Christmas - Bah Humbig

Christmas comes just once a year (thank heavens). Here's my contribution to the Christmas spirit. I call it Bah Humbug.

Christmas comes but once a year Just as well, ‘cause more I fear Would send me screaming up the wall I couldn’t cope with it at all.

The panic, starts as I remember Round the middle of November. Rush and tear, the crowds, the cookin’ Jesus doesn’t get a look in.

A neighbour calls. She looks unflapped. "My presents? They’re all bought and wrapped." Then adds, with face as smug as Larry, "The puds I made last January."

In every neighbourhood has he Who thinks his house a Christmas tree And buries it beneath a maze Of gaudy flashing Santas’ sleighs.

The ad men say the world will end If you do not go out and spend. The shops perpetuate the lie: It’s all about how much you buy.

And then those shops assault your ear With tacky songs of Christmas chear. Whilst products lined along the shelves Are daubed with Santas, trees or elves1.

"Stocking filler" Twenty quid? Just who d’you think you’re trying to kid? Stockings should hold simple things Like sugar mice on candied strings.

"Who’s turn is it for Auntie Joan?" "She cannot spend the day alone." How is it our more aged guests Get classified as household pests?

I do believe we’ve lost the plot True Christmas spirit’s been forgot Simple presents. Sing Wassail2 Help the meek, the poor, the frail.

Have a lovely Christmas day But love thy neighbour3 on the way. Enjoy yourself without a doubt. Just don’t forget what it’s about.

	1		Even my milk had Santa on it last year. What's that all about?
	2		Traditional greeting, to which the traditional answer is "It’s a sort of beer you daft ha’p’th".
	3		Yes, even the one with the eight foot flashing reindeer on his roof.

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Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross

I was amused to see that OFCOM's web site, complaints section, is still sporting a notice to the effect that it has had over 1900 complaints about the Jonathan Ross & Russell Brand phone calls fiasco and implying that enough is enough. I would be fascinated to know how many of those now voicing their righteous indignation actually heard the offending (pun intended) broadcast.

I must confess that I didn't. However I did take the trouble to look up transcripts on the Internet before arriving at an opinion - unlike the lady who phoned my local radio station. After a tirade telling us how offensive, disgusting and un-funny Russell Brand was, she then admitted that she never actually listened to him - apparently changing the channel whenever he came on, because he was so offensive etc. I have a nasty feeling this is not atypical of the multitude champing at the bit to condemn Ross and Brand, preaching to anyone who'll listen about the "filth" they've heard about but not actually heard. There's nothing like a good bit of righteous indignation to clear out the sinuses and generally allow you to vent your disatisfaction with the world.

My first impression from the transcripts was that it was Ross who started it. I feel a bit sorry for Russell Brand. He's not the first epicene youth to be led astray by an older man and certainly won't be the last. OK, he went along with it but once banter like that gets going it's much harder to stop than it would have been not to start it in the first place.

Did they go too far? Quite possibly, but not so far OTT as to merit the furore now raging. It wasn't a huge amount more than you'd expect from two broadcasters at the forefront of the modern "shock to amuse" school of comedy. A little ill considered, perhaps. About the most intelligent comment I've seen from the hordes of critics is the rhetorical question "how would you feel if Russell Brand claimed, publicly, to have had sex with your granddaughter?" I'm assuming here it was the claim, rather than the sex, which was public.

It's a good question and worthy of consideration, so consider it I did. I don't actually have a granddaughter but I do have a daughter which is a similar sort of concept. My first reaction would, I think, be silly girl. You can't associate with the likes of Russell Brand unless you're prepared to end up under public scrutiny. My second reaction would be wow - look at all that publicity. How can I capitalise on that? I don't think taking deep offense would come very high on my list of priorities but then everyone's different.

Talking of publicity, hands up anyone who had actually heard of the Satanic Sluts before this scandal broke. No? I thought as much. Do you think their ticket sales are up or down as a result of this row? I rest my case.

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With the imminent arrival of 5th November I thought it was about time for an educational account of what this bonfire night shenanigans was really all about. Read on for a humerous, but historically accurate, account of some goings on in 1605 - all in verse.

Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.

Copyright © Keith Sheppard, 1996

My story begins quite a long time ago
In the springtime of sixteen-oh-five.
When some angry young men vowed the king had to go,
They could no longer bear him alive.
	The reason that tempers were running so hot
	Amongst some of King James’ minions
	Was that he and a few of his subjects had got
	Wildly different religious opinions.
The king was a protestant man through and through,
And he drove all the catholics mad,
For his treatment of such folk, between me and you,
Was really a little bit bad.
	The leading dissenter was one Robert Catesby.
	His friends gathered round him and cried:
	'We agree James must go, so how long must the wait be?'
	Mr Catesby stood up and replied...
'Oh please do remember the fifth of November,'
'For that's when the evil King James'
'With his parliament sits. We shall blow them to bits.'
'We shall send the whole lot up in flames.'
	'It's a gem of a plan, but there's danger, that's why'
	'It's essential that nobody talks.'
	'And a gunpowder expert is needed, so I'
	'Have recruited some guy they call Fawkes.'
So Catesby and his group of like minded fellahs,
Who all bore the king the same malice,
Put their plan into action by renting some cellars
Which ran under Westminster Palace.
	Then into this pit the conspirators stowed
	Quite a number of barrels of powder.
	It was more than enough so that, should it explode,
	As bangs go, there are few would be louder.
Then, for the duration of summer recess,
The gunpowder plotters dispersed,
Believing the start of November was best
For powder kegs doing their worst.
	It was whilst the assassins were biding their time
	'Til parliament next was in session,
	That one of their number committed the crime
	Of careless unwise indiscretion.
It seems Francis Tresham's own brother in law
Was a member of parliament so
Of course Frankie warned him 'my lord I implore,'
'When the house reconvenes, please don't go.'
	'I hope you won't think that there's something awry,'
	'It's just that I think that it's best'
	'If you let the first day of the session go by.'
	'You look tired and in need of a rest.'
Young Frankie's relation, by name Lord Monteagle,
I'm sorry to say, smelt a rat.
'I'm sure,' he said, 'Frank's up to something illegal,'
'Else why should he speak out like that?'
	Suspicions thus roused, on the eve of the day
	That parliament met once again,
	A search of the buildings was put under way
	By some of King James' best men.
They searched and they searched to see what could be found.
They searched the whole place top to bottom.
If only they'd done it the other way round,
Then much quicker would they have got 'em.
	For down in the cellars, amongst all the rats,
	Was where the king's men apprehended
	The unfortunate Fawkes and his gunpowder vats,
	With which the king's life could be ended.
In those days, of course, people had no idea
Of a criminal's right to be silent.
Their questioning methods were sometimes, I fear,
A little bit gruesome and violent.
	And so it is only a matter of time
	Before our friend Guy Fawkes confesses,
	Revealing the nature of his would-be crime
	And accomplices names and addresses.
So that was the end of the violent schemes
Of Catesby and Winter and Wright
And others whose mark on our history, it seems,
Was giving us bonfire night.
	So please do remember the fifth of November,
	Gunpowder, treason and plot,
	When the guy they called Guy tried to blow them sky high,
	All that parliamentarian lot.

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My Book on Authonomy

I guess most blog writers are frustrated authors and I'm no exception. This is a shameless plug for my children's comedy novel "Fair-Eyes" which has just been posted on Harper Collins' "Authonomy" web site (http://www.authonomy.com).

I say children's novel but it's probably more appropriately described as "young adult" - say 12+ through to adult. It's kind of in the fantasy genre but not really. There are elves, it's true, but their society and foibles are just a thin disguise for a parody of our own society.

If this interests you at all, please take a mosey on down to Authonomy and take a look. If you like it then register with the site and put it on your bookshelf. The more people who do that, the higher my ranking.

To give you a flavour and whet your appetite, here's the "blurb"

"Saving a nation can be a tricky business at the best of times and being adopted by a pet dragon pup, who can cock its leg and melt a lamp post, really doesn’t help." [from "Once a Hippie" by Bartholomew Harvester, Books-Elf Publications].

Trapped by an underground rock fall, Eve and Paul stumble upon the bizarre world of the "Fair-eyes", a subterranean elf clan whose society and foibles are curiously reminiscent of our own.

The kidnap of a princess catapults the children into a desperate and dangerous rescue mission but is everything as it seems? Could the pathologically stupid Goblins really have hatched this plot on their own or are there darker forces at work? Was the princess the real target or is someone playing for even bigger stakes? Why do all your biros go missing and you keep finding unidentified keys at the back of the kitchen drawer?

Suspend your disbelief from a clean pair of suspenders and let’s go rescue a princess. She’s a celebrity for heaven’s sake. Get her out of there…

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Long haul, but without the plane

Arguably one of the most boring things in the entire universe is when folk regale you with a detailed account of their last holiday. It is perhaps a close run thing alongside what they dreamed last night or how well their kids are doing at university, but it's certainly up well up there in the yawn stakes.

I was therefore surprised, and not a little apprehensive, when approached by my firm's in-house magazine for a description of a trip earlier this year. Perhaps I should explain a little more. My nearest and dearest doesn't like flying. Indeed it would be more accurate to say that she doesn't fly. It's simply not an option. Any suggestions that she could overcome this by going on a course or taking therapy fall upon deaf ears. To her it is not an irrational fear to be surpressed with suitable training. It is a healthy survival instinct to be nurtured and encouraged.

This can be slightly limiting when it comes to holiday destinations but we were determined not to let it get in the way of our ambition to visit Morocco. Perhaps I should add that we live in the South of England. Most people seem to assume that such a journey cannot be achieved without the aid of an airoplane. Not so. I can now verify that not only is an airoplane entirely unnecessary but actually the journey is much more pleasurable without one. The journey becomes part of the holiday itself - a great adventure conducted at a pace reminiscent of a more leisurely age, with time to stop and smell the roses on the way.

It just so happened that the in-house magazine was doing a series on reducing your carbon footprint when they got wind of our plans. The notion of travelling overland to Morocco intrigued them sufficiently to generate the invitation.

I was determined this wasn't going to be the literary equivalent of imposing your holiday snaps on the neighbours so I decided it had to be funny, pithy and of general interest even to those who don't know me from Adam. What I had in mind was a Michael Palin style travelogue. Was I successful? Well the magazine editor was so enthusiastic he serialised my efforts over three issues. If you want to judge for yourself, you can find it here. If you follow the link at least you have chosen to read it so I can't be accused of inflicting it on anyone.

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