When I was a schoolboy of age about 10, the headmaster appeared in the classroom one day to speak to the teacher; he turned to the class and asked us did we know what a gentleman was. I think a few wiseacres put their hands up and said things like "good, sir" and "kind, sir" and "gentle, sir". Good said the headmaster: you can, he said, break the word into two parts, "Gentle and man", a gentle man or a gentleman.
Why has this memory come to mind recently? Well, there have been a series of letters in The Times commenting on what the writers believe to be qualities found in gentlemen. One said "a gentleman is someone who is treated as such" which is, I suppose, rather witty but not definitive. Another wrote: "A gentkleman never gives offence unintentionally" which is rather good.
I remember thinking about the headmaster's question and believing I didn't know any gentlemen. I didn't think my father was then though now I realise he was; that is, he never thought badly about most people - except the Australian test team - he was generally kind and thoughful towards people and so on. I think I had the idea that a gentleman would have to be rich and a toff (like David Cameron who, I read, can be rude so that cuts him out). But a lot of toffs are not gentlemen; indeed, it may actually be the case that being a toff instantly diminishes your gentlemanly status because isn't a toff someone who shows a certain measure of disdain for those who are not toffs? Yes is the answer to that. Yet, though Cameron is evidently a toff and not a gentleman, I think that Boris Johnson is a toff and possibly is a gentleman.
Being polite to ladies and old people was once, I think, considered to be gentlemanly behaviour. But feminism made some "ladies" into dragons and there's not much politeness these days to old people (I should know from experience); they rather get in the wayand they make too many demands on younger people.
So how does the Collins dictionary define "gentleman""? Quote: "A man of good birth; one who, without a title, bears a coat of arms; one above the trading classes" ..... When was this dictionary written? In the 18th Century or earlier? .... Hah this is more like it: "A man of refined manners; a man of good feeling and instincts, courteous and honourable." That's better.
Not at all like the definition Freddy Trueman gave: "A gentleman is someone who gets out of the bath to use the lavatory."
Monday 28 November 2011
Tuesday 22 November 2011
Cricket
I was a young teacher; someone on the staff said to me: "We're short for the cricket team on Saturday; fancy a game?" "Sure," I said. He told me where and I turned up thinking it would be an ordinary affair, throw the ball about sort of thing, have a laugh sort of thing. Not on your nelly. They were all in white, I was in dark trousers, shirt and pullover; I was wearing daps. There was a hole in one of the toes.
I fielded on the boundary, touched the ball twice maybe; went in for tea; came out to bat number 11. The first ball hit me on the toe - the one poking out from the hole. The second ball clean bowled me ("it was an unplayable ball").
What a game! No, I don't mean just that one, I mean all cricket games. It must be the only game in which you can be out first ball and have no opportunity to have a second go. You walk the long walk out to the crease, bang goes your wicket and then you have the long walk back.
I read an article in The Spectator last week about cricket and suicide; it seems there are more suicides of cricketers than in any other sport. I thnk he mentioned 80. Last week another ex-cricketer took his own life. The article also mentioned Gimlett of Somerset. He killed himself after he'd retired from the game. I'm not surprised that there are many suicides in cricket: it's a crazy game; I'm sure it can drive you nuts; you stand around the place for five days or you bat a bit with someone bowling who is trying to decapitate you; you bowl a bit doing your best to maim the batsman. It's a mad, mad game I tell you.
The first professional game of cricket I saw was one between Glamorgan and Somerset at Weston-Super-Mare. Gimlett was playing. Big hitter. Strapping fellow. He tried to knock a hole through Wilf Wooler who was standing, intimidatingly, a few yards from him. Wooler caught the ball and Gimlett was out.
What a game!
I fielded on the boundary, touched the ball twice maybe; went in for tea; came out to bat number 11. The first ball hit me on the toe - the one poking out from the hole. The second ball clean bowled me ("it was an unplayable ball").
What a game! No, I don't mean just that one, I mean all cricket games. It must be the only game in which you can be out first ball and have no opportunity to have a second go. You walk the long walk out to the crease, bang goes your wicket and then you have the long walk back.
I read an article in The Spectator last week about cricket and suicide; it seems there are more suicides of cricketers than in any other sport. I thnk he mentioned 80. Last week another ex-cricketer took his own life. The article also mentioned Gimlett of Somerset. He killed himself after he'd retired from the game. I'm not surprised that there are many suicides in cricket: it's a crazy game; I'm sure it can drive you nuts; you stand around the place for five days or you bat a bit with someone bowling who is trying to decapitate you; you bowl a bit doing your best to maim the batsman. It's a mad, mad game I tell you.
The first professional game of cricket I saw was one between Glamorgan and Somerset at Weston-Super-Mare. Gimlett was playing. Big hitter. Strapping fellow. He tried to knock a hole through Wilf Wooler who was standing, intimidatingly, a few yards from him. Wooler caught the ball and Gimlett was out.
What a game!
Thursday 17 November 2011
Rugby
A long time ago I wrote a play called "Horseplay"; it won the Drama association of Wales play competition in 1980 but it was never performed. One of reasons given was that it had too many in the cast: "we'd have to pay everyone the basic pay even if they had a line or two...." etc. "Too Welshy" said a Bristol producer. So it laid in my drawer for many years until recently, when I re-wrote it with a cast not of 20 or so (mostly rugby players and camp followers) but with a cast of 4. And it was "published" on-line. And it was performed for the first time this month in Canada - I didn't pop across to see it.
The action of the play takes place in a rugby club where, on a night of celebration after winning a local derby game, a young woman from the rival club is assaulted and, so she says, gang-raped. Instantly the club's officials take action to protect the players, accuse the girl (who was a well known "skirt") of making up the story; in the coarse of the play the club secretary gets to believe the girl and urges her to take the rapists to court.
I couldn't help thinking of Tyndall and his problems down under (NZ that is not where you thought!). He has come in for a lot of stick over the incident when he appeared to be propositioning a young lady while seeming to be quite pissed. Fined £25000. Dropped from the team. I would have thought he would have suffered enough at the hands of the royal family but this on top seems to me bit extreme.
I thought the same when Andy Powell drove a golf cart up a motorway to get himself a packet of crisps or something. He was dropped from the Welsh team.
The thing is probably I lived my young life in a different age when there was a good deal more wry humour gained from the cavorting of rugby players. Of course there were no mobile phones then to capture for Youtube the goings-on of well known people caught, so to speak, with their pants down. But there wasn't the same interest in it all. It went on, as it were, behind closed doors. I found Andy Powell's antics highly amusing and, to a lesser extent, Tyndall's too. Some of the things that went on in my day.....
So my play is being done in Canada. This play has a gang rape in it, incidental music from Tom Jones singing "Delilah" with Welsh hymns too and it's being performed by schoolchildren in Quebec which is part of French-speaking Canada! I don't believe it. Or, as The Daily Mail often puts it: "you couldn't make it up."
The action of the play takes place in a rugby club where, on a night of celebration after winning a local derby game, a young woman from the rival club is assaulted and, so she says, gang-raped. Instantly the club's officials take action to protect the players, accuse the girl (who was a well known "skirt") of making up the story; in the coarse of the play the club secretary gets to believe the girl and urges her to take the rapists to court.
I couldn't help thinking of Tyndall and his problems down under (NZ that is not where you thought!). He has come in for a lot of stick over the incident when he appeared to be propositioning a young lady while seeming to be quite pissed. Fined £25000. Dropped from the team. I would have thought he would have suffered enough at the hands of the royal family but this on top seems to me bit extreme.
I thought the same when Andy Powell drove a golf cart up a motorway to get himself a packet of crisps or something. He was dropped from the Welsh team.
The thing is probably I lived my young life in a different age when there was a good deal more wry humour gained from the cavorting of rugby players. Of course there were no mobile phones then to capture for Youtube the goings-on of well known people caught, so to speak, with their pants down. But there wasn't the same interest in it all. It went on, as it were, behind closed doors. I found Andy Powell's antics highly amusing and, to a lesser extent, Tyndall's too. Some of the things that went on in my day.....
So my play is being done in Canada. This play has a gang rape in it, incidental music from Tom Jones singing "Delilah" with Welsh hymns too and it's being performed by schoolchildren in Quebec which is part of French-speaking Canada! I don't believe it. Or, as The Daily Mail often puts it: "you couldn't make it up."
Tuesday 8 November 2011
War Songs
There were more good war songs written in WW1 than in WW2; not so much war songs as songs wriiten during the war, maybe about bravery and courage but usually light-hearted songs about keeping spirits up. The second world war produced more sentimental songs than the first with Vera Lynn crooning her ballads about the white cliffs of Dover and about seeing you again. The First World War had "Pack up your Troubles" and "There's a Long, Long Trail A-winding" and "Over There" (I like the Caruso version) and "It's a Long Way to Tipperary" and "Keep the Home Fires Burning" which Ivor Novello wrote before his mother could get her own song, "Keep the Flags A-Flying", onto the market place - he didn't fear the competition so much as the shame he might have felt if she had put out for general consumption her god-awful piece of work.
But the best song of all, according to some experts (who are they I wonder?) is "Roses of Picardy". Melody by Haydn Woods who was a great light classical composer and words by Fred Weatherly. Fred who? Well, he was not a professional lyricist but wrote them in his spare time. Famous in his day but largely forgotten now except for two songs: the lyrics for "Roses of Picardy" and the more famous lyrics for The Londonderry Air the music of which was a traditional folk song. Other lyricists had written words for both songs but none were as acceptable to music publishers as those by Weatherley. "Roses of Picardy" was written I think for the sort of parlour tenor like Webster Booth whose diction was perfect and who pronounced R's clearly with rolling effect; but many other different types of singer sang the song from John McCormack to Buddy Greco.
Again, The Londoderry Air, or as it came to be known after Weatherley's lyrics were added, "Danny Boy", was also much recorded - I recall its being a song sung on the street in John Ford's Irish film "The Informer" no doubt Ford believing it to be a pure Irish air. Certainly sounds it; but actually Fred Weatherly didn't have an Irish drop of blood in him: he was a QC who lived and worked in the west of England.
But what a song "Roses of Picardy" is; so simple, so sweet, nothing sentimental about it, romantic yes, as romantic as anything the Second War came up with.
"Roses are shining in Picardy,
In the hush of the silvery dew,
Roses are flow'rin in Picardy
But there's never a rose like you,
And the roses will die with the summertime
And our paths may be far apart,
But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy,
'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart."
But the best song of all, according to some experts (who are they I wonder?) is "Roses of Picardy". Melody by Haydn Woods who was a great light classical composer and words by Fred Weatherly. Fred who? Well, he was not a professional lyricist but wrote them in his spare time. Famous in his day but largely forgotten now except for two songs: the lyrics for "Roses of Picardy" and the more famous lyrics for The Londonderry Air the music of which was a traditional folk song. Other lyricists had written words for both songs but none were as acceptable to music publishers as those by Weatherley. "Roses of Picardy" was written I think for the sort of parlour tenor like Webster Booth whose diction was perfect and who pronounced R's clearly with rolling effect; but many other different types of singer sang the song from John McCormack to Buddy Greco.
Again, The Londoderry Air, or as it came to be known after Weatherley's lyrics were added, "Danny Boy", was also much recorded - I recall its being a song sung on the street in John Ford's Irish film "The Informer" no doubt Ford believing it to be a pure Irish air. Certainly sounds it; but actually Fred Weatherly didn't have an Irish drop of blood in him: he was a QC who lived and worked in the west of England.
But what a song "Roses of Picardy" is; so simple, so sweet, nothing sentimental about it, romantic yes, as romantic as anything the Second War came up with.
"Roses are shining in Picardy,
In the hush of the silvery dew,
Roses are flow'rin in Picardy
But there's never a rose like you,
And the roses will die with the summertime
And our paths may be far apart,
But there's one rose that dies not in Picardy,
'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart."
Saturday 5 November 2011
Contagion
It had quite good reviews, many four stars, some three stars but none, so far as I know, with two or less stars. Then Carol whats-her-name in The Times said the film "Contagion" weas terrifying and dull. She's usually spot on with her views but does she know anything about films I wondered?
It seems that she does because it was pretty dull. Not that it was badly made - it was made with considerable skill; you couldn't help admiring the construction of the film and the acting too was superb with some of the leading film stars of our day doing their stuff on screen (maybe they thought they were making a film that had a vital massage for us all in this day and age of terrors of all sorts, especially perhaps ones that have to with the environment and fatal bacteria scourges). What was wrong with the film then?
It told the story of a worldwide spread of a contagious disease due to a bacteria that was not known and for which there was no known remedy. It seemed to have everything right: the spread from person to person, the concerns by governments to find some means of stopping it spreading, the president and his staff taking to bunkers, people dying on the street and others rioting. But though it had everything right according to what might happen if it in fact happened in reality, it had nothing right in the way the story was told. Or, rather, stories. For there were a few stories in it of certain people who were affected in some ways by the disease but the stories didn't link and so they seemed not apt except that they were linked to the disease. I had the feeling that the makers had a plan: let's make it more human by introducing characters who suffer as a result of the contagion. These stories seemed tagged on rather than being intricate parts of the big story.
The director, Stephen Soderbergh, has a big reputation for making serious films; while he does make popular films like Oceans 11 and 12 (is there a 13?) I always had the idea that, like Orson Welles, hje made these in order to subsidise his more "sderious " films like "Contagion". Maybe I was wrong. But I can't say I like any of his "serious" films. They seem to me to lack an ingredient that should be part of all mature, satisfying work, and that is heart.
The film, however, was spot on with its theme; only today I read about the evolvement of dangerous bacteria, especially in hospitals, that have become resistant to known antibiotics. The report was quite terrifying as Carol Whats-her-name said in reference to the film.
It seems that she does because it was pretty dull. Not that it was badly made - it was made with considerable skill; you couldn't help admiring the construction of the film and the acting too was superb with some of the leading film stars of our day doing their stuff on screen (maybe they thought they were making a film that had a vital massage for us all in this day and age of terrors of all sorts, especially perhaps ones that have to with the environment and fatal bacteria scourges). What was wrong with the film then?
It told the story of a worldwide spread of a contagious disease due to a bacteria that was not known and for which there was no known remedy. It seemed to have everything right: the spread from person to person, the concerns by governments to find some means of stopping it spreading, the president and his staff taking to bunkers, people dying on the street and others rioting. But though it had everything right according to what might happen if it in fact happened in reality, it had nothing right in the way the story was told. Or, rather, stories. For there were a few stories in it of certain people who were affected in some ways by the disease but the stories didn't link and so they seemed not apt except that they were linked to the disease. I had the feeling that the makers had a plan: let's make it more human by introducing characters who suffer as a result of the contagion. These stories seemed tagged on rather than being intricate parts of the big story.
The director, Stephen Soderbergh, has a big reputation for making serious films; while he does make popular films like Oceans 11 and 12 (is there a 13?) I always had the idea that, like Orson Welles, hje made these in order to subsidise his more "sderious " films like "Contagion". Maybe I was wrong. But I can't say I like any of his "serious" films. They seem to me to lack an ingredient that should be part of all mature, satisfying work, and that is heart.
The film, however, was spot on with its theme; only today I read about the evolvement of dangerous bacteria, especially in hospitals, that have become resistant to known antibiotics. The report was quite terrifying as Carol Whats-her-name said in reference to the film.
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