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ELEVENSES81

elevenses' pics




Since WW2 evidence of Ridge and Furrow has been removed by ploughing and development. It is typical of the open-field system used in the Middle Ages when as part of the labour contract of service to the landowner, the peasant was allowed to cultivate a strip of land. As part of my son's GCSE Geography Project, he studied his local area, Longlevens in Gloucester. He found out that the name derived from 'eleven strips' which are now buried under the parish church and the old centre of the village. There was evidence of it in the park behind my house, but that has now disappeared under school expansion. The arrangement of ridge and furrow originates from the design of the mediaeval plough. The farmer started in the middle of a strip at one end and ploughed up and down in a kind of long thin rectangular spiral, until the entire strip was ploughed. The plough sliced through the soil and turned it over to one side, just like a modern plough. Each time the farmer ploughed his strip, he would repeat this process, turning each slice of soil towards the centre of his strip. The effect of this, over many years, was to pile up the soil towards the centre of the strips. The furrows mark the dividing line between two strips.
ELEVENSES81

One film that made a great impression on me as a teenager was the 1960 adaption of the DH Lawrence novel 'Sons and Lovers' starring Trevor Howard, Wendy Hiller, Mary Ure and the American actor Dean Stockwell. It won an Oscar for its director, Jack Cardiff. On paper Stockwell's casting should not work. His accent is not working class Nottingham but Henly-on-Thames and in truth his male beauty radiates the film. He plays the artistic son like an alien from a different planet and is just perfect.




Link
ELEVENSES81




In Richard Hoggart's 'The Uses of Literacy' [1956] he laments the post-war demise of working-class grassroots culture in the face of that manufactured by capitalist and corporate media. We may lament how native culture is so fragile that it cannot withstand the onslaught of westerm culture, but our own authentic local cultures have been under threat for longer. BBC4 some years ago showed a documentary about street games and described the transmission of skipping games from one generation of children to the next  as 'knowledge along a rope'. A beautifully poetic phrase which describes something magical owned by the children themselves.
ELEVENSES81

Mike Leigh's new film about Turner starring Tim Spall promises to be a 2014 highlight. 'The Fighting Tereraire' is rightly a much loved painting. There is a lazy view of art that an artist just creates something and expects the audience to just make of it what they will. That may be true of some contemporary art and of course the viewer brings themselves to the art too. Turner expects the viewer to understand what they are seeing. It is not just a 'pretty' picture. The molten sunset, the modern steam tug and the old ghost ship it is pulling to the breaker's yard are all saying something.

trentvoyager

 

Cheers Elevenses.

Good stuff.

Will comment when I have more time.
Jim

Re: elevenses' pics

ELEVENSES81 wrote:

Click to see full size image

Since WW2 evidence of Ridge and Furrow has been removed by ploughing and development. It is typical of the open-field system used in the Middle Ages when as part of the labour contract of service to the landowner, the peasant was allowed to cultivate a strip of land. As part of my son's GCSE Geography Project, he studied his local area, Longlevens in Gloucester. He found out that the name derived from 'eleven strips' which are now buried under the parish church and the old centre of the village. There was evidence of it in the park behind my house, but that has now disappeared under school expansion. The arrangement of ridge and furrow originates from the design of the mediaeval plough. The farmer started in the middle of a strip at one end and ploughed up and down in a kind of long thin rectangular spiral, until the entire strip was ploughed. The plough sliced through the soil and turned it over to one side, just like a modern plough. Each time the farmer ploughed his strip, he would repeat this process, turning each slice of soil towards the centre of his strip. The effect of this, over many years, was to pile up the soil towards the centre of the strips. The furrows mark the dividing line between two strips.

-
Great image!

The rough equivalent of this in Scotland was the run-rig system, which still existed up heare as late as the 1860's in some parts of the Highlands and Western Isles
ELEVENSES81




Magnificent image of Gresley's deeply flawed, but awesome Mikado 2-8-4 P2 built to single-head the Kings Cross- Aberdeen run. By 1940 all had been converted by Thompson into A2's. The group behind  the new 'A1' Tornado (seen on Top Gear) are building a new P2.
ELEVENSES81



A sound redolent of my childhood living near the A45 in Coventry was that of the Commer coach fitted with the Rootes TS3 engine, a two-stroke diesel three-cylinder horizontally opposed piston engine, which came to be known as the "Commer Knocker" due to the unique noise it produced. They had a very good turn of speed and were lovely to ride in.

The one pictured belonged to the Wolverhampton carrier, Don Everall who used to have interests in logistics and aviation also.

Happy days!!!!l
ELEVENSES81



I first saw a reproduction of The Bigger Splash in a Sunday supplement in the late 1960s and was blown away by it. For a lad in Coventry it held the promise of a lifestyle they could only dream about. It's simple geometry and bright slabs of colour are just stunning. The way the diver's splash is captured just at the moment it is about to break is very photgraphic and of course that is how the image was captured. Hockney has never had a problem with using the camera as a source of his art. When it was revealed that many of the great Dutch masters had used a camera-obscura (Vermeer. Van Eyck) to capture not only the images of domestic Dutch life, but the distortions of perspective too caused by using a camera, Hockney defended it's use on the grounds that it is ultimately the painter who makes a mark on the canvas
ELEVENSES81



William Holman Hunt's allegorical take on The Fall of Man. Just love the realism and intense colours. At first sight it appears as a simple victorian morality tale of a neglecful shepherd who abandons his sheep for the beautiful girl. Note the Deaths Head Hawkmoth he shows the girl and the apple-strewn foreground.
ELEVENSES81



Iris Blades and Rowan Berries by Andy Goldsworthy
ELEVENSES81



The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock  T.S. Eliot

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


Mermaids's Purse is the colloquial name for the egg sac of the dogdish
Shaker

Re: elevenses' pics

ELEVENSES81 wrote:

Click to see full size image

Since WW2 evidence of Ridge and Furrow has been removed by ploughing and development. It is typical of the open-field system used in the Middle Ages when as part of the labour contract of service to the landowner, the peasant was allowed to cultivate a strip of land. As part of my son's GCSE Geography Project, he studied his local area, Longlevens in Gloucester. He found out that the name derived from 'eleven strips' which are now buried under the parish church and the old centre of the village. There was evidence of it in the park behind my house, but that has now disappeared under school expansion. The arrangement of ridge and furrow originates from the design of the mediaeval plough. The farmer started in the middle of a strip at one end and ploughed up and down in a kind of long thin rectangular spiral, until the entire strip was ploughed. The plough sliced through the soil and turned it over to one side, just like a modern plough. Each time the farmer ploughed his strip, he would repeat this process, turning each slice of soil towards the centre of his strip. The effect of this, over many years, was to pile up the soil towards the centre of the strips. The furrows mark the dividing line between two strips.


Some of this quite close to me - I remember reading up on it in Oliver Rackham's definitive history of the countryside.

Nice pics all - many thanks.
ELEVENSES81



A wonderful memory of my teenage years was discovering European and World cinema brought to us by the local Arts Cinema that every decent sized city seemed to possess. By day these would show mainstream fare, but every weekend us aspiring consumers of New Wave would file in at midnight with our packets of Gauloise and polo mints.

The most memorable of these films was François Truffaut's 'les Quatre Cents Coups [The 400 Blows].  Starring Jean-Pierre Léaud in his first film, it tells the story of a 13 year Parisian, the victim of useless derelict parents, who bunks school and descends into a life of petty delinquency and trouble. It is not a picture postcard Paris, but grim and down at heel.

The image shown is the film's final shot when Antoine has nowhere else to run to. At 13 his life seems already over. A classic and deeply moving.


Link
ELEVENSES81



Has Albert Finney made a better film than his debut in Karel Reisz's classic of British New Wave , 'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning'? It is hard to believe, that by 1967 and 'swinging Britain', new wave had run it's course as the UK chose phoniness over the authentic reality that life was still grim for most working people.

With Shirley Anne Field and  Rachel Roberts as his love interests, Arthur Seaton seems to live to drink and mess women about.  Arthur works at Raleigh in Nottingham, but knows there has to be more. The film is not really about his tangled love life, but about something that Arthur cannot articulate even to himself never mind to the women in his life. In a final scene in the film he is shown angrily throwing stones at hoardings at some Nottingham housing development. Doreen [Field] wants the conventional 1961 dream of a new house and marriage, but Arthur is confused and cannot express it in any other way than unfocused aggression. Deeply moving. A truly great, great film where 50 years on its casual brutality can still appal.


Link
ELEVENSES81

Some of this quite close to me

Shaker, grab your camera and document it before goes - and it will unless it has protected status.
ELEVENSES81




Follower by Seamus Heaney

My father worked with a horse plough,                            
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing                                    
And fit the bright-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck.

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye                                      
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hobnailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back  
Dipping and rising to his plod.
I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow around the farm.      
                       
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.
ELEVENSES81



Timothy Spall wins best actor at Cannes for his portrayal of WM Turner. From first seeing him as the Wolverhampton sparky in Auf Wiedersehen Pet it was obvious what a fine character actor he was. Does anyone remember his fantastic performance in Stephen Poliakoff's offbeat drama, 'Shooting the Past' about the staff of a photographic archive trying to save it from being split up by its new American owner?
Shaker

Oh my goodness, where have you been hiding yourself, elevenses? In the space of a few hours you've contributed some interesting and thought-provoking posts, made some intelligent observations and posted one of my all-time favourite poems by anyone, never mind just Seamus Heaney. (Who I was reading again just a couple of nights ago, coincidentally - 'Mid-Term Break' and 'The Guttural Muse' stand equal, in my view).

ETA: Greatly looking forward to seeing the Spall move about J.M.W. Turner. Not a bad choice - the famous youthful self-portrait was rather flattering - certainly by middle age Turner was a short, round, beaked-nose little fella.
ELEVENSES81

I've been on an enforced  sabbatical due to my health, though personally speaking a sabbatical would benefit all users of social media - have you been over to the R&E Forum lately?  As I remarked to Trent, a messageboard provides them with a place of safety when they could be spewing their bile and ignorance on the street.
Shaker

ELEVENSES81 wrote:
I've been on an enforced  sabbatical due to my health, though personally speaking a sabbatical would benefit all users of social media - have you been over to the R&E Forum lately?


I have not had the pleasure.
ELEVENSES81



Light Breaks by Dylan Thomas

In the week when the old soak would have reached his 100th year [fat chance], it is salutary to remind ourselves what a prodigious  young talent he was. Thomas was a teenager when he wrote this poem and is notable that it lacks the overblown style that made his name. For such a young man to describe the moment of conception as 'light breaking' indicates a rare insight.

Light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.

A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.

Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears
ELEVENSES81



We all need Charles Bukowski in our lives.


Nirvana
 
Not much chance, completely cut loose from purpose,

he was a young man riding a bus through North Carolina on the way to somewhere.

And it began to snow.

And the bus stopped at a little cafe in the hills and the passengers entered.
And he sat at the counter with the others, and he ordered, the food arrived.
And the meal was particularly good.
And the coffee.

The waitress was unlike the women he had known.
She was unaffected, and there was a natural humor which came from her.
And the fry cook said crazy things.
And the dishwasher in back laughed a good clean pleasant laugh.

And the young man watched the snow through the window.
And he wanted to stay in that cafe forever.
The curious feeling swam through him that everything was beautiful there.
And it would always stay beautiful there.

And then the bus driver told the passengers that it was time to board.
And the young man thought: “I’ll just stay here, I’ll just stay here.”
And then he rose and he followed the others into the bus.
He found his seat and looked at the cafe through the window.
And then the bus moved off, down a curve, downward, out of the hills.

And the young man looked straight forward.
And he heard the other passengers speaking of other things,
or they were reading or trying to sleep.
And they hadn’t noticed the magic.
And the young man put his head to one side,
closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep.

There was nothing else to do,
just to listen to the sound of the engine,
and the sound of the tires

in the snow.

Rose

I like your thread Elevenses, very interesting

Julie
ELEVENSES81



Just for you Shaker

Seamus Heaney 'The Guttural Muse'

[It's a middle-aged man thing]

Late summer, and at midnight
I smelt the heat of the day:
At my window over the hotel car park
I breathed the muddied night airs off the lake
And watched a young crowd leave the discothèque.
Their voices rose up thick and comforting
As oily bubbles the feeding tench sent up
That evening at dusk—the slimy tench
Once called the doctor fish because his slime
Was said to heal the wounds of fish that touched it.
A girl in a white dress
Was being courted out among the cars:
As her voice swarmed and puddled into laughs
I felt like some old pike all badged with sores
Wanting to swim in touch with soft-mouthed life.
ELEVENSES81



We all know the horrors the 'establishment' subjected Turing to.

Benedict Cumberbatch has paid tribute to Alan Turing at the BFI London Film Festival opening night gala screening of his new film, The Imitation Game. The earlier film 'Enigma' starring Kate Winslet, was so so, but suffered from Robert Harris's clunky sub-plotting. All can be forgiven though by the novel's opening description of wartime Cambridge.


A ceaseless Siberian wind with nothing to blunt its edge for a thousand miles whipped off the North Sea and swept low across the Fens . It rattled the signs to the air-raid shelters in Trinity New Court and battered on the boarded-up windows of King's College Chapel. It prowled through the quadrangles and staircases, confining the few dons and students still in residence to their rooms. By mid-afternoon the narrow cobbled streets were deserted. By nightfall, with not a light to be seen, the university was returned to a darkness it hadn't known since the Middle Ages. A procession of monks shuffling over Magdalene Bridge on their way to Vespers would scarcely have seemed out of place.
In the wartime blackout the centuries had dissolved. It was to this bleak spot in the flatlands of eastern England that there came, in the middle of February 1943, a young mathematician named Thomas Jericho. The authorities of his college, King's, were given less than a day's notice of his arrival - scarcely enough time to reopen his rooms, put sheets on his bed, and have more than three years' worth of dust swept from his shelves and carpets. And they would not have gone to even that much trouble, it being wartime and servants so scarce - had not the Provost himself been telephoned at the Master's Lodge by an obscure but very senior official of His Majesty's Foreign Office, with a request that 'Mr Jericho be looked after until he is well enough to return to his duties'.
'Of course,' replied the Provost, who couldn't for the life of him put a face to the name of Jericho . 'Of course. A pleasure to welcome him back.'
  As he spoke, he opened the college register and flicked through it until he came to :Jericho , T. R. G.; matriculated, 1935; Senior Wrangler, Mathematics Tripos, 1938; Junior Research Fellow at two hundred pounds a year; not seen in the university since the outbreak of war.
Jericho? Jericho ? To the Provost he was at best a dim memory, a fuzzy adolescent blob on a college photograph. Once, perhaps, he would have remembered the name, but the war had shattered the sonorous rhythm of intake and graduation and all was chaos - the Pitt Club was a British Restaurant, potatoes and onions were growing in the gardens of St John's . . .   'He has recently been engaged upon work of the gravest national importance,' continued the caller. 'We would appreciate it if he were not disturbed.'
  'Understood,' said the Provost. 'Understood. I shall see to it he is left alone.'
Shaker

ELEVENSES81 wrote:
We all need Charles Bukowski in our lives.


We do. I do.

I see your Nirvana and raise you Eulogy for a Hell of a Dame, about his first - some might say only real - love. According to Wikipedia: In 1962, he was traumatized by the death of Jane Cooney Baker, the object of his first serious romantic attachment. Bukowski turned his inner devastation into a series of poems and stories lamenting her death.

It looks like it.

Eulogy to a Hell of a Dame

some dogs who sleep at night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you've been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here's a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about.
ELEVENSES81



Who doesn't love roast potatoes? The secret of course is to use animal fat rather than vegetable oil as the cooking medium. Par boil for no more than 3 mins and shake to fluff the outer surface. Make sure the fat is smoking hot  before pouring the potatoes into the roasting pan.  Add garlic and rosemary at this point. 40 mins at 200c, but check regularly
trentvoyager

Add a bit of good quality chopped up smoked bacon (sorry Shaker) and you have my idea of food heaven.
ELEVENSES81

Never tried the bacon addition. I used to collect food pictures when I was on chemotherapy even though I had no appetite at all. They became an incentive to see the vile treatment through. It was hard on my wife. She would prepare lovely food, but the only thing I could eat was cans of minestrone soup.
ELEVENSES81



Does this heavenly dish really need my words to elaborate?
ELEVENSES81

Facebook is awash with groups devoted to British TV and Cinema, but the overriding impression of them is that they are monopolised by the 'cut 'n' pasters' who think that by copying vast chunks of text from Wikipedia or some other site that this signifies some kind of emotional engagement with the material. I've must have been asked to leave such groups for pointing this out.  I left without a quibble.



Jack Hawkins is at his best as Cpt Erickson in the Cruel Sea. Accused of being a murderer by his own men by attacking a U-Boatv with men in the water, he drinks his pain away. His No 1 [Donald Sinden] tries to offer his support. Hawkins, washed out offers his own analysis:

No one murdered them - it's the war, the whole bloody war! We've just got to do these things and say our prayers at the end

ELEVENSES81



Coventry, like every large city had a memoralised larger than life WW1 soldier to remind us all of their sacrifice. As a young boy, I was always overwhelmed by the sheer 'maleness' of the memorials and seemed to carry an unintentional sexual charge.
trentvoyager

Have you been to the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffs?

The same sense of maleness in some of the statues there too. It's a good place to visit and reflect. At least it affects me that way.



http://www.thenma.org.uk/
ELEVENSES81

Maybe 'sexual charge' was not the feeling I had when I was 5, but I did want the heroic figure to sweep me up. Young boys need their heroes. My own father was a good man, but was reserved and had difficulty communicating his love.
ELEVENSES81

Ketty

What a brilliant, interesting and thought provoking thread (and gastric juice inducing!)  I've been too busy to surf for a few days and it's a joy to return to this.  Thank you Elevenses81.
ELEVENSES81

Ketty,

 just posting pictures and photos, however brilliant, without being willing to expose oneself in response to them renders them mere wallpaper and devoid of meaning.

Pleased you enjoyed them.
Ketty

Someone once said a picture is worth a thousand words.  That's sometimes true, but I agree with you that it has an 'added value' if we also share our reactions and thoughts to the picture presented.
ELEVENSES81

'Low Spark of High Heels Boys' is a Traffic classic.


Link


Steve Winwood is in my view a true UK musical treasure. How fortunate for him that he discovered that 'Ray Charles' voice as a young lad.





Link


'Had to cry today' the Blind Faith classic with Clapton
ELEVENSES81

Joseph Losey's 'The Go Between' is a firm favourite of mine. Michel Le Grand's  score is full of tension and seems to underpin the film's progressive sense of impending tragedy.


Link
ELEVENSES81


Link


My thoughts turn again to remembering the sheer pleasure of being a youngster in the 1950s [probably not so much fun if you were a teen]. For our holiday in 1957 we stayed in a place called Salcombe Regis overlooking Sidmouth in Devon. It was always a joy to take the Bedford OB down the hill into the town with it's roof slid back and the pure blue above cooling us. The driver really had to work the gears to get back up the hill, but the little bus always made it.
Shaker

ELEVENSES81 wrote:
Joseph Losey's 'The Go Between' is a firm favourite of mine. Michel Le Grand's  score is full of tension and seems to underpin the film's progressive sense of impending tradgdy.


Link


Can I put a word in for L. P. Hartley's marvellous novel on which it's based - a lovely book, with one of the most famous opening lines in all literature.
ELEVENSES81

'The Elizabethan', a British Transport films classic.


Link


Railways seemed embedded in my DNA. Part of the appeal I discovered from an early age, was the simple separation from road traffic - a railway journey 'felt' different and seemed to exist in its own lovely bubble.
All boys then seemed obsessed by trains. I inherited the passion from an elder brother. When he discovered girls at 15 I at 9 was poised to carry on the tradition. Steam was being replaced, but still enough around to enjoy. We lived about a mile from the main Euston/B'ham main line in Coventry and loved to lie in bed listening to some slow freight clanking down the line or a late night express charging towards Berkswell and the tunnel and onto New St .  

Ian Allan, the railway publisher, brought out lovely little booklets of the long distance expresses with maps and timings. I'd love to trace these journeys in my mind and never tired of them. Get a child to engage with writing that interests them and their reading abilities takes off. Add maps [Geography] and train timings [Maths] and you have fun self-education.



At 12 years old me and my mates would buy a Rover ticket and spend 7 days riding the rails, sleeping on overnight expresses or cold waiting rooms [sometimes they had coal fires..mmmmmm] and living on French rolls and cheese and chips. Whether our parents were ever concerned about us, I don't know, but didn't seem to be. I can remember getting home and sleeping for 48hrs solid once.

Bliss.

A lot of nonsense has been spoken about how Lord Beeching destroyed the network. Even John Betjeman recognised that a grossly expensive and under used rural railway system was not sustainable. The only time that local people supported them was when special trains were put on to celebrate their final days of operating. Beeching saved our railways, as difficult as that is to take on board. Ernest Marples was Minister of Transport and appointed Beeching to produce the famous report. That he had a vested interest in road construction is of course just a coincidence.

Circumstances change and additional tram and train infrastructure would assist many metropolitan areas of the UK, but that does not invalidate the decision made in 1963 to rationalise. I love Flanders and Swann's elegy to the loss of the 'slow train', but no-one commuted on it.


Link
ELEVENSES81

Keith Douglas



How easy it is to make a ghost.


The bloodlust and insanity of the IS attitude to human life is a reminder of how base human behaviour can be. They are able to behead a fellow human being and murder women and children as reported this week because they do not see them as fellow humanity.

Such brutality certainly occurred during all war, and though we are all familiar with the empathy shown to the enemy in WW1 poetry, WW2 poetry has a much lower profile. Keith Douglas was just 24 when he died in Normandy, and wrote this poem during the desert campaign in 1942 with his characteristic curious detachment.


How To Kill by Keith Douglas


Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.

Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears

And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.


ELEVENSES81

A Taste of Honey 1961 directed by Tony Richardsonn starring  Rita Tushingham, Murray Melvin and Dora Bryan


Link


Shelagh Delaney's play [just 19 when she wrote it] brought to the screen by Tony Richardson and a classic of British New Wave.

When her mother Helen runs off with a car salesman, innocent daughter Jo takes up with a black sailor who promises to marry her, before he heads for the seas, leaving her pregnant and alone. Gay Art student Geoff moves in and assumes the role of surrogate parent.

The film’s final, affecting scene, capturing its atmosphere of emotional ambiguity, shows Jo lighting a cheerless sparkler on Guy Fawkes Day, while the soundtrack features a children’s chorus singing a winsome British sailing song. It’s the same song we have heard at the beginning of the film when Jo and her mother had escaped the landlord of a grotty bedsit by climbing out the apartment window, suitcases in hand, and hopping on a bus. Now, at the end of the film, the song reminds us that Jo is still very much the same lost child, but now with very different circumstances. We watch along with Jo, mesmerized, as the cold flame of the sparkler burns down.

The film is such a strong piece of work it has always overshadowed stage revivals.
ELEVENSES81

Get Carter directed by Mike Hodges 1971



Link


Roy Budd's tremendous score is the highlight for me. the 'Carter takes a train' theme has been heavily sampled down the years, but when heard in tandem with the train taking Carter north, it perfectly mirrors the sound and motion of the train, the sense of unease that pervades the action and the use of the heavy bass is inspired as it speeds and slows with the train. The film reflected a new breed of organized criminals, influenced by the rise of the Kray brothers, who brutally held sway over London’s crime scene during the Fifties and Sixties and achieved celebrity status with their ‘”legitimate” nightclub business

Roy Budd is to 'Get Carter' as Isaac Hayes is to 'Shaft'
ELEVENSES81

Canteloube - Chants' d'Auvergne: Baïlèro with Netania Davrath


Link


Chants d'Auvergne is a collection of folk songs from the Auvergne region of France arranged for soprano voice and orchestra or piano by Joseph Canteloube between 1923 and 1930. The songs are in the local language, Occitan. The best known of the songs is the "Baïlèro", which has been frequently recorded and performed in slight variations of Canteloube's arrangement, such as for choir or instrumental instead of the original soprano solo.

  Wikipedia

This French folk tune was famously incorporated by William Walton into the score for the Lawrence Olivers Henry V [1944]
ELEVENSES81

Frederick Delius - On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring



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I first came across Frederick Delius in my Eagle Annual circa 1960 - the son of a Bradford wool merchant who sent his unfocused son to Florida to manage an orange grove, but who instead became entranced by the sound of the black workers in the fields singing. In 1968 ken Russell's film 'Song of Summer' was shown on the BBC. It described how a young Eric Fenby, hearing about Delius's [played by Max Adrian] failing health offered to act as amanuensis so that Delius could complete his 'Song of Summer' cycle. Fenby had the patience of a saint. But what music!!!!!.

"oboe here Eric .da da . No no no semi quaver.....da da,............."  and so it went on week after week.

I am still deeply affected by Russell's film. Catch it on youtube.
ELEVENSES81

'Smile' by Charlie Chaplin from 'Modern Times' sung by Barbara Streisand

A favourite of mine.



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ELEVENSES81

How Long  Paul Carrack


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He had a hit with this in 1974 with Ace.

Just a great pop song.
ELEVENSES81

The French Connection (1971) starring Gene Hackman, Roy Scheider and Fernando Ray. Directed by William Friedkin



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The most enjoyable film of its type I've ever watched. Gene Hackman inhabits the role of 'Popeye' Doyle and the dialogue sparkles, if somewhat lost on me at times. What is 'a policy guy'?

In the nightclub

            DOYLE
           I make at least two junk connections
           at that table in the corner.  The
           guy is the stripe combo, I know him
           too.

                        RUSSO
           Hey, I thought we come for a drink.

INT. THE CLUB - NIGHT

A long view of the table with DOYLE and RUSSO very close
foreground, left and right.  DOYLE is leaning on an elbow.

                        DOYLE
           Who is that guy?

                        RUSSO
           Policy man in Queens.

                        DOYLE
           What about the last of the big-time
           spenders.  You make him?




http://www.scoutingny.com/french-connection-filming-locations/

http://www.asliceofbrooklyn.com/pizza.html

http://nymag.com/visitorsguide/sightseeing/citytours.htm
ELEVENSES81

Stottie Cake




Just feeling a bit peckish right now, and would love a hunk of cob with butter, but only have boring white sliced. I've only been to Newcastle once when I went there as part of my job  [1989?]. I was taken to a pub and had a ploughmans with a divine bit of baking on the side called a stottie cake. I could murder one now.

http://metro.co.uk/2014/03/10/sto...cook-the-perfect-stottie-4461403/
ELEVENSES81

Trebetherick



We used to picnic where the thrift
Grew deep and tufted to the edge;
We saw the yellow foam flakes drift
In trembling sponges on the ledge
Below us, till the wind would lift
Them up the cliff and o’er the hedge.
Sand in the sandwiches, wasps in the tea,
Sun on our bathing dresses heavy with the wet,
Squelch of the bladder-wrack waiting for the sea,
Fleas around the tamarisk, an early cigarette.



We can probably all  recall coming across John Betjeman's memory poem of holidays in Cornwall from school. He so loved Cornwall that he is buried in the churchyard at Trebetherick. Today Cornwall makes us think of Rick Stein and breathtaking sea cliffs, but the county is actually an economic blackspot where pay is low and seasonal with empty second homes that deny local young people any opportunity to remain in the county.

I haven't  been back since I hitch-hiked there from Coventry aged 16 during a school summer holiday [1966] after 'O' levels. We got as far south as Padstow when our money ran out and had to hitch back. I don't remember much about it other than the tedium of waiting for a lift and the spartan youth hostels [I lived on fried spam and tinned tomatoes for three weeks]. The cute Frenchies and Germans used to park their 2CVs nearby so as not to alert the wardens that they were not suffering like the rest of us. The funniest moment was meeting this guy who regaled us in the hostel about meeting the Michelin Rubber Man giving him a lift in his truck. It seemed surreal and hilarious at 16.

I do remember the beautiful foreign girls we used to share the hostels with, but always thought them too old [all of 18] and sophisticated to talk to schoolboys. By this time I was attempting to write poetry to give voice to my own romantic yearnings.

I wrote this offering after catching the bus for Rock for the ferry to Padstow from Trebetherick .This was my elegy for a wasted opportunity, my 'Cider With Rosie' moment:

On a crowded bus, brave with cider I offered her my knees
Wind-tossed and curled she used me as a chair, laughed with her friends
I, inanimate and wordless felt her scented weight
And when, without a look, she departed at some lonely halt
A little part of me took flight
Never to return - from Trebetherick

Shaker

Quote:
Today Cornwall makes us think of Rick Stein and breathtaking sea cliffs


Well, yes, him ... but personally it also makes me think instantly of the wonderful Charles Causley ('Death of a Pupil' is a favourite):

Now that you leave me for that other friend,
Rich as the rubbed sun, elegant of eye,
Who watched, in lost light, your five fortunes end
And wears the weapons of the wasted sky.

Often, I say, I saw him at your gate,
Noted well how he passed the time of day,
Gazed, with bright greed, at your young man’s estate
And how, in fear, I looked the other way.

For we had met, this thief and I, before
On terrible seas, at the spoiled city’s heart,
And when I saw him standing at your door
Nothing, I knew, could put you now apart.

O with sly promises he stroked the air,
Struck, on the coin of day, his gospel face.
I saw you turn, touch his hand, unaware
Of his thorned kiss or of his grave embrace.
ELEVENSES81

Three splendid tracks from David Sylvian and Virginia Astley from the 1980's. With the contributions of the likes of Robert Fripp and Ryuichi Sakamoto these are tracks of the highest quality.  

September



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Let the happiness in


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Some small hope


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ELEVENSES81

Shaker wrote:
Quote:
Today Cornwall makes us think of Rick Stein and breathtaking sea cliffs


Well, yes, him ... but personally it also makes me think instantly of the wonderful Charles Causley ('Death of a Pupil' is a favourite):

Now that you leave me for that other friend,
Rich as the rubbed sun, elegant of eye,
Who watched, in lost light, your five fortunes end
And wears the weapons of the wasted sky.

Often, I say, I saw him at your gate,
Noted well how he passed the time of day,
Gazed, with bright greed, at your young man’s estate
And how, in fear, I looked the other way.

For we had met, this thief and I, before
On terrible seas, at the spoiled city’s heart,
And when I saw him standing at your door
Nothing, I knew, could put you now apart.

O with sly promises he stroked the air,
Struck, on the coin of day, his gospel face.
I saw you turn, touch his hand, unaware
Of his thorned kiss or of his grave embrace.


I don't mind Rick, and as TV chefs go he makes an engaging host. Cornwall has nothing going for it other than tourism, so he does bring in money for Padstow. There would be empty second homes in Padstow whether Rick Stein was there or not.
ELEVENSES81

Have always loved this one

Who?


Who is that child I see wandering, wandering
down by the side of the quivering stream?
Why does he seem not to hear, though I call to him?
Where does he come from, and what is his name?

Why do I see him at sunrise and sunset
taking, in old-fashioned clothes, the same track?
Why, when he walks, does he cast not a shadow
though the sun rises and falls at his back?

Why does the dust lie so thick on the hedgerow
by the great field where a horse pulls the plough?
Why do I see only meadows, where houses
stand in a line by the riverside now?

Why does he move like a wraith by the water,
soft as the thistledown on the breeze blown?
When I draw near him so that I may hear him,
why does he say that his name is my own?
ELEVENSES81

Is that all there is?  written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller sung by Peggy Lee

It has a clear existentialist theme whether it was intended or not. Sartre described the human experience as a 'thirst' that could never be quenched - nothing was ever quite enough.



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ELEVENSES81

The Lion in Winter [1968] staring Katherine Hepburn and Peter 'o' Toole'. What a genius John Barry was - the Bond  OO7 theme and this musical score.

The film describes the tempestuous personal and dynastic battles between Henry 11 of England and his wife Eleanore of Aquitaine and how she used their sons in the battle to retain her French territories. The music in the video accompanies the arrival of Elaenore who Henry has released from prison for Christmas to stay with him at Chinon.  



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ELEVENSES81

Jazz on a Summer's Day [1958]   Newport Jazz Festival.

Filmed in a lovely grainy colour, the young audience add considerably to the charm. One can't help but think that most of them are dead now. Where have all  the flowers gone.

The standout performance was that of Anita 'O' Day, who was as high as a kite on heroin, but is mesmerising. Enjoy.


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ELEVENSES81

Astrud Gilberto & Stan Getz: The Girl From Ipanema- 1964

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Who doesn't love the bittersweet lilt of Bossa Nova?


Desafinado - Antonio Carlos Jobim & Joe Henderson (HQ)



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ELEVENSES81

John Martyn - Piece by Piece

Excellent funky, jazzy album from 1986



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ELEVENSES81

Riverboat by Dando Shaft


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Coventry progressive folk band [1969] inspired by the likes of Pentangle and Incredible String Band. Polly Bolton, Kev Dempsey and Martin Jenkins have collaborated with finest in UK folk for over 40 years. The band split in the mid 1970s due a lack of commercial success and some members wanting a more rock [Fairport] leaning sound.
ELEVENSES81



The stranger slaked his thirst at the well, the feral
children pulling at his clothes. He pulled faces at
them and roared and the children ran screeching and
joyful in mock terror.

"Master?"

The man was decently robed. Good quality linen with a
dash of colour. His wife and children probably had
full bellies and lived in a house that kept then cool
from the Judean sun and protected them from the chill
of a night time desert wind.

Stranger and girl stared together.

"Master I have heard you talk many times and heard
wondrous things about you. I do not come to you so you
can cure my sick child or trick you into blasphemy as
many would. My life should be good, but something is
missing"

The girl looked up at the stranger and saw his adam
apple bob and the face desert-stained and raw.

"What do you want me to do about it? You are clearly
better off than many. Why can't you be satisfied with
that? Isn't it better to face the emptiness that is at
the heart of all our lives with a full stomach rather
than not"

The man was clearly expecting some divine anointment
that would fill this pit in his life.

"God has clearly given you talents and a better life
than many. Be satisfied with that. To do other is to
be ungrateful to God"

The stranger pointed into the darkest recesses of the
square where lost women plyed their trade in the
shadows.

"Go make yourself seen"

The man with bemusement and shame walked into the
square and did as asked. He called. He waited. He
shrugged and looked back to the stranger as if to say
'she is not interested'. He called again before
walking back to the well kicking the sand with his
sullen sandals.

"You didn't wait very long?"

"How long should I have waited? An hour? A day?"

"There are those with little coin in their purses who
have every reason to want what you have got, who may
have waited longer. It is only when you have nothing
that God makes it easier for you. It is that moment
when Abraham is about to slay Isaac that God anoints
and frees you of your obligation. If he asked you to
wait an eternity for a lost woman would you do so?
Many are called and few are chosen"

When the man had walked away bemused and disappointed,
the stranger walked into the shadows and a woman wept.
ELEVENSES81

Gethsemane



"No no no not me master!!!"
Sleep sweet Judas, rest
The night was chilled
"You didn't have to come" he said to her.
She held him close and he pleaded
"Is it me Mary?..Is it me? Is it true?"
And each "Is it me?" was just another cry from the wilderness.
ELEVENSES81

Quarantine by Jim Crace.



Crace re-imagines Christ's 40 days in the wilderness from a humanist standpoint.  Crace's Jesus seems to have no divine origin and no obvious supernatural administrations. An unlearned boy from Galilee, whose too-pious habits are deplored by His parents, He has deserted the paternal carpenter's shop and run away to the Judean wilderness in search of God. He arrives with other quarantiners, each with his or her own purpose: it might be to live 40 days in a cave, with what food and water they bring or can find, to purge guilt or be cured of cancer or barrenness. Jesus chooses the least accessible cave and means to go without food or water for the whole period.

Highly recommended
ELEVENSES81



Poached eggs should be such an easy job, but I just can't do them. I've tried using those little water bath things that sit on the hob, but I always overcook them,  and tried to emulate the Hairy Biker's swirling water method. My old mum always cooked her eggs this way and were
perfection. Mine turn out like the contents of a handkerchief  during a bad cold...ugh..!!!!!


Any help would be most welcome.
ELEVENSES81

http://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-p...ng-lessons-from-the-kitchn-125453

http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/eggs-recipes/poached-eggs/

http://www.perfectpoachedegg.com/poached_egg_easy_method.html
ELEVENSES81

Mermaids




For all the many creatures that inhabit the oceans, there are nights when the moon being right, they come together at the reefs or in the privacy of the deep to fornicate and repopulate the seas. Even the humble polyps, the living coral in the warmer seas shed their eggs and sperm to find haphazard union on a drifting wave. The turtles, so shy of man and his shore, still shed their fear for one night and pull themselves up by instinct to love, bury their eggs and dash (as if a turtle could ever be said to 'dash', as haste is not part of that creature's nature).

So mermaids too, when of an age to feel the urge to need a human, his lips on hers and her rounded breasts cupped by his love, will for one night forget the dolphins' usual warning and head for the strands and secret coves along the southern coasts of England. Even the whales, will on this night guide them in. The fishermen will be waiting , as they always have and will do, to plant their seed and desire and watch sadly as the schools of mermaids, hair streaming , head back to some silent wreck or reef, to home.

The dolphins do not begrudge them this night. They have taught the mermaids all they know. A mermaids tender touch learnt far out at sea. She knows the delight of a dolphin, his leathery smoothness, so that when she raises her tail his ardour is raised and he leaps and twirls at the joy of it. Only he knows, of all sea creatures, the joy of her lips.

And so at dusk as the porpoise followed the crabbers and shrimpers home, the mermaids schooled and followed the whales shoreward where the beacon flashed to warn all sea creatures of the deadly shallows. How many of her friends, the whales, have been caught by the ebb and left beached and humiliated by their friend, the sea. Some kindly human may push them back or water their backs, but most die far from home.

Mermaid love is not a passing passion, a casual encounter. Each mermaid has a call and only one man can answer it. Sometimes the call will be unanswered because the man is still child. The child may hear it and delight in it, but cannot know it is for him. So for year after year, she comes in hope and returns in misery, her purses unfilled. But one day, when the boy is youth or man, he will hear her call on some cloudless, moonlit night and feel his heart pulse and leap.

Such a night is this. She all instinct and sea, and him all earth and desire but untutored.

The men wait in lines waiting for their call again, and upon hearing, strip naked in the wave and stand in the shallows. Then they see them. The schools of beauty all beating heart and tail. Some blonde, some dark, some small-breasted as girls, others more full, mature. Some have painted their lips with red coral, others octopus ink. She comes. 'Adam, you have come at last'. Her voice is like the sweetest siren harp. 'Come here, don't be shy'. She like him is young, her hair blond and curled that falls like a veil over her, a net to capture him. He may be innocent, but even in him some ancient knowledge of a woman's need bubbles up. Him all beating heart, ears zinging and the hum of love and desire coursing through him. He lies beside her in the foam. She smiles at the knowledge that until this man falls into death, their connection will last, Neptune's gift to both. The next wave carries her onto him, so practiced. As the sky spins above and the earth below, their mutual cries reach back to her home, the reef. The dolphins leap.

'Goodbye sweet Adam'. She, all beauty and power, thrashes the ocean and to home. All along that strand, men young and old are crying from exhaustion and grief. You can never tell when a mermaid will call again.

The next night, the mermaid school returns offshore, and as if as one, lie on their backs and lift their tails to release their precious purses to the racing tide.

genghiscant

ELEVENSES81 wrote:


Poached eggs should be such an easy job, but I just can't do them. I've tried using those little water bath things that sit on the hob, but I always overcook them,  and tried to emulate the Hairy Biker's swirling water method. My old mum always cooked her eggs this way and were
perfection. Mine turn out like the contents of a handkerchief  during a bad cold...ugh..!!!!!


Any help would be most welcome.


You're using old eggs. The whites of fresh eggs stay together near the yolk. Drop into boiling water & keep it boiling, never walk away from eggs that are being cooked as they are bound to over cook. Good luck.
ELEVENSES81


Link


Africa Salif Keita
Farmer Geddon

Sad to hear of 11's demise...

Best tribute I could think of...

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