Thirst for beer

ARCHY INTERVIEWS A PHARAOH

By Don Marquis
From “archy and mehitabel,” 1927

boss i went
and interviewed the mummy
of the egyptian pharaoh
in the metropolitan museum
as you bade me to do

what ho
my regal leatherface
says i

greetings
little scatter footed
scarab
says he

kingly has been
says i
what was your ambition
when you had any

insignificant
and journalistic insect
says the royal crackling
in my tender prime
i was too dignified
to have anything as vulgar
as ambition
the ra ra boys
in the seti set
were too haughty
to be ambitious
we used to spend our time
feeding the ibises
and ordering
pyramids sent home to try on
but if i had my life
to live over again
i would give dignity
the regal razz
and hire myself out
to work in a brewery

old tan and tarry
says i
i detect in your speech
the overtones
of melancholy

yes i am sad
says the majestic mackerel
i am as sad
as the song
of a soudanese jackal
who is wailing for the blood red
moon he cannot reach and rip

on what are you brooding
with such a wistful
wishfulness
there in the silences
confide in me
my perial pretzel
says i

i brood on beer
my scampering whiffle snoot
on beer says he

my sympathies
are with your royal
dryness says i

my little pest
says he
you must be respectful
in the presence
of a mighty desolation
little archy
forty centuries of thirst
look down upon you

oh by isis
and by osiris
says the princely raisin
and by pish and phthush and phthah
by the sacred book perembru
and all the gods
that rule from the upper
cataract of the nile
to the delta of the duodenum
i am dry
i am as dry
as the next morning mouth
of a dissipated desert
as dry as the hoofs
of the camels of timbuctoo
little fussy face
i am as dry as the heart
of a sand storm
at high noon in hell
i have been lying here
and there
for four thousand years
with silicon in my esophagus
as gravel in my gizzard
thinking
thinking
thinking
of beer

divine drouth
says i
imperial fritter
continue to think
there is no law against
that in this country
old salt codfish
if you keep quiet about it
not yet

what country is this
asks the poor prune

my reverend juicelessness
this is a beerless country
says i

well well said the royal
desiccation
my political opponents back home
always maintained
that i would wind up in hell
and it seems they had the right dope

and with these hopeless words
the unfortunate residuum
gave a great cough of despair
and turned to dust and debris
right in my face
it being the only time
i ever actually saw anybody
put the cough
into sarcophagus

dear boss as i scurry about
i hear of a great many
tragedies in our midsts
personally i yearn
for some dear friend to pass over
and leave to me
a boot legacy
yours for the second coming
of gambrinus

archy

In the Author's Footsteps - by Adam Thorpe

David's hobby was a statement, of course; Gillian knew that. If anyone asked, Gillian would say he was a hiker, that hiking was his hobby. Really, what she wanted to say was that he was an awkward sod. 

Neither of them had ever had an affair. Their marriage, to outsiders, was rock-solid. They'd both spent their lives in adult education and Gillian was a lay preacher. Devout ecologists, they knew their birds. But if David's hobby got much worse, Gillian would have to up sticks. Or, with a bit of luck, he might get properly arrested and put away for a bit, instead of being cautioned, just an embarrassment in some local rag. That would shock him out of it.

The rot started, to Gillian's mind, when David took early retirement once the kids had flown. Ludlow was too quiet, after Bracknell. Lives of quiet desperation, as Pink Floyd had put it. Gillian played a lot of her ancient, vinyl numbers while David pored over old maps in the kitchen. She wondered how she had ended up like this. Distance Learning for the Open University. No colleagues. Rain spattering the picture window and David becoming an awkward sod. She had even started smoking again, and David had banned her to the garden. One morning there was a tussle, and Gillian threw one of those books at him. It missed, but landed with a splat and a few of the pages flew out and David smacked her across the face. Or would have done, if she hadn't ducked. 

Everything at sixes and sevens, as her mother would say. 

"Why can't you just hike normally, like everyone else?" she'd asked him, one day, when he was strapping on his horrible little snot-green knapsack with those chocolate stains, bound for Telford. 

"I am hiking normally. It's the world that isn't normal," he replied. 

"Change is totally normal," she said. "Look at us." 

"I can choose to live the life I want, Gillian," he said. 

"Well, at this rate you'll live it without me, soon." 

The climax came when he brought back yet another one of those books. He'd got enough of them, now, to cram three shelves. There were a couple of local second-hand bookshops nearby: one was neat and expensive with an ex-stockbroker behind the desk, the other chaotic and cheap with Mike and his unwashed beard staring at you from the shadows. If you were prepared to spend a whole morning truffling under his gaze, the cheap one could yield some treasures. Today it had yielded David's type of treasure. 

He waved it under Gillian's nose, ever so pleased with himself. She could smell the shop off his cagoule: pipe-smoke and bodily decay. 

"Found it," he said. "At last." 

"Don't tell me. The Himalayan Trail, 1914. Maybe I'll get rid of you for a few months and then you'll fall down some post-1914 crevasse." 

"Do you have to smoke in the kitchen?" 

"Bloody hell, David, you don't mind filling your lungs with it in the bookshop, do you?" 

He sat down, opening the book. 

"Wonderful," he murmured. "This is the crown jewel." 

"Looks just like all the others. Old and sad." 

"Buckinghamshire Footpaths by JHB Peel, published 1949." 

"Exactly. Just like all the others. Walking in Warwickshire, London's Countryside, See England First ..." 

He took out a reddish leaf that someone had pressed between the pages. 

"Fifty years old, this could be. Wych elm. Look. Tragic." 

It crumbled in his fingers like dried tobacco. 

"David, that's the last damn book or it's divorce." 

"I could say the same about your cigarette." 

She hesitated. She felt the smoke in her chest. 

"Alright. We'll do a deal. Fags versus those books." 

He looked at her over his glasses for a moment, then at the book open in front of him. 

"OK," he said. "I don't need any more. This is the ne plus ultra, this is." 

"Why?" 

"Listen." 

He put a bit more distance between the book and his glasses (another sign of age) and read. 

"Milton Keynes is a homely place. Fields encroach upon the dusty by-lane, and brim over the scattered cottages. There is nothing here of the conventional beauty spot, for indeed no one seems to have heard of the place, save the handful of its inhabitants; and these think so well of it they rarely leave it. I have known and loved Milton Keynes since I was a boy, but at no time in my legion pilgrimages thither have I met a stranger. The church at Milton Keynes, which is among the finest ..." 

"I think you've made your point. You're not going to do your thing at Milton Keynes, are you?" 

"Of course. A circular walk from Newport Pagnell via Milton Keynes, Woughton and the - I quote - 'delightful hamlets' of Little Woolstone and Willen, with a detour to Bradwell Abbey and then on to Great Linford, with its single-branch railway back to Newport Pagnell. In the author's footsteps." 

"Oh dear." 

"It's England," he said. "I've every right. Listen. The church is approached through a line of small trees, having a farm that reaches to the church wall itself, so that cows sometimes browse upon the backs of unsuspecting worshippers who have stopped to discuss the result of the Crimean War, or whatever else passes for news in this most blessed haven of pristine sanity." 

"Then you won't be wanted there, dearest. If it's a haven of sanity." 

David smiled. 

"The cows are concrete cows now, aren't they?" 

He almost made it to the end, too; he was only arrested while trying to enter the grounds of the Gyosei Japanese boarding school in Willen. 

"Willen is unspoiled because it is unknown," he shouted, waving the book about. "The cottages here wear an air of permanence; the oaks have a great girth; and old men are hale." 

The policemen had received about 100 calls relating to this bloke with his tatty green rucksack, and hauled him unceremoniously across the cycle way to the van. The fun had started when he'd crossed the M1 near Junction 14, where Mr Peel had admired the view of "innumerable drowsy villages cupped within the trees". A lorry had swerved onto the hard shoulder because David liked to think of the M1 as a phantom. He was surprised - disappointed, even - to find the village of Milton Keynes intact. The photographs of Milton Keynes in the book, showing thatched cottages humped like natural grass mounds off a dusty lane, with a church tower in the distance beyond grand elms, had nothing much to do with the clipped suburban verges and lawson cypresses of the present incarnation, but at least it wasn't under a Tesco storage depot as that ancient wood had been on the last hike.

"At the inn you will strike a footpath south-west to Woughton-on-the-Green." 

Days over old maps had established this footpath, as well as the inn. He crossed a few executive gardens and ended up inside the Asda superstore, where the route went up the Prepared Meals aisle. With the help of a compass, he followed the path with its primroses and snowdrops under oaks and elms (it was early spring) through the Chilled Foods section and on via a goods delivery bay into Dixons, which had a special offer on Toshiba laptops. He got into a bit of trouble in Top Shop, because the footpath curved into the back area where an off-duty cashier was snogging with a deputy manager. But he wasn't arrested: when he explained what he was doing, producing the book from his knapsack, they just thought he was a daftie. 

Bradwell Abbey was in the grounds of the City Discovery Centre, and he ate his picnic in peace. He had a spot of bother when the footpath, after crossing 20 mini-roundabouts, eight Redways and a multiplex car park, wound its delightful way through several offices and the gents toilets of Mercury Communications. They thought he was one of the Albanian field workers at first, until he opened his mouth. By now, he'd been tracked by a total of 243 CCTV tilt-and-zoom cameras - a brief, shadowy figure doing odd things: he was saved only by the difficulty of someone watching all 10,000 or so tapes that were on the go at any one time in the local CCTV centre. 

Once he'd climbed his way over the sea of parked cars and reached the nearest executive estate, he was again in the realm of private householder security. An alarm rang somewhere while he was crossing a neat lawn with a whirly-brick feature in the middle, and the cops picked him up as he was scaling the wall of the Gyosei Japanese boarding school a few minutes later. 

In fact, the alarm was in the form of a member of the Milton Keynes Development Corporation, who thought he was her estranged husband come back to do her harm. He did not resist the police, he only quoted Mr Peel, but they arrested him anyway. Reports of a trespasser had come in thick and fast over the last hour. Several people had phoned the police from their mobiles when he'd climbed on their cars, which had been in the line of the footpath. He'd even been roughed up by the owner of a Mazda MX-5 convertible, and lost his bobble hat. The police had got fed up: they were sick of alternative theatre at Milton Keynes, all these arty bods down from London littering the public space with their Lottery-aided wank, high on wacky backy or whatever. So they hauled him in. 

But they decided he was a genuine nut, going on about primroses and elms and meandering, drowsy streams. 

"I just want to get to Great Lindford," he kept saying, "down the winding English lane and its high-banked bend, the fields studded with hedgerows. Look!" 

And he'd flash the book at them, which they finally confiscated. 

"Jesus," said one of the coppers, "what are you on, mate? Bang him up for the night, will you?" 

When they let him go in the morning, he was not charged. Gillian stopped smoking and got very crotchety. David went quiet for a while and watched a lot of television. Gillian was almost relieved when he came back one day with Rambles through Middlesex, published in 1929. She went straight out and bought 10 packets of Marlboro. 

"At least he's not a drunk," she murmured to herself, as he plotted the next hike with his old maps, his finger cutting clean across the slumbering hamlet of Heath Row.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day

The casual event that turns Jane Eyre towards a new future, in the book's very first line:

Rain confines Jane to the house - she takes the book to read - the fight with John - the Red Room - the apothecary's idea - Mrs Reed sends Jane to school - she becomes a teacher - the application for a post at Thornfield Hall.

The bad fight

Charlie distrusted the widespread idea that cancer should be beaten - battled - overcome. He took every care of himself and underwent his treatments cheerfully, trusting the excellent team who were caring for him; and he kept positive and hopeful, not because he thought it would shrink his cancers but because he felt better that way.

He would have hated to be memorialised as someone who had 'lost a battle'.

M. R. James in Gloucester Cathedral ...

Bishop Goldsborough of Gloucester died in 1604. The Latin inscription over his tomb looked rich in hints of treasure - 'aureus', 'pretiosa metalla' - but my Latin is not up to a full reading and I didn't have a camera.

Back home I tracked the inscription down with pleasant difficulty, and found it is some kind of pun/meditation on the Bishop's name:

IN OBITUM REVERENDI PRAESULIS GODFRIDI, QUONDAM GLOUCESTRIENSIS EPISCOPI, QUI XXVI MAII, MDCIV EX HAC VITA MIGRAVIT.
Aureus, et fulvo nomen sortitus ab auro,
Hic Goldisburgus nunc requiescit humo.
Scilicet orta solo pretiosa metalla parente,
In matrem redeunt inveterata suam.
SEDIT ANNOS SEX.

On the death of Bishop Godfrey, sometime bishop of Gloucester, who on the 26 of May, 1604 departed this life .
Gold, with golden name derived from gold,
Here Goldsborough now rests in the ground .
Assuredly, sprung from only parent precious metals,
To his mother he will always return.
He served for six years .

Royal Wedding, 1981 - When Horace rolled out the Redcar pet - By Nancy Banks-Smith

With hindsight you seem to see Princess Diana's wedding and her funeral like a double exposure. The golden coach and the gun carriage. The cheering and the weeping.

You Had To Be There (BBC 1) was devoted to the euphoria of the wedding day. Nothing increased the gaiety of the nation more than the BBC's experiment in subtitling, and this was bravely included. They had hoped to increase the enjoyment of the deaf, and I don't doubt they did.

The subtitling computer, bless it -- and I never thought to say that about a computer -- was supposed to translate Tom Fleming's florid commentary. Happily, subtitling was still in its extreme infancy. I immediately thought of the computer as Horace. Horace was the baby in Harry Hemsley's radio show whose burbling ("What did Horace say, Winnie?") was only intelligible to his little sister.

Horace's humble vocabulary of 8,000 words was hardly up to his heroic task, but you could not fault his enthusiasm. "Heer the seen!"he cried. "What a po No plee of colour!" At the BBC's subtitling department Isla Beard "knew something was going wrong from the indrawn breath of the rest of the team".

Horace plunged on, boldly going where no subtitling computer had been before. Like a tipsy toastmaster he introduced the arrivals at the royal wedding. The Queen, sparkling with quistls, and the Dew of Edinburgh. Princess Anne, very sump with a big firll down the sid, and her then husband, Canon Lips. The Queen Mother with a cloud of S prays round her face. And udder members of the royal fasmli.

By now the Prince of Wales had ascended the Redcar pet. When Horace caught sight of Lady Dja ana he lost all power of coherent speech. She foamed out of the class coach in hundreds of jarts of veil and a gate big skirt. And didn't she just.

The bells were wringing as the happy pear drove down Fleet Street past the printers pup. With a premonitory sense of dread I felt myself pray "Dear God, don't let him try to say 'Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clements.'" Too late! Horace plunged in like a hero. "O wnjn js . . ."

I phoned this garble over to a copy taker. To this day I can remember with awe the stoic heroism of that remarkable man, and hear my own cry "Don't let them correct it!" The Guardian had something of a reputation for literals and was quite likely to choose this very day to be word-perfect.

Afterwards I got a very stiff letter from the BBC saying I had put back subtitling for the deaf 10 years, and they hoped I was happy. And, of course, I was. We all were.

Eclipse over the windmill

Friday is the usual day for volunteers to do the flour milling and any odd jobs at the Mill, and on the morning of 20 March a number of us were there to get ready for the intensive weekend of spring-cleaning, and limewashing the interior. We'd brought our eclipse-projecting kits with us - colanders, binoculars – the skies were beautifully clear, so we could make the best of the rare chance, and we captured some images, projected on the Mill wall, or reflected in a window. People passing by came up to share our vantage point at the top of the hill, and one man brought a welder's mask which we passed around, getting a direct look at the sun’s disc reduced to a thin crescent.

From the upper floors of the Mill there are views to the distant hills, and a photo from a bin floor window shows something of the strange, bleak atmosphere across York at maximum ‘darkness’; but it was surprising how bright the day remained with only a sliver of sun to light it. Birds didn’t seem to be troubled by the event and just before the maximum, a pair of sparrowhawks passed high over the sails.