My teacher says Guy was a terrorist – and
The Government practised rendition back then.
Is it true that this is a protestantfest?
No. (And please don’t breathe the smoke, dear.)
My mate and his dad made this really cool Guy,
To burn at the stake on November the fifth.
So can we have one of our own next year?
No. (And please don’t breathe the smoke, dear.)
Fantasticks
by Nicholas Breton
(c1554-1626)
The Second in a series from a long forgotten book. November just to cheer you.
Breton’s words chronicle the change of seasons
November
It is now November, and according to the old Proverbe, Let the Thresher take his flayle, and the ship no more sayle: for the high winds and the rough seas will try the ribs of the Shippe, and the hearts of the Sailers. Now come the Countrey people all wet to the Market, and the toyling Carriers are pittifully moyled. The young Herne and the Shoulerd are now fat for the great Feast, & the Woodcocke begins to make toward the Cockeshoot. The Warriners now begin to plie their harvest, and the Butcher, after a good bargaine drinks a health to the Grasier. The Cooke and the Comfitmaker make ready for Christmas, & the Minstrels in the Countrey beat their boyes for false fingring. Schollers before breakfast have a cold stomacke to their bookes, and a Master without Art is fit for an A.B.C. A red herring and a cup of Sacke, make warre in a weake stomacke, and the poore mans fast is better than the Gluttons surfet. Trenchers and dishes are now necessary servants, and a locke to the Cupboord keepes a bit for a neede. Now beginnes the Goshauke to weede the wood of the Phesant, and the Mallard loves not to heare the belles of the Faulcon: the Winds now are cold, and the Ayre chill, and the poore die through want of Charitie. Butter and Cheese beginne to rayse their prices, and Kitchen stuffe is a commoditie, that every man is not acquainted with. In summe, with a conceit of the chilling cold of it, I thus conclude in it: I hold it the discomfort of Nature, and Reason patience.
Farewell.
Sometimes headlines catch the eye for their sheer incongruity. I mean, what are the qualities usually associated with the Church of Scotland (anecdotally, at least)? Thrift and ascetism perhaps – the antonyms for luxury and lavish living. Then today, there it was:
Scots Hotel: Why the Church of Scotland has a Galilee getaway
On the waterfront at Tiberias no less, where the Sermon on the Mount was preached, stands a multi-starred hotel, created from the buildings previously used as a hospital by a mission (est. 1880), then a hospice, later a guest house.
It’s a nice story: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-20126585
My name is Fookes, Guy Fookes, the spook. 
Yes, Doubl’-O-K, so spell it right!
Licensed to kill, I am, and look!
I’m all tooled up and fit to fight.
You’ll want to know who runs my show.
A British ‘M’? A Euro-cell?
The Mossad? CIA? Er, no.
Thing is, I actually don’t know. Continue reading “‘A modern GF’ – a November pome”
Some years ago I bought Claire Tomalin’s biography of Samuel Pepys (The Unequalled Self) and have enjoyed re-reading it several times since. Ms Tomalin offers all the pleasures of academic study; every source is noted; every reference given its provenance. But she is also a lively story-teller – no dusty tome, this! And Sam was a perfect subject: not a saint but a reluctant sinner, living during England’s most troubled times – the 17thC, the Commonwealth, the Restoration; with politics, war, plague and fire; all played out in the heart of London. The book presents the context for Sam’s often gossipy, irreverent views both as a family man and a successful civil servant coping with the turbulence of his times.
And now I have bought another of Claire Tomalin’s biographies, this time Charles Dickens (A Life), which promises to be equally engrossing. Another subject whose life was spent in critical observation of his species, again centred on the capital during an interesting age.
The Conservative Chancellor of the coalition, George Osborne, has delighted the Tory Party faithful by ruling out wealth and mansion taxes. “This Party of home ownership will have no truck with it” he said. High value property owners that have never set foot in a truck breathed a sigh of relief. Mr Osborne is in charge of the purse strings of this country and he can play any melody he wants with them. This time it’s music to the ears of the wealthy.
Into the chamber enters the spectral figure that is the government’s Business Secretary, Vince Cable. This latter-day Robin Hood is promoting a petition for a fairer tax system. “I want a new ‘mansion tax’ on the most valuable properties – we propose 1% of the value of over £2million. This will be paid by the wealthiest 0.16% of property owners. If you agree, add your name to our campaign now.” This juggernaut statement struck a discord with the better off while those in the poor seats clapped approvingly. Continue reading “Homes under the Hammer”
A few moments ago while writing a comment on Mrs. Osbornes Antidote post I was struck by how much my words sounded like something I had read some time in the far past. Digging back in my various messy archives I found the source, I take no credit for the writing, or the spelling.
Fantasticks
by Nicholas Breton
(c1554-1626)
Milton elsewhere used fantastic as a noun too, meaning “someone given to showy dress”. But as a noun it could also mean “a fanciful composition”, and Fantasticks was the title chosen by Nicholas Breton (c1554-1626) for his curiously pleasing series of sketches, of hours, season and months.
It is long out of print, and several years ago Chistopher Howse of the Telegraph took the trouble to transcribe it over the period of a year. I thought it delightful and still do. Here is October, complete with its fanciful spelling.
OCTOBER
It is now October, and the lofty windes make bare the trees of their leaves, while the hogs in the Woods grow fat with the falne Acorns: the forward Deere begin to goe to rut, and the barren Doe groweth good meat: the Basket-makers now gather their rods, and the fishers lay their leapes in the deepe: the loade horses goe apace to the Mill, and the Meal-market is seldome without people: the Hare on the hill makes the Grey-hound a faire course, & the Foxe in the wood cals the Hounds to full cry: the multitude of people raiseth the price of wares, and the smoothe tongue will sell much: the Sayler now bestirreth his stumps, while the Merchant liveth in feare of the weather: the great feasts are now at hand for the City, but the poore must not beg for feare of the stockes: a fire and a paire of Cards keepe the ghests in the Ordinary, and Tobacco is held very precious for the Rhewme: The Coaches now begin to rattle in the street but the cry of the poore is unpleasing to the rich: Muffes and Cuffes are now in request, and the shuttle-Cocke with the Battel-Doore is a pretty house-exercise: Tennis and Baloune are sports of some charge, and a quicke bandy is Court-keepers commodity: dancing and fencing are now in some use, and kind hearts and true Lovers lye close, to keepe off cold: the Titmouse now keepes in the hollow tree, and the black bird sits close in the bottom of a hedge: In briefe, for the little pleasure I find in it I thus conclude of it: I hold it a Messenger of ill newes, and a second service to a cold dinner.
Farewell.
I’m surprised if anybody of my advanced years hadn’t already heard of the DJ’s disgusting practices during the ’60s and ’70s. As a family man with a Yorkshire spouse, based oop narth and inevitably aware of ‘pop’ culture, not least from my children’s conversations, I certainly knew that he had a ‘dodgy’ reputation among teenage girls. For all his much-vaunted good deeds as an unpaid porter at Leeds Infirmary, he was widely reputed to have ‘unusual’ sexual preferences. The fact that he was never nailed for them was probably due to the laissez faire attitude surrounding the whole entertainment industry at the time – and before the social media even existed to report what was really going on. It is a moot point whether the higher echelons of the BBC were aware of Savile’s activities or even considered them their business. Weird was (and still is) very good for audience ratings.
I’m reminded of this fact by Christina’s frequent anecdotes which round up all sorts of facts of every imaginable kind. Christina, you’re the Herodotus of the modern age! A strange comparison you may think, but akshully (thanks, Furry) the father of European history displayed an encyclopedic memory for both the valuable and the trivial, be it politics, geography, family life, war or mythology. He called it his ‘enquiry’, a record of his travels around the known world in the middle of the 5th century BC. “Ἡροδότου Ἁλικαρνησσέος ἱστορίης ἀπόδεξις ἥδε” – “This is a presentation of the enquiry of Herodotus of Halicarnassos”.
Soutie’s touching pome reminded me of this song from the Depression:
Boadicea's Chariot 
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