April fool

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Ha, ha, ha… April first again, which explains why I’ve just taken a sip of coffee that tastes like seawater and bitten into a sandwich with a ham and toothpaste filling.

Oh how I love my teenage daughter’s sense of humour. Last year she removed the battery from my mobile phone – ha ha - and the year before she hid my car keys (for two hours) - and it seems she’s getting more inventive as she gets older.

All fools day – what fun!

In the early sixteenth century there was a belief that the ‘April Fool’, or ‘Aypril Foel’ as they called him, was a spirit who would visit the unwary and foolhardy on the first day of April. He was a little like the ‘Easter Bunny’ or the ‘Tooth Fairy’, a magical being who only appeared for a single day on April the first. He was something of a shady character and there was a belief that he was responsible for all manner of mischief, some light-hearted and some deeply dark.

Lunatics were often described as having been ‘Touched by the Fool’ - as were simpletons, unmarried mothers, bastards, single women, cuckolded men, hermits… in fact just about anybody who was slightly different to Mister Jack Normal.

The tradition of playing tricks on others came about wholly as a way to ward off the attention of the ‘April Fool’. This was called ‘Shrugging the Mark’. The idea was to trick your neighbour with some wilful prank, thus deflecting the attention of the Fool away from yourself and ‘Shrugging the Mark of the Fool’.

As the morning of ‘All Fools’ went by people became desperate to deflect the evil away from themselves and towards somebody else, preferably someone they didn’t like. But soon, as the clock ticked on towards midday, anyone would do – friend, cousin, father, wife, child – anybody and with any trick that could ‘Shrug the Fool’.

For those unfortunates who didn’t manage to trick someone before midday then the ‘Mark of the Fool’ would be bestowed upon them and at some time between ‘All Fools’ and ‘All Hallows’ in October, the ‘Fool’ would leave his ‘Mark’ on them.

For some living with the threat of the ‘Mark’ for seven long months was too much - many lost their minds, others drowned or hanged themselves, most turned to drink , whilst others simply ran away and were never seen again.

For the few that managed to get past ‘All Hallows’ without going mad, getting pregnant, being cuckolded, developing Alzheimer’s, or simply needing to be alone, then they would be safe until the next April first – when the ritual began again.

How very lucky for them? Maybe not - often those that survived three ‘marks’ without harm would be branded a witch and shunned or hounded from the village.

This belief continued well into the late eighteenth century and the ‘April Fool’ was a major character in the roving ‘Mummers’ players that toured the countryside from All Fools Day to May Day each year. The April Fool was instantly recognisable by his grey tailcoat, long pointed hat and the large pigs bladder - filled with lunatic’s urine - that he carried, splashing anyone who got in his way… thus marking them.

In 1787 one Noah Trueworthy of Devizes wrote thus:

‘On the stroke of twelfth did the Foole leapth into the croud crying and wailing hif heade and began a’poking and a’grabbing at the breafths and bootocks of the toun wenches and a’kickin in the cods of the knaves. With a greate cry did he a’start to fling around the piff of the lunatice overe bothe young and olde alike making them all frenzied and a'feared. And as foretold did many in the croud become afflicteth with the ague of the brain afore All Hallowf Eve.’

So - salty coffee and a toothpaste sandwich, perhaps I got off lightly. But I did have to pay by credit card at the services for a coffee because the two tenners that were in my wallet last night seemed to have magically turned into newspaper.

Perhaps it was the ‘Aypril Foel’.

I wonder what my daughter will say to her music teacher this afternoon when she opens her guitar case and finds that her instrument has no strings?

Don’t worry – she’ll get me back double next year.

What's in a name...

When we named Misty we thought she was a girl and, because she was the colour of smoke, Misty seemed the perfect name.

After we’d got over the shock that in fact Misty, our lovely little girl, was actually a boy we considered renaming her. ‘Perhaps we could call her Mister’ we said - after all it wasn’t a million miles from Misty - or maybe Mischief, she certainly seemed to get into enough of it.

Maybe a completely different name was in order? Malvolio – no… Mestopheles – definitely no… Marzipan – too silly… Marvo – plain stupid… Mysterio – I don’t think so… Major Tom – he’s a girl… Mr Tom – he’s a girl… Mac – he’s Welsh… Mr Mac – he’s a girl and she’s Welsh… Big Mac – groan… Macbeth – it’s unlucky to even say the word… so Misty it remained, nothing seemed to suit her as well as Misty.

It’s like that with a cat’s name isn’t it? It either suits or it don’t.

After much consideration (and a bit of argument and bickering) we decided that we’d stick with Misty – we also decided to keep her a girl in our heads. It wouldn’t matter, and it does seem to work okay. Misty seems happy enough with her name and seems not to care that we call her ‘Her’.

It just isn’t a problem. She comes on call to her name, even to the name variations that have developed - Gaynor often calls her ‘Misty Moo’ in a sing-song, up and down way, Holly has labelled her ‘Moo Moo’, and sometimes (when in deep conversational debate with her) I address her seriously as ‘Mister Misty’. She doesn’t seem to care, after all they’re just words to her, and not really names at all. We think that she comes to her name but it isn’t really the name she hears - she hears… warmth, food, milk, cuddles, not Misty, Misty Moo, or Moo Moo… we all know cats don’t really need names…

‘Do I look like a Misty? Fine hissing name for a cat. Do they think I’m a girl or something? And why the litter tray Misty Moo? Does Foodies think I’m a cow? Why does that whirling one call me Moo Moo? What does it mean… double cream? At least Hisfault sometimes shows a little consideration when he calls me Mister Misty - at least he recognises my gender. Not really good enough is it?

“Why can’t they use one of my real names? It wasn’t for nothing that my father called me ‘Tailswinger Toothsharp, scourge of spiders and destroyer of mice’ – so why can’t they use it? I can just imagine meal times – “Tailswinger Toothsharp… nin-nins… come on Tailswinger, come and get your foodies.” No, somehow I can’t see that working, not with Foodies.

How about the name my mother gave me? It’s a good name – Mow Mow the clever, opener of doors and maker of pictures? Even my little friend at the house over the road knows that name - she calls me Mow Mow…and if she can use it then why can’t they? I like her, she’s funny... and she tickles my tummy.

Of course there’s always my ancestral name, it’s very grand, it goes back thousands of years to the hot place where we were gods - Mau son of Bast, Cobra Killer – now that is a name. Pity that there are no Cobras around here - I’d show them! By the way… what is a Cobra? Is it a type of mouse?

When Reallynastyman left me at the farm perhaps he thought that the Cobras would get me - he won’t have known that I’m a Cobra killer. I didn’t like him. He was bad. He took me away from my mother and dumped me in that cold barn. I would have frozen my tiny whiskers off it Farmer Geronwy hadn’t found me and foodied me up. He gave me my Welsh name – Llwydaidd – I keep it for special like he told me to... March first only.

This naming business is so... well, so silly really. I don’t really mind being Misty, and even Moo Moo has a bit of a ring to it - but it isn’t anything like my REAL name, my essence name, my ‘Me’ name.

My ‘Me’ name is the name that I’ve given to myself, the name that sums me up for what I am. Only I know what it is. It’s a secret. If I were to tell you what it was I’d be in your power – you’d be able to make me do tricks, come to call, even make me go to sleep in baskets and… well, all sorts of things. So I’m not going to tell you.

I don’t want to be in your power, cats don’t like being in anyone’s power.

Tell you what… you can have three guesses. Go on guess away! No clues though!”

Yes, we all know cats don’t really need names.

Pork Chops and Assassins

Clarence: Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?

I had pork chops in a cider sauce for my dinner last night and the pungent aroma of apples together with the smell of pork got me thinking of a boar’s head with a large red apple in its mouth. From here it was a relatively small mental jump to a candlelit-banqueting hall in Renaissance Italy, where shadows dance on rich red tapestries and gaily clad jugglers deftly catch brightly spinning daggers, tossing them high into the dim recesses of the cloistered ceiling, catching them up again as they reappear through the blue-grey wood smoke. Yes…very weird.

In a dim corner a lone figure watches, his stance full of intent, his shoes pointy.

Il marchio di due is upon him.

Assassino are hard to come by these days and killing people to order isn’t really socially acceptable any more. Even so there are times when you might wish that you could bend the rules a little and remove a problem using something other than reasoned debate and logic; it’d be so much quicker and cleaner.

This type of problem solving technique wasn’t always frowned upon. Once assassination was not only popular with the criminal classes but ‘de rigeur’ in royal circles all over Europe. The Borgia family knew the value of assassination, using it as a way of removing obstacles to both political and marital conundrums, and stories of Kali worshipping Indian assassination cults abound (or at least they did in the comics that I read when I was a boy, the Magnet and the Hornet).

So how did I get from pork to assassination? No idea, but all organisations need a variety of skills to function effectively and whilst I wouldn’t generally recommend having a fully fledged assassin within an organisation (after all who knows when you might become their next mark) having an individual who isn’t really bothered about pushing the envelope a little in order to achieve the required result is usually an asset. That’s why footballers fall over and writhe in agony for no apparent reason (or so I’ve been told by Mr Quickfit), and that is why ‘Whips’ and ‘Spin Doctors’ are held in such high esteem in Westminster.

By the way the pork chops were delicious – and not a trace of poison.

Pork Chops in Cider Sauce

Preparation: 5 minutes (apart from the fresh soup)
Cooking time: 15 minutes
Serves: 4 thin people or 2 fat ones

Ingredients:
4 thick pork loin chops.
1 small onion, finely chopped.
5 or 6 fresh, chopped sage leaves.
200ml cider – swig any extra down your neck before you get caught (buy a big bottle).
295g thick celery soup – basically stock, celery and cream cooked until soft and then blitzed, or use a can as it’s much easier.
1 tbsp freshly chopped parsley.
Salt and freshly ground black pepper.

3 tbsp Hemlock - (Optional as it will kill).

Process (top hole Mr Chummmers):

1. Get a big, sharp knife and score the surface of the chops lightly on both sides, making a criss - cross pattern.
2. Swig Cider.
3. Mix the onion with the sage, then mix in the butter.
4. Swig Cider.
5. Heat a large frying pan, add the chops and fry them over a medium heat for 2 minutes then turn them and spread the onion and sage butter on top. Cover and cook for another 4 minutes, longer if you want the fat to go a bit crispy but be careful not to dry them out. I stand them on their edges and hold with tongs and drink Cider to pass the time.
6. Swig more Cider.
7. Pour the measured Cider around the edge of the pan, cover and cook for 5 minutes until the chops are tender.
8. Arrange the meat on warmed plates and keep warm.
9. Bring the pan juices to the boil, add soup, whisk well while bringing it to the boil. It should make a smooth sauce if you are sober and a lumpy one if you are not.
10. Swig more Cider.
11. Add the parsley and season if necessary.
12. Serve with sautéed potatoes, green vegetables and lots of Cider.
13. Continue drinking Cider until asleep.

Wash up in the morning.

Online resources used to help me with this blurb.

Wikipedia
i-Google – Google Translate