Suche synne is named yronie …

… by the whiche a man sayth one and gyueth to vnderstonde the contrary.

That, according the the OED, is the first known usage of “irony” in English. There explained by the magnificently-named Wynkyn de Worde in 1502.

What Malcolm has learned, by bitter experience, is that irony does not travel. It is best avoided, in any circumstances west of Connemara, and must never be employed, under any circumstances, in New York City and environs.

Fishy stuff

And then there’s this:

No evidence of mermaids, says US government

There is no evidence that mermaids exist, a US government scientific agency has said.

The National Ocean Service made the unusual declaration in response to public inquiries following a TV show on the mythical creatures.

It is thought some viewers may have mistaken the programme for a documentary.

“No evidence of aquatic humanoids has ever been found,” the service wrote in an online post.

The National Ocean Service posted an article last week on its educational website, Ocean Facts.

On with the wet job

Were Malcolm being snitty, he would be taking exception to that “educational site” insofar as it claims:

The ancient Greek epic poet Homer wrote of [mermaids] in The Odyssey.

Err, no. In Book XII of the Odyssey Circe warns Odysseus of the Sirens (here in Pope’s rendering):

Next, where the Sirens dwells, you plough the seas;
Their song is death, and makes destruction please.
Unblest the man, whom music wins to stay
Nigh the cursed shore and listen to the lay.
No more that wretch shall view the joys of life
His blooming offspring, or his beauteous wife!
In verdant meads they sport; and wide around
Lie human bones that whiten all the ground:
The ground polluted floats with human gore,
And human carnage taints the dreadful shore.
Fly swift the dangerous coast: let every ear
Be stopp’d against the song! ’tis death to hear!
Firm to the mast with chains thyself be bound,
Nor trust thy virtue to the enchanting sound.
If, mad with transport, freedom thou demand,
Be every fetter strain’d, and added band to band.

A close regard to the Greek grammar suggests that there were just two of them, and a commentary on Virgil’s Georgics names as Aglaopheme and Thelxiepeia. But let Malcolm go with the flow …

Quality! No, feel the quantity!

Illustrators, particularly those of the Victorian period, could never have too much of a good thing, notably so when it involves the nude female form with a vaguely Classical — and therefore respectable, context for excuse. So the numbers tend to expand to fill the canvas available.

Just as Little Vicky was checking her wardrobe for her coronation, William Etty went for the big, big time (this one is a real monster):

That was gifted to the Manchester Art Gallery in 1839, was on display at Old Trafford in 1857, then retired to decay in storage — Etty had used too much size in preparing the fabric, until (in 2006-8) it was restored “live” before visitors.

Hello, sailor!

As Herbert James Draper there, in 1909. Or should that be “undraper”. And he seems to imply a mixed set: blonde, brunette and (something of a meme to watch for) a redhead.

Edward Armitage, in 1888 and now in the Leeds Art Gallery, bothered with just the one, again a dangerous rousse, and very physically so:

More?

You really are a glutton for punishment —

Twelve and a tanner a bottle

Will Fyffe:

That’s 62½ post-decimal pence.

For what it’s worth, on 19th April 1920, Tory Chancellor Austen Chamberlain increased the price of a bottle of Scotch was increased from ten shillings (50p) to that exorbitant 12/6d. At the outbreak of the Second World War,  Liberal National Chancellor John Simon the price hiked it further to 14/3d.

By no coincidence, here’s the current issue of What’s Brewing, the CAMRA newsletter, arriving by the day’s post.

The Big Story, as each month, is the beer duty escalator. Britain now taxes each pint higher (and harder) than any other European country. For 5% ABV beer, the duty is 55p a pint (on top of which, over the counter, goes a further 20% VAT — so a £3.50 pint contributes at least £1.05 to Conservative Chancellor George Osborne’s kitty).

Only Sweden (47p), and Ireland (39p) come anywhere near. In Germany the tax is just 5p a pint. In France 7p.

There’s one country obviously missing, but Malcolm reckons that is because Belgian beer-tax seems an impenetrable conundrum. At least Belgium seems to have some sanity: the tax apparently is raised on the size of the brewery’s production, rather than the individual consumer’s capacity to be mulcted.

The e-petition on the beer duty escalator is here.

Belleek, the bright and the bleak

OK, you recognise the pottery. very fine, no doubt, for those who like such titivations.

The village of Belleek is what every Irish village ought to be. It has that “look”, in later years “improved” by Dulux: the broad main street, once ideal for trading cattle, lined by some useful shops of all descriptions (not something common across the Western world), and a progression of decent pubs.

It had its share of “the Troubles”. Today, though, Malcolm sees it as one of those “nice places” to enjoy. There is, unlike much of “tin-town” Northern Ireland, a faint hint, if not of “prosperity”, at least some kind of “comfort”.

It is the last outpost, excluding sweet Rockall, of the Saxon Empire. Very much a twin-currency border town, with the Republic and €uro-land to the north, south and west, you are likely to find pricing is primarily in €uros, and in ster£ing only if you ask.

At the end of that street, as the A47 bears left, past the pottery and crosses the bridge, and the border, to become the R47, stands the Carlton Hotel. Which is now another victim of the recession, and “in administration”. The Carlton has one of those waterside locations which, were it in Oxfordshire or Buckingham, or Hampshire or Somerset, guarantee a place in every guidebook, and a trebling of the prices.

And here is Malcolm remembering a good lunch-time at the Carlton, largely empty, in the spring of last year. He had just observed a small ritual: a passing driver had pulled up to encourage a stray swan off the bridge and down to the river bank in front of the Waterways restaurant. Traffic (not that there is much in Belleek) and time (of which Belleek has an ample sufficiency) halted for this small act of creature kindness.

But where is Malcolm’s “end of Empire” Hanna hat? He had just bought it that day, from the outfitters across the road. It went missing ten days ago in the Grand Hotel, Scarborough.

Malcolm feels doubly bereft.

Diamonds are not forever

How does the fourth-biggest bank in the world, employing 140,000, and with assets of $2,331,943,000,000, get into such a mess? As of now, it is apparently being headed by a man who resigned on Monday, because the guy who resigned today, Tuesday, is hors de combat.

Craig Darke, for City AM, rightly wonders at the vagaries of the Stock Market:

As Barclays’ shares bounced back yesterday, this served as an important reminder to retail traders that the markets are not rational and it is easy to get your fingers burned. Anybody set up to take a short position on the FTSE open would have been hurt as the bank went on to be one of the strongest performers of the London session – up 3.4 per cent on the day to finish at 168.4p. But why? The public may have received its sacrificial offering in the form of chairman Marcus Agius’s resignation – and the move may have taken some pressure of chief executive Bob Diamond, who is due to testify to the Treasury select committee on Wednesday – but this does not change the fundamentals of the stock. Nor does it affect last week’s £290m fine for abusing the BBA Libor estimated interest rate, or the possibility of more heads tumbling. 

“Not rational”: an expression which is hardly “blinding with science”. It must qualify as one of the great mealy-mouthings about a casino dignified as a stock exchange. In a decent world Darke would be wrong with his next sentence:

Although we’ve been spared a Leveson-type public enquiry, with Hugh Grant grilling Bob Diamond about the effects of a shifted Libor quote on a turbo swap position there will be a parliamentary inquiry into the Libor scandal.

At least Hugh Grant, MA (Oxon), communicates in decent English: “a shifted Libor quote” is baffling with bullshit.

As for “the possibility of more heads tumbling”, one bod who should be checking his collar connection ought to be Mervyn King, who has been at the boardroom table of the Bank of England since the early 1990s. If all this doesn’t engulf that most political of bankers, then his deputy, Paul Tucker, must be sweating a trifle, especially as the BBC and other reptiles have sniffed what must have been going on.  After Leveson, “death by email” seems to be mortality à la mode. Kicking up the dust, seeking to involve Balls, Miliband, Shriti Vadera, Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh ‘n’ all, is mere distraction tactics. The real villains must be in, or well-known around Threadneedle Street.

One appreciates that Cameron, son, grandson and great-grandson of stockbrokers (Panmure Gordon), may want the dirty washing laundered “in house”. Jane and Joe Public, particularly when they spot that their mortgage was manipulated by the Libor scandal, might not be so forgiving and demand something a trifle more legal and above-the-counter. Either way, Cameron and his paper-hanging “submarine” Chancellor are the losers.