Kendrick

I am sure that Yorkshire Pudding visitors will be delighted to learn that at yesterday's  Grammy Awards, the "song of the year" category was won by Kendrick Lamar's "Not Like Us". It is widely acknowledged that thirty seven year old Kendrick is the second greatest rap artist of all time after Jay-Z. Not only did "Not Like Us" win "song of the year", it also won "record of the year" which is of course something very different.

You must have heard "Not Like Us"? Surely you have. In the song, Kendrick Lamar reveals his rapping genius and his lyrical brilliance. He's like the Percy Bysshe Shelley of the rapping world.

People will be humming "Not Like Us" far off into the future because that's what happens with great songs isn't it?  First of all, I am going to put up a video of "Not Like Us"- just in case you missed it somehow and then I will copy and paste in a sample of the incredible lyrics ...

Say, Drake, I hear you like 'em young

You better not ever go to cell block one

To any bitch that talk to him and they in love

Just make sure you hide your lil' sister from him

They tell me Chubbs the only one that get your hand-me-downs

And Party at the party playin' with his nose now

And Baka got a weird case, why is he around?

Certified Lover Boy? Certified pedophiles

Wop, wop, wop, wop, wop, Dot, fuck 'em up

Wop, wop, wop, wop, wop, I'ma do my stuff

Why you trollin' like a bitch? Ain't you tired?

Tryna strike a chord and it's probably A minor

⦿

As you may have already guessed, I was being facetious about "Not Like Us". I have always detested rap music and imagined that by now the trend would have died a death.

"Not Like Us" is typically delivered in such a swift, badly enunciated manner that you just cannot make out the words. And when you read the lyrics - as with the sample above - you seem to find aggression, rudeness and banality.

But is there something amiss with my judgement? Am I straitjacketed by my age and my white Anglo Saxon perspective? Is there an element of subconscious racism in my distaste for the rap recordings of Jay-Z, Kendrick Lamar and all the others whose fake names interest me as much as what is languishing in our rubbish bin?

It's hard to know. Maybe I should be more charitable and open-minded about rap music - make more of an effort to appreciate it as, apparently, millions of rap fans do. However, at present,  I must be honest, I find all rap songs pretty much the same - impenetrable, superficial, nasty and inherently forgettable. How "Not Like Us" could become both the "song of the year" and  the "record of the year" is beyond me. Let's sing along...

Mm

Mm-mm

He a fan, he a fan, he a fan (Mm)

He a fan, he a fan, he a

Freaky-ass nigga, he a 69 God

Freaky-ass nigga, he a 69 God

Hey, hey, hey, hey, run for your life

Hey, hey, hey, hey, run for your life

Sometimes

Plum cobbler

Sometimes evenings arrive along one's blogging journey when there seems to be nothing of note left  to say. That's how it feels tonight here at the start of February.

Forty minutes ago, I got back from "The Hammer and Pincers" after another Sunday night pub quiz. We didn't win anything tonight though we have won the top prize on the last two Sundays.

Even though we did not win, it was as nice as always to meet up with Mick and Mike for easy conversation, ribbing and laughter mixed with serious stuff. We never know where the talking will go but we always enjoy each other's company. Hell, I have been quizzing regularly with these fellows for twenty five years now. We are growing older together.

Mick is a bachelor who lives alone in the old family home. Both of his parents died years back and just after Christmas  his only sibling - his brother Roger - also left the land of the living.

Mike lives with his wife Jill and like me he has a grown up son and a grown up daughter. Also like me he has three young grandchildren. In the last two years he hs been battling with health issues stemming from a diagnosed condition called  myasthenia gravis which has manifested itself in several different ways.

But still he battles on. Well, what more can you do? Fortunately he has a pretty upbeat, cheerful character and I am sure that this has helped when dealing with setbacks and the unpredictable course of his health journey.

Earlier, Frances and Stewart were round for Sunday dinner with our two little granddaughters. The menu consisted of roasted beef, Yorkshire puddings, roasted carrots and parsnips with homemade gravy and roasted leeks in a cheesy sauce. For the starch element I made a mash of potatoes and chopped swede (American: rutabaga). It's amazing how much boiling or microwaving swede takes before it really softens up ready for mashing.

For dessert, Shirley made a plum cobbler using frozen plums from our garden - accompanied by vanilla custard. I was glad to get some of our frozen fruit out of the freezer.

Ah well, another Sunday night and even though I had nothing of note to say, I still managed to produce another blogpost. I have no idea what  will be in tomorrow's offering.  Watch this space!

Ferriby

 

Once again, I drove over to Hull today. The Tigers were playing Stoke City.

On the way, I  took a detour into the village of North Ferriby that sits on the north  shore of The River Humber, five mile west of Hull. My main motivation was to bag two more squares for the Geograph photo-mapping project. 

It was a grey, chilly day. You could hardly see across to the other side of the river. Not the best day for taking pictures. Even the mighty Humber Bridge was hard to see in the murk. I did a short, circular walk that took me through a green riverside leisure park that occupies a site that was once devoted to landfill.

There I was surprised to see the scene shown in the picture at the top. As you can see, there's the outline of a boat set in the ground. It is a kind of memorial in recognition of the fact that close to this spot the remains of three very old boats were discovered by amateur archaeologists in the middle of the twentieth century.

The boats were the oldest known sewn-plank boats found in Europe and they dated back to the Bronze Age - some four thousand years ago. They were not pleasure boats but working vessels - used for transporting goods within the waters of the Humber Estuary and possibly beyond. Similarly constructed boats were found by The River Nile - dating back to The Ancient Egyptian era.

Such discoveries make you think about our ancient ancestors and the lives they led.

Before leaving North Ferriby, I headed into The Riverside Walkway Cafe for a latte and a delicious cheese and tomato toastie. Vital fuel before the football match which I am sorry to say we lost by two goals to nil. Boo hoo!

One of The Ferriby Boats - re-imagined

Morph

Many years ago there was an art show aimed at children on BBC Television. At first, it was called "Take Hart" and the genius behind it was the late Tony Hart. He had promoted art in earlier children's shows too including "Vision On" and "Playbox".

Somewhere along the line - round about 1977, Tony Hart came up with a terracotta coloured plasticine man called Morph who gradually became a regular feature of  "Take Hart" and "Hartbeat". Morph starred in short scenes on Tony Hart's studio desk where there were paintbrushes, rubbers, rolls of tape and various other everyday items. The concept was both simple and endearing.

Much later, Morph was adopted bt the Aardman animations people who spawned Wallace and Gromit  as well as Shaun the Sheep. But I think I am right in saying that Morph was the plasticine  daddy of them all. He came first and later he was joined by his mischievous pal Chas who was lighter in colour but otherwise looked just like Morph.

Recently, I introduced my granddaughter Phoebe to Morph and at present she loves him. She has watched a lot of funny Morph shows.  He and Chas do not speak in intelligible phrases but you always know what they are saying. Each mini-episode is put together brilliantly by patient animators who are clearly still very much enthused by their work - just as Tony Hart was.

Here are two more recent  "Morph" episodes I have picked to share with you. He has come a long way since Tony Hart first moulded him. Enjoy!

Circling

Today I drove out to the end of The Hope Valley intending to walk for a couple of hours in the winter sunshine. I parked Clint close to Speedwell Cavern at the eastern end of Winnats Pass.

The picture at the top is the ruin of Hurdlow Barn which must have been connected with historical sheep farming though there was once a lot of lead mining activity in the area.

Above on a high plateau above The Hope Valley - amateur signage pointing the way to the village of Castleton and to Mam Tor which means - the shivering mountain. Here is an image of Mam Tor I captured today...

It was a cold day, hovering around freezing point, so I was glad I had brought my fingerless gloves. A woolly hat would have also been sensible but I didn't bring one with me. Below, the farm sign at the end of the long track that leads to Rowter Farm.

And I spotted this anti-litter sign at the bottom of Winnats Pass. I am no saint but I can say with some certainty that I have never consciously dropped a single piece of litter in my entire life. I guess there are other bloggers and blog visitors who can say just the same. I wonder, do people use the insult "tosser" in other parts of the English speaking world?

Near the end of the walk I had a treacherous descending path to negotiate. Bare limestone can get very slippery and there was mud too. The steep descent was for about fifty yards and I took my time, trying my level best not to fall. I am happy to report that I succeeded.

Halfway down, I sat on a rock to rest for five minutes and another passing rambler asked if I was okay. I said I was as he promptly slipped and fell on his fat arse. The embarrassed look on his face was priceless but luckily the way he fell meant that he did not hurt himself.

Walking up Winnats Pass

Rowter Farm

Heart-warming

Ready for a heart-warming story? My apologies if you have already stumbled across it.

In the picture you have got Mr and Mrs Shears from Coventry, England. He is called Donovan and she is called Kirsty.

Back in 1998, they were both eighteen years old. Donovan , a citizen of Coventry in the English Midlands, acquired his first mobile phone and he began messing about with it. He sent out some random texts to random numbers. He was just experimenting. Each time he wrote , "Hello?" but at first there was no reply from anybody. But then he got a reply. The text just said "Hi" and it came from Kirsty in Cleethorpes - 120 miles away.

Anyway, one thing led to another. In the weeks that followed they texted each other regularly. Then they had phone conversations and after about six months, Kirsty travelled by train to meet Donovan in Coventry.

Love blossomed and they were married  in 2002. Later, two children came along - a boy called Stirling and a girl called Alora. They were blessed because Kirsty had struggled to get pregnant and thought it might never happen.

On Valentine's Day this year the couple plan to reaffirm their marriage vows in Coventry Cathedral. It turns out that that random phone text contact in 1998 changed their lives forever and for the better. Donovan and Kirsty are still very much in love  with a happy family.

Praising his Scottish wife, Donovan said,  "She is an amazing woman, she's so intelligent and we know each other so well, she's my best friend as well as my wife."

Brutalist

A grey and drizzly January day in a northern English city. What to do?

After another morning trip to the local medical centre to have a vial of my blood extracted, I decided to catch a bus into the city centre to watch the midday screening of "The Brutalist". The film's running time is three hours and thirty five minutes with a fifteen minute intermission in the middle.

To tell you the truth, I wasn't in the least bit daunted by the film's length. As long as it mesmerised me, as long as it drew me in and held my attention - the time wouldn't matter one hoot.

Starring the brilliant Adrien Brody as László Tóth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect who  emigrates to America in the 1950s, the film's director was Brady Corbet who had a big hand in writing the script too. "The Brutalist" has received ten Oscar nominations - including "Best Picture".

The title, "The Brutalist"  largely relates to the modern architectural style known as brutalism though at least two of the male characters also appear brutish beneath the veneer of their civility.

Some aspects of the film, some moments, some episodes are very effective but in the end I came away feeling underwhelmed and a little irritated with it. Felicity Jones was too young-looking to play the part of Erzsébet Tóth and when she and László talked in  bed in their thick Hungarian accents, I could hardly make out what they were saying.

It is often visually powerful and the background music enhances the drama but at the heart of it the story just didn't do it for me and I will not pretend otherwise. By the way,  László is tasked with designing and supervising the building of an enormous brutalist memorial building somewhere in the heart of Pennsylvania.

I went along and paid my admission fee to see it hoping to be wowed, immersed, entertained. But I came away feeling that it had been over-hyped. I expect that it will be very successful at The Oscars which will be awarded this year on March 2nd.

Hooverphobia

The Emperor Fountain, Chatsworth House *

In the entire history of humanity has a more annoying invention than the vacuum cleaner ever been unleashed upon the world? In Great Britain, we have called them "Hoovers" for decades even when referring to vacuum cleaners produced by other, equally annoying companies. I associate the "Hoover" brand with instruments of torture and psychological injury.

I realise that my detestation of vacuum cleaners is probably illogical but I just cannot help it. When a vacuum cleaner is noisily sucking away at nearby floor surfaces, my blood pressure rises like The Emperor Fountain at Chatsworth House.

Some time in the late 1950s or early 60s, my mother bought an upright "Hoover" in a military livery of dark blue and light grey. It had a fabric bag at the back in which the machine's  bulging paper stomach was concealed. Every so often this had to be emptied or replaced.

I can picture my mother now - plugging that sucker in - her eyes kind of wild like those of a malevolent torturer. Then she would get cracking, just as I was reading a book or making a model car from balsa wood or watching "Blue Peter". The humming/whining noise went on for hours in every bedroom and over every inch of carpet.

Suddenly, respite would happen when the foot-switch was finally pressed. The dreaded noise abated like the end of an air-raid siren warning in World War II. What blessed relief! And then it would start up again... as Mum began to tackle the stairs. Aarrgh!

One of the worst things was when she asked me or other male occupants of my house to lift our feet so that she could hoover under us. Our family cat, Oscar, had a second sense about our "Hoover". It was as if she (yes, she!) could read my mother's intentions before the terrible appliance was pulled out from its shadowy cupboard under the stairs. For that is where it resided when not in use, its electrical wire wrapped  around its carcass like a tangled liana vine in a dank jungle.

As I write this blogpost, my darling wife has chosen this very moment in time to use our "Dyson" vacuum cleaner. While I was doing things out in the garden - like feeding the birds and repairing some wind damage - she must have been waiting inside for me to re-enter the house before turning the bloody thing on. Whirring and vrooming - like sitting directly beneath an aeroplane's engine as it idles on the runway before take off. Horrible!

However, I have a confession to make. Back in 1991, I accidentally spilled some dry porridge oats on our hallway carpet. Shirley was out at the time so I bravely yanked my nemesis from the pantry, plugged it in and sucked up those oats in less than two minutes flat. Afterwards, I had to sit down with a mug of tea and a milk chocolate digestive biscuit in order to recover. Never again!

As  I have said to Dave over at "Northsider", the man or woman who manages to invent a totally silent vacuum  cleaner should be awarded an international medal or perhaps The Nobel Peace Prize. Why has it not happened yet? Look at the things that ingenious humans have created but still nobody has managed to come up with a silent vacuum cleaner. Is that too much to ask for?

* © G Laird (2019) Geograph

Mariann

 

Mariann Budde

Bishop of Washington

Washington National Cathedral

January 21st 2025

"Let me make one final plea, Mr President. Millions have put their trust in you. As you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now. There are gay, lesbian and transgender children in Democratic, Republican and independent families who fear for their lives.

And the people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings; who labor in our poultry farms and meat-packing plants; who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shift in hospitals – they may not be citizens or have the proper documentation, but the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes, and are good neighbors. They are faithful members of our churches, mosques and synagogues, gurdwara, and temples.

Have mercy, Mr President, on those in our communities whose children fear that their parents will be taken away. Help those who are fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands to find compassion and welcome here. Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were once strangers in this land.

May God grant us all the strength and courage to honor the dignity of every human being, speak the truth in love, and walk humbly with one another and our God, for the good of all the people of this nation and the world."

⦿

“The so-called Bishop who spoke at the National Prayer Service on Tuesday morning was a Radical Left hard line Trump hater. She brought her church into the world of politics in a very ungracious way. She was nasty in tone, and not compelling or smart...She is not very good at her job! She and her church owe the public an apology!” - Donald J. Trump (aka Satan).

Denali

This is Denali - the tallest mountain on the continent of North America. It is located in Alaska and it stands 20,310 feet above sea level. Mount Everest is 9,000 feet taller.

The mountain is located 133 miles north of Anchorage in the territory of the Koyukon people. These indigenous Alaskans called their mountain Denali for several millennia before a gold prospector working in the region in 1896 decided to change Denali's name to Mount McKinley after William McKinley who was, at the time, seeking election to the position of US President.

It was not until 1917 that the US government officially endorsed the name change from Denali to Mount McKinley in an act of what might easily be seen as thoughtless imperialism that carelessly bulldozed through the wishes and history of native Alaskan people.

In 2015, under President Obama, it appeared that a wrong had been righted when the name Denali was restored and "Mount McKinley" was ditched. It seems to me that resurrecting the traditional name represented an act of restorative respect for the original Alaskans who had always clung to the historical name anyway.

Then on January 20th 2025, along comes Trump (he's very nasty) and instructs that Denali will be Mount McKinley once again. He doesn't say why and he gives no indication that he is aware of past debates about the name or any ethno-cultural sensitivities. Is he aware that McKinley never visited Alaska and had no particular attachment to the state? He was after all an Ohioan.

The renaming of The Gulf of Mexico is quite absurd but trying to blot out the name Denali a second time round has a pretty vicious and spiteful edge to it. The decision shows no heart or historical perspective. Perhaps it is Donald J. Trump who needs renaming and I invite visitors to this humble Yorkshire blog to give their considered suggestions in the "Comments" below...

Capital

Back home in Sheffield now. The Thursday that I predicted pretty much all came true.

A wooden back door in the property had become kind of jammed - no doubt swollen by winter weather. I had to use a chisel and sandpaper to relieve the pressure and ensure that that door was lockable once more. On another occasion, I will share some of the painful details about this flat and where Frances and Stewart are with it all.

My good value Travelodge room was excellent - newly remodelled, clean and warm. It also had a welcome reading lamp on the desk and in total I must have spent around three hours just sitting there engrossed in the novel I am currently reading.

At seven thirty, as planned, I went across Wood Green High Street to the "Capital" Turkish restaurant. It was a heavenly dining experience from the welcome I received when I walked in to the efficient settling of my bill at the end.

There was no interminable waiting, drumming my fingers on the table. I glanced at the menu and then my waiter came over. I ordered the predictable "EFES" beer and a large lamb shish kebab.

Five minutes later my beer arrived with the complimentary starter. This consisted of a substantial bowl of fresh and colourful salad in a balsamic dressing + a basket of warm pitta bread + a small square dish of tzatziki + a small square dish of fresh hummus with olive oil drizzled over it + a slightly spicy tomato salsa + yoghurt sauce +  tomato sauce. 

As I was consuming this mini-feast of mouth-watering loveliness my shish kebab arrived. Chunks of tender marinated lamb from the barbecue grill, charred sweet peppers, a dome of perfectly cooked  white  rice and yet more home-baked pitta bread slices. I was living my culinary dream and in fact I could not manage all of the starter combo.

When I was done, the waiter quickly spotted my subtle non-verbal signalling and came over to ask if there was anything else I required. "Just the bill please", I grunted in my rough Yorkshire accent.

Three minutes later, he returned with the bill and a complimentary dessert - a simple chunk of Turkish sponge cake in a light syrup, dusted with crushed pistachios. Mmmm...

This morning, Frances and I went across the main road to Charlie's Cafe and Bakery for excellent breakfasts with coffees before the long drive back Up North that became longer than we thought because of an accident on the M1. 

Her satnav, sweet-talking  Janice, played silly buggers with us as she took us off on a zigzagged detour that encompassed the wildest lanes upon the eastern moors of Derbyshire. Fortunately, the fearsome Storm Éowyn was only blowing meekly - like a four year old child puffing out her birthday candles. Eventually - we made it home. A three and a half hour journey had turned into a five hour one.

Prediction

Travelodge, Wood Green

I have scheduled this blogpost to auto-publish at 11.30pm on Thursday. This is because I am not at home. This is what I predict happened...

At ten o'clock I jumped in my daughter Frances's blue car. Together, we headed down the M1 motorway to Wood Green, London. Without stops, this journey should have taken about three hours and twenty minutes.

We picked up a key for her old flat - the one she bought with Stewart in 2017. We went inside and checked out the state of the old place. It is currently unoccupied. There is a heartbreaking saga to be told about its recent history and this involves the local council for the  Haringey district of London.

It is a long and complicated tale that I will not bore you with right now. It has involved tears and official communications and broken promises and money and the business is still not resolved. It concerns several other homeowners in the neighbourhood. Let me just say it is all quite scandalous and wrong.

We unscrew a large mirror from the wall in the entrance hall and put it in the back of the blue car. It was made for Frances and Stewart by one of their friends.

Frances felt quite emotional about it all. The flat worries have hovered about her for four years now. We headed off to the nearby Travelodge on Wood Green High Street where we had reserved two rooms.

At four thirty she took a tube train down to central London where there was a reunion meet-up for her old London-based company. It involved drinks and  dinner. She headed back to Wood Green before midnight.

In the meantime, I went over to one of Wood Green's Turkish restaurants for a  lamb shish kebab meal with a bottle of  EFS Turkish beer. It was as wholesome and delicious as ever.

Afterwards, I toddled back to the Travelodge to read and watch some television before hitting the hay around midnight. I was hoping to sleep easy in my hotel bed after confirming that Frances was back safely from her night out.

Return from London on Friday morning.

Quiztime

Hurrah! It's Quiztime again and so please don your thinking caps once more. On this occasion, the questions all concern South America. As usual, the answers will be provided in "Comments".

⦿

1) What is the name of the cape at the southern tip of South America?

(a) Cape Dawn (b) Cape Porn (c) Cape Horn (d) Cape of Magellan

2) This is the South American singer-songwriter Shakira...

In which South American country was Shakira born and raised?

(a) Argentina (b) Colombia (c) Suriname (d) Chile

3) South America has produced many great footballers and this fellow is possibly the greatest of them all but what is his name?

4) Which South American country has the shortest name?

5) This animal is native to South America but what is it?

(a)  giant guinea pig (b) guanaco (c) alpaca (d) capybara

6) Of which South American country is this the flag:-

(a) Argentina (b) Brazil (c) Bolivia (d) Guyana

7) Name the only city in South America that has ever staged The Olympic Games.

8) This is a famous Incan citadel in Peru but what is it called?

(a) Pikachu (b) Mocca Chocca (c) Makka Pakka (d) Machu Picchu

9) In total around how many people live in South America?

(a) 140 million (b) 440 million (c) 840 million (d) 1.4 billion

10) The word "favela" is usually associated with Brazil but what does it mean?

(a) a street dance often seen at carnival time

(b) a five-stringed musical instrument

(c) a slum or ghetto district of a city

(d) a tortilla wrap containing salsa and cheese

⦿

Okay. How did you do this time?

Review

 "A Complete Unknown"

Directed by James Mangold

Starring  Timothée Chalamet as Bob Dylan

The story of Bob Dylan's rise to fame is well known. I have been well aware of the broad details of it for fifty years. How - as a nineteen year old he left his home state of Minnesota  and travelled to New York City. How - soon after his arrival - he went to visit  Woody Guthrie - one of his musical heroes - in a New York state hospital. How - by good fortune as much as talent - he found a way into the New York folk music scene and earned a recording contract.

This is pretty much the course that  the bio-pic film "A Complete Unknown" covers - with the title being filtered from  one of Dylan's most timeless numbers - "Like a Rolling Stone":-

How does it feel, how does it feel?

To be without a home

Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone

And of course when he arrived in New York, he was indeed "a complete unknown".

To this day, Bob Dylan remains a rather mysterious, enigmatic figure who has never enjoyed playing by other people's rules. I think that the actor, Timothée Chalamet captures some of that unknowable, rebellious quality very well. 

In the middle of the film, there's an exchange between Dylan and his girlfriend Sylvie Russo (Suze Rottolo) in which she says that she has told him everything about herself but “I realise I don’t know you.” And I must say that I have always found it interesting that in the hundreds of songs that Dylan has written, he has never harked back to his early life in Minnesota. It is as if all of that was deliberately blanked out.

I didn't know how I would feel about "A Complete Unknown" when I marched to our city centre this morning. I was prepared to be underwhelmed.

However, I was pleasantly surprised. There were moments when tears ran down my cheeks and there were several belly laughs too. I was engaged throughout even though there were one or two scenes that I would have constructed differently for the sake of believeability.

The songs themselves, all sung by Timothée Chalamet, were nicely bedded within the storyline - not overbalancing it. And it was interesting to be given a renewed sense of New York life in the sixties. Nobody is glued to a smartphone . There are no computers and a lot of people, Dylan included, constantly smoke cigarettes.

The man is a legend in our time and Mangold's film helps to confirm that. I suspect that if you like Dylan you will enjoy this film.

Horrorscopes

Capricorn: December 22 – January 19

Keep a close eye on your savings as scammers are on to you and you may find your funds draining away like waste water. Consider changing all your passwords.
Aquarius: January 20 – February 18

Oh dear! Your health is under threat and your story could easily reach a premature end. When is the last time you had your heart checked out? After all, you are not as young as you used to be.
Pisces: February 19 – March 20

Nobody likes you any more and you find that none of your old friends want to make social arrangements  with you. Perhaps you should have been nicer or paid better attention to your personal hygiene.

Aries: March 21 – April 19

Time to get the electric wiring in your home  investigated if you are to avoid an unwelcome blaze. Do you have functioning fire extinguishers in every room in the property?

Taurus: April 20 – May 20

Two police officers come a -knocking on your door and they don't look too happy. What did you do that was so bad? The handcuffs will feel especially tight.
Gemini: May 21 – June 21

Food poisoning is usually very nasty  but it can  can invariably be avoided with good kitchen hygiene - washing hands etc.. Also - how old is your computer device? Seriously consider an upgrade or at least save files and folders you do not wish to lose.

Cancer: June 22 – July 22

Your star sign is Cancer. Cancer is known as "The Big C". People often avoid talking about it but in your case it is probably good to talk. Make an appointment NOW. But do not worry overmuch as these days  there are effective treatments for most cancers.

Leo: July 23 – August 22

It's always a good idea to remember to lock your front door at night but the best of us can forget. Of course burglars know this as well! What a shame! But the good news is that there is much more to life than mere possessions.
Virgo: August 23 – September 22

We have all been warned about smartphone snatchers  but most people think, "It'll never happen to me!"  If you have insurance, it is highly unlikely that they will pay up if you were at all negligent.
Libra: September 23 – October 23

You used to think that there were no such things as ghosts but not any more. As they say, seeing is believing! Don't have nightmares!
Scorpio: October 24 – November 21

All your life you imagined that you had sweet-smelling breath but a casual remark with follow-up confirmation proves that you were wrong. Fortunately, halitosis is easily treated.
Sagittarius: November 22 – December 21

It's time to visit a dentist as a matter of urgency but there's little need to worry  as the removal of teeth under general anaesthetic is a routine procedure. Also, modern dentures are much better than old animal bone ones used to be.

Reblog

Sometimes, I look back on blogposts I have written in the past and they can seem like offerings  made by someone else. So it was when earlier today I revisited this particular post - published on August 14th 2020, during the time of COVID. I was rather pleased with it and the way it was written. First time round, I titled it "Boxes"...

Somehow Britain's famous red phone boxes said something about who we were as a nation. They were strong, permanent structures made from iron and boldly painted red. They had glass panes for there was confidence that law-abiding citizens would not break them. And they were a visible declaration of our belief in both new technology and communication. 

Every community of any size had its own red phone box and you would also find them at remote crossroads in the countryside or in banks of half a dozen in busy city centres. They had pierced royal crowns beneath domed roofs and the word "telephone" appeared on all four sides - illuminated at night like a beacon.

The iconic K2 design was the brainchild of one of this country's leading architects - Giles Gilbert Scott back in the mid-nineteen twenties. From London, the phone boxes spread all over the kingdom like an army of red-coated guards. They were reassuring and as I say very solid on their concrete plinths. In contrast, so much that we now have in the modern world is flimsy, with  limited lifespans - disposable, plastic, tissue-thin. The K2 phone kiosk was not meant to be like that. It was made to last in a time when nobody predicted personal portable communication devices.

This blogpost was inspired by the content of  "Shadows and Light" this very morning so thanks to Steve Reed. Looking back through my "geograph" library, I see that I have taken more than fifty pictures of red phone boxes on my many rambles. Whenever I spot an old phone box, I am tempted to snap it in the belief that next time I walk there the box may be gone. 

In practical terms, we do not need them any more. We hold them in affectionate regard partly because they have come to represent a golden time in our history. A simpler time between the wars, a time of carthorses, unlocked doors, endless summers and upright pianos when swallows cavorted over barley fields and Britannia still believed that it ruled the waves.

How sad to see them rusting now, paint peeling, wreathed in cobwebs, converted into toolsheds, showers, homes for defibrillators, community libraries, phones ripped out, "Telephone" no longer lit up, places where men urinate or prostitutes leave calling cards, places for litter and invading ivy. By these boxes memories were made - of love  and friendship and family connections to faraway places. It's not the same now. The world has changed.

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Phone kiosks from top to bottom: Elsham (Lincolnshire), Fenny Bentley (Derbyshire), Kersall (Nottinghamshire) South Wingfield (Derbyshire) Whaley Bridge (Derbyshire).

Bonkers!

Back in early October I picked thirteen images from my "Geograph" collection for my 2025 Calendar. I had eight of these made at great expense - £80 in total. My box of  new calendars was delivered to me in mid-November. I was delighted with them.

As planned, at the start of December, I parcelled two of the calendars up and toddled down to our local post office. I was sending them to my sister-in-law Josephine and my niece Katie who both live in western Ireland. I also sent one without hindrance to my brother Robin in France.

I filled in customs declarations and paid the appropriate amount of postage - £6.55 for each calendar. 

Christmas arrived and I imagined that both calendars had been delivered. After all, I have sent many parcels and packages to The Republic of Ireland over the years.

However, at the end of this past week, both packages were returned to our house with stickers telling me that they had been rejected by Irish customs. No explanation given - just that. I took the parcels down to our local post office and was told by the helpful postmaster that several other customers had had Christmas parcels rejected by Irish customs.

I mean, what the hell could possibly be wrong with a calendar? How on earth could the parcels have failed the scrutiny of the Irish customs service? It just does not make sense.

For each package I am out of pocket by £16.55 and besides who wants a new calendar when we are on the threshold of the second month of the year? Inside the packages there were also Christmas cards wishing the Irish members of my family all the best in the festive season and beyond. Some jobsworths have blocked that ritualistic annual contact.

One of the factors at play here is surely Brexit and Britain's ludicrous disengagement from The European Union. Ironically, I was very much against it and yet I must also pay a price in terms of crazy customs rulings. How can I ever send a parcel to Ireland again?

I have complained to The Royal Mail in England but I cannot find  contact points for complaining to either the Irish postal service or to Irish customs. Maybe they don't like the idea of folk complaining or asking questions. Dickheads!

Lozenge

The majority of people in this world have heard about Stonehenge - the jewel in Britain's archaeological crown. Still mysterious, new things about Stonehenge and the area that it sits in are revealed every year. The story never ends.

Less than a mile south of Stonehenge there is a Bronze Age burial mound known as Bush Barrow. Back in 1808, this man-made  hillock was investigated. Within it, the searchers found a skeleton from the early Bronze Age - around  1900 B.C..  That in itself was not the most striking discovery - it was the grave goods that were buried with the deceased male.

Foremost among these was a lozenge of pure Cornish gold. It was wafer thin and expertly engraved. It may have been worn like a kind of ceremonial breastplate by the principal occupant of Bush Barrow. Since it was found, the gold artefact has been subject to close scrutiny and informed speculation. There are many who believe that the precise angles  and parallel lines of the golden lozenge point to the kind of astronomical understanding that  is contained in the geometry of Stonehenge itself.

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"The lozenge is the finest example of Bronze Age gold craftsmanship ever found. Made from sheet gold, only one millimetre thick. It is incised with intricate patterns, suggesting that whoever made it had a sophisticated knowledge of geometry."  - The Wiltshire Museum

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Two years ago we attended a wedding in Wiltshire and on the way home we stopped off in the town of Devizes. It was a hot day and we only had an hour to kill before moving on to Avebury. I even saw the facade of The Wiltshire Museum but did not venture inside. At the time, little did I know that it contained such an astonishing object. I could kick myself for missing it.

There is a sense in which The Bush Barrow Lozenge is every bit as stupendous as Stonehenge itself. Thank heavens it survived and saw the light of day once again. It could so easily have been lost like many treasures from Ancient Egypt - stolen by grave robbers.

We modern humans have almost lost our connections to Mother Earth and to the stars above but the exquisite golden lozenge from Bush Barrow reminds us that once there were people who lived in harmony with what they found around them - in the seasons, in the earth beneath their feet and in the stars above.

Moana

This afternoon, Shirley and I took Little Phoebe to the Odeon Luxe cinema in the centre of the city. We were there to attend the 12pm screening of "Moana 2". This popular animated film has just about reached the end of its tether on the cinema circuit and that's the main reason why today's audience comprised of just the three of us. We had the best seats in the very centre of the auditorium.

The sound system was so thunderous that Phoebe covered up her ears during the ad and preview section. She doesn't like loud noise and at just four years and one day old, she does not fake this distaste. Shirley asked the cinema staff to turn it down a notch or two and they kindly complied.

If as an adult you do not have much contact with small children, you are probably mystified by the very mention of Moana. She is a Disney figure who starred in the first film that bears her name in 2016. We watched that one down at Ian's house in Fulham, London at Christmastime 2022. It was spectacular and yet very human too. I loved the way that references to genuine Polynesian life and history had been woven in to the fabric of the film. We all enjoyed it.

Moana lives on the fictional Pacific island of Motunui. She is the daughter of Tui, the island's chief. Ultimately it falls upon her to fight for the island's future  in a battle between the ancient forces of good and evil. It's roughly the same theme in "Moana 2". Of course it is of some socio-cultural significance that Moana is female and pretty tough.

In both films we meet the huge shape-shifting tattooed figure of the demigod Maui whose streetwise voice is that of Dwayne Johnson. He befriends Moana and acts as her champion.

"Moana" and "Moana 2" are visual masterpieces that demonstrate how far Disney animation has come. Both films contain strong musical elements and songs. It is easy to lose yourself in them - especially on a big screen.

As Christmas had just passed by, we were a little stuck when thinking about gifts to buy Phoebe. You might be interested to learn that all four gifts  were "Moana 2" branded - a jigsaw, a singalong microphone, a Moana doll and Moana 2 shower gel. I am not proud to admit this but that's how it was.

When we emerged from the dark cinema, Sheffield was bathed in golden light - the glare so sharp that you had to shield your eyes. Phoebe refused to put her coat on because, bizarrely, after the recent wintry weather, it was now as if summer had arrived early. Perhaps Moana and Maui the demigod had had a hand in that.

Maui in "Moana 2"