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…..
Thursday, 31 December 2009
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.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Reasons to forget about death, part 2..
Following on from my last, rather lugubrious, blog, I have been considering ways of taking the mind off the inescapable fact of death, and – in common with other great thinkers I believe – I have come up with a small selection of useful methods: namely: books; sex, chocolate and comedy.
Not all at once, I hasten to add – in fact any combination of the above is risky in some way. Deciding to finish that fantastic novel you were reading in bed while your partner has other ideas conveys at the very least a dissatisfaction with said partner’s technique. As for comedy – laughing at your partner when he strips off is not guaranteed to endear you to him either. Sex and chocolate have already been discussed – if anyone is tempted to mix the two I can only refer them to Ponderland Series 1, topic – Love.
Chocolate and comedy sound a good combination and indeed a recipe for a good evening in – but beware! I have actually laughed so hard I snorted chocolate up into my nasal passages. Painful and unpleasant.
No – I would advocate enjoying these pleasures one at a time – any one, if of high enough quality, should be enough to dispel gloom.
Comedy is useful because – if you like me have a stock of DVDs of your favourite shows and comedians – it is usually readily available, so you don’t have the situation of wanting chocolate to relieve your ennui, yet being too lethargic to actually go out to the shops to buy any – naturally the last time you did get some in you ate it all…
But I find comedy (like sex) can, if you don’t take precautions, have an unexpected and prolonged effect on your life. So before you settle in front of that DVD, please take this as a sort of ‘Safe Comedy’ message.
I can – and do - watch good comedy repeatedly. This means I find myself quoting bits of Blackadder, Bill Bailey or Hancock at opportune (or inopportune) moments, earning me questioning looks from non-addicts.
Worse still, key phrases come into my head in certain situations. My trips to the supermarket, with mental subtext, usually go like this:
Approach shop; see fruit display.
Eddie Izzard: They put fresh fruit there to show this is a fresh shop – everything here is fresh. If they put toilet rolls by the door you’d think, this is a poo shop – everything here is made of poo…..
Go into shop, approach display; do the ‘Squeezy Test’, still with Eddie’s voice doing a running commentary. Look at the Stalinist oranges (decide not to buy – Stalin was a nasty dictator); refuse to buy pears because they wait till you leave the room to turn to mush….
Approach tea display.
Simon Amstell: Which is better, organic or free trade?
Spend two hours on this vexed question before moving on….
Pass bargains screaming – in Russell Brand’s voice – ‘Only a pound, only a pound..’
Make purchases as quickly as possible to avoid giggling in public.
By the checkout there will inevitably be a selection of canvas bags for sale.
Greet checkout assistant, realising that you are audibly singing Tim Minchin’s ‘Canvas Bags’ aloud. Apologise and pack your purchases, girding your loins for the final challenge: the chip and pin machine. If you have seen Russell Brand’s description of chip and pin protocol, and can still manage to get out of the store before you’ve broken into a chorus of ‘Wild Boys’, you know you’ve won.
But if you hear of me having been taken away from the local Tescos in a white van, declaring it’s not my fault – blame Eddie, Russell, Tim, Simon… we ran out of gas….there was an earthquake…IT’S NOT MY FAULT!! - you’ll know why.
Not all at once, I hasten to add – in fact any combination of the above is risky in some way. Deciding to finish that fantastic novel you were reading in bed while your partner has other ideas conveys at the very least a dissatisfaction with said partner’s technique. As for comedy – laughing at your partner when he strips off is not guaranteed to endear you to him either. Sex and chocolate have already been discussed – if anyone is tempted to mix the two I can only refer them to Ponderland Series 1, topic – Love.
Chocolate and comedy sound a good combination and indeed a recipe for a good evening in – but beware! I have actually laughed so hard I snorted chocolate up into my nasal passages. Painful and unpleasant.
No – I would advocate enjoying these pleasures one at a time – any one, if of high enough quality, should be enough to dispel gloom.
Comedy is useful because – if you like me have a stock of DVDs of your favourite shows and comedians – it is usually readily available, so you don’t have the situation of wanting chocolate to relieve your ennui, yet being too lethargic to actually go out to the shops to buy any – naturally the last time you did get some in you ate it all…
But I find comedy (like sex) can, if you don’t take precautions, have an unexpected and prolonged effect on your life. So before you settle in front of that DVD, please take this as a sort of ‘Safe Comedy’ message.
I can – and do - watch good comedy repeatedly. This means I find myself quoting bits of Blackadder, Bill Bailey or Hancock at opportune (or inopportune) moments, earning me questioning looks from non-addicts.
Worse still, key phrases come into my head in certain situations. My trips to the supermarket, with mental subtext, usually go like this:
Approach shop; see fruit display.
Eddie Izzard: They put fresh fruit there to show this is a fresh shop – everything here is fresh. If they put toilet rolls by the door you’d think, this is a poo shop – everything here is made of poo…..
Go into shop, approach display; do the ‘Squeezy Test’, still with Eddie’s voice doing a running commentary. Look at the Stalinist oranges (decide not to buy – Stalin was a nasty dictator); refuse to buy pears because they wait till you leave the room to turn to mush….
Approach tea display.
Simon Amstell: Which is better, organic or free trade?
Spend two hours on this vexed question before moving on….
Pass bargains screaming – in Russell Brand’s voice – ‘Only a pound, only a pound..’
Make purchases as quickly as possible to avoid giggling in public.
By the checkout there will inevitably be a selection of canvas bags for sale.
Greet checkout assistant, realising that you are audibly singing Tim Minchin’s ‘Canvas Bags’ aloud. Apologise and pack your purchases, girding your loins for the final challenge: the chip and pin machine. If you have seen Russell Brand’s description of chip and pin protocol, and can still manage to get out of the store before you’ve broken into a chorus of ‘Wild Boys’, you know you’ve won.
But if you hear of me having been taken away from the local Tescos in a white van, declaring it’s not my fault – blame Eddie, Russell, Tim, Simon… we ran out of gas….there was an earthquake…IT’S NOT MY FAULT!! - you’ll know why.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Existential Angst? Or just a bit fed up?
I’ve been in a strange sort of mood all week – listless, lethargic, without being able to work out why. This culminated yesterday in an unusual feeling for me: complete lack of interest in anything, world weariness, ennui. Shelley’s poem, Ozymadias, kept running through my head:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".
I suppose you could sum up my mood thus:
Interviewer: How would you describe your life sir?
Dalai Lama: I’ve had better….
So, as Russell Brand would I’m sure advise, I started to think of ways of taking my mind off the thought that we’re all going to die. I did briefly consider attending an orgy, but since a) I live miles from the nearest tower block; b) I’m sure I’d end up eating the nibbles and c) my husband might object (to the orgy, not the nibbles) I discarded that idea.
My nearest and dearest were no help. When, in response to what I took to be a sympathetic enquiry into my apparent glumness, I said I understood what Nietzsche was on about, hubby grinned and said ‘Oh, I know him – he keeps the Dog and Duck…’
I knew I could change my state of mind – NLP has taught me that. Unfortunately it has also taught me I need to want to change my state, and be prepared to act positively to do so – and I could even be bothered to want to do anything positive. So I did mindless stuff for a while. Then hubby’s male problem-solving approach came to the fore and he suggested a walk to the beach – usually the most relaxing, soothing thing for me. And admittedly, a couple of hours in the sun, swimming in the sea and relaxing on the beach, did alleviate things a bit.
And that was enough to open my mind to the wisdom of ‘Souls of poets dead and gone’ – so when I got home I turned to my old friends Byron, Shelley and Keats. And of course, Keats had it:
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
In other words – if you’re not melancholy at times, you won’t appreciate what it is to be happy.
And today, I’m happy – and have realised I was actually reacting to a couple of weeks in which I’ve been physically working hard yet not stretched mentally, and have not read anything challenging – so my brain was demanding intellectual food.
Pass me that volume of poetry……
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".
I suppose you could sum up my mood thus:
Interviewer: How would you describe your life sir?
Dalai Lama: I’ve had better….
So, as Russell Brand would I’m sure advise, I started to think of ways of taking my mind off the thought that we’re all going to die. I did briefly consider attending an orgy, but since a) I live miles from the nearest tower block; b) I’m sure I’d end up eating the nibbles and c) my husband might object (to the orgy, not the nibbles) I discarded that idea.
My nearest and dearest were no help. When, in response to what I took to be a sympathetic enquiry into my apparent glumness, I said I understood what Nietzsche was on about, hubby grinned and said ‘Oh, I know him – he keeps the Dog and Duck…’
I knew I could change my state of mind – NLP has taught me that. Unfortunately it has also taught me I need to want to change my state, and be prepared to act positively to do so – and I could even be bothered to want to do anything positive. So I did mindless stuff for a while. Then hubby’s male problem-solving approach came to the fore and he suggested a walk to the beach – usually the most relaxing, soothing thing for me. And admittedly, a couple of hours in the sun, swimming in the sea and relaxing on the beach, did alleviate things a bit.
And that was enough to open my mind to the wisdom of ‘Souls of poets dead and gone’ – so when I got home I turned to my old friends Byron, Shelley and Keats. And of course, Keats had it:
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
In other words – if you’re not melancholy at times, you won’t appreciate what it is to be happy.
And today, I’m happy – and have realised I was actually reacting to a couple of weeks in which I’ve been physically working hard yet not stretched mentally, and have not read anything challenging – so my brain was demanding intellectual food.
Pass me that volume of poetry……
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