officials were conducted in French...., acting as if he commanded an almost omnipotent power: world Jewry."
The British believed he did.
"Obviously there was no “Jewish power” controlling world affairs, but Weizmann successfully pretended that the Jews were in fact turning the wheels of history. For once, the anti-Semitic image of the Jews proved useful — they were believed to be so maliciously dangerous that one would do best to acquire them as allies rather than as enemies."
Beginning in 1916, the British hoped that in exchange for their support of Zionism “the Jews” would help to finance the growing expenses of the Great War, which at that time was not going very well for Britain. More important, policy makers in the Foreign Office believed that Jews could persuade the United States to join the war. In this sense, as Schneer points out, the decision to issue the Balfour declaration “was based upon a misconception”.
But fear of the Jews was only one part of the story. The other part, which Schneer neglects to explore, was the genuine admiration many of Britain’s leaders, including Prime Minister David Lloyd George and Balfour himself, felt for the Jews and their history. These men were deeply religious Christian Zionists. They had grown up on the Bible; the Holy Land was their spiritual home. Modern Zionism, they believed, would fulfil a divine promise and resettle the Jews in the land of their ancient fathers.
Schneer expertly analyzes the passionate and fascinating controversy between non-Zionist and Zionist Jews that preceded the Balfour declaration. The Zionists spoke in the name of Jewish nationhood; their Jewish opponents denied that Jews even constituted a separate nation.
The Balfour declaration used deliberately vague language. It did specify, "Nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities."
TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION
My oldest friend recalls:
Intended to be a cheap 4 day return trip on the Portsmouth-Bilbao ferry with a few hours ashore... enough time to visit the Gugenheim. Off the boat after b/fast and a 20 min journey to town on the docks railway. Sidetracked by the other attractions, particularly the glorious food market [your influence] coffee + tapas and tobacconists. [I had a long list of needs from addicted friends who had asked for cut price baccy]. Had lost track of time 'cos hadn't bothered to adjust my watch to the time difference and guessed we should get back to the harbour.
Comforted on seeing the huge [7 decked] boat at the quayside as the train pulled in, we strolled from the station the few yards to the departures building only to swear on rounding the corner that the ground was moving away from the boat but, no, it was the boat very slowly leaving the dock! All our kit was in our cabin on board and all we had was what we were standing in... and the contraband baccy. We were the only ones to have missed it and the next sailing would be in 5 days time but the office staff were obviously well rehearsed and after a couple of phone calls told us that there was space on the boat leaving Santander in 3 hours time. The only way to get there in time was by car, a two hour journey away, so we had no alternative but to use a taxi which [of course!] just happened to be standing outside. Explaining to the driver [who could speak neither English nor Welsh] that we had no cash and would have to find a hole in the wall, he set off like someone possessed. After a journey from hell we arrived in Santander and in the middle of hooting traffic stopped outside a bank. Just in case we might have thought of doing a runner, the taxi driver abandoned the car and stood with us until he was paid the extortionate fare. We got to the boarding gate and had to pay again the full fare for what would have been a return ticket, about £250 for both of us because we were now with a different ferry company! Although we were the last to board, Passport Control + Customs were waiting for us. The only bag I had was a small holdall but it was stuffed with the contraband baccy. The official insisted on checking it and raised both eyebrows [independently] asking, "...but you smoke all zis yourself?" [about 9 kilos!] I lamely explained that we were both heavy smokers. "... but zis is not good," he said menacingly. I guess the fact that the captain had a train to catch caused the man to thumb us through and with huge relief we got on the ship. While my companion went to shop for toiletries, my first stop was the bar and as the largest g+t was being dispensed, nonchalantly enquired "...when exactly would the boat arrive in Portsmouth?". "We don't go there, sir. Plymouth were bound for!" "But my car is in Portsmouth ..." I started, then decided it was all too much as mal de mer waved in.
When our turn came at UK Passport Control the buggers were lying in wait. As the officer looked up from my passport another two popped out from behind the screen and invited us to disappear with them. Intense grilling then for about half an hour trying to convince them that all the stuff really was for our own use and that [without a wheeze in my chest or any finger stains] I always had a fag in my mouth. Whipped with a good telling off and obviously not believed, we were eventually released.
Another hefty fare to pay at the railway for a journey back to Portsmouth, via Bristol, and frustratingly only a spit away from the Severn Bridge and sanctuary. Our belongings had been lost, the cleaning squad had, we were assured, squirrelled them away and we would have to wait for them to come back for their next shift or have them boxed up and sent on. Then another 4 hour car journey home where, a couple of days later, a letter arrived from HM Customs and Excise telling me that although excused on this occasion, my particulars and the details of my transgression had been noted and if ever I put a foot over the Severn Bridge again, they would surely get me and duff me up properly! "Bugger that" I thought, and now never go further than the shops.
The Editor; I cannot beat that but my wife had a dreadful experience travelling. She was a guest at a House Party in southwest Ireland. Unwisely she elected to travel by" (T)ryon" Air. Coming home, she chaperoned a schoolboy, a friend of her hostess's son. He carried his tennis racket in his rucksack. At Kerry airport he was prevented from boarding. His racket could be used as a weapon, he was told. My wife said it did not seem likely that the entire air crew and the passengers would be intimidated by a schoolboy with a tennis racket. To no avail. They had to return to the reception desk where the offending racket was removed and put in baggage at a cost of £30. There had been no problem with it travelling from Stansted.
I am so glad that the only travelling I do is falling over. I should have listened to these ladies.................................The Truly Fascinating Aida
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZAg0lUYHHFc
CONGRATULATIONS
At 0.700hrs on Wednesday 2nd Lt I.A.McQueen became commander of 6 Platoon, B Company, The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, 5th Battalion The Royal Regiment of Scotland.
His company will shortly join 2 Para Battle Group in Afghanistan.
This week Jews and Arabs premiered a new theatrical enterprise. A farce called"Peace Talks".
This latest attempt of World Theatre is unlikely to succeed. Hammas, the Arab equivalent of the IRA, didn't bother to apply for an audition. President Obama hasn't got the theatrical genius of Blair who brought the IRA to the Peace Table by legerdermain of a high order. Top terrorists got top jobs in the Ulster Government; sinecure election to Westminster without irksome attendance; terrorists were freed from prison; wholesale murders wiped off history's page. Even subsidies for dead terrorists all but succeeded.
.
It is to be hoped that someone persuades Obama to read "The Balfour Declaration. The origins of the Arab Israeli Conflict" by Jonathan Schneer. So far as I am aware, this is the first attempt at a complete investigation of the sleight of hand by Welsh wizard Lloyd George, of whom a cabinet colleague said, "He would leave anyone in the lurch anywhere if he thought it suited his purpose." He did not declare an interest in Israel alrhough his family law firm acted for the Zionists. Despite Lord Balfour's offer of a homeland for the Jews, Lloyd George subsequently offered it to the Ottoman Empire, the current occupiers, in return for a promise to join the Allies against Germany. Although a trety existed to split the Ottoman Empire between France and Britain he offered it to the Arabs
Schneer writes:
"Chaim Weizmann, the leading spokesman for Zionism in Britain, a Russian-born chemist, began to solicit support among the British soon after he settled in Manchester in 1904. He could hardly speak English in those days: his first contacts with British officials were conducted in French...., acting as if he commanded an almost omnipotent power: world Jewry."
The British believed he did.
"Obviously there was no “Jewish power” controlling world affairs, but Weizmann successfully pretended that the Jews were in fact turning the wheels of history. For once, the anti-Semitic image of the Jews proved useful — they were believed to be so maliciously dangerous that one would do best to acquire them as allies rather than as enemies."
Beginning in 1916, the British hoped that in exchange for their support of Zionism “the Jews” would help to finance the growing expenses of the Great War, which at that time was not going very well for Britain. More important, policy makers in the Foreign Office believed that Jews could persuade the United States to join the war. In this sense, as Schneer points out, the decision to issue the Balfour declaration “was based upon a misconception”.
But fear of the Jews was only one part of the story. The other part, which Schneer neglects to explore, was the genuine admiration many of Britain’s leaders, including Prime Minister David Lloyd George and Balfour himself, felt for the Jews and their history. These men were deeply religious Christian Zionists. They had grown up on the Bible; the Holy Land was their spiritual home. Modern Zionism, they believed, would fulfil a divine promise and resettle the Jews in the land of their ancient fathers.
Schneer expertly analyzes the passionate and fascinating controversy between non-Zionist and Zionist Jews that preceded the Balfour declaration. The Zionists spoke in the name of Jewish nationhood; their Jewish opponents denied that Jews even constituted a separate nation.
The Balfour declaration used deliberately vague language. It did specify, "Nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities."
TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION
My oldest friend recalls:
Intended to be a cheap 4 day return trip on the Portsmouth-Bilbao ferry with a few hours ashore... enough time to visit the Gugenheim. Off the boat after b/fast and a 20 min journey to town on the docks railway. Sidetracked by the other attractions, particularly the glorious food market [your influence] coffee + tapas and tobacconists. [I had a long list of needs from addicted friends who had asked for cut price baccy]. Had lost track of time 'cos hadn't bothered to adjust my watch to the time difference and guessed we should get back to the harbour.
Comforted on seeing the huge [7 decked] boat at the quayside as the train pulled in, we strolled from the station the few yards to the departures building only to swear on rounding the corner that the ground was moving away from the boat but, no, it was the boat very slowly leaving the dock! All our kit was in our cabin on board and all we had was what we were standing in... and the contraband baccy. We were the only ones to have missed it and the next sailing would be in 5 days time but the office staff were obviously well rehearsed and after a couple of phone calls told us that there was space on the boat leaving Santander in 3 hours time. The only way to get there in time was by car, a two hour journey away, so we had no alternative but to use a taxi which [of course!] just happened to be standing outside. Explaining to the driver [who could speak neither English nor Welsh] that we had no cash and would have to find a hole in the wall, he set off like someone possessed. After a journey from hell we arrived in Santander and in the middle of hooting traffic stopped outside a bank. Just in case we might have thought of doing a runner, the taxi driver abandoned the car and stood with us until he was paid the extortionate fare. We got to the boarding gate and had to pay again the full fare for what would have been a return ticket, about £250 for both of us because we were now with a different ferry company! Although we were the last to board, Passport Control + Customs were waiting for us. The only bag I had was a small holdall but it was stuffed with the contraband baccy. The official insisted on checking it and raised both eyebrows [independently] asking, "...but you smoke all zis yourself?" [about 9 kilos!] I lamely explained that we were both heavy smokers. "... but zis is not good," he said menacingly. I guess the fact that the captain had a train to catch caused the man to thumb us through and with huge relief we got on the ship. While my companion went to shop for toiletries, my first stop was the bar and as the largest g+t was being dispensed, nonchalantly enquired "...when exactly would the boat arrive in Portsmouth?". "We don't go there, sir. Plymouth were bound for!" "But my car is in Portsmouth ..." I started, then decided it was all too much as mal de mer waved in.
When our turn came at UK Passport Control the buggers were lying in wait. As the officer looked up from my passport another two popped out from behind the screen and invited us to disappear with them. Intense grilling then for about half an hour trying to convince them that all the stuff really was for our own use and that [without a wheeze in my chest or any finger stains] I always had a fag in my mouth. Whipped with a good telling off and obviously not believed, we were eventually released.
Another hefty fare to pay at the railway for a journey back to Portsmouth, via Bristol, and frustratingly only a spit away from the Severn Bridge and sanctuary. Our belongings had been lost, the cleaning squad had, we were assured, squirrelled them away and we would have to wait for them to come back for their next shift or have them boxed up and sent on. Then another 4 hour car journey home where, a couple of days later, a letter arrived from HM Customs and Excise telling me that although excused on this occasion, my particulars and the details of my transgression had been noted and if ever I put a foot over the Severn Bridge again, they would surely get me and duff me up properly! "Bugger that" I thought, and now never go further than the shops.
The Editor; I cannot beat that but my wife had a dreadful experience travelling. She was a guest at a House Party in southwest Ireland. Unwisely she elected to travel by" (T)ryon" Air. Coming home, she chaperoned a schoolboy, a friend of her hostess's son. He carried his tennis racket in his rucksack. At Kerry airport he was prevented from boarding. His racket could be used as a weapon, he was told. My wife said it did not seem likely that the entire air crew and the passengers would be intimidated by a schoolboy with a tennis racket. To no avail. They had to return to the reception desk where the offending racket was removed and put in baggage at a cost of £30. There had been no problem with it travelling from Stansted.
I am so glad that the only travelling I do is falling over. I should have listened to these ladies.................................The Truly Fascinating Aida
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZAg0lUYHHFc
CONGRATULATIONS
At 0.700hrs on Wednesday 2nd Lt I.A.McQueen became commander of 6 Platoon, B Company, The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, 5th Battalion The Royal Regiment of Scotland.
His company will shortly join 2 Para Battle Group in Afghanistan.
Friday, 27 August 2010
A LAST POSTING
The two Highland Soldiers who stand guard over this column are at attention with arms reversed. On the columnar battlements a lone piper plays the poignant lament "The Flowers of the Forest", the computer is metaphorically draped in black velvet. Even the typeface is in mourning.
We do not believe in death. It is not a buddhist concept; but we still mourn the passing of three merry souls. They, more than anyone else I know, merit Dr Johnson's tribute at the passing of his friend Davy Garrick: "I am disappointed by that stroke of death, which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations and impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure."
Stanley Blenkinsop was certainly a purveyor of harmless pleasure. A news editor in the great days of the Daily Express, which he believed was the only reason for the invention of printing, he was grouchy, loyal, lovable, pedantic, funny and colourful in a quiet, English way. On his retirement he became a student, pedalling to the university every day on his cycle and being rewarded with a degree in history. Stanley, like me a tamer of teddy bears, was the only newspaperman I have ever met who wore a monocle and erected a flagpole in his garden from which the union jack flew every day he was in residence. He was an indefatigable writer of letters to the Times which were always used. Once in Paris, where he went every year to celebrate Bastille Day, he had his wallet stolen.
"What did it contain?" a gendarme asked.
"My monocle," replied Stanley, and was immediately treated with the fawning courtesy reserved for English Milords.
Stanley's closest friends were Gordon and Beatrice Amory, a couple who enjoyed the happy marriage to which we all aspire. They were the party givers from Heaven; never happier than when they were dispensing hospitality by the ladleful. Gordon organised an annual party in Newcastle for "Geordie" newspapermen which was legendary. I have known him for half a century and can never remember a time when he wasn't smiling. The smile was still there, the emails still supportive and cheery, though since Beatrice died earlier this year, the smile must have been harder to summon. I imagine it came back this week when he was reunited with her.
I thought of an inscription I once saw on a gravestone in Winchester for a widower:
"Tried a little to live without her,
Liked it not
and died."
One of their greatest blessings was Denise, a loving daughter. One's heart goes out to her in what must be a terrible time beyond imagining. Perhaps she can take some consolation now the three of them, in Sir Thomas More's words, "meet merrily in heaven". I will know at the end of the month whether I will be making it a foursome.
THE WELSH WAY OF DEATH
Dying is in its infancy in England. They take it much more seriously in rural Wales where a funeral is not considered well done if there are fewer than three services. It was a Welshman who invented cremation. When I first went there sin eaters were occasionally employed to take on the corpse's sins by eating a meal off the coffin lid. Into the coffin went a tiny ladder with which to climb to heaven.
No one tried harder to vanquish death than Sir John Pryce, 5th baronet (sheriff, 1748), of Newtown, Powys. He was a well-known eccentric, who married three times. His last lady having to insist on the removal of the embalmed corpses of her two predecessors from his bed before her marriage.
SirJohn had already, after the death of his second wife, written to the curate of Newtown, then on his deathbed, to ask him to deliver messages of affection to both his wives in Heaven and to request the second to appear to him. After the death of the third Lady Pryce, he invited a well-known faith-healer, Bridget Bostock, 'the Cheshire Pythoness’, to bring her back to life. The Pythoness undertook to heal all diseases by prayer, faith, and an embrocation of fasting spittle, which she supplied. Sir John requested her prayers for the restoration to him of his third wife, recently deceased. In a letter he asked her: ".... to offer up prayers to the throne of Grace on my behalf that He would graciously vouchsafe to raise up my dear wife, Dame Eleanor Pryce, from the Dead. If your immediate presence is indispensably necessary, pray let me know by return of the Post, that I may send you a Coach & Six & Servants to attend you here, with orders to defray your expences in a manner most suitable to your own desires. If your prayers will be as effectual at the distance you'r from me, pray signify the same in a letter directed by way of London, to, good Madam,
" Your unfortunate afflicted petitioner & humble Servant,
John Pryce.
Miss Bostock is said to have visited him, and to have exerted all her miracle-working powers, but without effect. Sir John died in somewhat straitened circumstances at Haverfordwest on 28 October 1761, whilst meditating a fourth marriage to a lady whom he described as "that dearest object of my lawful and best and purest Wordly affections..."
ODDS ENDS
My own view of death owes a great deal to the professional gamblers I used to run with in Chester. Notably Lol Shone, a character who owed much to Damon Runyon.
Another friend Tony Vyse, landlord of the Bowling Green Inn, had three fixations: Tia Maria, the first favourite on the card and a statuesque blonde receptionist at the Grovesnor Hotel of the sex whom Lol christened 'The Longhaired Bandits'.
We were in the bottom bar of the Grosvenor when. having downed a Tia Maria and backed the first favourite, he surprisingly collapsed at our feet. He died being given the Kiss of Life by the statuesque Long Haired Bandit.
"Lucky bugger," said Lol enviously. Seeing our shocked faces, he explained: "Only two weeks into the flat racing season and he's already got a treble up."
We do not believe in death. It is not a buddhist concept; but we still mourn the passing of three merry souls. They, more than anyone else I know, merit Dr Johnson's tribute at the passing of his friend Davy Garrick: "I am disappointed by that stroke of death, which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations and impoverished the public stock of harmless pleasure."
Stanley Blenkinsop was certainly a purveyor of harmless pleasure. A news editor in the great days of the Daily Express, which he believed was the only reason for the invention of printing, he was grouchy, loyal, lovable, pedantic, funny and colourful in a quiet, English way. On his retirement he became a student, pedalling to the university every day on his cycle and being rewarded with a degree in history. Stanley, like me a tamer of teddy bears, was the only newspaperman I have ever met who wore a monocle and erected a flagpole in his garden from which the union jack flew every day he was in residence. He was an indefatigable writer of letters to the Times which were always used. Once in Paris, where he went every year to celebrate Bastille Day, he had his wallet stolen.
"What did it contain?" a gendarme asked.
"My monocle," replied Stanley, and was immediately treated with the fawning courtesy reserved for English Milords.
Stanley's closest friends were Gordon and Beatrice Amory, a couple who enjoyed the happy marriage to which we all aspire. They were the party givers from Heaven; never happier than when they were dispensing hospitality by the ladleful. Gordon organised an annual party in Newcastle for "Geordie" newspapermen which was legendary. I have known him for half a century and can never remember a time when he wasn't smiling. The smile was still there, the emails still supportive and cheery, though since Beatrice died earlier this year, the smile must have been harder to summon. I imagine it came back this week when he was reunited with her.
I thought of an inscription I once saw on a gravestone in Winchester for a widower:
"Tried a little to live without her,
Liked it not
and died."
One of their greatest blessings was Denise, a loving daughter. One's heart goes out to her in what must be a terrible time beyond imagining. Perhaps she can take some consolation now the three of them, in Sir Thomas More's words, "meet merrily in heaven". I will know at the end of the month whether I will be making it a foursome.
THE WELSH WAY OF DEATH
Dying is in its infancy in England. They take it much more seriously in rural Wales where a funeral is not considered well done if there are fewer than three services. It was a Welshman who invented cremation. When I first went there sin eaters were occasionally employed to take on the corpse's sins by eating a meal off the coffin lid. Into the coffin went a tiny ladder with which to climb to heaven.
No one tried harder to vanquish death than Sir John Pryce, 5th baronet (sheriff, 1748), of Newtown, Powys. He was a well-known eccentric, who married three times. His last lady having to insist on the removal of the embalmed corpses of her two predecessors from his bed before her marriage.
SirJohn had already, after the death of his second wife, written to the curate of Newtown, then on his deathbed, to ask him to deliver messages of affection to both his wives in Heaven and to request the second to appear to him. After the death of the third Lady Pryce, he invited a well-known faith-healer, Bridget Bostock, 'the Cheshire Pythoness’, to bring her back to life. The Pythoness undertook to heal all diseases by prayer, faith, and an embrocation of fasting spittle, which she supplied. Sir John requested her prayers for the restoration to him of his third wife, recently deceased. In a letter he asked her: ".... to offer up prayers to the throne of Grace on my behalf that He would graciously vouchsafe to raise up my dear wife, Dame Eleanor Pryce, from the Dead. If your immediate presence is indispensably necessary, pray let me know by return of the Post, that I may send you a Coach & Six & Servants to attend you here, with orders to defray your expences in a manner most suitable to your own desires. If your prayers will be as effectual at the distance you'r from me, pray signify the same in a letter directed by way of London, to, good Madam,
" Your unfortunate afflicted petitioner & humble Servant,
John Pryce.
Miss Bostock is said to have visited him, and to have exerted all her miracle-working powers, but without effect. Sir John died in somewhat straitened circumstances at Haverfordwest on 28 October 1761, whilst meditating a fourth marriage to a lady whom he described as "that dearest object of my lawful and best and purest Wordly affections..."
ODDS ENDS
My own view of death owes a great deal to the professional gamblers I used to run with in Chester. Notably Lol Shone, a character who owed much to Damon Runyon.
Another friend Tony Vyse, landlord of the Bowling Green Inn, had three fixations: Tia Maria, the first favourite on the card and a statuesque blonde receptionist at the Grovesnor Hotel of the sex whom Lol christened 'The Longhaired Bandits'.
We were in the bottom bar of the Grosvenor when. having downed a Tia Maria and backed the first favourite, he surprisingly collapsed at our feet. He died being given the Kiss of Life by the statuesque Long Haired Bandit.
"Lucky bugger," said Lol enviously. Seeing our shocked faces, he explained: "Only two weeks into the flat racing season and he's already got a treble up."
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