Oh-ho for the open road

Lorry drivers are dominated by tachographs, electronic recorders which prevent them from exceeding the legal limits for stints at the wheel.

At night laybys on busy roads are often choked with these silent juggernauts as their masters microwave themselves meals, watch telly, perform their ablutions (?) and slumber, their lives often obscured by prissy little curtains. It's difficult to imagine a more unhealthy life. Once, to illustrate an article on ergonomics, I instructed an artist to design a front page showing a driver becoming part of  his forklift. The artwork was a failure but I should have thought laterally. Many HGV drivers resemble their Dafs, Ivecos and Scanias:  heavily loaded, noisy, assertive.

Drivers are said to enjoy their freedom and the romance of long distances - greeting the dawn in Frankfurt, bedding down in Istanbul. But one motorway is very much like another and HGV parks are always irredeemably squalid.

There are diversions.VR's nephew-by-marriage was a lorry driver and woke up to hear his vehicle being broken into. He locked the cab, worked the ignition and drove away. You can't do that with a house.

JOE'S NUDGE
Lines for scrutiny:

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst.

Reasons why not. One goodish line followed by three which show you how not to do it. "Fast thick pants" irresistibly suggests kid's winter clothing, "momently" didn't deserve, or need, to be invented, nor did "half-intermitted". I have to confess I would never have guessed the quatrain's origins if I hadn't seen the first line.

Coleridge. Kubla Khan

Now worth eating

I sat on the sofa, pleasantly knackered after providing some minor service for my helpmeet. The door opened and I was handed a deliciously smelling plate: a couple of cooked chicken livers transfixed with toothpicks. Ah...

Quickly they were a memory, a memory that resonates. Chicken has been a barometer of gustatory wellbeing for me over the years. Immediately after the war it was an unimaginable luxury, appearing once a year only at Christmas. Turkey? Only aristocrats and black-market criminals ate that.

For ten years chicken retained its luxury status but then came the cheap, battery-reared corpse and my interest waned. "Food for invalids," I told my ma-in-law.

Chicken staged a small comeback in the USA when a KFC bucket, accompanied by a $5 jug of beer, formed an epilogue to evenings spent watching the Pittsburgh Jugoslav Club play softball. Back in the UK the pap continued.

I was re-converted in France by a Poulet de Bresse which cost many euros. I realised flavour is available but it doesn’t come with a Tesco Value label. It costs. That aforementioned evening we ate the livers' surroundings, roasted, and VR let me strip the skin off the remainder and chew. Barometer now set Fair.

JOE'S NUDGE
Poetry extract, chosen not knowing the author, honouring Joe Hyam.

I wish I were a
Elephantiaphus
And I could pick off the coconuts with my nose,
But, oh, I am not,
..........
But I'm a cockroach
And I'm a waterbug,
I can crawl around and hide behind the sink.

Reasons why. Two good, if conflicting, rules; be unexpected (nose instead of trunk), be straightforward if it elaborates the line (behind the sink). And grab attention - here by mispronouncing elephant. A child speaking?

Anon. (Hey, I was fooled too.)

Gluck said it better*

Tone Deaf has been extravagantly praised (qv) and must adopt a higher tone. Today's text is: What is life?

Amazing how careless we are with life. No sense of nurture. We drink ardent spirits, over-eat, read trash, loll mindlessly, pursue ignoble aims, revel in materialism. ignore what little talent we have, misuse our sex drive, sneer, cavil, avoid intellectual difficulty, dress badly and pay no attention to our posture.

Only the possibility of losing our life urges an improvement. Satan beckons: "There's more of all that down below," he says. Or rather we receive the invitation from his modern-day prophet: cross-dressing, epicene George Osborne, smirkingly.

I've swum against the tide: jogged before work, eschewed chips, tried Joseph Conrad, dropped a pound into a beggar's hand, listened (briefly) to Messiaen's Les Oiseaux. But never simultaneously.

I arrived with the moral equivalent of a million pounds. Not only has this benison not earned any interest, the capital sum has been eroded. I am down to my last ten-thousand pounds of good-will and a chill wind threatens my loins.

What is life? It's an opportunity to make the best of it and I cannot pretend I've come close. Worse still, I might have used up what I inherited in a spectacular and memorable gesture of evil. Instead I've allowed it to dribble away. Wasted it. Born in the West Riding of Yorkshire and imbued with all the mean-spirited parsimony that such a birth entails, I have nevertheless been profligate. To the point where even Tykes would disdain me.

And there’s one other thing. What is life? Was I ever equipped to answer that question? Doubt it. Better luck to the rest of you.

* How did Gluck do it better? Click here.

The misdirected cane

At my school pupils were caned regularly and for no good reason. The prospect terrified me and during these sessions (once because my feet were bigger than the geography master's) I was often close to screaming out. I am not ashamed. It seemed the obvious reaction.

Two fat boys in my class were caned over and over for being fat. Yet they adopted a philosophical attitude, bearing the pain with fortitude, smiling afterwards, even joking with the caning master.

I didn't like the fat boys (perhaps because they were fat; I was just as prejudiced as the sadists squiring our intellects) but I envied the way they compartmentalised pain. Now I'm not so sure.

It's Easter Day which reminds us of the infliction of suffering by those in authority. Those floggings over sixty years ago were frequently unfair. Should one remain stoic in the face of injustice? More particularly, might one be shaped in later life by such light-heartedness?

I believe my reaction was healthier. At least, it led (I think) to a lifelong detestation of the death penalty. Thanks chaps.

JOE'S NUDGE
From The Poet's Tongue (ed. Auden, Garret), celebrating the life of Joe Hyam, poetry lover and friend.

Gup, Scot,
Laudate,
Caudate,
Set in better
Thy pentameter,
This Dundas,
This Scottish as,
He rymes and railes,
That Englishmen have tailes.

Reasons why. The English persecuted the Scots; here’s a yah-boo. Googling: laudate - "Oh praise...", caudate - "Having a tail-like appendage...",  gup - reproof, derision, remonstrance, Dundas - a Scottish surname.

Is it poetry? Definitely. On the basis of "Set in better/Thy pentameter." alone. Rough translation: Don't bother with Latin pretentious Scot, say it straight out, the English are devils. Cleverclogs. Seven out of ten. 

John Skelton (c. 1460 – 1529)

Magic BM revisited

It used to be a magic moment. Released from the Hell that was Sunday-morning check-in at Gatwick during the ski-ing season, I would fetch up at the bar and order a Bloody Mary. Sipping, I told myself, I am finally en route for the slopes.

Ski-ing is now only a faint memory but not the liberating taste of that cocktail. Would a BM similarly liberate VR? It seemed it would.

We had to have two, of course, to adjust the amounts. More tomato juice and much less celery salt, said VR. Less Tabasco (that tiny little chap) for me; uxorially I also turned up the wick on tomato.

Still it wasn't right. Now VR wanted more Lea & Perrins  and I'd overdone the tomato. Nevertheless, we were content. The perfect Bloody Mary could wait for tomorrow (ie, today). And here I am in my shirt sleeves at the computer; outside there's a strong sun and a bit of a nip. The garden chairs and table will need disrobing so there'll be additional symbolism at work.

Too nippy? Why do you think vodka was invented in the first place?

JOE'S NUDGE
Tone Deaf's tribute to Joe Hyam, poetry lover and friend.

But bright Cecilia's rais'd the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard and straight appear'd,
Mistaking Earth for heaven.

The reason why. No more comment on what you can't see; only what you can. The title is Song For St Cecilia's Day, you get that. St Cecilia is patroness of musicians.

The last two lines are a neat conceit. "Organ vocal breath" tries hard, but it’s “voice" in drag. "Bright" only makes the line scan; "was given" seems unresolved. Doggerel? Yes, but redeemed by that compact last line. 

John Dryden.

The way to enlightenment

Walking to the filling station for The Guardian takes 7 min - is it worth a post? The sun... Nah! Never the weather!

Nobody's abroad. Brian's trolley for delivering free-sheets is empty, its job done for the week. Brian is my age yet walks with lunging, impatient strides, does the Brecon Beacons. But he's not a patch on Mrs Meerkat, three doors down, whose stride is half Brian's but three times the frequency. Her tiny feet a blur, she only says Hello when I'm with VR.

From Dorchester into Stanbury past two vital symbols - the postbox and the bus-stop - then the portico house occupied by the soft-voiced farmer. In his eighties he dozed at the wheel, knocked over cones and lost his licence. When we meet he’s philosophical but l can't do without a car. Just can't.

Smaller houses in Chichester make a low black Audi look sinister – its down-curling LED headlights like the eyes of a dozing cat. There's drug-dealing half a mile away on the other estate; is the Audi a creeping manifestation? A plump, twentyish woman walks toward me, her face studiously fixed. No Good Morning. Shy, obviously; she’s gender-entitled.

I'm in luck: three Guardians. No need to visit the main store.

JOE'S NUDGE

Taste poetry here in honour of Joe Hyam.

Do you remember an Inn?

And the tedding and the spreading

Of the straw for a bedding

And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,

And the wine that tasted of the tar?

Reasons why. Odd-length lines in a rhythmic triumph. Recite it aloud, puh-lease. Comic, vivid ("Of the girl gone chancing/Glancing/Dancing") yet serious too (“In the walls of the Halls where falls/The tread/Of the feet of the dead to the ground”)

Tarantella. Hilaire Belloc.

Brock out-strutted

We set out for beer and sandwiches at The Bull at Craswell, a remote pub on the ridge that defines Golden Valley, setting for the Anthony Hopkins movie, Shadowlands. It's been years since I drove the route and I lost my way on impossibly narrow country roads with grass growing in the middle.

We never made The Bull but we came upon a strange sight: a badger - in broad daylight - trying to cross the road into a field, but being held back by a handful of sheep who moved backwards and forwards on the other side of a wire fence, blocking each outflanking move he made. Both Professional Bleeder and son Ian thought the badger for the Bull was a fair swap.

We ordered sandwiches at The Pandy Inn at Dorstone where shouts of anger, followed by a slammed door, rose from the kitchen and a pretty, overworked girl - close to tears at one point - worked the bar and served the tables. Service was much delayed but, as you can imagine, we'd have paid extra for the drama.

JOE's NUDGE
Poetry service, run by RR as a tribute to the late poetry-loving Joe Hyam.

Deo gratias Anglia
Redde pro victoria.
Our king went forth to Normandy
With grace and might of chivalry,
There God for him wrought marvellously,
Wherefore England may call and cry
Deo gratias, etc,

Reasons why. Fifteenth century carol, better sung - shouted? - plainsong style,  stamping like a knight's charger. Latin translates as: England, give thanks to God for victory. Wars aren’t my bag: certainly when claimed as God-driven. But the declamatory style cannot be bettered: six words (third line) summarises the whole campaign, "grace" is so persuasive it's forgivable, "wrought" (obsolete in 2014?) seems inevitable.

Anon.