Today we have a story from the Wife of Bath, things start to kick off between the Friar and the Summoner, AND, because it's a bank holiday and I'm feeling generous, I'm throwing in an extra multimedia bonus feature. Hold onto your seats. And before you proceed any further, please read the disclaimer here if you haven't already.
The Wife of Bath's Tale: What can I tell you about the Wife of Bath? You may have heard of her already, because she's one of the more famous characters from the Tales. She has been married five times, and likes to talk about herself quite a lot. Also, she reminds me a lot of a friend of a friend I once knew, which probably won't help you much, but if I explain that, as nice as she was, after about five minutes with this girl you already had a little more information about her sex life than you really needed to know, it might help you to build a picture. It might not. Either way, here is the Wife of Bath's Tale:
A knight of King Arthur’s court rapes a young maiden. He’s sentenced to death, but the queen and the ladies of the court all plead for his life. (Good to see the sisterhood was alive and well in the 14th century). The king decides to let his wife decide if the knight should live or die.
The queen instructs the knight to go off and discover what it is that women desire most in the world. If he can come back within a year and a day and tell her the correct answer, she'll let him go free.
So off he goes to try and find out, but everyone tells him different things and after a year is up he prepares to return to the queen none the wiser. On the way back he stumbles over 24 dancing women and an ugly old crone. Ignoring the dancing women, who seem to serve no purpose in this story whatsoever except to act as a stark contrast to the ugly old crone and remind us just how ugly and old she really is, the knight asks the UOC (I will be abbreviating from now on, just so you know) what women really want. The UOC says she'll tell him the answer as long as he will promise to do whatever she asks. He agrees (fool!) and she tells the answer to him, but, for dramatic effect, not us.
The Knight and his UOC go and see the Queen, and he tells her that he has the answer. Aren't you glad there was all of that dramatic tension building up to this moment? The answer, he tells her, is that all women......
....wait for it........
............. want to dominate their husbands and lovers. Everyone agrees he is right (of course he's right! Forget all of this other nonsense about quality of life, the chance to have a decent career AND babies, and a long weekend in Italy or Paris a couple of times a year, what we all really want is a husband we can push around.) Then the UOC names her price: she wants the knight to marry her.
The knight isn’t happy about this at all, and tries to wheedle his way out of it, but he made a deal, and I'm sure you know as well as I do, when it comes to knights, a deal is definitely a deal. So they get married, and when they go to bed that night he moans some more about how old and ugly she is (he’s not exactly a very charming knight) and how his lineage has been besmirched, which is a word I think should be used more often than it is. The UOC, who I should now technically refer to as his wife, but I think I'll stick with UOC to avoid confusion, gives him a long old lecture about how his lineage, coming as it does from old money, is worthless, and that true nobleness and valour are what life is really all about. Then she goes on at great length to explain exactly what these things are. It's not very interesting.
Finally the UOC gives her new husband a choice – he can have her like she is, and she will stay faithful forever, or he can have her young and beautiful but the house will be filled with love rivals, and she makes no bones about the fact that she will quite probably have it off with a few of them. Tough call.
The knight can’t decide so he asks her to choose; and because she is delighted to be given control (because, remember, that is what all women want), she says he can have both. She magically becomes young and pretty, and stays faithful to him for the rest of their lives.
By the time the story ends, the Friar and the Summoner, who I didn't mention were squabbling before it began, are properly shooting evils at each other. It's the Friar's turn to tell his story next, and guess what it's about? A dodgy summoner.
The Friar's Tale: Once there was a dodgy summoner. (See?) He was so corrupt he even used prostitutes, who, interestingly, no one is offended by this time around. This must have really annoyed the Cook ( if your memory is hazy, or if you have joined us late, I kindly refer you to part 3 of this bluffer's guide for more details) but as we have already established (re earlier parentheses: ditto), he would have been a fool to complain.
The summoner is out one day drumming up business when he runs into another summoner but he is so embarrassed about being a summoner, because, the Friar delights in telling us, summoners are SO EVIL AND BAD, he pretends to be a bailiff.
The summoner and the summoner pretending to be a bailiff team up and agree to share their profits. They start swapping tips, which is basically just an excuse for the Friar to tell us all about the evil and bad things that summoners do. Then they go and try and con some money out of an innocent old woman, and failing that they try to nick her brand new frying pan, which she is reluctant to lose (it was one of the really good ones, a Le Creuset, maybe, or perhaps even a Tefal) so she calls on the devil who carries the summoner pretending to be a bailiff away to HELL. We don't really find out what happened to that other guy.
You kind of get the impression the Friar is making this story up as he goes along. The summoner retaliates with his own Tale, but I'll save that one for next time.
Meanwhile, as promised here's your long awaited Bank Holiday Bonus, which is basically a rather spectacular alternative interpretation of the Wife of Bath's Tale. Using the obvious medium: Lego.
Three things I love about this clip:
1. The opening sequence, with its very literal interpretation of a virgin losing her maidenhead. Bless their innocent little hearts.
2. The supposedly unattractive UOC has doe eyes and big lips which suggest she is more beautiful maiden than UOC in the Lego makers' minds. Having said this, she pulls off the role remarkably well.
3 Trying to work out what the hell those fairies (in this version the redundant dancing maidens are redundant dancing fairies) are singing, and what it has to do with anything else in the story
The Midas story, incidentally, is in Peter Ackroyd's retelling too, but I didn't mention it because it seemed a bit random if you ask me. As I've said before, though: who am I to criticise?
Monday, 31 May 2010
Someone really ought to have checked their job description more carefully
Can you speak Welsh?
This road sign is in Wales. You might expect that bottom bit to be Welsh for " If you are driving a big lorry carrying stuff, you can't come in. People live here, you know". That's certainly what the Swansea Council officials were hoping for when they were having the sign made and sent an e-mail to their in-house translation service to ask for some Welsh words to put on it.
It's not what the bottom half of the sign says. What the sign actually says, in Welsh, is "I am not in the office at the moment. Send any work to be translated".
People blamed the council for not checking the translation properly before going ahead and having the sign made. But what I want to know is, if your job is to translate things into Welsh, how much of an idiot do you have to be to write your out-of-office reply in Welsh, which is the one language that you can guarantee every single person seeking your services will not understand?
No one seems to have questioned this. For the record, I'm all for preserving the Welsh language, but really, it strikes me as kind of stupid.
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Sunday night music club
I heard this ages ago, loved it but forgot all about it, then heard it again the other day. I like it when that happens. Enjoy.
The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide part 4
First things first. Do you know this woman?
Constance leaves for Rome, but not before laying the mother of all guilt trips on her parents. Rather stupidly, she doesn't think to check her horoscope before she goes. Basic school-girl error. She should have done, is what we are told.
Meanwhile the Sultan's mother isn't too happy with the Sultan's plan to give up his religion. (What is it with mothers and their sons?) It's worth knowing, at this point, that the Sultan's mum is also pretty evil. In fact she is not just evil, she is (wait for it) a REPTILE WITH A WOMAN’S FACE which makes her sound well evil, in my book. She pretends to agree to go through with the baptism ceremony (oh, the old pretend to convert to another religion but don't actually go through with it trick. That old chestnut!) and pretends to be nice to her daughter-in-law to be and they all have a great feast to celebrate and every one is as jolly as can be. I am sure we have been to weddings exactly like this.
BUT, and I can't put possibly make this any simpler than Peter Ackroyd does, so I will quote him directly:
Constance's boat eventually runs aground right outside a castle on the coast of Northumberland. Several years have passed, and she really ought to have died by now, through drowning, or from starvation, or by being eaten by North Sea shark, but we learn that she survived Because Of God. (This part of the story always makes me think of the days of the week underpants in When Harry Met Sally.)*
The governor of the castle and his wife Hermengyld are Pagans, but after they meet Constance, they are so taken by her that they decide to convert to Christianity. She's just that kind of girl. Everyone loves and adores Constance and everything is rosy, until a nasty knight tries to woo her, and when she's not interested he kills Hermengyld and frames Constance for the murder. Clearly, this is a guy who doesn't handle rejection well.
The nasty knight swears he saw Constance doing the killing, but no one can believe it because they all love and adore her so much, and finally the King comes to investigate. He soon comes to love and adore Constance too, and can't believe she is guilty. But the nasty knight still insists he saw her do it, and is prepared to swear this on a holy book. Bad nasty knight.
When he tries, though, a giant hand comes out of the sky and knocks him down and then a giant voice tells him off. Everyone, including the King, is so impressed by this that they all become Christians too. The nasty Knight is put to death, and the King marries Constance. The only person who doesn't like this is Donegild, the King's Daily Mail reading mother, who doesn't think her son should be marrying a foreigner. Poor old Constance doesn't have much luck with mothers-in-law.
(I had forgotten how long this story is. We are only about half way through, and I think it might be time for another picture. I still can't find one of a reptile with a woman's face, but I have found the opposite:
)
Back to Constance. She becomes pregnant on her wedding night because (and I love this next line) even the holiest virgin must do her duty in the darkness. Before the baby is born the King has to go off to battle, so he's not around to meet his son Maurice. Or, we can assume, object to that ridiculous choice of name.
When Maurice is born, the governor writes to the King with the good news. Or at least, he tries to. Before the messenger can deliver the letter, Donegild sneakily replaces it with one telling the King that the baby is a demon which no one can stand, and now they all think Constance is a witch. Bad Donegild.
The King is heartbroken by this letter, but now he's a good forgiving Christian he writes one back saying that if this is the way things are meant to be, it's the way they're meant to be and asking the governor to take care of Constance and the baby until he gets back. But Donegild intercepts this letter too. In the new (fake) version the King isn't quite so good and forgiving, and orders Constance and the baby to be banished. Not just banished, but put back in the same boat Constance arrives in, which is missing a rudder and sail, remember and pushed out to sea.
So, much to everyone's dismay that's exactly what happens. No one is happy about it, least of all the King, who comes back to find Constance and Maurice have gone. He and the governor have words, and they soon work out what's gone on with the fake letters, and somehow, we don't quite know how, the king discovers it's all his mum's fault. So he kills her.
Constance and Maurice spend five long years bobbing around at sea, once again managing to avoid drowning and starvation and sharks, which I think by now we can safely assume is Because Of God, and then they wash up on a beach, right underneath, wouldn't you know it, another Pagan castle. The people here aren't quite so welcoming though; one of them tries to rape Constance while she is still in the boat, but before he can have his wicked way with her, he falls overboard and drowns, Because Of God. Constance sails on.
While all this had been going on, Constance's father (the Roman emperor, remember him?) had hardly been twiddling his thumbs. News had reached him about the bloodbath at Constance's first wedding in Syria, and how the Sultan's reptile-with-a-woman's-face-for-a-head of a mother had dishonoured Constance and left her to perish in a terrible sounding boat. No one treated his little girl like that and got away with it, so he sent his top Senator and a bunch of other heavies to Syria to burn and pillage whatever they could find there. They were on their way back to Rome at about the same time Constance and Maurice were bobbing around on the water, and wouldn't you know it, the two boats bumped into each other. Of all the massive great oceans in all the world....
The Senator didn't know who Constance was, and she wouldn't tell him, but he took her back to Rome for his wife to look after. (I can just imagine how that conversation went. "Honey, I'm home! And look what I've got.....") The senator's wife, incidentally, was Constance's aunt, but even she didn't recognise Constance. That's what happens when you spend five years stranded out at sea on a boat, I guess.
Meanwhile, the King, who I'm starting to wish I had told you a lot earlier was called Aella, because it's getting quite tiresome referring to him as The King, was feeling a tad guilty about knocking off his mum. So he headed for Rome to go and do penance. (He's a good Christian now, remember. It's what they did.)
King Aella's visit to Rome is quite a big deal. A team of senators is sent out to greet him, and there are parties and feasts and all sorts of other A-list events. The King himself lays on a big banquet and invites the senator, who takes Maurice with him. There's a suggestion, but only the merest hint of a suggestion, that this was Constance's idea. We will never know. What we do know, The titular Man of Laws tells us (it's his tale, remember?) is that Constance tells her son to make sure the King sees him. Stare him right in the eyes if you have to, she tells him, but make sure he notices you. Which makes her sound a lot more like a pushy stage mum than I think she is meant to.
Anyway, they go off to the banquet, and Aella does see Maurice, who is the spitting image of his mum. (Constance, I mean, not the King's Daily-Mail-reading-letter-swapping-thankfully-now-dead mum). King Aella is struck with wonder, and asks the senator who this boy is. As he hears more from the senator about the boy and his mother, the penny, or technically, the florin, begins to drop. Could this woman be his beloved Constance? The same beloved Constance who he had just been assuming was lying at the bottom of the ocean somewhere all this time? If this was an episode of Eastenders, this is where the doof-doof moment would be.
He goes around to the senator's house the next day to find out. Now, don't forget that Constance knew nothing about the letter swapping shenanigans and this stage, so she still thinks it was her husband, not her mother in law, who gave the instructions for her to be banished. When she saw Aella she swooned twice. Next came lots of crying on both sides, then finally, after Aella had convinced Constance that it hadn't been his fault at all, the tears turned to smiles and they had a loving reunion. Heartwarming stuff.
Constance and her father also reunite, all is forgiven, and we learn that young Maurice will eventually succeed his grandfather to become the next Emperor of Rome. I'd like to say that's where the story ends, but it's not quite; Aella and Constance return to England, where Aella promptly dies. Sad, after everything they'd been through, but these things happen sometimes. Constance returns to Rome and lives out the rest of her days surrounded by family and friends, and gets her happy ending, almost, after all. I think she earned it, don't you?
*You know about these, right? Sally is telling Harry the story of why she broke up with her ex-boyfriend Sheldon. She had a set of days of the week underpants, but Sunday was missing and Sheldon became obsessed with this and wanted to know: what happened to Sunday? Where had she left Sunday? He refuses to believe her when she tells him there is no Sunday, because they don't make Sunday. Because Of God.
If you do, you might want to warn her that when people do a Google image search for "reptile with a woman's face for a head", this is what they get. I am not saying this woman is a lizard; just that if it was me, I think I'd want to know. And I'd be having words with Google.
Second thing second, I forgot my usual disclaimer at the start of the last installment. I am seriously worried about messing up some poor unsuspecting student's one and only chance for academic glory, so I will say again: if you are studying the Canterbury Tales, don't read this, read the book instead.
That being said, here's the next one:
The Man of Law's Tale: The Sultan of Syria gets wind that Constance, the Roman Emperor's daughter, is quite a catch. Even though he hasn't met her, he decides he wants to marry her because, well, sometimes you just know these things are going to work out, don't you. The only hitch is that she's a Christian and he's not, but that's hardly a problem because if there's anything which history has proven to us time and time again, it's that differences in religious beliefs hardly ever cause any trouble for anyone. Even so, the lovestruck sultan decides to convert to Christianity and insists that everyone around him does the same. Just in case.
Meanwhile the Sultan's mother isn't too happy with the Sultan's plan to give up his religion. (What is it with mothers and their sons?) It's worth knowing, at this point, that the Sultan's mum is also pretty evil. In fact she is not just evil, she is (wait for it) a REPTILE WITH A WOMAN’S FACE which makes her sound well evil, in my book. She pretends to agree to go through with the baptism ceremony (oh, the old pretend to convert to another religion but don't actually go through with it trick. That old chestnut!) and pretends to be nice to her daughter-in-law to be and they all have a great feast to celebrate and every one is as jolly as can be. I am sure we have been to weddings exactly like this.
BUT, and I can't put possibly make this any simpler than Peter Ackroyd does, so I will quote him directly:
while they were at this feast all the guests, Syrian and Christian, were stabbed or cut to pieces.
All of them!!! Even the Sultan. By his own mum and her henchmen. (Do all Mums have henchmen? I don't think mine does, but maybe I just haven't met them.)
Weirdly, though, Constance is spared. When I say spared, what I mean is she is dragged down to the nearest port by one of the henchmen, who clearly has a sense of humour because he puts her in boat without a rudder or sail, says "better learn to sail, love!" and points her towards Italy. Sounds just like one of those challenges they do on Top Gear.
Constance's boat eventually runs aground right outside a castle on the coast of Northumberland. Several years have passed, and she really ought to have died by now, through drowning, or from starvation, or by being eaten by North Sea shark, but we learn that she survived Because Of God. (This part of the story always makes me think of the days of the week underpants in When Harry Met Sally.)*
The governor of the castle and his wife Hermengyld are Pagans, but after they meet Constance, they are so taken by her that they decide to convert to Christianity. She's just that kind of girl. Everyone loves and adores Constance and everything is rosy, until a nasty knight tries to woo her, and when she's not interested he kills Hermengyld and frames Constance for the murder. Clearly, this is a guy who doesn't handle rejection well.
The nasty knight swears he saw Constance doing the killing, but no one can believe it because they all love and adore her so much, and finally the King comes to investigate. He soon comes to love and adore Constance too, and can't believe she is guilty. But the nasty knight still insists he saw her do it, and is prepared to swear this on a holy book. Bad nasty knight.
When he tries, though, a giant hand comes out of the sky and knocks him down and then a giant voice tells him off. Everyone, including the King, is so impressed by this that they all become Christians too. The nasty Knight is put to death, and the King marries Constance. The only person who doesn't like this is Donegild, the King's Daily Mail reading mother, who doesn't think her son should be marrying a foreigner. Poor old Constance doesn't have much luck with mothers-in-law.
(I had forgotten how long this story is. We are only about half way through, and I think it might be time for another picture. I still can't find one of a reptile with a woman's face, but I have found the opposite:
)Back to Constance. She becomes pregnant on her wedding night because (and I love this next line) even the holiest virgin must do her duty in the darkness. Before the baby is born the King has to go off to battle, so he's not around to meet his son Maurice. Or, we can assume, object to that ridiculous choice of name.
When Maurice is born, the governor writes to the King with the good news. Or at least, he tries to. Before the messenger can deliver the letter, Donegild sneakily replaces it with one telling the King that the baby is a demon which no one can stand, and now they all think Constance is a witch. Bad Donegild.
The King is heartbroken by this letter, but now he's a good forgiving Christian he writes one back saying that if this is the way things are meant to be, it's the way they're meant to be and asking the governor to take care of Constance and the baby until he gets back. But Donegild intercepts this letter too. In the new (fake) version the King isn't quite so good and forgiving, and orders Constance and the baby to be banished. Not just banished, but put back in the same boat Constance arrives in, which is missing a rudder and sail, remember and pushed out to sea.
So, much to everyone's dismay that's exactly what happens. No one is happy about it, least of all the King, who comes back to find Constance and Maurice have gone. He and the governor have words, and they soon work out what's gone on with the fake letters, and somehow, we don't quite know how, the king discovers it's all his mum's fault. So he kills her.
Constance and Maurice spend five long years bobbing around at sea, once again managing to avoid drowning and starvation and sharks, which I think by now we can safely assume is Because Of God, and then they wash up on a beach, right underneath, wouldn't you know it, another Pagan castle. The people here aren't quite so welcoming though; one of them tries to rape Constance while she is still in the boat, but before he can have his wicked way with her, he falls overboard and drowns, Because Of God. Constance sails on.
While all this had been going on, Constance's father (the Roman emperor, remember him?) had hardly been twiddling his thumbs. News had reached him about the bloodbath at Constance's first wedding in Syria, and how the Sultan's reptile-with-a-woman's-face-for-a-head of a mother had dishonoured Constance and left her to perish in a terrible sounding boat. No one treated his little girl like that and got away with it, so he sent his top Senator and a bunch of other heavies to Syria to burn and pillage whatever they could find there. They were on their way back to Rome at about the same time Constance and Maurice were bobbing around on the water, and wouldn't you know it, the two boats bumped into each other. Of all the massive great oceans in all the world....
The Senator didn't know who Constance was, and she wouldn't tell him, but he took her back to Rome for his wife to look after. (I can just imagine how that conversation went. "Honey, I'm home! And look what I've got.....") The senator's wife, incidentally, was Constance's aunt, but even she didn't recognise Constance. That's what happens when you spend five years stranded out at sea on a boat, I guess.
Meanwhile, the King, who I'm starting to wish I had told you a lot earlier was called Aella, because it's getting quite tiresome referring to him as The King, was feeling a tad guilty about knocking off his mum. So he headed for Rome to go and do penance. (He's a good Christian now, remember. It's what they did.)
King Aella's visit to Rome is quite a big deal. A team of senators is sent out to greet him, and there are parties and feasts and all sorts of other A-list events. The King himself lays on a big banquet and invites the senator, who takes Maurice with him. There's a suggestion, but only the merest hint of a suggestion, that this was Constance's idea. We will never know. What we do know, The titular Man of Laws tells us (it's his tale, remember?) is that Constance tells her son to make sure the King sees him. Stare him right in the eyes if you have to, she tells him, but make sure he notices you. Which makes her sound a lot more like a pushy stage mum than I think she is meant to.
Anyway, they go off to the banquet, and Aella does see Maurice, who is the spitting image of his mum. (Constance, I mean, not the King's Daily-Mail-reading-letter-swapping-thankfully-now-dead mum). King Aella is struck with wonder, and asks the senator who this boy is. As he hears more from the senator about the boy and his mother, the penny, or technically, the florin, begins to drop. Could this woman be his beloved Constance? The same beloved Constance who he had just been assuming was lying at the bottom of the ocean somewhere all this time? If this was an episode of Eastenders, this is where the doof-doof moment would be.
He goes around to the senator's house the next day to find out. Now, don't forget that Constance knew nothing about the letter swapping shenanigans and this stage, so she still thinks it was her husband, not her mother in law, who gave the instructions for her to be banished. When she saw Aella she swooned twice. Next came lots of crying on both sides, then finally, after Aella had convinced Constance that it hadn't been his fault at all, the tears turned to smiles and they had a loving reunion. Heartwarming stuff.
Constance and her father also reunite, all is forgiven, and we learn that young Maurice will eventually succeed his grandfather to become the next Emperor of Rome. I'd like to say that's where the story ends, but it's not quite; Aella and Constance return to England, where Aella promptly dies. Sad, after everything they'd been through, but these things happen sometimes. Constance returns to Rome and lives out the rest of her days surrounded by family and friends, and gets her happy ending, almost, after all. I think she earned it, don't you?
*You know about these, right? Sally is telling Harry the story of why she broke up with her ex-boyfriend Sheldon. She had a set of days of the week underpants, but Sunday was missing and Sheldon became obsessed with this and wanted to know: what happened to Sunday? Where had she left Sunday? He refuses to believe her when she tells him there is no Sunday, because they don't make Sunday. Because Of God.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide part 3
If I had had the idea before I posted part 1, I might have sub-titled this series of posts something like Really, Just a Dirty Book About Road Trip. I did not. It's too late to change now.
The Cook's Tale: Involves a prostitute. That's all I know. It's all anyone knows, (except, presumably, the Cook) because the mere mention of the prostitute offends the others so much that he isn't allowed to continue with his story, thus disqualifying him from the competition
Did I even mention they are having a competition? I don't think I did. They are having a competition (SURPRISE!) to see who can tell the best story. (I also could have subtitled this series Dirty Book About a Roadtrip Meets The X-Factor). The prize is a free dinner. Come to think of it, did I even mention they are on a road-trip? I don't think I did that either. Sorry. You probably knew anyway, but if you didn't, they are on a road-trip. To Canterbury.
A tavern landlord, who only came along for the ride at the last minute when they all met in his pub the night before, is the Simon Cowell figure. He's in charge of deciding who will win, and no one can argue with him or they have to pay the travel expenses of the entire party for the entire trip. Given there are thirty pilgrims in the party, each on a horse, you don't need to be that good at maths to work out that arguing with the landlord isn't a financially viable option. Even if you won the free dinner, you'd be a lot worse off than if you'd just kept your big mouth shut. The cook doesn't complain. Maybe he just doesn't like pub-grub much and didn't really care about the prize any way, or maybe he'd done the maths. Either way, we don't get to hear his story.
I had planned to tell you about the Man of Law's tale today as well, but I am meant to be going out and am already way late. I will save it for tomorrow (I have written up about half of it and don't want to leave you with TWO unfinished tales in the one day) but while you are waiting, here is a picture clue:
Make that, here is where a picture clue WOULD be, if my computer hadn't decided to pick this moment, of all moments, to stop co-operating. Stupid, stupid computer. It won't let me upload it. Sorry; if it helps to know, it was going to be a reptile with a woman's face for a head. Now not only am I seriously late, but I am going to have to explain to the friends I'm meeting that searching for and then not being able to upload a picture of a reptile with a woman's face for a head is the reason. I am not looking forward to that conversation at all.
The Cook's Tale: Involves a prostitute. That's all I know. It's all anyone knows, (except, presumably, the Cook) because the mere mention of the prostitute offends the others so much that he isn't allowed to continue with his story, thus disqualifying him from the competition
Did I even mention they are having a competition? I don't think I did. They are having a competition (SURPRISE!) to see who can tell the best story. (I also could have subtitled this series Dirty Book About a Roadtrip Meets The X-Factor). The prize is a free dinner. Come to think of it, did I even mention they are on a road-trip? I don't think I did that either. Sorry. You probably knew anyway, but if you didn't, they are on a road-trip. To Canterbury.
A tavern landlord, who only came along for the ride at the last minute when they all met in his pub the night before, is the Simon Cowell figure. He's in charge of deciding who will win, and no one can argue with him or they have to pay the travel expenses of the entire party for the entire trip. Given there are thirty pilgrims in the party, each on a horse, you don't need to be that good at maths to work out that arguing with the landlord isn't a financially viable option. Even if you won the free dinner, you'd be a lot worse off than if you'd just kept your big mouth shut. The cook doesn't complain. Maybe he just doesn't like pub-grub much and didn't really care about the prize any way, or maybe he'd done the maths. Either way, we don't get to hear his story.
I had planned to tell you about the Man of Law's tale today as well, but I am meant to be going out and am already way late. I will save it for tomorrow (I have written up about half of it and don't want to leave you with TWO unfinished tales in the one day) but while you are waiting, here is a picture clue:
Make that, here is where a picture clue WOULD be, if my computer hadn't decided to pick this moment, of all moments, to stop co-operating. Stupid, stupid computer. It won't let me upload it. Sorry; if it helps to know, it was going to be a reptile with a woman's face for a head. Now not only am I seriously late, but I am going to have to explain to the friends I'm meeting that searching for and then not being able to upload a picture of a reptile with a woman's face for a head is the reason. I am not looking forward to that conversation at all.
In other news......
Most popular news stories IN THE WORLD right now, according to Yahoo:
Thank goodness for that smart old lady, I say.
Her name is Hazel Soares and she missed going to college the first time around because of the Depression. The ACTUAL Depression. As in the famous one. The best part of the story is this:
She will forgo the common post-graduation gap year to work as a museum guide in the San Francisco Bay area.
Even at 94, Hazel is not quite the grand oldest graduate ever. That would be Nola Oates who finished her first degree in 2007 at the age of 95, and then went on to do a Masters, which she finished literally last week. Nola Oates is now 98.
1. Shocking pics of two-year-old smoking boy
2. Diff'rent Strokes Star Dies After Haemorrhage
3. Woman Becomes Grand Old Graduate At 94
4. North Korean Troops 'Prepare For Combat'
5. India Plane Overshoots Runway: 158 Dead
Her name is Hazel Soares and she missed going to college the first time around because of the Depression. The ACTUAL Depression. As in the famous one. The best part of the story is this:
She will forgo the common post-graduation gap year to work as a museum guide in the San Francisco Bay area.
Even at 94, Hazel is not quite the grand oldest graduate ever. That would be Nola Oates who finished her first degree in 2007 at the age of 95, and then went on to do a Masters, which she finished literally last week. Nola Oates is now 98.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Tall Tales
You know how there are some nights which you know will stick with you for a very long time? I’ve had two of them this week. The first I’ve already mentioned (I’m still slightly on the lookout for hammer wielding lunatics every time I leave my flat), but the other one, which was last night, was an entirely different kettle of spiders.
I went along to Tall Tales at the Good Ship in Kilburn, which was billed as “a night of songs and stories, some of which you will wish were true”, and that, more or less, is exactly what it was. Our host for the evening was author Robbie Hudson, whose brilliantly eclectic blog has somehow ended up becoming one of my favourite things on the internet. I literally can’t explain how or why this happened; when I first came across it, quite a few of his posts were about American football and the rest, pretty much, were about fish. Honestly, you couldn’t pick two subjects in the world I would be any less interested in reading about than these two if you tried. The American football is self-explanatory, surely, and as for the fish, well, my mum is a marine biologist. While I love her to bits, I do tend to hear quite a lot about fish.
To be fair these weren’t the only two things he wrote about (I am exaggerating slightly for effect) but they did feature quite heavily, and my point still stands: on paper (an expression which I *think* still makes sense in this context?), I really shouldn’t have liked this blog much at all when I first found it. And yet, for some reason, I did. I mean, I do. In fact, if you were a fan of fish-based puns (which is everyone, isn’t it?) you might well say I found myself completely hooked.
It's brilliantly funny and well written, and one thing I particularly enjoy is the fact that you never know what to expect next. Mr T, the US Supreme Court and a fine collection of literary put-downs are all items which have graced the front page in recent weeks. Whatever the topic, his lightness of touch and sense of humour make for an amusing and entertaining read, but there’s also a sense of real passion there – sometimes the words almost bounce off the page with enthusiasm. I love this. It’s something which came across on stage last night, too.
Speaking of which, Tall Tales last night. Just like it said on the tin, there were some songs, which were mainly funny, and scattered around and between them were stories of all shapes and sizes. The evening opened with the tale of a writer-in-residence doing battle with a class of primary school pupils, and the story-within-a-story it contained was one of the funniest and most realistic examples of the kind of work which might be produced by the collective intellect of a bunch of fictional six year olds I have ever heard (case in point: there was a poisonous-spider-proof duck involved). As the night went on we heard plenty of other stories: one which was almost, but not quite, a ghost story, predicted to “make you wish you were sitting next to someone with a hand you’d quite like to hold” (it did, but sadly (and with all due respect to the good friend who came with me, who I'm sure would say exactly the same thing) I wasn’t); we met a loving father and husband who left his family a unique and rather beautiful parting gift after his death*; and we were privy to the early stages of an ill-fated equine love affair, conducted entirely by letters. Hints came which suggested there could be a sequel to this at some point; I really really hope there is.
All in all it was a brilliant event. There were some seriously talented bodies among the writers and performers, and they all made it look completely effortless. I watched in awe, and laughed, and was moved, and was entertained, and got completely swept up in the magic of it all. Most of all, I was reminded of the power of stories, and just how brilliant they can be. The ones told at Tall Tales were, quite simply, ace.
Speaking of tales, yes, I know, the Canterbury ones. I'm sure breaths have been bated. Haven’t forgotten, and they’re coming. Maybe later today, other things depending, maybe tomorrow.
*UPDATE: You can meet him too; there's a link to this particular story here. If you don't do a little sigh when you finish reading it, you have a heart of cement.
I went along to Tall Tales at the Good Ship in Kilburn, which was billed as “a night of songs and stories, some of which you will wish were true”, and that, more or less, is exactly what it was. Our host for the evening was author Robbie Hudson, whose brilliantly eclectic blog has somehow ended up becoming one of my favourite things on the internet. I literally can’t explain how or why this happened; when I first came across it, quite a few of his posts were about American football and the rest, pretty much, were about fish. Honestly, you couldn’t pick two subjects in the world I would be any less interested in reading about than these two if you tried. The American football is self-explanatory, surely, and as for the fish, well, my mum is a marine biologist. While I love her to bits, I do tend to hear quite a lot about fish.
To be fair these weren’t the only two things he wrote about (I am exaggerating slightly for effect) but they did feature quite heavily, and my point still stands: on paper (an expression which I *think* still makes sense in this context?), I really shouldn’t have liked this blog much at all when I first found it. And yet, for some reason, I did. I mean, I do. In fact, if you were a fan of fish-based puns (which is everyone, isn’t it?) you might well say I found myself completely hooked.
It's brilliantly funny and well written, and one thing I particularly enjoy is the fact that you never know what to expect next. Mr T, the US Supreme Court and a fine collection of literary put-downs are all items which have graced the front page in recent weeks. Whatever the topic, his lightness of touch and sense of humour make for an amusing and entertaining read, but there’s also a sense of real passion there – sometimes the words almost bounce off the page with enthusiasm. I love this. It’s something which came across on stage last night, too.
Speaking of which, Tall Tales last night. Just like it said on the tin, there were some songs, which were mainly funny, and scattered around and between them were stories of all shapes and sizes. The evening opened with the tale of a writer-in-residence doing battle with a class of primary school pupils, and the story-within-a-story it contained was one of the funniest and most realistic examples of the kind of work which might be produced by the collective intellect of a bunch of fictional six year olds I have ever heard (case in point: there was a poisonous-spider-proof duck involved). As the night went on we heard plenty of other stories: one which was almost, but not quite, a ghost story, predicted to “make you wish you were sitting next to someone with a hand you’d quite like to hold” (it did, but sadly (and with all due respect to the good friend who came with me, who I'm sure would say exactly the same thing) I wasn’t); we met a loving father and husband who left his family a unique and rather beautiful parting gift after his death*; and we were privy to the early stages of an ill-fated equine love affair, conducted entirely by letters. Hints came which suggested there could be a sequel to this at some point; I really really hope there is.
All in all it was a brilliant event. There were some seriously talented bodies among the writers and performers, and they all made it look completely effortless. I watched in awe, and laughed, and was moved, and was entertained, and got completely swept up in the magic of it all. Most of all, I was reminded of the power of stories, and just how brilliant they can be. The ones told at Tall Tales were, quite simply, ace.
Speaking of tales, yes, I know, the Canterbury ones. I'm sure breaths have been bated. Haven’t forgotten, and they’re coming. Maybe later today, other things depending, maybe tomorrow.
*UPDATE: You can meet him too; there's a link to this particular story here. If you don't do a little sigh when you finish reading it, you have a heart of cement.
Thursday, 27 May 2010
In which I do my civic duty, and feel a little bit sick
There will be more of the Canterbury Tales in due course, but for now it's back to reality, and a slightly unpleasant experience I had last night.
I live in Thamesmead, and when I tell people that, they generally have one of two reactions. Sometimes I get a blank look, which tells me the person I am talking to has never heard of Thamesmead. Otherwise, they raise their eyebrows and say "Oh...." followed by and awkward pause, followed by ".....so, er, what's that like, then" which tells me the person has definitely heard of Thamesmead.
It has a reputation for being a pretty dodgy area, but I've lived here for three years and have never had any problems. The part I live in is quite suburban with little windy streets and lots of cul-de-sacs and a canal running through it. Sure, it's a bit shabby and run down, and it's definitely an area of deprivation (but cheap real estate, which is how I ended up living here) and there are some strange looking people about, but it feels perfectly safe. At least it did until last night.
When I got home last night there was a police van parked at my bus stop. This struck me as slightly unusual but I didn't think much of it at the time, except to notice with some amusement that there was a little pig mascot on the dashboard. Clearly the officers inside had a sense of humour.
As I walked towards my road, I noticed a dull thudding noise. Turning the corner into my street, I discovered the source: a man with a hammer, who seemed intent on destroying a car parked just over the road from my flat. It took me a while to work out what he was doing; even though one of the wing mirrors was on the ground, along with a pile of broken glass from where the front window had been completely smashed in, and now he was bashing away at the bodywork which was looking more and more like Swiss cheese with every blow, I seriously thought for a minute or two that maybe he'd just locked his keys inside.
I stood rooted to the spot for what must have been a good couple of minutes while I took all this in, until my brain finally processed what was going on and realised that perhaps standing in the street watching wasn't the brightest thing to do, given the guy had a hammer and looked pretty angry. My first instinct was to hot-foot it back to the police van and tell them what was happening, and so without really thinking about it, that's what I did. They asked a few questions, said thank you, and drove off round the corner to confront him.
As I followed them back to my flat it struck me: I had been watching this guy for several minutes, then I left the scene and two minutes later the police arrived. If he had seen me, and there was every chance he had, it wasn't going to take a rocket scientist to work out who had gone to get them. And now, given I was about to walk past again to get into my building, he would know where I lived. I had no other choice, though; I was almost at my front door already and could see the police were talking to him so took a deep breath, kept my head down and went inside, hoping he hadn't noticed me.
It was scary. To be honest, I'm still a little freaked out by the thought of going outside later on today. I know there are plenty of worse crimes I could have witnessed, and the chances of him or one of his dodgy mates coming to track me down are infinitesimally small. The fact that it even occurred to me that they might is probably a sign that I've been watching too many episodes of The Sopranos, more than anything else. *
Still, I can't help feeling a little bit unsettled about the whole affair. A smashed up car is one of those things which, had I read about it in the news, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about. Seeing it happen right on my doorstep was something completely different. I'm certainly glad I went and told the police, and I'm really glad that they happened to be there for me to go and tell, but I still feel slightly ill. Crime fighting isn't nearly as fun or rewarding as you might think.
* Not helped, incidentally, by a conversation I had with the crazy cat owning man who lives downstairs, who reckons the guy who lives over the road owes some money to the bloke who was destroying his car. I'm not sure if he was proposing this as a theory or as a statement of fact, but very much hope it was the former.
I live in Thamesmead, and when I tell people that, they generally have one of two reactions. Sometimes I get a blank look, which tells me the person I am talking to has never heard of Thamesmead. Otherwise, they raise their eyebrows and say "Oh...." followed by and awkward pause, followed by ".....so, er, what's that like, then" which tells me the person has definitely heard of Thamesmead.
It has a reputation for being a pretty dodgy area, but I've lived here for three years and have never had any problems. The part I live in is quite suburban with little windy streets and lots of cul-de-sacs and a canal running through it. Sure, it's a bit shabby and run down, and it's definitely an area of deprivation (but cheap real estate, which is how I ended up living here) and there are some strange looking people about, but it feels perfectly safe. At least it did until last night.
When I got home last night there was a police van parked at my bus stop. This struck me as slightly unusual but I didn't think much of it at the time, except to notice with some amusement that there was a little pig mascot on the dashboard. Clearly the officers inside had a sense of humour.
As I walked towards my road, I noticed a dull thudding noise. Turning the corner into my street, I discovered the source: a man with a hammer, who seemed intent on destroying a car parked just over the road from my flat. It took me a while to work out what he was doing; even though one of the wing mirrors was on the ground, along with a pile of broken glass from where the front window had been completely smashed in, and now he was bashing away at the bodywork which was looking more and more like Swiss cheese with every blow, I seriously thought for a minute or two that maybe he'd just locked his keys inside.
I stood rooted to the spot for what must have been a good couple of minutes while I took all this in, until my brain finally processed what was going on and realised that perhaps standing in the street watching wasn't the brightest thing to do, given the guy had a hammer and looked pretty angry. My first instinct was to hot-foot it back to the police van and tell them what was happening, and so without really thinking about it, that's what I did. They asked a few questions, said thank you, and drove off round the corner to confront him.
As I followed them back to my flat it struck me: I had been watching this guy for several minutes, then I left the scene and two minutes later the police arrived. If he had seen me, and there was every chance he had, it wasn't going to take a rocket scientist to work out who had gone to get them. And now, given I was about to walk past again to get into my building, he would know where I lived. I had no other choice, though; I was almost at my front door already and could see the police were talking to him so took a deep breath, kept my head down and went inside, hoping he hadn't noticed me.
It was scary. To be honest, I'm still a little freaked out by the thought of going outside later on today. I know there are plenty of worse crimes I could have witnessed, and the chances of him or one of his dodgy mates coming to track me down are infinitesimally small. The fact that it even occurred to me that they might is probably a sign that I've been watching too many episodes of The Sopranos, more than anything else. *
Still, I can't help feeling a little bit unsettled about the whole affair. A smashed up car is one of those things which, had I read about it in the news, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about. Seeing it happen right on my doorstep was something completely different. I'm certainly glad I went and told the police, and I'm really glad that they happened to be there for me to go and tell, but I still feel slightly ill. Crime fighting isn't nearly as fun or rewarding as you might think.
* Not helped, incidentally, by a conversation I had with the crazy cat owning man who lives downstairs, who reckons the guy who lives over the road owes some money to the bloke who was destroying his car. I'm not sure if he was proposing this as a theory or as a statement of fact, but very much hope it was the former.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide part 2
Last time, I promised you filth and then delivered a pretty mild story about two love-sick cousins and some swoony women. I can only apologise.
In my defence, here's the next few. Same disclaimer (ie rely on my summaries in any exam-type situation at your own peril) applies:
The Miller's Tale: A story about an un-named carpenter and his gorgeous wife Alison. "She was young and lusty. He was old and crusty". They have a lodger called Nicholas, and if I tell you that "no girl near him would have been a virgin for very long" I'm sure you can see where this is going.
Alison and Nicholas trick the carpenter into thinking there's a great flood on the way, and he ends up suspended from the roof of his barn in a tub, waiting for the heavens to open, while they sneak downstairs and have it off. There's another bloke in love with Alison as well, and to cut a long story short Nicholas ends up with a hot plough blade shoved up his.....well, I'm sure you can work out where. It's his own fault, really, for trying to get the other guy to kiss it.
This leads Nicholas to cry out for water (as you would, no?) and on hearing this the carpenter assumes the cries of "Water! Water!" mean "The (made-up) flood is here! We are all DOOMED!!" and cuts the rope suspending his tub from the ceiling, and plummets to the floor. He survives, but everyone thinks he's an idiot. Which, to be fair, he sort of is.
The Reeve's Tale: Simkin is a naughty miller, who short-changes all of his customers. Two scholars from Trinity College (that's Cambridge, don't you know?) go and visit him to try and prove he's a thief. While they are there, he unties their horse and it escapes. They get it back, but by then it's dark, so they have to stay the night, and there's only one room which the two scholars, and the miller and his wife, and their daughter, and their baby, who sleeps in a cradle at the foot of her parents' bed, have to share. No biggie, you might well think. Ha! It's quite a big biggie, as it turns out.
Everyone gets quite drunk over dinner, and when they eventually go to bed the miller and his wife snore and fart which keeps the scholars (who I forgot to tell you are called John and Alan) awake. For some reason, Alan decides this makes it OK for him to shag their daughter, and so he does. Quite a lot. She doesn't exactly complain.
Meanwhile, John is feeling a bit left out, so when the wife gets up to go to the bathroom, he moves the baby's cradle from the foot of her parents' bed to the foot of his own bed. When the wife comes back she feels for the cradle, gets into the bed where she finds it, and spends the rest of the night shagging John, thinking he's her husband.
Roll forward a few hours until it's nearly dawn, and Alan decides he better get back into his own bed. Here's where it gets confusing, so listen up carefully. He's about to get into the bed which he thinks is his bed, and which actually IS his bed, but then notices it has the cradle at the end of it. "Silly me" he thinks "I nearly got into bed with the Miller and his wife. Wouldn't THAT have been embarassing!" So he gets into the other bed, which he thinks is his bed, but is actually the Miller-and-his-wife's bed,but only the Miller is in it. He then wakes up the Miller, who he thinks is John, to tell him all about what he got up to with the Miller's daughter, and how she didn't exactly complain. Funnily enough, the Miller isn't too happy about this, and he and Alan have a big fight, which ends up with Alan falling on top of the Miller's wife, and she gets confused and hits her husband with a staff, thinking he's one of the scholars, and he passes out. Meanwhile, the scholars escape scott free.
Not surprisingly, the actual Miller in the party doesn't like the Reeve much after he tells this story.
In my defence, here's the next few. Same disclaimer (ie rely on my summaries in any exam-type situation at your own peril) applies:
The Miller's Tale: A story about an un-named carpenter and his gorgeous wife Alison. "She was young and lusty. He was old and crusty". They have a lodger called Nicholas, and if I tell you that "no girl near him would have been a virgin for very long" I'm sure you can see where this is going.
Alison and Nicholas trick the carpenter into thinking there's a great flood on the way, and he ends up suspended from the roof of his barn in a tub, waiting for the heavens to open, while they sneak downstairs and have it off. There's another bloke in love with Alison as well, and to cut a long story short Nicholas ends up with a hot plough blade shoved up his.....well, I'm sure you can work out where. It's his own fault, really, for trying to get the other guy to kiss it.
This leads Nicholas to cry out for water (as you would, no?) and on hearing this the carpenter assumes the cries of "Water! Water!" mean "The (made-up) flood is here! We are all DOOMED!!" and cuts the rope suspending his tub from the ceiling, and plummets to the floor. He survives, but everyone thinks he's an idiot. Which, to be fair, he sort of is.
The Reeve's Tale: Simkin is a naughty miller, who short-changes all of his customers. Two scholars from Trinity College (that's Cambridge, don't you know?) go and visit him to try and prove he's a thief. While they are there, he unties their horse and it escapes. They get it back, but by then it's dark, so they have to stay the night, and there's only one room which the two scholars, and the miller and his wife, and their daughter, and their baby, who sleeps in a cradle at the foot of her parents' bed, have to share. No biggie, you might well think. Ha! It's quite a big biggie, as it turns out.
Everyone gets quite drunk over dinner, and when they eventually go to bed the miller and his wife snore and fart which keeps the scholars (who I forgot to tell you are called John and Alan) awake. For some reason, Alan decides this makes it OK for him to shag their daughter, and so he does. Quite a lot. She doesn't exactly complain.
Meanwhile, John is feeling a bit left out, so when the wife gets up to go to the bathroom, he moves the baby's cradle from the foot of her parents' bed to the foot of his own bed. When the wife comes back she feels for the cradle, gets into the bed where she finds it, and spends the rest of the night shagging John, thinking he's her husband.
Roll forward a few hours until it's nearly dawn, and Alan decides he better get back into his own bed. Here's where it gets confusing, so listen up carefully. He's about to get into the bed which he thinks is his bed, and which actually IS his bed, but then notices it has the cradle at the end of it. "Silly me" he thinks "I nearly got into bed with the Miller and his wife. Wouldn't THAT have been embarassing!" So he gets into the other bed, which he thinks is his bed, but is actually the Miller-and-his-wife's bed,but only the Miller is in it. He then wakes up the Miller, who he thinks is John, to tell him all about what he got up to with the Miller's daughter, and how she didn't exactly complain. Funnily enough, the Miller isn't too happy about this, and he and Alan have a big fight, which ends up with Alan falling on top of the Miller's wife, and she gets confused and hits her husband with a staff, thinking he's one of the scholars, and he passes out. Meanwhile, the scholars escape scott free.
Not surprisingly, the actual Miller in the party doesn't like the Reeve much after he tells this story.
The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide
I've been reading Peter Ackroyd's retelling of the Canterbury Tales. By God, they are FILTHY.
This version is great if, like me, you have always been mildly curious about the content of the tales but don't have the time or energy to tackle them in the original form. I picked it up in a 3 for 2 offer a few weeks ago and have been dipping in ever since. Once you start, it's pretty easy to romp through.
Romp is the right word: in a nutshell the tales are full of sex, LOTS of sex, and copious amounts of farting. Oh, I know that they also tell us all kinds of things about 14th century English society, and that the characters represent various aspects of life and that Geoffrey Chaucer is very clever and all that. But basically he has written a dirty book.
One thing I've learnt is that a lot of cuckolding went on in the fourteenth century. The people getting off with each other aren't meant to be getting off with each other as a general rule, and they are all quite proud of this. Two of them end up doing it up a tree, while the cuckoldee (surely that's the right term for someone being cuckolded?) is hanging around down below. That takes some nerve, not to mention some pretty impressive middle core strength (all that balancing. She must have done Pilates.).
Maybe you don't have time to read the book though. For you, and just for you, here's the skinny, aka MY BLUFFER'S GUIDE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES (pt 1 of I'm not sure how many yet)
The Knight's Tale: This is one of the least filthy ones, actually. Probably because the knight, as all good knights should be, is noble and full of valour and good and true. (He's travelling with his son, the Squire, who sounds a bit like Roger Ramjet, and was quite dishy, although not really my type. We'll get to his story later.) Two cousins, Arcite and Palamon are chucked into prison by the Duke of Athens. From the tower-which-is-their-prison they both see and fall in love with the Duke's sister in law Emily. Arcite is set free as a favour to the Duke's oldest childhood friend who conveniently is also Arcite's gay lover. This gets nothing more than a fleeting mention in the tale (or at least in Acroyd's version of it) which leads me to think that either dukes with gay lovers who they never think to mention to their oldest childhood friend were more common than you might think in the fourteenth century, or that Chaucer (or maybe Ackroyd) was trying not to draw too much attention to a lazy plot device. But far be it from me to criticise.
Anyway, Arcite is only set free on the condition that he never returns to Athens, which of course means never setting eyes on the lovely Emily again. So now we have Palamon, who is locked up in a tower but can see Emily every day, and Arcite, free as a bird, who can never see her again. Cue lots of moping around and moaning about this from both of them. After years of this, Arcite sneaks back into Athens in disguise, and Palamon escapes from the tower, and they bump into each other somewhat conveniently, and have a fight, and the Duke finds them fighting, and is about to kill them both when all of the ladies in his party swoon with the romance of it all, so he decides not to. Instead, he tells them both to come back in a year with an army of 100 knights, and they can have a proper battle to see who can have Emily, who doesn't actually want either of them, but that's by the by. A year later there's a big bloody battle, and (spoiler alert) Arcite wins, but then he falls off his horse and dies, and Palamon and Emily live happily ever after.
This version is great if, like me, you have always been mildly curious about the content of the tales but don't have the time or energy to tackle them in the original form. I picked it up in a 3 for 2 offer a few weeks ago and have been dipping in ever since. Once you start, it's pretty easy to romp through.
Romp is the right word: in a nutshell the tales are full of sex, LOTS of sex, and copious amounts of farting. Oh, I know that they also tell us all kinds of things about 14th century English society, and that the characters represent various aspects of life and that Geoffrey Chaucer is very clever and all that. But basically he has written a dirty book.
One thing I've learnt is that a lot of cuckolding went on in the fourteenth century. The people getting off with each other aren't meant to be getting off with each other as a general rule, and they are all quite proud of this. Two of them end up doing it up a tree, while the cuckoldee (surely that's the right term for someone being cuckolded?) is hanging around down below. That takes some nerve, not to mention some pretty impressive middle core strength (all that balancing. She must have done Pilates.).
Maybe you don't have time to read the book though. For you, and just for you, here's the skinny, aka MY BLUFFER'S GUIDE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES (pt 1 of I'm not sure how many yet)
***DISCLAIMER(S)***
1. if you are about to sit a really important exam, or even a not-all-that-important one, or are applying for British citizenship (surely Chaucer is the kind of thing they ask you about in those tests?) I wouldn't rely on the following information. Seriously, please don't. Go read Peter Ackroyd's book. 2. May contain strobe lighting effects which can trigger seizures. 3. Also, nuts. You have been warned.The Knight's Tale: This is one of the least filthy ones, actually. Probably because the knight, as all good knights should be, is noble and full of valour and good and true. (He's travelling with his son, the Squire, who sounds a bit like Roger Ramjet, and was quite dishy, although not really my type. We'll get to his story later.) Two cousins, Arcite and Palamon are chucked into prison by the Duke of Athens. From the tower-which-is-their-prison they both see and fall in love with the Duke's sister in law Emily. Arcite is set free as a favour to the Duke's oldest childhood friend who conveniently is also Arcite's gay lover. This gets nothing more than a fleeting mention in the tale (or at least in Acroyd's version of it) which leads me to think that either dukes with gay lovers who they never think to mention to their oldest childhood friend were more common than you might think in the fourteenth century, or that Chaucer (or maybe Ackroyd) was trying not to draw too much attention to a lazy plot device. But far be it from me to criticise.
Anyway, Arcite is only set free on the condition that he never returns to Athens, which of course means never setting eyes on the lovely Emily again. So now we have Palamon, who is locked up in a tower but can see Emily every day, and Arcite, free as a bird, who can never see her again. Cue lots of moping around and moaning about this from both of them. After years of this, Arcite sneaks back into Athens in disguise, and Palamon escapes from the tower, and they bump into each other somewhat conveniently, and have a fight, and the Duke finds them fighting, and is about to kill them both when all of the ladies in his party swoon with the romance of it all, so he decides not to. Instead, he tells them both to come back in a year with an army of 100 knights, and they can have a proper battle to see who can have Emily, who doesn't actually want either of them, but that's by the by. A year later there's a big bloody battle, and (spoiler alert) Arcite wins, but then he falls off his horse and dies, and Palamon and Emily live happily ever after.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Can you guess what I'm watching?
Here is some dialogue:
(On the phone, cigarette in hand) "David, I want you to have my jet fueled and
stocked and be ready to take off for St Thomas first thing in the
morning. Goodnight" ( Puts phone down, turns to camera, and sighs. ) "Good
night. But it's not a good night. It's about as rotten a night I've ever known."
"I have a drink"
"How about it. Dinner tonight?"*
"And then maybe, bed?"
"Maybe"
(Woman walks away from the bar and then turns back)
"Bartender...." (removes wedding ring and drops it into a cocktail glass) "...your
tip"
*Same guy, by the way. He is nothing if not persistent.
(On the phone, cigarette in hand) "David, I want you to have my jet fueled and
stocked and be ready to take off for St Thomas first thing in the
morning. Goodnight" ( Puts phone down, turns to camera, and sighs. ) "Good
night. But it's not a good night. It's about as rotten a night I've ever known."
"I love him, Daddy. I hope that kind of honesty doesn't offend you.""You look like a very lonely lady. Can I buy you a drink?"
"I have a drink"
"How about it. Dinner tonight?"*
"And then maybe, bed?"
"Maybe"
(Woman walks away from the bar and then turns back)
"Bartender...." (removes wedding ring and drops it into a cocktail glass) "...your
tip"
*Same guy, by the way. He is nothing if not persistent.
Monday, 24 May 2010
An idealist who was misunderstood
Some things:
1. Best line (in my opinion) in the LOST finale, which if you haven't watched it but plan to won't spoil anything, came from Miles:
2. The Inuktitut word Katujjiqatigiittiarnirlu means "simplicity" (from @qikipedia on Twitter)
3. Today's birthdays: Queen Victoria, the woman who invented scavenger-hunts*, Bob Dylan, Kristen Scott-Thomas, Tommy Chong of "Cheech and" fame, actor-rapper Big Tyme** and the Brooklyn Bridge. Also on this date, Bartok's opera "Bluebeard's Castle" premiered in Budapest. According to the article I am looking at, "It was controversial, not only because the music was hard on the ears, but also because the Bartok version of the Bluebeard story made Bluebeard, a serial killer, out to be an idealist who was misunderstood".
Aren't we all misunderstood idealists at heart?
*Elsa Maxwell, who sounds like quite a character. She was born in a box at the opera (is it just me, or can this be said about a disproportionately large number of people? Winston Churchill is the other one I thought I could think of off the top of my head, but a) I've just double checked and he wasn't and b) I'm sure I used to know about more. I am going to have to investigate this further.) There's an interesting article about her here. My favourite parts:
1. Best line (in my opinion) in the LOST finale, which if you haven't watched it but plan to won't spoil anything, came from Miles:
"I don't believe in a lot of things. But I believe in duct tape."
2. The Inuktitut word Katujjiqatigiittiarnirlu means "simplicity" (from @qikipedia on Twitter)
3. Today's birthdays: Queen Victoria, the woman who invented scavenger-hunts*, Bob Dylan, Kristen Scott-Thomas, Tommy Chong of "Cheech and" fame, actor-rapper Big Tyme** and the Brooklyn Bridge. Also on this date, Bartok's opera "Bluebeard's Castle" premiered in Budapest. According to the article I am looking at, "It was controversial, not only because the music was hard on the ears, but also because the Bartok version of the Bluebeard story made Bluebeard, a serial killer, out to be an idealist who was misunderstood".
Aren't we all misunderstood idealists at heart?
*Elsa Maxwell, who sounds like quite a character. She was born in a box at the opera (is it just me, or can this be said about a disproportionately large number of people? Winston Churchill is the other one I thought I could think of off the top of my head, but a) I've just double checked and he wasn't and b) I'm sure I used to know about more. I am going to have to investigate this further.) There's an interesting article about her here. My favourite parts:
Not unmindful of science (she once devoted most of a column to the fact that she has never had to blow her nose)and
Author-Actress Maxwell commutes frequently between her Waldorf apartment and Hollywood, where she lives with Evalyn Walsh McLean and the Hope diamond
** I didn't even have a favourite rapper name before today, but now Big Tyme is definitely it. His real name is Jerod.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
(Ridiculously Early) Sunday Night Music Club
Wowsers! What a weekend. I'm a bit early with this today, since it's not even close to night time yet, and there's still plenty of glorious sunshine outside to go and frolic in. (At least around these parts there is. Hope you're not reading this stuck in a snow-storm or anything.)
I'm prettty sure I'll forget to post this later on, so I'm doing it now just in case. If you want the full Sunday night music club experience, I suggest you come back in a few hours. Wait until the sun has started to fade and the "I can't believe it's almost Monday morning again" blues are kicking in, then have a little listen to this:
I'm prettty sure I'll forget to post this later on, so I'm doing it now just in case. If you want the full Sunday night music club experience, I suggest you come back in a few hours. Wait until the sun has started to fade and the "I can't believe it's almost Monday morning again" blues are kicking in, then have a little listen to this:
Saturday, 22 May 2010
books and cake and other lovely stuff
So on Thursday night, I went to a fire-station, spent the evening with a bunch of complete strangers and gave away one of my favourite books in the world. It was BRILLIANT.
The Firestation bookswap in Windsor, which is where I was, is one of those nights which is almost impossible to describe unless you've been there.* It's a monthly event hosted by Scott Pack and Marie Phillips who share the stage with a couple of authors. They all have a bit of a chat, about books and writing and other stuff, and the authors answer random questions from the audience. (By random questions, by the way, I do really mean random. My favourite was "if you were a curry, what type would you be?").
Everyone takes along a book they don't want any more, and in between the author chat and the random questions there's the chance to pitch your book and swap it for something else. While all this is going on, there is lots and lots of cake being passed around. When I say lots and lots, I mean mountains. Almost literally.
All in all it's a mad, slightly chaotic affair, which is a whole lot of fun. I went along not knowing a soul, and came away with several actual books, lots of virtual books on my "must get around to reading that one day" list, and having chatted with lots of really warm and friendly people.
I took this to swap:
The Firestation bookswap in Windsor, which is where I was, is one of those nights which is almost impossible to describe unless you've been there.* It's a monthly event hosted by Scott Pack and Marie Phillips who share the stage with a couple of authors. They all have a bit of a chat, about books and writing and other stuff, and the authors answer random questions from the audience. (By random questions, by the way, I do really mean random. My favourite was "if you were a curry, what type would you be?").
Everyone takes along a book they don't want any more, and in between the author chat and the random questions there's the chance to pitch your book and swap it for something else. While all this is going on, there is lots and lots of cake being passed around. When I say lots and lots, I mean mountains. Almost literally.
All in all it's a mad, slightly chaotic affair, which is a whole lot of fun. I went along not knowing a soul, and came away with several actual books, lots of virtual books on my "must get around to reading that one day" list, and having chatted with lots of really warm and friendly people.
I took this to swap:
which is a book I loved (on a slightly irrelevant note, is that cover not one of the prettiest thing you have ever seen in your life?) and which briefly became the object of quite an exciting bidding war. This is the first time (and quite likely the last time, although one can always dream) I have been able to say this about a book of mine.
I also took some of these:
which I was particularly proud of, given I am currently in possession of a disco-inferno (burn, baby, burn) oven which only operates on two settings: 'off' and 'burn the crap out of everything'.
You don't have to take cake, by the way; it costs a fiver to get in but it's free if you take a home made cake. A fiver used to buy a bookswap ticket is a fiver well spent, in my opinion, but I'm a just-starting-out freelancer with limited cash flow and plenty of time. Of course I was going to make a cake.
If you like books, and cake, and really really nice people, the Firestation bookswap would be worth checking out sometime. Third Thursday of the month, at the Firestation Arts Centre in Windsor. Be prepared to eat lots of cake.
*Sorry, I know, I hate it when people say this kind of thing too. Drives me nuts. Maybe you should just go and see for yourself
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
I do love a good Venn Diagram
Is this a terrible confession? I loved doing them at school, too. I'm a bit sad like that.
But you can't tell me there's not something almost zen-like about the sense of order a Venn diagram carries with it. There's just something so neat and tidy about them. A place for everything, and everything in its place, as both Mary Poppins and my Mum would say.
Sometimes they can also be quite funny. This one, for instance, which comes via Twitter; it was made by @qwghlm who I don't follow, but re-tweeted by several people I do.
But you can't tell me there's not something almost zen-like about the sense of order a Venn diagram carries with it. There's just something so neat and tidy about them. A place for everything, and everything in its place, as both Mary Poppins and my Mum would say.
Sometimes they can also be quite funny. This one, for instance, which comes via Twitter; it was made by @qwghlm who I don't follow, but re-tweeted by several people I do.
Simple, yet effective. And by that I mean the diagram, not the politicians.
When I saw it earlier today I remembered an email that did the rounds a while ago, with song titles explained in graphs. You might remember it for gems like this:
Pie charts don't quite do it in the same way for me as Venn diagrams do (call me fussy) but I still quite like this.
A quick Google search for "funny Venn Diagrams" (my research methodology is nothing if not robust) has told me that I'm not the first to see the humour in these gorgeous creatures. A while ago The Huffington Post, for instance, ran the brilliantly titled feature Jesus, Karaoke and Serial Killers about the funniest Venn Diagrams to be found on the internet. My favourite so far, I think, is this:
A quick Google search for "funny Venn Diagrams" (my research methodology is nothing if not robust) has told me that I'm not the first to see the humour in these gorgeous creatures. A while ago The Huffington Post, for instance, ran the brilliantly titled feature Jesus, Karaoke and Serial Killers about the funniest Venn Diagrams to be found on the internet. My favourite so far, I think, is this:
There are a load more of them here .
In not-quite-so-geeky news, I sent my first invoice out today for the work I did last week, and was quite excited about this. (Actually, maybe that's not quite so not-quite-so-geeky news in hindsight. Whatever.) I have also been booking in other dates and my financial projections (get me!) are suggesting that there are a couple of months coming up where I'll actually be earning enough to cover my living expenses. Hooray! Been a while since I could say that.
I am freelancer, hear me roar.
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Two birds, one stone
You nearly got some more New York photos today (be still your beating hearts), but then I remembered that I heard this on Lauren Laverne's Radio 6 show this morning, and as much as I like the concept of Sunday Night Music Club I don't think I can wait that long to share it.
The titular birds are: 1) I'm feeling lazy, and 2) this is lovely. And yeah, I know two music posts in a row is pretty slack, but it's been one of those days. Sorry. Hopefully I'll have some words tomorrow. In the meantime, here's a stone. Sweet, isn't it?
The titular birds are: 1) I'm feeling lazy, and 2) this is lovely. And yeah, I know two music posts in a row is pretty slack, but it's been one of those days. Sorry. Hopefully I'll have some words tomorrow. In the meantime, here's a stone. Sweet, isn't it?
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Sunday night music club
David Berkeley is a new discovery for me. This is just stunning, and perfect for a Sunday evening. This clip doesn't have the best sound quality but you'll get the idea; you can also listen here, although I'm not sure fow how long, or visit his beautifully quirky website to hear more.
A little more sensitivity needed, perhaps.....
Spotted this news story on the Yahoo home page this morning. Aside from the fact that those are the most adorable little lambs I have ever seen, I loved the 'related stories' on right. They might be slightly lacking in the sensitivity department over at Yahoo, but you can't say they're not thorough.
I expect I wouldn't find this nearly as funny if I was a sheep farmer who had lost twenty grand's worth of sheep, but I'm not, and I do.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
In her house you do not sit down, you recline
More from Jules Renard (did you really expect anything else from me today?):
He lunches with Oscar Wilde ("He does not walk around a table, he moves the table out of the way") and becomes friends with Sarah Bernhardt, who he quite fancies, I think:
At twenty, one thinks profoundly, and badly.
He wept cats and dogs
Every now and then he had to skim off his seething thoughtsThe journal is full of this kind of stuff; little throw away lines, observations and quite random thoughts. Other times, it reads more like a diary. Taking his young son to the seaside:
He walked noislessly, like a fish
..he is terrified of the crabs which walk sidweays and the lobsters with their blind men's gropings. We put a little crayfish in the pocket of his pinafore, whereupon he placed his hands behind his back like Napoleon after Moscow, and stood that way for a good half-hour, posessed by I know what thoughts, walking backwards now and then, and pretty perplexed by this toy that lay on his stomach. This might be a way of making him behave which we had not thought of.Being paid to write:
Yesterday, collected my first sou for my writing. At such a moment, a sou is as handsome as 500,000 francs
He lunches with Oscar Wilde ("He does not walk around a table, he moves the table out of the way") and becomes friends with Sarah Bernhardt, who he quite fancies, I think:
Sarah Bernhardt. When she comes down the winding staircase of the hotel, it looks as though she were standing still, while the staircase turns around her.
When I left Mme Sarah Bernardt I was in the mood to write a fine epic poem if I had the time
"You are stupid" she says. And I am not sure that it is meant pleasantly.
At the sign of Sarah Bernhardt I would follow her to the ends of the earth, with my wife.
Chez Sarah Bernhardt. Near a monumental fireplace, she reclines on the pelt of a polar bear. Because in her house you do not sit down, you recline.
Friday, 14 May 2010
Can't. Breathe. Very. Excited.
Arrived today. I am giddy with excitement.
Opened randomly and read this:
Objects. Something has vanished. We hunt for it in vain. Suddenly, it is found.
"That was where it was!"
"Hm!"
"Since you found it, it must have been there"
"I'm not so sure"
I love him already.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
We strive to be Earth's Most Customer-Centric Company
Really, Amazon? Really?
Failure is not the only punishment for laziness; there is also the success of others
We don't understand life any better at forty than at twenty, but we know it and
admit it
Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties
The horse is the only animal into which one can bang nails
That last one was on Wikipedia and I can't find it anywhere else so far, but haven't had time for a proper look. Truth be told, I'm a little nervous about googling "banging nails into horses" too closely.
Usually I love Amazon, and to be fair this is the first time I've every had a problem. But the generic, error-filled, largely irrelevant email I've just had from their customer service team would suggest that they have a long way to go in their quest for world (sorry, EARTH) customer service domination.
I am trying to be patient. After all, Jules also said:
Man who waits for roast duck to fly into mouth must wait very, very long time.
*If you're new here, there has been quite a lot of banging on going on. Basically, I've been waiting for an Amazon delivery which is very late and it is driving me nuts.
I won't bang on about my delayed delivery again.* But I've just read this, which reminded me of this, and made me impatient to find out what else Jules Renard has to say. I am becoming obsessed with this man.
In the absence of his journal, I'm having to settle for quote hunting. Here's the elusive Mr Renard on life, love, laziness, and, er, carpentry:
Failure is not the only punishment for laziness; there is also the success of others
We don't understand life any better at forty than at twenty, but we know it and
admit it
Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties
The horse is the only animal into which one can bang nails
That last one was on Wikipedia and I can't find it anywhere else so far, but haven't had time for a proper look. Truth be told, I'm a little nervous about googling "banging nails into horses" too closely.
Usually I love Amazon, and to be fair this is the first time I've every had a problem. But the generic, error-filled, largely irrelevant email I've just had from their customer service team would suggest that they have a long way to go in their quest for world (sorry, EARTH) customer service domination.
I am trying to be patient. After all, Jules also said:
Man who waits for roast duck to fly into mouth must wait very, very long time.
*If you're new here, there has been quite a lot of banging on going on. Basically, I've been waiting for an Amazon delivery which is very late and it is driving me nuts.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Oh What A Night
I have been glued to BBC news for most of the afternoon and evening. Still can't quite believe what I've been watching, but I guess it was inevitable really. For those who missed it (really?), David Cameron is the new Prime Minister.
An hour or so ago I turned over to watch Heston's 80s themed feast, and thank God it was on tonight. Featuring, among other things: microwave recipes, rubiks cube pepper mills (I SO want one), boil in the bag meals, space dust, the A-Team, a Delorean, soda streams, slush puppies and food which hovered, it gave me a false sense of security which I desperately needed. For the second time today, I found myself thinking: sometimes I wish I was still a 10 year old.
Simon Blackwell posted a link to this video earlier today on Twitter, and it totally sums up how I feel. Iconically English, yet oddly childlike. Enjoy.
An hour or so ago I turned over to watch Heston's 80s themed feast, and thank God it was on tonight. Featuring, among other things: microwave recipes, rubiks cube pepper mills (I SO want one), boil in the bag meals, space dust, the A-Team, a Delorean, soda streams, slush puppies and food which hovered, it gave me a false sense of security which I desperately needed. For the second time today, I found myself thinking: sometimes I wish I was still a 10 year old.
Simon Blackwell posted a link to this video earlier today on Twitter, and it totally sums up how I feel. Iconically English, yet oddly childlike. Enjoy.
Catching up
Sorry for my extended leave of absence. I have some great excuses if you want to hear them. No? Well, fair enough. Basically I've been pretty busy. Not to mention a bit distracted by all of the politics that, er, hasn't been going on. Anyway, I've just realised that last time I was round these parts it was Thursday, and now it's Tuesday. I've really got no idea how that happened. (I mean, it's not as if I was locked down at Westminster in high stakes negotations all weekend or anything). I will try to do better.
Brief highlights of the last few days:
1. I spent Friday afternoon at the BBC, taking part in a workshop to test out ideas for the new series of Dave Gorman's Genius. (As a slight aside, and by way of explanation of what's coming in the next paragraph, there are some people who get quite pernickety about words like 'genius' being used as adjectives. Properly, properly pernickety. They have facebook groups and everything. Personally I think they're idiots (language is constantly evolving, and that's what makes it fun, and who cares if you want to adjectivise the odd noun, or nounify the odd adjective? (I'm also quite a fan of verbifying, as you may have noticed.)) But I figure it's not going to cost me anything to keep the pernickets (who will no doubt be irritated by that name, too) happy. So I will try.)
Back to Genius [noun: proper]. If you don't know the show, which started on radio and then moved to telly last year, the basic concept is that members of the public pitch an idea which they think is genius [adj] to a guest judge, who is, in the eyes of the programme's producers at least, a genius [noun]. The judge-who-is-a-genius [noun] then gets to decide whether each idea is, in fact, genius [adj] or not. The guest judges I remember from the last series are Catherine Tate, Johnny Vegas and Germaine Greer, so the definition of genius [noun] which the producers are working from seems to be "someone who is funny. Or, is Germaine Greer."
They are tweaking the format for the next series and wanted to try some ideas out with a group of people, so I went along. It was a great afternoon. Dave Gorman was very funny, and he gave us all a copy of his book, which was an added bonus. (Haven't started reading it yet, but loved some of his other ones, so my hopes are high.) We were asked not to say too much about the possible changes, but what I can do is tell you some of the genius [adj] ideas some people brought to the table. There were some crackers:
A bird feeder which electrocutes seagulls. Only seagulls. Which raised the obvious
question: what exactly did the inventor have against seagulls? I suspect a traumatic
fish-and-chips-related incident during her childhood, but I'm no psychologist.
To solve gun crime, make it legal to own any gun, but only if it is pink (removes their
machismo image and makes them less desirable. Except, presumably to Paris
Hilton. And only, as Dave Gorman pointed out, to people who are unfamilar with the
concept of paint.)
Magnetic socks, which won't get seperated in the wash. This one went down quite
well until someone pointed out that washing machines are made out of, er, quite a lot
of metal. Which the socks will probably get stuck to, instead of to each other.
A few people brought along prototypes of their ideas: the girl who brought along a
dream recorder (strap it to your head, attach probes and play back your dreams the
following morning so you remember them) pointed out that it was just a
representation of what her invention might look like, not an actual working model.
I'm glad she warned us, if not a little disappointed. There was also a guy who used a
toilet roll holder to make a dispensing system for artificial cheese (as an alternative to
those individually wrapped cheese slices you can get) which he thought would a) help
the environment and b) reduce waste by letting you choose exactly how much cheese
you needed to fit your sandwich, or roll, or whatever. He gave us a demonstration
and this is a direct quote: "Yes, that is real cheese. I spent most of last night
sellotaping it together".
It should be a good series. This is the bit of the last series which everyone
remembers the most, but no one can remember whether the idea was genius[adj] or
not.
2. I saw Abandoman on Saturday night. What do you mean you've never heard of Abandoman? They're Ireland's seventh biggest hip hop act for goodness sake! Apparently Ireland only has nine hip hop acts, so not enough for a top 10, and of the two acts they beat to the coveted 7th spot, one was Jedward. But don't hold that against then. Also, I should probably say that this is all stuff which Rapping Rob, head Abando-man, told us on stage, so he could have been making it up. I say that not because I'm calling Rapping Rob a liar, but because Rapping Rob made up lots of great stuff on stage, including an impressive improvised musical about two of the audience members. It's not everyone who can spin a romantic tale in three acts about a turtle-loving environementalist and a carpenter who meet in McDonalds completely off the top of their head. Let alone make it rhyme. For that reason alone, if you ever have a chance to see Abandoman live (Edinburgh festival would be a good bet, I'm guessing, and they are definitely on the bill at Lattitude) I would grab it with both hands. Abandoman ROCK.
3. Watching the Sopranos - it took me a couple of episodes to get into, but I get what all the fuss was about now. I'm half way through the first series and the thought that there are so many more still to come fills me with great excitement. Tony Soprano's therapist is my new hero.
4. I'm STILL waiting for Jules Renard. You can follow labels for previous posts on this if you don't know who he is and if you want to know more. (This one not so much a higlight, more a moan. Why am I moaning to you , and not to Amazon, who were meant to bring me Jules over a week ago? No reason, except that I've already tried moaning to Amazon and they've told me to wait a few more days).
5. Working. Actual, being paid for it, having to turn up somewhere on time, working. I spent yesterday back in my old office, and am there again for a couple of days later this week. I expect the novelty will wear off eventually, but so far I'm loving it. Was great to be back, and to be doing something useful, and to see everyone again.
6. Sunday lunch. One of my favourite places in the world is Artisan and Vine wine bar in Clapham, which is nowhere near where I live, but which I will happily trek half way across London, even on a Sunday when the tubes are all up the creek, to get to. I got home from lunch at 9pm - it's that kind of place. They have some amazing wines; my current favourite is this Carmenere: one sip and in my head I'm curled up in a leather armchair in front of a roaring fire, with a blanket and a good book. It's magic stuff.
7. My creative writing class: it was poetry this week, and we ended up writing two poems during the lesson, which was quite hard but good fun. The first one had to be about an emotion; choices were depression, anger, frustration, resentment, grief or sadness so everyone was thoroughly down in the dumps by the time we'd all read them out. I toyed with posting mine here but it feels a bit naff, at this stage, to be posting 'a pome what I wrote' on my blog. Maybe one day.
Brief highlights of the last few days:
1. I spent Friday afternoon at the BBC, taking part in a workshop to test out ideas for the new series of Dave Gorman's Genius. (As a slight aside, and by way of explanation of what's coming in the next paragraph, there are some people who get quite pernickety about words like 'genius' being used as adjectives. Properly, properly pernickety. They have facebook groups and everything. Personally I think they're idiots (language is constantly evolving, and that's what makes it fun, and who cares if you want to adjectivise the odd noun, or nounify the odd adjective? (I'm also quite a fan of verbifying, as you may have noticed.)) But I figure it's not going to cost me anything to keep the pernickets (who will no doubt be irritated by that name, too) happy. So I will try.)
Back to Genius [noun: proper]. If you don't know the show, which started on radio and then moved to telly last year, the basic concept is that members of the public pitch an idea which they think is genius [adj] to a guest judge, who is, in the eyes of the programme's producers at least, a genius [noun]. The judge-who-is-a-genius [noun] then gets to decide whether each idea is, in fact, genius [adj] or not. The guest judges I remember from the last series are Catherine Tate, Johnny Vegas and Germaine Greer, so the definition of genius [noun] which the producers are working from seems to be "someone who is funny. Or, is Germaine Greer."
They are tweaking the format for the next series and wanted to try some ideas out with a group of people, so I went along. It was a great afternoon. Dave Gorman was very funny, and he gave us all a copy of his book, which was an added bonus. (Haven't started reading it yet, but loved some of his other ones, so my hopes are high.) We were asked not to say too much about the possible changes, but what I can do is tell you some of the genius [adj] ideas some people brought to the table. There were some crackers:
A bird feeder which electrocutes seagulls. Only seagulls. Which raised the obvious
question: what exactly did the inventor have against seagulls? I suspect a traumatic
fish-and-chips-related incident during her childhood, but I'm no psychologist.
To solve gun crime, make it legal to own any gun, but only if it is pink (removes their
machismo image and makes them less desirable. Except, presumably to Paris
Hilton. And only, as Dave Gorman pointed out, to people who are unfamilar with the
concept of paint.)
Magnetic socks, which won't get seperated in the wash. This one went down quite
well until someone pointed out that washing machines are made out of, er, quite a lot
of metal. Which the socks will probably get stuck to, instead of to each other.
A few people brought along prototypes of their ideas: the girl who brought along a
dream recorder (strap it to your head, attach probes and play back your dreams the
following morning so you remember them) pointed out that it was just a
representation of what her invention might look like, not an actual working model.
I'm glad she warned us, if not a little disappointed. There was also a guy who used a
toilet roll holder to make a dispensing system for artificial cheese (as an alternative to
those individually wrapped cheese slices you can get) which he thought would a) help
the environment and b) reduce waste by letting you choose exactly how much cheese
you needed to fit your sandwich, or roll, or whatever. He gave us a demonstration
and this is a direct quote: "Yes, that is real cheese. I spent most of last night
sellotaping it together".
It should be a good series. This is the bit of the last series which everyone
remembers the most, but no one can remember whether the idea was genius[adj] or
not.
2. I saw Abandoman on Saturday night. What do you mean you've never heard of Abandoman? They're Ireland's seventh biggest hip hop act for goodness sake! Apparently Ireland only has nine hip hop acts, so not enough for a top 10, and of the two acts they beat to the coveted 7th spot, one was Jedward. But don't hold that against then. Also, I should probably say that this is all stuff which Rapping Rob, head Abando-man, told us on stage, so he could have been making it up. I say that not because I'm calling Rapping Rob a liar, but because Rapping Rob made up lots of great stuff on stage, including an impressive improvised musical about two of the audience members. It's not everyone who can spin a romantic tale in three acts about a turtle-loving environementalist and a carpenter who meet in McDonalds completely off the top of their head. Let alone make it rhyme. For that reason alone, if you ever have a chance to see Abandoman live (Edinburgh festival would be a good bet, I'm guessing, and they are definitely on the bill at Lattitude) I would grab it with both hands. Abandoman ROCK.
3. Watching the Sopranos - it took me a couple of episodes to get into, but I get what all the fuss was about now. I'm half way through the first series and the thought that there are so many more still to come fills me with great excitement. Tony Soprano's therapist is my new hero.
4. I'm STILL waiting for Jules Renard. You can follow labels for previous posts on this if you don't know who he is and if you want to know more. (This one not so much a higlight, more a moan. Why am I moaning to you , and not to Amazon, who were meant to bring me Jules over a week ago? No reason, except that I've already tried moaning to Amazon and they've told me to wait a few more days).
5. Working. Actual, being paid for it, having to turn up somewhere on time, working. I spent yesterday back in my old office, and am there again for a couple of days later this week. I expect the novelty will wear off eventually, but so far I'm loving it. Was great to be back, and to be doing something useful, and to see everyone again.
6. Sunday lunch. One of my favourite places in the world is Artisan and Vine wine bar in Clapham, which is nowhere near where I live, but which I will happily trek half way across London, even on a Sunday when the tubes are all up the creek, to get to. I got home from lunch at 9pm - it's that kind of place. They have some amazing wines; my current favourite is this Carmenere: one sip and in my head I'm curled up in a leather armchair in front of a roaring fire, with a blanket and a good book. It's magic stuff.
7. My creative writing class: it was poetry this week, and we ended up writing two poems during the lesson, which was quite hard but good fun. The first one had to be about an emotion; choices were depression, anger, frustration, resentment, grief or sadness so everyone was thoroughly down in the dumps by the time we'd all read them out. I toyed with posting mine here but it feels a bit naff, at this stage, to be posting 'a pome what I wrote' on my blog. Maybe one day.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Some days you're the windshield, some days you're the bug.
Today it's windshield for me, all the way.
Too tired to go into details now, but the short version of events is that I had an interview this morning which went really well, and they said lots of nice things and offered me twice the amount of potential freeelance work than I had hoped they would.
I've been more or less equally terrified and excited by the prospect of going freelance ever since I left my job in January; today my swing-ometer is firmly in the excited zone. It's a nice place to be.
Too tired to go into details now, but the short version of events is that I had an interview this morning which went really well, and they said lots of nice things and offered me twice the amount of potential freeelance work than I had hoped they would.
I've been more or less equally terrified and excited by the prospect of going freelance ever since I left my job in January; today my swing-ometer is firmly in the excited zone. It's a nice place to be.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
You are almost definitely more important than me
That's not just my fragile self-esteem talking.*
Politics, a bit like my pension fund and other people's babies, is one of those things that I am a bit less interested in than I should be. Like most people, I expect, I've been a little more interested than normal lately: the election has definitely been on my radar and I even managed to watch two out of three of the debates, but if I'm honest, by the end of it all I realised I had been more concerned with the colour of David Cameron's face (slightly orange, which clashed horribly with the pink background) than several of the topics up for discussion. Several days later, the biggest debate-related question weighing on my mind was how I completely failed to notice this:
(I know that photo has been doing the rounds for a while now so apologies if you've already seen it).
I think you can safely assume from this that I am no Jeremy Paxman. You are quite right. Even so, for the first time ever I am genuinely quite excited about voting. Not sure why. Maybe it's just an age thing. Or perhaps it has something to do with the fact that, given that I spent the first half of my adult life in Australia, where voting is compulsory, this is the first time I'll be doing it by choice. It's certainly not because of what's on the menu, that much I do know. I desperately want to vote. I don't particularly want to vote for anyone.
Which is probably just as well, given I've just been looking at the voterpower index (http://www.voterpower.org.uk/). It's a clever, if not slightly demoralising, idea: use the size of a constituency and the probability of the seat changing hands to calculate your voting power, compared to the relative power of voters in different parts of the country.
I live and will be voting in Erith & Thamesmead, where according to the site's calculations "one person does not really have one vote, they have the equivalent of 0.058 votes". That's one depressingly small number. Interestingly, it's not quite as bad as it sounds, given that this is only 4.35 times less than the average voter.
That's right, according to the website, the average, full-bodied-or-otherwise voter only has the power of 0.253 votes.** This seems absurdly low to me. (I'm assuming it's something which the proposed electoral reforms, which I haven't been paying much attention to and am starting to wish I had, would change? I hope so.)
Still, 0.058 doesn't seem much. If I was the result of a psychology experiment, I'd only barely make the cut-off to be considered anything other than a coincidence. So what deems me so insignificant? The size of my patch for one thing. I'm one of 70,427 voters, a number that makes us slightly larger than the average bear (and by bear I mean constituency) which weighs in at 68 433 voters. The more voters, the less each one counts. I get this. If you throw a salmon into a big enough pond (yes, we're fish now, not bears) it looks like a minnow.
Nick Marks, who came up with the index, says the other deciding factor is the probability of the seat changing hands, and has used data from "as many elections as possible" to determine this. Since I'm in an ultra-safe seat which hasn't changed in 20 years, my vote is less likely to have an impact. By these rules, the most powerful constituency in the country is Arfon. That's in North Wales, in case you (like me) were wondering. If Mr Marks has his maths right, it would take twenty-two and a half of me for my (our?) vote(s?) to carry the same weight as that of a single voter from Bangor or Caernarfon.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, it bothers me. On the other hand, I feel an odd sense of relief that my vote, which is basically just a vote for the best of a bad bunch, and as such will never be a decision I am entirely happy with, will have minimal impact.
I'll still be voting tomorrow, because I'm glad that I can, and because I want to use that privilege no matter how insignificant my decision will turn out to be. To me, the piece of paper itself is worth a lot more than the names written on it.
I've written more on this than I meant to. Maybe I'm more of a political animal (bear, fish, minnow, whatever) than I thought I was. Anyway, there's a good chance that your vote will be worth a lot more than mine tomorrow. I don't mind who you decide to vote for. But please use it wisely.
* Also, it's not really all that fragile.
**Interestingly, or not, the man on the Clapham autobus, assuming he lives in Clapham, has even less than that at 0.143 votes. Still more clout than me though.
Politics, a bit like my pension fund and other people's babies, is one of those things that I am a bit less interested in than I should be. Like most people, I expect, I've been a little more interested than normal lately: the election has definitely been on my radar and I even managed to watch two out of three of the debates, but if I'm honest, by the end of it all I realised I had been more concerned with the colour of David Cameron's face (slightly orange, which clashed horribly with the pink background) than several of the topics up for discussion. Several days later, the biggest debate-related question weighing on my mind was how I completely failed to notice this:
(I know that photo has been doing the rounds for a while now so apologies if you've already seen it).
I think you can safely assume from this that I am no Jeremy Paxman. You are quite right. Even so, for the first time ever I am genuinely quite excited about voting. Not sure why. Maybe it's just an age thing. Or perhaps it has something to do with the fact that, given that I spent the first half of my adult life in Australia, where voting is compulsory, this is the first time I'll be doing it by choice. It's certainly not because of what's on the menu, that much I do know. I desperately want to vote. I don't particularly want to vote for anyone.
Which is probably just as well, given I've just been looking at the voterpower index (http://www.voterpower.org.uk/). It's a clever, if not slightly demoralising, idea: use the size of a constituency and the probability of the seat changing hands to calculate your voting power, compared to the relative power of voters in different parts of the country.
I live and will be voting in Erith & Thamesmead, where according to the site's calculations "one person does not really have one vote, they have the equivalent of 0.058 votes". That's one depressingly small number. Interestingly, it's not quite as bad as it sounds, given that this is only 4.35 times less than the average voter.
That's right, according to the website, the average, full-bodied-or-otherwise voter only has the power of 0.253 votes.** This seems absurdly low to me. (I'm assuming it's something which the proposed electoral reforms, which I haven't been paying much attention to and am starting to wish I had, would change? I hope so.)
Still, 0.058 doesn't seem much. If I was the result of a psychology experiment, I'd only barely make the cut-off to be considered anything other than a coincidence. So what deems me so insignificant? The size of my patch for one thing. I'm one of 70,427 voters, a number that makes us slightly larger than the average bear (and by bear I mean constituency) which weighs in at 68 433 voters. The more voters, the less each one counts. I get this. If you throw a salmon into a big enough pond (yes, we're fish now, not bears) it looks like a minnow.
Nick Marks, who came up with the index, says the other deciding factor is the probability of the seat changing hands, and has used data from "as many elections as possible" to determine this. Since I'm in an ultra-safe seat which hasn't changed in 20 years, my vote is less likely to have an impact. By these rules, the most powerful constituency in the country is Arfon. That's in North Wales, in case you (like me) were wondering. If Mr Marks has his maths right, it would take twenty-two and a half of me for my (our?) vote(s?) to carry the same weight as that of a single voter from Bangor or Caernarfon.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, it bothers me. On the other hand, I feel an odd sense of relief that my vote, which is basically just a vote for the best of a bad bunch, and as such will never be a decision I am entirely happy with, will have minimal impact.
I'll still be voting tomorrow, because I'm glad that I can, and because I want to use that privilege no matter how insignificant my decision will turn out to be. To me, the piece of paper itself is worth a lot more than the names written on it.
I've written more on this than I meant to. Maybe I'm more of a political animal (bear, fish, minnow, whatever) than I thought I was. Anyway, there's a good chance that your vote will be worth a lot more than mine tomorrow. I don't mind who you decide to vote for. But please use it wisely.
* Also, it's not really all that fragile.
**Interestingly, or not, the man on the Clapham autobus, assuming he lives in Clapham, has even less than that at 0.143 votes. Still more clout than me though.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Filibuster vigilantly
I was going to launch into a long explanation about why I'm posting this video, and then I remembered it's a song about a night light shaped liked a bird. Frankly, that's good enough for me.
So simply because it's a cold and grey Tuesday-which-feels-like-a-Monday (and *maybe* a little bit because I've just realised you can put funky coloured borders around embedded Youtube clips) here's a little ray of sunshine for your ears:
I've just been watching Kirsten Cheneworth in last night's Glee, and she covered this once, on a short-lived but fantastically quirky TV show called Pushing Dasies which I loved, and which is what made me think of it. I like the original version better though.
So simply because it's a cold and grey Tuesday-which-feels-like-a-Monday (and *maybe* a little bit because I've just realised you can put funky coloured borders around embedded Youtube clips) here's a little ray of sunshine for your ears:
I've just been watching Kirsten Cheneworth in last night's Glee, and she covered this once, on a short-lived but fantastically quirky TV show called Pushing Dasies which I loved, and which is what made me think of it. I like the original version better though.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)