My daily delivery of sayings, thoughts, findings and happenings from rambles in life's byways. If anything at all links what follows, it is this, from Puck, in A Midsummer Night's Dream, 'Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!', joined with that great Lancashire expression of incredulity, 'Well, I'll Go To The Foot Of Our Stairs!'
December 31
Some lasts for the last day of the year:
Last lines (Books):
‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’ F Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Great Gatsby’.
‘His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.’ James Joyce, ‘The Dead’.
‘I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.’ Emily Bronte, ‘Wuthering Heights’.
‘I never saw any of them again — except the cops. No way has yet been invented to say goodbye to them.’ Raymond Chandler, ‘The Long Goodbye’.
‘I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before.’ Mark Twain, ‘Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’.
‘But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.’ George Eliot, ‘Middlemarch'.
‘Somebody threw a dead dog after him down the ravine.’ Malcolm Lowry , ‘Under the Volcano’.
‘I gave one of those hollow, mirthless laughs, and went downstairs to join Honoria. I had an appointment with her in the drawing-room. She was going to read Ruskin to me.’ P G Wodehouse, ‘The Inimitable Jeeves’.
‘Justice' was done, and the President of the Immortals (in Aeschylean phrase) had ended his sport with Tess. And the d’Urberville knights and dames slept on in their tombs unknowing. The two speechless gazers bent themselves down to the earth, as if in prayer, and remained there a long time, absolutely motionless: the flag continued to wave silently. As soon as they had strength they arose, joined hands again, and went on.’ Thomas Hardy, ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’.
‘Come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.’ William Makepeace Thackeray, ‘Vanity Fair’.
'The Rest is Silence,’ William Shakespeare, ‘Hamlet’.
Last Lines (Films):
‘Oh, no. It wasn’t the airplanes. It was Beauty killed the Beast.’ ‘King Kong’
‘Oh Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon; we have the stars.’ ‘Now Voyager”
‘I do wish we could chat longer, but I'm having an old friend for dinner…’
‘The Silence of the Lambs’
‘All right, Mr DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.’ ‘Sunset Boulevard’
‘Hang on, lads; I've got a great idea.’ ‘The Italian Job’
‘Louis, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.’ ‘Casablanca’
‘‘Nobody’s perfect.’ ‘Some Like It Hot’
Famous Last Words:
‘Do not disturb my circles! Archimedes to a Roman soldier who interrupted his geometric experiments during the capture of Syracue; the soldier killed him.
‘Happy.’ Raphael.
‘I see that you have made three spelling mistakes." Thomas de Mahy, Marquis de Favras, on reading his death warrant.
‘I am about to—or I am going to—die; either expression is correct.’ Dominique Bouhours, French priest and grammarian.
‘Only one man ever understood me. And he really didn't understand me.’ Hegel.
‘’Are you sure it's safe?’ William Palmer, murderer, to the hangman while looking at the trapdoor on the gallows.
Famous last meals:
Napoleon: liver and bacon chops, sautéed kidneys in sherry, shirred eggs with cream, and garlic toast with roast tomatoes.
Julia Child: French onion soup.
.
Elvis Presley: four scoops of ice cream and six chocolate chip cookies.
Last Man on the Moon:
Eugene Cernan, Apollo 17 comman took his final steps on the moon on December 14, 1972. No one has been back since.
Last Request:
Robert Louis Stevenson bequeathed his birthday, November 13, to his friend, Anne Ide, because she had been born on Christmas Day and so always cheated out of a proper celebration.
Finally, the greatest final.
Some might argue Wembley, 1966, but, really, there’s no argument: St Helens v Wigan, Rugby League Challenge Cup Final, Wembley, 1961, crowd, 94,672, an epically close contest settled by a spectacular try from the great South African wing genius, Tom van Vollenhoven, which set the old ground to a mighty joyous roar I can still hear on a good day.
Happy New Year!
December 30
Today: Impress your friends by introducing some of these wise sayings from around the world into your conversation:
‘If you pick up one end of a stick, you also pick up the other.’ Thai.
‘A single arrow is easily broken, but not ten in a bundle.’ Japanese.
‘When eating fruit, remember the one who planted the tree.’ Vietnamese.
‘Friendship is friendship, but cheese costs money.’ Bulgarian.
‘An empty hand is no lure for a hawk.’ Uzbek.
‘A weak fart doesn’t rip the arse.’ Finnish.
‘A stranger searches for the donkey while singing.' Turkish.
‘You can’t wake a person who is pretending to be asleep.' Navajo.
‘The shrimp that sleeps is carried away by the current.’ Chilean.
‘Best to look significantly rather than try to explain.’ My tip to beginners.
Next!
December 29
By some counts, this is the ninth day of the Christmas holiday and even the most creative and energetic among you might appreciate suggestions on what to do next.
1) Everyone tries to guess the number of dropped pine needles.
2) Sweepstake on last person to go to sleep after lunch.
3) Used wrapping-paper smoothing and folding contest.
4) Competitive dishwasher stacking.
5) Devise a new turkey recipe. I favour Twixtmas Surprise (more turkey).
And why not embrace boredom? You might start by contemplating these helpful and mind-concentrating words from Martin, the (admittedly slightly gloomy) companion of Candide, who pointed out that humanity’s available alternatives were ‘to live either in convulsions of misery or in the lethargy of boredom’.
That, of course, is a modern translation. The word boredom didn’t exist until the nineteenth century; before, typically, for such an unEnglish concept, we used ennui or the foreign-derived tedium.
Many think Dickens coined it in ‘Bleak House’ in 1852; but it first appeared slightly earlier, in a newspaper. Others have claimed that Herman Melville beat him to it, which although also erroneous is not surprising, given ‘Moby-Dick’.
Interestingly, intensified lexicography has discovered that many words previously claimed for Boz were in fact borrowed by his remarkable ear for language and slang: flummox, rampage, butter-fingers, sawbones, confusingly, casualty ward, kibosh and footlights for a few.
Tousled was also thought to originate in ‘Dombey & Son; new research shows it used four years earlier in The Manchester Times and Gazette in a story written by, yes, Charles Dickens.
Most words definitely invented by him have, sadly, not survived into our times. I particularly like comfoozled (very puzzled), sassigacity, (audacity with attitude), connubialities, (marital disagreements), ugsome (horrible and frightening).
And boredom can be the most terrific aid to creativity: think of Archimedes in his bath; Isaac Newton and the apple tree; James Watt waiting for his aunt's kettle to boil; and indeed (modesty and self-respect predictably failing in the face of a marketing opportunity) me to write the books available elsewhere on this site.
Nor should we forget that there are always others worse off. Thank goodness, for example, you were not a parliamentarian in 1828 when Henry Brougham made the longest continuous speech recorded in the House of Commons - six hours - or in 1831 when he repeated it to the House of Lords. Brougham also designed the horse-drawn carriage that bore his name. It sat two: Brougham and one lucky passenger.
This, too, was Sunday afternoon in 1958, for Tony Hancock (see also December 26), with the great Ray Galton and Alan Simpson at their finest. It will certainly pass the time.
Next, when you’re ready, but take your time, obviously.
December 28
‘Pride and Prejudice’ was first published on this date in 1813. For temperamental reasons, Mr Bennet has always been my favourite character. So I took the (pretty rich) liberty of writing a short story giving him some adventures in Bath, which he dislikes almost as much as Miss Austen did, although that has not prevented the city claiming her as its most famous resident.
The story features two visits by Mr Bennet, one with his challenging family, and the first as a young man, when he enounters no less than Dr Samuel Johnson and his servant, the freed slave, Francis Barber, at the famous Pelican Inn.
‘At length, after another aperçu which seemed to have no relevance other than to some long list in the large head below the unloved wig – ‘When making your choice in life, do not neglect to live’ – the first man turned to Mr Bennet and announced, ‘Good day to you, Sir, I look upon every day to be lost in which I do not make a new acquaintance. I am Dr Samuel Johnson of Lichfield and wide repute.’
‘Good day to you, Sir. I am Anthony Bennet. I imagine I am as well known in Longbourn, Hertfordshire, as you are in Lichfield, Staffs, but I cannot claim to any wider repute, even in Bath, where I am but lately arrived and am unconvinced of a desire to stay very much longer.’
‘Well, Sir! Tiring of Bath already! I have to tell you that when a man is tired of Bath, he is tired of life; for there is in Bath all that life can afford.’
‘He remarks that of everywhere we go,’ said the blacker man. ‘Last week we were in Lower Peover.’
James Boswell, busy listening, not always reverentially, is of course also present, and the company is joined shortly by a lively young midshipman, one Horatio Nelson, who also had family connections in Bath. Some of them then set out for the Assembly Rooms; on the way, Mr B has his first, and markedly dramatic, encounter with the redoubtable woman who is to become Mrs Bennet.
Dr Johnson’s quotes are authentic (except for the slight adaptation).
I cannot tell you how much fun I had writing it.
You can read it, if you choose, in ‘Sometimes In Bath,’ available in all good etc, or from my website: www.charlesnevin.co.uk
Next, gad!
December 29
Today, some more of my fascinating findings on animal intelligence.
Pigeons, you may well yourself have noticed, are accustomed to using the Underground for getting about London. Tower Hill, Aldgate, Paddington, Farringdon and Edgware Road are reported to be particularly popular. They have also been noticed using motorways as navigation aids.
London’s pigeon population contains large numbers of racing birds that have become disorientated in the Channel and have made their way up the Thames and then mingled and bred with the locals. This might well explain why all those stations are on the Circle line.
Some time ago now, the late Chuck Best of Florida trained five grey squirrels to waterski ‘with a mixture of affection, patience and that other vital ingredient - nuts’. Mr Best also had some success with a miniature pony, a poodle, an armadillo, and a toad.
Octopuses have excellent memories and have, in several cases, learned how to open jam jars. Very impressive, although some people have pointed out that it's the least they should be able to manage with eight legs.
In Japan, crows are known to wait for the lights at pedestrian crossings to turn green before hopping out to place walnuts which will then be crushed open when the traffic resumes.
The longest recorded sustained flight by a chicken is 13 seconds.
On!
December 26
On this date in 1797 the Georgian world bade farewell to John Wilkes, another extinct type of Englishman (see also yesterday): almost a great man but defeated by an unabashed inconsistency and an irrepressibly unserious sense of love and fun: the most rollicking man of a rollicking century, libertarian and libertine.
Here is the man who bribed 300 of the 500 voters of Aylesbury £5 each to elect him as their MP in 1761 and then introduced the first ever motion to reform parliament and remove the rotten boroughs in 1776.
Who used the London mob in his great campaign against the indiscriminate Government right to arrest and detain which still just about distinguishes our polity, and then as Lord Mayor of London led the troops who defended the Bank of England against the Gordon rioters in 1780, but refused to prosecute those who smashed the windows of his home, saying, 'They are only some of my pupils, now set up for themselves.’
Who wrote to a son of the Archbishop of Canterbury, no less, urging him to visit Bath should he ‘prefer young women and whores to old women and wives, if you prefer toying away hours with little Satin Back to the evening conferences of your Mother-in-Law but above all if the Heavenly inspired passion called Lust hath deserted you’; the man who shocked even James Boswell; but who still managed to mount a campaign against prostitution during his mayoralty.
Consistency, of course, is for the dull people. And J Wilkes was not dull. His finest quality was the lightning wit, which allowed him, as he said, to talk away his ugly looks in half an hour, and most famously, respond to the Earl of Sandwich's musing on whether he would die on the gallows or of the pox: ‘That depends on whether I embrace your lordship’s principles or your mistress.’
And who has, ever, come up with a quicker response than this, when a fashionable young fop said to him, 'Isn't it strange that I was born on the first of January?' Wilkes replied, 'Not strange at all. You could only have been born on the first of April.'
Next, sadly.
December 25
A birth, of course, and a death today: Charlie Chaplin, in 1977; from the sublime to the sublimely ridiculous, you might say. Not such a name, now, Chaplin, but in his time, the first half of the twentieth century, he was more popular than Jesus before John Lennon.
The emergence of a genius is always intriguing, never more so when he or she appears to spring from almost nothing, in Chaplin’s case, the back streets of Walworth in south London, the second son of a couple of mediocre music hall entertainers. His father was a drunk and his mother was committed to a mental asylum when he was 14.
And yet he conquered the world with his creation, the Little Tramp, perhaps a nod to his Romany background, the battered little man in the bowler hat with the impossibly splayed feet and the defiant swagger stick, who triumphed against all odds with a delicious mix of teasing the rich and venal and bullying and high sentimentality. It helped that he was at the birth of the cinema and he was silent, and so understood everywhere.
With some justification, given the unique quality of his films and their dependence on mime, he resisted sound through the 1930s, but continued to evolve his artistry into even more pertinent social commentary. ‘Modern Times,’ his remarkable satire on industrialisation and unmediated capitalism, still stands comparison with anything else since spoken.
But his classic was his first talkie, at last, ‘The Great Dictator’. Himself a consummate populist, Chaplin recognised the dangers then that have returned to haunt us today. So he took on Hitler, portraying himself as a Jewish barber who ends up impersonating the not-disguised dictator of a European country, brilliantly lampooned and ridiculed.
The film is an astonishingly accomplished work for a first effort in sound, showing wit and deep thought without sacrificing the pantomime. It ends with one of the
finest calls to conscience in history, written by a man with barely any formal education and delivered in his first speaking role with the aplomb of a master. Ridiculously, it was deemed by many in America as too controversial for a comedian, and began the decline in Chaplin's popularity thereafter accelerated by changing fashion, novelty and politics.
Listen and wonder where such people are now.
December 24
With a fine sense of an entrance, England’s very own Dark Lord was born on this date in 1166. Ah, yes: John, King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine, Count of Anjou, and Count of Mortain. Bad King John, on whom the noted chronicler Matthew Paris pronounced: ‘'Foul as Hell is, it is made fouler by the presence of King John.’
There can certainly be no argument that John was a very bad man: treacherous, lecherous, callous, cynical, and a serial killer, both singly and mass. He was so shifty this date for his birth might or might not be correct. Yet there is still something about this terrible man; something of what makes the pantomime villain so appealing to (most of) us: the relishable relish in being very bad, and, even more, the sense of humour.
Which there is no doubt John possessed to a degree unusual in the times and even more unusual in our monarchy. Has there been another king or queen with a sense of humour? No, with the possible exception of the second and third Charles (and certainly not the first). And even the second, the Merry Monarch was not entirely rattling good fun. He did tend to bang on endlessly about his exploits: The Earl of Rochester, for example, wondered how he could recall every event in such minute detail and yet not remember he had told the same tale to the same people the previous day.
John was different. For a few examples:
He retaliated to the rather outrageous papal excommunication of England in a squabble about clerical appointments by raiding the houses of the clergy and holding their female ‘housekeepers’ to ransom.
He entered into negotiations with the Sultan of Morocco to embrace Islam in return for a loan.
When the fleeing chancellor, Longchamp, disguised as a woman, was fumbled and rumbled by an amorous fisherman at Dover, it made John laugh so much that he let him go.
When the hermit Peter of Pontefract prophesied that his reign would not last longer than 14 years, John held a great festival on the anniversary to mock the grumpy old Yorkshireman.
And there was charm. Why else would his brother Richard, although admittedly not the sharpest Plantagenet on the escutcheon, forgive and forgive him, even when, instead of ransoming the Lionheart from his Austrian castle prison, he secretly offered money to keep him there (for less than the ransom demand, naturally)?
But also, the ruthless viciousness: the murder of his nephew and rival; the mass starving to death of hostages; too much to overlook in return for a good laugh.
Go and look at John’s effigy in Worcester Cathedral, where he was buried after over-feasting to forget Magna Carta and the loss of all that treasure in the Wash. And think of this, from JohnHarvey’s splendid essay: ‘His temperament would have been called “French” in Victorian times; he loved to saunter through life, seeing and enjoying the surface of things; the best food, ex-pensive drink, fine clothes, pretty women, amusing companions with whom he could while away the hours in chatter and endless
games of backgammon’.
No ordinary villain, one extraordinary rogue.
But we cannot leave without honouring the treasured cry from Anthony Aloysius St John Hancock as he struggled to persuade his fellow jurors that Justice cried out for the acquittal of the wrongly accused defendant: ‘Does Magna Carta mean nothing to you? Did she die in vain, that brave Hungarian peasant girl who forced King John to sign the pledge at Runnymede and closed all the boozers at half past ten?’
Next!
(All right, all right: pedants will insist that John didn't literally sign the charter. But as someone wrote: 'Pedants have no soul; they are the enemies of generosity and romance and fancy, and see beauty only in earthbound exactitudes.' )
December 23
With two days to go, it’s time to catch up on a few Christmas traditions:
Criticising Christmas Tree
The Trafalgar Square Christmas Tree has been presented every year since 1947 by the people of Oslo in generous gratitude for the liberation of Norway from Nazi occupation. And every year it is criticised on at least one of these grounds:not tall enough, full enough, straight enough, or looking alive enough.
Nor do other public trees escape: A selection of those that have disappointed in recent years would include Pontypool, March, Port Talbot, Ottery St Mary, Beeston, Peterborough, Stockton Heath, Haddenham, Hadleigh, Derby, Walsall, Alnwick, Worcester and Goole, where a perceived perpendicular problem caused theirs to be called “Eileen".
White Christmas
A rare but endlessly speculated occurrence in Britain. This unfamiliarity helps explain that seasonal phenomenon, the thieves tracked back to their lairs by simply following their footsteps, including Taunton in 2010 and Darlington in 2013. Not entirely, though, as it is remarkably frequent in the United States. I have long advised walking backwards, but clearly my work is not popular in the criminal classes.
Presents
It is also traditional that I mention at this late hour as a boon to harassed parents that the empty cardboard box is a member of America's National Toy Hall of Fame and was voted 19th best toy of all time in a survey of 2,000 industry experts.
Sadly, though, this encouraging proof of imagination and unbiddability in our young rather blunts the appeal of another of my favourites, already suffering from a certain, how shall we say, dated quality and featuring a young child’s disappointment with such an empty box, countered by his father telling him that it is Action Man Deserter.
I note, too, that Bargain Max offer an item they call Box Clever:
‘Forget fancy electronics and pricey play sets...Priced at just 1p, with free postage and packaging, Box Clever will provide hours of fun for your child...
'Made of the highest quality cardboard, the multifunctional Box Clever comes with several different configurations for your little one’s enjoyment, such as open, closed, and flat packed....
‘Arguably the most understated yet stylish present on the market this Christmas, its distinctive brown colour will stand out from its more garish and flashier rivals, and ...can be fully customised by your kids using crayons, markers, stickers, and glue (sold separately) to make it a totally unique product.’
Sadly, if not surprisingly, it appears to have sold out. If only there was some other way of sourcing an empty cardboard box.
Next!
December 22
Panto time is upon us, and I can do no better than take you back to 1986 and that magnificent old theatre, the Liverpool Empire, packed to the rafters with children, chocolate and tubs of ice-cream in the delicious Christmas darkness.
The panto is Aladdin, and the title role is being played by the city’s own Cilla Black, born Priscilla White in Scotland Road and transformed by Brian Epstein from Cavern coat- check girl to star, and now one of middle Britain’s favourite entertainers.
Everything is going well. Cilla embarks on a traditional confiding interchange with the audience.
‘Now then, boys and girls, how are we going to get rid of that big mean nasty baddie?’
And a young Scouse voice pipes out: ‘Sing to him, Cilla!’
Marvellous. I leave you with greetings for the season and Cilla giving us a performance that never fails to cheer me up.
December 21
‘You boy! What day is this?’ Actually, it's Bah Humbug Day. Quite right, too, in this celebration of excess to think of those who have been excessive in the other direction. Besides, thrift has a spare style all of its own, and has an elegance you just don't get with over consumption; a style that scorns the comfort of purchased or conventional approval in favour of one's own path.
Sir John Ellerman, the shipping magnate, for example, was worth something like £9bn in 1929 at today's prices in liquid assets alone, the richest man in Britain. Sir John used to take afternoon tea with Lady Ellerman at the Anglesey Arms Hotel in Menai Bridge, where he would order ‘a pot of tea for one, please, with two cups’.
Mark Zuckerberg and his bride, Priscilla Chan, honeymooning in Rome, ate ravioli from the same plate at the Nonna Bett restaurant while running up a bill of £25. They didn't leave a tip.
J M Keynes refused to tip because he didn't want 'to be party to debasing the currency’.
George Weston, Canadian business legend, is said to have died from pneumonia because he refused to take a taxi home and walked several miles through a blizzard.
JP Getty washed his own underwear every night, and had a pay telephone installed for guests at his home, Sutton Place.
And when Roy Thomson owned The Times he insisted on sharing his copy with his son.
Comics have, of course, been equally legendary in the careful department. I’ve already recalled Tommy Cooper’s famous and protracted disagreement with a barman over the change: ‘It’s not the principle of the thing, it’s the money’. He would also palm something that felt like a note onto cabbies, advising them to ‘have a drink on me.’ This would turn out to be a teabag.
Ted Ray, a name you will not see a lot of in these times, was once in a pub with another, Max Miller, legendarily blue and legendarily mean. Ray became frustrated after Max, despite telling the party how much money he was making from rental properties in Brighton, showed no signs of standing his corner. ‘Tell you what, Max,’ he said, ‘Why don’t you sell one of your houses and buy us a drink?’
For some it has been a persona rather than fact. Never more than with Jack Benny, whose meanness was his leading schtick, along with his violin. The great Benny joke involves him being held up by a man with a gun who demands his money or his life. There is a perfect pause. The robber becomes impatient, ‘Well?’
‘I’m thinking about it,’ says Jack.
Can't think why Ebenezer didn't stick to his guns.
On!
December 20
To mark the Winter Solstice and the shortest day of the year, here are some fine short things:
Shakespeare’s Sonnets
Shortbread
Winning jockeys
A comic's pause
The silences in Gregorian chants
Mel Brooks
Shrift
Noses
Dudley Moore
Cuts
Grumpy
The English summer
Breaks
Stays. Hans Christian Andersen was supposed to spend two weeks at the home of Charles Dickens. After he left, Dickens put this note in his room: ‘Hans Andersen slept in this room for five weeks - which seemed to the family AGES.’
Single Malt
Ernie Wise's legs
Speeches
Youth
Stories.* This is a short ghost story: Some time ago, a man staying in an old house was awakened in the middle of the night by a strange noise. He reached out to light the candle, and the matches were put into his hand.
*As it is the season of goodwill, you might care to look at mine over on the front and books pages.
On!
December 19
Ho Ho Ho Alert! Here it is, yes, my top Christmas Cracker Joke Selection!
How do you hire a horse? Stand it on some bricks.
‘Doctor, I think I'm a ten pound note’.
‘Go Xmas shopping – the change will do you good.’
Who beats his chest and swings from Christmas cake to Christmas cake?
Tarzipan!
What do you call an old snowman? Water.
What comes at the end of Christmas Day? The letter Y!
How did Scrooge win the football game? The ghost of Christmas passed.
What is the best Christmas present in the world?
A broken drum, you just can’t beat it!
What did the stamp say to the Christmas card?
Stick with me, kid, and we’ll go places!
What did one snowman say to the other?
‘Do you smell carrots?’
Ok: Next: Quickly!
December 18
Zsa Zsa Gabor died on this date in 2016, little more than a month shy of her 100th birthday. Fame is of course fickle, but those soonest forgotten are those only famous for being famous, with no other achievement than themselves. Still, Zsa Zsa’s was impressive, to be remarkably well-known for little more than the Hungarian way she pronounced ‘dahlink’, and the number of her husbands. Oh, and she was pretty, and, vital to public affection, in on the joke, with wit.
She was one of three actorly, or perhaps better, actorish, sisters from Budapest, all of whom had unfeasibly successful careers (you should particularly avoid Zsa Zsa’s ‘Queen of Outer Space’; but do try her 1993 workout video, 'It’s Simple Darling': two beefy chaps do all the work while Zsa Zsa blithely chats away: 'He wants me on my knees. I never kneel before a man.').
But it was her husbands that fascinated: nine of them. There was a Turkish diplomat; a hotelier - but some hotelier: Conrad Hilton; a film star: the saturnine George Sanders, voice of Shere Khan in Disney’s ‘Jungle Book’; an investment banker; a Texas oil man; the inventor of Barbie; the lawyer who handled her divorce from him; a Mexican actor who would later star in ‘Real Women Have Curves’ (annulled after one day on the grounds that the cruise ship they married on wasn’t in international waters); and finally a German baker and sauna owner who had been adopted by a princess.
Remarkable enough, but possibly Zsa Zsa’s greatest talent was for one-liners about her husbands:
'Conrad Hilton was very generous to me in the divorce settlement. He gave me 5000 Gideon Bibles.’
‘I’m a marvellous housekeeper. Every time I leave a man I keep his house.’
‘I always said that marriage should be 50-50 proposition — he should be at least 50 years old and have at least 50 million dollars.’
‘How many husbands have I had? You mean other than my own?’
‘A man in love is incomplete until he’s married. Then he’s finished’
Funny, yes. Odd, though, you might think, too, that such a chronicle of failure and, surely, pain, should be so entertaining. But that was Hollywood; and us.
December 17
Today, as a counter to the crescendoing crass commercialism all around us, a retreat to older, properly magical times and the tale of Potter Thompson. Back then, Potter, an honest man of Richmond in Yorkshire, took himself off for a walk after a hard day’s potting.
As he walked by the swift-flowing Swale, he came across a cleft in the cliffs below the mighty Richmond Castle that he had never noticed before, and made his way along a tunnel until he came into a great cavern, lit by a lantern hanging from its ceiling.
In this cavern lay a host of knights from the old times, all sleeping soundly. One knight lay near a crown embellished with gold, surrounded by great treasures. Looking further, Potter saw a gold encrusted horn and a bejewelled sword on a huge stone table.
Intrigued, Potter picked up the horn and made to blow it. But as he did the mighty knights began to stir and a great wind arose.
Potter fled; as he a voice called: ‘Potter Thompson, Potter Thompson, if thou hadst either drawn that sword or blown the horn, thou wouldst have been the luckiest man that ever yet was born.’
Some days later, when he had finally recovered from the shock of the strange encounter, he returnedbut could not find the entrance. Nor has any man, woman or child succeeded since.
‘Thus,’ as Andrew Walsh so splendidly concludes in ‘Forgotten Yorkshire Folk and Fairy Tales,’(Innovative Libraries, 2019), ’King Arthur and his knights were allowed to fall back into their long sleep, and the day when they would rise again and come to England’s aid was delayed.
‘Perhaps one day soon a bolder man shall find again the gloomy vault, and draw the sword and sound the horn, still laid up, and awaiting, beneath Richmond’s historic keep.’
And I thought Yorkshire people weren’t romantic. There again, that old curmudgeon from Bradford, J B Priestley, wrote that there is something about England and its concentrated size and intense history which lends itself to such speculation; as he put it:
'It would not surprise me if somebody decided to follow some tiny overgrown lane and then found at the end of it Camelot was still there, with nettles thick around a dusty Round Table.’
Off you go!
December 16
Noël Coward was born on this date in 1899, hence his first name. Some favourites from The Master:
Not kind, but funny:
On the young Bonnie Langford's exuberant performance in the ill-fated London production of the 1972 'Gone with the Wind' musical: ‘Two things should have been cut. The second act and that child’s throat.’
On Anna Neagle's interpretation of Queen Victoria: ‘I never realised before that Albert married beneath him.’
‘Many years ago I remember a famous actress explaining to me perfectly seriously that before making an entrance she always stood aside to let God go on first. I can also remember that on that occasion He gave a singularly uninspired performance.’
Funny:
To the journalist from the Johannesburg Star who inquired on his arrival in South Africa, ‘Anything to say to the Star, Mr Coward?’: ‘Twinkle.’
To Chuck Connors, at the time a well-known Hollywood actor, who barrelled up to him in a Beverly Hills restaurant and said: ‘I’m Chuck Connors,’: ‘Of course you are, dear boy.’
Beatrice Lillie, celebrated entertainer of the time: ‘Noël and I were in Paris once, staying in adjoining hotel rooms. I knocked on Noël’s door and he asked, ‘Who is it?’ In a deep voice, I replied, ‘Hotel detective. Have you got a gentleman in your room?’ He answered, ‘Just a minute, I’ll ask him.’
Not funny, but charming:
Henry Blofeld, ‘Blowers’, the cricket commentator and character, went to Jamaica on honeymoon and found time to lunch with Ian Fleming, who had been at Eton with his father, inspiration for the name of Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Coward was there. The next day the phone rang at Blofeld's hotel and the voice at the other end said, ‘Hello, I don’t know if you remember me, we met at lunch yesterday, my name’s Noël Coward.’
Next!
December 15
With the Christmas party season now in full swing, some of you might well be finding yourselves dealing with that tricky moment when conversation, no matter how sparkling, comes to a sudden, jarring halt, leaving the interlocutors, so lately such paragons of wit and sophistication, regarding each other like two victims of a particularly catastrophic autocue malfunction.
I find it a good idea to have some surefire instant fillers and stimulators memorised and at the ready.
1) ‘Do you have a favourite cheese?’
2) ‘Did you know that Liechtenstein is one of the only two landlocked countries in the world which are also surrounded by landlocked countries? The other is Uzbekistan which, unlike Liechtenstein, has a navy, with boats patrolling the Amu Darya river.’
3) ‘Have you ever been to Clacton?’
4) ‘Funny thing - If you attach electrodes to gherkins, they glow.’
5) ‘Tell me what you make of this - the can opener wasn't invented until 48 years after the tin can.'
Another ploy I've always found quite helpful is a lapel badge with conversational tips for fellow guests written on it. Please feel free to adopt and adapt.
1) Good for five minutes on the weather.
2)Premier League only, I’m afraid.
3) Struggles on string theory.
4)Amusing on poor DIY skills.
5)Don’t talk to me about schools!
On!
December 14
Perhaps the most unlikely Yorkshireman ever died on this date in 2013. Peter Seamus O'Toole was the son of a smalltime but larger than life Irish bookmaker living in Leeds. (Almost matched for improbable Yorkshireness by Frankie Howerd, somehow born in York.)
The legend is too well-known to need much repetition. The tone was set early, in a schoolboy’s journal entry: ‘I will not be a common man. I will stir the smooth sands of monotony.’
Literally prescient, you will agree, especially as his career famously took off with ‘Lawrence of Arabia’: ‘I woke up one morning to find I was famous. Bought a white Rolls-Royce and drove down Sunset Boulevard wearing dark specs and a white suit, waving like the Queen Mum.’
He was an extraordinarily physical actor: the looks, of course, especially the smile; but I once watched him sit on a chair as Professor Higgins in Pygmalion: it was a sinuous elongated downward spiral that seemed to take at least a minute. It also added absolutely nothing to the play, except our enjoyment, which is perhaps crucial.
Despite several requests for interviews, I managed just the one brief telephone conversation with him, and that only because he wanted to praise - unlikely, again - Arthur Lowe, best known as the splendid Captain Mainwaring of ‘Dad’s Army’.
But Lowe also had a distinguished stage and film career, playing small but telling characters in films, often by Lindsay Anderson, who insisted on him: ‘This Sporting Life,’ ‘If…’, and ‘The Ruling Class,' with O’Toole, and that other remarkable character actor, Alastair Sim.
O'Toole didn’t so much talk as roar down the telephone as if he was still trying to reach the back row: 'Arthur was one of the most subtle, broadly ranged actors we've ever had. Playing between Arthur Lowe and Alastair Sim was like having someone pissing on my grave…
‘Arthur was a throwback to the old and proper days, larger than life’. A pause, and then, if a roar can be wistful, ‘Life has become terribly small and mediocre, hasn't it?’
Here is an antidote to that:
December 13
It being that time of year, I thought I might give my favourite nativity play story its traditional outing.
We are in Liverpool, at a primary school, and the Three Kings have just entered from the desert bearing gifts and clad in the obligatory towels and dressing gowns. Caspar intones gravely, ‘I bring you gold’; Balthasar matches him with, ‘I bring you myrrh’; Melchior, in that slight panic one’s first stage work can bring, rushes forward and thrusts his gift on the infant: ‘’Ere y' are, Frank sent this!’
Next!
December 12
Some of my favourite book titles from writers mentioned by P G Wodehouse as he made his magic:
The Love Which Prevails by Leila J Pinkney
Strychnine in the Soup by Horatio Slingsby
Blood on the Bannisters, Ditto
Charlie Chipmunk Up The Orinoco by Bella Mae Jobson
My Life on the Links by Sandy McHoots
Offal by Stultitia Bodwin
Autumn Leaves by Gwendolen Moon
Blackness at Night by Adela Cream
Memories of Eighty Interesting Years by Lady Carnaby
My Friends the Newts by Loretta Peabody
'Twas on an English June by Gwendolen Moon
Frank Recollections of a Long Life by Lady Bablockhythe
Cocktail Time by Sir Raymond Bastable
Songs of Squalor by Ralston McTodd*
Is There a Hell? by Rev. Aubrey Jerningham
Caliban at Sunset, by Percy Gorringe
The Case of the Poisoned Doughnut by Percy Gorringe (writing as Rex West)
*Featuring that legendary line, ‘Across the Pale Parabola of Joy’.
Rosie M Banks, keeper of six Pekingese and Bingo Little, her husband, deserves a list of her own:
All for Love
Madcap Myrtle
Only a Factory Girl
A Red, Red Summer Rose
The Woman Who Braved All
’Twas Once In May
By Honour Bound
Mervyn Keene, Clubman
Her work, of course, also features in ‘Little Tots,’ the magazine edited by Bingo for an interesting period, during which he contributed ‘Uncle Joe to his Chickabiddies,’ when part of his friendly guidance to the little ones included racing tips.
You can, as it happens, also acquire several novels by Rosie M Banks; Mr Wodehouse gave Alan Jackson, editor of the Saturday Evening Post, permission to publish under Rosie’s name: this is from the blurb of Navy Nurse: 'Alice Smith…had an attack of love at first sight. And she didn’t want to be cured’.
Two further volumes by sadly unnamed authors:
Excuse My Gat!
With Guns and Camera in Little Known Borneo
On!
December 11
On this date in 1688, at around three on a wet cold London morning, King James II, fleeing Prince William of Orange’s advance from Torquay, slipped out of Whitehall Palace through a secret passageway disguised in an old cloak, a short black wig and, possibly unnecessarily, a patch on his left upper lip. As he was rowed across the Thames, the king hurled the Great Seal of England into the river, hoping thereby to disrupt the new administration (the seal, introduced by Edward the Confessor, and minted for each successive monarch, gave official approval to state documents).
This was characteristic, perhaps defining, of James, a literal man of limited imagination, particularly in thinking that the re-introduction of Roman Catholicism, popularly a tricky, fanciful, and oppressive creed that summed up the worst of abroad, would be achieved because he wanted it so.
It was typical, too, that the escape failed. Later that morning, the King arrived on horseback at the Isle of Sheppey and boarded a small sloop; but because of strong winds the pilot refused to sail. Shortly before midnight, just as they were about to leave, fishermen boarded the sloop and robbed everyone on board, including the king, who wasn’t recognised (the patch?), and was made to turn out his pockets at gunpoint.
The failure was an embarrassment all round, as William certainly didn’t want a deposed king lingering. He succeeded on the second attempt, crossing the Channel in a small fishing boat on December 23, again disguised, again slightly farcically, as the new authorities knew all about it. He never returned to England; his attempt to regain the throne was crushed by William at the famous Battle of the Boyne in Ulster in 1689.
Where he was untypical was in being a dull Stuart. So dull that even his mistresses were thought terribly plain, allowing his foxy brother, Charles II, to encourage the view that they must have been imposed on him by his confessors as penance.
As for the Great Seal, it was claimed that it was accidentally recovered either the next day or the next Spring in a fisherman’s net; whatever, this was treated as a miracle, although the more prosaic historians have had their doubts.
The Seal's successors have also had adventures.
In 1784, thieves broke into the home of Lord Thurlow, the then Lord Chancellor, traditionally keeper of the Seal, and stole it, together with some money. This one was never recovered, having most likely been melted down.
In 1812, a fire broke out at the house of a later Chancellor, Lord Eldon. ‘It really was a very pretty sight,’ his Lordship would later recollect, ‘for all the maids turned out of their beds, and they formed a line from the water to the fire-engine, handing the buckets; they looked very pretty, all in their shifts.
'My first care was the Great Seal; so, by way of securing it during the confusion, I buried it. The next morning, when I came to reflect, I could not remember the spot where I had put it: you never saw anything so ridiculous, as seeing the whole family down that walk, probing and digging till we found it.’
Its successors have been less disturbed.
Next!
December 10
Today, another finely long name: Baroness Kathleen Annie Pannonica 'Nica' de Koenigswarter (née Rothschild) was born on this date in 1913. An eclectic cv includes ambulance driving in north Africa for the Free French during the second world war, managing some of the greatest jazz magicians, and, of course, being very rich.
A rich detail is that her also very rich husband divorced her after Charlie Parker died in her suite at Manhattan’s Stanhope Hotel. Another is that her brother was Victor Rothschild, the 3rd Baron Rothschild, scientist, panjandrum and wartime spy who never quite shook off the suspicion that he had been too closely involved with the celebrity traitors, Burgess, Philby and Maclean. Rumour also has it that she once flew a Lancaster bomber and owned 306 cats but you know what rumours are.
Her fascination with jazz began after hearing Dexter Gordon’s ‘Round Midnight’ and moved on into chauffeuring in her Bentley and managing Thelonius Monk, Art Blakey and more. She became known, inevitably, as the Bebop Baroness. Her book, ‘Les musiciens de jazz et leurs trois vœux’ featured 300 jazz players giving their three wishes illustrated with her stylish Polaroid photos.
A few responses: Dizzy Gillespie: ‘Not to play for money.’ Miles Davis: ‘To be white!’ Louis Armstrong: ‘People would never get sick if they weren’t constipated. Why, I’ve never had an operation in my life because I never let myself get constipated.’
The Baroness died in 1988. She requested in her will that her family hire a boat and scatter her ashes on the Hudson River round midnight. The last detail: she always said she was named after a butterfly; it is, in fact, a beautiful moth.
December 9
Ah, yes: the first episode of Coronation Street was broadcast on this date in 1960. An everyday story of simple north country folk involving death, disaster, love, hate and pies, still going on, still capturing an essence of the local character, product of hard lives, dashed dreams and a consequent lively appreciation of the ridiculous. And those names! Some quotes, with great admiration for some gifted scriptwriters:
1) ‘I’d like to go like my mother went … she just sat up, broke wind and died.' Ena Sharples.
2) 'Hilda, will you stop that singing! It’s like a lump of coke stuck under the back gate.’ Stan Ogden.
3) 'Run along home now, Gail, the curtains won’t twitch themselves, you know.' Eileen Grimshaw .
4) 'I'm not a snob Adam. I've been to Nando's.' Mary Cole.
5) 'Isn't Cliff Richard a lovely chubby lad.' Minnie Caldwell.
6) 'I've always wanted to be stormy, passionate and tempestuous. But you can't be. Not when you're born with a tidy mind.' Emily Bishop (née Nugent).
7)'You could meet Alf Roberts riding on a horse in the middle of the Sahara Desert and still know he's a grocer.' Audrey Potter.
8)'That bin wants emptying. I'm downwind of yesterday's cabbage.' Blanche Hunt.
9)'My idea of heaven is doing a foxtrot on a French-chalked floor.' Annie Walker.
10) 'When you've made gravy under gunfire, you can do anything.' Percy Sugden.
On!
December 8
Time - and when is it not? - for a squint through the field glasses at my acclaimed Nevin's Nature, a division of Nevin's Unusual Trivia Selection, known for convenience as NNNUTS:
1) Kangaroos can't walk backwards. I'm researching whether this applies to the new species of tree kangaroo recently discovered in Indonesia. The bondegezou sits in trees and gives a friendly whistle when it sees a human. Well, it did.
2) Ants always falls over on their right sides when intoxicated.
3) Pigs have penises shaped like corkscrews which operate with a right-hand thread.
4) Giraffes can't cough. Which is just as well, as it's quite loud enough as it is, on the savannah.
5) Elephants can't jump. But they are remarkably intelligent. In 2011, for example, two runaways from a circus near Hanover were found waiting at a nearby bus stop. We nature buffs (!) know the dangers of getting carried away, though: the bus stop wasn't actually in operation.
Correction: pigs penises operate with a left hand thread.
Thank you.
Next!
December 7
Today, more assistance in becoming the life and soul of the Christmas party season: yes, my top waiter, fly and soup jokes!
1) 'Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup!' 'Don’t worry, sir, the spider on the bread roll will get it.'
2) 'Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup!' 'Don’t worry, sir, how much soup can a fly drink?'
3) 'Waiter, there’s a dead fly in my soup.' 'I know, sir, it’s the heat that kills them.’
4) 'Waiter, what’s this fly doing in my soup?' 'Looks like the breast stroke to me, sir.'
5) English tourist: ‘Garcon, il y a un mouche dans mon potage! ‘Non, monsieur it is une mouche.’ ‘Goodness me, what eyesight!’
I thank you. Despite appearing to have an immaculately English pedigree, many waiter, soup, fly jokes began life in Lindy’s, the legendary New York restaurant immortalised as Mindy’s by Damon Runyon and Guys and Dolls, where the waiters, often resting actors, were as legendarily rude as the cheesecake was delicious, and ranged around the menu, as in ‘Waiter, do you serve shrimps here?’ ‘Sure, we don’t care how tall you are, sit down,’ and, ‘Waiter, this coffee tastes like tea.’ ‘Forgive me, sir, I must have given you the hot chocolate by mistake.’
Next, very quickly!
December 6
Today, held up, rather aptly you might think, by yesterday's motorway celebrations, we remember the great Terry-Thomas, and the party he would throw every year to celebrate the splendid coincidence of W A Mozart's death and W E (Walt) Disney's birth.
Thomas Terry Hoar Stevens (1911-90), better known as T-T - he adopted the hyphen as a tribute to the 8.5mm gap between his front teeth - made his reputation playing an unique character ideal for the faltering days of imperial and post-war confidence, the incompetent cad who somehow also manages to be loveable, how the British then liked to see themselves.
The eyes, the teeth and the smile were wonderfully designed for the looks of cunning, supplication, and panic which would chase themselves with such rapid and subtle suggestion across his face. And the distaste and disappointment , never expressed better than in the famous insult, 'An absolute shower,' pronounced 'shar'.
You will have your favourites: His turn as the supposed criminal mastermind attempting to dispose of some booty to the tune of 'The Third Man' in 'Make Mine A Mink,' and the incomparable tango with Joyce Grenfell as the undercover police sergeant in 'Blue Murder at St Trinian's' are among mine.
And do try this, for the sheer joyous silliness of it:
By the way, did you know Walt Disney was afraid of mice?
Next!
December 5
Big anniversary for transport today: the opening in 1958 of Britain's first motorway, the Preston Bypass, forerunner of the M6 and then all the rest of those curse-blessings of our age, facilitators of speedier travel, despoilers of the countryside and contributors to the decline of our fine railway system.
Buckle up (Volvo introduced the modern seat belt in the same year, although it did not become compulsory until 1981) for some fascinating PB/M6 facts!
1) The PB was opened by the then Prime Minister, Harold MacMillan.
2) In what cynics might see as symbolic, the intricately designed automatic plaque unveiling device had to be abandoned in favour of Premier manual action.
3) Mr Macmillan then drove off along the new road and became the fist person to break motorway regulations by stopping and walking across it.
4) The next day saw the first jam as people drove to have a look at it.
5) The first accident happened on the second day, when an inexperienced driver stole a Ford Zephyr and went down an embankment, overturning the car in a field.
6)The second involved a 14-year-old so eager to see the modern motoring miracle that he took his father's Vauxhall Velox on Christmas Eve and got up to 70 mph (interestingly, the limit not introduced until 1965) before also careering down an embankment and overturning in a field.
7) The road was closed for the first motorway road works six weeks later.
8) Keele Services is an exact copy of Charnock Richard Services.
9) Spaghetti Junction, the complicated interchange at Birmingham, opened in 1972. On its 50th anniversary, Heinz released a limited edition of their tinned spaghetti featuring the junction on its label.
10) Those wistful for how things used to done will be delighted to learn that Mr Macmillan's opening remarks included this, delivered, I am assured, in slightly more Scottish tones than he normally employed, from the great R Burns:
'I'm now arrived - thanks to the gods! -
Thro' pathways rough and muddy,
A certain sign that makin' roads,
Is no this people's study:
Altho' I'm not wi' Scripture cram'd,
I'm sure the Bible says
That heedless sinners shall be damn'd,
Unless they mend their ways.'
Marvellous. Next!
December 4
Today, yes, footwear!
The oldest shoe to be found in Britain was discovered in 2005. A size nine or ten, men's, the lace holes were still visible after 2,000 years. Fittingly, it was found near Wellington.
That very same year, near Darlington, other archaeologists uncovered a remarkably fine Roman razor handle carved in the shape of a legionary's leg. Interestingly, it was dressed in sandals with socks, thus providing a lengthy pedigree for this hallowed British custom, so often derided by other Europeans, including Italians.
Speculation that the knotted handkerchief on the head is a hazily remembered tribute to the laurel wreaths favoured by the Caesars has yet to be substantiated.
The great Scottish biographer and philosopher, Thomas Carlyle, author of The Great Man theory of history, was born on this date in 1795. As it happens, Mrs Carlyle was once pursued from a shoe shop after forgetting she had several sandals draped over an arm; but I mostly mention the mighty Scot so as to relate the occasion when he told a friend he was contemplating a life of Michelangelo: 'Mind ye, I'll no say much about his art.'
On!
December 3
'Delilah,' the Tom Jones song that has surely endured some of the worst performances wherever the happily inebriated, the sports supporting and the tone deaf gather, was released this month in 1967. Barry Mason, of Wigan, who co-wrote it with Les Reed, of Woking, liked to recall the time he visited the loos at a service station in, I think, Yorkshire, to find the man in the next stall humming the great anthem. In that friendly Lancashire way, he confided, 'You're not going to believe this, but I wrote the words to that song.' The man looked at him and said, 'I'm not humming the words.'
Next!
December 2
And today I am indebted to an excellent group of Shakespeare enthusiasts for revealing the parts with the least lines in all the canon; my favourite is James Soundpost, the Third Musician in Romeo and Juliet, who gets only one: 'Faith, I know not what to say.'
That Bill, eh?
December 1
A crank of the Miscellany handle, and up pops an edition of, yes, my Oddly Fascinating Facts (OFF). Not only do these provide an excellent opportunity for an appreciative raising of the eyebrows followed by wise nods of the head and a solemn frown at the remarkable complexity of what we must now call the 'lived experience', but I find them terrific conversational icebreakers and emergency fillers of those awkward moments when the sparkling wit momentarily falters and that vacant yet desperate look anyone familiar with me will recognise.
1) Alan Napier, the actor who played Alfred, Bruce Wayne's butler, in the 'Batman' television series, was a distant cousin of Neville Chamberlain.
2) The height of hanging baskets in the Somerset Council administrative area - at least 2.1 metres above the pavement - is a modification of the old official measure based on the average height of a policeman in a helmet, running.
3) The Bodleian Library in Oxford contains a book made of cheese.
4) The Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould (1834-1924), who wrote the verse to 'Onward, Christian Soldiers,' kept a pet bat and once offended his young daughter at her birthday party by asking her who she was.
5) Most humans drown before being dismembered and eaten by a crocodile. Most.
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