It Made My Eyes Water

 

The great Michael Gambon once joked that he’d tried being homosexual, but it made his eyes water. I felt much the same way with my colonoscopy, another byproduct of my current immunotherapy: diarrhoea and inflammation of the colon. But they couldn’t be sure. My local GP insisted on a separate investigation to rule out bowel cancer and as a result I briefly faced the prospect of two colonoscopies; my eyes would have watered a small garden. But common sense trumped bureaucracy, and the two investigations were combined. 

It’s hard now to remember which was worse: the preparation for the procedure or the colonoscopy itself. Memory tends to airbrush the unpleasant. The prep involved fasting and a deeply unpleasant purgative until it ‘runs clear.’ I tried my best. A ‘saffron blush’ was the best I could manage. And if Farrow and Ball want to include that on their paint chart, they’re welcome.

Then the procedure. One option was to tough it out. I went for the sedative and gas and air, (would have gone for opium too had it been on offer) and it was still bloody unpleasant. I felt violated with this thing nosing its way through my colon and taking pictures. 

I saw it all on a large screen. And when it came to the polyp the whole thing entered into the realms of SciFi with scenes reminiscent of Alien 2. It would have appeared even more bizarre had opium been an option.

It was a large polyp. A prince amongst polyps at 2 centimetres long. It appeared benign but they decided to remove it and investigate further. And then things became interesting. I watched transfixed as what looked like a small wire lasso cautiously approached it. The polyp clearly sensed the approaching danger. It was like watching a David Attenborough film but on an alien world in a deep pink cavern, the creature trying to avoid capture. It seemed to swerve and recoil as the lasso approached. And then it was done. And I lost my polyp and my colonic virginity. 

Fie on thee Premier Inns!

One of the great joys of staying at a Premier Inn was the self-indulgent breakfast. You ate irresponsibly and that was the point. Eat enough, and you were set up for the day and could last until evening. But for me, irresponsible meant Crunchy Nut Cornflakes or, at a pinch, Kellogg’s Frosties. 

Both are laden with sugar and in the Keyton ‘my body is a temple’ household, sugar was avoided with considerable zeal, at least on my part. So then, a Premier Inn breakfast with Crunchy Nut Cornflakes was like Christmas and birthdays rolled into one. Until recently.

Premier Inns have discovered health. Well, to a point: the grease-heavy full English remains. For the moment at least. But no Frosties nor Crunchy Nut Cornflakes! I can have Muesli (worthy); Shreddies (cardboard) Shredded wheat (Brillo pads); Weetabix  (mush); Bran flakes (purgatory) 

 

I had tried them all as a child largely for fear of missing out. 

Adverts but above all peer group pressure made it imperative that I didn’t miss out. Coco Pops, Sugar Puffs, the whole ghastly crew. I tried them all, wasted minutes of my life listening for the Snap-Crackle-Pop of Rice Krispies, all the time trying to pretend they were as fantastic as adverts promised us all in bold shouty letters. 

Only two made the grade. And now, in my mature years, was I to be denied one of life’s  great but simple pleasures? 

No. The days are too short for regrets. 

Fie on thee Premier Inns!!

Taking pride of place in our kitchen is a large box of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes only to be eaten on Saturdays and Sundays.

Even better than two or three times a year at a Premier Inn. 

Lancaster Priory

The Priory. Note the Bell Tower, an C18th addition.

Just a stone’s throw from Lancaster Castle is the Priory, built by Roger de Poitou in 1094 on the site of an earlier  Saxon monastery. Just as Roger’s early Norman building absorbed what had been there before, so too was his priory radically changed by C15^th additions and a large C18^th bell tower. 

Carved slab from the C10th bearing the motif of a hart and hound. The painted version shows what it might have looked like when new. Sculptures of this period were often painted. In this case the carving is quite shallow – ‘pecked’ with a series of blows with a pointed hammer, and so the paint would have emphasised the shape of the animals. 

                          Twelve such crosses survive from the Priory and its immediate surrounds. 

 

Baptismal font

The Victorians were responsible for much of this wonderful stained glass, the originals smashed during the Reformation.

Celtic saints (BMK)

Regimental altar window showing St Michael, St George and St Alban

The Regimental Chapter linked to those killed from the King's Own Regiment in the Boer War. A good collection of military colours hanging from the roof

Main altar window showing the Crucifixion at the bottom and above it the Resurrection. 

The Creation of the world (BMK)

St Thomas's Chapel dominated by St Thomas Becket  stained glass. 

The Resurrection |(BMK)

Both castle and priory continue to dominate Lancaster from their hill top position and would have shown the early Saxon populace that the Normans had come to stay.

(BMK)

But we hadn’t. It was late afternoon and we had a train to catch, a good meal to look forward to and joggers to entertain us as we ate.

Lancaster Castle

While in Morecambe, we took the train to Lancaster and explored the castle and adjacent Lancaster Priory. Both  stand  on a hill dominating the River Lune, the site of an earlier Roman fort. It seems fairly certain the castle was built by Roger de Poitou who also founded the priory.

In order to control the country, William the Conqueror granted vast areas of land to trusted lieutenants. As a result Roger de Poitou held not just the castle but  The Honour of Lancaster extending from Cumbria to the Mersey.

Entering the castle from John of Gaunt's great gatehouse

 Unfortunately for Roger, he sided with Robert Curthose after William II’s death but it was Robert's younger brother Henry who seized the throne. Roger fled the country and the Crown took over both the castle and the Honour of Lancaster.  

Land and castle passed down from Henry II to Richard the Lionheart and his brother King John who extended the castle and built the misnamed Hadrian’s Tower. Later generations who'd flunked their history lessons assumed the Emperor Hadrian had built it. 

John's son, Henry III built further extensions, but there development stopped for a time

It was John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster who set his seal on the castle by building the large and imposing gatehouse that still stands today.

Another feature that remained until 2011 was its role as a prison, which dates from the late C11^th

Fifteen Catholic martyrs were executed there as were the unfortunate ‘Witches of Pendle.’ 

The witches' cell

 By the late C19^th   Lancaster Gaol enjoyed the reputation of hanging more prisoners than any other prison in the country, largely because it housed the only Assize Court for a county that included rapidly growing cities like Liverpool and Manchester as well as other industrial centres. Between 1782 and 1865 there were around 265 public executions where every man and his dog came along to enjoy the spectacle. The 1868 Capital Punishment Amendment Act ended the fun. From then on hanging became a private affair, the prisoner led directly from the court, past his/her own waiting coffin to the hanging square (later a purpose built shed) within the castle. 

The gaol still in use in 2011

Unfortunately, photographs were banned in the spectacular Court House because it had still been in use until very recently. We did though enjoy a fine cup of tea and a bun in the castle courtyard. 

Morecambe

We’ve just come back from a holiday up North but it involved some soul-searching. The Lake District came to our minds first but the hotels were underwhelming and overpriced. The weather didn’t look promising, and I just didn’t fancy trudging around in the wet surrounded by anoraks, the determined and intrepid. I can’t be doing with intrepid. 

And so, we settled on the seaside. You can’t go wrong with sky and sea, whatever the weather; though you can go wrong with the resort. We settled on Morecambe because of one very distinctive hotel: the Midland, which featured in the Hercule Poirot episode Double Sin in 1990.

We stayed two days with my brother and his wife in Chorley, where we sampled gentlefolkof a certain age playing bowls in Astley Park. 

It was so restful sitting on a park bench with nothing better to do, and later another park bench watching ducks and a fountain doing its thing. I remember, as a child, throwing conkers at old men playing bowls and getting chased. Now here we were, sitting on a bench appreciating nothing in particular and enjoying every moment.

And then on to the Midland Hotel, which didn’t disappoint. Nor did the sea and sky.

Your host for today.

Now you see him.

Now you don't

Courtesy BMK

The Pier

Courtesy BMK

A view of the hotel from the beach, the promenade running for miles past the ground floor windows. Behind them was the restaurant, where we sat eating splendid food watching fleets and battalions of joggers running by. Huge amount of joggers in Morecambe. I remember feeling guilt and a degree of smugness as I tucked into my moules marinière and chips as they struggled and sailed by the windows.

We didn't run but walked in search of the legendary Eric Morecambe. And believe me, the promenade is very long, five miles long. Eventually we found him enjoying the sea air.

Courtesy BMK

The Midland Hotel from the front

Instead of this motley collection of cars, there would once have been Lagondas

The hotel was built in 1932/33 and is an art deco gem with its Eric Gill sculptures and Ravilious murals, now sadly gone.

Inside is dominated by a beautiful spiral staircase, and I imagined walking up it with the legendary penny lodged between my buttocks,* but took the lift instead. 

Such is the fragility of life that by the late C20th this beautiful building was fast fading into a derelict ruin destined for flats or a care home. Thank God for the determination of activists and the visionary hotel group that took it over and brought it back to life.

*David Suchet, the actor who played Poirot, explained how he created the detective's distinctive mincing gait by clenching a penny between his buttocks; whether imagining it or for real, I'm not entirely sure

Life is nasty, brutish and short

Thomas Hobbes

Usk is now a small but pleasant town, but exploring Usk’s House of Correction Keeper’s Book for 1821 – 34 is both chilling and instructive: 

A lady from Llanfoist called Mary Howard was sentenced to a year’s hard labour for bearing a child out of wedlock. There is no record of what happened to the child.

Little mercy was shown to vandals. William Morgan was imprisoned for a month for venting his ‘unlawful and malicious’ rage upon ‘one chestnut tree and one gooseberry tree in a certain garden.’

Welfare claims were not encouraged Richard Powell of Llangibby spent a month in prison for not providing for his family. 

 In 1827, James Williams was given three months for stealing three cabbages, a month for each cabbage.

In 1871, the Monmouthshire Merlin reported the case of William Betts (15) and James Betts (11) and Joanna Betts their mother. The two boys were convicted of stealing a lump of coal from a railway wagon from Newport docks. They were given a lashing and a day in gaol to ponder on their crime. Their mother was given 12 months hard labour because the boys had been her responsibility. She died within a year of her release. 

Twelve-year-old Sarah Hone was sentenced to hard labour for stealing a scarf. Soon after her release, she was sentenced to five years in a reformatory school for sleeping in somebody’s back lavatory in order to escape her drunken father. Rehabilitation clearly worked for her; she died in a Monmouthshire workhouse in 1899.

Jane Ann White was given three months hard labour for stealing some rashers of bacon, Randolph Pearcey six months for stealing six sticks of wood. Gardener George Peglar was given three years for stealing a pair of brass candlesticks. Olaf Hansen, a sailor, stole a mouth organ and was given seven days, and ragman, Will Wiltshire, blew a horn in the street and was sentenced to seven days for disturbing the peace.

One's first instinct is to recoil at the harshness of a previous penal code but, it raises some obvious questions when you consider what now prevails: shoplifting increasingly a lifestyle choice with instances of staff being sacked for trying to prevent it, and whole areas of the country where it is not safe to be out after dark. Will Wiltshire, given seven days imprisonment for blowing a horn, would give a rueful shake of the head if he was to wander Newport now on a Saturday night. 

There is no obvious answer as to whether we are now too lenient or the past over harsh, but it would be foolish to ignore Thomas Hobbes’ dictum that life is ‘nasty, brutish and short,’ and that left to themselves, people pursue their own interests at the expense of everyone else. His solution was a social contract whereby an authoritarian state would enforce obedience in exchange for peace, law and order. 

Different countries offer different solutions. The San Salvador approach might have some merit, at least for those not incarcerated.

The Chinese have adopted a different approach to the problem with its surveillance society and social credit system. There, good behaviour is encouraged by an all enveloping 'stick and carrot' approach.

For me the worst solution is just to ignore the problem. So, what is my solution? I have none other than a warning. In Thomas Hobbes’ Social Contract, the people should no longer feel obliged to obey or accept a government that fails in its part of the bargain.