An Irish choice

Irish

I’m still entertained by this poster that I saw on an Irish train in the 1990s. I imagine a response from the archetypal miscreant, confused by the options, might go:

Let me see now, that’s a teaser.* Can I have both?

 

* As in the Japanese particle Saa, helpfully explained in the wacky Teach yourself Japanese.

Among myriad aperçus of the great Flann O’Brien, note his “smoking substances of non-nationals“. There’s a whole host of drôlerie under the Irish tag, such as this—as well as the great Ciaran Carson.

He’s a clever little boy

RM

As if the coup of Boris Piccaninny Watermelon Letterbox Johnson isn’t bad enough, we have to endure the appalling spectre of his éminence grise the Minister for the 18th century defending it in his suave, patronizing, patrician tones.

The Haunted Pencil’s style reminds me of yet another Monty Python classic featuring John Cleese:

Son: Good evening, mother. Good evening, Mrs Niggerbaiter.

Mrs Niggerbaiter: Ooh, he’s walking already!

Mrs Shazam: Ooh yes, he’s such a clever little fellow, aren’t you? Coochy coochy coo.

Mrs Niggerbaiter: Hello, coochy coo.

Mrs Shazam: Hello, hello… [they chuck him under the chin]

Mrs Niggerbaiter: Oochy coochy [son gives tight smile]. Look at him laughing… ooh, he’s a chirpy little fellow! Can he talk? Can he talk, eh?

Son: Yes of course I can talk, I’m the Minister for Overseas Development.

Mrs Niggerbaiter: Ooh, he’s a clever little boy—he’s a clever little boy! (gets out a rattle) Do you like your rattle, eh? Do you like your little rattle? Look at his little eyes following it, eh? Look at his iggy piggy piggy little eyeballs eh… Ooh, he’s got a tubby tum-tum…

Son [interrupting]: Mother, could I have a quick cup of tea please—I have an important statement on Rhodesia in the Commons tomorrow…

* * *

By now Wee-Smug has joined the Queen and Brian Sewell on my shortlist of readers for a BBC Radio 4 serialization of Miles Davis’s autobiography (“Listen with Motherfucker”).

And here’s a fun party game to mollify your irritation with Pompous Brexit Twats. Whenever you hear them braying some fatuous remark about “taking back control of our borders / laws / own country [blah blah]”, just replace the noun with “bowels”—”we can finally look forward to taking back control of our bowels”, and so on.

Cf. Stewart Lee’s notional cabbie: “These days, you can get arrested and thrown in jail just for saying you’re English” (in my post How to be English). See also his brilliant routine in A French letter, and several more fine critiques of xenophobic bigotry under the Lee tag.

 

Such levity is all very well (cf. Peter Cook on Weimar satire), but this is our country these Rich White Politicians are smugly destroying, FFS. Soon we’ll be a banana republic without the bananas. But at least they’ll be OUR no bananas.

Injuns!

drum

My interest in traditional percussion groups, and their flexibility in personnel, reminds me of a joke:

Cowboys sitting round the camp fire at night, eating their beans. In the distance they hear an ominous sound of drumming. One of them mutters,

“Ah sure don’t like the sound of them thar drums.”

Sullen Red Indian* voice comes out from behind a bush:

Him not regular drummer.”

As you all know, the cowboys’ own soundscape at the nocturnal campfire is immortalized in Blazing saddles:

I also note a salient native-American take on “sending people back”. And while we’re about it, don’t forget the reservation chief’s preparations for a severe winter.

For classic drumming stories from the world of WAM, see here and here.

 

* To reproduce the language of the day, like “Trolley Dollies” in The perils of the tannoy.

The art of conducting: a roundup

 

Here’s a little roundup of some of the main posts under the conducting tag so far.

Bernstein features in several posts, notably under Mahler:

Rozhdestvensky:

This post features Mravinsky as well as Rozhdestvensky and Bernstein:

The contrasting fortunes of Fürtwangler and Schwarz under Nazism:

S-S-Simon Rattle (for this rendition of the name, constantly on the t-t-tip of my tongue, see here):

Barbara Hannigan:

Among many others featured under the conducting tag are Boulez, Gardiner, and Salonen (and this story about the latter is one of many drôle items).

But “No [survey of the art of conducting] is Complete Without” this exhilarating clip of a Mexican school band—this conductor, Oxana Thaili, could go far… (for more, click here):

More transliteration

 

LK 3

In the third of a growing series of vividly-written crime stories set among the tribulations of contemporary Greece,

  • Leo Kanaris, Dangerous days (2019),

private investigator George Zafiris continues to tread a murky path through corruption and nepotism amidst a dysfunctional society in crisis. Like Raymond Chandler’s Hollywood (but, pace Alan Partridge, not so like Norwich), Greece makes a fine backdrop to explore moral quandaries.

I’ve cited Kanaris’s vignette on Mount Athos in Blood and gold. For more on communicating in Greek, see Bunnios.

One vignette in Dangerous days reminds me of quaint Chinese transliterations like Andeli Poliwen (André Previn), Kelaimeng Feilang (“Clermont-Ferrand”, all the more reminiscent of a pseudo-Sanskrit Daoist mantra when preceded by Aofoni, “Auvergne”), or tuzibulashi (toothbrush, or “rabbits don’t shit”). As George walks through central Athens pondering the intricacies of the cases confronting him, he takes in the Greek versions of film-stars’ names appearing on cinema billboards:

Tzonny Ntep, Tzoud Lo, Kira Naïtely, Kim Mpazintzer.

Of course, English orthography is on a sticky wicket here: there’s no more reason to be perplexed by “Naïtely” than by “Knightley”, or a host of other English words like “Cholmondeley”“hiccough” or indeed “one”. Cf. Monty Python:

“Ah, no. My name is spelt  ‘Luxury Yacht’ but it’s pronounced Throatwobbler Mangrove.”

Partridgisms

AP

I’ve already sung the praises of Steve Coogan’s alter ego Alan Partridge in this post. Here are a couple more gems.

In a meeting with the BBC head of programming, Alan pitches several fatuous ideas (“Monkey Tennis”?). Or “Swallow”, a detective series set in Norwich:

Think about it—no one had heard of Oxford before Inspector Morse.

And tucking into breakfast with RTE executives he insouciantly breaks right through the barriers of taste (cf. Jesus jokes):

Alan (suavely): So, how many people were killed in the Irish famine?

Aidan: Erm. Two million, and another two million had to leave the country.

Alan: Right… If it was just the potatoes that were affected, at the end of the day, you will pay the price if you’re a fussy eater. If they could afford to emigrate, then they could afford to eat in a modest restaurant.

A presumptuous guardian of language

RM

The Twittersphere has been having great fun with The Minister for the 18th Century‘s recent directive on language, presumably inscribed with quill on parchment—the latest stage in his patronizing mission to bestow his patrician values upon the plebs, or should I say hoi polloi.

Now, we all have our little linguistic peeves (here’s one of mine). It’s not that people don’t believe in stylistic guidelines; more that we don’t want them delivered by pompous fogeys. This is the best critique I’ve read so far; and here‘s a more general demolition of language pedants.

@NewsDumpUK asks

Should bellend be hyphenated or not?

One among many of his fatuous rules—no comma after “and”—is perplexing. Since no-one appears to do this anyway, commentators have surmised that he was trying to ban the Oxford comma, which occurs before the “and”. To the wonderful examples here showing its necessity, we can now add:

JRM

Moreover,

JRM

Or indeed

JRM 2

On a sartorial note, @SirRoyES commented:

JRM

and @Scarlett_Pebble observed that

Jacob Rees-Mogg looks like two underaged people wearing one suit to try and sneak into a wine bar.

Plenty more to explore on Twitter, via #JacobReesMoggGuide.

The Haunted Pencil’s popular touch has already been encapsulated in his classic description of Teresa May’s Brexit plan as

 the greatest vassalage since King John paid homage to Phillip II at Le Goulet in 1200.

All business should henceforth be conducted in Latin. I’m like, WTF?

Of course, it may merely be the Tree-Frog’s Cunning Plan to divert us from the iniquity of his sinister wider agenda—tellingly exposed here by Rachel Parris, and here by James Meek.