What connects them? Well, blood of course – and if it weren’t for the ancient vegetation dying and resurrecting gods, it’s unlikely vampires would exist in our consciousness – but then, I dare to suggest, nor would Christianity in its present form.
There have been plenty of conspiracy theorists and prejudiced people who have accused various groups of human sacrifice and drinking blood, but why this particular accusation? Because it does have some root in reality – thousands of years ago, there were tribal communities who worshipped nature through the union of god and goddess: they venerated the feminine as the source of life. They thought of the womb as holy, and the blood that emanated from it represented – well, lifeblood. The idea was that if it could support new life, it could also enhance existing life: it was believed that menstrual blood could extend life and enhance spirituality, putting one in touch with the gods. Therefore it was given to the (male) elders of the tribe – the priests and kings (who were often one and the same). Priestesses were the source of this blood, and dedicated their lives to the service of the gods in this way.
As disgusting as this sounds to us, recent research shows that menstrual blood does indeed have high levels of melatonin and serotonin in it – the so-called relaxation hormones. This may incidentally explain the existence of PMT – a lack of these hormones would cause mood swings, stress and irritation.
The hormones are released by the pineal and pituitary glands respectively, and these glands appear to have been known to the Egyptians and to have formed part of their healing knowledge. Descartes viewed the pineal gland as the seat of the soul – the place where body and mind meet.
In Greek the blood-giving priestesses were known as Scarlet Women, or Hierodulai, which gave us our word ‘Harlot’. The Germanic term for them was ‘Hores’ – Beloved Ones – from which we have the word ‘Whore’. Both these words were at one time terms of veneration – it was the coming of the patriarchal religions which changed their tenor and made them synonymous with prostitute.
As with most religious rites, this one developed a symbolism of its own: as actual blood drinking faded out, the religious significance was preserved by ritual drinking of the nearest palatable substance – red wine, representing blood, drunk from a ritual cup, the chalice, representing the womb. This rite is found in many religions involving dying and rising gods, such as the cult of Bacchus, or Dionysus, before passing to Christianity.
The red colour of fire led to it being associated with life-giving, which gave rise to fire goddesses such as Vesta in ancient Rome, on whose altar stood candles whose flame never went out, tended by Vestal Virgins who, like their ancient counterparts – and indeed like their descendants, nuns – gave their life in service to the gods.
And the vampire? In the days of witch-hunting and the need for people to believe there were all kinds of nasties out there from which the church could protect them, the myth of the vampire grew from the – probably in part true – story of Prince Vlad,, a 15th Century leader of a group known as the Society of Dragons. His title was therefore from the Latin for dragon, Draco – and he was known as Dracul. He was also a Germanic overlord – or ‘Oupire’ – the source of the word Vampire.
He seems to have been someone with a highly performing pineal gland and therefore a high level of melatonin, although possibly this was enhanced through later-developed herbal substitutes – chasing the dragon? High melatonin levels are best achieved in darkness, and Vlad was known from his cruelty – his story therefore gave rise to a fictional beast who lives on blood (albeit from the neck), hates sunlight, is cruel and evil – and can be destroyed by the church, in the form of a cross. All great material for a gothic horror story, to this day.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Monday, 11 January 2010
The Cult of the Individual.
I went to see the rightly-acclaimed ‘We Will Rock You’ a few days ago, and apart from my enjoyment of the music and humour in the production, along with some cracking performances, I was struck by the subtext of the cult of the individual running through it. I’m pleased to see that this is something Ben Elton still espouses.
Many people mistake rebellion for individuality: indeed rebellion is usually the precursor and an inherent part of youth. We can all remember wearing certain clothes, make up, jewellery and hairstyles with the primary intention of pissing off out parents. From parents, any representation of the establishment are fair game, whether getting piercings against school rules or going on protest marches against the government – the key word is ‘against’. A rebel’s opinions are shaped by the establishment just as much as the conformist – s/he is just firmly placed on the opposing side.
A true individual stands aside from the establishment and decides what is right independently. Perhaps the best dramatic rendition of individuality is the 1960’s TV series ‘The Prisoner’, while in reality the founder of Radio Caroline – and ultimately the catalyst for commercial radio generally – embodied the spirit of the individual when on being told he had to pay a radio station extortionate amounts to get airtime for his acts, he replied: ‘Looks like I’ll have to start my own radio station then…’
Ben Elton was part of the ‘alternative comedy’ set of the 1980’s and their initial raison d’etre was to provide an alternative – aka rebel against – the pretty dire mainstream humour of the day. They did this so successfully that they became absorbed into the establishment and ironically eventually became the mainstream against which future generations of comedians would rebel. Few comedians manage to escape this process, and most lose their credibility along the way. Ben Elton has managed to salvage something via his writings, but from those days the only comedian I can think of who hasn’t compromised for money, fame or at the behest of TV or film moguls is Eddie Izzard. His standup remains exactly what he considers right for him, quality is not compromised for popularity, and while his audience may not be representative of the whole population, it is intelligent and appreciative of Eddie’s truly unique talent.
Queen occupy a similar place in the field of music. Though rooted in rock, their music was like no other; they famously disregarded advice that ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ would not be played on the radio because it was too long, and would flop. It has to be admitted that they were helped here by another wonderful individual, Kenny Everett, who disregarded any rule about what could or could not be played. I always felt that Queen played the music they loved and just appreciated the fact that others loved it too. How different to the homogenised bands created by moguls whose sole motivation is to make money
‘Twas ever thus – while Wordsworth wrote verse that could be understood by anyone, TS Eliot, anther famed individual, cheerfully threw in bits of Sanskrit and Ancient Greek along with allusions to vegetation rites various other writers on the basis that if the reader didn’t understand they could always go and look it up – he wasn’t going to compromise his integrity as a poet by dumbing down for popularity. Good for him – we need individuals, especially talented ones, or we will end up at the mercy of the GaGa society.
Many people mistake rebellion for individuality: indeed rebellion is usually the precursor and an inherent part of youth. We can all remember wearing certain clothes, make up, jewellery and hairstyles with the primary intention of pissing off out parents. From parents, any representation of the establishment are fair game, whether getting piercings against school rules or going on protest marches against the government – the key word is ‘against’. A rebel’s opinions are shaped by the establishment just as much as the conformist – s/he is just firmly placed on the opposing side.
A true individual stands aside from the establishment and decides what is right independently. Perhaps the best dramatic rendition of individuality is the 1960’s TV series ‘The Prisoner’, while in reality the founder of Radio Caroline – and ultimately the catalyst for commercial radio generally – embodied the spirit of the individual when on being told he had to pay a radio station extortionate amounts to get airtime for his acts, he replied: ‘Looks like I’ll have to start my own radio station then…’
Ben Elton was part of the ‘alternative comedy’ set of the 1980’s and their initial raison d’etre was to provide an alternative – aka rebel against – the pretty dire mainstream humour of the day. They did this so successfully that they became absorbed into the establishment and ironically eventually became the mainstream against which future generations of comedians would rebel. Few comedians manage to escape this process, and most lose their credibility along the way. Ben Elton has managed to salvage something via his writings, but from those days the only comedian I can think of who hasn’t compromised for money, fame or at the behest of TV or film moguls is Eddie Izzard. His standup remains exactly what he considers right for him, quality is not compromised for popularity, and while his audience may not be representative of the whole population, it is intelligent and appreciative of Eddie’s truly unique talent.
Queen occupy a similar place in the field of music. Though rooted in rock, their music was like no other; they famously disregarded advice that ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ would not be played on the radio because it was too long, and would flop. It has to be admitted that they were helped here by another wonderful individual, Kenny Everett, who disregarded any rule about what could or could not be played. I always felt that Queen played the music they loved and just appreciated the fact that others loved it too. How different to the homogenised bands created by moguls whose sole motivation is to make money
‘Twas ever thus – while Wordsworth wrote verse that could be understood by anyone, TS Eliot, anther famed individual, cheerfully threw in bits of Sanskrit and Ancient Greek along with allusions to vegetation rites various other writers on the basis that if the reader didn’t understand they could always go and look it up – he wasn’t going to compromise his integrity as a poet by dumbing down for popularity. Good for him – we need individuals, especially talented ones, or we will end up at the mercy of the GaGa society.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
New Year's Resolutions
Traditionally, this is the time for making New Year’s Resolutions – because of some arbitrary point at which a section of humankind have chosen to use as the end of one designated, numbered solar revolution and the beginning of the next. We can’t even agree as a species on the date – Jewish and Chinese new years are different for a start…
And why January? I can understand using midnight as a dividing point for days because it’s during the hours of darkness when our biology suggests we sleep (not that we always do – and it’s disconcerting to find yourself awake at 4am and realise it’s tomorrow and not worth going to bed now). But the middle of the winter? Why not have New Year’s Day in August, when we can spend the holiday on the beach? OK, given England’s weather, it’s still a risk, but a better one than January,
Anyway, after making plenty of resolutions I’ve kept for precisely the same length of time I kept writing in that lovely new diary I received every Christmas as a child – and often the resolution was to keep the diary – I stopped resolving several years ago, and just decided to make any changes to my life as and when I decided they were needed. For instance: having recognised caffeine-related moods I started replacing coffee with herbal tea. Do that repetitively and it becomes a habit – make a new year’s resolution and it lasts as long as the Christmas tree lights (yes, the new set’s gone wrong again this year…)
I have been asked so many times whether I’m making any New Year’s Resolutions though, that in desperation I have come up with some – ten, in fact. That seems to be the right number for rules you are expected to keep to….
So for 2010 I resolve:
1. Not to take up smoking or drugs
2. Not to join the BNP
3. To refrain from putting tomato ketchup on any of my food (because the stuff makes me feel nauseous).
4. Not to become a lesbian.
Note: this is not in any way meant as a slight on gay people of either gender, just a reflection of the fact that never in my life have I been remotely attracted to anyone nature has not seen fit to bless with testicles.
5. Not to become a member of any established church – especially not the Church of Scientology.
6. To read, and reread the poetry of Keats, TS Eliot, Shakespeare, Byron and any other writer that takes my fancy.
7. To eat chocolate in moderation (but I define – and if necessary redefine – what is meant by moderation).
8. Not to covet – or indeed cover – my neighbour’s ox.*
9. Not to associate with anyone with jam for brains.*
10. Not to put socks in the toaster.*
*I am indebted to St Eddie of Izzard for inspiring these very important resolutions.
Right 2010 – bring it on: I’m ready for you, and I confidently predict that these resolutions will last longer than any I’ve made before….
…..with the possible exception of No 7.
Just off to make some toast now.
Whoops – was that a pair of socks? Sorry – thought it was bread slices…..
And why January? I can understand using midnight as a dividing point for days because it’s during the hours of darkness when our biology suggests we sleep (not that we always do – and it’s disconcerting to find yourself awake at 4am and realise it’s tomorrow and not worth going to bed now). But the middle of the winter? Why not have New Year’s Day in August, when we can spend the holiday on the beach? OK, given England’s weather, it’s still a risk, but a better one than January,
Anyway, after making plenty of resolutions I’ve kept for precisely the same length of time I kept writing in that lovely new diary I received every Christmas as a child – and often the resolution was to keep the diary – I stopped resolving several years ago, and just decided to make any changes to my life as and when I decided they were needed. For instance: having recognised caffeine-related moods I started replacing coffee with herbal tea. Do that repetitively and it becomes a habit – make a new year’s resolution and it lasts as long as the Christmas tree lights (yes, the new set’s gone wrong again this year…)
I have been asked so many times whether I’m making any New Year’s Resolutions though, that in desperation I have come up with some – ten, in fact. That seems to be the right number for rules you are expected to keep to….
So for 2010 I resolve:
1. Not to take up smoking or drugs
2. Not to join the BNP
3. To refrain from putting tomato ketchup on any of my food (because the stuff makes me feel nauseous).
4. Not to become a lesbian.
Note: this is not in any way meant as a slight on gay people of either gender, just a reflection of the fact that never in my life have I been remotely attracted to anyone nature has not seen fit to bless with testicles.
5. Not to become a member of any established church – especially not the Church of Scientology.
6. To read, and reread the poetry of Keats, TS Eliot, Shakespeare, Byron and any other writer that takes my fancy.
7. To eat chocolate in moderation (but I define – and if necessary redefine – what is meant by moderation).
8. Not to covet – or indeed cover – my neighbour’s ox.*
9. Not to associate with anyone with jam for brains.*
10. Not to put socks in the toaster.*
*I am indebted to St Eddie of Izzard for inspiring these very important resolutions.
Right 2010 – bring it on: I’m ready for you, and I confidently predict that these resolutions will last longer than any I’ve made before….
…..with the possible exception of No 7.
Just off to make some toast now.
Whoops – was that a pair of socks? Sorry – thought it was bread slices…..
Sunday, 6 December 2009
It’s beginning to feel a lot like Osirismas….
…or Tammuzmas, Dionysiusmas, Sol Invictusmas – call it what you will, there have been numerous ‘gods’ celebrating December 25 as their birthday. The one notable religious figure who, according to accepted facts, was not born on Christmas Day is…. Jesus Christ. Depending on whose dates you go by, he may have been born in March, September or October – but not December.
The date was borrowed – like nearly all Christmas traditions – from pagan religions based on sun worship, and reflects no more that the visible movement of the sun after the winter solstice (December 21) towards the lengthening of the daylight hours. This in ancient times provided just the excuse everyone needed in the depths of a cold depressing winter with little fresh food, to eat, drink and be merry – just the time to cheer ourselves up with a good old knees-up. Just as we do today, however we dress it up.
I say borrowed – misappropriated might be a better term for what the fledgling Christian church did to the old Yule celebrations, along with plenty of other traditional festivals and customs. For what do holly, mistletoe, ivy, pine trees, Yule logs, mince pies and tinsel have to do with the birth of a child in the Middle East 2000-ish years ago? Even if we accept the Biblical story, the only gifts around were pretty boring: gold myrrh and frankincense, and there would have been no greenery bedecking the manger in the desert. Neither is Joseph recorded as celebrating his son’s birth (OK, stepson then) with a glass of mulled wine and a mince pie.
No – they all relate to the nature worship of our ancestors, when evergreen trees and plants represented continuing life and fertility over the bleakest period of the year. Mistletoe itself was a fertility symbol, used to strew over the beds of newlyweds to ensure children of the marriage – our current tradition of kissing under it is merely a watered down version of this.
As for the Bible story itself: again, many pagan gods were said to have been born of virgins, in stables or other lowly places, had stars foretelling their arrival and to have been visited by wise men.
So maybe what we are all doing this month is exactly what all our forebears did, whatever belief system they had – cheering up the cold winter months with a few parties, family get togethers and enjoying the excuse to ditch the diet.
The date was borrowed – like nearly all Christmas traditions – from pagan religions based on sun worship, and reflects no more that the visible movement of the sun after the winter solstice (December 21) towards the lengthening of the daylight hours. This in ancient times provided just the excuse everyone needed in the depths of a cold depressing winter with little fresh food, to eat, drink and be merry – just the time to cheer ourselves up with a good old knees-up. Just as we do today, however we dress it up.
I say borrowed – misappropriated might be a better term for what the fledgling Christian church did to the old Yule celebrations, along with plenty of other traditional festivals and customs. For what do holly, mistletoe, ivy, pine trees, Yule logs, mince pies and tinsel have to do with the birth of a child in the Middle East 2000-ish years ago? Even if we accept the Biblical story, the only gifts around were pretty boring: gold myrrh and frankincense, and there would have been no greenery bedecking the manger in the desert. Neither is Joseph recorded as celebrating his son’s birth (OK, stepson then) with a glass of mulled wine and a mince pie.
No – they all relate to the nature worship of our ancestors, when evergreen trees and plants represented continuing life and fertility over the bleakest period of the year. Mistletoe itself was a fertility symbol, used to strew over the beds of newlyweds to ensure children of the marriage – our current tradition of kissing under it is merely a watered down version of this.
As for the Bible story itself: again, many pagan gods were said to have been born of virgins, in stables or other lowly places, had stars foretelling their arrival and to have been visited by wise men.
So maybe what we are all doing this month is exactly what all our forebears did, whatever belief system they had – cheering up the cold winter months with a few parties, family get togethers and enjoying the excuse to ditch the diet.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Handwriting
Many years ago, at my younger brother’s parents’ evening, excellent reports of his work were given by nearly all staff – he always was a creepy little twerp at school. (Sorry bruv!) The exception was the English teacher who declared that he would never achieve anything in the subject until he improved his handwriting drastically. My father nodded sagely and said that the same had been said of his elder sister (me!) when she was at the school.
‘Really’, said the English teacher. ‘And what’s she doing now?’
‘She’s an English teacher,’ replied Dad.
Nowadays, students tell me that handwriting doesn’t matter – we all communicate via typewritten emails, texts and the like. And the days of having to copy out stupid sentences to improve our cursive script (not that it did me any good, clearly) have long gone. Being brought up in Norfolk, I can remember loudly disputing one of those sentences which stated:
‘Yarmouth is on the Isle of Wight.’
Eventually I had to concede there might be two Yarmouths – but we had the ‘Great’ one, at least!
No one needs worry about clarity of handwriting any more – right?
Wrong. I have pointed out many times that some of the most important texts we ever produce – examination answer papers – are still normally handwritten, and if the examiner misreads, or worse, cannot read, your handwriting, you fail.
Now I have a couple more bullets in my armoury. Gordon Brown’s letter to a mother in distress may well have been – and indeed was, to my thinking – over-played in the media, but it shows the difficulties that can be caused by poor penmanship. I’m not Mr Brown’s greatest fan (assuming he has one) but it is fairly obvious that he meant his letter to bring some shred of comfort to a bereaved mother: there was no malice or even disregard in his mistake.
In more amusing vein, Russell Brand’s latest error of judgement (again, characteristically lacking in malice aforethought) was to use a pen rather than a keyboard to write his contribution to The Sun’s Bizarre column this weekend, resulting in ‘snug’ being interpreted as ‘smug’.
Perhaps both gentlemen could do with a proofreader skilled in interpreting the average standard of handwriting of today’s teenager – or a few hours spent laboriously copying out stupid sentences….
But thanks fellas – telling students that they could get themselves into bother in the media for upsetting someone’s mum or misrepresenting a footballer’s jumper may well sway them more than the possibility of an examiner failing their history GCSE paper because they apparently think that:
Ancient Egyptians wrote in hydraulics, lived in the Sarah Dessert and travelled by Camelot.
The Greeks were a highly sculptured people.
Socrates died from an overdose of wedlock.
Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100 foot clipper.
But then, if they improve their handwriting we may suddenly realise just how awful their spelling is……
‘Really’, said the English teacher. ‘And what’s she doing now?’
‘She’s an English teacher,’ replied Dad.
Nowadays, students tell me that handwriting doesn’t matter – we all communicate via typewritten emails, texts and the like. And the days of having to copy out stupid sentences to improve our cursive script (not that it did me any good, clearly) have long gone. Being brought up in Norfolk, I can remember loudly disputing one of those sentences which stated:
‘Yarmouth is on the Isle of Wight.’
Eventually I had to concede there might be two Yarmouths – but we had the ‘Great’ one, at least!
No one needs worry about clarity of handwriting any more – right?
Wrong. I have pointed out many times that some of the most important texts we ever produce – examination answer papers – are still normally handwritten, and if the examiner misreads, or worse, cannot read, your handwriting, you fail.
Now I have a couple more bullets in my armoury. Gordon Brown’s letter to a mother in distress may well have been – and indeed was, to my thinking – over-played in the media, but it shows the difficulties that can be caused by poor penmanship. I’m not Mr Brown’s greatest fan (assuming he has one) but it is fairly obvious that he meant his letter to bring some shred of comfort to a bereaved mother: there was no malice or even disregard in his mistake.
In more amusing vein, Russell Brand’s latest error of judgement (again, characteristically lacking in malice aforethought) was to use a pen rather than a keyboard to write his contribution to The Sun’s Bizarre column this weekend, resulting in ‘snug’ being interpreted as ‘smug’.
Perhaps both gentlemen could do with a proofreader skilled in interpreting the average standard of handwriting of today’s teenager – or a few hours spent laboriously copying out stupid sentences….
But thanks fellas – telling students that they could get themselves into bother in the media for upsetting someone’s mum or misrepresenting a footballer’s jumper may well sway them more than the possibility of an examiner failing their history GCSE paper because they apparently think that:
Ancient Egyptians wrote in hydraulics, lived in the Sarah Dessert and travelled by Camelot.
The Greeks were a highly sculptured people.
Socrates died from an overdose of wedlock.
Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a 100 foot clipper.
But then, if they improve their handwriting we may suddenly realise just how awful their spelling is……
Friday, 23 October 2009
Give him enough rope...
I was one of those who watched Question Time avidly last night – I’m fairly sure the viewing figures must have shown a huge upturn, although I have been guilty of not just watching the programme before but of actually taking an interest in the debates that go on there.
Last night though was, as pointed out by many people, less ‘Question Time’ and more ‘The Nick Griffin Show’. One would have thought the leader of the BNP would have relished the opportunity to publicly explain his real policies and thoughts, and defend himself and his party from the scurrilous things that have been said about them in the media. A media that is, they claim, biased against the BNP because by their own admission they are not part of the mainstream. There is a lot that is not ‘mainstream’ that I like – music, comedy – but right wing non-mainstream politics is rather different.
And Griffin may now be reflecting on his decision to submit himself and his beliefs – past and present (he says unconvincingly that these are two different things) – to public scrutiny. He has had to attempt to defend the indefensible. Which is, of course, impossible.
As for his wonderful take on “English” history, if so much hate and poison did not arise from it, I would have found his views hugely amusing. There are many countries which have identifiable indigenous races – the Maoris, Native American Indians and Aborigines are just three examples. In each of these areas of the world, at a relatively late period of human history, a foreign power marched in and took the land away from that indigenous population, usually violently, by force and with no heed for their cultural history or the thought of compensation for their loss. Although certainly not the only nation to act as usurpers in this way, the British were one of the most notable.
However, if one looks at the history of our own country, the earliest accepted inhabitants were Celts, most of whom fled in the face of wave after wave of foreign conquerors – Saxons, Britons, Norse, Romans: even the Angles, who according to some gave their name to England, were actually Germanic. If there are any true descendants of the Celts left (which I doubt) they would reside in the farthest corners of Cornwall, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. The rest of us, according to the BNP, are all immigrants. And that’s without the Normans, Huguenots – I could go on. I wonder what Mr Griffin’s family background is? But perhaps he would not have a problem with the mix of races above in view of the fact that they all share a similar (but not identical) skin pigmentation. Yet I stand corrected – Griffin declared on the programme that colour is not the issue.
Even I cringed at times as he was loudly (and deservedly) ridiculed for claiming that he couldn’t explain why he had denied the Holocaust nor why he had changed his mind – even when given complete dispensation by Jack Straw! And his declaration that everyone would agree that gay men are ‘creepy’ had to be heard to be believed.
But I thought it was right of the BBC to give him a public platform in this way, and while I respect and understand their motives, I believe those who protested outside the building were misguided and simply gave the BNP more publicity, and of a more sympathetic nature than Griffin achieved. Quite apart from the issue of following their own rules, the BBC would in refusing Griffin a place on Question Time, have created a martyr, allowing the BNP to claim unfair bias against them. And before the programme was aired I believed that if given enough rope, Griffin would publicly hang himself and his party – and I think he effectively did so last night.
Last night though was, as pointed out by many people, less ‘Question Time’ and more ‘The Nick Griffin Show’. One would have thought the leader of the BNP would have relished the opportunity to publicly explain his real policies and thoughts, and defend himself and his party from the scurrilous things that have been said about them in the media. A media that is, they claim, biased against the BNP because by their own admission they are not part of the mainstream. There is a lot that is not ‘mainstream’ that I like – music, comedy – but right wing non-mainstream politics is rather different.
And Griffin may now be reflecting on his decision to submit himself and his beliefs – past and present (he says unconvincingly that these are two different things) – to public scrutiny. He has had to attempt to defend the indefensible. Which is, of course, impossible.
As for his wonderful take on “English” history, if so much hate and poison did not arise from it, I would have found his views hugely amusing. There are many countries which have identifiable indigenous races – the Maoris, Native American Indians and Aborigines are just three examples. In each of these areas of the world, at a relatively late period of human history, a foreign power marched in and took the land away from that indigenous population, usually violently, by force and with no heed for their cultural history or the thought of compensation for their loss. Although certainly not the only nation to act as usurpers in this way, the British were one of the most notable.
However, if one looks at the history of our own country, the earliest accepted inhabitants were Celts, most of whom fled in the face of wave after wave of foreign conquerors – Saxons, Britons, Norse, Romans: even the Angles, who according to some gave their name to England, were actually Germanic. If there are any true descendants of the Celts left (which I doubt) they would reside in the farthest corners of Cornwall, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. The rest of us, according to the BNP, are all immigrants. And that’s without the Normans, Huguenots – I could go on. I wonder what Mr Griffin’s family background is? But perhaps he would not have a problem with the mix of races above in view of the fact that they all share a similar (but not identical) skin pigmentation. Yet I stand corrected – Griffin declared on the programme that colour is not the issue.
Even I cringed at times as he was loudly (and deservedly) ridiculed for claiming that he couldn’t explain why he had denied the Holocaust nor why he had changed his mind – even when given complete dispensation by Jack Straw! And his declaration that everyone would agree that gay men are ‘creepy’ had to be heard to be believed.
But I thought it was right of the BBC to give him a public platform in this way, and while I respect and understand their motives, I believe those who protested outside the building were misguided and simply gave the BNP more publicity, and of a more sympathetic nature than Griffin achieved. Quite apart from the issue of following their own rules, the BBC would in refusing Griffin a place on Question Time, have created a martyr, allowing the BNP to claim unfair bias against them. And before the programme was aired I believed that if given enough rope, Griffin would publicly hang himself and his party – and I think he effectively did so last night.
Friday, 18 September 2009
The Ode Re-Travelled
I have recently re-acquainted myself with Stephen Fry’s wonderful opus, ‘The Ode Less Travelled’. As a poetry lover and a longtime admirer of Mr Fry, it comprises almost perfect reading matter for me. But this time round – probably because I wasn’t scurrying around doing Stephen’s bidding (there are lots of enjoyable poetry exercises scattered through the book) – I noticed with some sense of satisfaction that practically all the poems quoted as illustrations of great verse at work are by writers that I number among my favourites.
Part of this satisfaction, if I’m honest, stems from the knowledge that Mr Fry is widely regarded as something of an expert on language and literature, and would be deemed to have excellent taste – if my taste runs parallel to his in some small way, I too must have good taste – yes?
But even more, it confirms the relationship I have enjoyed with Stephen for more than twenty years now. A purely non-reciprocal relationship, I hasten to add: I have never been privileged enough to even meet Mr Fry. But I have loved his work since the eighties when I emerged from my Monty Python-induced comedy blinkers to discover the ‘new’ generation of entertainers, including Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders, Ade Edmondson, Rik Mayall, Ben Elton, Rowan Atkinson, Hugh Laurie – and Stephen Fry.
Stephen stood out for me even then, and even against the backdrop of such talent. Not because he was so obviously so much more talented, no – but because one of the first things I knew about him was that he came from Norfolk, my home county. At that stage, not having read ‘Moab is My Washpot’, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr Fry was not what we Norfolk folk (or should that be Nor-folk?) would term a native. Not even close. In East Anglia you are only accepted as indigenous if your family has resided in the region for at least four generations. I can proudly boast of a Norfolk heritage (with the odd dash of Suffolk) going back to 1650 or so.
But the Frys actually moved into the area during Stephen’s childhood, making them one of those interloping families my parents complained of. Taking over houses real Norfolk people could have lived in, taking up places at our local schools (although even there Stephen failed me by being sent away to school).
I was educated two miles from the Suffolk borders, meaning that we were a mixed race school – mixed race in this context meaning that the Norfolk boys would challenge the Suffolk boys to challenges such as who could pee higher up the wall. All that changed when a handful of Londoners appeared: suddenly the local boys all became East Anglians, united against the common enemy.
The local girls had a different challenge – biology being what it is we were never going to win the urine-up-the-wall contest anyway – who could be the first to pull a Cockney? Since my husband is from Whitechapel (I met him much later – he wasn’t on offer then) I think that challenge may have had long term consequences for me….
As has the erroneous impression that Stephen Fry is a ‘local boy made good’. He has rectified the situation by choosing to champion Norfolk, I have to admit. But more importantly, Stephen has provided me with hours and hours of entertainment, laughter, thoughtful ponderings and sheer enjoyment through his acting, comedy, presenting, writing…..
So for that, and for sharing my love of Keats, Yeats, Tennyson, Eliot et al, I thank you Stephen.
Part of this satisfaction, if I’m honest, stems from the knowledge that Mr Fry is widely regarded as something of an expert on language and literature, and would be deemed to have excellent taste – if my taste runs parallel to his in some small way, I too must have good taste – yes?
But even more, it confirms the relationship I have enjoyed with Stephen for more than twenty years now. A purely non-reciprocal relationship, I hasten to add: I have never been privileged enough to even meet Mr Fry. But I have loved his work since the eighties when I emerged from my Monty Python-induced comedy blinkers to discover the ‘new’ generation of entertainers, including Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders, Ade Edmondson, Rik Mayall, Ben Elton, Rowan Atkinson, Hugh Laurie – and Stephen Fry.
Stephen stood out for me even then, and even against the backdrop of such talent. Not because he was so obviously so much more talented, no – but because one of the first things I knew about him was that he came from Norfolk, my home county. At that stage, not having read ‘Moab is My Washpot’, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr Fry was not what we Norfolk folk (or should that be Nor-folk?) would term a native. Not even close. In East Anglia you are only accepted as indigenous if your family has resided in the region for at least four generations. I can proudly boast of a Norfolk heritage (with the odd dash of Suffolk) going back to 1650 or so.
But the Frys actually moved into the area during Stephen’s childhood, making them one of those interloping families my parents complained of. Taking over houses real Norfolk people could have lived in, taking up places at our local schools (although even there Stephen failed me by being sent away to school).
I was educated two miles from the Suffolk borders, meaning that we were a mixed race school – mixed race in this context meaning that the Norfolk boys would challenge the Suffolk boys to challenges such as who could pee higher up the wall. All that changed when a handful of Londoners appeared: suddenly the local boys all became East Anglians, united against the common enemy.
The local girls had a different challenge – biology being what it is we were never going to win the urine-up-the-wall contest anyway – who could be the first to pull a Cockney? Since my husband is from Whitechapel (I met him much later – he wasn’t on offer then) I think that challenge may have had long term consequences for me….
As has the erroneous impression that Stephen Fry is a ‘local boy made good’. He has rectified the situation by choosing to champion Norfolk, I have to admit. But more importantly, Stephen has provided me with hours and hours of entertainment, laughter, thoughtful ponderings and sheer enjoyment through his acting, comedy, presenting, writing…..
So for that, and for sharing my love of Keats, Yeats, Tennyson, Eliot et al, I thank you Stephen.
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