Moustaches

It was during the Covid lockdown when I began to question why on earth I was shaving when I wasn’t going anywhere other than along the river path in the early morning and late at night. I’d had a beard for most of my life but ten years before had been encouraged by my girlfriend at the time to get rid of it. Fair enough.

Anyway, I decided to let it grow again as shaving is/was a nuisance. What I’m trying to say is do one thing or the other but growing a moustache is completely bonkers. You have the inconvenience of shaving but still need to control what’s left.

But from the records we can see that moustaches have been fashionable from way back to the Ancient Egypt old kingdom era 2649–2130 BCE.

One of the earliest documents of the usage of moustaches can be traced to Iron Age Celts. According to Diodorus Siculus, a Greek historian wrote that: ‘.... the nobles shave their cheeks but they let the moustache grow until it covers the mouth.’

In early medieval art the Sutton Hoo helmet, an elaborately decorated helmet sporting a faceplate depicts the style on its upper lip.

I could go on about the various fashions for the moustache and the reasons for them and the people who had them but there would be no point as there is only really one moustache that has counted since 1920 when it appeared for the first time in The Mysterious Affair at Styles.

At this time, Hercule Poirot was a refugee, newly arrived from Belgium and nearly penniless, so had not much money to create his incredible moustache. Indeed, it was described as ‘very stiff and military.’

However as his fame as a detective grew so did his bank balance and by the early 1930s it had evolved from being stiff and military into a magnificent, luxurious asset which gained much comment from himself, narrators and other characters within each story. Throughout Christie’s stories, his moustache was described as ‘gigantic’, ‘immense’ and ‘amazing’, pointing to the importance of this physical asset. By 1934 Poirot himself was described as ‘a little man with enormous moustaches’ in Murder on the Orient Express.

Here are a few other references:

“If only, Hastings, you would part your hair in the middle instead of at the side! What a difference it would make to the symmetry of your appearance. And your moustache. If you must have a moustache, let it be a real moustache– a thing of beauty such as mine.”

- Peril at End House 1932 (UK)

“I assure you, I am really a very humble person.”

I laughed.

“You– humble!”

“It is so. Except– I confess it– that I am a little proud of my moustaches. Nowhere in London have I observed anything to compare with them.”

“You are quite safe,” I said dryly, “you won’t.”
- Lord Edgware Dies 1933

While the Lovely Young Thing made a suitable reply, Poirot allowed himself a good study of the hirsute adornment on Mr. Shaitana’s upper lip.

A fine moustache– a very fine moustache– the only moustache in London, perhaps, that could compete with that of M. Hercule Poirot.

“But it is not so luxuriant,” he murmured to himself. “No, decidedly it is inferior in every respect. Tout de meme, it catches the eye.”

-Cards on the Table

What was even more humiliating was that he had no real ideas, even now, as to what had actually happened. It was ignominious. And tomorrow he must return to London defeated. His ego was seriously deflated– even his moustaches drooped.

-Dead Man’s Folly

“There’s no doubt at all about what the man’s profession has been. He’s a retired hairdresser. Look at that moustache of his.” 

- The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

One of the benefits of becoming a famous detective was that with every case, Poirot became more affluent. As the years went by, Poirot earnt a large fortune from his detective work; which he invested a significant portion into the care and maintenance of his favourite personal feature. In The ABC Murders, Poirot reveals that he frequently visits an expensive hairdresser and in Murder on the Orient Express we learn that he uses a little pair of curling tongs on his moustache to give it the ‘upward-curled’ shape. Poirot’s groomed moustache leads Dr. Sheppard to assume that he’s a retired hairdresser, exclaiming “look at that moustache of his” to his sister.

Poirot’s moustache is his trademark. It’s often the first thing people notice about him, and it’s his pride and joy. Poirot takes great care with his appearance from the tip of his shoes to the top of his egg-shaped head, and his moustache is no exception. He believes he has both the finest moustache and the finest brain in Britain – a claim many of his fans around the world would no doubt agree with. Throughout the six decades that his mysteries were documented by Agatha Christie, Poirot’s moustache was described in a number of ways, and was often the focus defining his appearance…

“A little man with enormous moustaches” 

– Murder on the Orient Express

The more Poirot became an established private detective, the bigger his trademark moustache became. By the early 1930s his famous facial hair had evolved from being stiff and military into a magnificent, luxurious asset which gained much comment from himself, narrators and other characters within each story. Throughout Christie’s stories, his moustache was described as ‘gigantic’, ‘immense’ and ‘amazing’, pointing to the importance of this physical asset. By 1934 Poirot himself was described as ‘a little man with enormous moustaches’ in Murder on the Orient Express. By this point and beyond it was clearly his greatest physical attribute, being described as ‘an immense moustache’ in The Labours of Hercules in 1947.

I had to use a few little grey cells myself to get a poem about moustaches. I couldn’t find any decent poems so decided to choose poets with a moustache and it came to a choice between Rudyard Kipling and Edgar Allan Poe. I’ve gone with Kipling as my friend C showed me his house in Rottingdean and the poem was written there as part of An Almanac of Twelve Sports. Each month has its own sport and poem. July is about Archery (apparently).

The child of the Nineties considers with laughter
The maid whom his Sire in the Sixties ran after,
While careering himself in pursuit of a girl whom
The Twenties will dub a "last century heir-loom.”

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Roses Are Blue

Surely not? And yet... With Valentine's Day fast approaching, I figured this unusual rose-tinted approach to the theme of  blue might catch a few eyes and touch some hearts.

But blue roses - everybody knows they're about as real as unicorns, or silk purses made from sows' ears; as contrary to the laws of nature as time-travel, walking on water, or bread landing buttered side up.  And yet... Just marvel at the beautiful image below, not photoshopped in any way. So what's the story?

Blue Rose (i)

Scientific fact states that blue roses naturally don't exist. Of course they don't. The genus Rosa simply lacks the specific gene that allows roses to achieve a true blue colour. And yet... Blue roses have been written about for hundreds of years in oriental and middle-eastern literature, and because they don't exist in nature it means they have come to symbolise magic, mystery, perfection and a longing to attain the unattainable.

In fact the keen desire for blue roses also led to one of the earliest examples of man's ingenious attempts to improve on nature. The 12th century Arabic agricultural treatise 'Kitāb al-filāḥah' explains how a bush bearing white roses could be made to produce blue flowers by the injection of blue dye into the roots or bark of the plant. So that was how it was done, by trickery. And it's still the way today.

Even with all our marvels of modern science, recent attempts to biologically engineer blue roses by genetically adding the blue pigment delphinidin to the structure of rose DNA have merely resulted in a pale lavender flower. Although the market for them is significant (and there are lots of bogus sites on the internet selling blue rose seeds), it seems that the holy grail of true blue roses will continue to elude us and those beautiful blue blooms will only be attained by artificial means, by dyeing. 

In 1886 when Rudyard Kipling was just twenty-one and living in India, he wrote a poem titled 'Blue Roses' that contained the lines: 

She would none of all my posies

Bade me gather her blue roses. 

Half the world I wandered through, 

Seeking where such flowers grew. 

Half the world unto my quest 

Answered me with laugh and jest. 

Home I came at wintertide, 

But my silly love had died 

Seeking with her latest breath 

Roses from the arms of Death.

Although Kipling's verse is heavily Pre-Raphaelite in mood, I took the sentiment of it, along with a sprinkling of particle physics and the Portuguese seaside, as a starting point for a contemporary reading, this latest semi-ekphrastic poem from the imaginarium...

Blue Rose (ii)

Azul*

No faulting wanting more than he could give 

but heavens, such vaulting desire born out of

a hothouse holiday romance fast blossoming

in Alte's quaint streets, idle hours for love fun

and laughter, up down strangeness and charm

but top and bottom it's all quarks and no gluon

this elementary covalence of two. Perforce on

the final night everything flies apart, he means

no harm but still a summary rejection, leaving 

blue Rose shedding tears shredding azul petals 

on the threshold of dejection, outmanoeuvred 

in a game called love by hoping for perfection

and though right now she'd like to die, in time

she'll press the flowers within a Book of Hours

and dedicate her sorry heart to a higher power.

* Portuguese name for the blue rose; also the name of a strategy game, and a term for Heaven.

To send you away weeping, here's a musical bonus, not Joni Mitchell this time (though her 'Roses Blue'  could have served). This is the inimitable Freddie Neil singing his lovelorn classic: Blues On The Ceiling

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Out To Grass

I flick through the retirement home pages: Twilight House, Sunset Days, Dunhopin’, Road’s End, Rest Easy, Nearly Home. It’s hard to choose. There are none I feel drawn to.

I know I’m lucky to be able to choose. What did our forebears have, the rude forefathers of the hamlet, who had to work until they died? Staying alive in old age wasn’t so easy for them. If lucky they could perhaps rely on a son, or daughter, supporting them providing a home and food. But could they ever retire? Almshouse much better than workhouse but less available and often means tested by occupation, character, gender.

My great grandfather George was a drummer in the British Army, which would probably mean he’d be unvalued now. He marched and drummed his way round many a foreign campaign. It was how he earned his bread. He was a professional in the Army but when your marching days around inhospitable foreign climes are over there isn’t, or wasn’t, a lot of call for drummers back home in England.

Upon leaving the army after twenty years, in 1879, on the grounds of poor health, a kindly army doctor did him a good turn. He described him as a ‘broken-down old soldier,’ although he was only thirty-eight. It got George an army pension. He returned to civilian life and in his forties married and fathered six daughters. Not quite so broken down as the army thought. His wife kept house, raised the children and ran a terrace shop. Smart George. She was over twenty years younger and died three years before him. Poor Alice.

On January 1st 1909 people of seventy or over were paid an old age pension by the Government as long as they were of good character. A song from that time expresses one man’s thanks to the man responsible. I don't know who sang it but it was possibly written by F W Mormon...

David Lloyd George

What Lloyd George Gives Me
Well I’d walk from here to Skipton
Ten miles of lonely lane
If I could see him face to face
And thank him for his pain

‘Cause he took me out of Work-house
And he gave me a life that’s free
Five shillings a week for cheating death
Is what Lloyd George gives me

Well he gives me light and firing
And flour to bake my bread
And tea to mash with every meal
And sup until I’m dead

And I’ve nowt to do but thank him
And make a cross with pen
Five shillings a week for nowt but that
Why he’s the best of men...

There are another nine verses which he really shouldn’t have bothered writing but now he is out of the Work-house with time on his hands he felt he might as well.

An old soldier, who had charged at Balaclava with the Light Brigade, was Trooper Job Allwood, a Leamington lad. He had enrolled in Birmingham in 1853 with the 13th Light Dragoons (later the 13th Hussars). Despite having two horses shot from under him at Balaclava he was one of the few who survived and went on to serve in the India Mutiny. Although regarded by his fellow men as a hero then, his name would no doubt now be being erased from the war memorial. Upon leaving the army his only reward was a small allowance from the Balaclava Fund which was funded by public subscription. He died in 1903, aged 68, too early to have received a pension from the state. Would he have appreciated his funeral with full military honours, the expensive bouquets?

Nearly forty years after Tennyson’s poem immortalising the bravery, following suicidal orders of the cavalry at Balaclava, Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem titled, 'The Last Of the Light Brigade'.

Kipling was ashamed of the way the old (retired) soldiers were treated, The poem speaks of the harsh condition they endured once their service days were over: famine, lack of shelter, unemployment, disability, painful and lonely deaths. Job was lucky; Leamington didn’t treat him too unkindly. He had a very small house, made a living, had a wife but it was nothing compared to the gratitude they showed him in death.

Old Mares
If I was a horse they’d put me down, shoot me.
Have fun being photographed with my carcass.
No chance for me of being used for breeding.
An old mare is useless for reproduction.
My only worth to be pulped for pet food.
Not being a horse the possibilities are endless.
I can run for US President. Take up Tai Kwondo.
Learn Japanese. Gain a degree in upholstery.
Long distance, cross country running. Marathons.
Whittling, whiskey mixing, ballroom dancing in wellies
Write poetry. Go on televised quiz shows.
Give my occupation when asked, as retirement.
‘And how do you fill your time?’
‘Never been busier,’ I proudly reply. Listing my
attainments. ‘I don’t know what I did before.’
That earns me a pat on the back, unprompted applause.

Thanks for reading, Jeanie B.

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On The Game

It might be an unwise move on my part, but I've decided to blog about what is supposedly the world's 'oldest profession': prostitution. I realise I could be skating on thin sensibilities with this one, so I'll explain why.

The weekly theme is Play The Game and after posting on here each Saturday for a couple of years, I find I've written about the topic of game-playing from several different angles already - football and psychology among them. In fact my blog about Transactional Analysis - Mind Games People Play - still seems to get about fifty hits a week. (Click on the title if you wish to read it - the blog is hyperlinked.) Consequently I've been racking the brainbox for a fresh approach - and this is it...

I've been tuning in to SS-GB, the BBC's adaptation of Len Deighton's novel of the same name, on a Sunday night. It's a fictional account of wartime Britain based on the premise that Germany had invaded this country successfully in 1940. While watching, I was reminded of a wry, poetic story from wartime London, which I've embellished shamelessly:

Picture an East End fish & chip shop on the Mile End Road, the Apocryphal Plaice. It's run by Rita and her sisters, because the men have all joined up to fight for their country. The ladies need to keep the business going. They have a community and their own children's little mouths to feed. However, as hostilities escalate, so do food shortages. Three months into the new year, the sisters find that potatoes are not so plentiful as they were and as a result they will have to pare down their portions. Rita is delegated to write a sign for the shop window. It explains that: 'Owing to Hitler chips will be littler'. The customers moan a bit but they understand the situation and the cheeky humour is part of their stoicism.

By late spring it's not just potatoes that are in short supply. Fishing has become a somewhat dangerous pursuit in enemy-patrolled waters and catches are way down, especially around southern coasts. Rita has to add another line to the sign in the window that explains: 'Owing to Himmler fish will be simmiler' (sic). Of course the customers moan a bit more, but they stay loyal and Rita and her sisters carry on, serving their smaller wartime portions.

Eventually, the Blitzkreig takes its toll. One summer night, in an after-hours raid, the Apocryphal Plaice suffers a direct hit that completely destroys the back of the building, its pantry and friers. When they emerge from the shelters, the sisters find only the front of the premises left standing. They have no option but to shut up shop. They still have little mouths to feed, however, but they are resourceful girls. Rita replaces the sign in the window of the bombed-out chippy with one that states: 'Owing to Goering we're taking up whoring' - and that's how I came to research and write about being on the game. Kudos to our East End Ladies of Negotiable Affection.

I have no direct experience, I hasten to add. The nearest I got to it was when on holiday as a student in Paris. My girlfriend and I were staying on Rue d'Aboukir near the Gare du Nord. We were walking back to our hotel one evening when a denizen of that colourful neighbourhood and fully paid up member of the 'oldest profession' accosted me and asked if I'd like to accompany her upstairs. When I explained that I was with my girlfriend she just smiled and said I could bring her too if  I wished. We passed on that invitation!

The assignation of the phrase 'oldest profession' to prostitution is relatively recent and Rudyard Kipling is probably responsible for its currency. His short story On The City Wall (1889) about an Indian prostitute refers to Lalun as "a member of the most ancient profession in the world". Shortly thereafter a mass-circulation newspaper carried an article castigating the lax morals of the Victorian aristocracy in these words: "In ancient Rome, under the empire, ladies used to go to baths to meet a certain class of men, while men resorted thither to meet a certain class of ladies. The ladies belonged to what has been called 'the oldest profession in the world', a profession which is carried on in Piccadilly, Regent Street and other parts of London with great energy every night..."

Of course, prostitution pre-dated the Roman empire. Evidence suggests that it was originally closely tied in with religious practices in several ancient civilisations, Sumerian, Egyptian, Indian, Greek; that temple prostitutes at holy sites were sanctioned not only to perform certain sacred  rites, they also catered to the carnal needs of both the priests and visitors to the temples - and they were usually very beautiful (as indicated in the statue illustrated above).

They also became camp followers for soldiers on campaign, gave solace to sailors in foreign ports, provided services to mine-workers, navvies, really anywhere that men were away from home comforts and with coin to spend. They were even sanctioned by the Christian church as a necessary evil...and it was only the exponential spread of sexually transmitted diseases in the 16th and 17th centuries that lent the practice any sort of opprobrium.

Prostitution, then, is probably as old as civilisation - even if priests, robbers and grave-diggers might also lay claim to the title of 'oldest profession'. Its longevity is a testament to the basic human need it serves.

I have no moral stance on the practice itself. If it's consensual, that's fine. If men wish to pay women for sex (or women wish to pay men for sex) that is entirely their business. My only concern is for the practitioners themselves. As with any other business, I don't like the idea of prostitutes being exploited, intimidated or abused (by unscrupulous pimps or inconsiderate clients); and the scandal of young women or men being trafficked or press-ganged into being sex workers is abhorrent. There you go.

One thing I've not been able to track down is the origin of the slang idiom 'On the game'. Like the 'oldest profession', it probably also dates from late 19th century England when Victoria was queen but euphemism was king.

You may be relieved to learn that this week's poem has absolutely no connection to any of the above and no resemblance (as yet, as far as I can tell) to anyone I know. I don't often write poems as a result of dreams, so this is a rarity...

Waiting For The New Dream Girl
Do you have an identity yet
in my dreams?
Other older lovers,
often confusingly transposed,
masquerade or scold.
Some tug at flailing heart-strings,
their allure not entirely cold.
They give me unquiet nights
of troubled thoughts.

But in our shadowy trysts
I sense a different anima,
playful, not yet focused,
daring me to define
and then to mind you
somewhere in the waking world.
Such presentiments, by light of day,
might prove to signify nought...
Were I to find you, would I know?

Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)

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The Ning Nang No?

This week's theme is loosely related to a question I've been considering lately.  I've entered a couple of poetry competitions this year.  Two of them were competitions which would result in having a collection published. 

When gathering up my scribblings I realised that my poems fall into two camps: those which I've written to entertain and those which I've written to explore the art form.  The former tend to be a hit with the majority of my audience (people who claim not to like poetry enjoy hearing or reading them) and the latter have received praise from poets whose work and opinions I respect.

In order to succeed in competitions, I always assume that the judges (respected/acclaimed poets) are looking for something which pushes the art form while recognising the tradition.  They want something smart and beautiful which has a tendency to resonate for a long time after it has been read, e.g. Olds' Stag's Leap or McCarthy's The Clothes that escaped the Great War.  These poems are mostly for the poets.  I suspect that the majority of consumers of the 'high art' poetry are poets themselves.

On the other hand, the enduring poems which win the 'nation's favourite' polls, i.e. the popular poetry, are often easier to understand, have basic metrical schemes and simple end rhymes.  They tend to express novel or virtuous philosophical ideas in simple terms, e.g. Kipling's If, Joseph's When I am Old, Eliot's Practical Cats. 

It's the popular poetry which works better for performance.  Long, wordy poems with elaborate metaphors require multiple readings whereas snappy, humorous verse is immediately pleasing.  This accounts, I think, for the success of Kate Tempest and the surge in the popularity of live poetry events. 

Poetry competitions tend to want poems for print rather than performance.  Often, competitions are run with the intention of publishing a collection or an anthology.  These books rarely sell well, which is why literary agents are allergic to poets. 

Much as I despise the term, I do think this comes down to branding.  Take Tim Key.  He made his name on programmes such as Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe, when he would read short, topical poems which were loosely related to the week's news.  His poems are funny and easily understood and yet I bought a copy of his first collection on the back of his performances.  I enjoyed reading it and shared it with my partner.  We both gained pleasure from the reading.  I don't expect I'll go back to the poems to re-read them. 

There are other books of poems which I keep because I do like to read their contents repeatedly (or at least I think that I would like to re-read them but tend not to as I'm busy reading new stuff instead).  I don't see why there shouldn't also be many books of poems which are published as entertainment rather than important tomes, weighty with words of gravity and cleverness.  Just as there is a time for jazz, the blues or classical music, so there is a time for fun, bubbly pop.  And just as there is a time for important collections of poetry, so there is also a time for the Spike Milligan, the Roald Dahl, the Dorothy Parker and the Tim Key. 

As for the poetry competitions, they tend to judge on artistic integrity over entertainment value.  So I suppose I know which poems to enter.  Or perhaps I should start my own competition?

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