A miraculous cure by Cardinal Newman

I see that Cardinal Newman is being credited with a miraculous cure of a case of severe back pain, and is going to be beatified.

Miraculous cure

Wonder if Cosmo Lang’s  any good with hangovers?

Cosmo Lang

Green shoots: the first daffodils of Spring 2010

Just thought I would record the fact that I’ve spotted the first daffodil shoots of Spring in the back garden.

I’m no expert in these matters, but it seems a bit early to me.

Is Stuart Broad the new Percy Edwards?*

News in today’s Times of the long overdue autobiography from Stuart Broad (though some might think that, at this stage of his career, something less ambitious like – say- a calendar might be in order). 

Casting our minds back to early Summer we will remember the miracle of Cardiff, where England saved the match by batting out the last day in the face of considerable odds.

At the time I offered various explanations – the Power of Prayer, for one, also alcohol - but, apparently, according to young Broad,  I was wide of the mark.  The truth is -  

“It was Broad’s impersonation of an owl … When Paul Collingwood walked back to the England dressing room at the end of an innings that had lasted almost six hours … he was greeted by silence.

For the previous two hours Broad and his team mates had been nervously repeating the same actions over and over,  fearful that a change would lead to a wicket.  “Alastair Cook was in the showers, and wasn’t allowed to come out … I was rocking on my chair. As every ball was bowled, I rocked back and then as it was survived I rocked forwards and blew into my hands like an owl.  It was bizarre, but I couldn’t change it.”

So now we know. 

The title of the autobiography, incidentally, is Bowled Over.  The last time this was used by a cricketer was by Neil Hawke in 1983, but I still think they might have come up with something more striking.  Home Thoughts From a Broad has, perhaps, been  too recently used by Frances Edmonds, or possibly he’s saving that for his tour diary.  My Struggle would be too obvious.  Dude Looks Like a Lady?  Thinking caps on for volume 2, I think.

(Bird impersonator – Percy Edwards - (possible quiz question – Who appeared in both On the Buses and The Alien?)

Is Simon Heffer mad?

Search of the day on this blog has to be the above enquiry.

The answer, of course, is that he is quite as sane as you or me (or I, if you prefer – I’m sure that Hef offers some guidance on this point somewhere in his Telegraph style guide).

No idea, I’m afraid, whether Tinchy Stryder smokes (another question I’m often asked).

A poem for Remembrance Sunday : the Only Son, by Sir Henry Newbolt

The Only Son

 

O bitter wind toward the sunset blowing,

What of the dales tonight?

In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing,

What ring of festal light?

 

‘In the great window as the day was dwindling

I saw an old man stand;

His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling,

But the list shook in his hand.’

 

O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered,

No sound of joy or wail?

‘”A great fight and a good death”, he muttered;

“Trust him, he would not fail.”‘

 

What of the chamber dark where she was lying

For whom all life is done?

‘Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying

“My son, my little son.”‘

(Written January 15th, 1900)

Another poem from Sir Henry Newbolt.  Newbolt is best known today, I imagine, for what has a reasonable claim to be the most-mocked poem in the English language - Vitai Lampada - and various lengthy ballads on historical themes “Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand miles away / Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?” of the type which would once have been described as rollicking, but would now, probably, be seen as imperialist bluster.

He was a complex character – a Liberal in politics (a close friend of Sir Edward Grey), he discovered and championed Walter de la Mare, didn’t think much of Wilfred Owen (“I don’t think these self-pitying, shell-shocked poems will move our grandchildren greatly”) but admired and befriended Sassoon and was befriended and admired by Betjeman.

He wrote a number of poems in the manner of “The Only Son“ at about this time, some of them inspired, one imagines, by the Boer War.  It’s a pity that  they are not better known. 

Even better than the real thing?

Observed this evening at a (very enjoyable) fireworks display, a young girl watching the fireworks wearing 3-D spex (the kind you need to watch films in 3-D).  Would this actually have some effect on the way the fireworks appeared, or has she, perhaps, spent so much time looking at screens that she thinks she needs special glasses to make the real world appear three dimensional?

 The display, incidentally, was organised by the local Roman Catholic Primary School.  No Guy on top of the bonfire.

Christmas stress, and how to deal with it – with Beatrice Campbell

Once we have enjoyed, or at least celebrated, Halloween, All Saints, All Souls, Bonfire Night and Armistice Day, we will, of course, be very close to the beginning of Advent and where Advent comes can Christmas be far behind?  No it can’t.  By definition, it’s impossible.  

Many people find Christmas stressful.  My tactic, when told how stressful Christmas is, is, I’m afraid, to stop up my ears like unto the deaf adder, grit my teeth and make sure that I do enjoy it.   I do understand, though, that if, say, a large party of unexpected and frankly rather badly-behaved guests were to turn up on Christmas Eve, it might interfere with the smooth running of the festive preparations.  I think the following anecdote, however, demonstrates how, with a little presence of mind and sang froid, the most unwelcome intrusions can be overcome, so as not to interfere with the family’s proper enjoyment of the Christmas season.  

I mentioned in passing a short while ago that Patrick Campbell had written ”quite an amusing anecodete about the anti-Partition faction of the IRA trying to burn the family home down”.  In retrospect, this worried me slightly, as the IRA are a notoriously litigous organisation, and I felt that I should have made certain that I was sure of my facts before publishing this allegation.  Perhaps it was some other three letter organisation – the BBC?  the SDP? ELP? who had been responsible?  I needed to be sure.

To confirm my memory, I ordered up a copy of a compilation of Campbell’s writing from my local library, and located the relevant piece.  I discovered that I had erred slightly and that although it had, indeed, been the IRA responsible, they had been slightly more competent than I had implied and had succeeded in burning the house down.  I had also forgotten the whole point of the piece, which was the crucial role played by PC’s mother in this episode (and this is all building up to a picture of her, which is worth waiting for, so bear with me).

I hand the telling of the story over to Campbell himself (the action takes place on Christmas Eve) -

“When a fellow is faced with armed men, it’s my honest opinion that he should have his mother around, if the situation is not to descend into flurry and confusion.

Three times I have looked down the muzzle of a gun.  On the first two occasions my mother was present, and an orderly conclusion was achieved.  In her absence, the third time, I handled the business so maladroitly that even the police got it back to front.  The lesson is plain.

My mother and I first started gun-slinging, as it were, in 1922.  The Irish Civil War was in progress and one of its victims – or very likely to be if he didn’t look slippy – was my father, then a member of the Cosgrave Government.  He had returned once to our house outside Dublin with three perceptible bullet holes in the back door of his car, in no mood to share my mother’s opinion, aimed at restoring his confidence, that the IRA had probably mistaken him for someone else.

[A few days later when a thunderous banging comes on the back door] it was my mother who went to the top of the kitchen stairs, to see what was afoot.  I joined her almost immediately, a pale lad of nine, having been roused from my sleep by the noise.  I’d been sleeping badly of recent weeks because it was nearly Christmas, and my whole soul was crying out to take possession of my first Hornby train.

“It’s all right” my mother said, taking her customarily steady view “it’s only some men.”

[His mother is, firstly, keen to establish that the men haven't come to murder the family.  Having established that they've only come to burn the house down ...]

With the first matter … settled to her satisfaction, she passed to others, now of equal importance.  ‘What about all my lovely books? … First editions, signed by Lawrence and Katherine Mansfield and Middleton Murray.  And the pictures- Orpens, Gertlers, the little drawings by John …?”

The raiders, jammed on the stairs, were getting hot and angry.  An exposed youth, still stuck in the passage, was being berated by the cook [who had invited the men in in the first place].  He appeared to be a cousin of hers, and was refusing to carry her trunk out into the garden.

‘All right, all right …?’ said the first raider.  The protracted conversation was causing the handkerchief to slip off his face.  ‘Take out anything you want, but for God’s love hurry up about it … Who’s got the petrol and the matches?’

At this point my father appeared in the hall, unobtrusively and still unsure of his welcome.  The raiders appealed to him “Ask your missus to give us a chance, will ya?  Sure, we’re only acting under ordhers …’

He took command … advising me to wake my sister, still peacefully asleep, and to put on some warm clothes.  He then suggested to my mother that they should both try to save a few personal mementoes before we all withdrew to safety in the garden.

‘And leave’ my mother cried passionately ‘ all the children’s Christmas toys behind?  Certainly not!

The possible outcome of the night struck home to me for the first time ‘Me train!’ I cried ’Don’t let them burn me train!’

‘Of course they won’t’ said my mother.  She rounded on two of the men. ’You’ she said ‘go to the cupboard in the bedroom and find out all the parcels you can find.  And look out for the doll’s house.  It’s fragile.’

They shuffled their feet, deeply embarrassed.  Several other men were throwing petrol around the hall.  ‘Well, go on!’ my mother shouted at them.  ‘And leave your silly guns on the table.  Nobody’ll touch them.’ 

By the time the first whoosh of petrol flame poured out of the windows she had five of the men working for her, running out with armfuls of books and pictures, ornaments, and our Christmas toys.  They’d become so deeply concerned on her behalf that they frequently paused to ask what should be salvaged next.  “Is the bit of a picture in the passage any good, mum?  Is there ere a chance of gettin the legs offa the pianna, the way we could dhrag it out … ?

When they had disappeared into the night they left my mother, bathed in the light of the flames, standing guard over a great heap of treasures in the middle of the lawn, with Orpen’s picture under one arm and the little drawings by John under the other – a clear winner on points.” 

And here, thanks to the good offices of Wikipedia, is the Orpen Picture Beatrice Elvery

Three cheers for the Beast from the East

A new, rather late entrant for the GLBG Man of the Year Award has, I think, recently swum into my ken.

That man is Nikolai Valuev, the world heavyweight boxing champion from St. Petersburg, who is – as all fans of the fistic arts (even very dubious ones such as myself) will know- due to fight David Haye of  London in Nuremburg on Saturday.   

The point that immediately strikes one  about Valuev is that he is 7′2″ tall and weighs 23 stone.  What is less obvious is that is that he is a fan of Chekov and Dostoievsky.  He wooed his no doubt lovely wife by writing poetry for her and apparently trains to the strains of “classical music”.  His other hobbies are shooting and fishing, about which he talks in the following, rather charming, terms (slightly reminiscent of the Book of Leviticus)-

 ”Hunting is my hobby,” he said. “I fish everything that is swimming in the water, and I hunt everything that is flying in the air and stepping through the woods.”

He flashed that smile again, and added: “But I hunt only those fish and animals that I’m allowed to.”

David Haye, on the other hand, has, I’m afraid, clearly been ignoring my oft-expressed views about the inadvisability of  making personal remarks, having said, amongst other things -

“He is the ugliest thing I have ever seen.  I have watched Lord of the Rings and films with strange looking people but for a human being to look like he does is pretty shocking.”  Not to mention “Valuev is the ‘Beast from the East,’ he has a very hairy body, if I am to fight him in the ring, he must shave himself before, otherwise he could really stink during close combat”.

This sort of trash talk is most unnecessary, and I’m sure you will all join me in hoping that Valuev whups Hayes’s arse come the weekend.

Another attractive aspect of Valuev’s character is his his very amiable approach in the ring, which seems to consist of ambling about, fending his opponent off and occasionally embracing him.  Have a look, and see what you think (I’m drinking to his health already) -

All Souls Part 2 – W-A Bouguereau

Continuing with this – some might think - slightly morbid theme, here – for your contemplation – is an image relating to All Souls, by the 19th century French academic painter William-Adolphe Bouguereau.  Bouguereau is a much-abused figure – partly because he greatly disliked the Impressionists and the feeling was mutual.  John Berger, I seem to remember, also had it in for him.  I don’t have the impression that he has ever quite been rehabilitated in that the way that his English equivalents have been – Lord Leighton perhaps? Waterhouse? – but whenever I see one of his paintings in a gallery I find myself drawn to it, for reasons I probably couldn’t adequately explain.  This, for instance, used to be on display in the entrance hall of the Birmingham City Art Gallery, but seemed to have vanished the last time I visited, much to my disappointment -

(This reproduction  doesn’t, unfortunately, quite convey the luminosity of the paint).

Luminosity of the paint?  What are you on about now? Do you mean it glows it the dark?  My littleun’s got one like that in her bedroom. - The Plain People of Leicestershire.

No, I don’t mean that.  I just meant that whatever it is that attracts me to this painting – and it isn’t, incidentally, the sentimentalised depiction of poverty – hasn’t quite survived the transition to the internet.

All Saints and Souls : and In July by Sir Henry Newbolt

Today (1st November) is All Saints (or All Hallows).  Tomorrow is All Souls.  For Roman Catholics the distinction is clear:  All Saints commemorates those departed souls who have attained the beatific vision, All Souls is for the rest, who are technically still in purgatory.

For Anglicans, inevitably and mercifully, the distinction is a little woolier.  Depending on when the days fall, there is a tendency to celebrate both at the same time.  Many churches offer a Service for the Bereaved, typically a simple service, often by candlelight, where the congregation remember those known to them who have died.

In the middle ages, incidentally, it was traditional for poor folk to go from door to door on All Souls (or, according to some authorities, All Saints), asking for food in return for saying prayers for souls in purgatory – a practice known as “souling”.  So, if a ghostly figure comes knocking at your door tomorrow demanding sweets and cakes, it might not be a trick-or-treater who’s got the dates mixed up but – given the thinness of the veil between this world and the next at this time of year – a ghostly souler.  The correct form, I believe, is to offer them a “soul cake”*.    

Anyway I thought I’d try to find an appropriate poem to mark these important festivals.  I’m not sure that I’ve succeeded, but here it is – In July, by Sir Henry Newbolt.

His beauty bore no token,

No sign our gladness shook;

With tender strength unbroken

The hand of life he took:

But the summer flowers were falling,

Falling and fading away,

And mother birds were calling,

Crying and calling

For their loves that would not stay.

 

He knew not Autumn’s chillness,

Nor Winter’s wind nor Spring’s;

He lived with Summer’s stillness

And sun and sunlit things:

But when the dusk was falling

He went the shadowy way,

And one more heart is calling,

Crying and calling

For the love that would not stay.

Susan Chitty’s biography explains the circumstances of its composition -

“A source of more immediate pain had been the death of Bernard and Helen Holland’s first baby, Christopher… Margaret had been there alone with Helen when it happened, the Duckworths being away “opening a Church or some other pious work” … when “some fool” selected the hymn ‘There is a place of peace, good angels know it well’  Helen broke down completely in Orchardleigh chapel.  Newbolt agreed that there was no comfort to be found in these words “They sounded unutterable twaddle (as they truly are) in the presence of real grief and real faith”.”

HN wrote In July instead.

 

 

* Here is a recipe.  I offer no guarantees as to its tastiness or authenticity.

Ingredients

3/4 cup butter
3/4 cup caster/superfine sugar
4 cups plain flour, sifted
3 egg yolks
1 teaspoon mixed spice
1 teaspoon allspice
3 tablespoons currants
a little milk
(see measure conversions for more information)

Method

- Cream the butter and sugar together until pale in colour and fluffy in texture.
- Beat in the egg yolks.
- Fold in the sifted flour and spices.
- Stir in the currants.
- Add enough milk to make a soft dough.
- Form into flat cakes and mark each top with a cross.
- Bake on a well-greased baking tray in a hot oven until golden.