Marmite

Northumberland. The final frontier. Where Hubby and I boldly went where few from the south dare to go. God’s own country, second runner-up behind Yorkshire and Cumberland. It’s so far up north that there’s a bridge over the river Tweed to Scotland, where there’s a sign that says “Welcome to Scotland”. On the English side it says, “England”. No ‘Welcome’. Welcomes are officially rationed in favour of those whom most English don’t want to welcome because said welcomees are undeserving of them.

It was Star Trek (Wars?) Day earlier this week (May 4th). It usually passes me by, partly because I’m not into sci-fi. The last sci-fi film I watched was The Martian (2015) with Matt Damon playing an astronaut stranded on Mars. I bitched the whole way through it, criticising all the stupid stuff happening because it was scientifically impossible. Mind you, Albert Einstein once said that the likelihood of transforming mass into energy, by bombarding atomic nuclei, was akin to shooting birds at night in a country where there are few birds. The swift-brick Twitterati are traumatised by that thought.

There’s nothing like a bit of Gilbert and Sullivan to brighten your day. Their beloved operettas make light of various moral dilemmas faced by their characters. Similarly, the satire of Blackadder humorously explores historical social issues, many of them unpleasant. Plato was also a bit like that. He posed questions about morality through Socrates, his Republic protagonist, in a conversational rather than a didactic style, partly because he struggled to perfect any answers. I feel inspired to pose a morality question of my own, but I shall eschew operettas and aim for something between Blackadder and Plato … Now there’s a thought – Rowan Atkinson taking off Plato. If he ever does, I want royalties for the idea!

Stewkley Singers rise to a challenge. We enjoy it. We must do, because we’re still here after 20 years of being stretched to the limit, stamina- and talent-wise, by Our Jen, our delightfully demanding Musical Director.

Despite being a bookworm with a penchant for 18th and 19th-century literature, I’ve only ever read two Jane Austen novels. Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility . At school. I didn’t enjoy them that much. I remember skimming the romantic passages – never being one for chick-lit – and being bored by the soul-searching and self-reflection of the middle classes. First-world problems, Darlings. Get a life. I much preferred  1984 , Animal Farm , Lord of the Flies , Brave New World , On the Road , and bodice rippers my BFF found in her big sister’s secret hiding place.

Don’t ya think the title of this blog is redolent of a post-apocalyptic horror film? Personally, I think an alien bursting from my tummy might have been less gruesome than what actually transpired.

I don’t like people being rude and hurtful but sometimes it’s unintentional, and that takes the edge off their ‘sin’. I have to caveat my opening sentence because I’ve been known to put my foot in my mouth without thinking, often when trying to be witty or playful. In fact, ‘Riddles’ was my nickname (one of many) at school because of my propensity to try and say something funny about almost anything, and not because of a physical resemblance to the Batman character. If the latter were the case, then one of my friends should have been called ‘Penguin’. There I go again.

Book Review – Ipseity , by Charles Pither Published by köhlerbooks Available in paperback from Coles Books, Bicester ( https://coles-books.co.uk/ipseity-by-charles-pither-paperback ) Also available from Amazon in paperback, hardback and Kindle (  Amazon.co.uk : ipseity charles pither  )

The Nazis effected countless unconscionable evils during their tenure. One might, therefore, evaluate book-burning as a comparatively minor odious pastime. While this is an accurate description in absolute terms – burning books does not physically harm humans – symbolically, it is a far more sinister and destructive act than the facile throwing of combustibles onto hot coals might suggest.

The list of thankless tasks grows ever longer. It already includes being a farmer, parish clerk, weather forecaster, pot-hole repairer and unfairly maligned, little understood, teeth-permanently-gritted water company executive. To this inauspicious list, I’d like to add another one: Music Director.

Who would have thought that I, anyone, could develop such a vitriolic, pathological hatred of ice. Not dry ice, ice cream, ice crystals, iced cakes, ice bergs, ice rinks … but ice cubes. If I never see another ice cube again, I’ll be deliriously happy, except I’ve got another fortnight to go.

I remember my excitement several years ago when it was announced that Stewkley Singers would be performing Mozart’s Requiem for our spring concert. Not sure which year it was – it was pre-Covid so timing’s all a bit of a blur really. A Requiem is traditionally a ‘Mass for the Dead’ from the Medieval Church, with the usual prayers and exhortations (e.g., Kyrie Eleison; In Paradisum) to give comfort to departed souls. Come the actual concert, it was a wonderful, novel experience: the Sanctus uplifting and the Lacrimosa incredibly moving.

With apologies to Freddie Mercury et al. When I’m not Zooming, Teamsing, Skyping or Sleeping, I like background music. I need background music. It’s at once company and comfort. Mostly it’s classical, but Hubby likes nostalgic pop and Greatest Hits Radio, until they sink so low as to air Fearful Sharkface. Then it’s a race to the off-button or, more apt for FS, the F off button.

I recently remembered that a blog-fan had suggested I write something about a well-known passage from the Old Testament. What prompted my Total Recall was attending Sunday morning Chapel at my old college, with a thumping hangover and an unwelcome surprise. The surprise was that instead of a sermon, the chaplain announced that we would have a group discussion about the two readings (from Acts and Luke). Given that there were only four of us in the congregation, any silence from me would be well-noticed. I usually have an opinion about everything, even the Bible, but that morning I didn’t feel too bright, or brave. As it happens, I managed to hone in on the language as being too negative for the message and would either confuse or demotivate devotees. That thought seemed to floor everyone, which means it was either an excellent point or a really daft one.

Given that I can’t get the blessed music out of my head, day or night, awake or asleep, I might as well blog about it and compound the agony or, should I say, “the double agony of man”. I shouldn’t describe it as agony, to have something of such sublimity playing with my head like an ethereal pinball machine but, honestly, if ever the adage ‘less is more’ should apply, it’s with the rattling around of this piece of work. And what a piece of work it is.

I’ve been struggling with my latest blog. Since Easter weekend! That’s usually a sign I should abandon it and start something new, but on this occasion I was so irritated, I had to get back on an even keel by flushing all the cr-p out of my system, a bit like a textual enema.  Most discussions I have with those who hold opposing views, either in the pub or by email, are constructive, productive and enlightening. Where I struggle is when, as happened on Good Friday, I'm confronted with statements akin to ‘the Earth is flat’ or ‘1 + 1 = 3’ and the more I - politely - present my iron-clad facts and logic, the more I'm dissed, impolitely. There's only one conclusion: They can’t handle the truth! That’s my First Favourite Frase, with apologies to Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men.