Martin Fone's Blog, page 248
September 26, 2018
Book Corner – September 2018 (4)
A Room with a View – E.M Forster
Forster’s A Room with a View is a wonderful book and I enjoyed it even more second time round than I did forty years ago. Published in 1908 it was his third novel. Set in Italy and England it can be read as a conventional love story – should Lucy Honeychurch follow her heart, if only she really knew what it was, or hitch herself to a boring, conventional chap? – but it is also a delightfully withering attack on the mores of Edwardian society.
This book can be seen as a coming of age story and one that highlights the transformation of women’s role in society. The forward behaviour of the lower class George Emerson in Florence – good God, the bounder only went to kiss her – throws her into confusion, a direct assault on her rather prudish, Victorian set of values. Almost on the rebound, she attaches herself to the conventional ie boring and controlling Cecil Vyse. As the second part of the book progresses, Lucy’s mind is in turmoil. Has she done the right thing? The efforts of her chaperone, Charlotte Bartlett, and Emerson’s father persuade her otherwise and a disastrous liaison is terminated.
Surely one of the key passages is this from Chapter 16; “This desire to govern a woman – it lies very deep, and men and women must fight it together… But I do love you surely in a better way than he does.” He [George Emerson] thought. “Yes – really in a better way. I want you to have your own thoughts even when I hold you in your arms.” It highlights the change in the way that men, at least some, were beginning to see women and is in stark contrast to the conventional Vysian approach. Reading it today many women may blanche at the rider but at the time it was a real step forward.
Not for nothing is the book called A Room with a View. On arriving in Florence and at the Pension Bertolini run by an eccentric cockney landlady, Lucy and Charlotte bemoan the fact that they have been allocated rooms without the promised view of the River Arno. To stop their “peevish wranglings” Emerson senior offers to swap rooms. This provokes a bout of debate about the propriety of accepting the offer – I would have withdrawn it straightaway – but the two females eventually accept and get their rooms with a view.
Perhaps the only passage where Cecil Vyse shows a scintilla of self-awareness also features a room, albeit a figurative one; “When I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!” To her surprise, he seemed annoyed. “A drawing-room, pray? With no view?” “Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?” Just as a room without a view of the Arno was unacceptable to Lucy in Florence, so, we are meant to assume, a chap who is likened to a room without a view is not the right one for her.
The book has some glorious moments of comedy. Forster skewers the social mores of the middle classes and the ignorant British tourist abroad whose aesthetics are dictated by the pages of their Baedeker guides. Lucy buys a postcard of the Birth of Venus but thinks that the naked Venus rather spoils the picture.
And some of the minor characters are wonderful – the ostentatious novelist, Miss Lavish, the jettisoned copy of whose story of her time in Italy opens up a whole can of worms, the chaplain, Mr Eager who is rude to Italians and the Miss Alans, the progenitors of the current crop of grey-haired world travellers.
The dialogue is crisp and sharp, the descriptions are acute and the book progresses at pace. It is no wonder that this book is regarded as one of the finest in English literature.
September 25, 2018
An Eye For An Eye Will Only Make The Whole World Blind – Part Eleven
Migingo Island
Lake Victoria is the world’s second largest freshwater lake – Lake Superior is the largest – and with a surface area of 68,800 square kilometres, is Africa’s largest. In the lake, about 3 hours by boat from the Kenyan shore and twice the journey from Uganda, there is a little archipelago of three islands, Migingo, Ugingo, which lies 660 feet to the east of Migingo, and Pyramid Island, two kilometres to the south.
Migingo is nothing much to shout about. It is a rock, barely 2,000 metres in size and was barely inhabited. No one really cared about it or paid it much attention, least of all as to who actually owned it. But that all changed in 2002. Aerial photographs from the time show a mass of shanty buildings, nestling cheek by jowl on the rock and a population, at its peak, of around 500. Ownership now became an issue and sparked a bitter dispute between the Kenyans and Ugandans.
Why the change?
Well, it is all to do with a fish, known locally as mbuta aka Nile perch. It grows to around 2 metres in size and can weigh upwards of 200 kg. It is not a native to lake Victoria, it was thought to have been introduced in the 1950s, possibly by the Ugandans, and it has had a devastating effect on the local environment as it is a voracious predator, devouring all before it. But it is also very tasty itself and is much sought after by restaurants in Europe and elsewhere. Local fishermen who land a mbuta can earn far more than they can from their normal catch.
When news broke in 2002 that Migingo was an ideal spot to catch mbuta, it caused a stampede in much the same way as news of a gold find did back in the 19th century. Fishermen built lean-tos on any space on the island they could find and fished the bejeebers out of the lake. Those who were successful earned sums beyond their wildest dreams. Migingo made a belated appearance on the radar screens of the Kenyan and Ugandan governments and a dispute broke out over who actually owned the rock.
The majority of the fishermen who crowded on to rock were Kenyan and it always had been assumed by anyone who paid the island any attention that it belonged to Kenya. But the Ugandans, now that there was some lucrative revenue to be derived from the island, begged to differ and despatched a squad of police to erect and fly their flag. The Kenyans in response despatched their police to tear the offending flag down and install their own. But when they got to the island, they encountered 60 Ugandan marines spoiling for a fight. Fortunately, wise heads prevailed and a sort of solution to the issue was agreed.
Under the legal concept of Uti possidetis, countries emerging from colonial rule retain the territory they held upon gaining independence. We have seen elsewhere how this causes problems when the colonial masters, as the Brits were when they turned their finely tuned minds to the Kenya-Uganda border in 1926. After all, who cared about a few small rocks in the middle of a lake? The mbuta were also oblivious of the niceties of international boundaries. They bred in the shallow Kenyan littoral waters and migrated to the deeper waters around Migingo.
Even before the settlement, Kenya owned just 6% of the lake but dominated the mbuta trade, whilst Uganda, which owned 43%, were minnows in comparison. The resolution to the dispute reflected economic power – Kenya gained ownership of the rock but Uganda has claim to the surrounding waters. This still means that Kenyan fishers need permission to fish in Ugandan waters.
Borders are tricky things but I’m not sure the fish care.
September 24, 2018
The Streets Of London – Part Seventy Eight
Jermyn Street, SW1
There was a time if I felt a bit flush and fancied a decent shirt or tie when I would go down to Jermyn Street, the traditional home of some of the best gentlemen’s outfitters that London could offer. Those days have long gone. Running parallel to Piccadilly in the north and Pall Mall in the south, Jermyn Street joins St James’s Street at its west end and Haymarket, after crossing over Regent Street, at the eastern end.
The street takes its name from Henry Jermyn, the Earl of St Albans, who leased the land from the trustees of Henrietta Maria, the erstwhile wife of Charles I, in 1661. The street first appears in the rate books of St Martin’s in 1667 as Jarman Streete, by which time there 56 entries, of which 36 relate to the north side. Some symmetry had been restored by 1675 when 108 names were recorded, 54 on each side. John Ogilby and William Morgan’s Survey of London as rebuilt by 1676 shows that the building of houses had been completed on both sides of the street by then.
But there was one major obstacle for residents. There was no access either to St James’s Street or Haymarket, where the street ended in the east at the time. This was a bit of a bummer and could not have been by design but perhaps was a testament to the expense that would have been involved in purchasing properties in the two main thoroughfares just to knock them down.
By 1746 a solution of sorts had been found, John Rocque’s map showing a narrow opening, labelled Little Jermyn Street, which led on to St James’s Street. It was only around 1819 when John Nash was planning New Street, later renamed as Regent Street, that the western end of Jermyn Street was widened and some houses were knocked down to facilitate access to Haymarket that the problem was resolved. One wonders quite how they coped for so long.
The inconvenience clearly did not put Sir Isaac Newton off from living there. He lived in number 88 – it is still standing – shortly after it was built in 1675 and then at number 87, which doesn’t. About half way down Jermyn Street in the space running parallel with Piccadilly is to be found the splendid Wren church that is St James’, once the most fashionable church in London in its day.
The church seemed to mark a social divide in the street. Most of the houses which had the highest rateable value were to be found to the west of the church whereas the further east you went, values declined, perhaps because of their proximity to St James’s Market. The eastern part of the street seemed to consist of shops with lodgings above them. The poet, Thomas Gray, stayed in lodgings above Roberts’s, the hosiers, and Frisby’s, the oilman.
As well as purveyors of gentlemen’s luxury goods, you will find the oldest cheese shop in London, Paxton and Whitfield, which has been going since 1797, although I believe the cheeses are newer. The perfumier, Floris, is also worth a look, some of the display cases having been taken directly from the Great Exhibition of 1851.
A famous character at the turn of the 20th century was Rosa Lewis, upon whom the TV series the Duchess of Duke Street was loosely based. She ran the Cavendish Hotel, where she was famed for her culinary skills and what was termed as her open-minded hospitality. She is credited as being the originator of the saying “It doesn’t matter what you do in the bedroom as long as you don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.”
Oh, and you will find London’s smallest theatre there, the 70-seater being unimaginatively called Jermyn Street Theatre. It occupies what were the staff changing rooms at the Spaghetti House restaurant.
A fascinating street, even today.
September 23, 2018
Balls Of The Week (3)
I stumbled across the World Testicle Cooking Championships a bit late this year but it will definitely be in my diary for next year.
Held in Lipovica, deep in the Serbian countryside at the beginning of September, around twenty teams from around the world compete to produce the tastiest testicle dish, in pursuit of the coveted Balls Cup, now in its 15th year.
All the entries were blind tasted by a panel of three judges, including a plucky Australian woman, Philomena O’Brien, and the winners, retaining the title they won last year, were a local Serbian team featuring Milos Kojanic. Special commendations went to a group of Japanese curry makers and a team of French restauranteurs whose menu included bulls’ testicles with foie gras and chocolate “salty balls”.
Grey in colour and with the texture of kidneys, testicles may not be to everyone’s taste but according to aficionados they have aphrodisiac qualities.
The award ceremony concluded with a display of flares and fireworks and then the party began. I wonder if the testicles got to work!
September 22, 2018
Newspaper Of The Week
What’s in a name?
Quite a lot, it would appear, if it is Uranus. A collection of shops along the southern edge of the famed Route 66 in Pulaski County in Missouri goes by this name. Manna from heaven to marketeers, it would seem.
The website claims that “There is a lot to do in and around Uranus” and the fudge shop, the only establishment I would set foot in, regales their clientele with the information that “the best fudge comes out of Uranus.”
The area’s local newspaper, the Waynesville Daily Guide, has recently closed down, another victim to the impact that social meejah and the internet has had on local organs. Spotting a hole in the market, the self-styled mayor of Uranus has announced that a new paper, the Uranus Examiner, will be launched, the first edition scheduled for 15th October.
Louie Keen, whose brain child it is, has not gone so far as to promise that it will lead the way in scoops and get to the bottom of local issues but I’m sure it will and it will be regular.
Civic pride, embarrassment at the amusement value of the name of the hamlet and just a basic lack of a sense of humour has meant that news of the proposed journal has created a bit of a shit storm in the locality.
A shame really as I think the name has a ring to it.
There is no such thing as bad publicity. I wish it every success.
September 21, 2018
What Is The Origin Of (198)?…
Break a leg
There was a time when I used to consort with musos and thesps. Just before they mounted the stage they would often exhort each other to break a leg, meaning good luck or give it your best shot. It always seemed to me to be a strange thing to say, although a broken leg would inconvenience an actor more than a musician. Where did it come from?
According to that inestimable collector of etymological gems, Eric Partridge, break a leg was used in around 1670 to mean to give birth to a bastard child. Quite why it meant that is mystifying and while I have not been able to track down the usage to see if the context would give us any clues, there is no reason to disbelieve him. But its usage was rare even at the time and it is difficult to see why the artistic brigade would choose to resurrect that particular meaning.
In 1937 the Evening State Journal from Lincoln, Nebraska, commented rather wistfully; “with all the break-a-leg dancing there are many who still warm to graceful soft shoe stepping.” There is little doubt that break-a-leg in this context meant strenuous as it did in a rather patriotic boast in Indiana’s The Hammond Times from 1942; “Whatever the army or navy want, the Continental Roll [and Steel Foundry] will turn out … Or break a leg trying.”
Some etymologists point out that break a leg could be a corruption of the Hebrew “hatzlakha u-brakha” which means success and blessing. It is not inconceivable given the Jewish diaspora from Mitteleuropa to English-speaking countries, the propensity of speakers for whom English is their native tongue to mangle foreign phrases and the penetration of people of the Jewish faith into the entertainment industry.
We should also add into the mix a bit of Second World War slang, popular with the Luftwaffe, “Hals und Beinbruch” which loosely translates as break your neck and leg. They often did. However, it is unlikely to be the origin of our phrase, given the pre-war usage noted above. But if it owed its origin to the Hebrew blessing, it would in itself be a fascinating and astonishing bit of Semitic cultural cross-pollination.
The earliest reference to break a leg in a theatrical context, at least in print, seems to be as late as 1948. In an article entitled Ask the Gazette in the Charleston Gazette, the anonymous respondent, when asked to enumerate acting superstitions, includes “Another is that one actor should not wish another good luck before a performance but say instead ‘I hope you break a leg.” This almost certainly means that the phrase was in use in speech well before then but precisely when is hard to pin down.
It seems that the phrase is a variant of the usage of break a leg as doing something strenuously or with vigour which may in turn just come from the Hebrew blessing.
What it almost certainly means is that we can dismiss some of the more fanciful suggestions that have arisen over the years such as performing so well that you have to bend your knee to bow or curtsey to lap up the applause or to stoop to pick up the coins the ecstatic audience have thrown on to the stage. Nor is it likely to refer to the aspiration that this performance will secure the actor their big break nor the act of getting on to the stage, even though the side curtains were known as legs. And certainly not the invocation of the spirit of that famous one-legged actress, Sarah Bernhardt, nor John Wilkes Booth who broke his legs when jumping on to the stage after shooting Abraham Lincoln.
But then I may be wrong. That, after all, is the fascination of etymological researches.
September 20, 2018
Gin O’Clock – Part Forty Seven
It’s been a while since I had some Old Tom Gin. I have already explained its history and where it sits in the gin spectrum before so I won’t bore you with this again. The temptation to rediscover the delights of this style of gin – Winston Churchill preferred it because he deemed it not as dry as London gin and not as sweet as genever – was too great when I was perusing the amply stocked shelves of the Constantine Stores, a testament to the depth and breadth of the ginaissance. So to complete my sextet I chose a bottle of Gin Lane 1751 Old Tom Gin.
The story behind the Gin Lane 1751 brand is interesting. It is a collaboration between a group of veterans from the drinks industry with a passion to recreate the authentic styles of Victorian gin known as the Bloomsbury Club, and a distiller, Charles Maxwell, of Thames Distillers who are to be found in the Clapham district of London. The name is redolent of the history of gin, Hogarth’s famous print of the suffering caused by gin and the Act of that year which, inter alia, prohibited distillers from supplying the hooch to unlicensed sellers and forced the hoi polloi to take up beer and tea instead.
There are four gins from the Gin Lane 1751 stable – I’ve featured their Victoria Pink Gin before – and they all have the same staple ingredients, the difference in strength and taste being down to adjustments in the quantities of each in the mix and their relativities. The front label on the slightly dumpy bottle helpfully lists the botanicals which have been added to the 100% neutral spirit base – cassia bark, angelica, Sicilian lemon, coriander, orris root, Seville orange, juniper (of course) and star anise.
These days there are a couple of ways that distillers achieve the sweetness that is the essential characteristic of the Old Tom style, namely the use of sweeteners or, alternatively, deploying botanicals to give the illusion of sweetness. It is the latter route that Gin Lane 1751 has chosen to go, using two elements.
The first is star anise and the recipe requires the distillers to turn it up to number 11 on the dial. For those unfamiliar with the spice, it is a staple of Chinese cooking, combining a strong anise flavour with an aroma not unlike liquorice, and is often used as an alternative to cinnamon. If you’ve drunk some pastis, you will have had some. The other element used to up the sugar content is refined sugarcane.
Removing the artificial cork stopper the immediate sensation is one of juniper – always a good sign – and citrus. To the taste the spirit, whilst lighter and less intense than a London Dry, is a complex mix of juniper and pepper with the sweeter elements coming to the fore as you roll the liquid around in your mouth. The aftertaste, at least to me, was a little on the sweet side. Perhaps the dial should have been set to 10 for the star anise.
That said, it was a refreshing drink and a welcome option to have in the ever burgeoning gin cabinet.
Until the next time, cheers!
September 19, 2018
Book Corner – September 2018 (3)
Lock No 1 – Georges Simenon
It is bewildering to keep up with Simenon. He wrote 76 novels featuring his French sleuth over a period running from 1931 to 1972. This is the eighteenth issued by Penguin as part of their excellent series of new translations, but it was published originally in 1933. At least Penguin have reverted to a title that directly translates the French original – it has appeared in English under other names such as The Lock at Charenton and Maigret Sits it Out.
One of the strange things about the book, which, frankly, is not one of Simenon’s best, is that Maigret is retiring in a few days’ time. This gives the tale what dramatic tension it has, as both Maigret and the malefactor know that the clock is ticking.
The action is set in the south-eastern suburb of Paris, Charenton, where one man is stabbed and left to drown and three others are hung. The key to the gruesome chapter of events and the one fascinating character in the story is Ducrau, the wealthy owner of most of the local industry and transportation. He is an obnoxious character, who goes out of his way to be obnoxious to his employees, his neighbours and his family.
Although it does not take great detective powers to work out that Ducrau is the key to what has gone on, Maigret plays a canny, waiting game, getting close to the man, even receiving a post-retirement offer of employment from him. Maigret, though, is wearing him down until he cracks.
The highlights of the book are Simenon’s evocative and atmospheric descriptions of the waterfront and a fine psychological sketch of a rich man who has it all but is bored. The climax of the book is surprising, although it sort of fits the picture of Ducrau that Simenon was painstakingly building up.
Maigret – Georges Simenon
The 19th in the series, published originally in 1934, has also appeared in English under the title, Maigret Returns. It also sees Simenon return to form.
By now Maigret is enjoying retirement in the Loire but he is summoned by his sister-in-law to try to extricate his nephew, Philippe Lauer, from a charge of murdering a night-club owner, Pepito Palestrino. Maigret is on a sticky wicket as he had found his naïve and clod-hopping nephew a job in the police and has no official authority. He also rubs up against the jealousy of his successor, Chief Inspector Amadieu. But Maigret does command some loyalty, not least from his faithful and diligent former assistant, Sergeant Lucas.
With these ingredients, Simenon constructs a rip-roaring story, full of suspense and action. Maigret is portrayed as almost a comic character, unable to dictate events and powerless to follow his intuition directly. Instead, he does what he does best, observe and drawing on his vast database of human characteristics and foibles, is eventually able to get to the bottom of what is a gangland dust-up straight out of central casting and exonerate his nephew. He even gets to earn the grudging respect of Amadieu.
This is definitely a book that Maigret aficionados will enjoy and is also a good entry point, albeit a slightly bizarre one given that the detective’s career is seemingly over, for those keen to find out what the fuss is all about.
September 18, 2018
A La Mode – Part Ten
Panniers or side hoops
It was the height of fashion, particularly in the 18th century, amongst women, especially those of noble birth, to wear enormous, highly decorated dresses. The bigger, more voluminous and decorative they were, the greater they enhanced the social status of the wearer, not least because the expanse of material required and the time and effort to make them made them heavy on the purse.
Decorative external fabrics are one thing but they need a firm structure over which to stretch and this was the job of an astonishing feat of engineering known as panniers or side hoops. Worn as undergarments, their purpose was to extend the width of the skirt whilst leaving the front and back relatively flat. This was achieved by having a large stuffed sack or bag which hung down from each hip so that they stood out from either side of the waistline. They resembled the wicker baskets slung over mules, from which they took their name, pannier being French for a basket. The undergarments were made from a variety of materials including whalebone, wood, metal or reeds.
The name may be French, but the fashion probably originated from Spain in the 17th century, if some of the portraits by Velazquez are anything to go by. It then spread to France, being popular in the latter years of Louis XIV’s reign and then to the rest of Europe. Panniers were adopted in England, it was thought, around 1710.
Panniers varied in size depending upon the size of dress they were supposed to support, the largest panniers being reserved by noblewomen for special occasions. But this strange form of undergarment descended the social scale, servants wearing more modest structures. For many they helped create the perfect female form, wide busts and hips with a thin waist.
There were some drawbacks to wearing a pannier. Not only were they uncomfortable but they hampered mobility. Because the emphasis was on width – they could increase the width of a dress by several feet – it meant that two women wearing the things couldn’t get through a door at the same time or sit together on a couch. Some architectural modifications had to be made to accommodate the fashion, including the widening of doors and the development of curved balustrades.
For some men, the opportunity to pour scorn on this mode of dress was too great to let pass. A contributor to the Gentleman’s magazine, in March 1750, really went to town. “Every person we meet, every post we pass, and every corner we turn, incumber our way, and obstruct our progress. We fit in a chair hid up to our very ears on either side, like a swan with her head between her lifted wings. The whole side of a coach is hardly capacious enough for one of us. We go up a pair of stairs, as if we were pushing some great burden before us”.
On the face of it, Jack Lovelass launched a stout defence in his The hoop-petticoat vindicated, published in 1745, claiming that the fashion accessory was a boon to society, “finding Work for a great Number of Hands that would otherwise be unemployed.” I can’t , though, help thinking his tongue was firmly in his cheek.
The pannier had a good run for its money but the upset of the French Revolution and the move to crinolines and then bustles saw this rather bulky undergarment fall out of favour.
September 17, 2018
Double Your Money – Part Thirty Three
Oscar Hartzell (1876 – 1943) and the Sir Francis Drake Association
One of life’s many mysteries is what happened to Francis Drake’s loot. After all, he was an indefatigable pirate. But when he died of dysentery in 1596 without heirs, his not inconsiderable fortune seemed to vanish into thin air. From time to time bounty hunters would emerge, claiming direct descent to the English adventurer, but were unable to prove their claim. Where there is a pot of gold to be had, there is ample opportunity for a spot of financial skullduggery.
Around 1919 a couple of minor fraudsters persuaded an Iowan woman out of $6,000 by selling her shares in a scheme to retrieve Drake’s fortune. The unfortunate woman happened to be the mother of Oscar Hartzell. Rather than feel sympathy for his mother’s plight, Oscar was more intrigued by the con, cut himself into the action and moved it on to an industrial scale.
Thousands of individuals who shared Sir Francis’ surname began to receive letters ostensibly from the Sir Francis Drake Association, a cod society set up by Hartzell. The contents of the letter were stunning. Drake’s fortune, estimated at being between $22 and $400 billion – Hartzell gave full rein to his fancy here – was tied up in the English probate system. In order to cut the legal Gaudian knot, funds of around $2,500 a week were required. For every dollar invested a return 500 times the amount would be guaranteed, once the money had been prised from the lawyers.
Odds of 500 to 1 were too good to miss and thousands took the bait. Indeed, so successful was the mailshot that Hartzell opened the scheme to others who did not share the pirate’s surname. In all Hartzell had around 70,000 subscribers. To keep the momentum going, he recruited agents who toured the country recruiting subscribers and issued newsletters giving updates on how his negotiations with the British authorities were going.
Rather unsportingly the British revealed in 1922 that there wasn’t any money while the FBI, after extensive investigations, revealed that what money Drake had probably went to his second wife, Elizabeth. But odds of 500 to 1 were too good to ignore and anyway Hartzell was a man on a mission, wasn’t he?
In around 1924 Hartzell moved to England to be closer to the action or so he claimed. In reality, he was living the life of old Riley at the expense of his subscribers. When funds were running short, he would tap his subscribers for more cash. And generally they coughed up, his scam lasting an incredible 15 years and generating around $2 million of funds.
But all good things must come to an end. In 1933 Hartzell was deported back to the US and was up before the beak on charges of mail fraud. Incredibly, so convinced that Hartzell was the man to make them rich were his subscribers – bear in mind it was the Depression era when people were desperate for a lucky break – that they raised a further $350,000 to fund his defence costs.
They may have had faith in Hartzell but the court didn’t, finding him guilty and sentencing him to 10 years in Leavenworth Penitentiary in north-east Kansas. He never left, dying in jail in 1943, by which time Hartzell actually believed that he was Francis Drake. In the year that he was being tried Hartzell’s agents collected a further $500,000 in subscriptions and some of his investors believed to their dying day that they were in for a share of Drake’s billions.
But as the wise always say, if it looks too good to be true, it is.
