So
Prince Philip is described by one of his grandsons as "wandering around like a fish" on the same day the tha Government decide that Fish Husbandry in schools isn't even worth a GCSE.
Who planned that?
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Sunday, 29 January 2012
Living in the '80s?
Are we?
We've just had David Attenborough yet again on Desert Island Discs
The Muppets are back
Adrian Mole is enjoying a renaissance
We have again got a stupid Tory, Eurosceptic government who don't listen to people
The Falklands are in the news
Iron Lady horror movie
... and we watched Gregory's Girl last night...
We've just had David Attenborough yet again on Desert Island Discs
The Muppets are back
Adrian Mole is enjoying a renaissance
We have again got a stupid Tory, Eurosceptic government who don't listen to people
The Falklands are in the news
Iron Lady horror movie
... and we watched Gregory's Girl last night...
Saturday, 28 January 2012
Poem of the Week
Rhapsody on a Windy Night
T.S. Eliot
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
The last twist of the knife.
T.S. Eliot
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
The last twist of the knife.
Rejection
Famously, the British Museum used to have a form letter, which they would use to reply to many of the enquiries and questions they would receive each year about the collections, ancient history, culture so forth. It read something like:
I've now come across a more up-to-date equivalent for our modern world. It reads:
I regret to inform you that your letter has not been selected for reply.Note the subtle paradox of a response telling the member of the public that this is just what he or she is not going to get.
I've now come across a more up-to-date equivalent for our modern world. It reads:
I could find no compelling purpose in answering your email.Plus ça change...
Thursday, 26 January 2012
Subway
...And according to the news this morning, the World's largest fast food chain (by number of stores) is opening 600 new outlets in the UK and Ireland. Lots more Subway...
Laverne Back
So 10 O-Clock Live is back in a couple of weeks. WIll they have found out what to do with Lauren Laverne by then?
Gates
Bill Gates on R4 Today this morning sounded almost reasonable for long periods of time.
Eg taxes need to increase, and the taxes of the wealthy need to go up more than those of others. We shouldn't penalise the poorer off.
Well!
Eg taxes need to increase, and the taxes of the wealthy need to go up more than those of others. We shouldn't penalise the poorer off.
Well!
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