Lancashire, where women die of love.

I'm currently reading a book with this implausible title, by Charles Nevin.

It's a wryly entertaining love letter to the county where, like me, Charles was born and spent his formative years. We English tend to be fiercely loyal to the county (state) of our birth and nowhere more so than in the distant counties north of the influence of this London-centric land.

The attention grabbing title is something more than a gratuitous nod to the marketing people. Apparently,it’s a quotation from a female character in Le Leys dans la Vallée by Honoré de Balzac.

It would be churlish to disagree with her...

After his post graduate cadetship on what was then my local newspaper, the Southport Visiter, Charles went on to greater journalistic endeavours. He is a regular contributor to The Independent, The New Statesman and other quality journals.... … his columns always cheer me up no end.

His writing is so transparently good-natured that only the most curmudgeonly could possibly take offence. His delight in the eccentric, the unlikely and the just plain odd is hilarious and life-enhancing.

This engaging book is one of the best antidotes I know of to 21st Century blues. In it you can (among other things) learn how Napoleon III modelled the grand boulevards of Paris on Southport (maybe), why Butch Cassidy spoke with a Lancastrian accent (perhaps) and why Lancashire was and continues to be the birthplace of such a stunningly high proportion of the country’s comedians (definitely).

This blog is self indulgent I know....but perhaps that is what reading a book through rose tinted spectacles does to one.

I can offer no apology...lol.

It's good to be back.

So farewell Georgy Girl....

Sometimes words can be to much - or not enough.....farewell Lynn....a steady light amidst the brighter ones.....I love her unrehearsed smile at 0:29, in response to something the van driver said...

An outsider's outsider.....

When I heard of the death of the author Alan Sillitoe at the age of 82, I truly felt as if I had lost an old, unmet friend. Alan died yesterday at Charing Cross Hospital in London.

It was Alan who started my journey into my love of British cinema in the 1950s and 1960s when two of his books were turned into movies. I saw Saturday Night And Sunday Morning when I was about 14 years old and it was a history lesson as well as a life lesson.

If you want to summon the grainy, gritty images of the English working class of the1960s, simply picture Tom Courtenay as the young offender rebelling in The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, or Albert Finney as the loser and boozer in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.

Many years ago, when I had a book list to read, on this list was Alan Sillitoe's Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, and to be honest the only reason I picked it up was because it was not a thick-paged book to read! I read the first page and was hooked, and to this day, it is still one of my favourite books.

But there was another figure behind these defiant, alienated men - a thoughtful, self-educated young man named Alan Sillitoe.

"Bill Posters will be Prosecuted," old signs used to read and it took the anarchic eye of Sillitoe to compose a play called The Death of William Posters, in which the poor man is prosecuted indeed.

Alan Sillitoe will be remembered as long as there are rebels - preferably, but not necessarily, rebels with causes.

Look for his books and the movies made from them - they are a treat.

How wonderful is this?

Ella at her absolute best.......in my humble opinion m'lud....lol.
Have a grand week all, I've just had a splendid break...



I never knew the charm of spring
I never met it face to face
I never new my heart could sing
I never missed a warm embrace
Till April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom
Holiday tables under the trees
April in Paris, this is a feeling
That no one can ever reprise
I never knew the charm of spring
I never met it face to face
I never new my heart could sing
I never missed a warm embrace
Till April in Paris
Whom can I run to
What have you done to my heart?

lifes absurdities laid bare....

Philip Larkin has always been right up there amongst my favourite poets....his taciturn style has always struck a chord with me...and this chord sounds louder as I get older...laughing.

Have a wonderful, peaceful and blessed Easter nice people.

The Winter Palace

Most people know more as they get older:
I give all that the cold shoulder.

I spent my second quarter-century
Losing what I had learnt at university

And refusing to take in what had happened since.
Now I know none of the names in the public prints.

And am starting to give offence by forgetting faces
And swearing I've never been in certain places.

It will be worth it, if in the end I manage
To blank out whatever it is that is doing the damage.

Then there will be nothing I know.
My mind will fold into itself, like fields, like snow.

Sunday she comes...

The Six Nations Rugby Competition has just finished here. France ran out worthy winners....Italy, despite some heroic games, were awarded the wooden spoon. England finished adrift in mid table and this is where we will remain until we learn to play quick ball and hand to hand rugby!

Anyway, grinning, this BBC advert for the Six Nations takes its inspiration from the recent movie Invictus, starring Morgan Freeman as a very plausible Nelson Mandela.



Invictus
William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Have a grand Sunday, as Spring touches us all............and feel inspired.

...longing for Spring

This is one of my favourite poems, such use of metaphor,imagery and emotion. This week I have been to my third funeral of the year and sad as these occasions are they can often contain such unexpected happiness.

Perhaps, as someone said over drinks later yesterday, this is how we keep in contact with those from our present and our past - alive and dead.

I'm sure that Connie, ever the humanist and cat lover, would have smiled and agreed.

Take care nice people.


February
By Margaret Atwood.

Winter.
Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

perchance to read....

I am truly savouring the sheer joy of being able to lounge around and catch up on all the terrific reads that were kindly given to me as Christmas gifts.

It certainly takes me some effort not to feel guilty when doing nought but read.

Why is reading often seen as 'doing nothing' as opposed to doing 'something', whatever that may be?

Is it me, or do my fellow bloggers share similar feelings? I'm sure it has nothing to do with the way I was raised, my parents were both avid readers. Does it have its origins in modern society? I dont know, but I would like to hear any views that you may have.

Anyway, I am currently reading the above book by Michael Greenberg and enjoying every page of the book....

The Washington Post describes Greenberg as, 'a poet of New York, evoking in these fleeting pieces the city in all its scuffed and squalid grandeur'.

As the song says...I'm busy doing nothing...

Have a grand week nice people.

Reet Champion sithee......

...or in literal English....right champion see you...but in the dialect of the north of England it means well done, or didn't things turn out well?

Last evening I sat down and watched the early 80's movie Champions and as usual I ended up with a happy tear in my eye.

The film, which stars John Hurt, together with a glorious array of actors, tells the story of the jockey Bob Champion and his amazing horse Aldiniti...If you do watch the movie a warning...it does show snippets of horses falling, which every year prompts a call for the Grand National race to be stopped....

Legendary jockey Bob Champion overcame impossible odds to achieve his dreams. His determination and dedication continue to inspire athletes many years after his Grand National win.

True sporting legends are usually made, not born. A few greats have been destined for fame since birth though. Bob Champion is one of these natural-born legends, but his courage and dedication are the qualities for which he is most admired.

In 1979, Bob Champion was diagnosed with testicular cancer. In true Champion fashion, Bob refused to believe that his doctors were correct. He stubbornly insisted that there was a mistake in the diagnosis.

The diagnosis wasn't wrong. Doctors gave Champion a maximum of eight months to live, with only a 40 percent chance of survival. Things looked grim, but he was given a second chance. An extremely aggressive program of chemotherapy, if begun immediately, might just beat the odds. Champion agreed to begin the treatment the very same day.



Unfortunately, Champion's treatment had not been easy on his body. A large-scale infection nearly claimed his life and he was forced to put off his Grand National ambitions temporarily.

Champion was soon recovering from his various hardships and back in training. In 1981, he rode Aldaniti in the Grand National. The two were a perfect pair: both hard-working, stubborn and recovering from serious health problems. Champion's cancer and Aldaniti's three leg injuries caused almost everyone to speculate that the team wouldn't get near the winner's circle.

The two survivors melded on the Aintree Racecourse that April day in 1981. Their victory is one of the most memorable and emotional moments ever to be recorded in horse racing. Coming in four-and-a-half lengths ahead of the competition, Champion and Aldaniti beat the odds and made history.

After his Grand National championship, Bob Champion continued to race and win until 1983. By that time, he had approximately 500 wins to his credit. After leaving racing, he focused his energy on training horses and running the Bob Champion Cancer Trust. The charity has raised millions of pounds for cancer research and Champion continues to raise funds for it to this day.

Although Aldaniti died in 1997 and Bob Champion retired from training horses in 1999, they are both legends of the horse racing world. Their legacy is a sense of hope for all those who follow in their paths. They taught us that, even when things look desperate, success is just over the next fence for those who choose to make the jump.

The inspirational soundtrack is by Carl Davis.

New York...then hither, thither and yon...

Happy New Year all......I finally made it home via working in Dublin, Brussels and good old Manchester. The in flight teams were getting so used to seeing me that I was on the verge of being added to their Christmas card lists...talk about travelling in ever decreasing circles!

Well, work is work....no sense complaining in this economic climate.

My carbon footprint is shot to pieces though.....arf.

New York was as wonderful as ever....so much to see and do and so little time. The weather was pretty much as western Europe......bloody cold. Favourite spot was the White Horse Tavern on Hudson Street in the West Village - haunt and last drinking place of one of my literary heroes, Dylan Thomas. A couple of great evenings were spent there.

Anyway, this evening I shall raise a glass (or twain) of something reviving and enjoy catching up on the happenings of my favourite blogsters.

Seeing Jersey Boys was a fantastic evening...but what happened to the sheer glamour of a Broadway show,......sadly, London is pretty much the same.

Have a great weekend nice people....I couldn't resist Ginger...grinning.

Best Wishes All

Have a Peaceful & Enjoyable Christmas

a state of mind.......

Well, now the British Airways threatened strike over the Christmas period isn't going to happen, I'm going to be in New York City between the 27th of December and the 1st of January.
So, if anyone would like to join me and my camera on a walk over the Brooklyn bridge give me a call....lunch or dinner thrown in too........just how generous is this guy?...laughing.








Have a great weekend nice people.........lesson learned?.......never going to use BA again, ever.........ever.
By the way...Ella sings of starving together in Chiles.....I can find no reference to Chiles on the interweb........someone help me out.....grinning.

and this is my new creed.........

Hi folks, hope you are all well....sheesh what a week. Thank you all for your wonderful blogs - reading them has kept me sane this week. I promise to contribute more, I really do.......laughing.

Kitchens being remodelled, husbands sometimes mistaken for a grandmother over the phone....what interesting lifes you lead.....grinning. Enjoy your day nice people.

....an adman's Christmas

As usual I find this years John Lewis Christmas tv advert a sheer delight....beautifully filmed and great engagement with their choice of music.



Even the message is a delight...reward the inner child by giving a gift...at least that's how I interpret it.

But with such expensive gifts?

Not hard to see why John Lewis is our most middle class of department stores....grinning.

This version of Sweet Child o' Mine is by Taken By Trees.

She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
When everything
Was as bright as the bluest sky

Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place
Where as a child I'd hide
And pray for the thunder
And the rain
To quietly pass me by.

Oh Oh Oh, sweet child of mine.

Trying hard to look like Gary Cooper......super, duper.

Phew, what a week last week was, but as the song says, 'that was the week that was, it's over let it go'. So, last night I did in grand style at the wonderful Bridgewater Hall, in central Manchester, home of the Halle Orchestra.

Last night was one of their famous Halle Pops evenings - Puttin' on the Ritz: A tribute to Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

To put not to fine an edge on it - I was in my element.

John Wilson conducted, fresh from his triumph at this years Promenade Concert with the music of the MGM Musicals. He continues to demonstrate his fascination for the music of the 30's and 40's.
His musical arrangements remain 100% faithful to the original RKO and MGM musical scores. It was wonderful to think that this was exactly how Fred and Ginger heard the scores they danced to.
Kim Criswell not only treated us to some wonderful singing but gave a brief and succinct historical setting of each number, certainly paying Ginger her musical dues.


Gary Williams too, was just perfect, never imitating Fred, but always with a subtle nod in his direction. The music covered thirteen films, from Flying Down to Rio right up to Funny Face.

If you ever get the chance to see this show don't hesitate. I guarantee you will dance all the way home.

Have a good week nice people.

Lest we forget

Today is Remembrance Sunday here in the UK. Of all the moving and reflective music played at this time, Dido's Lament by Purcell never fails to reach out and hold me for those brief minutes.

Lest we forget all our fallen, military and civilian.

This afternoon I will spend with my soldier son and other 'boys of the old brigade', lunching, listening, reflecting, laughing and remembering my own father, and drinking good old English beer.



When I am laid, am laid in earth, may my wrongs create
No trouble, no trouble in, in thy breast.
When I am laid, am laid in earth, may my wrongs create
No trouble, no trouble in, in thy breast.
Remember me, remember me, but ah!
Forget my fate.
Remember me, but ah!
Forget my fate.
Remember me, remember me, but ah!
Forget my fate.
Remember me, but ah!
Forget my fate.

achingly sad.....

This article is from my newspaper today......I just have the feeling that her lover is an Englishman, or why put the bottle in the English Channel? Anyone have any other thoughts?..........smiling.

A French love letter and a lock of hair have been discovered in a bottle washed up on a Cornish beach.Martin Leslie, a coastguard manager, discovered the note at Praa Sands when he was clearing debris from the shore in west Cornwall.

The bottle, which was sealed with candle wax, was dropped into the English Channel / La Manche on 28 September this year. It was written in French by an unnamed woman who poured out her feelings and understandings for her lover who had to return to his wife

The letter included references to love, death and heartache. It covered three pages of A4-sized paper and was accompanied by the lock of brown hair.

It opened with: "I'm not, and nor are you. When I am dead and that I will have lost the spark of my 20s, and I know that happens, at this point I will come back to you and you in turn will give me back your extraordinary passion for living. I am not dead. Yet."

Mr Leslie, who does not speak French, tried to translate the letter and was concerned about its content. He assumed that it was a suicidal note that he had come across and contacted Falmouth coastguard who sent a fax of it to their counterparts on the French coast.

"It was found to be a love letter. She (the writer) explained they had a good time together. She loves him but understands he has to return to his wife, and hopes she will find a man like him to live a beautiful life."

The unnamed women recalls the time she and her lover spent together, alluding to the affair in the letter:

"These magic moments are pure secret. The secret of life and pleasure without limits. In twenty years, it will still be here, the previous moments of happiness, when life will get dreary, we will be able to tap into these memories to remember what it is to live again."

Mr Leslie said he was planning to keep hold of the letter, which was left unsigned, with no contact address.

La mer
The Sea
Qu'on voit danser le long des golfes clairs
That one sees dancing along the clear gulfs
A des reflets d'argent
Has silver reflections
La mer
The Sea
Des reflets changeants
Changing reflections
Sous la pluie
Under the rain

La mer
The Sea
Au ciel d'été confond
In the summer sky merge
Ses blancs moutons
Its white sheep
Avec les anges si purs
With such pure angels
La mer bergère d'azur
The sea, shepherdess of azure
Infinie
Infinite

Voyez
See
Près des étangs
Close to the ponds
Ces grands roseaux mouillés
These large wet reeds
Voyez
See
Ces oiseaux blancs
These white birds
Et ces maisons rouillées
And these rusted houses

La mer
The Sea
Les a bercés
Has rocked them
Le long des golfes clairs
Along the clear gulfs
Et d'une chanson d'amour
And with a song of love
La mer
The Sea
A bercé mon cœur pour la vie
Has soothed my heart for life

With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain.......

The ninety minute trip down to Stratford and visit to the RSC was as ever a sheer delight. Renovation, or should I say rebuilding of the Memorial Theatre continues apace with most of the external appearance of the building pretty much as the architect intended…. one presumes. The Courtyard Theatre again provides a more than suitable venue whilst the building works continue apace.
The photos were taken during rehearsal.

Nancy Carroll as Viola and Jo Stone-Fewings as Orsino

At the risk of mixing metaphors, this production is certainly a game of two halves and to my mind this problem lies less with the acting than with the directing of Greg Doran. As with all productions by this company the acting is uniformly strong and there is no sense amongst the cast of anyone being the ‘star’. I enjoyed the air of complicity between actors and audience, generated particularly by Feste and Viola, which added to the fun without spoiling the magic.

James Fleet considers direction for his role of Sir Andrew Aguecheek

However, the first act struggles to clearly set up the plot, ship wrecked girl decides to dress as boy, countess falls in love with ‘boy’….etc, etc. The portrayal of Malvolio as a self obsessed, pompous man, truly deserving of a plot to cause his downfall, fails to come across clearly. Fine, I hear you say, a director can only work with the clay he is given, but to have major characters delivering important plot lines as they exeunt upstage, left or right is truly unforgivable.

Miltos Yerolemou brings boundless energy to the pivotal role of Feste

Richard McCabe as Sir Toby Belch rehearses a scene with Feste

The closing scenes of the first act and the entire second act truly hit their stride; the setting up of Malvolio for his down fall is truly comedic measured by any yardstick. Having said this, unfortunately for me, Richard Wilson is cursed by his deserved success as the TV character Victor Meldrew. At times it felt as if Victor was playing the part of Malvolio, so alike are the characters. Nevertheless, I was reminded that Malvolio is both a far more presumptuous and a more put-upon figure than Victor Meldrew ever was.

Richard Wilson shares a humourous moment with Miltos Yerolemou

Having had my little whinge I have to say that this is a solid production. It’s a mixture of a lot of pleasure and a bit of pain: for half the time, at least, Doran gets the balance about right. There was much to enjoy here and I did, particularly once the scattershot first half was over.

Alexandra Gilbreath receives direction from Greg Doran in her role as Olivia

and the rain it raineth every day....

I'm probably at an age when I shouldn't really wish my life away. In fact it was pointed out to me earlier this evening, by one who claims a certain affection for me, that it is an extravagence I can ill afford to indulge in....laughing!
However, I care not, because on Saturday I'm going down to Stratford to see Twelfth Night, and Richard Wilson in a role he was surely born to play - Malvolio.
Richard is best known for his much-loved role of Victor Meldrew in the TV comedy series One Foot in the Grave for which he has won many awards including the British Comedy Awards Top Television Comedy Actor Award and two BAFTAs. His is a long and distinguished career as both actor and director in theatre, film and TV.
The strong cast includes Nancy Carroll as Viola and Alexandra Gilbreath as Olivia.

Here are some clips of One Foot in the Grave, showing Richard acting with a touch of Malvolio about him even in this TV series.....I DON'T believe it!....surely the war cry of we ageing baby boomers...!
I can hardly wait.....

A touch of the Freds

This morning I picked up my 'white tie and tails' at my very favourite Savile Row tailor - Anderson & Sheppard. This company has been a leading Savile Row firm from its beginnings in 1906 and the fluid style of Per Anderson, trained by the great Frederick Scholte, was from the start the distinguishing feature of the house.
Concern with easy movement and a natural body line continues into 21st Century thanks to an unbroken transmission of skills. It is possible to visit their workrooms and see your suit in progress at 32 Old Burlington Street.

It was here in the 1930's that the carpet was famously rolled back so a certain Mr Fred Astaire could dance a little, and his tailor could make sure that the collar did not ride up or look unsightly.
The most glamorous and romantic evening wear of all, 'white tie and tails' is not only worn to the most glamorous and romantic evening parties (such as Willow's Grand Autumn Ball), but also to the most formal of evening occasions such as state banquets.
The white tie outfit consists of a black evening tailcoat, black dress trousers with a double braid down the outer seam, and a stiff-fronted shirt fastened with mother of pearl or gold studs and cufflinks.
The bow tie and waistcoat are both white pique, otherwise known as Marcella, to match the shirt front and shoes are black.