Screen Crush - Rowdy, Heathcliff and Robert

 

I recently watched the 1940 film, ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ on TV. It’s dark, disturbing and honest of the time, but falls short of John Steinbeck’s excellent book in typical Hollywood style of failing to follow stories to the end. Anyway, what struck me this time – I’ve seen it before – is how good-looking Henry Fonda was. I wouldn’t call him a screen crush, not for me, but he had perfect jaw alignment which gave him a fabulous smile. This gene was inherited by his son, Peter and daughter Jane. All have been screen idols for many fans.

For me, having a screen crush started when I was about five years old. I could stay up on a Friday evening to watch ‘Rawhide’ and fall in love with Rowdy Yates aka Clint Eastwood. It was good to see all the episodes again when the TV channel TCM did a complete run on them. I hadn’t remembered any of the stories but they did take me back in my mind to our cosy sitting-room over the pub, coal fire and a tiny black and white TV screen. This was family time, c.1959/60, priceless. Clint Eastwood has continued to be one of my favourites, but not my one and only.

My head was turned by another. His name was Heathcliff. Again, we had Hollywood spoiling a good book by telling only half a tale, as I discovered in later years when I read, re-read and studied Wuthering Heights, but I was only eleven when I was first smitten. We were in the living-room of the quiet house we had for a while when my mum wasn’t well enough to help run the pub. We still had a tiny black and white TV. I might have missed the very beginning of the film, but I was soon drawn in and as the character Heathcliff emerged, I was star struck. My mum told me the actor was Laurence Olivier. I’ve seen all of his films over and over. Max de Winter in ‘Rebecca’ was another Heathcliff moment. I owe him everything I’ve been able to get to grips with by Shakespeare. His life and his work have been of great interest to me. Returning to ‘Wuthering Heights’, I have seen many TV productions but for me, Laurence Olivier is the definitive Heathcliff.

If you know me, you’ll understand that I couldn’t miss out a certain person who has entertained me on the small screen in recent years. I refer to him as my mid-life crush, my toy-boy fantasy in an innocent way. Robert Peston. I can nearly hear the ‘who, what, why?’ Well, I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. He’s a journalist and writer, currently the political editor for ITV and has his own politics show for ITV on Wednesday nights. It’s been a slow burn over a few years. I used to find him irritating in his TV journalist delivery. One day, driving through Ayrshire, I was listening to him in conversation on the Jeremy Vine radio show. Robert’s wife had died. He was talking about how they met, married, her illness, his feelings, then, he’d had a burglary at their home and jewellery, including his late wife’s wedding ring had been taken. I was upset by everything he’d gone through and began to see him as less irritating and more of a person I’d like to hug and reassure. More recently, he’s been fortunate in
finding love again and I wish him every happiness.

My haiku,

Friday night Rawhide
With my heart throb, Rowdy Yates,
When I was five – ish.
Clint Eastwood, so cool,
And he’s still a handsome man
In his mature years.

Then there was Heathcliff
Who swept me clean off my feet,
Rugged Yorkshire Moors.
I didn’t look back,
Yes, Laurence Olivier,
Screen love of my life.

Wednesday nights I am
Beguiled by Robert Peston,
Late night politics.
I’m not listening,
Not properly, anyway.
Just fascinated.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Roll of the Dice - Take a Chance

I was completely out of my comfort zone in the casino. I’ve got an almost zero gambling ethic – I do the lottery, that’s all – and the clientele around the roulette tables were nothing like I’d seen in the James Bond films, disappointingly.  The ‘let’s do something different for our Christmas night out’ had fallen a bit flat with some colleagues leaving soon after the meal. The food was delicious. All three courses cooked to perfection, presented well and plenty of it. Afterwards, a few of us milled around various games, being shown how to play and maybe having a go. We had complimentary chips to use. One of us won herself a small fortune and had real money to take home, not me. I dabbled with pontoon and something else to do with cards, watched someone rolling dice and quietly sipped my drink, biding time until I could leave. I was aware of someone playing the same slot machine hours on end and it bothered me. It was certainly not my business and I wouldn’t dream of interfering. They might have all the money in the world to lose, but I don’t want to be in that place. I remember wishing I was at home with Gogglebox and my knitting, where I would have been if I hadn’t volunteered to drive a few of us. And I didn’t want to be thought of as boring.

I think I’ve always leaned towards ‘cautious’ rather than ‘risky’ which makes me wonder what would have happened had I taken the less safe choice. Our lives are built on decisions and choices over one path or another and doing what it right for us at a particular time. How daring it might be to do the exact opposite. And, ‘To thine own self be true’, might surprise others, but you’ve got to go for it.

When I was younger, I thought nothing of taking off in my car, belting down motorways into unknown places for no special reason. Looking back, I think it was daring – old car, before mobile phones, no RAC cover, the list is endless – an empty, dark M6, so that dates it nearly fifty years ago, feeling scared listening to Pink Floyd’s Meddle and turning the cassette off in fear. My fear should have been the possibility of car failure and being alone. I wouldn’t chance anything like that now. I only drive if I have to and I keep off motorways.

Our five year old grandson likes to play Snakes and Ladders. He’s just about stopped throwing himself down on the floor with a whingy whine if the big snake gets him. He is teaching himself various methods of rolling the dice, usually from a shaker, to determine what number he gets. It’s useless, of course, he can’t program the dice, but I have caught him flicking it over, the little monkey.

Roll the Dice

If you're going to try, go all the way

otherwise, don't even start.

If you're going to try, go all the way,

this could mean losing girlfriends,

wives, relatives, jobs and

maybe your mind.

Go all the way

it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.

it could mean freezing on a 

park bench.

it could mean jail,

it could mean derision,

mockery.

isolation.

Isolation is the gift,

all the others are a test of your

endurance, of

how much you really want to

do it

and you'll do it

despite rejection and the worst odds

and it will be better than

anything else

you can imagine.

If you're going to try

go all the way

there is no other feeling like

that

you will be alone with the gods

and the nights will flame with

fire

do it, do it, do it,

do it

all the way

all the way

you will ride life straight to

perfect laughter, it's

the only good fight

there is

Charles Bukowski  1920 - 1994

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

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What Really Scares Me - It's The Dark!

What really scares me? Well, apart from mundane worries about growing old, having enough money to live on and what the future holds for the next generations, I have to say it is ‘the dark’ and horrors from my own imagination.

I remember feeling very scared of the darkness at the top of the stairs in my great-grandmother’s house, and waking up into pitch black when we stayed overnight there. My mother soothed me, put a light on and settled down beside me.  My great-grandmother passed away sixty years ago but the memory remains and so does my fear of the dark.

There was the time when I got locked in at work. It was a cold, wet, winter tea time, a long time ago, decades before mobile phones. I was upstairs in the office of a small department store, just gathering my things and getting ready to go when the low buzzing of fluorescent strips ceased and I was plunged into silent darkness. The last person to leave would turn off the lights with the main power switch, situated next to the door. No chance to shout, not that I would have been heard on the ground floor anyway, but I was literally frozen to the spot with fear. I had keys, but I couldn’t bring myself to try to negotiate my way out of the office and through racks and rails of clothing and merchandise that filled the top floor. As my eyes adjusted to a small glow of street-light coming through the tiny window, I could see the telephone. Luckily, I knew the home number of the person who had locked me in. With a trembling finger I managed to feel my way round the dial and sob my dilemma to his wife, who knew me well and kept me company on the phone until her husband got home then set off straight back to release me. No harm done, but it was very scary at the time.

Then there was the last ghost hunt my friend and I went on, and oh my, I was so scared that we haven’t been on any others, up to now. This was at the Spanish Hall in the Winter Gardens, something we had looked forward to for ages, after the fun we’d had at the Grand Theatre. It was semi-dark, but we had torches and we were in a group, though everyone had spread out into different rooms and areas. I was coping with the dark and with the odd things we kept hearing. We had a medium with us a lot of the time, though I confess, I don’t believe everything I’m told, I like to work things out for myself.  My friend and I went into a dressing room somewhere back-stage in the Spanish Hall theatre.  We sat down, my friend on my right. I felt something at my left, but no one was there. The presence became strong, so strong that I was too scared to look, but many times since, I wish I had.

I’m used to staying at the lodge we go to in Dumfries & Galloway, but the first time we went, the darkness, or rather, my imagination outside late at night, scared the life out of me. I was taking our dog out on my own for his last little walk before bed. I had my torch, a dim outside light on the lodge veranda and a sky full of stars. I was shining the torch on my dog and the path immediately in front of me when my mind started giving me horrors. I was sure I’d see the feet of someone facing me. I didn’t dare to shine it on the trees, terrified by what might be hanging there. I worked myself into a blind panic rushed back to the safety of the lodge, only a few steps away, before anyone could grab me. These days, confident that our dog won’t venture any further than the first tree, we watch from the veranda and let him go by himself. Maybe seeing ‘The Abominable Snowman’ when I was eleven has affected me for life.

 

 

This is my own poem,

 

 

A Ghost Tour in the Spanish Hall

 

An evening in the Spanish Hall

Fun-time promised for one and all.

Exciting times for you and me,

Paranormal activity!

Hopes and desires, all are risen,

Someone’s speaking, we must listen.

“Enter the rooms with open mind,

And be prepared for what you find.”

The semi-darkness of torch-light,

Anticipation of the night;

Wondering what there might be here

To chill us with delight or fear.

We heard a strange and weird sound,

Quiet growling from underground.

Distant laughter, joyful patter,

Ghostly party fun and chatter.

Chink of glasses, bell-like tinkle,

Passing orb gives us a twinkle.

We crept across the ballroom floor

To where we hadn’t been before.

A woman beckoned from her chair.

As we approached, she wasn’t there,

Just vanished, like she’d never been

But we both knew what we had seen.

And later, on the wide stair case

I froze as something touched my face.

I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout;

Someone was with me, there’s no doubt.

When we sat in the back-stage room

We both smelt dated perfume

Like musky lavender and rose

Stagnant, lingering in repose.

And that mirror! I dared not see

The presence sitting next to me.

I felt their breath upon my cheek

And could not move, too scared to speak!

I must now be most explicit,

Show respect to restless spirits.

Never ridicule, tease or taunt.

It might be you they’ll come to haunt.

 

                                                                                            PMW 2012

Happy Hallowe'en, everyone. Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Candlelight - Power Cuts

That’s Wimbledon over and a hope for two British champions in the same tournament is on hold.

There’s something romantic about candlelight. A warm glow that softens complexion and reflects a gentle flicker on the wine glasses in the relaxed atmosphere of a gathering of friends. If only I could travel back in time, my chosen gathering would include my dear Lord Byron, Wordsworth, Shelley, Burns and the Brownings; and if only I could hear their poetry from their own voices instead of mine.

It was my voice reciting their poetry in the candle-lit evenings of early 1974 from ‘The Penguin Book of Love Poetry’ which I had just added to my bookshelf.  Power cuts meant we sat together in our dining-room, the one room that still had an open fire-place suitable for a coal fire (go easy on the coal, shortages). The room was large enough to have a three piece suite round the fire and a dining table and chairs set out further back. Our family lived in here and our bedrooms for the duration of the crisis.  For safety reasons we used torches everywhere except the dining room and kitchen. My father, still a licensee, had an off-licence as well as his brewery work and we lived in a house instead of a pub. The silence of a private detached house was eerie after noisy pubs all of my life and now it was even creepier in the dark, but our candle-lit dining room had a cosy feel. We listened to the battery powered radio, played board games and had enough light to read to ourselves or to each other. No one seemed to miss the television. I hated being unable to play my records. Luckily, we had a gas cooker. I can’t remember how long the power cuts lasted. I know we were given the times that we would have electricity and how long it would be on. I wonder how we would manage these days.

Thinking of candlelight reminds me of the wonderful ‘Carols by Candlelight’ services we had at Raikes Parade Methodist Church when I was a Sunday School teacher. I looked after the infant age group which included one of my children. She wasn’t the most trustworthy to carefully carry a tea-light in a jar to the front of the church but filled with a sense of occasion and doing something important, she did it perfectly as did the others, and all singing ‘Shine Jesus Shine’ at the top of their voices.

My husband and I are having a weekend away soon for our wedding anniversary. It might include a romantic candle-lit dinner and a Scottish sunset.

One of my favourite poems, first encountered in 1974. I’d spent years amongst the Brontes and it was time to extend my interests.
 

Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

                   Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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In the dark....with Jarvis

In keeping with the greyness of the day and the hopelessness of the political landscape, my mood is gloomy at the moment. Having written several blogs that amount to angry rants at the world, I determined that this week would be different and something gentler and more positive would flow from my laptop. So here we go with er… ‘dark’, the connotations of which are almost all negative – gloomy, threatening, brooding, mysterious, sombre, evil, funereal, menacing, opaque, depressed….. And yet the dark can be a backdrop, an essential foil to an explosion of scintillating light. Without the stark contrast that the dark sky provides, we could not fully appreciate the beauty of the stars, for instance.

In the 1990s I went on holiday to a farm in Ireland. Fairymount Farm in Co. Tipperary was a magical place in the Irish midlands, with a mystical history and was said to be situated on a ley line. We arrived at night and I have never forgotten glancing up at the dark cobalt sky, which seemed to be brooding just above my head. And, set against it, MILLIONS of winking, twinkling, glittering stars, so close that I felt that I could reach up and pluck one for myself, hold the scintilla in my hand. The magic could be within my grasp.

Image by Tim Hadfield - Canada at the World Fireworks Championship, Blackpool 2014

I’ve never liked fireworks. As a child I used to hide myself away from the staccato gunfire racket of bangers and rip-raps. The house felt under siege from heavy artillery and I was relieved when it was all over. Braver now, I’m possibly regressing to the child-like awe and wonder of fireworks, the explosion of life and colour against the night sky, that I never experienced as a child. Along with thousands of others, we went with our family to the World Fireworks Championship on the promenade in September and were amazed by the winning display by Canada. The grace, ingenuity, exuberance, verve and, above all, colour of the display were magnificent. An inky, expectant sky hosted a cornucopia of dazzling, dancing lights of every hue imaginable.

As dusk descends on Glastonbury festival a palpable air of expectancy and excitement envelops the Pyramid stage, reaching a crescendo as the headliners take to the stage. There is good music, and much more, to be found in the festival’s vast acres and numerous stages every minute of every day, but, as night descends, a particular frenzy takes hold of the fun-loving hordes. Once again, the darkness of the sky facilitates a magical transformation, as the pitch-black stage suddenly bursts into life.

In 1995 the Sheffield indie band, Pulp, found themselves unexpectedly propelled into super-stardom, headlining the Pyramid stage on the Saturday night. Summonsed at very short notice to replace the injured and rapidly imploding Stone Roses, Pulp lit up the Somerset sky and owned Glastonbury with their evocative songs of grubby teenage angst and longing, culminating in the magnificent anthem, ‘Common People’. Jarvis Cocker, fizzing and spitting with righteous indignation and contempt, was a wonder to behold. His spleen had never been more……splenetic!

So there, for me, are a few examples of the bright side of dark. And I’ve managed to steer clear of politics!

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

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Speaking as an expert blogger - With a content waring

Sitting in his room staring at the blinking cursor that greeting him on the blank page of the newly opened Word Perfect document, it soon became apparent that Colin had no ideas whatsoever. And this blog was important.

Sally Atkins of Curtis Blue talent and literary agency had said she’d been keeping an eye on his weekly postings. She was impressed, she wanted her boss to have a read. The email arrived about an hour ago to say he’d be having a look at tomorrows article. Since then, Colin could only think of the most trivial of things.

“Something has to be done.” he said closing the lid on his laptop. “Something I said I’d never do.

He approached his bookshelf, using the index finger of his right hand he scanned the spines looking for the book had already cost him more than money. A chill ran down his spine as he found it. The words of the title made him feel sick, not because of what they said, but because of what he was about to do.

He extracted his mint copy of  The Writers and Artists Dark Magic Book from it’s usual cradle, took a deep breath, then opened it at the index. Again his right hand index finger guided his eyes down the list. The finger then stabbed the page on the word he was looking for.

“Page 146"

He flicked though until he found it. There in front of him was everything he wanted, but nothing that he wanted do.

“I’m going to need a few things”

The red L.E.D’s of his radio alarm clock burned 20:27 into the dark air of Colin’s room as he returned with a bag full of paraphernalia. As the clock ticked over to 20:43 Colin had cleared a space on the floor and drawn a Pentagram in pencil on the faux beech laminate floor.

Late night shopping had enabled him to get the candles, white spirits, charcoal, goose fat and gerbil that he needed. The candles were already a blaze at the points of star. He used a pestle and mortar to crush down some charcoal before mixing the black powder with the white spirits and goose fat. Sitting naked in the middle of the Pentangle Colin scooped a large lump of the soot coloured mix on to his favoured finger and began to draw a circle on his chest as per the instruction in the book. This was accompanied by the incantation which he delivered with a monotone seriousness.

“Ego te envoke tenebris Deus magnus scribendi.”

He lifted the gerbil above his head.

“EGO TE ENVOKE TENEBRIS DEUS MAGNUS SCRIBENDI.”

He thrust a knife deep into the rodent letting the blood flow over his face and into his mouth. The sound of breaking bricks filled the air. The darkness around him suddenly brightened with a fire red glow invading through the crack opening up in the wall. With the light came the sound of a million souls screaming in agony. The insult on Colin’s senses made him vomit. Quickly the wall opened up revealing a landscape of hellish vista. In the distance he could see the Tor of skulls, rising high into the sky, almost touching the fire that burned across the canopy.

Colin stood and start up the twisting path leading to the mound of death. Each side of him, blooded skinless bodies of human and beast engaged in tortuous acts of coitus, buggery, fellatio and cunnilingus. Exposed nerve endings causing even the slightest touch to result in an instant vocal release.  Their screams of both pleasure and pain tore through the air like nails on a slate board. The smell of rotting flesh and unwashed sex stung his nasal passages.

At the end of the path he could see the red fleshy steps he needed climb. Placing his foot on the first one he could feel the damp warm squelch ooze between his toes. The accompanying wail made him look down. Each step was made a number of infants, their skin, flailed to the point of removal, leaving their entrails exposed to create the soft warm cushion for the climber.

Tears fell from his eyes as each step he climbed brought forth the sound of a child in agony. Eventually he arrived at the top. In front of him, sat on a throne made from the bones of a thousand suffering humans desperately trying to reach up for the forgiveness of God, was the one he came to see.

A small twisted creature, it’s skin leathered by the furnaces of Hades, masturbating with a severed hand dripping with rotten flesh. It look at Colin and smiled, tightening its fire blackened eyes.

“Forgive my intrusion.” Colin bowed his head, “But I require your teachings Dark Lord Stroud.”

When the Dark Lord spoke, the sound of a hundred different voices sightly out of phase with each other hissed forward.

“Ask you question?”
“I am stuck, desperate. I have no idea what to write about for my next blog?”

Stroud rolled his eyes upward, screamed with the intensity of a thousand deaths and ejaculated, hitting Colin on the shoulder. The acidic sperm began to eat into his flesh. It took all his strength to not yield to the pain.

Throwing the pleasure hand to one side Stroud leant forward.

“Speaking as an expert blogger,” the evil one tilted his head, “write about your experiences. People love to read about real life, not matter how fucking dull and boring it might be.”
“Thank you my Lord”, Colin started to shake with the pain, “I am indebted...”
“Shut up you snivelling piece of shit,” Stroud lunged forward and grabbed Colin’s face, “Now just fuck off.”

The Dark Lord straightened his arm, throwing Colin back across the skinless seas of flesh, crashing back into his room. He opened his eyes to see the darkness had returned. He stood and switched on the light. Looking down at his left shoulder he could see the scars left by acid cum. His clock shone the time 23:30. He lifted the lid of his lap top and began to write.

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