Have you ever seen two men enjoy singing a song as much as these two? Me neither.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
The world's thirstiest gerbil
I have mentioned the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest before.
Here is this year's winner:
Here is this year's winner:
For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity’s affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss — a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity’s mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world’s thirstiest gerbil.
Friday, 17 September 2010
The Bluffer's Guide to the Bluffer's Guide to the Canterbury Tales
As regular visitors will know, possibly at great cost to their time and sanity, about a billion years ago I started reading Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Actually, that's not technically true; I started reading Peter Ackroyd's version of them, which is a lot easier to get through than the original.
It's a great read; perfect if you've always meant to get around to Mr C, are mildly curious as to the contents of his Tales, or have heard the rumours about how much sex and filth they contain but can't quite stomach the fact of all those olde worldly fpellings with their crazy mixed up letterf. (Why do I get the feeling this joke will be lost in translation? Stupid Blogger with its limited choice of fonts. And I do mean fonts, not sonts. There are no such thing as sonts.)
Part way through, I realised that I'm probably not the only person who has always meant but not quite managed to get around to reading the Tales. Mainly because just about every person who saw me reading the book said something along the lines of "oh yeah, those. I've heard of those. Never read them though...". It occurred to me that other people might be as curious as as I was as to what the Tales are all about and so the Bluffer's Guide to the Canterbury Tales was born, right here on this very blog. I am expecting a call from the blue plaque committee any day. There are fifteen installments in total, and you can find them all by clicking "Canterbury Tales" at the bottom of this post.
You're probably a busy person though. So, to make it even simpler, there's a quick summary below. What's more, if you want to read the full version of any of the tales (by which I mean the full version of my bluffer's guide version of Peter Ackroyd's version of the original version....are you still with me?) clicking on the title will get you to the right blog post. Isn't technology marvellous?
For a more detailed and accurate account of any of the Tales, of course, I will point you one final time in the direction of Peter Ackroyd's excellent book.
My copy is now looking rather dog-eared and tired, having been carted around in my laptop bag for four months, buried temporarily under a gigantic mound of parsley and introduced, by accident, to the contents of several cups of coffee. I don't usually treat my books like this, but sometimes sacrifices need to be made.
The good(!) news is there is a pristine copy of another classic text sitting on my desk waiting for the same treatment. It's something else that I've always meant to get around to reading, but never tackled; I have only read book one (of twenty four) so far, but it's going to be a cracker I think. And the sort of thing which it could be quite handy to be able to blag and bluff your way through in certain situations. Watch this space.
(I am perfectly happy to take requests for future bluffer's guides by the way; just leave them in the comments. No promises or anything, but it doesn't hurt to ask. And no using me to cheat on your A levels. I could do without that kind of responsibility.)
In the meantime, are you comfortable? Here, for the very last time, is my definitive Bluffer's Guide to the Canterbury Tales :
The Knight's Tale: Disappointingly filth-free. Arcite v Palamon; Palamon wins, in the long run.
The Miller's Tale: An old crusty carpenter has a young lusty wife. She has a bit on the side, he survives an unfortunate incident involving a falling bathtub.
The Reeve's Tale: Comedy bed-swapping mix-ups galore, involving two Cambridge scholars, a miller, his wife and their daughter. Who moved that cradle?
The Cook's Tale: Something about a prostitute. He's not allowed to tell it, initially, and later he's too drunk to care.
The Man of Law's Tale: Constance has the mother-in-law from hell. Twice. There's a happy ending though. Features an excellent picture which is not a snake with a woman's face for a head.
The Wife of Bath's Tale: A knight, in an attempt to find out what women want, marries an ugly old crone. Works surprisingly well in Lego. For video evidence, click that link (you know you want to.)
The Friar's Tale: Summoners are evil (allegedly).
The Summoner's Tale: No they're not. But Friars are pretty stupid, and deserve to be farted on (says the summoner).
The Clerk's Tale: Walter, who is an idiot, marries sweet and lovely Griselda, who turns out to be almost as much of an idiot for putting up with Walter's crap.
The Merchant's Tale: A knight called January marries May, turns blind and then regains his sight just in time to catch his (clearly rather flexible) wife doing the dirty with his squire, while they are both up a tree.
The Squire's Tale: Ghengis Khan has a birthday party and we meet a self-harming bird. We learn that tercelets are not to be trusted.
The Franklin's Tale: Good things happen to good people. Features some magic disappearing rocks.
The Physician's Tale: Claudius takes a direct and somewhat unconventional approach to dating and relationships. It's not very successful.
The Pardoner's Tale: Don't trust your mates too much, especially if they've been drinking.
The Shipman's Tale: Don't trust your mates too much, especially if they're having it off with your wife. Maybe you shouldn't trust your wife, either. Someone ends up 100 Francs better off, but I can't tell you who.
The Prioress's Tale: An incredibly annoying little boy sings a lot, then dies. Then he's resurrected, but then he dies again. Repeat ad infinitum.
Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas: Bad rhyme is quite a crime
The Monk's Tale: Why tell a story if you can thoroughly depress everyone by rattling off a long list of people who have suffered great misfortune instead? (He's a fun guy, the monk.)
The Nun's Priest's Tale: Don't expect to hear much about Molly the Sheep or Colin the Dog. Chanticleer the rooster is a bit of a stud, his girlfriend Pertelote is a drama queen and it doesn't take much to fool a fox.
The Second Nun's Tale: Everyone turns religious, and then they die. Blame Cecelia.
The Cannon's Yeoman's Tale: Alchemists are the 14th century equivalent of Gillian McKeith.
The Manciple's Tale: We find out why crows are black and can't sing. (Hint: it's because one in particular was not much of a romantic and a bit of a blabber-mouth)
And that's the end. Except for one thing which is driving me up the wall: The whole premise for this collection of tales is that a bunch of pilgrims are having a story-telling contest, to see who can tell the most entertaining story, but we NEVER FIND OUT WHO WINS. I want to know who wins. Is that too much to ask?
For the record, if I was in charge, and I have thought about this a lot, my money would be split evenly between the Man of Law and the Reeve. Plus, I'd give the Franklin an honorable mention because he's just so darned nice. You?
It's a great read; perfect if you've always meant to get around to Mr C, are mildly curious as to the contents of his Tales, or have heard the rumours about how much sex and filth they contain but can't quite stomach the fact of all those olde worldly fpellings with their crazy mixed up letterf. (Why do I get the feeling this joke will be lost in translation? Stupid Blogger with its limited choice of fonts. And I do mean fonts, not sonts. There are no such thing as sonts.)
Part way through, I realised that I'm probably not the only person who has always meant but not quite managed to get around to reading the Tales. Mainly because just about every person who saw me reading the book said something along the lines of "oh yeah, those. I've heard of those. Never read them though...". It occurred to me that other people might be as curious as as I was as to what the Tales are all about and so the Bluffer's Guide to the Canterbury Tales was born, right here on this very blog. I am expecting a call from the blue plaque committee any day. There are fifteen installments in total, and you can find them all by clicking "Canterbury Tales" at the bottom of this post.
You're probably a busy person though. So, to make it even simpler, there's a quick summary below. What's more, if you want to read the full version of any of the tales (by which I mean the full version of my bluffer's guide version of Peter Ackroyd's version of the original version....are you still with me?) clicking on the title will get you to the right blog post. Isn't technology marvellous?
For a more detailed and accurate account of any of the Tales, of course, I will point you one final time in the direction of Peter Ackroyd's excellent book.
My copy is now looking rather dog-eared and tired, having been carted around in my laptop bag for four months, buried temporarily under a gigantic mound of parsley and introduced, by accident, to the contents of several cups of coffee. I don't usually treat my books like this, but sometimes sacrifices need to be made.
The good(!) news is there is a pristine copy of another classic text sitting on my desk waiting for the same treatment. It's something else that I've always meant to get around to reading, but never tackled; I have only read book one (of twenty four) so far, but it's going to be a cracker I think. And the sort of thing which it could be quite handy to be able to blag and bluff your way through in certain situations. Watch this space.
(I am perfectly happy to take requests for future bluffer's guides by the way; just leave them in the comments. No promises or anything, but it doesn't hurt to ask. And no using me to cheat on your A levels. I could do without that kind of responsibility.)
In the meantime, are you comfortable? Here, for the very last time, is my definitive Bluffer's Guide to the Canterbury Tales :
The Knight's Tale: Disappointingly filth-free. Arcite v Palamon; Palamon wins, in the long run.
The Miller's Tale: An old crusty carpenter has a young lusty wife. She has a bit on the side, he survives an unfortunate incident involving a falling bathtub.
The Reeve's Tale: Comedy bed-swapping mix-ups galore, involving two Cambridge scholars, a miller, his wife and their daughter. Who moved that cradle?
The Cook's Tale: Something about a prostitute. He's not allowed to tell it, initially, and later he's too drunk to care.
The Man of Law's Tale: Constance has the mother-in-law from hell. Twice. There's a happy ending though. Features an excellent picture which is not a snake with a woman's face for a head.
The Wife of Bath's Tale: A knight, in an attempt to find out what women want, marries an ugly old crone. Works surprisingly well in Lego. For video evidence, click that link (you know you want to.)
The Friar's Tale: Summoners are evil (allegedly).
The Summoner's Tale: No they're not. But Friars are pretty stupid, and deserve to be farted on (says the summoner).
The Clerk's Tale: Walter, who is an idiot, marries sweet and lovely Griselda, who turns out to be almost as much of an idiot for putting up with Walter's crap.
The Merchant's Tale: A knight called January marries May, turns blind and then regains his sight just in time to catch his (clearly rather flexible) wife doing the dirty with his squire, while they are both up a tree.
The Squire's Tale: Ghengis Khan has a birthday party and we meet a self-harming bird. We learn that tercelets are not to be trusted.
The Franklin's Tale: Good things happen to good people. Features some magic disappearing rocks.
The Physician's Tale: Claudius takes a direct and somewhat unconventional approach to dating and relationships. It's not very successful.
The Pardoner's Tale: Don't trust your mates too much, especially if they've been drinking.
The Shipman's Tale: Don't trust your mates too much, especially if they're having it off with your wife. Maybe you shouldn't trust your wife, either. Someone ends up 100 Francs better off, but I can't tell you who.
The Prioress's Tale: An incredibly annoying little boy sings a lot, then dies. Then he's resurrected, but then he dies again. Repeat ad infinitum.
Chaucer's Tale of Sir Thopas: Bad rhyme is quite a crime
The Monk's Tale: Why tell a story if you can thoroughly depress everyone by rattling off a long list of people who have suffered great misfortune instead? (He's a fun guy, the monk.)
The Nun's Priest's Tale: Don't expect to hear much about Molly the Sheep or Colin the Dog. Chanticleer the rooster is a bit of a stud, his girlfriend Pertelote is a drama queen and it doesn't take much to fool a fox.
The Second Nun's Tale: Everyone turns religious, and then they die. Blame Cecelia.
The Cannon's Yeoman's Tale: Alchemists are the 14th century equivalent of Gillian McKeith.
The Manciple's Tale: We find out why crows are black and can't sing. (Hint: it's because one in particular was not much of a romantic and a bit of a blabber-mouth)
And that's the end. Except for one thing which is driving me up the wall: The whole premise for this collection of tales is that a bunch of pilgrims are having a story-telling contest, to see who can tell the most entertaining story, but we NEVER FIND OUT WHO WINS. I want to know who wins. Is that too much to ask?
For the record, if I was in charge, and I have thought about this a lot, my money would be split evenly between the Man of Law and the Reeve. Plus, I'd give the Franklin an honorable mention because he's just so darned nice. You?
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Dancing beats painting, every time
I am half watching Brigadoon at the moment, instead of painting my kitchen which is what I am supposed to be doing.
The thing I am enjoying the most, apart from the comically fake painted-on-backdrops Scottish scenery in the background, is the dancing. It's Gene Kelly, so you wouldn't expect anything less, but my goodness he is incredible to watch. But you know this already, I am guessing.
Gene is playing Tommy, who has just been out gathering heather and falling in love with Fiona. The dance sequence in that scene, which consisted mainly of her swooning about and falling into his arms at exactly the moment he is there to catch her, and occasionally of her picking up some conveniently located purple stuff which looks not very much like heather, was just a delight to watch. (The actress playing Fiona is a fantastic dancer too, by the way; swooning doesn't sound nearly impressive on paper as it looks on screen.)
The comically fake Scottish accents adopted by almost the entire cast are also fun. Probably no worse than I would sound if I attempted a Scottish accent (which I hardly ever do, except under very specific circumstances which involve describing what is was like to go out, briefly, with a slightly mad Glaswegian), but then again I'm not someone who gets paid to do accents.
In other news, my kitchen looks AMAZING.
The thing I am enjoying the most, apart from the comically fake painted-on-backdrops Scottish scenery in the background, is the dancing. It's Gene Kelly, so you wouldn't expect anything less, but my goodness he is incredible to watch. But you know this already, I am guessing.
Gene is playing Tommy, who has just been out gathering heather and falling in love with Fiona. The dance sequence in that scene, which consisted mainly of her swooning about and falling into his arms at exactly the moment he is there to catch her, and occasionally of her picking up some conveniently located purple stuff which looks not very much like heather, was just a delight to watch. (The actress playing Fiona is a fantastic dancer too, by the way; swooning doesn't sound nearly impressive on paper as it looks on screen.)
The comically fake Scottish accents adopted by almost the entire cast are also fun. Probably no worse than I would sound if I attempted a Scottish accent (which I hardly ever do, except under very specific circumstances which involve describing what is was like to go out, briefly, with a slightly mad Glaswegian), but then again I'm not someone who gets paid to do accents.
In other news, my kitchen looks AMAZING.
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
The Canterbury Tales: A Bluffer's Guide part 15
The end is near; there are only two tales left to tell. I feel quite emotional.
The Canon's Yeoman's Tale: Two quick things about the Canon's Yeoman before we start. First, he is unfashionably late to the party, only managing to join them all just outside Canterbury. Second, and this is more relevant, he really, really, really, really, really doesn't like alchemists very much. In fact he spends most of his alloted tale-telling time prattling on about what a waste of time alchemy is, and how all alchemists smell like goats, and so on. If he was around now I would imagine him to be exactly the kind of person who would rant quite a lot about the stupidity of homeopathy and Gillian McKeith.
His story, when he finally gets to it, is very short and is about a nasty cannon who tricks a priest into paying top dollar (£40, which got you a lot more in those days) for a secret formula to turn other metals into silver. The secret formula doesn't work. The priest is stupid, the cannon is evil, alchemy is RUBBISH. Don't feel too sorry for the priest though; he was shagging his landlady.
The Manciple's Tale: It's supposed to be the Cook's turn next but he is so drunk he falls off his horse and the Manciple steps in. There's probably a stepping up to the mantle-slash-manciple joke in there somewhere, but I don't have time to construct it. (If you want to, feel free. Think of this as the IKEA flat-pack version of humour.)
I think it's quite fitting that this, the final story, is about a gallant knight, because there have been a few of those along the way. Remember January? And Walter? This one is called Phoebus. (Bonus quiz question: do you know who used to ride a bicycle called Mr Phoebus? Answers on a postcard please, or in the comments if you prefer. The prize, if I ever get around to making one, will be a knitted squid.)
Phoebus ( knight, not bicycle) was your basic Mr Dreamy: handsome and acomplished and musical and noble and all the rest. Apparently he was so good at archery he once killed a giant serpent with the brilliantly imaginative name of Python; although Python was asleep at the time which makes story less impressive if you ask me. No one ever asks me though, so well done Phoebus.
Phoebus had a pet crow, but here's the interesting bit: the crow was snow white. ("WHAT??? Crows aren't WHITE! Does this Chaucer chap know NOTHING?!" I hear the more bird-savvy among you cry. Patience, grasshoppers. All will be explained.)
Phoebus also has a beautiful wife. Like just about every other beautiful wife in these stories, this one does the dirty with someone else. It happens every time Phoebus goes away, which is quite regularly by the sounds of things. The guy is a bit of a dud by all accounts, and the beautiful wife is silly enough to conduct her affair in their own home, right under the beak of the snow white crow.
Eventually the crow, who like many people can't stand the sight of preening, soppy couples, tells Phoebus what has been going on. (I forgot to mention, the crow can talk. Sing, also. You may have spotted this is not normal behaviour for a crow, but this too will be dealt with later.)
Phoebus is outraged. And as it turns out, he has a fatal flaw. (Come on, we all have one. Mine is a tendency to procrastinate, although it hasn't proved fatal, yet. Must get around to sorting out some life insurance in case it does, though. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow.) The fatal flaw Phoebus carries around with him is a jealous streak a mile-wide. When he hears his wife has been cheating, he kills her, then smashes up some musical instruments in a fit of what would have been rock-star-inspired anger if rock stars had been invented yet.
So now he's angry about being cuckolded AND about having a dead wife and no musical instruments, and blames the bird (rather unfairly, if you think about it) for all of this. The RSPB may have had something to say about this, but they were invented even later than rock-stars so weren't around to help.
Free from fear of prosecution or judgement by a national charity, Phoebus pulls out all of the crow's white feathers (which is why crows are black now, DUH!) and then, using some magical powers we haven't even been told about yet, takes away the crow's powers of speech and music. Which left the crow, of course, with no noise left to make but the dull, crow-like sound we all know and love today.
And that's the last tale. The Cook doesn't sober up enough to tell his, and the Parson, who is the only one left, refuses to play the game. He does preach at them for a while, but then Chaucer realises they've arrived in Canterbury and slips off to pray. So we never do get to find out who told the best tale, or whether the Summoner and the Pardoner ever resolved their differences, or which of the party, if any, the Wife of Bath managed to get off with. (I say "if any", but, well.... the odds are pretty good, don't you think?)
There will be one final Canterbury post, and then we're done with Mr Chaucer. It has been fun. But not as fun as this picture of a crow:
The Canon's Yeoman's Tale: Two quick things about the Canon's Yeoman before we start. First, he is unfashionably late to the party, only managing to join them all just outside Canterbury. Second, and this is more relevant, he really, really, really, really, really doesn't like alchemists very much. In fact he spends most of his alloted tale-telling time prattling on about what a waste of time alchemy is, and how all alchemists smell like goats, and so on. If he was around now I would imagine him to be exactly the kind of person who would rant quite a lot about the stupidity of homeopathy and Gillian McKeith.
His story, when he finally gets to it, is very short and is about a nasty cannon who tricks a priest into paying top dollar (£40, which got you a lot more in those days) for a secret formula to turn other metals into silver. The secret formula doesn't work. The priest is stupid, the cannon is evil, alchemy is RUBBISH. Don't feel too sorry for the priest though; he was shagging his landlady.
The Manciple's Tale: It's supposed to be the Cook's turn next but he is so drunk he falls off his horse and the Manciple steps in. There's probably a stepping up to the mantle-slash-manciple joke in there somewhere, but I don't have time to construct it. (If you want to, feel free. Think of this as the IKEA flat-pack version of humour.)
I think it's quite fitting that this, the final story, is about a gallant knight, because there have been a few of those along the way. Remember January? And Walter? This one is called Phoebus. (Bonus quiz question: do you know who used to ride a bicycle called Mr Phoebus? Answers on a postcard please, or in the comments if you prefer. The prize, if I ever get around to making one, will be a knitted squid.)
Phoebus ( knight, not bicycle) was your basic Mr Dreamy: handsome and acomplished and musical and noble and all the rest. Apparently he was so good at archery he once killed a giant serpent with the brilliantly imaginative name of Python; although Python was asleep at the time which makes story less impressive if you ask me. No one ever asks me though, so well done Phoebus.
Phoebus had a pet crow, but here's the interesting bit: the crow was snow white. ("WHAT??? Crows aren't WHITE! Does this Chaucer chap know NOTHING?!" I hear the more bird-savvy among you cry. Patience, grasshoppers. All will be explained.)
Phoebus also has a beautiful wife. Like just about every other beautiful wife in these stories, this one does the dirty with someone else. It happens every time Phoebus goes away, which is quite regularly by the sounds of things. The guy is a bit of a dud by all accounts, and the beautiful wife is silly enough to conduct her affair in their own home, right under the beak of the snow white crow.
Eventually the crow, who like many people can't stand the sight of preening, soppy couples, tells Phoebus what has been going on. (I forgot to mention, the crow can talk. Sing, also. You may have spotted this is not normal behaviour for a crow, but this too will be dealt with later.)
Phoebus is outraged. And as it turns out, he has a fatal flaw. (Come on, we all have one. Mine is a tendency to procrastinate, although it hasn't proved fatal, yet. Must get around to sorting out some life insurance in case it does, though. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow.) The fatal flaw Phoebus carries around with him is a jealous streak a mile-wide. When he hears his wife has been cheating, he kills her, then smashes up some musical instruments in a fit of what would have been rock-star-inspired anger if rock stars had been invented yet.
So now he's angry about being cuckolded AND about having a dead wife and no musical instruments, and blames the bird (rather unfairly, if you think about it) for all of this. The RSPB may have had something to say about this, but they were invented even later than rock-stars so weren't around to help.
Free from fear of prosecution or judgement by a national charity, Phoebus pulls out all of the crow's white feathers (which is why crows are black now, DUH!) and then, using some magical powers we haven't even been told about yet, takes away the crow's powers of speech and music. Which left the crow, of course, with no noise left to make but the dull, crow-like sound we all know and love today.
And that's the last tale. The Cook doesn't sober up enough to tell his, and the Parson, who is the only one left, refuses to play the game. He does preach at them for a while, but then Chaucer realises they've arrived in Canterbury and slips off to pray. So we never do get to find out who told the best tale, or whether the Summoner and the Pardoner ever resolved their differences, or which of the party, if any, the Wife of Bath managed to get off with. (I say "if any", but, well.... the odds are pretty good, don't you think?)
There will be one final Canterbury post, and then we're done with Mr Chaucer. It has been fun. But not as fun as this picture of a crow:
Monday, 13 September 2010
Happy Roald Dahl Day
It would have been his 94th birthday today, and there are all sorts of celebrations going on. Not just today, but all month, which is exactly how birthdays ought to be marked in my opinion.
There's lots I could say about Mr Dahl but I'm sure it's all been said before; he is simply ace, obviously. I have fond memories of reading The Twits to the the first class I ever taught; seeing a bunch of tough, street-smart ten year olds reduced to hysterics and fits of disgusted giggles over eyeball soup, worm spaghetti and the contents of Mr Twit's beard was nothing short of glorious.
I can't possibly pick one quote or one story or one recomendation to mark the occasion; but there's plenty to choose from here. Knock yourself out.
There's lots I could say about Mr Dahl but I'm sure it's all been said before; he is simply ace, obviously. I have fond memories of reading The Twits to the the first class I ever taught; seeing a bunch of tough, street-smart ten year olds reduced to hysterics and fits of disgusted giggles over eyeball soup, worm spaghetti and the contents of Mr Twit's beard was nothing short of glorious.
I can't possibly pick one quote or one story or one recomendation to mark the occasion; but there's plenty to choose from here. Knock yourself out.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Sunday Night Music Club: Hell has no fury......
A woman scorned, you say? Rubbish. Try a woman who has spent TWO WHOLE DAYS waiting for a reply to a text message.
With that in mind, I spent a large chunk of Friday hunting down some suitable, proper angry female rock for tonight's Sunday Night Music Club. But then today brought sunshine, blue skies, and a champagne picnic in Richmond Park, and suddenly this seemed more appropriate.
Men, eh? Happy Sunday.
With that in mind, I spent a large chunk of Friday hunting down some suitable, proper angry female rock for tonight's Sunday Night Music Club. But then today brought sunshine, blue skies, and a champagne picnic in Richmond Park, and suddenly this seemed more appropriate.
Men, eh? Happy Sunday.
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