Best days of our life: Part II

 

Percy wore a long, sand-coloured coat and a brown flat cap. His face was red, weather-beaten, and he looked like Mr. Punch. He was our milkman and delivered it punctually on horse and cart. We would lie in wait, lurking in alleyways and then leap on the back of his cart. There we hung, hidden by milk crates, pursued by Kiowa, and mouthing silent but deadly gun sounds: the Deadwood Express, now peppered with arrows, tearing along at two miles per hour and Percy the Milkman oblivious to the carnage around him. Or so we thought or liked to think. 

The Deadwood Express ended halfway down Greenwich Road opposite the graveyard where the horse had its stable. 

To the right of the power-station at the bottom of our street, ran a narrow alleyway bounded by a high brick wall. On the other side was a long unkempt field called ‘The allotments’, though nothing grew there, and any would be gardener would have had to have been fairly agile because there was no way into it other than by climbing over the wall. On the other side of the wall was a sea of grass and beyond that the railway embankment, thick in bramble and gorse, rich in wartime artefacts.

Ours was a world dominated by gangs— innocent but real—one in particular based in and around Kingswood Avenue off Greenwich Road. We called them the ‘Kingy-elly Gang,’ (Adding the letter Y to the end of a word makes for a pleasing rhythm and is the essence of abbreviation in Liverpool.) When they flowed over the wall at the furthest end of the allotments we would wave sticks at each other, throw a few stones, and then one or the other, sometimes both, would retreat in clouds of defiance and clods of earth. 

Once we built, what we hoped would be a lasting monument to our tiny nation-state: a deep, roughly circular underground den, its roof made from earth and branches, and the whole thing cunningly disguised by a thick layer of grass. 

 In children’s picture books, rabbits and voles live in warm and cosy burrows which, on the page, resemble snuggle-up-able orange or brown blankets. There are even armchairs down there, occasionally a fire. Our den was dark and wet. We sat on lumps of mud and could easily have suffered from ‘trench-foot’ had we known what it was.

We tried lighting a small fire and almost suffocated, smoke tearing at our lungs; but we stayed put, unwilling to admit to a further bad idea. From there, it was a natural progression to inhaling smoke more directly. Cigarettes. 

 I can’t remember who, first introduced them. They were bought singly, or pinched in ones or twos from parental packets, and referred to as ‘loosies.’

In the days before marijuana became prevalent, we sat underground passing round the single cigarette, Shamans in short trousers. To cough showed weakness and provoked mild derision. To leave a ‘ducks-arse’ however was the greatest sin of all. The origin of the name is shrouded in mystery. No one had ever seen a duck’s arse, let alone felt one. Poetry again. Our first introduction to metaphor. 

In real terms it meant passing on a cigarette wet in spit and I, unfortunately, was the greatest sinner of all. I coughed and spluttered and was brutally re-assigned to guard duty, banned from the inner circle of hardened smokers. Ironically today the reverse is the case, the hardened smokers banished outside to guard the pub.

One day, on a whim, or perhaps because of a collapsed roof and a blazing hot summer, we decided on a swimming pool. The cavity became even deeper; we dug and dug; our ambition knew no bounds.

 When the hole was sufficiently deep, a human chain was formed, passing buckets of water from the nearest house to our hole in the ground. In our minds we’d visualised a deep, blue pool. We ended up with a chocolate brown mess we felt honour bound to paddle in. 

When I went back some years later, small houses crammed close occupied where we once used to play.

Best days of our life, they say

We enjoyed street games as children, games such as Kick the Can and Rallio, both a variant of hide and seek but with the added excitement of a crafty ‘hider’ being able to ‘free’ those caught. It was a wonderful pitting of wits; the seeker had to leave the precious can or wall where his ‘prisoners’ were lined in order to find those hiding, but he or she couldn’t stray too far knowing that any moment someone might dart in from a bin, bush or alleyway and touch the wall/kick the can and thus free the prisoners. There was a distinct Colditz flavour to it all, fusing Nazis and the Resistance to an otherwise ordinary game of hide and seek. 

There were other games I was less proud playing, ‘How many miles to Fairy land?’ being one of them, along with Queeny-eye with its childish chant that to my shame, I still remember. In this game a person turned their back on the other players, one of whom had a ball hidden behind their backs. Then in a peculiar sing-song we began:

Queeny-eye, Queeny-eye, who’s got the ball?

I haven’t got it.

It isn’t in my pocket,

Queeny-eye, Queeny-eye, who’s got the ball?

As I remember the person had three guesses, pretty pointless if only three people played. 

My favourite game was British Bulldog. There, one person stood in the middle of the street as the rest of the gang charged towards him/her with some force. If he/she managed to catch and hold onto one of those charging, there would be two people standing in the middle of the street – and so on – and so on until only one person was left to run through a wall of bodies. 

And now to the worst game of all, Shin kicking – 'Britain’s stupidest sport 'as one newspaper put it. 

We took for granted it was a Liverpool game, a pastime peculiar to Aintree. But apparently it originated in the Cotswolds and is a feature of the Cotswold’s Olympick Games. As stupid sports go, it has a long history, its first pictorial recording being in the Annalia Dubrensia 1636. The noble sport of shin kicking is to the right. The hill in the middle is ‘Dover Hill,' named after the founder of the games and shin kicking in particular. 

So, what are the rules? Two competitors face each other with their hands on each other’s,  and you are allowed to kick anywhere between ankle and knee. The rules changed a little time later when steel-toed boots were banned. And in Chipping Campden, a small Gloucester village, where the Cotswolds Olympicks are held, straw is allowed—stuffed in long socks to cushion the blows. We in Ribblesdale Avenue, of nobler stock, eschewed such namby-pambyism. We didn’t even have a Cotswold’s stickler – a referee with a long stick to separate us shin kickers if or when the occasion demanded. We just gritted our teeth and got on with it, kicking in turn until one or both gave up yowling in pain.  

Best days of our life, they say. 

 

Close the door

 

Sayings we once all took for granted are going the way of the dinosaurs. Increasingly few people use or understand the origin of ‘nail your colours to the mast,' and 78% admitted they never used the biblical phrase ‘pearls before swine.’ 

‘A stitch in time’ is another casualty, and half the population have never said that they were going to ‘see a man about a dog’ or mouthed the simple poetry of ‘snug as a bug in a rug.’ 

I’d be ‘Mad as a Hatter’ if I told someone it was ‘raining cats and dogs’ or I was ‘going to spend a penny.’ If they even knew they phrase, they’d likely tell me to ‘put a sock in it,’ perhaps hint it was about time I went  to ' the knackers yard.’ Then again, others might say all this is a  ‘storm in a teacup?’ 

Language changes. 

I’m particularly fond of American slang of the 1930’s, some of which I’ve used for Clay Cross. 

In that world you drank not whiskey but ‘giggle juice,’ you’d urge a dame not to ‘blow her wig’ and run from the cops on your ‘get away sticks’, perhaps shouting out ‘Abyssinia.’  If making tracks didn’t work and you were cornered, you wouldn’t waste time ‘bumping gums’ but take our your ‘convincer’ and ‘let them have it.’

I’m also quite fond of the subtle contempt underlying some modern contractions, such as ‘obvs’ or ‘whatevs’. For those who take offence at the Australian ‘No worries’ as an implied criticism of those who  can't help but worry, the only real response is a shrug and a 'whatevs' Of course you could go for ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ but would that be casting ‘pearl before swine" ?

 

And now, because ‘I know my onions’ I’m about to share with you ‘a load of old codswallop’ that puzzled me mightily as a child. I mean, what’s the point of closing the door when they’re coming through the windows? And how quickly will you get this piece of malarky out of your head?

You're welcome 😇

PS the C17th word for a song you couldn't get out of your head was a 'Maggot' because we all know what maggots turn into. Or do we?

 

Syria on the Dneiper

 

I was asked my opinion of Ukraine recently, and I offered the Russian perspective on the basis that the airwaves are swamped with the alternative and, more importantly, it’s important to know where your opponent is coming from. First of all, I’m not buying the knee-jerk view that Putin is a deranged psychopath in a hurry; he’s not a messianic communist, and I think he’s realistic enough to know there is no chance of resurrecting the old ‘Soviet empire.’ I think though he is a nationalist, and that is probably the key to the tragedy and my worse fear of all, that we may have another Syria on our doorstep.   

I hesitate to step on enflamed passions but, in my view, there are two scenarios: best case and worst case. 

If  we look at it from Putin’s perspective, Kiev would be important to him. It was, in a sense, the birthplace of Russia, the country getting its name from the early Vikings who established a trading post there in the mid C9th. They were called Rus by Arab traders and the name stuck. For centuries it’s been part of Russia either as a constituent of a Tsarist empire or as part of the Soviet Union. Eastern Ukraine is still largely Slavic, Russian in culture, religion, and language. 

When the Soviet Union collapsed at the end of the C20th, America/Europe promised not to take advantage and that NATO would not spread eastwards with the potential to threaten Russia. Despite the objections of seasoned White House advisers and senior members of the American government, this understanding was broken, and since then Estonia, Lithuania, Rumania, Poland and Czech/Slovakia have all joined NATO, and despite the denials, Ukraine was clearly next on the list. 

Of course, each of these countries have the right to apply for membership, from their sense it makes sense. What’s not generally said is that NATO has the right to refuse, and this was the understanding when the Soviet empire broke up. In Putin’s view, it is a case of now or never to stop NATO and the EU’s steady eastwards expansion, especially when the cards are currently in his hands. It’s also more than mere paranoia on his part. Hardwired into Russian thinking is the experience of two world wars when each time Germany saw Ukraine as ‘living space’ a source of raw materials, as well as a gateway into Russia. 

After the horror of the Napoleonic Wars, European statesmen realised the dangers of nationalism and in the interests of a peace that lasted much of the century respected each other’s backyard. We continue to respect America’s ‘backyard’ when it comes to South America. A case in point is the 1962 Cuban crisis when Russia sent missiles to Castro’s Cuba  a hundred miles or so from Florida. Kennedy threatened nuclear war over the issue and Russia backed down. Less publicly reported, America also backed down by removing their missiles from Turkey, all of them pointing at Russia.  

So what now? The best-case scenario offers two possibilities: a) Putin exploits a short-term success as a negotiating lever into the ‘Finlandisation’ of Ukraine, a large Switzerland if you will, and with the ‘Russian’ eastern provinces having a role in a decentralised constitution as a checkpoint against veering too far to the West.

b) It is possible Russia will attempt to take and hold on to Kiev, using the River Dnieper as a boundary. The large flat plains of Eastern Ukraine would be easier to control than the more urbanised and western orientated western Ukraine. Neither of these would be seen as best case scenarios by many Ukranians. The problem is the alternative could be far worse

The worst-case scenario is a long and protracted war, mutilation and bloodshed, where outside vested interests exploit nationalist fervour but themselves avoid the full agony of war. Syria immediately comes to mind, once a diverse but prosperous country at ease with itself because it had little choice under the Assad despotism. Then we got involved – from a safe distance of course supplying bellicose language, support and equipment, along with the likes of Sunnis, Shiites, Isis, Al Qaida and latterly Russia and Iran, all with their various interests and axes to grind. 

Putin is accused of being a danger to world peace, his regime a corrupt collection of kleptomaniacs. True or not, in terms of our respective elites, the words pots and kettles come to mind, and we have a record of using others to further our ends. Sometimes it backfires. 

It may be American power has reached its highwater mark and Ukraine is on the fault line of a tectonic shift as Russia pushes back. Whatever the case, the innocent suffer. One can hope that the oncoming economic damage, volatile electorates and political repercussions in Europe as a whole will concentrate minds, and that Putin has a rational aim. One can only hope statesmen react with intelligence and not soundbites or a slide into the Syrian nightmare.

Fair Rosamund

Godstow Abbey, a backdrop in the film Mama Mia  (When I kissed the Teacher) and the playground of Lewis Carol and his 'Alice'. 

A pleasant ritual is sharing Christmas presents with old friends who live Gerrards Cross. The ritual takes place shortly after Christmas somewhere between Monmouth and Buckinghamshire. The venue is always carefully chosen: a meal, good beer and more presents. What could be nicer? This year the meeting took place near Godstow and all was as it should be part from the weather, blue skies and bitterly, bitterly cold. A highlight for me was stumbling across Godstow Abbey, the burial place of  ‘Fair Rosamund,’ and at once old stories and legends came rushing back. 

She was born Rosamund de Clifford at Clifford castle— now a ruin in Herefordshire just up the road from us. It is likely she met the young Henry II who used Clifford castle as his base in a military campaign against the Welsh. The affair began in 1166 and became generally known in 1174 —possibly on Henry’s instigation. His wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine was in open rebellion against him taking the side of her sons against their father. Anger or spite or because he sought a divorce, Henry began flaunting Rosamund, gifting her a fine house in Woodstock.There are many romantic tales of the Woodstock tower guarded by an impenetrable maze, all later, romantic inventions but in all stories, the ending is the same.

 In 1176 Rosamund  sickened and died a year later in Godstow Abbey—some say poisoned by Eleanor, the queen. Henry may have believed this. He may also have wished to blacken his wife’s reputation.  

The ground was sodden, the wind raw and worst of all Rosamund's grave is lost. In theory, it shouldn't be difficult to find. The space is no bigger than the Leicester car park where Richard III is buried. 

Henry paid for a fine tomb near the altar and an endowment for the nuns to tend it and pray for her soul. It quickly became a place of pilgrimage, people seeking miracles and decorating her grave with candles and flowers—that is until 1192 when that fun-loving prelate Hugh, the bishop of Lincoln visited the Abbey. On seeing her tomb so close to the high altar he had a small fit, called her a whore and demanded its immediate removal. The nuns had no choice. Her tomb was moved to the cemetery near their chapter house, where it remained a place of pilgrimage for local people. There it remained until the C16th when it and the Abbey were destroyed during the Reformation. Its dissolution is a blog in itself and reveals Thomas Cromwell in a new light. To my knowledge, Hilary Mantel makes no mention of it in her vast and wonderful trilogy, and I haven’t the time or inclination to check a possible fading memory. 

The C17th Trout Inn, favoured by Lewis and Inspector Morse and where you could read a wonderful fictionalised account of Henry and Rosamund 

 

In praise of tinned food.

I get hooked on the most trivial articles. A recent one I read concerned tinned food and how some iconic chefs swear by it. In winter Raymond Blanc is happy to use tinned pears, other chefs tinned cherries in Clafoutis and tarts. When it comes to tinned beans, I like them cold from the tin but love them hot and unadorned on homemade granary bread toast which has been smothered in virgin olive oil, the whole topped of with a generous sprinkle of black pepper. But then, I’m no longer a chef. 

Others are far more ambitious with baked beans,  mixing them with chilli paste and dolloping them on baked potato – or Tortilla topped with diced avocado, finely chopped chilli, a squeeze of lime juice and some crumbled feta cheese. Beans for goodness sake!

But then I got hooked onto the comments that followed and went down the rabbit hole. 

Apparently, you can make a neat Sicilian pasta dish made from tinned sardines, chopped cherry tomatoes and a dollop of puree, crushed garlic, capers, pine-nuts, and a pinch of chilli flakes.

I read on eagerly . . . tinned mackerel  fishcakes . . . smashed butter beans or any white bean with rosemary and garlic instead of boring old mashed potato. 

Another boldly claimed that tinned salmon was far superior to fresh. Many agreed that little could beat tinned peaches with tinned evaporated milk.

Back to tinned sardines:  fry breadcrumbs and garlic; add the sardines,* parsley and lemon and add to pasta. (*alternatively, tinned anchovies)

Or might you be tempted by corned beef hash patties fried in butter and served with mayo and pickle? And are Farrows’ tinned marrowfat peas really tastier than frozen?

Then the comments moved on to tinned soup—Campbell’s condensed soups in particular. 

One writer averred that nothing could beat fried sausages topped with Campbells’ concentrated vegetable soup. Another disagreed, arguing the virtues of Campbell’s mushroom soup instead. Both agreed the soup should remain undiluted. 

Or would you fancy a drop of Crab Bisque? — equally easy to make using Campbell’s condensed cream of chicken soup, and equal quantity of milk, butter, tin of shredded crab and sweet Hungarian paprika.

Canned Pilchards anyone?  They’re apparently big in Italy—often put into a pasta sauce with—as another reader claims—dry fennel seeds, tinned tomatoes and tinned olives.

Evaporated milk is supposedly great in coffee, even better on breakfast cereal, though an aunt of ours preferred Bailey’s Irish Cream on her cereal and lived until she was ninety-eight.  She may though have lived even longer had she gone for a tin of evaporated milk which contains a healthy amount of Vitamin D.

By this time readers were in rhapsody, as was I, all of them bemoaning the demise of the well-stocked pantry bursting with colourful tins. It prompted me to wander off to the cupboard we call a pantry for a tin of sild and two rounds of toast. 

Aunt Etty and the Stinkhorn

Aunt Etty and the Stinkhorn would be a great name for a children’s book. It has a ring to it. It rolls off the lips. And, in fairness, the story itself has a distinct Roald Dhal vibe. A full account was given by Charles Darwin’s granddaughter, who described her aunt Etty’s revulsion for the Stinkhorn mushroom. As a daughter of Charles Darwin, Aunt Etty should have known better, but it was the shape of the mushroom that disturbed her. Its Latin name perhaps gives us a clue Phallus impudicus. Apart from its distinctly phallic shape, the stinkhorn had other, more unpleasant qualities. It emitted a pungent smelling slime that attracted flies, which in turn dispersed its spores and so allowed it to spread

Unfortunately for the stinkhorn, that same smell attracted its nemesis: Aunt Etty. 

They are extremely good for the soil, and for those with strong stomachs and a yen for castration, their innards have a nice, crisp radish-like taste to them. So I’ve been told.

Aunt Etty (Henrietta Lichfield walking with Erasmus Darwin). You can almost see her nose twitching, though the habit may have aided her longevity – 1843-1927

Armed with a basket and a pointed stick, and wearing a special hunting cloak and gloves, she would sniff her way through the wood, pausing here and there, her nostrils twitching when she caught a whiff of her prey.

Then with a deadly and ferocious pounce she would attack the hapless mushroom, poking the obscenity into her basket.  When the great hunt was over her spoils were brought back and burnt in the deepest secrecy on the drawing room fire with the door locked. She had the morals of her maids to consider

For someone so repulsed by the stinkhorn, Aunt Etty spent more time than most in seeking them out, and in doing so performed better than any number of flies in dispersing their spores. The stink that proved so irresistible to flies, proved irresistible to Aunt Etty too. Motivated by disgust and horror, she enveloped the humble stinkhorns within the folds of Victorian morality and in doing so aided their spread. There must be a moral there somewhere.