Romantics
BBC2 is showing an excellent series on the Romantic period of literature by Peter Ackroyd, a period which takes in the sublime interpretation of nature of Wordsworth through to the Byron’s take on the darker side of nature. It is also a period which, aside from shaping our modern attitudes to industry, science, nature and ourselves, gave birth to the literary forms of two of the most enduring mythic types: the human-created monster (which we still discuss today as we face the unravelling of the genome, reading the Book of Life - more dangerous than any Biblical apple - and cloning) and the vampire (still a potent and flexible myth applies to everything from Captitalism to AIDS), from an infusion of science, nature and human nature via Polidori and Mary Shelley.
It is one of my favourite periods for rich poetry, with this weekend’s programme focussing largely on one of my favourite rhymers, William Blake. In many ways Blake encompasses the different aspects of the Romantic period, with its attention to the awe and beauty of the natural world, the innocence of childhood (itself basically a metaphor by Romantics for the supposed ‘innocence’ of pre-industrial society) and a violent reaction to the brutal industrialisation of society and the harsh treatment of human beings. As Ackroyd points out, it is a period which informed much of the way we still view the world and our part in it today.
Most folk are quite dismissive of poetry, which is a shame. Even in the book trade the amount of colleagues I had who couldn’t care less about events like National Poetry Day was rather large and usually took the shape of the appallingly ignorant “I don’t like poetry” response. Which, as responses go, is up there with people who say “I don’t like jazz/classical music/ foreign movies/comics” delete as applicable. What that kind of reply indicates to me is not that the person doesn’t like that entire genre but that they are too damned lazy to think about it and have spent too much energy erecting little walls around themselves which cut them off from new experiences which could potentially alter their outlook on life.
Saying you don’t like poetry always struck me as especially foolish and lazy; you mean you don’t like any form of poetry whatsoever, be it the Iliad, a Shakespearean sonnet, a poem by Blake or Burns or even a song by the Beatles? I love prose, but even in long prose novels the best authors partake of some of the elements of poetry (often the writer is a poet as well as novelist), such as George MacKay Brown or the great Borges. Poetry is a way of directly addressing the emotions and experiences we all have in relation to almost everything, from the birth of a child to watching a sunset and as such is an essential part of our emotional and intellectual development and our ability to express those experiences and feelings; it partakes as much of our rational yet creative side as it does of a form of shamanistic magic (where words were ritually used to address the world). It also exercises the mind and emotions allowing us to more fully experience - and share - other events, visuals and arts, be it the reflection of light on a river or the kaleidoscope of colours which create an Impressionist painting (I’ve always thought Impressionism, like Jazz, is closely related to poetry) - the powers of imagination and erudition are muscles which need to be exercised just like any physical muscle. Try exercising it with some poetry and you’ll find your appreciation of so much else expanded, enhanced.
One of my favourite modern poets, the Scots-born Carol Ann Duffy, won the T S Eliot Prize for poetry the other week - if you haven’t read her then I heartily recommend her work, which is imaginative but very accessible, so if you’re the sort of person who thinks they would like to try more poetry some time but are a little afraid they won’t ‘get it‘ (worry not, you don‘t need an MA in English Lit to get poetry, that‘s part of the beauty of it), have no fear, she is perfect. Ladies, I especially commend The World’s Wife to you, where she has a series of poems all imagining events viewed from the perspective of the wives of famous historical figures (gentlemen, you too could learn from this too, if you open yourself, it is not just for the ladies).
The Beeb have created a site to go with the Romantics show on the main BBC site, including some audio sections where you can listen to some of the poems being read. Do yourself a favour and try reading a little poetry from time to time. For my part I think perhaps I have to - I have two famous poets as my kinsmen after all, Lord Byron (George Gordon) and Adam Lindsay Gordon (one of the first great poets in Australian literature) ; perhaps not blood relatives as such (it would be nice if they were!) but if we were all together at a big wedding we’d all be in the same tartan (and looking very rakish and sexy in our Clan Gordon kilts of course).
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Jet City Gig
You may recall I posted a link to my colleague Paul's band site, The Jet City Rednecks (complete with a cool download) a few weeks ago. Well, Paul tells me they have their first proper gig very soon: "The Jet City Rednecks will be upstaging the headline act on the 27th Jan 2006 at the Half Time Orange in Leicester. Also appearing is Matt Shaw who won Stars In Their Eyes as Meatloaf ... but never mind eh!" So if you're in Leicester, drop your red cheese and get on down for some good rock'n'roll. The rest of us can enjoy the band's artwork!
You may recall I posted a link to my colleague Paul's band site, The Jet City Rednecks (complete with a cool download) a few weeks ago. Well, Paul tells me they have their first proper gig very soon: "The Jet City Rednecks will be upstaging the headline act on the 27th Jan 2006 at the Half Time Orange in Leicester. Also appearing is Matt Shaw who won Stars In Their Eyes as Meatloaf ... but never mind eh!" So if you're in Leicester, drop your red cheese and get on down for some good rock'n'roll. The rest of us can enjoy the band's artwork!
Gag my Google
In the last few days Google was being cheered online and in the Blogosphere because they stood up to the stormtroopers of the US administration who will not be satisfied until they can invade the privacy of every citizen. They can't find Bin Liner, sorry, Bin Laden, the most wanted man on the planet but they can spy on their own citizens 'for the greater good'. While spineless, gutless wimps like AOL and Microsoftinthehead quickly complied with government demands for access on site visit information Google told them to go download themselves. We cheered.
Then Google did make like Microsoft and others by caving in completely to the dictatorship in China by supplying a special Google for China which cuts out all of those sites the old men in that repressive regime don't want their citizens looking at in advance (tiannemen Square, pro-democracy sites and who knows what else). They argue it is better to be a part of the system becaue somehow - magically - that will slowly transform it and after all, it is business. Yeah and the companies who made the chemicals for the gas in the concentration camps were just doing 'business'. Reporters Without Borders joined the condemnation today, asking how Google could stand up for their American users last week then sell their souls to the devil this week. Companies making deals like this with repressive regimes like China have become the modern world's version of the appeasers of the 1930s, spineless, lacking the courage to match their convinctions and ready to sell their morals for a (seemingly) good deal. Those 'good' deals will bite them on the ass one day.
Anyway, I thought perhaps before I utterly condemned them I should perhaps try it myself, so here we go with a very special Chinese edition of the Woolamaloo Gazette which has been specifically edited to meet the rigorous demands of the Chinese Government and the sell-out suckers of Satan's pecker at Google:
The Woolamaloo Gazette Special China Friendly Google Edition
Welcome to our first special Chinese Google edition where we can exclusively reveal to our readers in Asia that the
Zhang Ziyi's delectable chin.
We hope this special report has been informative. We would apologise for any censored lines, but of course neither Google nor the Glorious People's Republic would ever dream of cutting words.
In the last few days Google was being cheered online and in the Blogosphere because they stood up to the stormtroopers of the US administration who will not be satisfied until they can invade the privacy of every citizen. They can't find Bin Liner, sorry, Bin Laden, the most wanted man on the planet but they can spy on their own citizens 'for the greater good'. While spineless, gutless wimps like AOL and Microsoftinthehead quickly complied with government demands for access on site visit information Google told them to go download themselves. We cheered.
Then Google did make like Microsoft and others by caving in completely to the dictatorship in China by supplying a special Google for China which cuts out all of those sites the old men in that repressive regime don't want their citizens looking at in advance (tiannemen Square, pro-democracy sites and who knows what else). They argue it is better to be a part of the system becaue somehow - magically - that will slowly transform it and after all, it is business. Yeah and the companies who made the chemicals for the gas in the concentration camps were just doing 'business'. Reporters Without Borders joined the condemnation today, asking how Google could stand up for their American users last week then sell their souls to the devil this week. Companies making deals like this with repressive regimes like China have become the modern world's version of the appeasers of the 1930s, spineless, lacking the courage to match their convinctions and ready to sell their morals for a (seemingly) good deal. Those 'good' deals will bite them on the ass one day.
Anyway, I thought perhaps before I utterly condemned them I should perhaps try it myself, so here we go with a very special Chinese edition of the Woolamaloo Gazette which has been specifically edited to meet the rigorous demands of the Chinese Government and the sell-out suckers of Satan's pecker at Google:
The Woolamaloo Gazette Special China Friendly Google Edition
Welcome to our first special Chinese Google edition where we can exclusively reveal to our readers in Asia that the
Zhang Ziyi's delectable chin.
We hope this special report has been informative. We would apologise for any censored lines, but of course neither Google nor the Glorious People's Republic would ever dream of cutting words.
Back in the saddle
Its been a while since my previous blogs about my uncle passing (thank you to the people who left kind comments or sent emails, they were much appreciated) and I thought I would take this date, being Burns Night here in Scotland, to get back in the online saddle. Its funny, I feel ready to get back on my bloggy horse after a week or so but because of the layout on a blog this post will be right after the older one about the Comrade, as if no time had passed; time is a more relevant quality in the virtual world, so I hope you won't mind if it 'suddenly' seems like I go off on a completely different subject after recent events. Besides, going off on tangents is one of the things I do...
And since it is Burns Night, here is a link to some free MP3s of Burns songs which the Scotsman have put up. The first one, A Man's a Man For A' That was sung at the opening of the Scottish parliament. A few old crusty bores objected because they thought it insulting to the Queen (and perhaps it was, but frankly if she was offended by it then she deserved to be offended) since the song celebrates the equality of all and makes clear that a 'noble' duke or rich man has no more worth or honour than the most common of the masses.
That still ruffles some feathers even today when we are all supposedly equal (except we aren't) but when Burns wrote it he was coming from a group of artists and philosophers who were espousing similar ideas born of the Enlightenment. Since these could lead to revolution of the 'common' people - and did in some cases, like France and America - the authoroties were never overly keen on these sentiments. But the authorities have little say in it - Burns is our national bard not only because he was a good poet and because he was a real character but because he was a man of the people, not some lofty intellect apart from the herd.
Is there for honest poverty
That hings his heed and a' that
The coward slave we pass him by
We dare be poor for a' that
For a' that and a' that
Our toils obscure and a' that
The rank is but the guinea's stamp
The mands the gowd for a' that
What tho' on hamely fare we dine
Wear hoddin-gray and a' that
Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine
A mands a man for a' that
For a' that and a' that
Their tinsel show and a' that
The honest man tho' e'er sae poor
Is king o' men for a' that
Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord
Wha struts and stares and a' that
Tho' hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a' that
For a' that and a' that
His riband, star and a' that
The man o' independent mind
He looks and laughs at a' that
A prince can mak a belted knight
A marquis, duke and a' that
But an honest mands aboon his might
Guid faith he mauna fa' that
For a' that and a' that
Their dignities and a' that
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher rank than a' that
Then let us pray that come it may
As come it will and a' that
That sense and worth o'er a' the earth
Shall bear the gree and a' that
For a' that and a' that
It's coming yet for a' that
That man to man the warld o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that
For a' that and a' that
It's coming yet for a' that
That man to man the warld o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that.
Rabbie Burns
Happy Burns Night, folks - raise a glass of fine single malt to the bard.
Its been a while since my previous blogs about my uncle passing (thank you to the people who left kind comments or sent emails, they were much appreciated) and I thought I would take this date, being Burns Night here in Scotland, to get back in the online saddle. Its funny, I feel ready to get back on my bloggy horse after a week or so but because of the layout on a blog this post will be right after the older one about the Comrade, as if no time had passed; time is a more relevant quality in the virtual world, so I hope you won't mind if it 'suddenly' seems like I go off on a completely different subject after recent events. Besides, going off on tangents is one of the things I do...
And since it is Burns Night, here is a link to some free MP3s of Burns songs which the Scotsman have put up. The first one, A Man's a Man For A' That was sung at the opening of the Scottish parliament. A few old crusty bores objected because they thought it insulting to the Queen (and perhaps it was, but frankly if she was offended by it then she deserved to be offended) since the song celebrates the equality of all and makes clear that a 'noble' duke or rich man has no more worth or honour than the most common of the masses.
That still ruffles some feathers even today when we are all supposedly equal (except we aren't) but when Burns wrote it he was coming from a group of artists and philosophers who were espousing similar ideas born of the Enlightenment. Since these could lead to revolution of the 'common' people - and did in some cases, like France and America - the authoroties were never overly keen on these sentiments. But the authorities have little say in it - Burns is our national bard not only because he was a good poet and because he was a real character but because he was a man of the people, not some lofty intellect apart from the herd.
Is there for honest poverty
That hings his heed and a' that
The coward slave we pass him by
We dare be poor for a' that
For a' that and a' that
Our toils obscure and a' that
The rank is but the guinea's stamp
The mands the gowd for a' that
What tho' on hamely fare we dine
Wear hoddin-gray and a' that
Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine
A mands a man for a' that
For a' that and a' that
Their tinsel show and a' that
The honest man tho' e'er sae poor
Is king o' men for a' that
Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord
Wha struts and stares and a' that
Tho' hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a' that
For a' that and a' that
His riband, star and a' that
The man o' independent mind
He looks and laughs at a' that
A prince can mak a belted knight
A marquis, duke and a' that
But an honest mands aboon his might
Guid faith he mauna fa' that
For a' that and a' that
Their dignities and a' that
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher rank than a' that
Then let us pray that come it may
As come it will and a' that
That sense and worth o'er a' the earth
Shall bear the gree and a' that
For a' that and a' that
It's coming yet for a' that
That man to man the warld o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that
For a' that and a' that
It's coming yet for a' that
That man to man the warld o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that.
Rabbie Burns
Happy Burns Night, folks - raise a glass of fine single malt to the bard.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Radio rememberances
Feeling not too bad this week, all things considered, working away, out for a drink with some friends, basically doing my best not to brood on things. Listening to some radio over the web at work as I usually do I found some interesting programmes on BBC Radio 4, including A Brief History of the End of Everything in their science section. Fronted by a Jesuit-scientist, the Vatican's astronomer Brother Guy Consolmagno, it explored various notions of the end of the universe via scientific thought, philosophy, religion and various world mythologies in a number of short segments (archived on the Beeb's site). It was a fascinating series and Brother Guy a delightful host; I made a mental not to myself to mention it to the Comrade because I knew that the scientific and religious aspects to it would fascinate him.
Then of course a moment later have to remind myself that I won't be discussing this programme with him. I suppose that's the way it goes - most of the time you can move along reasonably well then a little thing will remind you of your loss. Obviously it is much worse for my aunt since she is in the home she shared with my uncle and surrounded by countless reminders of his absence; for myself I can sometimes almost forget it for a moment, thinking must catch up with him when I am next home or must give him a call, not spoken in a week or two, then think, no, but for her it is every minute.
Anyway, back to the radio: it was a very interesting series and it is still on Radio 4's archive site. Also on their science programmes section was a good interview by the astronomer Heather Couper, who I met briefly at a book launch at the Edinburgh Science Festival several years ago (the subjet was black holes and wormholes - luckily the publishers untangled our brains with much free drink afterwards in the environs of the Royal Museum); she was talking to the man who probably has the best claim to the title of World's Greatest Living SF Writer, Sir Arthur C Clarke.
Feeling not too bad this week, all things considered, working away, out for a drink with some friends, basically doing my best not to brood on things. Listening to some radio over the web at work as I usually do I found some interesting programmes on BBC Radio 4, including A Brief History of the End of Everything in their science section. Fronted by a Jesuit-scientist, the Vatican's astronomer Brother Guy Consolmagno, it explored various notions of the end of the universe via scientific thought, philosophy, religion and various world mythologies in a number of short segments (archived on the Beeb's site). It was a fascinating series and Brother Guy a delightful host; I made a mental not to myself to mention it to the Comrade because I knew that the scientific and religious aspects to it would fascinate him.
Then of course a moment later have to remind myself that I won't be discussing this programme with him. I suppose that's the way it goes - most of the time you can move along reasonably well then a little thing will remind you of your loss. Obviously it is much worse for my aunt since she is in the home she shared with my uncle and surrounded by countless reminders of his absence; for myself I can sometimes almost forget it for a moment, thinking must catch up with him when I am next home or must give him a call, not spoken in a week or two, then think, no, but for her it is every minute.
Anyway, back to the radio: it was a very interesting series and it is still on Radio 4's archive site. Also on their science programmes section was a good interview by the astronomer Heather Couper, who I met briefly at a book launch at the Edinburgh Science Festival several years ago (the subjet was black holes and wormholes - luckily the publishers untangled our brains with much free drink afterwards in the environs of the Royal Museum); she was talking to the man who probably has the best claim to the title of World's Greatest Living SF Writer, Sir Arthur C Clarke.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Saying goodbye
Our family and friends had the sad task of saying goodbye to my Uncle Ted this weekend. On Friday evening his body was moved to the chapel where he worshipped for years and worked in a variety of groups and movement to help other parishioners out. A great many of them turned out to pray for him at the requiem mass and on the following morning for the actual funeral service. In fact there were so many people there taking communion or a blessing after the service we were late getting to the cemetery; he was a well-loved man and it was uplifting to see how many people outside of our family came along.
In a bitter twist the requiem on Friday the 13th (of all days) fell on the day which would have been the Comrade’s 74th birthday. It was pretty emotional as you can imagine; for a moment I was going to have to step in as one of the bearers as another bearer was held up, but thankfully he arrived just in time. Naturally I agreed right away when my aunt asked me if I would step in, but I was also relieved not to have to do it as it was emotional enough already.
I was, however, one of the cord holders at the actual burial, the first time I’ve ever had that sad, final duty. I couldn’t say no, but it was one of the hardest duties I’ve ever had to perform. Obviously the professionals there have the large straps to properly lower the casket, the role of the cord holders is ceremonial. But if means that I was standing there right over the plot and I helped to lower my dear uncle down into that deep, damp hole. That really hammered home the finality of it all as I let the black rope slip through my fingers and watched his casket sink deeper and deeper. I know that what’s in there isn’t really him - the thing which made him the person we love has gone from that vessel - but its still damned hard to do.
It breaks me up even a few days later just thinking about it, the image of the wooden casket with his name on brass retreating into the earth. It was onerous but I felt I had to do it for him; many years ago my uncle asked me to do this when we buried my papa, his father. That was the first time I had been old enough to go the graveside part of the service and I was too young to handle it and had to say no. This time I carried it out for him, but I was so relieved to get back to stand with my mum and dad as soon as it was done. Still, hard as it was to do, it did give me a sense of closure.
The awful weather of the last week lifted for us on the day of the funeral and we had a crisp, cold, clear sunrise coming in through the stained glass of the chapel early in the morning; a huge full moon still hung over the Campsie Hills when I woke up at my parents. Naturally more than a few of us joked that with all the work he did for the parish the Comrade’s connections upstairs had arranged a decent bit of weather for the day. He never lost his faith even to the end; we never argued over this sort of thing, he knew I didn’t believe and he did but we both knew everyone has to take their own path and left it at that. I almost envy him the strength of his belief and, much as I personally dislike religion, I know it was a huge strength to him. There were three priests carrying out the services, including a rosary at the grave, which I’m told is unusual. One priest was his brother-in-law while the senior priest was also a good friend of his and as such he made the eulogy far more personal than these things sometimes are - he was, after all, mourning a friend as well as giving a parishioner his last services.
But he’s out of it all now - regardless of which spiritual belief system (if any) that anyone follows he is now free of the pain he was in. And the doctors and the support of his family - not to mention his own strength (and that damned stubborness, which I think I get from him) - he had more years than we thought; four years ago or so when it was first diagnosed he was so ill we thought we’d lose him within a few months at the most. Instead he enjoyed four more years and for most of that was fit enough to make the most of them, including making his golden wedding anniversary and to see his brother become a grandfather for the first time only a few weeks ago.
And I got to see more of some of my family members than I have in ages (sad, as you get older that sometimes you only see some folk at funerals and weddings), including my uncle who made the trip over from Canada to bury his brother and stayed over for a couple of nights with my mum and dad back home. I’m not five anymore and know that a hug from your mum can’t make everything better anymore, but it certainly still helps. Okay, maybe that’s a little slushy, but I don’t give a damn, we’re a touchy-feely family for the most part and even the most cynical of us knows deep down that a good hug from your folks is one of the best things in the world, whatever age you reach.
Our family and friends had the sad task of saying goodbye to my Uncle Ted this weekend. On Friday evening his body was moved to the chapel where he worshipped for years and worked in a variety of groups and movement to help other parishioners out. A great many of them turned out to pray for him at the requiem mass and on the following morning for the actual funeral service. In fact there were so many people there taking communion or a blessing after the service we were late getting to the cemetery; he was a well-loved man and it was uplifting to see how many people outside of our family came along.
In a bitter twist the requiem on Friday the 13th (of all days) fell on the day which would have been the Comrade’s 74th birthday. It was pretty emotional as you can imagine; for a moment I was going to have to step in as one of the bearers as another bearer was held up, but thankfully he arrived just in time. Naturally I agreed right away when my aunt asked me if I would step in, but I was also relieved not to have to do it as it was emotional enough already.
I was, however, one of the cord holders at the actual burial, the first time I’ve ever had that sad, final duty. I couldn’t say no, but it was one of the hardest duties I’ve ever had to perform. Obviously the professionals there have the large straps to properly lower the casket, the role of the cord holders is ceremonial. But if means that I was standing there right over the plot and I helped to lower my dear uncle down into that deep, damp hole. That really hammered home the finality of it all as I let the black rope slip through my fingers and watched his casket sink deeper and deeper. I know that what’s in there isn’t really him - the thing which made him the person we love has gone from that vessel - but its still damned hard to do.
It breaks me up even a few days later just thinking about it, the image of the wooden casket with his name on brass retreating into the earth. It was onerous but I felt I had to do it for him; many years ago my uncle asked me to do this when we buried my papa, his father. That was the first time I had been old enough to go the graveside part of the service and I was too young to handle it and had to say no. This time I carried it out for him, but I was so relieved to get back to stand with my mum and dad as soon as it was done. Still, hard as it was to do, it did give me a sense of closure.
The awful weather of the last week lifted for us on the day of the funeral and we had a crisp, cold, clear sunrise coming in through the stained glass of the chapel early in the morning; a huge full moon still hung over the Campsie Hills when I woke up at my parents. Naturally more than a few of us joked that with all the work he did for the parish the Comrade’s connections upstairs had arranged a decent bit of weather for the day. He never lost his faith even to the end; we never argued over this sort of thing, he knew I didn’t believe and he did but we both knew everyone has to take their own path and left it at that. I almost envy him the strength of his belief and, much as I personally dislike religion, I know it was a huge strength to him. There were three priests carrying out the services, including a rosary at the grave, which I’m told is unusual. One priest was his brother-in-law while the senior priest was also a good friend of his and as such he made the eulogy far more personal than these things sometimes are - he was, after all, mourning a friend as well as giving a parishioner his last services.
But he’s out of it all now - regardless of which spiritual belief system (if any) that anyone follows he is now free of the pain he was in. And the doctors and the support of his family - not to mention his own strength (and that damned stubborness, which I think I get from him) - he had more years than we thought; four years ago or so when it was first diagnosed he was so ill we thought we’d lose him within a few months at the most. Instead he enjoyed four more years and for most of that was fit enough to make the most of them, including making his golden wedding anniversary and to see his brother become a grandfather for the first time only a few weeks ago.
And I got to see more of some of my family members than I have in ages (sad, as you get older that sometimes you only see some folk at funerals and weddings), including my uncle who made the trip over from Canada to bury his brother and stayed over for a couple of nights with my mum and dad back home. I’m not five anymore and know that a hug from your mum can’t make everything better anymore, but it certainly still helps. Okay, maybe that’s a little slushy, but I don’t give a damn, we’re a touchy-feely family for the most part and even the most cynical of us knows deep down that a good hug from your folks is one of the best things in the world, whatever age you reach.
Sunday, January 8, 2006
The phone call comes
The phone call I’ve been dreading but expecting for the last couple of weeks finally came late on Thursday night when my mum called me to let me know the Comrade had only just slipped away from us. I think hearing the tears in my mother’s voice was hurt almost as much as losing this wonderful uncle. When Mel and I lost our little furry Zag last summer it was a sudden shock; this was expected any day, bearing down with a grim inevitability on our family. Being expected rather than a sudden shock didn’t make a damned bit of difference though, as any of you who have been in similar circumstances will know.
I did go to work on the Friday; I felt gutted but to be honest I needed to keep myself occupied rather than dwelling on something I couldn’t change and if I went home I’d only be in the way as preparations are being made, so instead I got my head down and kept busy. My colleagues were very sympathetic and kind, with my boss telling me to go home if I needed to and just to let him know what days I needed off and so on, which I greatly appreciated. Mostly I got through the day alright, although a call from my mum to see how I was doing almost set me off. I had a very nice surprise though in the shape of a gift arriving from the States from Jeff and Ann VanderMeer, a delicious batch of Ann’s Bourbon Balls - it was a lovely gesture from a fabulous writer and they way the timing worked out was perfect because it gave me a little much-needed lift when I really needed it, as I tried to face the world that morning.
Towards the end of the day though I started to feel it overwhelming me. There’s a line in my favourite film, Cyrano de Bergerac, towards the end, where he feels as if he is shod in marble, gloved in lead. I felt that way by late afternoon, as if someone were draping cloaks of lead around my shoulders; I felt slower and slower, heavier and heavier and everything seemed more remote. When I got home I just curled up with my little portly pussycats and let it out while they snuggled up next to me and soothed me with their purrs. I’d like to think they were looking after me, but know full well that cats are mercenary and were more than likely taking advantage of a chance to curl up against me for tummy tickles and attention in a warm spot.
Mel had just returned from a business trip to London and offered to come right round, but at the time I needed a few hours just to let it out when I felt like it. Once I’d indulged myself this way I felt a lot lighter, so round she came and we settled down for the evening to talk and watch some movies. I went to open some wine and found the bottle my uncle and aunt had given me for Christmas, a lovely 1996 Rioja (where did my aunt get the time to buy presents with all that was happening???) - it seemed like a very appropriate time to uncork this bottle and enjoy it. I opened it just before Mel arrived and toasted the Comrade with the first sip.
Mel has been great at keeping my spirits up - not dragging me out to do things, but making sure she knew she was there to sit with me or take me out for some distraction and so we did go out on Saturday to my old second home of the Filmhouse to enjoy some distraction in the shape of the beautiful Japanese film Hidden Blade (from the maker of Twilight Samurai), a slow but gorgeously crafted work which made me feel much better and certainly beat the hell out of sitting at home and feeling miserable. Mel also volunteered to come through with me to the funeral, which is just one of the reasons that I think she is such a wonderful person.
Today I feel not too bad - relatively speaking of course - but the coming week will be quite emotional because we have the service and funeral to get through. Being a Catholic ceremony the Comrade’s body will lie in the chapel which he spent so much time in for the evening before the burial. Next Saturday was the earliest we were able to arrange. Its not going to be easy to say goodbye to someone who was such a big presence in my life, for the whole of my life; he’s been there for as long as I can remember, tall, strong, intelligent and caring and despite knowing what was coming it is still hard to come to terms with the fact that he isn’t there anymore; the finality of it.
And it’s not just losing him; events like this raise that spectre of mortality that we all are aware of but leave in the back of our minds for most of the time. It makes you wonder how long you have with the different people you love and the awful knowledge that such time is finite. We all know that is the case, but we don’t think about it too much and, let’s be honest, we shouldn’t. What will happen will happen and dwelling on such thoughts all the time only means that we fail to live that time and enjoy those people who matter as best we can while we have one another.
In many ways that is what funeral service are for - not just to honour the beloved dead but for those who remain; it is a way of saying goodbye and coming to an emotional understanding that they are gone and we go on, like cauterising a wound. It doesn’t mean you never think about them again - they will always be a part of you after all - but it does mark an emotional turning point. Like Neil has Morpheus say to his son Orpheus in the Sandman when he loses his wife, you’re mortal - you need to grieve, you need to say goodbye and then you need to go on with living. Not easy to do, but good advice nonetheless. Perhaps it is also the last thing you can do for those you loved and lost - you go on and live your life, the thing they would most want you to do.
2005 was the tenth anniversary of my graduation and in the last few days I kept thinking on the Comrade when he came to the ceremony. We were allowed to bring three people, so I had my mum and dad of course and the other person I wanted most in the world to be there was the Comrade, who was delighted to come along and I loved the pride in his face when I received my honours degree. He never made it to college himself, although he was a very intelligent man - he and I enjoyed many good debates and conversations over the years and I have his stubborn streak which means I stick to my guns when I know I am right; naturally I am almost always right J. He beamed when I refused to stand for God Save the Queen at the graduation ceremony (I don’t acknowledge anyone to be mine or anyone else’s superior, besides the second verse is anti-Scottish) and he was a great strength to me this time last year when I faced down my former employers. As a good left winger he was delighted to see my union supporting me so well and the support I had from so many folk warmed his heart as much as it did mine.
University wasn’t really an option for most working class men of his generation, but he made sure it was for his children. Today with so many people going to college it may not sound such a huge deal, but believe me for the working class son of mining stock to get several of his children to university was an enormous deal and I know he was proud to see me go as well. I held off going to college until my mid twenties; when I did the Comrade started giving my mum ‘pocket money’ for me again, like he did when I was a boy, so whenever I came home there would be a little bit of dosh there for me to enjoy a few beers in the Union with - that was the sort of little kindnesses he would do. It doesn’t feel right to know that he’s just not there anymore and that I’ve had my final conversation with him.
But at least I got to see him several times in the last few weeks and we talked and, more importantly, we laughed. My aunt could hear us guffawing from the upstairs bedroom as my dad, the Comrade and I shared some jokes and reminiscences. I still believe laughter is right up there with love as our defence against the world’s worst aspects. And in our family we balance this awful loss with a recent arrival as my wee cousin in Canada had her first child, while my other wee cousin and his new wife are eating for two as we speak, another new entry to the family due in the spring. And with the treatment he got and the support of his family the Comrade survived several years more than we first thought likely; he got to see grandchildren turn into great grandchildren and was still fit enough to not only reach but to enjoy his Golden Wedding anniversary last summer.
I’m normally not bad with words, but I am going to miss him more than I can express, I just can‘t shape the words to articulate it. Everyone in your life is like part of the jigsaw of your existence; some are background characters, some are major parts in the centre while others somehow manage to be major jigsaw piece in the middle while also being edge pieces, the parts that define the shape and parameters of the jigsaw or mosaic of your life. The Comrade was one of those special people who fulfilled both roles for me. It’s very hard to write this right now, I can feel the emotions bubbling up as I do, but it is even harder not to write about it, so I hope you’ll forgive my indulgence.
The phone call I’ve been dreading but expecting for the last couple of weeks finally came late on Thursday night when my mum called me to let me know the Comrade had only just slipped away from us. I think hearing the tears in my mother’s voice was hurt almost as much as losing this wonderful uncle. When Mel and I lost our little furry Zag last summer it was a sudden shock; this was expected any day, bearing down with a grim inevitability on our family. Being expected rather than a sudden shock didn’t make a damned bit of difference though, as any of you who have been in similar circumstances will know.
I did go to work on the Friday; I felt gutted but to be honest I needed to keep myself occupied rather than dwelling on something I couldn’t change and if I went home I’d only be in the way as preparations are being made, so instead I got my head down and kept busy. My colleagues were very sympathetic and kind, with my boss telling me to go home if I needed to and just to let him know what days I needed off and so on, which I greatly appreciated. Mostly I got through the day alright, although a call from my mum to see how I was doing almost set me off. I had a very nice surprise though in the shape of a gift arriving from the States from Jeff and Ann VanderMeer, a delicious batch of Ann’s Bourbon Balls - it was a lovely gesture from a fabulous writer and they way the timing worked out was perfect because it gave me a little much-needed lift when I really needed it, as I tried to face the world that morning.
Towards the end of the day though I started to feel it overwhelming me. There’s a line in my favourite film, Cyrano de Bergerac, towards the end, where he feels as if he is shod in marble, gloved in lead. I felt that way by late afternoon, as if someone were draping cloaks of lead around my shoulders; I felt slower and slower, heavier and heavier and everything seemed more remote. When I got home I just curled up with my little portly pussycats and let it out while they snuggled up next to me and soothed me with their purrs. I’d like to think they were looking after me, but know full well that cats are mercenary and were more than likely taking advantage of a chance to curl up against me for tummy tickles and attention in a warm spot.
Mel had just returned from a business trip to London and offered to come right round, but at the time I needed a few hours just to let it out when I felt like it. Once I’d indulged myself this way I felt a lot lighter, so round she came and we settled down for the evening to talk and watch some movies. I went to open some wine and found the bottle my uncle and aunt had given me for Christmas, a lovely 1996 Rioja (where did my aunt get the time to buy presents with all that was happening???) - it seemed like a very appropriate time to uncork this bottle and enjoy it. I opened it just before Mel arrived and toasted the Comrade with the first sip.
Mel has been great at keeping my spirits up - not dragging me out to do things, but making sure she knew she was there to sit with me or take me out for some distraction and so we did go out on Saturday to my old second home of the Filmhouse to enjoy some distraction in the shape of the beautiful Japanese film Hidden Blade (from the maker of Twilight Samurai), a slow but gorgeously crafted work which made me feel much better and certainly beat the hell out of sitting at home and feeling miserable. Mel also volunteered to come through with me to the funeral, which is just one of the reasons that I think she is such a wonderful person.
Today I feel not too bad - relatively speaking of course - but the coming week will be quite emotional because we have the service and funeral to get through. Being a Catholic ceremony the Comrade’s body will lie in the chapel which he spent so much time in for the evening before the burial. Next Saturday was the earliest we were able to arrange. Its not going to be easy to say goodbye to someone who was such a big presence in my life, for the whole of my life; he’s been there for as long as I can remember, tall, strong, intelligent and caring and despite knowing what was coming it is still hard to come to terms with the fact that he isn’t there anymore; the finality of it.
And it’s not just losing him; events like this raise that spectre of mortality that we all are aware of but leave in the back of our minds for most of the time. It makes you wonder how long you have with the different people you love and the awful knowledge that such time is finite. We all know that is the case, but we don’t think about it too much and, let’s be honest, we shouldn’t. What will happen will happen and dwelling on such thoughts all the time only means that we fail to live that time and enjoy those people who matter as best we can while we have one another.
In many ways that is what funeral service are for - not just to honour the beloved dead but for those who remain; it is a way of saying goodbye and coming to an emotional understanding that they are gone and we go on, like cauterising a wound. It doesn’t mean you never think about them again - they will always be a part of you after all - but it does mark an emotional turning point. Like Neil has Morpheus say to his son Orpheus in the Sandman when he loses his wife, you’re mortal - you need to grieve, you need to say goodbye and then you need to go on with living. Not easy to do, but good advice nonetheless. Perhaps it is also the last thing you can do for those you loved and lost - you go on and live your life, the thing they would most want you to do.
2005 was the tenth anniversary of my graduation and in the last few days I kept thinking on the Comrade when he came to the ceremony. We were allowed to bring three people, so I had my mum and dad of course and the other person I wanted most in the world to be there was the Comrade, who was delighted to come along and I loved the pride in his face when I received my honours degree. He never made it to college himself, although he was a very intelligent man - he and I enjoyed many good debates and conversations over the years and I have his stubborn streak which means I stick to my guns when I know I am right; naturally I am almost always right J. He beamed when I refused to stand for God Save the Queen at the graduation ceremony (I don’t acknowledge anyone to be mine or anyone else’s superior, besides the second verse is anti-Scottish) and he was a great strength to me this time last year when I faced down my former employers. As a good left winger he was delighted to see my union supporting me so well and the support I had from so many folk warmed his heart as much as it did mine.
University wasn’t really an option for most working class men of his generation, but he made sure it was for his children. Today with so many people going to college it may not sound such a huge deal, but believe me for the working class son of mining stock to get several of his children to university was an enormous deal and I know he was proud to see me go as well. I held off going to college until my mid twenties; when I did the Comrade started giving my mum ‘pocket money’ for me again, like he did when I was a boy, so whenever I came home there would be a little bit of dosh there for me to enjoy a few beers in the Union with - that was the sort of little kindnesses he would do. It doesn’t feel right to know that he’s just not there anymore and that I’ve had my final conversation with him.
But at least I got to see him several times in the last few weeks and we talked and, more importantly, we laughed. My aunt could hear us guffawing from the upstairs bedroom as my dad, the Comrade and I shared some jokes and reminiscences. I still believe laughter is right up there with love as our defence against the world’s worst aspects. And in our family we balance this awful loss with a recent arrival as my wee cousin in Canada had her first child, while my other wee cousin and his new wife are eating for two as we speak, another new entry to the family due in the spring. And with the treatment he got and the support of his family the Comrade survived several years more than we first thought likely; he got to see grandchildren turn into great grandchildren and was still fit enough to not only reach but to enjoy his Golden Wedding anniversary last summer.
I’m normally not bad with words, but I am going to miss him more than I can express, I just can‘t shape the words to articulate it. Everyone in your life is like part of the jigsaw of your existence; some are background characters, some are major parts in the centre while others somehow manage to be major jigsaw piece in the middle while also being edge pieces, the parts that define the shape and parameters of the jigsaw or mosaic of your life. The Comrade was one of those special people who fulfilled both roles for me. It’s very hard to write this right now, I can feel the emotions bubbling up as I do, but it is even harder not to write about it, so I hope you’ll forgive my indulgence.
Thursday, January 5, 2006
Ups and downs
I'm keeping myself distracted with my usual sources of inspiration and escape, movies and my books to stop myself from dwelling on things right now; really I'm waiting on a call from home that I don't want to take. But I can't stand the lingering limbo my uncle is in now either. My mum told me last night on the phone how poorly he now was; I think she's trying her best to prepare me for it. I know its coming and she doesn't really need to, but the fact that she tries, even when she is nursing her terminally ill big brother (who now looks so like his and my mother's father, my papa, it must make it even harder since she nursed him too) makes me love her so much more.
If I dwell on it I can feel myself ready to buckle, the emotions running so close to the surface, like a river in winter, flowing fast under a seemingly still, frozen surface. So once more my books come to my rescue, a literary landscape composed soley of letters sculpted into every shape, but in little quiet moments you can feel the ice cracking and splintering, the frozen river pushing its way out. I felt it the other morning sitting on the bus on the way to work, not really taking in the book in my hand. It was a very cold morning with freezing fog swirling around Edinburgh; the slowly rising sun wasn't visible directly, but the fog around the great mass of the Castle was glowing with a diffuse amber light.
Then the bus turned over North Bridge, giving me a view west over the Gardens towards the Castle, the mist lying in the valley of the Gardens and east, out to the Forth and the magnificent view of Arthur's Seat, a huge extinct volcano right here in our city and the spot where Hutton examined the rocks and started to lay down the rules of the science we now know as geology centuries past. Arthur's Seat looks magnificent in all weathers, but this morning it looked remarkable. The pale, low, midwinter sunrise struck the crags, turning the cold stone a warm copper, while between the heights the mist had sunk, curling around lower rocks and outcrops and pouring out into the small loch at the base by the Palace like a living creature. It was as if the rocks were breathing and this twisting, low-lying mist was its exhalation, showing sharp in the cold air just as my own breath did. For a little moment I saw magic and beauty in the cold, winter dawn. No one else seemed to lift their heads to look out from the bus and it felt as if the spirit of the rocks had put on a beautiful show just for me.
I'm keeping myself distracted with my usual sources of inspiration and escape, movies and my books to stop myself from dwelling on things right now; really I'm waiting on a call from home that I don't want to take. But I can't stand the lingering limbo my uncle is in now either. My mum told me last night on the phone how poorly he now was; I think she's trying her best to prepare me for it. I know its coming and she doesn't really need to, but the fact that she tries, even when she is nursing her terminally ill big brother (who now looks so like his and my mother's father, my papa, it must make it even harder since she nursed him too) makes me love her so much more.
If I dwell on it I can feel myself ready to buckle, the emotions running so close to the surface, like a river in winter, flowing fast under a seemingly still, frozen surface. So once more my books come to my rescue, a literary landscape composed soley of letters sculpted into every shape, but in little quiet moments you can feel the ice cracking and splintering, the frozen river pushing its way out. I felt it the other morning sitting on the bus on the way to work, not really taking in the book in my hand. It was a very cold morning with freezing fog swirling around Edinburgh; the slowly rising sun wasn't visible directly, but the fog around the great mass of the Castle was glowing with a diffuse amber light.
Then the bus turned over North Bridge, giving me a view west over the Gardens towards the Castle, the mist lying in the valley of the Gardens and east, out to the Forth and the magnificent view of Arthur's Seat, a huge extinct volcano right here in our city and the spot where Hutton examined the rocks and started to lay down the rules of the science we now know as geology centuries past. Arthur's Seat looks magnificent in all weathers, but this morning it looked remarkable. The pale, low, midwinter sunrise struck the crags, turning the cold stone a warm copper, while between the heights the mist had sunk, curling around lower rocks and outcrops and pouring out into the small loch at the base by the Palace like a living creature. It was as if the rocks were breathing and this twisting, low-lying mist was its exhalation, showing sharp in the cold air just as my own breath did. For a little moment I saw magic and beauty in the cold, winter dawn. No one else seemed to lift their heads to look out from the bus and it felt as if the spirit of the rocks had put on a beautiful show just for me.
Monday, January 2, 2006
Rock and Roll
There's been a ton of stuff online about nasty copy protection mechanisms by various manufacturers, from Tivo-type stuff controlling what you can record to the farce that was Sony's secret use of software on many of their CDs which then installed to purchaser's computers wihtout their knowledge (and a grudgingly issued un-install they offered which left those computers more vulnerable to internet attack than a new Windows OS). The latest to act like complete numpties are Coldplay, doing their best to show how truly rock and roll their attitude is (and even better, according to Boing Boing's article, you can't read these warning terms until you buy the damned CD!). Coldplay? Don't play it, I say.
There's been a ton of stuff online about nasty copy protection mechanisms by various manufacturers, from Tivo-type stuff controlling what you can record to the farce that was Sony's secret use of software on many of their CDs which then installed to purchaser's computers wihtout their knowledge (and a grudgingly issued un-install they offered which left those computers more vulnerable to internet attack than a new Windows OS). The latest to act like complete numpties are Coldplay, doing their best to show how truly rock and roll their attitude is (and even better, according to Boing Boing's article, you can't read these warning terms until you buy the damned CD!). Coldplay? Don't play it, I say.
Remake
Okay, time for a total subject change: movie remakes, good and bad. I was gagging to see Peter Jackson’s take on King Kong and managed to squeeze it in before Christmas. Boy, what a King-sized disappointment… Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that KK is bad as such; it is just that the running time is of a similar size to the ape himself. 3 hours is fine for a chapter of the Lord of the Rings saga, but King Kong is a pretty darn simple tale and in no way requires 3 hours to tell. In fact, stretching it so far hurts the movie terribly.
To be fair, I don’t mind Pete adding a bit of running time over the original (which is one of the finest monster movies ever made) to add some more story and characterisation. Except the extra time did little to add to the story and the characters are still pretty much one-dimensional, so why all that extra screen time? Even the action scenes lost me after a while; giant ape fighting a T-Rex, brilliant! Oh, a couple more T-Rexs joining in the fight, how cool is this. Several minutes later, oh look, he’s still fighting them… Now looking at my watch and wondering if Dominoes will deliver me a pizza to the third row of the auditorium and why I didn't bring a book with me.
This isn’t a backlash against PJ however - heck, I was watching his movies right back in his fun-filled splatter punk days when only a select few of us knew who he was. But this project smacks of sheer indulgence; I know how much he loves the original, but he badly needed someone with the courage to tell an Oscar winning director, hold on, this is getting stupidly long, you need to tighten up your editing here before you head for an Anne Rice like indulgence.
The shame is that bits of the film are great - the opening scenes of New York in the 30s cleverly mix the glamour of the City That Never Sleeps, bright lights and all with the reality of the Depression and men queuing for food at the soup kitchen in the Bowery. Kong is wonderfully realised and a very believable character (but then so was the original even with those early effects) and the climactic scene fighting the biplanes on the Empire State Building is superb (as it needed to be, given the original scene is such a classic of cinema).
Also nice to see him stick with the 30s setting, using many of the original movie’s lines and even having the scene with the giant insects in the ravine (after Kong shakes the sailors off the log) which was, famously, a scene in the original version which was removed by the studio before public screening and the footage never found again to restore. Shame some of the other effects clearly were not finished in time for the release (a few scenes are very poor) and a real shame PJ let himself get so carried away. Hal Duncan had a similar reaction to me on the running time.
And so the other night to another remake, in this case Mel Brooks and The Producers. Now with Kong I was desperate to see it, with the Producers I was rather wary - why is anyone remaking this comedy classic? Knowing Mel was involved I decided to go along anyway - besides I’ve never seen the original on the big screen and so this was my chance to see Springtime for Hitler on a cinema screen as opposed to TV.
As you may know the new film draws on Mel’s hit theatrical musical version, so actually in many ways is less of a remake and more a movie of a new interpretation. The story of a crooked agent corrupting a naive and boring accountant into a scheme to make money by staging a flop show and scampering off with the backer’s money remains the same. However, this version is staged (bad pun intended) as a musical throughout, right from the start as we see the audience from the musical version of Hamlet singing their reviews.
The acting, lighting and set design is all deliberately crafted to give the effect of a stage musical (and a golden era musical at that) - there is no attempt at realism, this is a musical comedy about making a musical, striking a very different tone from the original and for me it worked and I laughed all the way through - and barely restrained myself from joining in on Springtime for Hitler. Oh and then there was Uma Thurman and the continual use of her luscious, long, loooonnnnnnggggg, legs…. In stockings and suspenders… Ooohhhhhhh….. I wasn’t in the mood for much on my birthday/New Year’s Eve, but ended up having a rather dull time instead of just a quiet time, so when I ventured out on the first day of the New Year next day The Producers really cheered me up. Especially Uma’s astonishing legs.
Okay, time for a total subject change: movie remakes, good and bad. I was gagging to see Peter Jackson’s take on King Kong and managed to squeeze it in before Christmas. Boy, what a King-sized disappointment… Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that KK is bad as such; it is just that the running time is of a similar size to the ape himself. 3 hours is fine for a chapter of the Lord of the Rings saga, but King Kong is a pretty darn simple tale and in no way requires 3 hours to tell. In fact, stretching it so far hurts the movie terribly.
To be fair, I don’t mind Pete adding a bit of running time over the original (which is one of the finest monster movies ever made) to add some more story and characterisation. Except the extra time did little to add to the story and the characters are still pretty much one-dimensional, so why all that extra screen time? Even the action scenes lost me after a while; giant ape fighting a T-Rex, brilliant! Oh, a couple more T-Rexs joining in the fight, how cool is this. Several minutes later, oh look, he’s still fighting them… Now looking at my watch and wondering if Dominoes will deliver me a pizza to the third row of the auditorium and why I didn't bring a book with me.
This isn’t a backlash against PJ however - heck, I was watching his movies right back in his fun-filled splatter punk days when only a select few of us knew who he was. But this project smacks of sheer indulgence; I know how much he loves the original, but he badly needed someone with the courage to tell an Oscar winning director, hold on, this is getting stupidly long, you need to tighten up your editing here before you head for an Anne Rice like indulgence.
The shame is that bits of the film are great - the opening scenes of New York in the 30s cleverly mix the glamour of the City That Never Sleeps, bright lights and all with the reality of the Depression and men queuing for food at the soup kitchen in the Bowery. Kong is wonderfully realised and a very believable character (but then so was the original even with those early effects) and the climactic scene fighting the biplanes on the Empire State Building is superb (as it needed to be, given the original scene is such a classic of cinema).
Also nice to see him stick with the 30s setting, using many of the original movie’s lines and even having the scene with the giant insects in the ravine (after Kong shakes the sailors off the log) which was, famously, a scene in the original version which was removed by the studio before public screening and the footage never found again to restore. Shame some of the other effects clearly were not finished in time for the release (a few scenes are very poor) and a real shame PJ let himself get so carried away. Hal Duncan had a similar reaction to me on the running time.
And so the other night to another remake, in this case Mel Brooks and The Producers. Now with Kong I was desperate to see it, with the Producers I was rather wary - why is anyone remaking this comedy classic? Knowing Mel was involved I decided to go along anyway - besides I’ve never seen the original on the big screen and so this was my chance to see Springtime for Hitler on a cinema screen as opposed to TV.
As you may know the new film draws on Mel’s hit theatrical musical version, so actually in many ways is less of a remake and more a movie of a new interpretation. The story of a crooked agent corrupting a naive and boring accountant into a scheme to make money by staging a flop show and scampering off with the backer’s money remains the same. However, this version is staged (bad pun intended) as a musical throughout, right from the start as we see the audience from the musical version of Hamlet singing their reviews.
The acting, lighting and set design is all deliberately crafted to give the effect of a stage musical (and a golden era musical at that) - there is no attempt at realism, this is a musical comedy about making a musical, striking a very different tone from the original and for me it worked and I laughed all the way through - and barely restrained myself from joining in on Springtime for Hitler. Oh and then there was Uma Thurman and the continual use of her luscious, long, loooonnnnnnggggg, legs…. In stockings and suspenders… Ooohhhhhhh….. I wasn’t in the mood for much on my birthday/New Year’s Eve, but ended up having a rather dull time instead of just a quiet time, so when I ventured out on the first day of the New Year next day The Producers really cheered me up. Especially Uma’s astonishing legs.
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