RosieBell

Housekeeping Slobs Unite

Phyllis Diller has died.  As someone who cleans the kitchen floor when my feet stick to it, I always liked her anti-housewife routines.

Housework can't kill you, but why take a chance?

Most children threaten at times to run away from home. This is the only thing that keeps some parents going.

Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing up is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.

My cooking is so bad my kids thought Thanksgiving was to commemorate Pearl Harbor.

I want my children to have all the things I couldn't afford. Then I want to move in with them.

Call your house "lived-in" when it's really "no survivors".

Poems in the Pub

Poems in the Pub is on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, 6pm - 7pm

I'm performing on Tuesday August 21st

Captain's Bar
4 South College Street
Edinburgh
EH8 9AA

Can't Not Mention the Olympics

I really enjoyed the Olympics opening ceremony.  Some people have been saying the music was Danny Boyle's music collection, which is okay by me, as his is about the same as mine. (I would take the piss out of Chariots of Fire but be respectful to Elgar and end with a rousing Pink Floyd). Some complained about the rustic scenes giving way to smoking chimneys was far too lefty (if anything it's Tory Romanticism). 

Its history was the Industrial Revolution and All That, skipping imperialism - which seems fine for a showcase pageant.  The big part of Britain's view of itself, World War II, with its library of iconic images - St Paul's above a burning London, air-raid sirens, Chamberlain's umbrella, Spitfires - could not be done when celeerating a time when the nations are competing with games, not guns. Churchill turned up for the closing ceremony, but only to quote Shakespeare - no fighting on the beaches.

My favourite part was when the winged cyclists emerged.  In the heaven that I go to the cyclists will be winged, the geekier ones explaining to each other how they find realigning the feathers and using carbon instead of titanium struts makes for a better flight.  This marvellous, surreal spectacle was set against the Beatles song I love best, Come Together.  One thing though - the Arctic Monkeys were singing it slightly off key - or so it sounded. (Here - 3 hours 5 minutes in).

Compared to:-

 

At the end of the ceremony, after the seven young athletes had been handed the torches and lit that elegant cauldron I found myself quite moved - against all expectation, as I had groaned when London got the Olympics. I regard Olympics time as a fortnight of no news except for who got bronze in the shot-put.  Other Olympics haters I know have said the same, and we've even planned to catch something at the Commonwealth games when they come to Glasgow. One of the pleasures was the accidental beauty of the athletes - the beauty of youth, supreme fitness and dedication.

Also at the end of the opening ceremony, I thought:-

One plus - there was no Morris dancing;
One minus - there was no Ray Davies doing Waterloo Sunset - how could they possibly leave that out?

Both these omissions were fixed in the closing ceremony. 

Ray Davies performed but looked as if he felt his age.  I saw him a few years ago and he was in good trim, jumping up and down on the stage. 

Morris dancing - even if done ironically - is the silliest dancing on earth.  Maori Hakas, Scottish ceilidh dancing, Bollywood - all have their points.  But there's nothing to be said for Morris dancing, except that it looks ridiculous.

Occasionally Wrong

Carol Ann Duffy does rise to her job as Poet Laureate by turning out occasional  poems, though she doesn't always rise to the occasion.  In her poem for the Olympics she sank like a Lib Dem poll; like Tony Blair's credibility; like the brotherly love in the Coalition - insert your own political metaphor. 

Enough of the soundbite abstract nouns,
austerity, policy, legacy, of tightening metaphorical belts;
we got on our real bikes,
for we are Bradley Wiggins,
               side-burned, Mod, god;
we are Sir Chris Hoy,
Laura Trott, Victoria Pendleton, Kenny, Hindes,
Clancy, Burke, Kennaugh and Geraint Thomas,
               Olympian names.

We want more cycle lanes.

               Or we saddled our steed,
or we paddled our own canoe,
or we rowed in an eight or a four or a two;
our names, Glover and Stanning; Baillie and Stott;
Adlington, Ainslie, Wilson, Murray,
               Valegro (Dujardin's horse).

(No we aren't and we didn't.  Speak for yourself.  "We" mostly sat on the sofa.)

She has received a lot of derision for it , and nowhere more than at That Place, where some commenters complained that Betjeman would have done it better, and inquired how would Larkin have done it? 

"Lamia" produced this fine pastiche, which caught the Larkin mood (glass three quarters empty and a fly drowning in the remaining liquid).

Prize-giving MMXII

by Philip Larkin

With a stern blazered smile the judge draws near,
Headmasterly, to where I loiter, bald
Bowing my head, and blinking behind my specs.
And then a velvet fumbling, a falling into place
As something heavy slithers round my neck
To hang in awkward gaudiness. A cheer,
And then the National Anthem strikes up gold.

Gold? Or something else? Stepping down slowly
From the podium to piss, I wonder
What it was all for. ‘Run for Team GB’
They said. But where does one run from here?
The crowds will quietly drift away,
The stadiums will crumble into pieces.
The asphalt lanes will gather weed and leaf.
This cycling Kraut, that weightlifting Bolivian,
That crew of sailing Japs, each year will sink
A little further into blank oblivion.

And poised between my thumb and finger
This cold token of autumnal grief.
In a bare wintry drawer it will linger,
for a while, gathering dust, unsold,
Among dead stamps and a leaflet about wine.
An old wives' charm to ward away new failure.
Something to please the nephews and the nieces.
Something to taunt those pricks in Australia.

In the Olympic bar I stand a drink
For a Danish woman and some ass from Spain.
The hot triumphant evening turns to thunder,
And somewhere out beyond the finish line
The first small medals of rain. Strange to think
We will never be so happy again.

The theme "Lamia" has taken. that no happiness endures, is in the tradition of Pindar, the poet who wrote poems to celebrate the victories of the original Olympic athletes.  Here are the last verses of his Ode to Aristomenes of Aegina, the winner of the boys' wrestling contest.  He speaks of the humiliation of the losers as well as the joy of the winners:-

Now from on high on four young bodies
You hurled your strength with fierce intent.  For them
No happy homecoming from Pytho was decreed,
As that of yours, nor at their mother's side
Could pleasant laughter ring a joyful greeting
For their return.  But shunning hostile eyes, they creep
By quiet paths, o'erwhelmed by their ill-fortune,

But he to whom is given new glory
In the rich sweetness of his youth, flies up,
Aloft, high hope fulfilled on wings of soaring valour,
In realms that brook no dullard cares of wealth,
But man's delight flowers but for a brief moment,
And no less swiftly falls to the ground again, shattered,
By destined will that may not be gainsaid.

Creatures of a day!  What is man?
What is he not? A dream of a shadow
Is our mortal being.  But when there comes to men
A gleam of splendour given of Heaven,
Then rests on them a light of glory
And blessed are their days.

(Translated by Geoffrey S Conway)

Duffy of course is entitled to write about the Government's economic policy with the fiercest anger - but a poem about the Olympics is not the best place to start, at least not in this tone - Yay Hoy! Boo Cameron! Inserting a local political message jars with the events and sounds ridiculous.  "Lamia" as Larkin and Pindar describe an event which becomes haloed with a universal theme.  

When Larkin did write an occasional poem it was for the opening of the Humber Bridge, which became part of a broader theme of isolation and joining. If he'd been in Duffy mode he would have added something about more money should be spent on cycle paths, and damned transport policy generally.

 

The winds play on it like a harp; the song,
Sharp from the east, sun-throated from the west,
Will never to one separate shire belong,
But north and south make union manifest.

Lost centuries of local lives that rose
And flowered to fall short where they began
Seem now to reassemble and unclose,
All resurrected in this single span,

 Reaching for the world, as our lives do,
As all lives do, reaching that we may give
The best of what we are and hold as true:
Always it is by bridges that we live.

The Edinburgh Festival, and my part in its success

There's a festival on in Edinburgh, and I'm contributing as follows:-

Wednesday 8th August 6pm - 7pm I am hosting Poems in the Pub in the Captain's Bar

Poems in the Pub is on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, 6pm - 7pm

I'm also performing on Tuesday August 21st

Captain's Bar
4 South College Street
Edinburgh
EH8 9AA

The Captain's Bar is also doing Burns tributes, featuring among others the engaging Allan Foster, and Andy Chung, as good a singer of Scots folk songs as you will hear.

As usual in the Festival there is much moaning about the cost of Fringe tickets, how it has lost its backstreet appeal, the big venues taking over with high priced tickets and performers paying to play.  The Fringe is corporate entertainment these days. The  Captain's Bar is definitely the fringe of the fringe, and my other gig this month goes beyond this to the anti-Fringes:-

Full Moon Club reunion
Saturday 18th August
7pm till late

The Parlour
142 Duke Street
Edinburgh

Full Moon Club was run by the late Fritz Van Helsing, and I used to help out (compereing, mostly - and carting gear about).  The format was a couple of bands, preceded by open mics.

I'll be performing solo and as part of the band FRAKtured Fingers - we had a really good gig on Fritz's memorial night, so are glad to come out again.