Triumph

Piggy

A small crowd of British schoolboys find themselves on a deserted tropical island. It is a little unclear how they got there. Perhaps there has been a plane crash. At first it all seems like a spiffing adventure from "The Boy's Own Paper" but it isn't very long before a kind of dark collective madness emerges.

This is the core plot of "Lord of the Flies" by William Golding. It was his first novel. He wrote it in the early nineteen fifties with his wartime naval experiences fresh in his mind. He commanded a landing craft during the invasion of Normandy. The book was also a deliberate riposte to "The Coral Island" by R.M.Ballantyne (1857).

Ralph

I first read "Lord of the Flies" in the summer of 1966 when I was twelve years old - the same age as the lead characters in the novel - Ralph, Jack, Piggy and Simon. It brought me to the sudden realisation that fiction could be much more than just story-telling. It could arrest you. It could have underlying meanings. There could be symbolism and artistic ambition and language could be crafted to create both beauty and horror.

In short, it wowed me as no other book had done before. And I am convinced that that powerful early reading experience  played a big part in determining my academic career and the paid work that stemmed from my education. Pursuing English Literature at university led to me becoming an English teacher.

So yes - "Lord of the Flies" has always been seminal in my memory. Consequently, I was very curious about the BBC TV version of the novel that was screened in four parts last month. Frankly, I expected to be underwhelmed. 

Simon

Filmed in Malaysia in the summer of 2024, the BBC version was directed by Marc Munden with a script devised by Jack Thorne. It was a huge team effort and there was passionate commitment to the project by all the talented specialists who had been signed up. In addition, the boys who played the main parts were very well chosen. Some of them had had no previous experience of acting.

There were four episodic "movements" in the show titled "Piggy", "Jack", "Simon" and Ralph".

The disturbing make-up, the often jarring music, the cinematography and the attention to detail impressed me greatly. These elements really lifted the drama. It wasn't as if Marc Munden and Jack Thorne were trying to faithfully replicate Golding's novel on screen but they were aiming to be entirely true to his vision, understanding deeply what this famous book was all about. They brought out the darkness, the terror and ultimately the sense of hope.

I thought it was terrific.

Jack

Tribute

 The Friday Funnies

In memory of Bruce Taylor...

Bruce would always end his "Friday Funnies" posts with a "Star Trek" quip followed by a cat "funny"...

And always remember to keep laughing!!!

Here, kitty-kitty . . .

Farewell

 

Bruce Taylor (1940-2026)

Fellow blogger Bruce died on Tuesday night. Though he hailed from North Dakota, he lived in Arizona with his beloved wife Judy. Sadly, Judy died on January 4th.

I imagine that the true character of a blogger filters through in their blogposts and Bruce came across as light-hearted and kind. He was a guy whose glass was half full, trying to see the good in things, in people, in situations.

His "Friday Funnies" posts were legendary. Every week he gathered together amusing cartoons and memes that revealed many of the silly aspects of being human. Those "funnies" were never bitter or political in nature, just cheeky and light like Bruce himself.

Once, Bruce referred to his battered old English beermat (American: coaster)  that he had pinched from a London pub in the eighties. It sat next to his computer and had probably become a health hazard. So I sent him two replacement English beermats. One was from my daughter's wedding and the other was produced by a famous Yorkshire brewery called "Timothy Taylor's".

I thought he would appreciate the Taylor reference. Coincidentally, his nephew in The Pacific Northwest happens to be called Timothy Taylor so Bruce sent that beermat on to him instead. In return, Bruce sent me a parcel containing about half a pound of random foreign coins. Judy was not impressed when she heard about the postage cost!

In 2022, I created a blogpost about my Google Streetview visit to Stanley in North Dakota. This small settlement was Bruce's home town. Of course the place was in his bones but he never longed to go back there. He appreciated the post though and in his comment wrote, "Wow! What a surprise! The red brick building in the third picture is the former Presbyterian Church that I spent many hours in as a youngster. It's long since become a cultural center and concert site after the population dipped. There were only about 1,100 people there when I grew up so you can see what the second oil "boom" has done. I also spent many hours in the old Mountrail County Promoter headquarters, which was in a dark and dingy basement with a huge, noisy linotype machine. And my "ancestral home" was a few blocks south, also on Main Street. Thanks for this, Professor. I, myself, hadn't looked at this site in years."

Now that he is dead, maybe Bruce has returned to Stanley. Where ever he has gone, we all know that he has simply departed before us and we shall follow after... over the hills and faraway.  Let us think of him every Friday and smile. Farewell Bruce and thank you for being you.

Horny

Something was growing on my left temple. Granddaughter Phoebe asked several times what it was. I told her it was a rice krispie but it was actually a cutaneous horn. It was probably connected with historical skin damage resulting from too much exposure to the sun.

In 61% of cases, cutaneous horns are benign and nothing to fret about but in a minority of instances they may have malignant, cancerous undertones.

Anyway, about six weeks ago I was visiting my GP about my ongoing battle with high blood pressure. Before I left, I asked him if he would check out the little growth on my temple. A more senior doctor also came into the consulting room and I was then referred to the dermatology department at our local teaching hospital - The Royal Hallamshire.

A month ago I was checked out by a consultant and this evening I went back to the hospital to have the thing "scraped" away under local anaesthetic. I was operated on by a very nice nurse practitioner, ably assisted by a friendly support worker.

The whole experience was more than fine. The two women were very kind, patient and clear about what they were doing. As I departed, I said something like this...

" I have had a lot to do with the NHS these past two years and I have met a good number of NHS professionals. Every person I have met has been kind, professional and good at their jobs and you two ladies certainly fall into that category too. I thank you so much for they way you have treated me. You are a credit to the great organisation you work for. I will be contacting the hospital suggesting that you both receive big bonuses with your pay cheques this month."

The last point made them both chuckle and Helen, the nurse practitioner, said, "Thank you for your kind feedback. It's been a long and tiring day and it's nice to know that we are appreciated. I wish that all of our patients were like you."

My excised cutaneous horn will be analysed in a lab and I should receive the verdict within six weeks.

At the site of the absent krispie, there will be a little scar. I told Helen I didn't mind because I could tell others that I had been in a pub fight. She suggested that my yarn could instead be about a duel in the woods with swords. I rather fancy myself as a modern day D'Artagnan.

In the meantime, I am not horny any more. If you were eating something buttery when you began reading this post - or even a bowl of rice krispies - please accept my sincere apologies if the picture at the top disturbed you.

Tortured

 

Looking up at the strip light on the ceiling. And that big circular operating light. Glaring down. My Iraqi dentist is wearing blue rubber gloves, safety glasses and a beige coloured hijab. What are those things in her fingers? Perhaps miniature weapons of mass destruction. The ones they never found. "Open wider for me please". That gurgling siphon thing sucks excess water and saliva from my mouth quite inefficiently for I am still close to drowning as I gulp like a pelican. 

"Are you all right?" "Arrr...arr...arr". Translated that means "Beam me up Scottie!" Kayleigh, the attractive sunbed bronzed dental nurse, fusses about bringing instruments and dental paste. I hope I remembered to zip up my flyhole. The place where I  keep my fly. 

Saja drills into my skull. Grinding away like a stonemason. But I was against the post 9/11 invasion of Iraq! Don't punish me! It was Bush and Blair. Not me! Please! The torture will surely last forever. Looking up at the striplight into eternity. My mouth is one of my most intimate and private places and yet I have allowed this Islamic woman in there willingly. Not with her tongue French kissing me but with metal implements I cannot see. Aren't torturers meant to cackle with malicious joy? But she gets on with her job - the one she was trained for over several years. 

I am grateful that she managed to squeeze me in after the initial morning consultation. I stagger out feeling violated and sore but I thank Saja and Kayleigh for their service. Even on the NHS we have to pay a bit extra for dental treatment. My bank card makes the card machine bleep successfully. More cash for dentist holidays. I walk home silently praying that the treatment I have received will indeed be the solution to my oral discomfort. 

Fortunately, I was able to manage it during out time in Egypt though there were a few moments when I thought I would have to leave the river cruise to visit an Egyptian dentist. He or she would undoubtedly have held a palm out for "baksheesh"...for services rendered. It was probably the ancient Egyptians who first performed proper dentistry over 4500 years ago. I believe they got there before the Chinese.

Encore

After my last blogpost, some of you out there may have concluded that I had reached the end of my Egypt posts. I am sorry to disappoint you because here's another Egypt post containing eight more of the photographs I took.

I suspected that the top picture - of an Egyptian policeman  in The Valley of the Kings would prove especially appealing to any gay gentlemen who happen to visit this blog.

Below this marvellous block statue of Yamunedjeh caught my eye in Luxor Museum. He was a royal herald to Thuthmosis III who was reigning Egypt in 1450 BC...

Above, at Karnak Temple In Luxor, I spotted that cheeky sparrow having a rest on one of the criosphinxes. Below - tourists are circling the statue of a scarab beetle for good luck.

Above, Egyptian humour on a Nile ferryboat at Luxor. Below, the sign on a very famous tomb. Tutankhamun means living image of the god Amun.

Above I spotted this shop sign in Edfu. It will amuse some football,fans because Mo Salah is the name of Egypt's greatest ever player. Below - one of the most incredible things I saw in Egypt. It is the Nileometer on Elephantine Island, Aswan. The carved lines on that flight of very ancient stone steps were for marking annual flood levels. Flooding heralded fertility with more bountiful harvests to follow and thereby tax levels in Ancient Egypt could be adjusted up or down.

22/3/56

If he had lived, my younger brother Simon would have been seventy years old today - but he died on July 19th 2022 at the age of 67. I wrote a poem in his memory on the evening of his passing. Let me share it with you again...

⦿

Song for Simon

No more

Wood pigeons cooing

Morse coded messages

From the ridge tiles

Nor painted ladies

Shimmying through open windows -

Fluttering like tiny Bhutanese prayer flags.

No more the dark two a.m.

Wondering who I am

Recalling paths unfollowed,

Regrets twinkling

Like distant stars.

No more struggling for breath

Or cowering in the shade of death.

It’s over.

No more plans

And no more schemes,

No more

Elusive butterfly dreams.

Your words are destined to stay unsaid

Now that you have joined the dead.

    No more…

No more.

⦿

Looking back almost four years now... His was not the happiest of lives. He lived in the shadows of who he might have been.  His mind was significantly affected by smoking weed and cannabis resin. Always a cigarette smoker. at times he also drank too much and his attitude to the world and people  beyond his door was filled with scorn because Simon always knew best. I was often the convenient recipient of his venom.

He made my mother's life a misery. He kept returning to her like a bad penny. She was often afraid of him and his weird moods. He could be very aggressive and said horrible things to her. Sometimes she barricaded her bedroom door - wedging a chair against the door handle in case he came into her bedroom in the middle of the night. But she was his mother and in spite of everything she was there for him. She considered it her maternal duty.

For about seven years - between the ages of 28 and 35, Simon had a relationship with a local woman called Linda. Shirley and I liked her a lot. Linda was the best thing that ever happened to Simon. They bought a little house together in Hornsea on the North Sea coast and for a while he seemed like a changed man. I might even dare to say that he was happy... briefly.

But then the nastiness started up again. This time targeted not  at my mother but at Linda. She also became afraid of him and very sadly, they split up. The little house was  sold and despite my protestations, Simon moved back in with my mother. 

She should have been living out her days as a merry widow but instead my monstrous brother was back to torment her, belittle her, criticise her cooking, yell at her, steal her money. It was awful and during that time she would often come over to Sheffield to stay with us. We gave her sanctuary and she could sleep peacefully in her bed before the inevitable journeys back home.

In spite of undiagnosed mental health issues and to his credit, Simon managed to earn wages throughout his troubled life. He was rarely out of work and eight months before his death through cancer, he was still working with a contractor who serviced the water infrastructure - maintaining small underground reservoirs and associated piping for example.

Sadly, he had already offloaded his cherished guitars. In his prime he was a great guitar player. Much better and more dedicated than me. He had real talent and patience when it came to strumming or picking but typically he cut away the rope that connected him with that joy.

Though I stopped loving him decades before he became a human skeleton, I am proud to say that I was there for him at the end. It is what my parents would have wanted.

As folk will often say tritely when death occurs... he is at peace now.