written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Saturday, 24 January 2026

Friends

Friends. Some come "with benefits", as in the euphemistically titled 2011 romantic comedy about casual relationships. They imply good times. Others are "on benefits", sometimes called unemployment benefit, job-seeker's allowance, universal credit or formerly "the dole" They imply hard times. In the UK right now, over 700,000 university graduates are out of work and claiming benefits - that's 46% more than was the case pre-Covid. Unemployment nationally is now more than 5% of the adult population. That's a worrying statistic, but it's nothing like the 25% unemployment rate that crippled the working people of the country in the 1930s. 

Walter Greenwood wrote his first novel 'Love on the Dole' in 1932. It was about life in Hanky Park in Salford, an area and a life he knew intimately, for he was born and grew up there. Greenwood's parents belonged to the radical working classes. His mother came from a family with a strong tradition of socialism and union membership, and she inherited her father’s book-case complete with its socialist book collection. 

His father died when he was nine years old, and his mother provided for him by working as a waitress. This was pre-welfare state, pre-NHS, pre-workers' rights, pre-contraceptive pill, pre-WWII Britain. Hanky Park was a grimy slum and its inhabitants were the exploited workers and their families of Manchester's industrial heart, the cotton mills and foundries.

Love on the Dole (still, 1941)
Greenwood was educated at the local council school and left at the age of 13 after taking the Board of Education Labour Exam, which was only 'open to fatherless boys' so that they could go to work to help support their family. His first job was as a pawnbroker's clerk. A succession of low paid jobs followed, while he continued to educate himself at Salford Public Library. During periods of unemployment Greenwood worked for the local Labour Party, after no longer qualifying for the dole, having exhausted his entitlement under the rules of the time. 

After being owed three months wages from his last job as a typist, he took home the office typewriter in lieu of his back pay, and began to write about the people of Hanky Park, to earn a living. 'Love on the Dole', was about the destructive social effects of poverty in his home town, written while he was jobless. After several rejections, it was published in 1933. It was a critical and commercial success, and a great influence on the British public's opinion about the issue of unemployment. The novel even prompted parliament to investigate, resulting in reforms.

In 1935, Greenwood collaborated with Ronald Gow on a stage adaptation of the novel. The critic of The Times wrote:
"Being conceived in suffering and written in blood, it profoundly moves its audience in January 1935 ... it has the supreme virtue in a piece of this kind of saying what it has to say in plain narrative, stripped of oration."

The play had successful runs in both Britain and the United States, which meant that Greenwood would not have to worry about employment again.

programme from a1939 stage production
A film adaptation was proposed in 1936, but the British Board of Film censors made strong objections to the possibility of a film about industrial unrest, which might prove socially divisive. In 1940, however, when unemployment could be presented as "a thing of the past", a film adaptation was permitted. I watched it earlier this evening (it's on YouTube if you care to find it.)

The story centres around the Hardcastle family, mother and father, daughter Sally and son Harry. The son began working as a pawnbroker's clerk (as Greenwood himself  had done) before joining a local factory as an apprentice engineer. He dated a local girl, Helen Harkin. Harry won a sizeable amount of money on an accumulator, gave some to his parents and sister and took Helen on holiday to the seaside with the rest (Blackpool in the film, but not in the novel). Sally was pursued by half the men in Hanky Park, including Sam Grundy the prosperous bookie, but she favoured Larry Meath, an engineer and Labour Party aide (again, as Greenwood had been).

Life in Hanky Park is difficult and hand-to-mouth (except for the bookies, the factory owners and the pawnbrokers). The General Strike is a recent memory and the economy is sluggish. Inevitably, Helen becomes pregnant and she and Harry plan to marry but when his apprenticeship ends he is made redundant as the economy nosedives. The dole is there as a safety-net for some but it's means tested on a household basis. Harry doesn't qualify as his father and sister are still in employment. With no jobs to be had and a baby on the way the future looks very bleak.

Love on the Dole (still, 1941)
As economic conditions worsen and more men are placed on short time or laid off all together, the Labour Party's attempts to educate and work for change through the ballot box are overtaken locally by angry men wanting change. Protest becomes violent and Sally Hardcastle's friend Larry Meath is fatally injured in a police baton charge. With her future husband dead and her father and brother unemployed, Sally abandons her principles and capitulates to Sam Grundy on the promise that he will find work for her brother and father on the local buses. 

It's a powerful but chilling tale of grinding poverty, squalid lives, painful compromises and hope thwarted and it pulls no punches. I first taught it as a set text in the 1970s, only forty-five years on from its inception. We're only a few years short of its centenary and its relevance seems undiminished. 


Hanky Park Blues

"It isn't where you live, it's who you live with. Isn't it?"

It came, it swore, it conquered.

"You can see the sea if you stand on the chair."

It mocked, it rocked, it unseated.

"If only everybody would lend a hand..."

It snorted, it derided, it divided.

"They can take away our jobs, but they can't take away our love.
Can they?"

It lured, it whored, it corrupted.

"Not what it is, but how it's used."

It's CAPITAL.












Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Wednesday, 21 January 2026

Friends

Back in 1865 a pharmacist by the name of James Lofthouse in Fleetwood was talking to three deep-sea fishermen but was having difficulty listening to what they were saying due to the fact that they were unable to speak properly because of the extreme weather conditions at sea affecting their throats and lungs.

He set about developing a liquid which might help the fishermen and came up with a very strong liquid in a bottle, that contained menthol and eucalyptus oil. It worked and the fishermen began referring to them as 'friends'. Lofthouse later made the liquid into small lozenges, which were easier to transport and use.


We’re talking about Fisherman’s Friends now famous around the world but not known outside the immediate locale of Fleetwood for a hundred years after Lofthouse’s concoction. It started to expand when Doreen Lofthouse, who had married into the business, was selling the lozenges from a kiosk on the Fleetwood Promenade and was getting letters from holiday makers asking why they couldn’t get the product in their home towns.

Doreen and her husband Tony then spent many years working 100-hour weeks, travelling by van to sell the product. She recalled that sometimes, lacking money for fuel, she was unable to leave a town until a sale had been made. A particular success came when Lofthouse persuaded Boots the Chemists to stock the product in all of their branches.

At the request of a friendly importer, a large box of Fisherman‘s Friend was exported to Norway for the first time. This was met with enthusiastic demand. Boxes quickly turned into containers, and from then on the orders never ceased. In 1977 Aniseed arrived. It was the first of the flavoured Fisherman’s Friend. The new lozenge was modelled on a button from one of Doreen Lofthouse’s dresses.

Fisherman's Friend lozenges in different flavours
Since then other flavours have been introduced and some are more popular in one country than another. It’s reported that Fisherman’s Friend markets its current total of 15 different flavours to 100 countries around the globe. 96 percent of the total production of around 5 billion lozenges are exported every year. Germany is the largest market, favouring flavours such as cherry and mint. Customers in Thailand, on the other hand, who represent the second largest market, prefer the combination of honey and lemon.

Yes, that did say 5 billion.

I do like the following from the Stuart Alexander distributor in Australia:
‘Embark on a comforting journey with Fisherman's Friend, where each product is a testament to the brand's dedication to crafting invigorating lozenges and mints. In our diverse collection, discover the perfect blend of soothing relief and delightful flavours...

Indulge in the timeless strength of Fisherman's Friend Original Strong Lozenges, ensuring you have a robust and classic companion in every box...

For a breath of freshness, dive into the invigorating Fisherman's Friend Spearmint and Peppermint Sugar Free Mints...Aniseed Lozenges, ensuring you have a distinctive lozenge ready whenever you seek a moment of calm...Order now and let the comforting orchestration of lozenges and mints bring relief to your senses!’

Once your voice is smooth and strong again after that orchestration you may want to sing along with another form of Fisherman’s Friends. The sea shanty singing folk from Cornwall. This well known but anonymous song, from at least as far back as the 1830s, is on one their albums (Port Isaac's Fisherman's Friends (Special Edition) 2011) and is one of those earworms that won’t let go for the rest of the day.

Port Isaac's Fisherman's Friends
The Drunken Sailor

What shall we do with the drunken sailor?
What shall we do with the drunken sailor?
What shall we do with the drunken sailor?
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Put him in the scuppers with the lee rail under
Put him in the scuppers with the lee rail under
Put him in the scuppers with the lee rail under
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Put him in the brig until he's sober
Put him in the brig until he's sober
Put him in the brig until he's sober
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Put him in a whaler, make him pull her
Put him in a whaler, make him pull her
Put him in a whaler, make him pull her
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Put him in a bunk with the captain's daughter
Put him in a bunk with the captain's daughter
Put him in a bunk with the captain's daughter
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Have you seen the captain's daughter?
Have you seen the captain's daughter?
Have you seen the captain's daughter?
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Keel-haul him, keel-haul him
Keel-haul him, keel-haul him
Keel-haul him, keel-haul him
Ear'ly in the mornin'

Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Hoo-ray and up she rises
Ear'ly in the mornin'











Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Tuesday, 20 January 2026

Friends A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed

 

Friends are the family we choose for ourselves. We become connected by common interests or something happens to throw us together. I’m lucky to have long-lasting and some life-long friends. I value very highly the times we share together. We laugh, we reminisce and collectively, we can remind each other of any bits we forget, especially now we are ‘grown ups.’

Last week, I enjoyed lunch out with three friends. We met at work in 1974. We joined at different times that year, as teenagers, and we’ve been together ever since. Life and work took us in different directions and away from each other, but we’ve always stayed connected. It’s great to get together and catch up. Three of us hit seventy last year, and the other one not too far behind, so knees, hips and general health come into the conversation. We laughed at a joke that we’d all collapsed over circa 1975, when a colleague had to escape the office before the punchline – she was laughing so much and a superior staff member was there – we didn’t want to get into trouble. We were the mostly well-behaved generation doing as we were told by seniors. I can’t remember exactly how long we worked together, but it was many fantastic years. One day, we each wrote down where we thought we’d be in ten years’ time. I think it was a small note book that got passed round. Our individual paragraphs will have been hilarious, and I don’t know what happened to the evidence, but ten years passed and we were still there. All good things come to an end and one by one we spread our wings but remain forever friends. And eventually, our lunch came to an end, after food, drinks and more drinks. An hour became two, then suddenly it was half past four and the sun was sliding down behind the trees. Farewell, until next time.

“This, too, will pass.” I’ve been the needy one for a while due to some tough times. Every day, I’ve been thankful for messages from friends checking in on me with good wishes, advice and offers of help. They keep me smiling and working towards better times. Reliable, trustworthy, caring people. These are my friends, small in number, but top quality. I know I’m privileged. I also know that it is important to be a good friend in return. My gang can rely on me to be there for them.

I found this poem,

Friends for Life 

We are friends
I got your back
You got mine,
I’ll help you out
Anytime!
To see you hurt
To see you cry
Makes me weep
And wanna die
And if you agree
To never fight
It wouldn’t matter
Who’s wrong or right
If a broken heart
Needs a mend
I’ll be right there
Till the end
If your cheeks are wet
From drops of tears
Don’t worry
Let go of your fears
Hand in hand
Love is sent,
We’ll be friends
Till the end!!!

Angelica N. Brissett (b.1991)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Saturday, 17 January 2026

Humdinger

I'd never heard the word before this week, let alone knew what it meant, but I figured if something is going to be worthy of being called a humdinger, then at a minimum it should both hum and ding - and that train of thought led me into the wonderful world of vintage American circus carriages, or wagons as they call them in the USA.

American circus wagon i - a Calliope
This specimen above is what is known as a Calliope and I'm assured it would have hummed and dinged with a vengeance. It was a steam-powered mechanical musical box on wheels, pumping out the tunes that lent excitement to the circus experience for millions of enthused American families from the mid-1850s onwards. 

a recording of classic circus calliope sounds
Some of the circus wagons were so ostentatiously ornate they could have rivalled royal carriages (except their gilt was fake). They looked real humdingers though, the sort of thing (see below) that Liberace might ride in. Or maybe Donald Trump in his pomp, laden with his medals and insignia, happily waving those little hands at a brain-dead adoring public. (Presidency as circus - pass the sick bag.)

American circus wagon ii - fit for a felonious president
If you're really captivated by them, then maybe the Circus World Museum in Baraboo, Wisconsin is for you. (It's not for me. I won't be visiting Trumpland.) The museum claims to have the largest collection of circus wagons and is a major participant in the annual Great Circus Parade held since 1963, a sort of humdingery overdrive-past. 

In case you're wondering why the musical circus wagons were called Calliopes (and I hope you were), I shall tell you. They were named after the Greek goddess Kalliope (Καλλιόπη), literally "beautiful voiced". She was the eldest of Zeus and Mnemosyne's daughters, the famed nine muses of Greek mythology. (The word museum derives from muses, incidentally.) Anyway, young Calliope was the one specifically revered as the inspiration of poets and singers. She was also the mother of underworldly Orpheus.

Calliope (Greek goddess of poetry and song)
As well as being famed for the ecstatic harmony of that voice and the eloquence with which she spoke, Calliope was often depicted in art holding a writing tablet and was recognised as the goddess of epic poetry, muse to Homer and the Ancient Greek poets. Given all that, I thought I'd feature her in today's poem. It's fresh from the Imaginarium, though not quite an epic, and comes with the usual caveat that I might revise it on reflection.

Calliope As Humdinger
It's speed dating night on Mount Helikon
whose singles bar is brightly holding out
against the enfolding purple twilight and 

inside ouzo, retsina and nervous laughter
flow. Eligible young gods and goddesses
and a few honorary mortals glow in robes

and finery, all golden smiles and flashing
thighs. Aphrodite's hosting for Hellas TV,
their media van in the car-park alongside

the sports cars and SUVs that Olympians
must be seen driving these days. Hermes
flew in by helicopter, caused a bit of a stir

and Hephaestus, a life lived on accelerants,
stumps irrepressible into the throng, orders
a Metaxa, downs it in one. He's got the hots

for the talent with decorous downcast eyes.
Naiads and salty Nereids too long alone in
their lakes, rivers and seas, seeking a catch

face competition from three Graces and all
nine muses, the talented daughters of  Zeus
and Mnemosyne. They're each an equal for

any Greek man, can speak in their allotted
minutes about astronomy, history, comedy
poetry, politics, folklore, dance and more -

just check their socials, each muse not only 
beautiful, but also a credit to the matriarchy.
Seems our lucky boys are spoiled for choice. 

But Calliope is the event's real humdinger,
destined to snag gorgeous Prince Oeagrus 
the wild sorb apple, just the perfect match.

She could perhaps have written this script,
given her way with words. Maybe she did.
In her mind, Parnassus Productions presents...













Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Thursday, 15 January 2026

Lancashire Dead Good Poets' February Open Mic Night

19:30:00 Posted by Steve Rowland 1 comment
Love actually - or not - the theme is not compulsory. There are 20 x 5-minute slots on offer at our February open mic night on Zoom.


Sign up to read or just to listen in by emailing: deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk and we'll see you on 5th February.

Love poems 
💙 🩷

Steve :-)

Wednesday, 14 January 2026

Humdinger

I cannot imagine any circumstance under which I would use the term Humdinger. The Oxford English says that it means ‘a remarkable or outstanding person or thing of its kind’ and that it originates in the early 20th century in America. (Although I did find reference to it in the Daily Enterprise of June 4, 1883, in Livingston, Montana). It just doesn’t sound like a word related to something remarkable or outstanding.

Luckily I came across the following from The Institute of Australian Culture:

The Price of Meat
The price of meat can only be reduced by the sale of inferior cattle. — News item.

The bull-stag leaned against the post,
Too poor was he to walk,
And as the butcher sharp’d his knife
The beast began to talk.

“Misguided man,” the bull-stag said,
“Don’t perpetrate this crime;
You’ll sell me to your customers,
And kid them that I’m prime......

It goes on for another 9 depressing stanzas. The editor of the article in the Institute notes that:
‘This poem, by “Humdinger”, was published in Smith’s Weekly (Sydney, NSW), 21 February 1920. The poem is also known as “The Old Bull Stag”. Smith's Weekly was an Australian tabloid newspaper published from 1919 to 1950. It was an independent weekly published in Sydney, but read all over Australia.’ I can’t find who ‘Humdinger’ was.


I don’t think anything has changed and that’s another reason for not eating meat.

Perhaps a more pleasurable use of the word is the following from the Joseph Holt Brewery based in Manchester founded in 1849 with a brewery from 1860. They describe Humdinger as a multi-award winning speciality ale.

‘Pouring a deep, golden colour with wafts of sweet honey. The enticing scent comes from the Mexican aroma honey which comes through in subtle undertones and balances impeccably with the traditional bitter notes and malt. Humdinger first came to life after winning a top brewing competition in 2004.

Full of character and flavour, the use of fine English malt and citrus whole hops lead to a well-rounded, lightly hopped and satisfyingly refreshing ale. It’s lightly carbonated, smooth and brewed at 4.1%, making it an ideal choice for a laid-back evening or day session.’


It sounds delicious and I’d only make one comment which is one I’d use for many beers and wines. At 4.1% I’d only need drink a couple to end an evening fairly quickly and as for a day session I’d be asleep within an hour. Why not brew something about the 2% level. That would keep me coasting at a pleasant level.

With a pleasant symmetry I also came across a company called Humdinger, originally from Hull, that as they say ‘focuses primarily on the nuts, seeds and dried fruit markets and are proud to support a community of farmers and growers from all over the world. This is a mutually beneficial partnership which ensures the quality, integrity and sustainability of every product we make.’ A combination to match perfectly with the beer.


This is a Crackerjack and as it’s near enough to Burns Night:

O Gude Ale Comes and Gude Ale Goes

O gude ale comes and gude ale goes,
Gude ale gars me sell my hose,
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

I had sax owsen in a pleugh,
They drew a' weel eneugh,
I sald them a', ane by ane,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

Gude ale hauds me bare and busy,
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie,
Stand i' the stool when I hae done,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

O gude ale comes and gude ale goes,
Gude ale gars me sell my hose,
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon,
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon.

                                              by Robert Burns, 1795








Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Saturday, 10 January 2026

Procrastination

A wise man once said "Don't put off until tomorrow something which can easily be pushed off into next week or even the one after." Ha ha ha. Well guess what I did earlier this week. I went for a dental appointment a day early by mistake, bucking the procrastination trend. It was the knock-on effect of disorienting betwixtmas days.

a procrastinator's dream
Seriously though, folks, isn't it human nature to try and defer doing things that one really doesn't want to do, tasks that might be anything from mundane, through boring, difficult, to perhaps downright unpleasant? 

Of course, if they don't absolutely need doing, especially if no one else is inconvenienced, then it's a different matter. But if they will have to be done at some point, procrastination usually only serves to raise stress levels, unless thinking time is genuinely required. That's why we have deadlines. It's 9.45pm on Saturday night as I type this, and I need to complete and post my blog before I go to sleep.

A former work colleague rarely read or responded to emails. I was shocked to discover he had over a thousand unopened messages in his inbox. His rationale was that if something was important enough, someone would come and talk to him. In the end, it was and they did. He was let go..

When I mentored people in project management techniques, I used to recommend they read 'Eat That Frog', by Brian Tracy. It propounds the theory that one should always start the working day by doing the most difficult thing first (rather than a whole load of less-challenging items). It not only gets that tough task out of the way while one is most energised, it also removes the need to worry about it. Everything that comes afterwards is easy by comparison. And if there are two frogs, always tackle the biggest and ugliest first. It's an empowering approach.

I sometimes wonder if D.J. Trump read 'Eat That Frog' as part of his less-than-illustrious B.Sc. in economics from the University of Pennsylvania. He's certainly not given to procrastination, except when it comes to releasing the Epstein Files.

If the Democratic Party hadn't procrastinated about replacing Joe Biden as party leader, and if the liberal left and centre in the USA hadn't been slow to grasp the implications of a possible second coming of Donald Trump (particularly in those key swing states) then maybe a different future for the world might have opened up than the dystopian times we have now.

Could it be that Trump and his backers know that his own days are numbered, on health grounds?  For he seems to be in a rush to grab as much as he can as soon as possible, and to aggrandise himself as speedily and as far as the world will allow him. Maybe he should be building a mausoleum and not a ballroom!

The unprecedented events of this last week mean that I had no option really except to write a poem about the enfant terrible himself. His FIFA Pacifier didn't work for long, did it?. He's back in full tantrum mode, it's shocking to see, and those shockwaves are reverberating around the globe.

(artist unknown - all credit, though)
The USA has always been a bit of a swaggering bully of a nation, but version 47 possesses none of the mitigating features of previous regimes and makes no attempt to disguise its nakedly acquisitive and self-serving agenda.

Dr. Spock was an American paediatrician who wrote one of the best-selling books of the 20th century in 'The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care'. Fred and Mary Trump clearly never read it, even though by all accounts their son was a difficult child. Trump senior just threw money at the problem. Donald was already an indulged, entitled millionaire (in inflation-adjusted dollars) by the age of eight.   

Anyway, here's the poem (with the usual caveat that I might revise it if improvements occur to me). The important thing was to get it said and out there, without procrastination.

Bully In A Diaper

You all find it hard to fathom
how somebody with such tiny hands
could rip up the rule book.

He should have been hooked
years ago when he was ‘merely’
a loathsome pussy-grabber.

For history shows that a monster unchecked
will grow insatiable in his narcissistic greed.

Now he’s set on snatching whole lands
for all their worth, black gold and rare earth.

Indulge him and there’s surely worse to come.

Every redneck Christian with a racist heart
and love of a gun has got his bible and back.

Those fossil-fuelled barons at his shoulder
will happily see the world burn for dollars!

In the ballroom of his vanity
the man-child is on the rampage
for a prize he never got

and he’s fouling all America
with his nursery crimes and shit.
This has got to stop.









Happy New Year? Let's hope so. Thanks for reading. Steve ;-)

Wednesday, 7 January 2026

Procrastination

According to the Oxford English the word ‘Procrastination’ is derived from the Latin ‘procrastinare’ which translates into: the prefix pro-, 'forward', and the suffix – ‘crastinus’, meaning 'till next day'. Which is fair enough, some things have to be done tomorrow or next week or year. But ‘Procrastination’ comes with an overtone of dawdling or dallying (which is a word I quite like).

procrastination clock
I actually don’t like procrastination. I like getting stuff done and out of the way. I can then relax. I like a ‘to do’ list in the morning with things done from yesterday that I can put a line through.

I was thinking that there would be a single word to describe getting stuff done in time but the various synonym sites don’t think there is one. I think there should be. As procrastination comes from the Latin I’m going to follow the same path.

Using a couple of Google sites I’m going with ‘in tempore suo’ which means ‘in its time’. I think I can use ‘in’ as the first part of my new word. How about ‘tempor’, so that’s ‘intempor. I’m presuming I can mess about with the ending as ‘suo’ could be tricky and anyway ‘tinus’ goes to ‘tinate’. I’m going for ‘intempesate’. Then it could be intempestation.

I’ve just looked it up and there are no references to such a word other than what seems like a misspelling in a paper’s records in the 19th century.

the intempestate man is able to relax
When I was looking up various sites about procrastination I came across pages and pages of self help advice as to how to avoid it. For instance this from The Writing Center, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill:
...It can be difficult to tell when you are procrastinating. Think about the clues that tell you that’s what you’re doing: for example, a nagging voice in your head, a visual image of what you are avoiding or the consequences of not doing it, physical ailments (stomach tightness, headaches, muscle tension), inability to concentrate, inability to enjoy what you are doing.... 

How do you procrastinate? Try to ignore the task, hoping against hope that it will go away?

Over- or under-estimate the degree of difficulty that the task involves?

Minimize the impact that your performance now may have on your future?

Substitute something important for something really important? (For example, cleaning instead of writing.) 

The University’s advice for those with a problem is actually good and useful for all and not just students. And even if one is not a procrastinator then the following is appropriate:
‘While you are thinking about where to write, consider also when you will write. When are you most alert? Is it at 8 a.m., mid-morning, mid-afternoon, early evening, or late at night? Try to schedule writing time when you know you will be at your best. Don’t worry about when you “should” be able to write; just focus on when you are able to write.’

When I was looking stuff up I also came across the fascinating Roman poet Marcus Valerius Martialis. Apparently he is best known for his epigrams, which became popular and influential in European poetry over a millennium after his death. 

M Valeri Martialis
In these short, witty poems he satirises city life and the scandalous activities of his acquaintances, and romanticises his provincial upbringing. And some of these poems made me blush. He wrote a total of 1,561 epigrams and also coined the word plagiarism.

Procrastination by Marcus Valerius Martialis (c. 40-104)

LVIII

To Morrow you will live, you always cry;
In what far Country does this Morrow lye,
That 'tis so mighty long e'er it arrive?
Beyond the Indies does this Morrow live?
'Tis so far fetch'd this Morrow, that I fear
'Twill be both very Old, and very Dear.
To Morrow I will live, the Fool does say;
To Day it self's too late, the Wise liv'd Yesterday.

Translated by Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)

from M. Valeri Martialis Epigrammaton, Liber Quintus

Thanks for reading, Terry Q

Tuesday, 6 January 2026

Procrastination

 

“Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”

A statement attributed to Benjamin Franklin, and one of my dad’s favourite sayings. I’m not sure if he lived by it, but he was a busy man for most of his life and was always doing something. He made lists, meticulously handwritten on plain paper folded into three. He never used lined paper and it was always folded that way. Items were crossed off with one neat line upon completion. Unfinished tasks would be carried on to the list for the next day. This was likely to be, ‘Write to Alan’. I don’t think the delay was procrastination as much as it was waiting for the right moment. Alan was his brother and at this time would be living in Virginia, USA. The letter, when it happened, took time and lots of thought until it was perfectly paragraphed on to a couple of sheets of thin, pale blue, airmail stationery. These days, they would be emailing across the Atlantic, but my dad missed out on such communication. Anyway, letter written and crossed off. I don’t remember him ever losing his list. No, of course he wouldn’t. Not pedantic, but certainly a perfectionist.

Maybe I should take after him more and keep a list. I’d be less likely to put things off until I genuinely forget. Like the room upstairs, the attic and the shed. Oh, I think I’ve just listed everything. Thank goodness it’s not written down.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned our damp-proofing before. It happened in the summer and lots of things got packed up and stored upstairs. Those things were added to when more remedial work was needed. The original plan to paint walls and put the house on the market was and still is delayed. We can’t possibly need everything. I haven’t taken one thing out of a box since they were put away in June. Downstairs is quite spartan – I put a few books back on shelves, a priority – but we are preparing to move. I decided to sort the boxes out before Christmas and make the spare room look less like hoarding.

A much better idea was to shut the door on everything, go and spend some quality time in Dumfries & Galloway and enjoy a pre-Christmas break. That’s exactly what we did.

We came back in December, in time to put the Christmas tree up and a few festive bits in the front room. From the loft I called down to my husband, who was on the landing, that I would get round to sorting the ‘jumble sale’ out in the New Year and that it’s ridiculous, as is the spare room and the shed. I’m married to a wise man who wouldn’t see the need to remind me of how many times I’ve previously mentioned it.

Procrastination. That must be me. We’re in the New Year now, so I’ll see how I get on.

My Haiku,

I’m making a list
And it’s quickly grown too long.
My ‘need to do’ jobs.

More space is needed,
I must sort out the loft room.
I’ll do it next week.

And empty the shed
Of the accumulated
Packaging mountain.

PMW 2026

Happy New Year to all. Thanks for reading, Pam x

Wednesday, 31 December 2025

Drinking

In the Epic of Gilgamesh, the 'wild man' Enkidu is given beer to drink. "... he ate until he was full, drank seven pitchers of beer, his heart grew light, his face glowed and he sang out with joy." That was written around 4,000 years ago and the story is based in Uruk. Well, I seem to remember being in a similar state myself over the years.

3,900 year old Sumerian beer recipe
The first written records of brewing come from Mesopotamia where Uruk was situated. These include early evidence of beer in the 3,900-year-old Sumerian poem honouring Ninkasi, the patron goddess of brewing, which contains the oldest surviving beer recipe, describing the production of beer from barley via bread.

There is also a receipt found at Ur, another city in the area. The ‘Alulu beer receipt’ provides specific information about the world's earliest known drinks transaction. It was written during the 45th year of the reign of Shulgi, the King of Ur (2050 BCE) – we can be sure of this because the scribe who wrote it, Ur-Amma, signed and dated it. The text translates as “Ur-Amma acknowledges receiving from his brewer, Alulu, 5 sila [about 4 ½ litres or eight pints] of the ‘best’ beer”.

Sumerians enjoying a drop of 'best beer'
Written records aside, Thomas Sinclair says in his book, 'Beer, Bread, and the Seeds of Change: Agriculture's Imprint on World History' that the discovery of beer may have been an accidental find.

Paul Lenz writes in ‘A History of Ancient Beer’ that the very earliest, Neolithic, beers were almost certainly made in Africa, from grains such as sorghum and millet, but as the brewing vessels would most likely have been made from animal skins no evidence for them survives.

Then in the New Scientist on the 10th December this year Michael Marshall asks the question ‘Did ancient humans start farming so they could drink more beer?’ New evidence suggests that alcohol was a surprisingly big motivator in our monumental transition from hunting and gathering to farming. He continues thus:
‘Why this happened is puzzling, given that our species had survived successfully for around 300,000 years without having to reap and sow – not to mention milk, shear and shepherd. Many ideas have been put forward as possible explanations. The earliest physical traces we have found date back 13,000 years and were found in the Raqefet cave on Mount Carmel in Israel. Residues of fermented wheat and barley were identified on stone mortars, suggesting these grains were crushed to make a mash which was then brewed to form a thick, porridge-like beer.’

Anthropologists have been pondering this change since the 1950s. However, they didn’t have the technology back then to test any ideas. The challenge is to distinguish between beer and bread. Baking bread and brewing beer look superficially similar in the archaeological record, says Jiajing Wang at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire who has spent years finding evidence for the oldest alcoholic brew.

A good starting point was the later settled societies, like ancient Egypt, where beer-making was glaringly apparent. Egyptian archaeological sites often contain distinctive pottery jars. “They literally just call it a ‘beer jar’”, says Wang. At Hierakonpolis in southern Egypt, for example, they found beer jar fragments containing starch granules from cereals, yeast cells and crystals of calcium oxalate, or “beer stone”. These showed that people there were making beer from a mixture of wheat, barley and grass between 5800 and 5600 years ago – more than 2000 years before the first pharaoh of a unified Egypt.

Egyptian beer brewing
Similar evidence has been found in the 7,000-year-old site of Godin Tepe in modern-day Iran, while in Asia there is evidence from 9,000 years ago that a form of beer was being made in ancient China from rice, flavoured with honey and fruits. Meanwhile at the Skara Brae site in the Orkney Islands of Scotland, brewing was taking place more than 5,000 years ago. Beer was not invented just once; rather it seems that almost every culture that had grains figured out that they could be turned into beer.

Skara Brae brewery, Orkney
Well, that’s enough for now. It’s 10pm, New Year's Eve, and time for a small Guinness.



Terence, This is Stupid Stuff – from A Shropshire Lad – A.E. Housman (1859-1936)

Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad…

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.