Surly Early Saturday Hurly-Burly

I'm off to Sheffield today to watch the Mighty play (Blackpool FC in case you didn't guess), so I had to be up insanely early at the blogface to submit this piece about hurly-burly. It's raining and I'm feeling surly!

Hurly-burly sounds onomatopoeic, don't you think? To me, it's suggestive of  and synonymous with many of the following: argy-bargy, a bit-of-bother, fisticuffs, hue-and-cry, kerfuffle, pell-mell, rough-and-tumble, shenanigans, stuff-and-nonsense, sturm-und-drang, throwing weight around, all words or phrases resonant of matters getting a little lively, noisy, slightly out of control, maybe even combative. Its origins are archaic and not well-defined, but I'm supposing people know roughly what it means (which is nothing to do with the hurdy-gurdy).

in their cups

There's a good chance that alcohol often plays its part in the process of precipitating a spot of hurly-burly, of loosening conventions of decorum, genteel behaviour and self-control, as epitomised by the fine fellows in the woodcut illustration above. Clearly they are already deep in their cups, getting rowdier and more argumentative as the ale continues to flow. They'll soon be bashing each other round the head and brawling shamelessly over whether or not Catholics should all be burned alive, Marlowe is better than Shakespeare, the government is responsible for shit in the rivers, martial law is appropriate in a time of plague, footballers should be allowed to pick up the ball and run with it, or Greensleeves is a better song than The Merry Month Of May.

I imagine (writing as one who has never actually hurly-burlied) that such has been the trouble the world over for aeons, when a bunch of men go on the piss. There's always the chance that it can kick off and end in a right rumbustious tumult of some sort, a frank exchange of views, a trading of inebriated blows. If only they had something else to divert them, a civilizing female presence - for instance a Lady (Macbeth perhaps), or even better a whole troupe of them such as the "Hurly-Burly Extravaganza". I stumbled upon this unlikely bevy in my research and just had to bring them along...😏

the diversion

What could possibly go wrong? Especially if the vaudeville diversion were of the "refined" kind. Fat chance, I hear you say, and you'd probably be right. The presence of the fairer sex actually ups the testosterone levels. Just think of all those bar-room brawls over broads in classic American movies featuring cowboys of the wild west or sailors on shore leave.

My research also uncovered a phenomenon known as the Hurly-House. It seems to have been a term for an establishment of both ill-repair and ill-repute, a type of low-life drinking den combining elements of what we would nowadays find discretely in a pub, a prize-fight arena, a music-hall and a lap-dance club. (Blackpool Council has finally and sensibly decided to close all of the latter in the town.) 

Despite, or maybe even because of, the poor reputation such establishments had, I imagine the owners would have been obliged to be seen taking at least token steps towards preventing rampant lawlessness within their dilapidated domains. Even though it might not count for much in practice, there would surely have been a set of:

Hurly-House Rules

Rule number   1: No wives.

Rule number   2: No knives, dirks, daggers or blades.

Rule number   3: No knaves, thieves or scurvy reprobates.

Rule number   4: You cannot make one pint last all night, skinflints.

Rule number   5: No spitting or spewing on the floor or pissing up the wall.

                                  Use the pots provided or the trench outside.

Rule number   6: No deriding the name of the monarch.

Rule number   7: No bending the serving wenches over the benches.

Rule number   8: If you're unable to pay, no credit given - so don't dare ask!

Rule number   9: Masks to be worn on nominated plague days

                                   until you are seated at a table.

Rule number 10: No bringing in of literature (except bibles).

Rule number 11: Tipping of the entertainers is permitted.

                                   A coin or folded note tucked into a bodice or stocking top,

                                   otherwise keep your filthy hands off the merchandise.

Rule number 12: No ball games or bloodshed allowed.

Rule number 13: Unlucky for some. (Changes nightly - see landlord for details.)

Rule number 14: No singing after midnight, even of religious tunes.

Rule number 15: No sleeping on the premises. If you're too drunk to move

                                   you will be dumped out of the door at closing time.

Rule number 16: Enjoy yourself. We only live once.

The poem itself has been concocted in haste (almost hurly-burly you might say) in under twenty minutes and will probably get revised - that is to say refined - over time. 

Anyway, thanks for reading, and I wish you all as good a Saturday as I hope to have. S ;-)

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Cats - treat them mean...

My father was a big fan of Tom & Jerry. When they were on TV every weekday night before the six o’clock news, he would open the pub doors and let customers in but would watch the cartoon to the end before he served them.  He enjoyed his little indulgence and it kept him within the strict licensing laws.  

We had a kitten – he bought it when we first moved into the 16C coaching inn  - as soon as he realised that we had little visitors. Lots of them.  The place was over-run.  Mum arrived with the furniture three days later than him.  He and my Aunt spent those days making the place habitable.  He always says that if Mum had seen it from day one, she would have walked straight out again. Mice were nesting in the back of the cooker and the insulation at the back of the fridge.  They ran along the shelves in the bar and jumped out of cupboards.  There were other problems too.  As soon as Mum arrived, the place was closed to customers and Rentokil were summoned.

The kitten was a pure white, half-Persian, ball of fluff and so beautiful that she was given the fearful name Mimi.  Enough to send shivers down the spine of any mouse! Mimi was supposed to be a mouser.  Poor Dad had no chance – all the girls who worked for Mum in the kitchen gave her titbits, fresh salmon, cream.  She was spoilt rotten, lazy and to my knowledge never bothered to run after anything other than a ball of wool.  I would often dress her in my dolls clothes and sit her in a chair.

I have a photo of Mimi curled up on the floor, with our German Shepherd,  Zalme.  My Nana's beloved , bright yellow budgie is perched on her head. It was a very interesting pet perspective and not one bit Tom & Jerry.  Once Mimi brought home a mole.  Poor creature must have emerged right under her nose. Dad was not at all impressed.  Eventually he took her to the vet and returned with the news that Mimi was a tom cat. My brothers re-named him TC.  A suitable name for a cat with an attitude.

I don’t have a pet now. I feel strongly about leaving animals locked up all day and even more strongly about letting them roam. I have the care of two gardens and am frequently frustrated by small deposits among the rose beds and my veg plot. I also love wild birds.  After Dad died, I found an unused birdhouse, that he had made, in his shed.  Within days of attaching it to my sycamore tree, blue tits moved in and the box has produced a clutch of eggs each year since 1999. My little pals keep me entertained and the local moggies keep me on my toes.  This year one sat on top of the nest box with a paw in the entrance.  I had to shoo it away with my clothes prop.

A few weeks ago, I had left the back door open because the day was very warm (yes, there has been one warm day this year!)  I was sitting here at my desk when a large ginger cat strolled past me into the living room. I politely showed it the way out.  An hour later a dirty great spider came out of the corner and ran across the carpet.  I found myself wishing that I had a cat. Even Mimi could catch a spider!

 

Tomorrow ( Friday 7th August) we are hosting our Dead Good open mic night on the theme 'cats', so I have been re-reading T.S Eliot's - Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats.  It is a magical volume of poems, a delight to all generations and the inspiration for Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical 'Cats', showing at the magnificent Opera House, here in Blackpool until 5th September.  I have written especially for the event at Caffe Dolce and am reluctant to reveal my poem before I read it live.  I hope you will come and join the fun.  In the meantime, I will leave you with this ...

 

Pretty Miss Mimi

 

I used to belong to a family

who fed me fresh salmon and cream,

I tried to be nice but I couldn’t catch mice,

I didn’t like hearing them scream.

They thought I was lazy, maybe I’m crazy

but I’m a tom cat– not a she.

I took a career path that suited my style,

no kitty on earth is as pretty as me.

 

I'm Mimi Lamour, the cat they adore,

I’m strutting my stuff in burlesque,

I prowl in the foyer at Funny Girls show,

my elegant fur is as white as the snow.

I’m dripping with diamonds and pearls,

though I’ll never be one of the girls,

Lloyd Webber’ is calling for my caterwauling
Broadway is sending a scout,

So if anyone rings and asks for a mouser,

my darlings, just tell them I’m out!


P.S My earliest recollection of reading poetry aloud was Dr Seuss, The Cat in The Hat.

No wonder I rhyme! Hope to see some of you tomorrow evening.

Thanks for reading - Adele. 

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