The Sea, The Sea

I've named today's blog twice, in imitation and recognition of Iris Murdoch's Booker Prize winning novel of 1978, because I happen to be re-reading The Sea, The Sea at the moment. (Incidentally, Murdoch dedicated her 19th novel to an erstwhile family friend of mine. I never asked the family friend why, though I know they were at Oxford together at one time.) The novel is set on the north-east coast of England and re-reading it has reminded me, among other things, of days spent at the seaside in Northumberland with my daughters when they were young (for my in-laws lived in Durham). The beaches at Alnmouth, Boulmer, Embleton and Seahouses were/are beautiful and sandy expanses on a rugged coastline, good destinations in fine weather for a day out and a picnic. The North Sea was/is very cold!

My own first experience of the sea was, in marked contrast, a tropical affair. I was too young (not even a year old) to retain a memory of the encounter but my Dad (bless him) kept diaries which he later transcribed into a form of memoir. From this I know that my first "taste of the sea" as he phrased it was at Victoria Beach, Lagos, in Nigeria where I was entranced by the sight of surf rolling up the sloping sands and by the tang of the hot sea breeze (not to mention the stranded blue jellyfish melting in the sun). It was a thrilling locale that I was to visit on several occasional trips to the coast during my early years in Nigeria and always a refreshing sight in contrast to the frequently dry and dusty interior of the country where I grew up.

I should perhaps explain at this point, for those who don't know, that The Sea, The Sea is in fact a classical quote from the Greek (where else, eh?). Θάλαττα! θάλαττα! or Thálatta! thálatta! was the emotional cry of 10,000 Greek soldiers on forced retreat during the Persian War when after a protracted northwards march through dry, dusty and hostile territory, they sighted salt water (the Black Sea) and safety at Trebizond, as told in Anabasis by Xenophon. Not quite as lovely as the Mediterranean, but a welcome respite and a return to Greek dominions.

I have one thing in common with the protagonist of Murdoch's novel. We both spent our professional lives, by accident not design, as far from the sea as it is possible to get in England and on retiring both headed for a house at the seaside (only on opposite sides of the country). I differ from him in at least two respects. He is a fanatical swimmer - even in the cold North sea - and I am not. He is also rudely dismissive of my favourite part of the world: "Oh blessed northern sea, a real sea with clean merciful tides, not like the stinking soupy Mediterranean!" Harsh, that, and the first indication of a flawed character.

His love of the sea and swimming reflects Iris Murdoch's own; and as Miles Leeson (director of the Iris Murdoch Research Centre at the University of Chichester) has pointed out in an interesting essay on the novel, the author always upheld "the importance of the sea to mental health and wellbeing, and to freeing the creative part of the mind. She always wished in letters to her friends that she could have a cottage by the sea and one wonders why she didn't as she could have afforded one."

I thought that was a fitting observation to relate on this day of all days, World Mental Health Day. And I give thanks to whatever quarter is appropriate that during these crazy days of Lockdown and the bastard Son Of Lockdown, I live within walking distance of the sea, the sea here in the jewel of the north! The air, the space, the light, the constant motion of the waters have been a significant factor in keeping us sane in these parts during difficult times.

It's also curious to contemplate that my reason for being in Blackpool actually harks back to my being born in Nigeria. As I've related before in other blogs, growing up football-mad and so far from England meant that I had no natural geographical ties when it came to supporting an English league team, so the fact that Blackpool won the FA Cup the year I was born was enough to secure my allegiance for life. Whenever my ex-wife and I used to drive up from as-far-from-the-sea-as-it's-possible-to-get, to watch Blackpool playing at Bloomfield Road, the first thing we always did (if we arrived in good time after a 225 mile journey) was to take a look at the sea, using it as talisman and augury, trying to determine from its state of play what sort of game we might be in for. 

Of course, a lot of nonsense is talked about the motions of the sea, the gravitational effects of the moon, the ebb and flow of tides, when in reality it's all the work of the great Sea Cat... 😊



That's enough sea-related spiel for one blog. Here to finish is my latest poem. It's genesis lay in my ruminating one night on the nature of patently impossible feats like trying to catch the wind (thanks, Donovan), nail jelly to a wall (cheers, Teddy Roosevelt),  get blood out of a stone (grazie Giovanni Torriano)...or draw a portrait in water:

Water Portrait

I drew your likeness

in a wave receding:

truth of your essence

blue of your eyes

froth of your smile

sweep of your curves

undertow of madness.

I always knew

you wouldn't hang

around for long.

Imagine my surprise

then

when you rose up,

rushed back

and smacked me

in the face,

all salty tears of reproof.

For what? I never knew.

Thanks for reading. Stay safe, stay sane, S ;-)

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My Word! Feghoots!

"The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain." Well, it's certainly doing so with a vengeance at the moment. Hold that original idea (the Elocutioner's Song from My Fair Lady?) for we shall make an approximate return to it later. You're possibly wondering "what's this all about?" I would be, in your boots. The answer is  feghoots!.

Let's start, dear reader, with a bit of derivation. A feghoot is simply a poetic jest, a humorous short story ending with a pun. I thought a few blogs of an amusing nature would be go down well in the week of World Mental Health Day - laughter being a priceless medicine. The feghoot was originated (and named) by the American science-fiction writer Reg Bretnor who wrote a series of shaggy-dog sci-fi tales known collectively as 'Through Time And Space With Ferdinand Feghoot.' Young Mr Feghoot apparently travelled through all dimensions as a trouble-shooter on behalf of the Society For The Aesthetic Re-Arrangement Of History. Now there's a job! His bizarre adventure stories, often only a few paragraphs long, always ended with a deliberately terrible pun based on a well-known phrase. Do you begin to see where this might be going?

Actually, I've never read any of Bretnor's Ferdinand Feghoot japes, but I did as a child enjoy listening to the radio panel show My Word! which always ended with an extemporaneous feghoot from team captains Frank Muir and Denis Norden. Each would be given a well-known phrase at the beginning of the show and at the end would have to tell a tall tale culminating appropriately in a punning rewrite of the given phrase. The fact that I still remember some of them fifty years on must be testament to the pair's ingenuity and mastery of story-telling.

By way of illustration, I'll recast as best I can one example here. The given phrase was "Where there's a will, there's a way." The resulting feghoot might have unfolded somewhat as follows:

An over-wrought cinema proprietor was standing outside the Sydenham Scala on a sunny Friday afternoon, prodding his odd-job man accusingly and gesticulating up to the light-box than ran above the width of the foyer. It read in letters two feet high: SHOWING TONIGHT  -  MOB   DICK
"I can't have that up there like that," said the proprietor. "What on earth will people think?"
The affronted odd-job man shrugged hopelessly and replied "I'm sorry Mr Blinkhorn. When I opened up the crate they sent with the film and the posters and titles and all, well there was one letter missing. I checked twice. Not there. What else could I do sir?"
"You could have come and found me for a start Bodger, before proceeding."
"I'm sorry sir. You were showing the new usherette the ropes and it looked like you didn't want to be interrupted."
"Yes very well, but we can't leave it up there like that. You'll have to fettle a temporary stand-in for tonight. I'll get onto the distributor to send a replacement in the morning.  You'd better get that dick down first and then go to the art shop for materials. Strong red card or something."
"It's closed, sir. Shuts at noon on a Friday sir."
"Damn and blast the inconvenience of it, Bodger. What do you suggest then? You're the odd-job man. By the way, no need to mention the usherette business to Mrs Blinkhorn."
Bodger shifted uneasily from one foot to the other before replying.
"Couldn't we just leave it as it is for one night sir and trust to people's intelligence to sort of fill in the gap? Surely sir, everybody knows that where there's a whale there's a Y."

I found the conceit both clever and entertaining as a thirteen year-old. Some might say I've not travelled very far since! Or course I've liberally re-written Frank's (or was it Denis') script, but what the heck? We're all in cahoots when it comes to feghoots.

Right then. To round out today's blog I'm going to attempt the feghoot as "poetic jest" in its simplest form; actually a double-hoot - don't ever say I don't give value for money :-) None of the customary preamble then, just the poem as pun in tribute to one of my favourite visual artists, the creative conduit and "wild beast" that was Andre Derain (1880-1954). Here's a selfie of M. Derain in his studio circa 1905 as he contemplated launching the Fauvist movement upon an unsuspecting world - vibrant post-impressionist canvasses in bold, vivid, unnatural combinations of colours. He was just doing what he had to do. Of course the critics thought he'd gone mad.

Piece Of Mind
The brain, inflamed,
flails madly to explain...
Derain 'insane'
feels mainly others' pain.

That's all folks. Thanks for reading. Stay grounded and have a good week, S ;-)

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