The Oddness of Englishness.

There’s an advert on Youtube for the new Queen Elizabeth II £5 coin, which you can buy for just £5. Really? Only £5? That’s bizarre. But then it goes on to say that it’s only legal tender in Guernsey… erm… Guernsey? That’s even more bizarre. It’s really no surprise that our language gained such common currency in the world, is it?

The Mission and Three Women.

It is a well established fact that I’m a big admirer of Kate Bush and her music. Nevertheless, there is one matter on which I have to take issue with her. It is the matter of her first hit single, Wuthering Heights. I heard it today and was reminded that it contains the following line – and bear in mind that this is Cathy addressing Heathcliff:

You had a temper

Like my jealousy

Too hot, too greedy

OK, here we go again. At no point in the novel does Catherine Earnshaw display any proclivity to jealousy whatsoever. On the contrary, when Heathcliff announces that he is to marry Edgar Linton’s sister Isabella, Cathy’s only concern is for her sister-in-law. She knows what a terrible life poor Bella is making for herself by consenting to a match with such a monstrous brute as Mr H, who is about as monstrous and brutish as a man can be. (Remember that as she lies dying, Cathy tells Nellie Dean that she would never have married Heathcliff even if she hadn’t married Edgar, because Heathcliff is an utter swine and she doesn’t like him one bit! Forget the romantic stuff; there is none in the book.)

As for too hot, too greedy, no. Catherine is a high spirited and wilful woman, but she’s fully in control of both her mind and her emotions. There’s nothing hot – in that sense – about her. And later in the song there’s another line in which she calls Heathcliff ‘my only master.’ Never in a million years. Equal maybe, but throughout the book – even when Cathy is dead and come to ghostliness – it is she who holds the predominant position.

There are a couple of interesting parallels between Kate Bush and Emily Brontë; they’re both half Irish and they have the same birthday. But I assume that Kate must have based her song on the well known film version, not an open minded reading of Emily’s words.

So what, you might ask, is this missionary zeal I seem to exhibit over the matter of Wuthering Heights? I’m not sure, but I suppose it’s the fact that I want Emily to be understood. Dear Emily matters to me, you know? She does. And you know how it is with missionaries – they just go on and on until somebody boils them in a big pot and has them for dinner.

Clocking the Kid.

I was looking at the Easter displays in the shops today and being reminded of how responsive I was to colour as a kid. I even felt some of the same feelings as I did back then, and that led to remembering how much I loved fairgrounds.

What most stands out about those magical places in my recollection isn’t the rides, the sideshows and the music, but the prize stalls which gave away a range of artefacts in coloured glass. Seeing all those different colours close together was a delightful cocktail to my eyes, and I would stand and stare at them for ages. It’s a pity my affliction wasn’t noticed at the time and an alternative methodology applied to my upbringing.

And that brings me to the question of differences between parents. The ordinary parent will ask ‘Did you enjoy the fair? Did you go on any rides?’ The more adroit parent will ask ‘What do you like about fairgrounds?’ Of course, if the kid answers: ‘What? I dunno.’ then the parent can rest easy:

‘Oh good, we’ve got a right dimbo here. No need to bother about being adroit, then. I expect the football match will keep him amused.’

Coincidentally, I also loved going to the football match as a kid, especially if it was a night game under floodlights and the air was cold and a little misty. The atmosphere was sensational.

Being Suspicious of Random Acts.

The self-service tills at Sainsbury’s were all down today when all I had to buy were some cheese rolls and a jam doughnut for my lunch. I grumbled, naturally, and went to stand in a queue at one of the main checkouts.

The woman in front had a trolleyfull.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ she asked. ‘You go ahead of me.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman in front of her already had a big load of shopping on the belt.

‘You haven’t got much,’ she said sympathetically. ‘You go first.’

‘Thank you.’

That’s three random acts of kindness in less than a week (remember the driver who left a gap in the traffic to let me cross?) I’m beside myself with confusion, not to mention a little worried that I might look like the sort of person who needs a random act of kindness.

End of Month Note.

I mentioned at the beginning of March that there’s an old saying in Britain:

March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.

This year it came in like a lion all right, but it went out more like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. On which note…

I was walking down the hill today, watching the sheep being rolled around the field by a force 9 gale like those bundles of grassy stuff you see rolling around the prairie in old westerns (I am exaggerating slightly, and it’s an odd fact that the only time I ever saw such rolling bundles of grassy stuff was on a dusty track in northern Quebec) when I was reminded of a horrible story from three winters ago.

We had a lot of snow that year, and one night the news programme carried a most upsetting item. A flock of sheep somewhere in Wales had been stranded in a field during a snow storm, and the snow had become so deep that they’d suffocated en masse. The emphasis was all on the farmer’s loss and the poor insurance companies suffering a lot of claims due to the inclement weather. Nobody seemed in the least concerned that a number of beautiful animals had gone to their deaths most unpleasantly.

That’s the sort of thing that makes me incline towards a reclusive attitude and implore the gods to allow me to spend my next incarnation somewhere a long way from here.

Meanwhile, T. Rex is still grumbling aggressively as I write, and the sheep in the field – which were actually braced against the blast and not rolling at all – will be giving birth to their lambs soon. Hello April.

A Ghost in my World.

That old fixation on Emily Brontë is back. It’s as though every now and then her ghost walks through the door and demands attention, her limpid eyes staring steadily and softly before shifting to steel and spearing the mind until the heart capitulates. Charlotte said of her sister: ‘An interpreter ought always to have stood between her and the world.’ Emily was dead by then, otherwise I think she would have asked the same question I do:

'Which world?'

A Life in Two Halves.

I found this little gem and realised how appropriate it is. The first part is where I’m going, and the last part is where I’ve been.

Please ignore the middle bit, which has no relevance to me whatsoever – past, present or future (especially…)

Dawn of the Brain Dead.

If I were the sort to wilfully murder the English language by acknowledging the legitimacy of the verb ‘to trend’ I should be inclined to report that there’s a strange video currently trending on YouTube. Since I’m not, would you please pretend that this post is being written by somebody else? Thank you.

What this other person finds strange about the video is that it’s called ‘What’s the choice in this election?’ and is a pep talk given by Martin Freeman (of Sherlock and Hobbit fame) on behalf of the British Labour Party. It’s had 22,900 views already, apparently.

What’s strange about it is that anybody with at least one functioning brain cell is capable of working out for themselves that the Labour Party has no notable history of nastiness, unlike the Tory Party which has always considered nastiness (at least to the lower social orders) to be a matter for celebration. To put it another way, nobody with even half an ounce of common sense needs to have their voting intentions influenced by a celebrity. So who, I wonder, are the 22,900?

Walking the Road that Suits.

I sometimes wish I’d been a child prodigy – one of those kids who cast aside the rattle before they’re old enough to crawl, preferring to construct complex melodies on a tin whistle instead. By the time they’re old enough to talk they’re already virtuosi par excellence, and go on to spend their lives being watched by half a million YouTubers and getting likes:dislikes in the ratio of 10,000:1.

Not for me, though. Being a child prodigy leads inevitably along the road of endeavour, accomplishment and recognition, and people like me aren’t comfortable on that sort of glistening surface. I’ve had a marked mistrust of endeavour, accomplishment and recognition ever since… but that’s a long story. In retrospect, I think a life of drifting without ever getting anywhere in particular was probably about right.

But here’s an interesting thought: Is it better to be a nobody or a has been? The nobody doesn’t have anywhere to fall, does he? But I suppose that’s the negative view, and maybe I can blame it on my early life mentor, the great Bob himself. One of the first lines of his which I remember being impressed by was:

When ya got nothin’, ya got nothin’ to lose.

And now I’m even struggling to remember which song it comes from.

Breasts and Questions.

On thumbing through the TV listings tonight I came across a programme called Bodyshockers. First on the agenda was ‘A woman who regrets her double G breast implants.’

Question: Am I supposed to know what a double G breast implant is? Is this one of those universally known facts that have passed me by, courtesy of my tendency to be both reclusive and naïve? (‘You mean you don’t know what a double G breast implant is? Where’ve you been all your life?’)

The fact is, I have only a vague idea what a breast transplant is at all, and even less comprehension of why anybody would want to have one. (See? I even get it wrong. I should have said 'implant.' Are they different?)

More questions:

1. Would it be worth asking whether there is such a thing as a double A transplant/implant, or a double X one for that matter?

2. Do the purveyors of such procedures ever have promotions?

Buy One, Get One Free

Have a breast and brain implant at the 
same sitting and get the cheapest free!

Well, maybe this goes some way to explaining it: There was another programme listed called Ibiza Weekender, the synopsis for which reads:

Imogen discovers that Jordan has set his sights on Rachael and the two girls have an almighty showdown.

I see a duel in the dust at high noon: enhanced breasts at fifty paces; first to get both barrels on target wins.

I suspect this all says more about the culture than it does about the quality of TV programming. Or maybe it just says more about me than I care to admit.