Farewell the month of the cabbage king...

February is such a confusing month; even the spelling of the word itself is confusing - just why that first ‘R’? It seems to me to not be a full month at all, even on a leap year. I always think of February as the runt month; 28 short, stunted, dark days, the only month with fewer than 30 days, the third, not the second, month of meteorological winter in the northern world. It’s the only month of the year that can pass without a single full moon. It’s the only month of the calendar that once every six years and twice every 11 years consecutively, either back into the past or forward into the future, will have four full 7-day weeks.

Yes, a confusing month.

A month out-of-time time, a month waiting for the rest of the year to begin, a dirty month waiting to cleanse an even dirtier season.

For a long time in the Roman world February and January didn’t exist because the Romans, rightly, considered winter to be a monthless period. December, January and February were one long gruelling battle against the cold and the elements for one very long month. At times February has been as short as 23 or 24 days; then the Julian calendar brought in leap years every fourth year, gaining February a regular 29^th day except when the leap day is cancelled which happens because… well, I guess it’s because it can.

See I told you it was a confusing month.

Yes, once every four years the 29^th day is allowed its freedom, falling upon the world for a full 24 hours before slipping back into the abyss of time to await its turn to come out again. It must be a lonely thing, the 29^th of February. Only allowed out once every four years, I wonder how it spends its time? Perhaps it plays I-spy: ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with ‘M’. Well, what else would it spy but March? Or perhaps the ‘M’ stands for marriage, as only on a leap day should a woman ever propose to a man. Mind you, if he refuses her, she becomes 12 pairs of gloves the richer to hide her ringless finger according to mediaeval law.

Personally, I wouldn’t want to be born a Leapling. A child born on the 29^th only gets to celebrate its birthday every four years, so has to borrow a birthday from February 28^th or March 1^st. Some say that Leaplings aren’t human children at all, but children of the Elven race, brought to this reality in human form from the grey world to cause mischief. In Scotland Leap Bairns are said to be cursed and up until the 1500’s were left on the moors to die.

The month of purification, St Oswold’s month, Solmonath, mud month, kale-monath, hornung, helmikuu, the month of the pearl, the month of ice and frost, the month of the cutting of wood, the month of submerging, the month of the cabbage king.

Farewell February, February farewell… see you next year.

The End...

Just what does The End really mean? No, I’m not being philosophical; I’m mainly talking films and old ones at that. But whilst I’m about it does anything ever really end? Relationships, old wounds, sunny days; even when we croak there are those that believe that we go on. In the simplest terms I guess that we all do; as we become dust and go on to feed a tree or become a very thin layer of sedimentary rock.

I wonder what will happen when the universe comes to an end; will a big THE END flicker up onto the blankness of the great cosmic cinema screen? No, stop there! This really is about films okay? If we get into that deep stuff we’ll be here all day and resolve nothing. Even that flimsy reference to the cinema at the end of the last para isn’t enough to keep us on track if we broaden things out. So, films then…

Back in the days of the great Hollywood studios a film was made, the story told, and that was that. No sequels, no prequels, no franchises; we were left wondering what happened next, our imaginations carrying on the story where the movie left off. How much better was that? A moment or two of magnificent glory and then over and out.

Perhaps it was The End appearing on the screen, and it actually meaning the end, that created those classics movies. Now don’t get me wrong, I like James Bond as much as the next man (unless he is a Bond fanatic and can recite every Bond girl in order, which would make him a bore) and I like Harry Potter even though the story is pretty much the same in every film. But back in that golden day films were written by writers to be films. Singletons, one-offs that were meant to be sequel free, stories that stood up, fresh and exciting each time, by themselves.

How disappointed I was to hear then that in 1988 a follow-up script to Casablanca, probably the ultimate stand alone movie of all time, written by Howard Koch, one of its original screenwriters, was found. If it is ever made (God forbid) its title is (wait for it) Return to Casablanca (Groan). In this sequel to the most ‘no sequel required’ movie of all time,  Ilsa and Victor Laszlo search for Rick after he joins Free French forces opposing Nazi general Erwin Rommel in North Africa. It turns out that Ilsa gave birth to a son and that Rick – not Victor Laszlo - was the father. The son, described as a ‘handsome, tough-tender young man reminiscent of his father’ is now in his 20s, and his quest to find Rick is the main storyline.

This is one film I never want to see made, it kills my imagined sequel storyline dead. It seems that Ilsa never came back to Casablanca and - in a sudden flash of realisation that happiness is more important than doing one’s duty - she and Rick never did open La Place de Rick Nightclub in Paris with Louis playing lead trombone in Sam’s Seine Swingers featuring Yvonne on vocals. No, if this sequel is ever made there’s no chance that Ugarte survived that bullet and came, along with Signor Ferrari to sell drugs to Harry Lime, who fled Vienna for Paris, on the black market. Nor will Carl and Sacha open a patisserie next door to Rick’s.

If  ‘Return To Casablanca’ is ever made I’ll know for sure what happened to Rick, Elsa, Victor, and the rest after the fog at Casablanca airport cleared and I really don’t want that. I prefer to continue to have as many sequels as my imagination allows; one will simply not do. So no sequel please; particularly as none of the original stars are available except inside my head. The time to make that film has passed; remember what was recently done to The Wizard of Oz, and who on earth could play Rick Blaine and Ilsa Laszlo’s son with conviction? Matt Damon and Johnny Depp are too old.

Let’s face it, there are certain films like Citizen Kane, African Queen, Gone with the Wind and, of course, Casablanca, that need to stay as pristine and perfect as they are. They have no need for sequels, they are one-offs, and the rest of the story should live inside our imaginations.

The End.

Smell the coffee...

I blend my own coffee from three types of bean in an old, almost antique, grinder I bought from an old coffee shop in Lincoln. I’m not talking about one of those awful places that give away tokens and free we-fi, I’m talking about a seller of coffee beans.

The smell in that shop was almost unbelievable, so rich and dark that you could almost taste the coffee in the air. They roasted their own beans on the premises and the coffee smell had seeped into the wood of the dark, coffee stained, oak counter. My grandmother took me there a couple of times when I was a boy and I waited patiently while they hand ground the beans for her coffee; so when I heard they were closing I bought one of their old grinders online.

I like my coffee strong and black with just enough bitterness to almost bring a tear to my eye. I have no time for cappuccinos, lattes, cortados, ristrettos, or any of that other nonsense. I like to taste the coffee, black coffee made from three types of beans; Nigerian beans, beans from Eastern China, and a very bitter bean that is grown along the banks of the Amazon. I roast the beans myself in a small coffee oven that I bought on ebay for less than a tenner. It’s a bit scratched and battered but it’s the real thing with an old coffee blackened tray to spread the beans out on.

It isn’t a quick process making coffee; it takes me almost three days to get enough ground coffee to make about 20 cups. My coffee is precious and I drink it from a Clarice Cliff coffee cup I bought at a car boot for 50p before car boots became collector's fairs. Alas, there is no saucer and there’s a tiny chip at the base, but it has the decadence of art deco and history. I often wonder just who may have sipped from my cup.

Yes, there’s nothing like my coffee, it tastes like shit but it's special; particularly when you paint with it.

The blog what you wrote…

You know, this blog writing malarkey isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. When I signed up at the blog writing academy I was led to believe that it would be easy. “Don’t worry,” said the Head of Blogging, “blogging is a piece of cake. All you have to do is come up with something to write about and Bob’s your uncle.”

Well, Bob is indeed my uncle, but that doesn’t help much when I run out of topics to go on about. Fortunately I have my Facebook friends, at least I have the ones that survived the cull, and they are always there to help me out. I’m not sure if they realise it but they write a lot of my blog posts for me. Some days I throw out a random phrase or thought and whatever comes back becomes the inspiration, and often the content, for that day’s post.

Now some might see this as nicking other people’s ideas, but I prefer to think of it as audience participation. A bit like that old programme ‘The Good Old Days’ where the audience were encouraged to oooh and ahhh with each utterly ubiquitous use of unduly unpredictable and always awfully alliterated acclamation Leonard Sachs moustachioed mouth uttered.

The show was recorded at the Leeds City Varieties Music Hall. The idea was to recreate the feel of an old Victorian – Edwardian music hall, something they succeeded in admirably. From 1953 – 1983 the show hosted around two thousand performers, yet despite its thirty year run there were only sixty-four programmes made.

Each week modern-day artists would dress up in period costume to recreate songs and sketches in the style of the old music hall; it was magic. Danny La Rue was a firm favourite, Roy Hudd’s cheeky chappied Max Miller a triumph, and Morcambe and Wise’s spoof of ‘Dr Jekyl and Mr Hyde’ hilarious.. Along with strongmen, trapeze artists, trick cyclists, magicians and a host of other variety acts it made for a really entertaining hour or so. Audience participation wasn’t just encouraged it was expected and eveyone turned up in period costume. Finally, at the end of each programme artistes and audience always joined together in a stirring rendition of ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’. Yes, come, come, drink my port wine with me, down at the old bull and bush.

You know, perhaps this blogging malarkey is easier than I thought. I set out to explain how hard it is to think up new blog posts, moved on to audience participation and ended up writing about an old TV show. Maybe the Head of Blogging down at the Blogging Institute was right after all.

Thanks, you’ve written my blog for me yet again.

February – wet back yard…

Sometimes things have to be done despite the weather and crows.

I was hoping for a sunny day yesterday so that I could get out into my tiny back yard and start to get it ready for spring. It didn’t happen. Instead the day was as grey and grumbley as my mood.

It’s that time of year I guess. I can feel the black crows flying, even when the skies are clear. Sometimes I’m sure I can hear the beating of their wings, their caws as the snap at each other. It’s just my mood.

Pulling on my old kagool I ventured out into the damp, telling myself, as I dragged it over my head, that gardening is better done in the rain. The soil is more likely to give up last year's dead plants in the damp and wet leaves are easier to rake than dry.

It seems that I’ve become good at lying to myself as none of this was true. The wet leaves clung, the sodden soil leaked through my gardening gloves; a thing I rarely wear. Even the simple cutting back of ivy became a battle as the snails, which to my surprise were everywhere, came out to play.

It took me a couple of hours of cutting, raking, shell crushing, digging and brooming. Pots were emptied of weeds and last years stragglers. Sickly trailing nasturtiums were put out of their misery. Empty pots were upturned. A wheelie bin full of last year’s garden produced. It looked quite tidy by the time I’d finished. Empty, but tidy and ready for whatever whim takes me this time around; sweet peas maybe, something highly scented to catch the breeze and waft.

Looking at the empty pots and beds, I tried to remember how they had looked last year and for a second I almost caught a glimpse of what had been. But then the crows battered my thoughts away. Damn the crows. Hurry along spring, I need colour.

Watch this space.

Gran's nursery rhymes...

It’s funny the things that you learn at your Grandmother’s knee; old sayings, cures for warts, recipes for disaster and rice pudding, curses and love charms. I used to love the songs and rhymes she would sing. Songs from the music hall about Kelly (k-e-double l-y), Burlington Burty, The Boy She Loved, and more nursery rhymes than you could shake a stick at. 

My Gran knew more nursery rhymes than anybody I’ve ever known.  Here comes the galloping Major - The dog is in the oven - Little Tessa chopsticks - Billy get your Daddy's axe... Yes, I loved the nursery my Gran used to sing to me.

It’s only as I’ve grown older that I’ve thought about those rhymes a little more deeply and recognised just how disturbing and macabre some of them were. Oh, she sang the Jack and Jill’s and Humpty Dumpty’s, but she also sang some rhymes that I think wouldn’t go down very well in today’s world.

Sometimes I wonder if she might have made them up herself. Well, somebody must have made each of them up once. Here’s one she used to sing to the tune of Polly Put The Kettle On. It’s called Billy Get Your Daddy’s Axe.

Billy get your daddy's axe.

Billy get your daddy's axe.

Billy get your daddy's axe.

Your sister's up the tree.

Sammy fetch the cooking pot.

Sammy fetch the cooking pot.

Sammy fetch the cooking pot.

We'll have her for our tea.

Chip chop, chip, chop.

Chop her down and never stop.

Throw her in the cooking pot.

We'll have a bonny supper.

What have the Scottish done for us?

With thanks and a passing nod (which is as good as a wink to a blind bat) to Monty Python.

A meeting is in progress to discuss Scottish independence at Number 10 Downing Street. A few MP’s from all political parties and a couple others are in attendance…

Boris: What exactly are the demands?

Dave: We're giving Jockey Salmond two days to dismantle the entire apparatus of the Scottish independence idea, and if he doesn't drop it immediately, Barroso will cut his balls off.

Boris: Cut his balls off?

Dave:  Well, at least his sporran, and send it back in tiny bits on the hour every hour. Show them we're not to be trifled with.

Nick: Also, we're demanding a ten foot tartan statue of Kenneth McKellar with his haggis hangin' out.

Hazel: What? They'll never agree to that, Dave.

Dave: That's just a bargaining counter. And of course, we point out that they bear full responsibility when we chop them out of the pound, and that we shall not submit to blackmail!

All: NO BLACKMAIL!

Dave: Just what have the Scottish ever done for us? They've bled us white, the bastards. They've taken everything we had, and not just from us, from our fathers, and from our fathers' fathers.

Ed: And from our fathers' fathers' fathers.

Dave: Yes.

Ed: And from our fathers' fathers' fathers' fathers.

Dave: Yes. All right, Ed. Don't LABOUR the point – tee-hee, get it? And what have they ever given us in return?!

Nick: Chicken Tikka Masala?

Dave: What?

Nick: Chicken Tikka Masala.

Dave: Oh. Yes, yeah. They did give us that. Uh, that's true. Yeah.

Boris: Ya, and the flushing toilet.

Hazel: Oh, yes, the flushing toilet, Dave. Remember what it used to be like at Eton?

Dave: Yes. All right. I'll grant you that Chicken Tikka Masala and the flushing toilet are two things that the Scottish have done.

Nick: And tarmac roads, the pneumatic tyre and driving on the left.

Dave: Well, yes. Obviously tarmac roads I mean, the tarmac roads go without saying, don't they? But apart from the flushing toilet, Chicken Tikka Masala, tarmac roads, the pneumatic tyre and driving on the left…

Boris: Radar, the television, microwaves, refrigeration, the telephone. Ya?

Nick: Chloroform, penicillin, the hypodermic, anaesthesia.

Hazel: Fingerprinting and colour photography.

All: Huh? Heh? Huh...

Donkey: Golf.

All: Eeee awww.

Dave: Yeah, yes. All right. Fair enough.

Boris: Whisky…

All: Oh, yes. Yeah...

Boris: Ya. Ya, that's something we'd really jolly miss, Dave, if the Scottish left. Huh?

Hazel: The Bay City Rollers and Lulu.

Nick: Dolly the sheep and hypnotism.

George Carney: Hey guys, let’s not forget all that lovely GDP generating oil.

Hazel: And winning Wimbledon and an Olympic tennis gold for Team GB, Dave.

George Carney: Yeah, they sure did help a little with that. Let's face it you limeys. They're the only ones who could.

All: Hehh, heh. Heh heh heh heh heh heh heh.

Dave: All right, but apart from the flushing toilet, Chicken Tikka Masala, tarmac, the pneumatic tyre, driving on the left, radar, the television, microwaves, refrigeration, the telephone, chloroform, penicillin, the hypodermic, anaesthesia, fingerprinting, colour photography, golf, whisky, The Bay City Rollers, Lulu, Dolly the sheep, hypnotism, a fortune in oil, a British win at Wimbledon, and a tennis gold for Team GB what have the Scottish ever done for us?

Nick: Unification and the forging of an Empire.

Dave: Oh. Unification and an Empire? Shut up!

Cue John Philip Sousa's The Liberty Bell