The homosexual flag came out of the closet…

Ever since Oxford and Cambridge Joint Board GCE English Language A made us explain “what is wrong in the following sentences?”,  I’m a fan of weird misplaced modifiers.

  • There’s a man at the door with a wooden leg called Phil. [What's his other leg called?]
  • The antique dealer put her large chest at the front of the shop.
  • The statue’s erection completed the town’s square. [Those two guaranteed to raise a laugh in any classroom.]

Not to mention the “half-Shropshire chicken” on a local pub’s lunch menu. [What's the other half of its ancestry?]

An all-time favourite, from an actual examination script:

  • Henry VIII wanted a divorce because his wife wouldn’t give him a son. So he asked the Pope, who wouldn’t give him one either.

But this one had me totally pole-axed, for more reasons than one:

Gay flag

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Filed under Irish Times,, prejudice, schools


I nearly missed this one:

Sometime between lunch and tea-time, two thousand and seventy years ago today, Caius Iulius Caesar arrived in Britain. He had intended to make landfall at Dover, but the Brits were waiting for him. Once he saw the welcoming party on the cliff tops, he headed north along the shore, and made land-fall, probably somewhere near where the town of Walmer in Kent stands today.

As many as ten thousand Roman legionaries arrived in the same flotilla. The natives Brits turned up in chariots and gave them a bit of aggro, before a truce was arranged.

Roman reinforcements, including cavalry, tried the same crossing four days later, but were beaten by the weather.The same storm damaged some of Caesar’s landing boats, so repairs had to be undertaken, under the constant threat of British attack.

Foraging parties were sent out, and reported good crops of grain — most likely oats. They also found they were kept under close observation by those British charioteers.

Wisely, once boat repairs were complete, the Roman expeditionary force returned to Boulogne.

They would be back.

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The Europa thing

My starter for ten:

In the 1975 European Referendum campaign I started out as a convinced anti. I had read the arguments by the Labour opponents and found them solid. I spoke from platforms on that basis. As the date of the poll, 5th June, came closer, so my convictions weakened to the point when — for the first and only time in my enfranchised adult life — I couldn’t bring myself even to visit the polling station. Since when I have accepted that — at least for those of us who live and work in the southern UK — the European link goes with the climate. London, after all, as close to Brussels as it is to this fine city of (old) York). And now less than a couple of hours journey from the Euston Road.

Yesterday, with morning coffee and sponge cake …

It was grey and wet, and I spent over an hour watching passing trade from the windows of Belfast’s Europa Hotel. In that time I dissected the Guardian, the Times and the Irish Times. Two opinion pieces stood out:


Both attempted to put their topic in an historical context — Ridley, who was essentially plucking books from his guilt-pile, opened with:

In almost every nation, if you go back far enough, government began as a group of thugs who, as Pope Gregory VII put it in 1081, “raised themselves up above their fellows by pride, plunder, treachery, murder — in short by every kind of crime”.

Was Canute, or William the Conqueror, or Oliver Cromwell really much different from the Islamic State? They got to the top by violence and then violently dealt with anybody who rebelled. The American writer Albert Jay Nock in 1939 observed: “The idea that the state originated to serve any kind of social purpose is completely unhistorical. It originated in conquest and confiscation — that is to say, in crime . . . No state known to history originated in any other manner, or for any other purpose.”

Heinrich_4_gBy the way, that quotation (which may be via R.W.Dyson) from Pope Gregory comes from a letter to Bishop Hermann of Metz, in March 1081, at the time when the Papacy was “having issues” over lay investiture with Heinrich IV — which may amount to control of the “single market” of its day.

Government as “violent gangs”?

Ridley’s sub-heading is pertinent:

The threat of force is implicit in law and order but a modern state should recoil at the armour on show in Missouri.

Where that leads to is the edge of terror:

The Republican senator Rand Paul commented in Time magazine that the federal government had incentivised the militarisation of local police, funding municipal governments to “build what are essentially small armies”. Evan Bernick, of the Heritage Foundation, warned last year that “the Department of Homeland Security has handed out anti-terrorism grants to cities and towns across the country, enabling them to buy armoured vehicles, guns, armour, aircraft”. The Pentagon actually donates military equipment to the police, including tanks.

We have not yet gone so far in this country. Ofsted and the Met Office — as far as I know — do not yet arm their inspectors and forecasters. But the days when the state’s monopoly on violence was merely hinted at by a policeman’s uniform are long gone. You see police with sub-machineguns everywhere, and the Met is about to purchase water cannon to keep us in order. I hope that in combating violent gangs, our governments do not themselves turn back into violent gangs.

“A swift and minor change”

Ah, yes! Boris Johnson’s illegal (because Theresa May — bless her cotton socks and leopard kitten-heels — has made clear their use is not “authorised”) water-cannon. Appropriate that Ridley drops that into a Monday when Boris Johnson was arguing for English law to adopt presumption of guilt:

At present the police are finding it very difficult to stop people from simply flying out via Germany, crossing the border, doing their ghastly jihadi tourism, and coming back. The police can and do interview the returnees, but it is hard to press charges without evidence. The law needs a swift and minor change so that there is a “rebuttable presumption” that all those visiting war areas without notifying the authorities have done so for a terrorist purpose.

A different perspective

Yet it is Kennedy’s account of things European that grabbed me.

His thesis depends from the 1957 Treaty of Rome, in which the original six nations:

Determined to lay the foundations of an ever closer union among the peoples of Europe

He emphasises that was explicitly accepted by Britain:

not just since 1973, but effectively since Macmillan’s Conservative government first applied for membership in 1961.


Some argue the “ever closer union” was merely a vague aspiration, committing the member states to nothing more than increased co-operation. But there was little vague about the objectives set at the Paris summit of October 1972 by the six founding members and the three new members – the UK, Ireland and Denmark.

All nine endorsed a transition from a common market to full economic and monetary union by the end of 1980, including, possibly, a single currency. The heads of government also committed to transforming, before the end of 1980, “the whole complex of the relations of member states into a European Union”.

Even the Iron Lady, despite her later apostasy, accepted the notion:

Global economic crises and differences among the member states meant the 1980 deadline was missed, but it was replaced in the mid-1980s by the 1992 deadline for the completion of the single (or internal) market, based on a detailed schedule of European legislation to guarantee free movement of goods, services, capital and people within the EU – a project warmly endorsed by then prime minister Margaret Thatcher. [My emphasis]

“It’s for real.”

Allow me to go beyond Kennedy’s account, to recall just how Thatcher — as late as 1988 — gushed with enthusiasm for the Single Market:

We must get this right. Too often in the past Britain has missed opportunities.

How we meet the challenge of the Single Market will be a major factor, possibly the major factor, in our competitive position in European and world markets into the twenty-first century. Getting it right needs a partnership between government and business.

The task of government is two-fold: — to negotiate in Brussels so as to get the possible results for Britain; —and then to make you, the business community, aware of the opportunities, so that you can make the most of them.

It’s your job, the job of business, to gear yourselves up to take the opportunities which a single market of nearly 320 million people will offer.

Just think for a moment what a prospect that is. A single market without barriers—visible or invisible—giving you direct and unhindered access to the purchasing power of over 300 million of the world’s wealthiest and most prosperous people.

Bigger than Japan. Bigger than the United States. On your doorstep. And with the Channel Tunnel to give you direct access to it.

It’s not a dream. It’s not a vision. It’s not some bureaucrat’s plan. It’s for real. And it’s only five years away.

Quite what she meant by Action to get rid of the barriers if not a pragmatic ever closer union defeats me.

Yet this is what the contemporary, revanchist Tories want to reverse. And, now, Cameron — who has been playing footsie for so long — finally concedes to his frothing Eurosceptics:

I do not oppose further integration within the eurozone: I think it is inevitable. Eurozone members must make those decisions. But I know the British people want no part of it, want to avoid deeper integration, and want our country properly protected from the impacts on the single market of any further integration that the eurozone undertakes.

This is not the speech of a “thinker”: it is subjective (note the proliferation of first-person singulars here, as in all Cameron speeches) and visceral. But it is not visceral conviction: it is the gut-wrenching fear of being outflanked by the UKIPpers and eurosceptics of his own party. And, as Kennedy suggests, it is dangerous nonsense:

… is the UK debate … a domestic squabble fuelled by fear of Ukip and the reluctance of the major parties to challenge Euroscepticism? Is it a dangerous bluff to frighten EU partners into concessions? If so, it could be a serious miscalculation.


This could be Cameron’s political epitaph.

  • After five years of spatchcocked coalition,
  • with austerity,
  • over the Scottish referendum,
  • with growing social division exacerbated by gross mishandling of welfare,
  • over indecisive foreign policy,
  • with repressive tendencies and cleavages growing in his own party, and now
  • with Europe —

“The great miscalculator”.

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Filed under Britain, broken society, civil rights, Conservative family values, Conservative Party policy., crime, Daily Telegraph, David Cameron, Europe, Guardian, History, Ireland, Irish Times, Northern Ireland, politics, Theresa May, Times, Tories.

“We can govern ourselves better than anyone else”

Thus Alex Salmond’s closing statement.

Well, perhaps. Let’s … well, yes, let’s hope so.

The precedent is none too promising, however.

For all the corruption that went with the closing down of “independent” Scotland in 1707, a couple of crucial facts remain.

Thirty guid poonds Scots exchanged for just one pound sterling.

The “Crown in Scotland” (i.e. the Scottish national debt) needed the English Exchequer to cough £398,085 and 10 shillings to clear the accounts. That’s covered by section XXV of the Act of Union.

That was for a total Scottish population of fewer than one million people, and at a time when eighteen [English] pence a day (that’s less than 5p) was the top daily wage for a labouring man.

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And so it began:


Pennine TalesI have good reason for liking that book (as right). I have just rescued my well-foxed paperback, from 1985, which had lurked itself between the complete run of Donna Leon‘s Brunettis and Whisky Galore. All of which must say more about my reading taste than is decent.

It is a collection of fifteen short stories, some of which first appeared in The Guardian, others were broadcast by BBC Radio, with Livings’ own voice narrating. Confession time: I pillaged a couple, at least, of the stories for classroom use.

Livings’ fictional village of Ravensgill is high in the Pennine Hills: my assumption would be to impose it upon Greenfield, near Oldham, whence the old trackway across grim Saddleworth Moor and to Summer Winey Holmfirth in South Yorkshire once ran. It’s now, officially, the A635 — though you’ll still find locals referring to it as the “Isle of Skye Road”, from a long-lost pub at the head of the Wessenden Valley.

  • What is crapulous?
  • Why is Livings so good?

Try a prime example:

Dog Race Coup

Nobody outside this village ever believes me when I tell about Harpo, people think I’ve invented him. This is not so: Harpo invented himself. On the subject of wine, for instance, he knows there are three sorts: red, pink, and white. On this basis he will give you an extended account of wine and its uses, normally ending with ‘I wouldn’t give you tuppence for champagne; cider is every bit as adequate.’ He’s an expert on everything, and a rivetting anecdotalist; I won’t spoil your meal, but his account of being taken short leaping a low wall in pursuit of the 183 bus, told with a semaphore of mime worthy of Marceau, and ending with the conductor remarking, ‘My word, you’ll have to get off this bus if anyone else wants to come on,’ is a cherished classic.

Take the matter of his dog, Benji. ‘It’s definitely a Basenji,’ he said, walking round the Co-op freezer with the animal sticking its nose into everything, ‘ancient Egyptian hunting dog; I’ve seen a picture in a dog book, same curved tail; that’s why we called it Benji, after the ancient Egyptian dog breed. Fastest dog in Ravensgill, even though it’s had a broken leg.’

Why do we rise to such things? Why challenge obvious balderdash? Why not just let him rattle on? He’s entertaining, original, a lunatic. How in the world would anyone get a Basenji out of the Dog’s Home? Come to think of it, how come Harpo got his dog free when everyone else has to pay £7? Imponderables.

‘Do me a favour,’ I said, ‘mine’s a damn lurcher; that thing wouldn’t have a chance. Get off.’ (Benji was licking the butter packs and I was after buying some.)

‘I’ll definitely challenge any dog against mine,’ he said.

‘Get that stinking pooch out of here,’ said Mr Bacon.

‘D’you mind,’ sajd Harpo, ‘that’s no pooch, it’s a Basenji.’

The word got about. A small committee was formed, rules framed. No reference was made to broken legs, but it was to be for mongrels only (Harpo was wounded, but confident, after this slur), the length of the football pitch, and started with a shotgun blank by the landlord of the Tinker and Budget, entrance fee ten shillings. (We’re waiting for the older end to die off before we introduce metrication.) The book was to be held by Nipper Schofield, well experienced in illegal book-making at bowls matches, known absconder. Once, when he was really in trouble, he phoned up the landlord of the other pub, the Shanter, from the kiosk outside, and stuck a pencil in his mouth, on a Sunday, mark.

‘Peeppeeppeep … Hallo? This is Mr Schofield’s bank manager; he tells me he’s cashed a cheque with you; he’s asked me to tell you not to bother presenting it, he’ll come in and settle it Monday.’

Another imponderable: what were we doing putting money into his hands? I suppose to a certain extent we relish the consistency of his depradations. Be it understood that no money was to change hands on the bets till after the race, but nevertheless. Everybody paid their entrance fee, except Harpo.

Blatantly furtive training sessions began; you could hardly go into the playing fields without someone speedily and casually pocketing a pigeon-watch or elaborately not looking at his digital as he threw a stick for a scampering ragmop. The women were the most obsessive: Mrs Hirst, fifteen stone and a compulsive nibbler who didn’t like to leave the dog out, had a good half stone off her Labrador/Alsatian by switching from chocolate digestive biscuits to dogchews for its between-meals snacks, and throwing its ball down a banking for half an hour every day; she promised it verbally a biscuit if it won, but its eyes grew more desperate by the day and it had to go on Valium after the race.

Then there’s Marrie, who’s been going to obedience classes for four years. ‘He’s all right when there’s other dogs, it’s when you get him on his own he goes mutton-headed.’ I saw her in a back lane; she’d devised a scheme whereby she was at one end of the course and her husband at the other, so that, when loosed, Duke had a quick decision to make as to which of its owners it was going to run away from.

In my opinion, my Bounty was the strongest entry, on the grounds of obedience: she comes to me when I call, and of course she was bred mostly for speed anyway. Early morning I sat her on the touchline, told her to stay, walked to the other end, called, and she ran to me. Nine seconds. Not world class, but good enough for the mutts of Ravensgill I thought, in my pride. The dog gave evidence that it thought I’d gone potty: where were the rabbits if it was required to run? On the fourth morning it lay down and yawned on the touchline, so I knocked off the training.

11.30 am. The football field. A prize of £9.50 (Harpo still hasn’t paid). Starter and finishing judge in position. Nineteen dogs, from terrier-style to lolloping Labrador crosses (there’s a large black dog on the estate that’s always first on a bitch’s doorstep). Every knuckle white. Maybe thirty spectators. Nipper in his dad’s velour trilby, bawling the odds. No Harpo, no Benji.

He’s chickened out. He’ll be watching from behind the curtains at his Auntie Alice’s. We shan’t see him for weeks, until he thinks we’ve forgotten. It was like this when he was telling us about his skill at unarmed combat and then we found out that the husband of one of his paramours, a karate enthusiast from Ashton, was standing in the other bar.

11.45 Harpo comes, pale from Saturday, the dog on a brand new lead, steadily the length of the pitch, daughter Linda beside him, clearly wishing herself elsewhere, cheeks aflame. A crossword fanatic, he was delighted to find that ‘crapulous’ means poorly through the effects of drink. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen,’ he will say at a Sunday morning bowls match, ‘I’m feeling a little crapulous today.’

‘Benji’s been sick,’ he tells us by way of excuse, ‘I told him he was in a race, and I had to wait while he was sick on the way down.’

He takes the lead off Benji, and Linda holds the animal among the competitors, by now strung like banjos. ‘Come on, Benji,’ he says, ‘c’mon boy.’

Finishers set off for the other touchline.

‘C’mon Benji, c’mon.’

‘Shut it, Harpo, you drive us mad when you’re not here, and you drive us mad when you’re here.’

‘It’s my method, Henry. C’mon Benji!’

Finishers all in place, handlers in place, judge signals with white hankie, starter raises the shotgun. You can almost hear false teeth being tested to destruction. ‘BOCK!’ and they’re off.

Twenty throats roar for their dogs, women screaming with unpent fury, urging the animals. Marrie’s scheme falls to pieces at once: Duke runs away from the both of them, and is found at home later, staring with punished eyes from under the hen hut. Mrs Hirst’s pudding dog leads the pack with joyous yelps, its mind mayhap on chocolate digestive biscuits. Benji well up and going strongly. Where the devil’s Bounty? Good grief, she’s run straight to the starter and sits, eager, ears up, bright and ready to be waved on to the rabbit. What did I have in my head to think I could call her in all this din? My wife dashes across to wave her on, frenzied, and the dog sets off, a blur of speed after the others. Can she make it through the pack?

They’re bunching, and then bundling as the pudding dog wheels back, eager to be among its friends, Mrs Hirst’s imprecations rising above the clamour like exploding rockets. Benji is through and over the line, passes Harpo at an easy gallop, across the road, and into the Tinker and Budget, it being opening time.

For the record, would Harpo’s bet — not having paid his ten shilling dibs to the bookie — be (a) fungible?

Ahem! Let us refer to John Erskine’s An institute of the law of Scotland (1773):

Hence those things only can be the subject of mutuum, which consists pondere, numero, et mensura ; which may be estimated generically by weight, number, and measure; otherwise called fungibles, quæ jvnctionem recipiunt. By this description, pictures, horses, jewels, are not fungibles; for as their values differ in almost every individual, each must be rated by itself: But grain and coin are fungibles; because one guinea, or one bushel or boll of sufficient merchantable wheat, precisely supplies the place of another. It is true, that some subjects which are not of their nature fungible, are converted into fungibles, or held for such, in the contract of steelbow, explained supr. B. 2 T. 6. § 12.; which is undoubtedly a species of mutuum, the property of the steelbow goods being thereby transferred to the tenant; and yet those goods consist frequently, not only of corns, and other fungibles, but of horses, cows, and most of the implements of tillage. But the reason of this specialty is obvious. It would be a most unequal bargain for the landlord, if the tenant should have it in his power to discharge his obligation to him by the redelivery of the steelbow horses, carts, &c. after they had, by a use of perhaps a dozen or twenty years, been rendered quite unfit for service.

The estimable Mr John Rentoul, c/o The Independent, will doubtless explicate.

And in the future, we may look at that other useful term from Scottish law, a wad set:

A right, by which lands, or other heritable subjects, are impignorated by the proprietor to his creditor in security of his debt; and,like other heritable rights, is perfected by seisin.

Which amounts to a mortgage. But impigniorated … ? Sounds like something involving bodily fluids and done to sows.

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Filed under Independent, John Rentoul, Law, Literature, Oxford English Dictionary, reading

Travel on, through leaves and over bridges of time

Paul ClaytonDone laid around, done stayed around
This old town too long;
Summer’s almost gone, winter’s coming on.

Where he got it from is anybody’s business, but Paul Clayton slapped his copyright on it. There’s a long, long story in how the song came to be, narrated in glorious and excruciating detail by Bob Coltman.

They were all at the game in the early folkie years: even the sainted Pete Seeger sailed close to the wind with Wimoweh. So much so, there was a variant on that old morality, Keep your hand on your ha’penny, urging young song-writers to Keep your hand on your copyright.

Itin the Paul Clayton context, was Gotta Travel On. And therein, too, lies a story. On 31st January 1959, Robert Zimmermann was at a Buddy Holly concert at the Armory, in Duluth, Minnesota. On this tour Holly opened his set with an acoustic version of the Clayton-copyrighted Gotta Travel on. Two days later, Buddy Holly performed the same set at the Surf Ballroom, Clear Lake, Iowa. That night Holly, Richy Valens and The Big Bopper were killed when their aircraft crashed.

220px-Bob_Dylan_-_Self_PortraitOn 5th March 1970 Bob Dylan (transmogrified from the young Robert Zimmermann) was at Columbia Studios in Nashville, Tennessee, and recorded three minutes and eight seconds of Gotta Travel On, for the Self Portrait album. Not one of the Bobster’s better efforts.

If I had to choose a version (and in this context I probably do), it would be the way I first heard it, as Done Laid Around, from The Weavers 1958 album, with Erik Darling depping for Seeger (who’d offed himself over the music policies dictated by Vanguard Records, and over a cigarette advertisement). I can’t see how to load up that version.

It’s a very elastic piece: you can have it frantic, as Bill Monroe did it:

Or, as I’d prefer it, more reflective and laid-back, as the re-booted Kingston Trio did in 1965:

- — oO0 — -

So, yesterday, we were  off twenty miles up-country, and up-hill nearly four hundred feet, to Harrogate.Unknown

As far as I could see, the grain along the route hasn’t been harvested yet — but that can’t be long delayed. What I noticed — this much higher, perhaps a fraction cooler — were the leaves, especially on the oaks, were browning. There was a larger leaf-fall than I’d seen in York. Winter’s definitely coming on in these parts. And the winds getting round to the north.

Then, for reasons that are far too complicated to explain, but made perfect sense at the time, I re-read Kurt Vonnegut’s short-story, Long Walk To Forever.

- — oO0 — -

O.K., class, everybody eyes down. Look at that opening sentence:

They had grown up next door to each other, on the fringe of a city, near fields and woods and orchards, within sight of a lovely bell tower that belonged to a school for the blind.

 Where’s the fore-shadowing there? Any other images that might be significant? You’ve noted them down? Back to the text:

“Could you come for a walk?” he said. He was a shy person, even with Catharine. He covered his shyness by speaking absently, as though what really concerned him were far away — as though he were a secret agent pausing briefly on a mission between beautiful, distant, and sinister points. This manner of speaking had always been Newt’s style, even in matters that concerned him desperately.

“A walk?” said Catharine.

 “One foot in front of the other,” said Newt, “through leaves, over bridges—”

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Filed under Britain, fiction, folk music, Kurt Vonnegut, Literature, Music, weather, Yorkshire

Mrs Wentworth-Brewster saves the day

The ear-worm turns

If you read the previous post, you would know my memory had taken me back to the songs of Alex Glasgow. They are good for a walk to and from the nearest source of an evening’s extra bottle, but they do tend to get into a repetitive groove.

Then, after the stir-fry (very nice) and the rice pudd’n (the evenings are already getting more autumnal here in “old” York), the Lady in my Life had to cope with an email message from a distant daughter. While she was poking the iPhone keyboard, I felt free to reach for a newspaper.

Done the news sections, and the reviews, so …

I have long maintained that the fillers for the property porn and the other advertising supplements contain good writing. It’s the fluff and stuff deputed to the lowest tier in the operation. These are the hungry, thrusting young rats, who will shortly overtake the over-paid (and therefore soon-to-be-redundant) front-runners in the journalistic rat-race. They also manage to smuggle their nuances of style past sub-editors having a yawn over such less-important stuff.

The result of that was I found myself reading Tim Dowling (an older rat, let me affirm, with an excellent track record) on his repeat visit to Capri after what seems to have been a mixed-experience honeymoon there a two decades before:

we approached the remainder of the honeymoon with an odd combination of indecision and abandon. We had yet to determine which of us took charge of the finances in our marriage, so neither of us did. The amount we calculated we’d spent never quite seemed to tally with what was left.

Yes, Tim, we’ve all been that way. Eventually the relationship develops its own equilibrium. In mine, I decide the really important bits: what we think about Iraq and the EU: that leaves her to cope with the trivialities like paying the bills, putting food on the table, and relating to the daughters.

Anyway, second time around, the Dowling duo do the better-heeled tourist bit:

The next morning I find myself hiring a motorboat. I dimly recall hiring a rowing boat two decades ago, and getting about 200 metres along the coast in it before giving up and deciding to head back. Now, in exchange for €80, I’m allowed one with an engine for two hours – ample time to circle the island completely.

Despite some initial stress while dodging very large sightseeing boats (the traffic passing under the natural stone arch of the Faraglioni di Mezzo was particularly competitive), this excursion was a surprising success; nothing mutinous occurred. The offshore view of the Marina Piccola – exquisite, laid-back and, as the name implies, small – sharpened my wife’s determination to have lunch there.

Lucky old Tim, say some. Well done, Tim, say I.

For that breaks the loop of Alex Glasgow songs.

Instead, for the rest of the evening the ear-worm is running The Master, including:

In a bar on the Piccola Marina
Life called to Mrs. Wentworth-Brewster
Fate beckoned her and introduced her
Into a rather queer, unfamiliar atmosphere…

Just for fun, three young sailors from Messina
Bowed low to Mrs Wentworth-Brewster
Said “Scusi”, and abruptly goosed her …

Here’s Noel Coward doing it (I think it’s the Las Vegas performance), but with less-unlifting accompanying footage:


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Filed under Guardian, Music