I Won't Send Roses

I thought I was pretty familar with the American songbook, but I heard a great Jerry Herman number which was completely new to me, on the radio this morning.

I won't send roses
Or hold the door
I won't remember
Which dress you wore
My heart is too much in control
The lack of romance in my soul
Will turn you grey, kid
So stay away, kid
Forget my shoulder
When you're in need
Forgetting birthdays
Is guaranteed
And should I love you, you would be
The last to know
I won't send roses
And roses suit you so

My pace is frantic
My temper's cross
With words romantic
I'm at a loss
I'd be the first one to agree
That I'm preoccupied with me
And it's inbred, kid
So keep your head, kid
In me you'll find things
Like guts and nerve
But not the kind of things
That you deserve
And so while there's a fighting chance
Just turn and go
I won't send roses
And roses suit you so.

"With words romantic, I'm at a loss" is pretty weak. I suggest "I'm no romantic, at love a loss" would be an improvement, but generally that is a great lyric. I love the way that "and roses suit you so" subverts the implications of the earlier lines and changes them from bombast to melancholy yearning. It is the same technique that I noticed in Dylan's "Most of the Time" last year. I wonder if there is a technical term for it?

When sorrows come

Last week, I got sniped at the last minute bidding on ebay for a 1931 first edition of "By The Way", JB Morton's original collection as Beachcomber.

Yesterday I consulted the Evening Standard online only to discover I have missed a one-off reunion by the remaining Bonzos at the Astoria with Stephen Fry - nonchalant in a green velvet jacket - taking the late, lamented Viv Stanshall's part in an update of The Intro and the Outro. What wouldn't I have given to hear him announce, "Princess Anne on sousaphone".

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions

A Polka In The Eye

I took my five year old to the Polka Theatre over the weekend to see "A Bear Called Paddington". It is a very impressive venue for a dedicated children's theatre. Unfortunately about an hour into the show he started nudging me saying, "I want to go now, it's boring" over and over again.

I was about to come over all self righteous and tell him that he had to stay because we had bought expensive tickets, but as I realised that he had in fact woken me up to tell me he was fed up with it I had to yield.

We made our excuses and left. Better luck next time I hope.

Normal service will be resumed ..

I'm sorry about the performance problems on the site this weekend. "A Welsh Born Icon" and all of Coraider's sites are on the end of the same pipe and the load on Bumblebee Auctions - our UK Police Auction site - went through the roof when the Guardian covered it yesterday in a piece called 'Move over eBay - this is the police'.

Traffic to Bumblebee has doubled every six months since it was launched in 2002 and the next major upgrade is planned for February but we just can't cope with that sort of spike in demand from one day to another.

I think this weekend will turn out to be an inconvenience only; a problem would be if there was less traffic not more.

Wasting Away

On finishing in the gym this morning I weighed in at 85.7kg, which is exactly thirteen stone and seven pounds and means that I have shifted another half stone since November 16 and that I am still slimming down as a by product of exercising rather than consciously dieting. That must be good.

I realise that it might seem rather self absorbed to be writing about my exercise programme and its results, but I have found that a regular weblog is a great way of tracking this sort of process and maintaining motiviation.

If I do need any more inspiration and - God forbid - have to start cutting out booze and grub, the photo capturing me in my Y-fronts at a Navarra campsite in the early Eighties that Chris is threatening me with certainly shows someone who weighs a lot less than thirteen and a half stone. I wonder what that slip of a boy would have thought of the prospect of ballooning up to over fifteen stone as I did in the summer?

En Las Penas

An unexpected bonus of this blogging lark is that it really helps in maintaining contact with old brothers in arms. I was thrilled yesterday to receive a collection of scanned photos of our early Eighties Pamplona jaunt from Chris of Stuff and Nonsense.

It is a sobering thing to see how much one's appearance changes over the years, so just for the record, the boyband in the central group of the snap above consists of:

• centre - a slightly disheveled matinee idol, Nick Browne (not what I remembered)
• right - a ruggedly handsome Chris Howell (not what I remembered)
• left - a weirdy, beardy Rod McKenna (exactly as I remember).

This by a process of elimination means that the possibly vomiting figure behind my head being addressed by Rod may be John Ashton so Sean is behind the camera or vice versa. Either scenario is equally likely from what I remember of that journey into the heart of darkness.

Burns Night

I had hoped to that "eat your way around the world in London" might alight on a Scottsh restaurant last night in honour of Rabbie Burns. I had even lined up what looks like a great Scots restaurant, the Albannach, but we are hosting a user group meeting today and I felt it was better to socialize with the delegates who came up to SW19 last night.

There is always next year I suppose so it is worth blogging a link on what I have learned of the conduct of a Burns Supper.

The company are asked to stand to receive the haggis. A piper then leads the chef, carrying the haggis to the top table, while the guests accompany them with a slow handclap. The chairman or invited guest then recites Burns' famous poem To A Haggis, with great enthusiasm. When he reaches the line 'an cut you up wi' ready slight', he cuts open the haggis with a sharp knife.

It's customary for the company to applaud the speaker then stand and toast the haggis with a glass of whisky.

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

The Great Firewall of China

I don't know what to make of Google censoring itself for China, while defying the US over search data, but I've found a blog called RConversation that looks like it might be a good place to start briefing myself on some of the issues.

Here is an extract from a post last week about developments hovering somewhere between sinister and funny:

Starting today, when netizens visit all the main portals of Shenzhen city, Guangdong, they will see two cartoon figures "Jingjing" and "Chacha" (Jing Cha = Police). The image of Shenzhen Internet Police will officially be online. From now on, when netizens visit websites and web forums of Shenzhen, they will see these two cartoon police images floating on their screen. Our reporter learned that these are the images of Shenzhen Internet Police, presented by Internet Surveillance Division of Shenzhen Public Security Bureau, for the first time in China.

My name is Inigo Montoya ....

Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father: prepare to die.

This deeply wonderful review of 'A History of Swordsmanship' has got me in full swashbuckling mode. How have I lived without knowing:

Salvator Fabris’s ruthless establishment of the drawing of the sword, getting it into action readily and rapidly, as his premier postura guardia, and his deriving and defining other guards from that origin; from Nicoletto Giganti’s exposition of the Lunge, from Ridolfo Capo Ferro’s first illustration of it and their bringing posture and movement into an entirely logical “in-line” progression; from Francesco Alfieri’s refining of this; from the abandoning of the pseudo-arcane geometricized esoterica of the Spanish school; from the gradual reduction of the rapier to shorter and lighter, more manoeuvrable diamond section, then colichemarde; then hollow-ground, three-edged blade forms, and the exploitation of their potential, by Liancour, Labat and Thibault, for rotational movement from its long axis for greater and greater varieties of defence, and greater possibilities of deception and compound or composed attacking with ever more finesse, a high level of new development and knowledge had already been reached. Angelo’s function was different; his training with Gianfaldoni, and then with Teillagory (said never to have been a great fencer himself, but the finest of teachers), his extraordinary horsemanship, his enthusiastic dancing, training with Guerinière, taking lessons from Vestris of the Paris Opera, will have united to give him consummate style, in an age when style was all, and harmonized into a superior grasp and command of the realities of physique and the physicality of action. He produced his recognition of what is true, efficacious and deadly, with simplicity and clarity of expression.

Even more thrillingly, on Googling the reviewer (Philip Stafford) I found that he is on the Equity Fight Directors List, so when I win the lottery I can take lessons from hm.

En guarde!

Lang Shining

The Three Emperors exhibition at the Royal Academy was astounding. Something that especially delighted me was that many of the paintings were by the influential court painter Lang Shining. It has long been a theme of mine that cultures are deeply intertwined so it was great to discover that Lang Shining was the Chinese name of Guiseppe Castiglione (1688-1766) a Jesuit.

His painting The Qianlong Emperor in Ceremonial Armour on Horseback is on the left (you can see a larger version if you click on it). The characters on his helmet are in Sanskrit, liturgical language of Hinduism and Buddhism. Wheels within wheels within prayer wheels.

A light cool room away from the thrust and bustle of the main exhibition is devoted to the painting and calligraphy of the literati. This is primarily monochrome work produced by artists who prided themselves on their indendence and amatuer status. It is very tranquil and beautiful work that looked very similar to some Japanese styles to me. It is certainly an area I would like to discover more about.

So, fingers crossed, I've moved my understanding a little beyond "The Water Margin", but - for old times' sakes - once more with feeling, can I hear Burt Kwouk?

The ancient sages said, "do not despise the snake for having no horns, for who is to say it will not become a dragon?".

So may one just man become an army.

Nearly a thousand years ago in ancient China, at the time of the Sung dynasty, there was a cruel and corrupt government.

These men riding are outlaws - heroes - who have been driven to live in the Water Margins of Liang Shan Po, far to the south of the capital city. Each fights tyranny with a price on his head, in a world very different from our own. The story starts in legend even then - for our heroes, it was said, were perhaps the souls reborn of other, earlier knights...

Harrison Bergeron

Sports Minister Ruth Kelly today promised that teams would not be allowed to select players by footballing ability.

In a bid to reassure critics of the sports white paper, Ms Kelly said selection would be against the law.

She insisted the code on transfers would be statutory.

Asked if selection by ability would be against the law, Ms Kelly replied: "Absolutely full stop against the law. I can give you a categorical assurance that that’s the case."

Ms Kelly told BBC Radio Four’s Today programme she was confident Labour opponents could be brought on board.

Ms Kelly said independence for clubs meant giving them “the freedom to succeed”.

She said they could manage their own assets and employ their own staff and have more freedom over tactics.

Ms Kelly denied the Government would have to rely on Tory support to get the plans through the Commons. She said the Tories had adopted a “common sense” position which was very close to the Government.

Shadow sports minister David Willetts said people had lost sight of the fact there could be selection within clubs.

He said an increase in setting would mean players could be coached with others of similar ability without large-scale transfers between clubs.

“We think that is a good practical way of raising the quality of football,” he told BBC Radio Four’s Today programme.

Find and replace is a wonderful tool in a word processor don't you think? Do you remember this Kurt Vonnegut story from over forty years ago?

THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.

Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April, for instance,
still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.

It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.

Read on.

The Three Emperors

This afternoon I am off to "China: The Three Emperors, 1662—1795", the exhibition at the Royal Academy devoted to the artistic and cultural riches of Imperial China. I wish I could say that I was going because of the Chinese New Year next weekend, but in fact I am going because I was talking to Hugh about it at Bondy's party before Christmas and he suggested that we put a date in our diaries.

I wish I was more organised about this sort of thing in London. I finally listened to my CD's of Persian Fire that last time that I drove down to Cardiff and back, which caused me to regret missing 'Forgotten Empire - the World of Ancient Persia' at the British Museum. Any extra knowledge of the huge contribution of Persia to the culture of the world would be a balm during the current tension with Iran.

Even more ridiculously, back in 2004 I went to the Rubens exhibition at the Palais des Beaux-Arts when we were in Lille after I read about it in the Spectator, but still couldn't manage to drag myself along to Rubens: A Master in the Making in the National Gallery which is only a tube journey away. I particularly regret that - if regret is an appropriate word for such a pathetic failure do get up off my backside - because one painting in Lille, an Adoration of the Magi, was the first one that I ever saw that made me think that I could spend tens of hours looking at it seeing new things all the time from how the paint was applied to the detail of the costume and what that tells us of the time.

Film Watch

I can't help but wonder if anyone will go and see 'A Cock and Bull Story' under the impression that it is the heralded gay cowboy movie.

Sir Tom Jones: Welsh Icon

Patient: Doctor, I can't sleep. Everytime I lay on my left I hear 'The Green Green Grass of Home,' and when I lay on my right, I hear 'Delilah.'

Doctor: I'm afraid you have a case of Tom Jones Fever.

Patient: Tom Jones Fever? Is that common?

Doctor: It's not unusual.

I'm brooding about Welshness, because I need a bone to gnaw in the run up to Wales' away game (as reigning Grand Slam champions) against England in a couple of weeks. In this fragile state, just about the last thing that I need to read is the headline "Welsh icons? They're all foreigners" on a site describing itself as the 'The National Website of Wales".

The provisional gloss that I have decided to put on this challenge for the time being is that the modern Welsh are in essence an aspirational, non-exclusive ethnic group, membership of which is open to anyone supporting fifteen men in red when they run out at Twickenham on Feb 4, and a superset of the honoured speakers of the Brythonic branch of Celtic spoken natively in the western part of Britain known as Cymru, and in the Chubut Valley, a Welsh immigrant colony in the Patagonia region of Argentina.

While There's A Spotlight

I went to see the stage show of The Producers last night (rather than eating my way around the world in London) after Paul stumbled across the Get Into London Theatre 2006 campaign that is making cheaper seats available for a whole range of productions up until the end of March.

The Producers is a great musical - you don't need another review from me - and I was amazed at Mel Brooks facility with show tunes. The songs reminded me that in the days when I used to noodle around on the piano I wrote a lot of fragments in a sort of Broadway style that I was idly assembling into "While There's a Spotlight", the cheesiest musical in the history of the world. Unfortunatley, as I'm not really a trained musician and this sort of stuff is a lot more harmonically sophisticated than songs that you can capture with a melody line and a chord progression I've never managed to get any of it down on paper.

When Ouriel left a comment on this blog about transcriptions I started to wonder whether software mightn't help me with the problem and emailed him to ask, he replied:

The best tool for music transcription is a software called FINALE.
If i am not wrong you can do it indeed directly from an electronic keyboard or midi file

http://www.finalemusic.com/

you also have SIBELIUS
http://www.sibelius.com/cgi-bin/home/home.pl.

So I think I will have a go with that if and when I get my gear hooked up again. It would be odd to have transcriptions of things I wrote that I was not really able, fluently to read.

In the meantime - to whet your appetite - here is the chorus of the song in my imaginary musical that the apparently jaded veteran with a heart of gold (details to be confirmed) sings to the discouraged ingenue (details to be confirmed) to persuade her not to give up on her dreams.

I know that the sun won't catch you crying
I know though the moon just broke your heart
While the stars are all spotlights shining for you
Let's make a brand new start

Break a leg.

SIXTY HORSES WEDGED IN CHIMNEY

The story to fit this sensational headline has not turned up yet.

I apologise but a favourable comment on my last post seems to have induced a postprandial Beachcomber reverie.

............. I think I hear a boiled egg calling to its young.

Justice Cocklecarrot Presiding

Our legal correspondent has brought a curious case to my attention.

Kevin Reeves, 40, was jailed for 15 months and ordered to pay £2,000 compensation after accepting £20,000 from a friend so depressed that she asked him to find a hitman to murder her. He even offered to do it himself, but got no further than pocketing the money.
.......
Judge Veronica Hammerton told Reeves: “This was a calculated deception, repeated three times. While it is clear you had no intention of arranging for someone to kill Mrs Ryder and didn’t propose to yourself, you deceived her into believing it would happen. It resulted in a substantial sum being paid to you; none of the money was repaid. In all the circumstances, these offences are so serious that a custodial sentence is unavoidable.” She ordered Reeves to hand over as compensation the £2,000 he had saved up to repay Mrs Ryder.

It does my heart good to find the spirit of Justice Cocklecarrot alive and well in the criminal justice system, and as I haven't quoted the immortal Beachcomber ("justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be believed") since last April, here is some more for your edification:

Mr Justice Cocklecarrot began the hearing of a very curious case yesterday. A Mrs Tasker is accused of continually ringing the doorbell of a Mrs Renton, and then, when the door is opened, pushing a dozen red-bearded dwarfs into the hall and leaving them there.

An expert witness is called...

Mr Bastin Hermitage (for the defence): Now, Dr Spunton, is there, to your knowledge, any disease which would account for Mrs Tasker's strange habits?
Dr Spunton: There is. It is called rufo-nanitis. The spymptoms-
Mr Hermitage: Symptoms.
Dr Spunton: Yes, spymptoms, but I always put a 'p' before a 'y'.
Cocklecarrot: With what object, might we ask?
Dr Spunton: I can't help it, m'lud.
Cocklecarrot: Do you say pyesterday?
Dr Spunton: Pyes, unfortunatelpy. It's hereditarpy. Mpy familpy all do it.
Cocklecarrot: But why 'p'?
Dr Spunton: No, py, m'lud.

Later

The court had to be cleared owing to the roars of ribald laughter which greeted the appearance in the witness-box of the twelve red-bearded dwarfs all in a heap. Their names were read out amid growing uproar. The names appeared to be: Sophus Barkayo-Tong, Amaninter Axling, Farjole Merrybody, Guttergorm Guttergormpton, Badly Oronparser, Churm Rincewind, Cleveland Zackhouse, Molonay Tubilderborst, Edeledel Edel, Scorpion de Rooftrouser, Listenis Youghaupt, Frums Gillygottle.

Cocklecarrot: Are these genuine names?
A Dwarf: No, m'worship.
Cocklecarrot: Then what's your name?
Dwarf: Bogus, m'ludship.
Cocklecarrot: No, your real name.
Dwarf: My real name is Bogus, your excellency.

(At this point the court had to be cleared)

Sublime or Ridiculous?

More - via the heartbreaking yet invaluable Sudan Watch - on the strange, new ubiquity of blogs.

Jan 14, 2006 (NAIROBI) — The leaders of the main rebel movement in Sudan’s Darfur region were once brothers in arms. But last year, the two powerful men had a falling out, and each proclaimed he was the rightful president of the Sudanese Liberation Army. Things got ugly.
But not a single shot was fired. Instead, the feuding insurgents battled as bloggers over the Internet.
"I got his e-mails and read those bitter diaries," said Mohamed al-Nur, a founder of the rebel group, at a conference held here late last year by the United States to try to bring the two sides together.
"That’s the only place we hear from you — on that Internet!" hooted Saif Haroun, a spokesman for Minni Arko Minnawi, the newly proclaimed leader. "You run your rebellion from a computer?"

You can read the whole article from the Sudan Tribune here.

I used my dog's shampoo

Something that I heard on the BBC World Service about Finland's current elections lodged in my mind, especially after yesterday's discovery that practically everyone is blogging.

It seems that with exception of President Tarja Halonen all of the seven other candidates have been writing their own weblogs.

In particular, Prime Minister Matti Vanhanen appears to be some sort of Pooterish comedy genius read by 20,000 to 30,000 people each day.

"I broke my glasses last night," he wrote recently.

"While I was watching television I noticed that my vision in one eye had deteriorated. I rubbed my eye, but nothing happened. I thought it must be due to fatigue. But I realized what it was when my finger went right through the frame of my eyeglasses. I've ordered new glasses for next week."

He even provided his cell phone number so readers could let him know whether he should get bold or discreet frames.

Another day he wrote: "I didn't go skiing. I took a nap instead. To get some exercise I shoveled snow."

And yet another entry: "This morning in the shower, still half-asleep, I used my dog's shampoo. It smelled strange."

It is almost as if he is channelling Viv Stanshall from the great beyond. I would vote for him in a heartbeat. His website is at http://www.mattivanhanen.net/ but my Finnish is not even up to the modest task of understanding if that is the weblog or not.

Blogs to right of them, blogs to left of them

I put a comment on Professor Deborah Lipstadt's weblog this morning that referred in turn to my post about her interview with the BBC and was pleased and surprised to receive a gracious acknowledgement from her by email. What an extraordinay medium the weblog is, the more I work with it the more conversational it seems to become.

When I posted about David Irving this morning I had no idea that Nick Grifffin of the BNP was due to go on trial today on race hate charges arising from a 2004 undercover documentary. (Nick Griffin and co-defendant Mark Collett - just like everyone in the world these days it seems are also putting their case via Blogger.)

I predict that this trial will turn out to be an even more egregious example than Irving's of Lipstadt's warning that "we should not allow them to become martyrs".

I bet that part of Griffin's defence will be that what he said has been proved by the London bombings of 7/7 to be true. Imagine how inflammatory that is going to be.

More and more I am convinced that all this hate crime legislation is counter productive. Consider the recent interview by the police of Sir Iqbal Sacranie with regard to homophobia.

Such proceedings encourage rather than alleviate tension.