Pianoforte

I don't know if people realise how much skill it takes to play, not just the wrong notes, but the right wrong notes - and to play them at the right time.

No, my dears, I'm not talking about my piano-playing...

The Simpsons Movie

The Simpsons Movie is 100% recommended by me. What more do you need to know?

People who have been watching The Simpsons assiduously for many years will benefit the most from this film. Yes, it means you will laugh! I did.

Soloist

At last I have found it! (click this)

Crown Clowns

The Crown Jewels of England are well known. I suppose they are the number one thing in this country to try and steal. Or, you could just admire them at the Tower of London without resorting to crime, which, after all, does not pay.

We had some other Crown Jewels, but one of our Kings (John of England) lost them. Yes, he lost them! He was near the bit of sea known as The Wash, and they got washed away. Deary me.

Then Oliver Cromwell took over many years later. He was not a King but a "Protector", and what he was protecting us from was Kings, among other things (he also protected us from theatre, Christmas, and fashionable haircuts). Having examined the record of one previous head of state, we can be glad Oliver was also protecting the Crown Jewels (which obviously need a lot of protecting, particularly at high tide). However, he didn't do a very good job, because all that is left of the Jewels of that time is three swords and a spoon. And you try fighting with a spoon. Possibly this is why he stopped protecting us, gave up and a big nest of Kings started growing again as Charles II returned from France where he had been visiting relatives for some time. Now that the English had resolved to stop cutting off the heads of Kings etc, it was safe to return and start thinking about new crowns and so on. Crowns are known for being uncomfortable, but let me tell you, you'd be glad of the feeling as long as it meant you still had a head to keep the crown on.

Right, who's going to lose the Jewels next? Oh, and have you looked behind the fridge?

Paderewski's Parrot

Paderewski had a parrot. He got it in New Zealand. It would scratch at the door when he was practising. Then when it was let in, it would perch on his pedalling foot. At certain moments it would exclaim,"Lord, what beautiful music!"

I read this in The Paderewski Memoirs. There is no mention of the parrot on the Internet, which is why I had to tell you the story myself. If you ask me, there is something wrong with people. Fancy not knowing about this parrot!

Reminiscence

Tasten: the Ballhaus, Berlin – it was May
What really happened? It’s not easy to say…
The programme read “Ian Pace: Verdi Transcriptions”
A charming idea full of tuneful inscriptions.

For thirty-two years they had grown more and more
Until they encompassed Books One through to Four.
But the composer Mike Finnissy, Verdi’s arranger
Unknowingly put Ian Pace in great danger.

The first and the second books went by quite calmly.
But out in the night was a whispering army…
By the light of the moon they rose up to embrace
Their campaign to silence the pianist Pace.

“You were OK at first, but the next book’s the worst!
We wish that you’d never sat down and rehearsed!
You should never have thought about starting to learn it!
But you did, and that’s why we say Ballhaus: Let’s burn it!”

Then a bottle was thrown
And it fell like a stone
And unFinnissy flames billowed out.
Men ran round in a panic
Increasingly manic
And Jeremy started to shout.

Folks looked up from their paella
At the blossoming fire
Their faces all lit up with red.
In the ensuing fracas
They all dropped their tapas
And ran out to see who was dead.

Would they find Ian Pace
Lying flat on his face,
The piano a pile of ashes?
Would the Tasten be stopped
Since the bottle had popped
And consumed it with murderous flashes?

“NO! I triumph over anti-imperialist subversives!”
Shouted Ian majestically over the sound of the flames.
Or something similar.

But the army receded
Defeated, conceded
The flames never gathered the power they needed.
The Ballhaus was saved
So the audience waved:
“We’d prefer if this concert proceeded!”

And it did.

Ian knew if he stopped and he failed to finish he
Might risk the rage of the powerful Finnissy.
After Books One and Two, he returned with the Third. He
Continued and finally finished his Verdi!

The rest of the festival? It was much calmer
With more of the music and less of the drama.
The black and white keys sounded notes by the million
And people came in (some police, most civilian).

Magda attacked the piano, her performance thus leading
To displays full of energy…also some bleeding.

For a good cup of tea, how far will a man go?
The answer, in music, came from our friend Django.

With a burning of rubber and soundtracks galore
This bass player goes with his foot to the floor
He finishes the course while the others are starting
A long-distance driver, we thank him – he’s Martin!

Tasten, Tasten…

Masked men came there to fight but floated into the night
They all ran away and are free.
The fire never stopped it, so Tilbury topped it
With Feldman’s Palais de Mari.

THE END

Thanks Magda, Michael and Jeremy!

English Weather

Cat Milk

I've talked about whale milk before.

But in the supermarket round the corner from my house, they sell something called "Cat Milk". I always wondered what it is. Is it milk for cats, or milk from cats?

Someone else has had the same thought.

Why can I not tell if this is serious or not?

I mean, when it says "Goat Milk" it is milk from goats, not milk for goats.

Well, maybe I will never know...

On the day I see a cat going round the shop with its shopping list in its paws, I will finally understand!

Mister Men

Something strange is happening to the Mr. Men!

The Mr. Men is a series of children's books written in the 1970s by Roger Hargreaves, and published first in England. Roger died in 1988 so after that his son Adam carried on writing the books. He still does, but the whole Mr. Men "brand" was sold for a lot of money - so much that if you spent all the money on Mr. Men books and laid them out end to end, they would stretch round the earth five times! (They cost £2 each and I hope I worked that out right!)

Actually, they are worth more than that. They are very good.

I have two that were printed in the 1970s (because I was produced in the 1970s!): Mr. Sneeze and Mr. Funny. At that time, here were the other books you could get:


And, on the front, this is the kind of thing you would see:



Today, the only difference on the front covers is that the signature by Roger Hargreaves doesn't slope anymore. It is upright:

That's ok. Which do you prefer? (PS Mr. Silly looks funny, eh?)

The other changes are not so OK, in my opinion. First of all, look at what has happened to the back cover line-up of Mr. Men. They have all changed! Look at Mr. Funny and compare him with his picture above:



This is not the same Mr. Man! I don't think the colours came out right here, but one major difference is that his gloves aren't the right colour! Mr. Funny's body is green and his gloves are yellow. In the new picture his body and his gloves are green. Hmm, not good I think. Then look at the eyes. This is the most disturbing change. What is wrong with the eyes? Look at them! They are completely different now, and have no character! The bold lines of the original have been replaced by this hideous cosmetic surgery nightmare operation look. Maybe someone thinks he looks more human? Well, these days, perhaps that is true - when so many people in the public eye do have this weird plastic surgery/botox injection eye-look. Is that what it is? Has Mr. Funny had botox??? I don't believe it! He would never do that! This is the man who cheered up all the animals in the zoo when they had colds! But now they would have us believe that he is a fading star of the 70s, clinging on too long to his share of the spotlight and sinking ever deeper into a whirlpool of alcoholism like many before him (Krusty the Clown?)

Hmm. The Mr. Funny inside the books is the same one as before. Perhaps this back-cover image is some look-alike or impersonator they used for publicity material. Obviously Mr. Funny, like Saddam Hussein, is a person of such importance that he has many doubles for use in public work. I understand.

Having suggested that the insides of the books have not changed, I am afraid this is not true in the case of Mr. Dizzy. What on earth has happened to the images? They look like they have been scanned in by dogs. Or hamsters! (They find it harder to operate the mouse. Which wasn't supposed to be a joke. But I suppose you could see it as one if you want). Just look at Mr. Dizzy's edges:


Dear me. That's what it looks like in the book, I am afraid. Not good!

So you see, I am not completely happy with the state of the Mr. Men books today. But I can tell you: if you want to read them, they are all still with us, even if there is something strange on the back, even if there are a few odd things about them today. The insides are the same (except Mr. Dizzy and I haven't checked all of the books so I can't promise everyone else has escaped this treatment).

They come highly recommended (by me). They have been translated into 20 languages, so you should be seeing some near you! In fact, you are reading this in English so I would recommend you look for the English ones. They are the first and best!

Let me know what you think.

Crayon Carry-ons

Wax crayons are very popular. People like children to use them because they don't have sharp points, so you cannot cause injuries with them. This seems quite a reliable principle to go by. However. There is one documented instance of crayon-induced harm that I know of. As a child, Homer...


...Simpson, fond of putting crayons in his ears and nose,


got one stuck. Not realising this, over time the crayon found its way into his brain. Detected by X-ray photograph,


it was removed surgically. The surgery effected a radical change in Simpson's brain-power.



The new Homer, unhappy with the responsibility of free thought, started to yearn for the old days when all he had to think about was where his next beer was coming from. His daughter Lisa's fears were realised when she noticed her powder blue crayon was missing...So perhaps crayons also bring tragedy, of a kind. But let's hope there is a lesson we can all learn from the story of Homer Simpson.

Remembering at all times to keep crayons clear of the orifices of the head, let us look at the evolution of the wax crayon colour rainbow. In the beginning, there were only eight colours. This was in 1903 when Binney Smith & Co. first started manufacturing the Crayola crayon. The colours were black, blue, brown, green, orange, red, violet and yellow. Quite good choices! No controversy so far.

In 1949 another 40 colours were added. Lemon Yellow, Burnt Sienna, Periwinkle, Thistle - more exciting names. One of them was changed in 1958 - "Prussian Blue" was thought to have no meaning at that date, since it was decided children no longer knew of the deep blue colour of the Prussian army uniform. OK, I understand I suppose. It turned into "Midnight Blue".

Some of the names were a bit too exciting. Oh dear, what's this one - Flesh? Well, it was a pinky colour. Except not all flesh is that colour, is it? So they changed the name to Peach. That was the Peach that we used at my school. It was the one that always ran out the fastest. We were always drawing people, of course, and seemingly the people all had Peach-coloured flesh - yes, flesh was "Flesh" at that time. Not surprisingly, because I never saw any other colour skin for many years. One of the dinner ladies was Italian, and I thought she looked a bit strange! Where did I go to school, you may ask? Nazi Germany? No, it was an ordinary English school. So we thought. Anyway, I have seen lots of different skin types now. And I'm not sure I would use Peach for any of them - though it does come in handy as a base, if blended (I'm really talking about coloured pencils here; I haven't used wax crayons recently).

So goodbye Flesh. 16 further colours were added in 1958, among them Indian Red. The name referred to a famous type of pigment used in paint. But I suppose people were a bit nervous. They thought about the Native American (name for the people who lived in America before the Americans lived there) and remembered they were called "Red Indians". That's what we called them too, once - and yes, I learned all about them at my school. But they weren't Indian, and they weren't Red any more than I am Peach or Marcus Aurelius Garvey was Black.

Nervous people thought Indian Red could be seen as Red Indian, so it became Chestnut in 1999.

The strange thing is that in 1998, when the latest addition to the Crayola rainbow brought the total number of colours to 120, one of them was called Fuzzy-Wuzzy Brown. Hmm. "Fuzzy-Wuzzy" is a racist term for a person of African genetic origin. A Brown person, one might say (or "black", I suppose, though I already exempted M. Garvey from being painted with that exact colour. I would like to say that I don't find anybody to be quite black. Some people come close-ish - a very nice colour of skin I think! Other colours are nice too, of course. Please can't we just say everyone is human-coloured?)

So there was a crayon called Fuzzy-Wuzzy Brown. There still is, as far as I know. It didn't get changed. But Indian Red did. How odd, to me. To you?

Please note that I have refrained from giving examples of possible other upsetting names that crayon companies may wish to mysteriously overlook. There is no "good taste" control on my humour when I'm being harsh, and I'm not trying to offend people today. Please imagine your own. In fact, don't imagine them. You don't need any practise thinking like that. We've had enough racism now. We've all seen enough of it. Come on, think of some nice names instead. And if there is a skin colour you don't like, think harder. Give it the most beautiful name you can, please.

Thank you.

The First Post - And I've Done It Already

Literally speaking, this is the first post in this blog. It is even called The First Post - two sentences in and already you can see I am a man of my word! We understand each other, eh?

"What's that? The first post? Hmm...", my bonsai-model brain thinks to me,"Isn't 'The Last Post' already a phrase in common use? Wouldn't it make me look awfully clever to make a...I think the word I'm looking for is 'pun', no? Yes, one of those 'puns' would be perfect. That will show everyone what I am made of". Sadly, it shows exactly what you are made of, oh tiny little mind.

One of the great curses of any language is exactly that: the tiny little mind that operates it. We have this miraculous, unfathomable, incredible gift of communication. What impulse is it that drives us to express the miracle of our being through the time-honoured principles and codes of sub-sub-basement, flatline, powerout, autopilot, void and vacuous...local journalism?

I said it. Local journalism! That's real evidence of a communications curse. If you have ever read a local newspaper then I hope you realised there was something a bit wrong, there. Now, I was not put on this earth to perpetrate terrible crimes against humanity, so I won't attempt to recreate the ambience of the local newspaper experience - you will have to see for yourself! Though it was a good curse, for sure, that also produced some of the greatest unintentional comedy writing in print. "He broke his toe drinking squash" and so on to a collapsible bliss of amusement. (That 'toe' quotation was taken from The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, a novel by David Nobbs).

So now every man and woman of fighting age has a blog, I guess water finds its own level and the writing genius in us all rather sinks to the bottom. (Did you see? I was doing it there too! Though these gems were the fruits of the curse of a much superior school of journalism, as you might say, though I sincerely hope you wouldn't, for your sake). What a man's gotta blog, a man's gotta blog! There but for the grace of blog go I! Stop me now.

In short, the better part of my mind feels the awkwardness of finding ready words to write to you. I am conscious that my first choices are often just the easy phrases that come to mind, the result of constant exposure to language that sells, entertains, intimidates, misinforms, but only rarely speaks from the heart. Isn't it a sacred thing to be able to pass on our secrets and give love through words? Isn't it a wonder that we can share the mystery of how we came to be here and how we ever became able to think and speak? Even more, we can think about thought itself and speak about words...

So when you write your blog, remember: the literary rubbish probably floats to the top, so just wait a minute and bash your head against the desk to knock some of it out. Then listen to your heart. That's where the truest words are kept.

This is my introductory post, so I shall be less self-conscious next time. Don't worry, my capacity to appal through words will be unimpaired. But I can say that other posts will definitely be shorter! Most of all, I will do my best to heed my own advice. Anything else would be...NO PUN AT ALL! Hooray!!!