But

The first thought that popped into my head when I saw this week’s topic ‘But’ was ‘Not for Me’. I’ve always had a soft spot for the songs from what is termed The Great American Songbook, which is not a physical book but songs written by professional songwriters for Broadway shows and Hollywood musicals between roughly 1920 to 1950.

'But Not for Me' was written by George and Ira Gershwin and was one of several hit songs to come from the score of the 1930 original Broadway musical Girl Crazy. The show featured Ginger Rogers in her first leading role, but the limelight was apparently stolen by Ethel Merman in her Broadway debut. Girl Crazy is notable for having produced the most hit songs by the Gershwins in one Broadway show. These include:

Embraceable You
I Got Rhythm
Bidin’ my Time

Also of note is the opening night pit orchestra which included Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa, Glenn Miller and Jimmy Dorsey. It was conducted on the opening night by George Gershwin himself.

George Gershwin conducting 

I’ll not go over the story of the musical as it’s barmy but it basically follows a spoiled rich boy Danny Churchill sent to manage his family's ranch where he turns the place into a dude ranch, importing showgirls from Broadway and hiring Kate Forthergill (Merman's role) as entertainer. It’s a success and Danny falls in love with the local postmistress, Molly Gray (Rogers' role). Three subsequent film adaptations adjusted the plot. The most notable, Girl Crazy (1943 film), starred Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland.

Note: I Have No Idea What The Following Means.

This is from a website by Jed Scott Music where he analyses music. This is his interpretation of ‘But Not for Me’

Form: ABAB’

Standard Key: E-flat Major.

It’s a gem of a song, and a welcome change from the AABA song form – in this case still 32-bars, but ABAB’. The second B section has a brilliant compositional moment where the melody extends – in the first B it leaps upwards to the tonic, but in the second it leaps a step higher, before climbing back down to the low tonic over the next four measures. Unexpected, beautiful, and typical of Gershwin’s clever compositional approach.

His definitive version is by Chet Baker (1956, from Chet Baker Sings)

Chet Baker sings

Also recommended are:

Ella Fitzgerald (1950, from Ella Sings Gershwin) this captures Ella at her least virtuosic and most intimate.
Billie Holiday (1958, from All Or Nothing At All) swinging version with great line-up of musicians.
Ella Fitzgerald (1959, from Ella Sings The Gershwin Songbook) This later version won the 1960 Grammy for Best Vocal Performance.
Sarah Vaughan (1958, from Lullaby of Birdland) here with beautiful orchestral accompaniment including a lovely section with harp and flutes.
Elaine Stritch (2002, from Elaine Stritch at Liberty) Stritch’s voice would never be described as beautiful, but I’m not sure anyone has gotten more of the drama out of this song.

And here is Chet Baker singing: But Not for Me

But Not for Me
(Music by George Gershwin, lyrics by Ira Gershwin)

They're writing songs of love, but not for me,
A lucky star's above, but not for me,
With love to lead the way,
I found more clouds of grey,
Than any Russian play could guarantee.

I was a fool to fall, and get that way,
Hi ho! Alas! And also Lack a day!
Although I can't dismiss,
The memory of her kiss,
I guess she's not for me.

It all began so well, but what an end,
This is the time a fella needs a friend,
When every happy plot,
Ends in a marriage knot,
And there's no knot for me.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Read More

Palmistry

I was up at Blackpool's North Pier this afternoon. Did you know we have three piers here in the jewel of the north? I was indulging a guilty pleasure (more on that later) and on the way there I passed one of those seaside fortune-teller's booths - you know, cross the palm of Madame Sosostris* with silver and she will reveal your fate to you. It was a sign that today's blog would be about palmistry.

It will be principally about the history of palmistry, not its secrets or techniques. If there are any chiromancers reading this, you should probably stop now, because frankly, I don't believe in you.

Palmistry is the pseudoscientific practice of fortune-telling through the study of the palm of the hand. It is a practice that is found all over the world, with numerous cultural variations and with many, often conflicting, interpretations of the various lines and palmar features.

palmistry (aka chiromancy)

It is believed to have been practiced as far back as the Sumerian civilisation and to have spread through Persia to India (where it intersected with acupuncture) and thence to China. 

Palmistry also progressed independently westwards, to  Greece where Anaxagoras practiced it. Aristotle (384–322 BC) reportedly discovered a treatise on the subject on an altar of Hermes, which treatise he then presented to Alexander the Great, who took a keen interest in examining the character of his officers by analysing the lines on their hands. Imagine that.

In Renaissance Europe, palmistry (also known as chiromancy) was classified as one of the seven forbidden arts, along with necromancy, geomancy, aeromancy, pyromancy, hydromancy, and spatulamancy (look them up). During the 16th century the art of palmistry was actively suppressed by the Catholic Church. Both Pope Paul IV and Pope Sixtus V issued edicts against various forms of divination, including palmistry.

However, humankind being prone to superstition by nature, an interest in palmistry soon resurfaced in the west, starting with Captain Casimir Stanislas D'Arpentigny's publication 'La Chirognomie' in 1839 and the founding of the Chirological Society of Great Britain in London by Katharine St. Hill in 1889 with the stated aim of "advancing and systematising the art of palmistry to prevent charlatans from abusing the art."

Edward Heron-Allen, an English polymath, published various works including the 1883 book, 'Palmistry: A Manual of Cheirosophy', which is still in print. There were also attempts at formulating some sort of scientific basis for the art, most notably in the 1900 publication 'The Laws of Scientific Hand Reading' by William Gurney Benham.

A pivotal figure in this modern palmistry movement was the Irishman William John Warner, known by his sobriquet, Cheiro. After studying under gurus in India, he set up a palmistry practice in London and enjoyed a wide following of famous clients from around the world, including the likes of Sarah Bernhardt, Mata Hari, Oscar Wilde, Grover Cleveland, Thomas Edison, the Prince of Wales, General Kitchener, William Ewart Gladstone, and Joseph Chamberlain. So popular was Cheiro as a society palmist that even those who were not believers in the occult had their hands read by him. A sceptical Mark Twain wrote in Cheiro's visitor's book that he had "exposed my character to me with humiliating accuracy"

Ho hum. Those of us who continue not to believe in palmistry, and who resolutely don't wish to know their futures anyway, would say that palmists/chiromancers are canny and quite skilled at a level of character assessment through deduction and hypothesis, (easier if the client is famous), regardless of their subject's dermatoglyphics. And there I rest my case..

As for my guilty pleasure, that's Anita Harris (I kid you not). She was my first heartthrob when I was barely into my teens. She had a regular singing spot on ITV's satirical Saturday night review show On The Braden Beat (a rival to the BBC's That Was The Week That Was), got signed up by Pye Records and made a few excellent jazz-tinged singles backed up by Top Of The Pops appearances in 1964 and 1965. She switched to CBS for her debut LP 'Somebody's In My Orchard'.  It was one of two albums I bought in 1966, the other being 'Revolver'. Both are still firm favourites in the house on the strand.

Anita Harris circa 1965

Her breakthrough to real stardom came with 'Just Loving You' in 1967. In terms of musical chops, I thought she was right up there with Dusty Springfield and Jackie DeShannon, though Dusty was gay and Jackie was American, so Anita was the one for me. By then, she had a fan club and I became a member (the only time I've ever done such a thing) though of course I never told my school friends. 

Over the next couple of years, she veered away from classy jazz-tinged pop into the realms of light entertainment, pantomime and television panel shows and I lost interest. But I've always treasured those early Pye and CBS recordings and so when I read that Anita Harris was coming to Blackpool for a one-off show as part of a mini-tour, I thought I really should go and see her - for old time's sake, you understand. She was appearing at the theatre on the end of the North Pier, somewhere I'd never been inside in all my years of living here.

I have to say it was a most enjoyable show. Anita, now 83, defies the years. She looks beautiful and her voice is still a remarkable instrument. She talked at length about her career in music, in films (two 'Carry On'  classics) and on stage (as Peter Pan, and as Grizabella in 'Cats' in particular). She sang some of her greatest hits. She exudes grace and vivaciousness, a truly lovely and talented lady, happy to acknowledge how fortunate she has been in her marriage of fifty years, with the friends she has made, the breaks she has got, and the success she has enjoyed doing what she loves in a career spanning over sixty years - all in the palm of her hand, a long life line, a deep heart line, a strong head line, a kind fate line.

To finish, I spotted a coal tit in my back garden just a while ago, and I thought why not weave him in to today's blog as well? This, then, is the latest from the imaginarium. I had no idea where it might take me.

a coal tit

Palm Mystery

Ten grams of tiny coal tit on my fingertips

and he's not impressed by the nyjer seeds,

seems more interested in the palm itself

so I'm honestly not surprised when he asks

"How long's your lifeline, then?"

"In centimetres or years?" I quip, 

assuming he's both metric and numerate,

though he could still be imperial of course,

this tiny black-capped inquisitor.

"If I had hands not claws, mine would be

two times round the sun, so what's yours?"

He cocks an oily eye, waits for my reply.

"Five centimetres," I confide, "but as for years,

I don't know, I've never wanted to find out. 

Longer than two orbits, that's for sure. 

Seventy at least, maybe more."

If he could sniff...he pretends indifference 

to me now, seeds and all, puffs out his chest, 

prepares to fly away, remarks

"Nyjer's for goldfinches mate" and does a flit.

I imagine this doesn't happen every day.

*Madame Sosostris is of course the fortune-teller from T.S. Eliot's 'The Waste Land'. 

Thanks for reading my palm blog, S ;-)

Read More

Lancashire Dead Good Poets' July Open Mic Night

Our next monthly zoom open mic night is just a week away. Mark your diaries, hope you can join us.

Email: deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk to bag a slot, 

Steve ;-)

Read More

Palm

I’m fairly sure that years ago when my friend A and her nursing colleagues had finished a long series of night shifts at a hospital in London they would celebrate by going to the Ritz Hotel for their breakfast. I’ve just had a look at the current prices for the Ritz breakfast and gave a slight gasp.

But that was not in the Palm Court restaurant for Afternoon Tea. That is in a different league. This is how it’s described:

This most charming English Afternoon Tea in Mayfair is served in the spectacular surroundings of The Palm Court. The Ritz London is the only hotel in the UK with a certified Tea Master, Giandomenico Scanu, who travels around the world to various tea plantations to source our excellent teas. Why not try our exclusive Ritz Royal Blend Tea? This is only available at The Ritz.

Music to match the occasion
The elegant ambience is complemented by a musical ensemble from our resident pianist – the final ingredient to ensure your Afternoon Tea at The Ritz is, quite simply, unforgettable.

The Ritz London has a dress code in different areas of the hotel as follows: Gentlemen are required to wear a jacket and tie (jeans and sportswear are not permitted for either ladies or gentlemen) for Afternoon Tea in The Palm Court. Kindly note that our Afternoon Tea dress code does not apply to children under 16.

Enjoy the perfect ending to your luxury Afternoon Tea experience, savouring our signature Ritz tableside service, which includes two generous slices of cake from the guéridon trolley. Our skilled Pastry Chefs change the cakes on the menu to perfectly complement the season’s flavours. Whether you crave an indulgent chocolate treat or a refreshing fruity delight, you can choose your favourite cake and enjoy it to the fullest.

Afternoon Tea prices start from £81 for adults and £59 for children.

So what is the Palm Court?

The Ritz's most widely known facility is the Palm Court, an opulently decorated cream-coloured Louis XVI setting. It is decorated with lavish furnishings, including gilded Louis XVI armchairs with oval backs, which the architects had designed based on research into French neo-classical furniture design of the 1760s and 1770s, which were made by Waring and Gillow. The room, with its, ‘panelled mirrors of bevelled glass in gilt bronze frames’ and ‘high coving ornamented with gilded trellis-work’, according to Montgomery-Massingberd and Watkin ‘epitomizes the elegantly frivolous comfort of Edwardian high life’.

There were originally large windows at either end of the Court, then known as the Winter Garden, and were replaced with twenty panels of mirrors after 1972. The fountain of the court, known as ‘La Source’, is made of Echaillon marble and is extravagantly sculpted. A nymph, gold in colour, is featured in a lair. A wrought-iron and glass roof of the Palm Court contains two gilded wrought-iron lanterns, and the ceiling contains lion skin motifs. The room is done in soft apricot and has remained so since 1906. César Ritz chose the colour to flatter the complexions of women after weeks of experimentation with various hues.

So that’s putting on the Ritz. Not my normal sort of place but just once I’d like to partake of its Palm Court luxury.

And then there is this.

Lincoln Tea Shop

“Bring the Earl Grey Tea Bag,
I want to put it in myself.”
Well, you wouldn’t get that
at the Palm Court Ritz
and definitely not in Preston, Lancs.

So I glanced,
easily distracted
from lines of Magna Carta
I couldn’t understand.

He wasn’t hard to find,
a pompous git in Barbours,
older than his voice,
pointing at a menu,
trying to impress
a woman in a green dress,
and much to my surprise,
succeeding.

Perhaps it’s the place,
a High church and hollow castle,
the eyes looking down
a Roman nose of a road,
its smile silted
behind trinkets of shops,
anxious to please,
knowing it’s better,
proving it
when the waitress
showed me
the workings
of a modern teapot.

First published in Poetic Hours, August 2005.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Read More

Palm - A Shiny Shilling

 “Cross my palm with silver and I’ll tell your fortune. Cross my palm with gold and it will certainly come to be. Cross my palm with iron and you won’t live to see daybreak.”

Mara Amberly – Her Gypsy Promise

Blackpool is well-known for fortune tellers. For as many years as the Golden Mile has stretched between the piers, clairvoyants have worked from inside curtained cabins advertising their gift of seeing into the future. A visit to the promenade or piers would include a palm reading or a studied gaze into a crystal ball for anyone eager to find out if something important is about to happen to them. It’s part of traditional Blackpool fun.

Crossing the palm of a new baby with silver was seen as a way of wishing them wealth, good health and the best possible start it life. I watched as my baby sister had a shiny shilling put into her tiny hand by a well-meaning person, a stranger to me. I was seven and a half. Anne could keep the shilling, but I really coveted the lovely plush bunny she was given by the same person. Nothing for me. I expect she received gifts from lots of people who didn’t acknowledge me, but that’s the one I remember. I could probably go to the exact spot where it happened, in the lounge bar of the Boar’s Head on Preston Old Road, Blackpool. I was a proud big sister. I still am. This was one of those moments that stays in the memory forever, so I’ve always given something to an older sibling, not just the baby.

The Psychic’s Dilemma

I’m a psychic, true, with visions grand,
But rent’s due, and I need a hand.
Cross my palm with silver, yes, it’s true,
I’ll conjure love for you, and a new shoe!

No gold for romance, no, that’s not the deal,
Just enough for groceries, a more practical appeal.
So if your heart yearns for a love connection,
Bring silver, and I’ll give you a pre-packaged affection!

Anon.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Perfect Pitch

At first I thought of blogging about beautiful singing voices, grassy playing surfaces or clinically clever advertising campaigns. But then I figured I'd take an oblique approach (for a change, ha ha) to the given theme of perfect pitch, you know, get down and dirty with a sticky mix of chemistry and folklore, covering everything from bitumen via pitchblende to tar babies. I hope you're okay with that. Are you sitting comfortably, Saturday? Here it comes...

slouching towards ecotastrophe

Pitch or tar (the words can be used interchangeably) can be derived from a number of sources including coal, oil, peat and certain woods. It is a dark brown or black viscous liquid and gave us the term pitch black. In common usage, tar generally refers to the more fluid, and pitch to the more solid, forms of this viscous mixture of ever so slightly dangerous hydrocarbons; (it's the benzene, mostly). Traditionally  pitch or tar has been used as a form of water-repellent coating on the hulls of boats, the walls of sheds, the roofs of houses, the surface of roads, and in the making of tar-babies. 

The 'Uncle Remus' stories of Joel Chandler Harris are not as popular as they were when I was a child and living in West Africa in the 1950s, but they were a memorable part of my early reading, books gifted to me by an American missionary family of our acquaintance, and the tale of Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox and the Tar Baby in particular has always stayed in mind.

Harris, an American journalist and folklorist of the deep south, carried out field research in the 1870s among his country's African-American plantation workers and wrote their tales up originally for newspaper serialisation so as to "preserve in permanent shape those curious mementoes of a period that will no doubt be misrepresented by historians of the future." Of course the oral tradition of the plantation workers had its roots much further away and longer ago in Africa, where I was born and was living, not that I knew of their provenance as a five-year-old.

There are quite a few 'tar baby' folk tales to be found in African folklore. The one about Anansi is the most widespread. I'll paraphrase it here:

Anansi was a greedy and lazy character. He lived on a farm with his wife and children, who went to tend it every morning while he sat in the house and gorged himself. Instead of helping around the house or on the farm, he became fat from consuming all the fruits of his family’s labour, causing them to become thinner. After a while, his wife decided that she'd had enough and came up with a plan to weed Anansi out of the house. She made a tar figure and left it outside in the yard, calling it an intruder. Anansi went outside to order it off his land but the tar figure would not reply or move, so  Anansi got very angry and punched the tar figure with both fists. However, his hands got stuck in the tar, causing him to become even angrier. He continued to assault the 'tar baby' until he was stuck completely and, ashamed, remained in that state until death.

I hope the moral of that cautionary tale is abundantly clear. 😉

Closer to the Brer Rabbit story is a version from Mozambique. Again, I'll paraphrase from the French:

There was a pesky rabbit (more correctly a hare - lièvre) who, by means of false alarms of war, had repeatedly robbed the ground-nut patches of a certain village. Eventually the  inhabitants became suspicious, and decided to lay a trap for him. The first step was to gather tar (in this case la glu noire) from which to make the 'tar baby'  (un mannequin de femme) which they set up in the garden. The next time the pesky rabbit gave the alarm that the enemy was coming, the villagers all ran away; but, seeing the 'tar-baby' still there, the rabbit shouted for it to scram too ("Va-t-en, femme!"). When the figure neither replied nor departed, the rabbit tried to move it bodily and became stuck fast. The people then came up, extricated the rabbit from the Tar-Baby's embraces, and informed him that they were going to kill him. "Very well," said he, "but don't kill me on the ground, kill me on the chief's back!" They returned to the village and spread a mat on the ground, on which the chief obligingly lay down, and the rabbit squatted on his back. A strong warrior then prepared to spear the rabbit and, as might be expected, ended up killing the chief, for the rabbit leaped into the air at the critical moment and made his escape without any difficulty. The indignant villagers then massacred the warrior.

That one's for the MAGA dunderheads who have voted the reprehensible Trump in not once but twice. 😡 

And while we're on the topic of bombing Iran, let's not forget that it was the Americans and British who first destabilised Iran by prompting and supporting a coup d'etat in 1953, enabling a military junta to overthrow the democratic Iranian government which had recently nationalised the country's oil production capabilities so that Iranians, rather than exploitative British and American oil companies, would actually benefit from the country's natural resources.  And it's still the West's thirst for middle-east oil that underlies most of the turmoil in the region and was the major geo-political factor behind the disastrous Gulf Wars of recent memory.

Colonialism, imperialism, economic bullying, we can't keep our sticky paws off the perfect pitch, it seems. It has become a major reason why the Arab world distrusts the West. And now the flow from the middle east is growing increasingly unreliable, the pro-fossil fuel lobby is redoubling its efforts to increase drilling in the USA and under the north sea in defiance of all the scientific evidence that climate change from increased greenhouse gases is endangering the entire planetary ecosystem. Just read Bill McKibben's 'The End of Nature'.

"Drill, baby, drill" (Donald Trump)

If we're not careful, we will die, like greedy Anansi, in the sticky embrace of the 'tar-baby'.

After all that, you want a poem? OK then. Here's my latest mytb-busting word bomb of an ecoblast. It's a pastiche after Don Mclean, and it's for my friends in Just Stop Oil. You know the tune. It doesn't matter if you haven't got perfect pitch. Sing along....

Tarry, Tarry Night

Tarry, tarry night
Paint the future black and grey
No more sunny upland days
This darkness in our souls won’t ever lift

Fossil fuel kills
Scorches trees and animals
No more breeze to cool our ills
We’re cancers on this once so pleasant gift

Now I understand
What they were trying to say to me
As they campaigned for our sanity
And how they tried to set us right

We would not listen, did we not know how?
Too late to listen now

Tarry, tarry night
Portraits done in heavy oils
Shameless heads on corporate walls
With greedy eyes for all that they could get

Dangerous and yet
Voted for by all of those
Without the courage to oppose
The lies that in the end have brought us low

Now I think I know
What they were trying to say to me
As they campaigned for our sanity
And why they said to let oil go

We would not listen, didn’t want to know
Too late to listen now

For we could not love the earth
Although its love for us was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that tarry, tarry night

It did what jilted lovers often do

Gave up the will to fight. In truth

This world was wasted
By the likes of me and you

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Perfect Pitch

One of the delights of playing football for me was sliding across a few yards of a muddy pitch and timing it just right so that the ball and the tricky winger got booted over the touchline at the same instant. What joy. And how about Ronnie Radford’s goal for Hereford against Newcastle United in 1972. All those Match of the Days in black and white with players ankle deep in mud.

Ronnie Radford's famous FA Cup goal for Hereford

I suppose it had to change to try and get the perfect pitch and change it did starting with AstroTurf which was patented in America in 1965. I think it was more suited to the American form of football but be that as it may Queen’s Park Rangers converted its Loftus Road ground pitch to Omniturf in 1981. This was a second generation form of artificial turf and it caused some controversy when the club laid it ready for the match against Luton Town (which they lost). The main problems being the unpredictable bounce of the ball and the hardness of the surface.

That didn’t stop Luton Town (1985–1991), Oldham Athletic (1986–1991), and Preston North End (1986–1994) following suit. And from what I hear from Prestonians who used that pitch during the week e.g. from their schools, it was a treat to be able to play where their heroes played on a Saturday.

I did play on those type of pitches but never felt comfortable, partly because of that bounce but mainly due to it damn well hurt when you went over. Mind you, it never seemed to bother the group of hospital workers when we use to play on a local artificial pitch and the most bonkers of all was an Orthopaedic Consultant who would happily slide along the artificial turf.

Preston North End playing on an artificial pitch

3G pitches came next and rubber pellets help to keep the synthetic blades of grass upright and make the surface less abrasive and likely to burn or scratch players. Despite their approval by FIFA and UEFA, some professional football managers have voiced concerns over the risk of player injury compared to games played on traditional real grass surfaces. However, scientific studies have concluded that 3G pitches may actually reduce the incidence of injuries.

4G football pitches are made from synthetic turf laid onto a dense, shock-absorbing base-layer and are said to replicate the look and feel of a real grass pitch more closely than 3G. A major issue with 4G pitches is that they have not been officially recognised or defined by Football’s governing bodies.

Hybrid football pitches are 95% natural grass, this type of football pitch is used at Wembley and is said to make the grass significantly more robust – meaning no bare or muddy patches, even when the pitch is used frequently.

composite layers of a modern hybrid pitch

I would say that all professional and semi-professional pitches are now well drained and looked after to be near enough perfect. Even local amateur teams with their own pitches have those pitches at a standard that is a million times better than in the 70s.

Which leaves the pitches at our Recreation Grounds and Parks which are in a terrible state. Matches are called off regularly. I don’t blame the Councils as they have had to cut Park Keepers and Ground Staff. And the Changing Rooms are just as bad. I’ve just had a quick look round the country and the number of people playing on a Sunday morning has plummeted over the last 20 years and the above reasons surely are part of the problem.

So, I suppose the question is would I prefer to watch Ronnie’s efforts on a mud bath or Messi playing an impossible, but successful, pass along a near perfect pitch? I’d take Messi.

perfect pitch

But to balance it out here’s a poem by Paul Cookson who is the Poet in Residence at The National Football Museum in Manchester (which they pinched from Preston).

Ronnie Radford

Synonymous with the F. A. Cup
And all that it stands for
The patron saint of underdogs

Your name resonates hope and belief
That on any given Saturday it can be eleven vee eleven
And dreams do come true

It wasn’t even the winning goal
But it was the one we all remember in the mud and the rain
All Woodstock hair and rock and roll sideburns

The goal we’d all love to score
The shot from outside the area that flies and flies
Into the corner sending fans and commentators crazy

Ronnie Radford, Hereford Town, nineteen seventy two
We remember you, we salute you
We thank you and celebrate your moment

That moment when the man in the street became legend
Saint Ronnie Radford
Patron saint of underdogs

For those of us of a certain age ….

                                                            Paul Cookson

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Read More

Fern Fever

Great crazes from history? No contest for me. It's got to be the mid-Victorian madness known as Fern Fever, or pteridomania to give it's official name. Fern Fever was a peculiarly British eccentricity that is thought to have originated in the 1830s at a time when amateur and professional botanists began taking a serious interest in the countryside of the United Kingdom in increasing numbers, sleuthing for new discoveries.

Why ferns in particular? Partly because as a group they had been less researched and written about than our native flowering plants, and partly because they could be found in greater variety and abundance in the wetter, wilder parts of the north and west, regions that had just begun to become more accessible with the rise of railways and decent roads.

By the 1850s, pteridomania (a phrase conjured up by Charles Kingsley) had become something of a national obsession, regardless of class. A hobby for some, a scientific pursuit for others, a commercial undertaking for horticulturalists and publishers, fern fever gripped doctors, labourers, merchants, miners, school teachers, solicitors, men of leisure, shopgirls and society wives alike.

As Kingsley wrote in his 1855 book 'Glaucus': 

"Your daughters, perhaps, have been seized with the prevailing 'Pteridomania' ...and wrangling over unpronounceable names of species (which seem different in each new Fern-book that they buy) ...and yet you cannot deny that they find enjoyment in it, and are more active, more cheerful, more self-forgetful over it, than they would have been over novels and gossip, crochet and Berlin-wool."

Fern collecting became commercialised and respectable with the provision of literature and merchandise to support the craze. 

A recent invention, the Wardarian Case (fore-runner of the modern terrarium), was a popular purchase and could be found in many stylish drawing-rooms. This protected the ferns from pollution, a growing hazard in metropolitan areas. Fern houses, adjuncts equivalent to modern conservatories, and much grander outdoor ferneries served a similar purpose.

In fact Ward's invention paved the way for botanist George Loddiges to build the world’s largest hothouse in East London (illustrated above), which included a fern nursery. Even though the fern was already associated with magic and nature folklore, Loddiges knew that he needed to further enhance its reputation in order to attract visitors to his hothouse. So he encouraged a belief that fern collecting showed intelligence and improved both virility and mental health. Soon, his neighbour, the famed botanist Edward Newman, published 'A History of British Ferns', a very well-received book which supported Loddiges’ claims and fuelled fern fever.

A devoted pteridomaniac, armed with Newman's book or a copy of Thomas Moore's 'The Ferns of Great Britain and Ireland' could set off like an intrepid adventurer on a wild fern hunt for the seventy or so native species. And some fern collectors didn't just restrict themselves to the British Isles. They would tour Europe or even further abroad into Asia in search of obscure samples for their ferneries. Or without going to such lengths themselves, they would purchase interesting specimens from a growing number of Fern Dealers.

At the height of fern fever, possibly on the back of Loddiges' claims about the efficacy of fern collecting, fern hunting parties became popular social occasions. The appeal may also have had something to do with the fact that these parties afforded romantic opportunities for young couples to meet in an informal setting. 

Soon. even the truly discerning Victorian hostesses abandoned tea parties in favour of organized outings, daylong woodland expeditions complete with picnic baskets and competitions for who would find the rarest specimen of fern. Botany was, after all, one of the few avenues open to women who wanted to experience adventure for themselves. It was popular and widespread enough to be deemed an acceptable outdoor activity for the ladies who could even engage in fern hunting unchaperoned, since it was considered an entirely wholesome, healthy, and moral activity. Even very young girls (as noted by Kingsley above) would collect samples of ferns, dry and press them, and display them in albums.

Out of this upswell of fern fever came a response firstly from the world of decorative arts and then from homeware manufacturers. By the time of the 1862 International Exhibition, the fern motif was ubiquitous, on everything from glassware, pottery, metal, wood, wallpaper, and printed fabrics to jewellery, cutlery, gravestones and memorials. Even the contemporary custard cream biscuit features a baroque fern design if you look closely. 

On a slightly more salacious note, apparently it was understood that a woman wearing a sprig of fern or fern motif in the form of an accessory (brooch or scarf maybe), was sending a coded message that she was up for a bit of adventure. I tried to access the British Pteridological Society website to verify, but the site is currently unavailable.

As fern fever proliferated, some botanists began to express concerns that the rarer populations of British ferns might be in jeopardy from zealous collectors. As early as 1865, Nona Bellairs in her botanical guidebook 'Hardy Ferns' was calling for legislation:

"We must have 'Fern laws', and preserve them like game."

It is true that some of the rare species were nearly decimated and have never quite recovered, They hang on in isolated pockets. But by the 1890s, and for no obvious reason, fern fever had practically run its course. Fern nurseries fell into neglect and fern houses and ferneries collapsed into ruin. Wild populations of ferns were left in peace and by and large recovered unmolested and unnoticed after their half-century brush with fame.

This latest poem is decidedly a work-in-progress, and I shall probably take it to the next meeting of our Blackpool & Fylde Stanza group for their considered input. 

The Fern Collectors

Up with the snark in their thoughts

and quaintly mannered as Wesleyans

on a Sunday School trip, they fit

tight with excitement, all smiles

and smelling of bay rum and lilies,

into a third-class coach on a train

from Liverpool Street bound for

Epping and forest and ferns.

Clutching their maps of Essex, 

their copies of Newman or Moore 

and talking in turns about

that visit to the Hackney hothouse

the week before and where they might

explore today, their eyes burn with

fern fever, their presses await.

A whistle blows and the fun begins.

"Will you go hunt, my Lord?" quips one

and they fall to discussing specimens

they could happen upon. Broad Buckler

is common in those parts, likewise

Hartstongue fern, less so Adderstongue.

They do not use their Latin names,

too stilted and serious for the air

of flirtatious badinage arising

in the carriage, as the young men 

wax lyrical about the Lady fern,

its delicate and lacy qualities,

and the maidens blush demurely

at talk of how Male and Hard ferns 

stand proud from the undergrowth.

They've not even passed Leyton yet

but they cannot arrive too soon. 

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Lancashire Dead Live Poets...

Lancashire Dead Good Poets began some fifteen years ago (approximately) and used to host regular monthly live open mis poetry nights in an around Blackpool and St Annes right up until COVID sent us all into isolation and the ether. 

We went online (via Zoom) for our monthly open mic nights on the first Thursday of each month and those sessions continue to attract between 15 and 20 performers/readers each month.

We did relaunch the live open mic nights in the autumn of 2022 but numbers were low and it never really took off again as a live event. 

However, we do get asked quite often when we are going to host live events once more because online is fine, but there's nothing beats the energy and intimacy of poetry shared live in a room of people. Two regular Blackpool liv events have stuttered to a halt in recent months, so we are biting the proverbial bullet and putting our toes back in the water (if you can get your heads around that strange mixed metaphor) with our first live open mic night in several years, really to see how it goes.

It will be held on Friday 20th June at  Urban Arts Studio in St Annes from 7pm. Urban Arts Studio can be found at 11 Back St Annes Road West, FY8 1RD. There are no headliners and there is no set theme. Sign up on the evening for a slot (approx 5 minutes per poet) or just come on down to listen and support live poetry. If the event goes well, we will look at making it a regular feature in addition to our monthly zoom nights

 

Steve ;-)

Read More

Crazes: Guilty As Charged

I am the Queen of Crazes, or the Crazy Queen, whichever you prefer.

After 73 years I finally have the answer to my crazes craze. I’m currently awaiting a diagnosis of ADHD, although I know in my head this is what I’ve been dealing with all my life. In some ways, it’s reassuring to think there’s a reason for my constant frantic activity.

However, I digress. Let’s start at the beginning. Young children often have crazes, changing like the seasons as somebody suddenly starts a new one, and everybody follows. I was no different, pleading for a hula hoop, which had to be ordered at the local toy shop, and seemed to take weeks to arrive. No Amazon deliveries in those days. 

The days following the arrival of the hoop were spent in frenzied practice in the garden (and once - only once - indoors, when I knocked an ornament off the sideboard and was told in no uncertain terms that if the hoop was found indoors again it would be snapped in two and instantly disposed of - I didn’t dare ask where). I got to be quite an expert hula hooper, shimmying it up and down my body, round my neck, arms and legs. Just recently, I found a hula hoop at a play centre and thought I’d have a go. I was shocked to discover that all skill had left me, as the hoop rapidly spun to the floor, despite my energetic gyrating, and lay there looking up at me as if to say, ‘that was nearly seventy years ago, woman, get a grip.’

Then there were marbles - excitedly played on drain covers in the street, and jacks and five stones. These all reached a peak before being replaced by the next unpredictable craze. My favourite craze around this time was, with hindsight, rather a strange one. It involved collecting small items and swapping them with friends at school. This probably sounds mundane and boring these days when eight year olds are busy applying makeup, taking selfies and snapchatting, but let me assure you this was one of the most exciting things in my life at that time.

The routine was this: the participant secured a toffee tin (usually from a Christmas stocking) before scouring the house for any small item that would (a) fit in the tin and (b) possibly be of interest to another participating child. I can remember my tin so well that I can smell the pieces of scented paper cut from one of my mum’s birthday cards. The smell was of roses, like the picture, as was popular in the 1950s. Why any child would be willing to swap some treasured item for a piece of birthday card I’ve no idea, but I do remember them being very popular. Apart from the cards there were ‘charms,’ tiny little cats and dogs and bells, worth nothing in monetary terms, but worth a fortune in terms of swap-ability; pieces of broken jewellery, little brooches, thimbles and the odd dolls’ house item. My younger brother, swept along in the excitement of this absorbing new game did cause a bit of trouble by swapping our tortoise for a German helmet, but that was swiftly remedied by mum marching down the road with the aforementioned headwear and returning home (minus helmet) to plonk the bewildered tortoise back by the hollyhocks in our garden.

But back to the original game. Day after day, we would race out at playtime with our tins rattling, bypassing the bars - where girls (dresses tucked into knickers) would be swinging and giggling - and straight to the only bit of shelter, the porch by the boys’ entrance. Like drug pushers we’d prise open our tins and allow each other to peer in. So many happy playtimes were spent in that porch, bargaining and swapping - and swapping again. My lifelong hoarding means that, after nearly seventy years, I still have two of the brooches I acquired, a tiny ‘ivory’ elephant and a cheap twisted metal bow. I only have to look at them to be back in that porch with my toffee tin.

Crazes during my teenage years revolved mainly around fashion, hair and make up. Mini skirts, hot pants, skinny ribs, all tried and tested (not very successfully - I didn’t have the legs or the neat little bust for any of these, but they were the latest craze, so who was I to argue?)

All my life I’ve had obsessional crazes. I hadn’t considered them until the last few years when I began to realise that I probably have ADHD. In no particular order these are the crazes - I like to call them hobbies - that have obsessed me over the years…

Novelty cakes (this was a business for thirteen years, but also a wild craze); appliqué; novelty cushions; craft fairs; baking for cake shops; knitting; sewing; patchwork, quilting; cross stitch; crochet; roller blading*; fimo; pottery, lino printing, walking daily; photography (between a business and a craze).

Finally, the non crazes or perhaps the life long crazes that I can’t ever see ending: I’ve loved reading, writing and drawing since the day I first opened a book and deciphered a word, then copied it onto a sheet of paper and drew a picture to illustrate it. I have diaries going back to the age of six, although the more interesting ones came later. However, the obligatory stationery to accompany these activities is another story, and cannot possibly be condensed into a few words.

I feel another blog post coming on….

Crazy by Jill Reidy

The time has come
Suspect denies all knowledge
Of any crazes
Since moving to that house
‘Not me officer, I just read,’
They don’t believe her, she looks shifty
Rules are established for those investigating
Five minutes to find evidence

Hercules Poirot, allocated the attic
Takes the steps two at a time
Crashes headfirst into huge tottering piles
Frames, all sizes, all colours
Photographic prints in wallets,
Scattered across the floorboards
Cameras, batteries, lights
photography magazines, memory cards
He battles through
Gives the half finished dolls’ house a cursory glance
Grinds underfoot the tiny figures
Waiting for prosthetics
Skids on the curtains, never hung
He turns, notes the carrier bags
Stacked high under the eaves
Peers in, sees the folded fabrics
Paper patterns, tailors chalk, cutting board
Patchwork pieces, cushion covers needing zips

Poirot sighs, calls down, descends the steps
To the landing
where Inspector Clouseau stands,
Hands gloved, plunged deep into a sack
‘More,’ he says, ‘more fabric’
Rolls his eyes
withdraws a length of cool white linen
Points to the open cupboard
Bulging with colourful ribbons and zips
‘And these,’ he sighs
More bags, patterns, knitting abandoned,
wool unravelling, needles, every size
Clouseau holds up a small frame
Catches Poirot’s eye
Any idea? Tapestry? Weaving?
Cross-stitch says Poirot with a shake of his head
And these?
Rag rugs, quilting, crochet, appliqué
Poirot rattles off dismissively

Miss Marple, ground floor, out of her depth
opens the door to the understairs cupboard
peers in
Why all the tools?
duplicates of every one
Drills, glue guns, hammers
screwdrivers, sets of spanners,
A pack of unused, now unusable, fimo Brooch pins, earring studs awaiting decoration
Reaches in
What’s this?
Knee pads, elbow pads, helmet
Miss Marple frowns
suspect is nearly as old as she is
Roller blades?!
A six, just the suspect’s size

Sherlock Holmes, alone in the gloomy garage
Spots a box
Opens it tentatively
Hardened clay
Five misshapen pots,
Small cutters and scrapers and prodders
A sheep by a wall, stones meticulously fashioned out of clay
He digs down deeper
Pulls out a square of lino
More tools, a roller, dried ink in a tub
‘Pottery and printing,’
He mutters to himself

They meet in the kitchen
Poirot, Marple, Clouseau and Holmes
Enough evidence? Asks Poirot
More than enough agrees Holmes
Get her in says Clouseau wearily

The suspect eyes the scattered bags
She has no defence
‘I didn’t realise….’ she trails off
Then in a whisper,
‘Guilty as Charged.’

Thanks for reading……Jill Reidy

Read More