Byron on Reviews

Anyone out there worried about reviews?
Here's Byron's take on them.
(It just occurs to me that I hate that expression "take on such and such").
OK. Here's Byron's OPINION/THOUGHTS/WHATEVER.  On them. Or of them.  I'm not quite sure.  Reviews, anyway. 
As expressed in a letter he wrote to Shelley in 1821, following the death of Keats (I'm nothing if not hip 'n' happening). I gather that Shelley must have informed him of the death, and that it had been perhaps hastened or even caused by distress about bad reviews. Keats died of consumption, and I suppose state of mind could certainly have affected his physical resilience, as of course it can with any illness.
Bear in mind that Byron himself had recently described Keats' poems as a kind of "mental masturbation" and a "Bedlam vision brought on by too much raw pork and opium". (see my post from a day or two back). Personally, I might take that as a compliment. But I'm not Keats, am I? He was aiming for the sublime.
And it occurs to me - how much raw pork is "too much", exactly? And why would you eat it, in any quantity? I've eaten underdone chops before, and felt a bit 'dicky' after, but it was entirely accidental and I wouldn't say they were 'raw', quite.  More on that later.
To continue.
Byron writes to Shelley, "I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats - is it actually true? I did not think criticism had been so killing....I read the review of Endymion in The Quarterly. It was severe, - but surely not so severe as many reviews in that and other journals upon others.
I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my first poem; it was rage, and resistance, and redress - but not despondency nor despair. I grant that these are not amiable feelings; but in this world of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing, a man should calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes into the arena.
"Expect not life from pain nor danger free,
Nor deem the doom of man reversed for thee."

Hmm... he's got a point - but he's being more than a tad harsh, I'd say. One of the critics had described Endymion as a work of imperturbable, drivelling idiocy. Someone else who sounded like a towering snob had advised the non-Eton/Harrow educated Keats to abandon poetry and go back to his work as an apothecary.

All very well for his Lordship, swimming up and down the Grand Canal with his menagerie and his club foot and all.

So if anyone derides my - or your - work, do remember that they were wrong about Keats.

The genius of Colette

My all-time favourite writer is Colette.

I love how she lived her life, and I love that her writing - and she was so prolific - reflects it.

I don't really like the Cherie/Colette Willy stage. I love her later work though, when she'd broken out of that first stifling marriage. I say stifling, but perhaps what came out of those years of writing servitude was the development of her own superb writing discipline.

I have a couple of favourite stories. One is The Kepi. I'm totally fixated on the ageing female at the moment (being one myself) and for me this encapsulates a certain stage in life that cannot be glossed over or denied. The thing I like best about Colette is that she doesn't flinch.

Another favourite is her novella The Cat. Colette writes superbly about cats and they feature in many of her tales. She doesn't anthropomorphise, but they are just as important as characters in her stories as humans. In The Cat, a woman becomes furiously jealous of her lover's cat. And to be honest, you can understand why. Can one be too "fond of animals"? Personally, I think not, but many people would disagree, and in this complex tale there is a distinct whiff of the unsavoury about their relationship. The cat is also a symbol of his lost childhood and independence and his uncertainties as he hovers on the brink of family life. The woman will never possess him until the cat goes. And the cat, Saha, has no intention of letting that happen - not while she knows she is still loved.

Here's a quote. "Alain looked up; nine stories up, in the middle of the almost round moon, the little horned shadow of a cat was leaning forward, waiting."

"A small shadowy blue shape, outlined like a cloud with a hem of silver, sitting on the dizzy edge of the night..."

"...at the age where he might have coveted a little car, a journey abroad....Alain nevertheless remained the-young-man-who-has-bought-a-little-cat."

"Saha's beautful yellow eyes, in which the great nocturnal pupil was slowly invading the iris, stared into space, picking out moving, floating, invisible points."

Rick Wakeman - Excerpts From The Six Wives Of Henry VIII

Aaarrgghh! I said I'd post more prog and for me this just screams PRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In a very loud voice.
Actually, it's not that bad when you listen to it (it gets unbearable after 3 mins. though - you have been warned). Well, not quite as bad as you'd reasonably expect given the size of his "equipment", the length and weird silkiness of his hair, and the *gulp* cape. I think Wakers now lives on the Isle of frigging Man and likes a game of golf FFS.
Rock ON!!!!!

Another quote of the day - Byron

Presently re-reading Byron - A Self-Portrait, edited by Peter Quennell.

It's a brilliant read. Really fresh and entertaining. It's a collection of letters and diaries, and is never, ever dull. You get accounts in his own words of the famous drinking out of a skull, the menagerie, the countless love affairs, Shelley's death, the lot.

Here's an interesting excerpt from a letter he wrote to legendary publisher John Murray.

"Mr Keats, whose poetry you enquire after, appears to me what I have already said: such writing is a sort of mental masturbation....neither poetry nor anything else but a Bedlam vision produced by raw pork and opium."

Raw pork??

And "I have been reading Grimm's correspondence. He repeats frequently, in speaking of a poet, or a man of genius in any department.......that he must have une ame qui se tourmante, un esprit violent. How far this may be true I know not; but if it were, I should be a poet "per excellenza"; for I have always had une ame, which not only tormented itself but everybody else in contact with it; and un esprit violent, which has almost left me without any esprit at all.

Great reading.

Quote of the day

"The word is not the thing, but a flash in whose light we perceive the thing." (Diderot)

Ramble On - Led Zeppelin

The ultimate autumn song. Leaves are falling all around, etc..
Far, far better band than the Beatles, in every respect.
Compare the present day Robert Plant to McCartney. I think I need say no more.

Shortbread Stories

I have another piece of flash fiction that's just gone live over on Shortbread Stories.

Click here to find it.

Monty Python - Nudge Nudge

I LOVE this sketch. Know wot I mean?

Cake of the Week - the fudge doughnut

This week's featured cake is the fudge doughnut. This one was purchased first thing this morning from the local bakery. It was wedged behind a metal support in the glass display case, and the shop assistant was unable to dislodge it with tongs - she had to fling them aside and resort to "bare hands". Age isn't a measure of codgerliness but this lady was well on in years - even older than me by quite a long way. I would happily nominate her for "codger of the week" - my next feature.

I seem to have survived with no ill eff-e-e-e-c-c-c-.....................

Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"

Geoffrey goes insane

"I want to paint with my own shit," raved Geoffrey. He was still in his "art" phase. "I want to be primal. No boundaries. No staid, dull old conventions..."



"No consideration for other people," I muttered tetchily, wondering vaguely if Tuppence had managed to loot a strait jacket this time. He was due back from his ram raid any minute. "Who do you think you are, Geoffrey? R.D. frigging Laing?"



"His theories about family and society have been completely discredited," said a smug voice from just outside the window, which was permanently stuck open two inches at the bottom due to an ill-fitting sash. "Pills are the answer nowadays."



"You and your pills can do one, Wilson," said Geoffrey loftily. "We're on a different level here. We're entering a whole new plane."



"Oh yes. Has your old one lost a wing or something? Holes along the fusillage perhaps? Or just metal fatigue? " sniggered Wilson. Yes - the Ghastly Doctor Wilson (who would win Gold every time if Boring People to Death with your Opinions was an Olympic sport) had arrived just as Geoffrey was going spectacularly bonkers (if going Bonkers was an Olympic sport...etc.)

"I'll just take your blood pressures while I'm here," bustled Wilson officiously. "Where's my sphyg?"

"Several inches up your rectum like it should be, I hope," I sneered. I don't like sneering, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"Found it! it was round my neck all the bleedin' time...did you see what I did there? James Robertson Justice. He's my role model."

"I'd say you were more of a Kilmore myself. With your best mate being the Grim Reaper and all. It's like having our very own Burke and Hare."

"I'll take that as a compliment. We're all doomed you know. Doomed!"

"John Laurie. Yes, we know. We're all speeding willy nilly down the steep steep hill to hell in a ricketty handcart. Might as well enjoy some simple pleasures before we hurtle face first into the fiery lake. I mean it Geoffrey - crack open another crate of meths. I could really use a stiff one with a decent head on it. And you could do with getting some colour in your cheeks and all matey."

Once we had thrown some boiling fat over Wilson's clammy, sphyg-clutching fingers as they groped their evil way towards our upper arms, we sat down in our usual armchairs and sipped our meths as the screams died away and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Nice with a slice of lemon and an olive, isn't it Tuppy."

"No. I hate froot. It makes me vom like a bastard. You aren't really going to paint with your own shit, are you Geoffrey? It smells pretty bad in here as it is."

"Nah. Changed my mind. I'm going to be a performance artist instead. Going to enact a murder - a real one mind - and film it in black and white "slo-mo". It'll look dead classy."

"Sounds like a plan Geoffrey. I like a snuff movie myself but it HAS to be in full technicolour. I wish you all the best with it. Who's the victim going to be, by the way? AAAaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!"

Gravy of the week - Bisto beef.

This week's featured gravy is Bisto (beef flavour).

It's extremely tasty.

Why sweat over a pan? That's never a pleasant thing to do under any circumstances.

Simply Boil a kettle and make Bisto! Then pour it over your spuds or chips or sausages or all three - and if there's any left in the jug just drink it for afters.

Then get one of these blood pressure-o-meters and marvel as the needle zooms to undreamt of heights.

Not that I'm saying that there is a connection between Bisto, salt levels, and high blood pressure - no. Not at all. Bisto is a tasty beverage-cum-condiment and an asset to any gourmet's kitchen.

Some more jokes from Les Dawson.

I often browse through Les Dawson's Secret Notebooks. Here are a couple of lines that made me smile - like a crack in a septic tank as Les would say.

"Did you ever see the size of his verucca?" "No, I didn't know him that well."

"I'll have you know I'm only twelve stone and some pounds." "How many pounds?" "Sixty two."

"...[Bert]...hasn't performed since Dunkirk. He says it makes the shrapnel move."

re.holidays..."Did you have the shish kebabs?" "From the moment we arrived. Bert blamed it on the way they cooked the chips."

My parents were determined that I should carry on the family tradition of music. For seven years I sweated away on the piano stool. Then things improved - my dad bought me a piano.

My great aunt Margaret, just before she died at the ripe old age of ninety eight, called me to her bedside and whispered, nephew, if you ever fail to get a laugh as a comedian I shall turn over in my grave. That was ten years ago. Yesterday I attended a seance in Birmingham. The medium went into a deep trance and said, 'I don't know for whom this concerns, but I'm getting a very strange message through from someone called Spinning Maggie.'

All from Les Dawson's Secret Notebooks, selected and introduced by Tracy Dawson. £9.99 from JR Books Ltd.

Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac - "Oh Well", Live@ Music Mash 1969

Love Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac. Sheer class.

The Meaning of Existence (oh why not just say life) captured in a sentence #2

I don't love you any more - I haven't for years - but I'll assist you to the toilet because I won't be able to cope with the guilt if I don't.