Martin Fone's Blog, page 287
August 6, 2017
Bender Of The Week (4)
Heard the one about seven priests walking into a pub? They entered the City Arms in Cardiff – it sold a decent pint of Brains SA when I last went there – dressed up in their full clerical gear. As the Church of England has recently voted to let priests dress down and ditch their robes for services, the bar man naturally thought they were a stag party. The City Arms is one of those pubs, thankfully there are a few around, that ban stag parties and so the holy septet were shown the door, all the while protesting their innocence.
The story has a happy ending as the pub’s manager realised the mistake and chased after them. The priests, who were celebrating the elevation of two of their party to the deaconship, were invited back for one on the house, an offer which they gratefully accepted. The assembled topers celebrated this act of charity by breaking out into applause. One of the ranges of beers in the Brains portfolio is called the Rev James and, inevitably, one of the party was a certain Rev James.
The manager’s place in heaven has been secured!
Moral of the story – if you want a free pint in the City Arms, dress as a priest.
Filed under: Humour, News Tagged: Brains SA, Church of England allows priests to dress down, Ciry Arms in Cardiff, Rev James Beer, seven priests refused a drink in Cardiff pub
August 5, 2017
Position Of The Week
My latest book, Fifty Curious Questions – now available via Amazon and all good booksellers (there is a distinction) – seeks to answer some of those maddening questions that life throws up. One that escaped my attention was: Which is the most dangerous sexual position for men?
Fortunately, the improbably named International Journal of Impotence Research, a flop if there ever was going to be one, has come up with the answer, reporting the results of some research conducted in Brazil into the circumstances which led to penile fracture in 90 victims. The answer, it appears, is doggy style. Men aged between 20 and 30 are most likely to suffer this injury because of their fitness and firmer erections. Eighteen unfortunates fractured their penises in the UK last year, according to the ever helpful NHS.
For women, if this incident which came to my attention this week is anything to go by, it may be deciding their respective positions in a three-some. Two women were discussing the point when one of them toppled 10 feet from the balcony of a house in the German town of Bad Breisig. She broke bones in her feet and legs. Her friend (or rival) rushed down the stairs to help her, slipped and broke bones in her arms and neck. Both had a stay in hospital whilst the chap, presumably, was left wondering why they were taking so long.
A good book and cup of cocoa seems the safest option.
Filed under: Humour, News Tagged: Bad Breisig, Fifty Curious Questions, International Journal of Impotence Research, Martin Fone, most dangerous sexual position for men, penile fracture, woman falls from balcony after arguing about position in a threesome
August 4, 2017
What Is The Origin Of (139)?…
Blown to smithereens
This is a rather dramatic phrase which is used to describe the consequences of a large bang or explosion. Bits and pieces, shard and shrapnel flies everywhere and what you are left with is a rather charred bit of ground and some smoking remains. Smithereens mean tiny bits or shattered fragments.
Smithereens is an unusual word in that it is rarely, if ever, found in the singular. That makes sense as it would be a pretty poor show if a bang or explosion created only one fragment. It is also usually found as a noun in the company of rather aggressive verbs such as blown, bashed, dashed, smashed or shot to. Interestingly, D H Lawrence used it as a collective noun for birds in his collection of travel essays, Mornings in Mexico, published in 1927; “then someone mysteriously touched the button, and the sun went bang, with smithereens of birds bursting in all directions.” Works rather well, methinks.
As to its origin, we need look no further than the Irish Gaelic word smiodar, which means a piece or fragment, and its diminutive form, smidirin. Een in Gaelic is also a diminutive form as in colleen, a small girl. So smithereens technically comprises of two diminutives. Whether this is to reflect that the fragments are as small as they can be is unclear. When the word crossed the Irish Sea it had a variety of forms, the principal variants being smiddereens, which at least preserves the original root, and shivereens before it settled down to smithereens.
It has been used in its modern sense since the start of the 19th century at least. Francis Plowden, in his History of Ireland, published in 1801, records a threat made by Orangemen to a Mr Pounden. “If you don’t be off directly, by the ghost of William, our deliverer, and by the orange we wear, we will break your carriage in smithereens, and hough your cattle and burn your house.” Houghing was severing the tendons of animals. Charming!
Somewhere else things are blown to is Kingdom come. The origin of the phrase kingdom come is straight forward. It was used in the King James’ version of the Christian bible. in Matthew 6, where the disciple details the Lord’s Prayer; “Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. etc” The meaning is pretty straightforward too. Christ’s kingdom will come or return as many of the Utopian sects believed. Topographically it could reflect some utopian idyll to which the fragments are blown. This suggested interpretation doesn’t sit too well with the Greek text of Matthew where the verb eltheto is an imperative, aorist imperative if we are being pedantic. So the more correct translation should be let thy kingdom come.
There may be a temporal sense to the phrase. The thing has been blown so far away that it will take until the coming of Christ’s kingdom to retrieve it. I’m not convinced by that either and I’m left with the conclusion that it might just be a euphemism or, perhaps more accurately, a minced oath. These, like cor blimey, gadzooks, shoot and freaking, are designed specifically to avoid swearing.
Personally, I will stick with the Irish if I ever need to describe something that has been shattered into small pieces.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: D H Lawrence, minced oath, Mornings in Mexico, origin of blown to kingdom come, origin of blown to smithereens, shivereens, smiddereens, smidirin, smithereens of birds
August 3, 2017
Double Your Money – Part Twenty Two
The Great Diamond Mine Scam
The California gold rush from 1848 and the Nevada silver rush of 1859 fuelled the idea that the mountains and riverbeds of the western part of the United States was full of minerals just waiting to be found. The idea of finding a source of untold wealth appealed to prospectors and financiers alike. There was a ready audience for an audacious scam and where there is an opportunity someone will exploit it as this tale involving two failed prospectors, Philip Arnold and John Slack, shows.
Arnold was working in 1870 in San Francisco drill making company which used industrial-grade diamonds. By November he had acquired, or perhaps purloined, a bag of diamonds to which he added with some gems he acquired from some Native Americans. He and Slack, the latter playing the taciturn foil to his more volatile character, set out to convince the great and the good of California that they had found a diamond mine and here was the evidence.
The first investor the duo approached was George D Roberts who was not only keen to get involved but soon spread the word around the principal financiers in the city. In order to keep their potential investors sweet, Arnold and Slack offered to show them the site of the mine. They took up the offer and a mining engineer accompanied them to a remote spot in Wyoming where, lo and behold, the ground was sparkling with diamonds and other gems. A sample of the stones was taken and sent to the great New York jeweller, Charles Tiffany, who affirmed their authenticity and placed a valuation of $150,000 on them.
The investors who now included the likes of Baron Rothschild, Tiffany himself, General Dodge and George McLellan, were hooked, line and sinker, and persuaded the, doubtless reluctant, cousins to share their stake in the mine for $660,000 and formed their own mining company.
So how had the cousins fooled so many financiers so comprehensively in what the San Francisco Chronicle called, in 1872 when the truth was out, “the most gigantic and barefaced swindle of the age.” Greed, of course, makes us blind and there was a bit of crowd psychology at play. If your peers are doing something, you don’t want to miss out. But the clever part of Arnold and Slack’s scam was that they used real diamonds, firstly from Arnold’s former employer, and then when they had got some seed capital from the ever obliging Roberts, they went to London and bought $20,000 of rough diamonds and rubies, a prodigious amount, from a London diamond merchant called Leopold Keller. Some would be used to show the size of the find to date and the rest would be put in the ground for the investors to “find”.
This they duly did, the duo leading their mining engineer, Henry Janin, to an area laced with uncut diamonds. On the basis of this discovery, Janin wrote an optimistic report about the quantity of diamonds on the site, thus raising the stock price of the mining company. But trouble was afoot when the Government geologist, Clarence King, inspected the site. He knew that the range and variety of stones and gems could not possibly have co-existed on the same site in the same geological conditions. He concluded that the site had been “salted” , a term associated with tampering with ore to make it seem more valuable. And so it had. The land was worthless and the financiers lost their money.
The investors sued Arnold who settled out of court for around $150,000 – still a tidy profit. Slack became an undertaker.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: Charles Tiffany, Clarence King, Diamond Mine hoax of 1872, George D Roberts, Henry Janin, how the diamond mine hoax was accomplished, how the diamond mine hoax was discovered, Philip Arnold and John Slack, salting
August 2, 2017
Book Corner – August 2017 (1)
The Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker – Roger Hutchinson
The national census, which we are required now by law to complete every ten years – the next is scheduled for 2021 – is a boon for genealogists seeking to compile a family tree and desperate TV producers trying to make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear aka Danny Dyer. It gives a comprehensive snapshot of the population in the country – names, ages, professions, addresses, religion, ethnic make-up etc – at a given moment in time. But have you ever wondered how, when and why it started?
Me neither until I picked up Hutchinson’s intriguing book. In the late eighteenth century, when Britain was limbering up to do battle with Boney, no one knew for sure how big the population of the country was nor how many were of an age to be dragooned into the forces. There were conflicting theories. Thomas Malthus believed that the population was growing at such a rate that it would soon be no longer sustainable. Others, consulting the records of births and deaths in London only – a big mistake because people were mainly born elsewhere and came to London to work and die – thought that the population was decreasing at a phenomenal rate. The consensus was that the population was as low as 4 million and as high as 6.
The editor of the Commercial, Agricultural and Manufacturers Magazine, John Rickman, wrote an essay in the June 1800 edition suggesting that the answer to the question was to count the population. Having friends in high places, the idea found favour and he was given the task of getting on with it. The 1801 census, the first, was a bit of a haphazard affair and was by no means comprehensive but it allowed Rickman to suggest that the population was around 15 million – a shock to many.
The 1821 and 1831 censuses were better organised, more comprehensive and began to show the significant change in the shape of the country as the industrial revolution took hold and prompted a migration from country to town. What was particularly fascinating in Hutchinson’s entertaining survey of the history of the census is the change in the nature of work and some of the today obscure jobs that people owned up to. Indeed, some were so recherché that the census takers were provided with a lexicon of jobs.
Some of the job titles were euphemisms for other trades and shine a light on the mores of the times. Seamstresses were invariably sex workers and billiard-markers in a time when sports were mainly amateur were often professional sportsmen given sinecures in billiard halls. From around 1851 there was a noticeable trend amongst respondents to inflate the importance of their job – a curious form of one-upmanship.
The census also reflected the tragic events of the previous decade. The 1851 census showed a drop in population in Ireland of 1.6 million, because of the potato famine. The 1921 census, whilst showing a modest population increase from 1911, showed a marked drop in the male population and a significant increase in the number of widows.
As the census became an established part of the nation’s furniture, it was an obvious target for protest groups to hijack. The suffragettes organised a concerted campaign and many women declared their profession as slave. This was dutifully recorded by the census takers, perhaps with a tut and a shake of the head.
A fascinating study of the development of the nation from an unusual perspective.
Filed under: Books, Culture, History Tagged: Commercial Agricultural and Manufacturers Magazine, Danny Dyer, genealogy, John Rickman, Roger Hutchinson, slaves in UK in 1911, The Butcher the Baker the Candlestick Maker, the national census
August 1, 2017
I Predict A Riot – Part Twenty Five
Tannhauser and Paris 1861
The music of Wagner is not everyone’s tasse de the. It is certainly not mine ever since I shared a flat with someone who insisted that the perfect antidote for a hangover was a bit of Wagner at full blast. It never seemed to work for me. We have seen elsewhere in this series how music in general, and classical music in particular, can rouse wild spirits in the breasts of mere mortals and the story of Wagner’s Tannhauser is one which illustrates the dangers of meddling with established conventions.
In mid 19th century Parisian society, a sign of having made it was to be a member of the Jockey-Club de Paris. As well as horse racing, the members had an interest in the Opera and many had boxes, described by Marcel Proust as “many little suspended salons”, where they would enjoy the spectacle after a sumptuous repast. As you might expect, the delights of the kitchen outweighed anything that Apollo and his muses could conjure up. It was their custom to occupy their boxes at the start of the second act – they would still be tucking into their meal when the first act started – and to accommodate this, convention was that the ballet piece in every opera would begin when they were safely ensconced in their seats. Part of their enthusiasm for the opera was that it gave them the opportunity to gaze upon their favourite ballerinas.
In 1861 Richard Wagner was invited by Napoleon III at the request of Princess Pauline von Metternich, to stage a version of Tannhauser at the Paris Opera. Anxious to establish himself in Paris after being forced into exile after playing a minor part in the unsuccessful May uprising in Dresden, Wagner accepted the invitation. The Parisian tradition of having a spot of ballet in the middle of an opera allowed him to carry out extensive revisions to the piece of work which had first been performed in Dresden in 1845.
I won’t bore you with all the changes but the principal one for the purposes of our tale was the insertion of a ballet piece into the score. For artistic reasons, Wagner chose to insert it into Act One. After some 164 rehearsals, the first performance was given at the Salle Le Pelletier of the Paris Opera on 13th March 1861. The first act of the opera was well received but trouble started during the second part, once the well-oiled members of the Jockey Club had taken their seats and realised that they had missed the ballet. The second act was greeted with catcalls and whistles and the adverse reaction from the audience continued and grew in intensity during the third act.
For the second performance Wagner made yet more changes, dropping some of the bits that had provoked the most adverse audience reaction, but, if anything, the disturbances from the opera goers were worse. It is alleged that the Jockey Club members distributed whistles to the audience to signal their displeasure at the breaking of the ballet convention. Another casus seditionis was the unpopularity of Princess Pauline and the Austrians in general.
Wagner, perhaps wisely, chose not to go to the third performance where that audience gave vent to their feelings with gay abandon. On several occasions the performance was disrupted and it took upwards of fifteen minutes a time for order to be restored. The disturbances spilled out into the streets. Wagner gave up his attempt to establish himself in Paris and withdrew Tannhauser from public performance.
It might have been all so different if he had put the ballet piece into the second act but that’s artists for you.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: Jockey-Club de Paris, Marcel Proust, Napoleon III, Paris Opera, Princess Pauline von Metternich, Richard Wagner, Salle Le Petellier, Tannhauser, Tannhauser the Paris version
July 31, 2017
I Don’t Want To Belong To Any Club That Will Accept People Like Me As A Member – Part Forty
The Detection Club
I have made no secret of my love of detective fiction. Many observers regard the period between the two World Wars as the hey-day of this particular genre. In 1928 a group of the finest exponents of the art form, including Agatha Christie, Dorothy L Sayers and Anthony Berkeley established a club, the Detection Club, although formal records were only established in 1930. Anthony Berkeley was the prime moving force behind the initiative and the early dinners were held at his house. G K Chesterton, of Father Brown fame, was its first president.
Although it was a wonderful excuse for a splendid repast every now and again, it had some more serious aims. It allowed writers to swap tips and help each other overcome the dreaded block or to develop even more ingenious and innovative twists and turns to keep the ever eager readership on the edge of their seats. Their latest works were critiqued – that must have been a nerve-wracking ordeal for even the most self-assured and oft-published author. Rather like any other pukka club, members were elected by secret ballot, giving the established members the opportunity to vet and, if necessary, black ball a potential recruit. Recruits were supposed to have published two detective novels of merit.
Once their membership had been approved, the neophyte underwent a rather bizarre initiation ceremony which involved black candles, a voluminous red robe, originally designed for the portly Chesterton and a skull named Eric, although later forensic examination showed it was that of a female – Erica perhaps. In addition the new entrant was required to swear an oath, possibly written by Sayers. The oath required a response to this rather ponderous question, “Do you promise that your detectives shall well and truly detect the crimes presented to them using those wits which it may please you to bestow upon them and not placing reliance on nor making use of Divine Revelation, Feminine Intuition, Mumbo Jumbo, Jiggery-Pokery, Coincidence, or Act of God?” A simple assent would ensure entry into the hallowed ranks.
The Club, which acquired premises in London’s Gresham Street, sought to establish some rules of engagement to ensure that the reader was treated fairly, developing ten commandments which, on pain of expulsion, members were required to follow in their novels. These included mentioning the culprit in the early part of the story, precluding all supernatural and preternatural agencies and restricting the use of secret passages or rooms to one per story. The use of hitherto undiscovered poisons was verboten as was any appliance requiring a long and elaborate explanation. Cliché devices were to be avoided and the detective couldn’t commit the crime themselves.
The detective wasn’t allowed to be the beneficiary of any accident nor should they have some unaccountable insight which proves to be correct. Neither could they use clues which have not been brought to the reader’s attention when they are discovered. The detective’s accomplice cannot conceal any thoughts and should be of a lower intelligence than the reader. And twins or doubles can only be deployed if the reader had been carefully prepared to anticipate them.
As well as establishing this template, the Club members collaborated on a number of projects. The Floating Admiral, published in 1931, was a collaborative game of consequences with each of the twelve chapters written by a different member of the club. Each writer was required to write their portion with a definite solution to the crime in mind and couldn’t introduce new complications just to increase the complexity. To add to the fun, G K Chesterton wrote the prologue, Anthony Berkeley pulled the pieces together and each author was required to pen their solution to the mystery, each of which was published.
Ask a Policeman (1933) and Verdict of a Policeman followed a similar pattern and in 1930 radio audiences were entertained by The Scoop and Behind The Screen, which were collaborative detective serials.
The club is still in existence and continues to, sort of, police the genre.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: Agatha Christie, Anthony Berkeley, Dorothy L Sayers, G K Chesterton, the Detection Club, The Floating Admiral, the oath of the Detection Club, The ten commandments of the Detection Club
July 30, 2017
Job Of The Week (2)
Good to see the local job market is supporting our obese friends. Not sure how many 7.5 tonne drivers there are, though!
Filed under: Humour, News Tagged: 7.5 tonne lorry driver, amusing job adverts
Hobby Of The Week (2)
I am firmly in the camp that views golf as a long walk spoiled, a comment falsely attributed to Mark Twain but which seems to have been first used in print by H S Scrivener in 1903. As a sport it is slightly counter-intuitive in that the worse you are, the longer it takes. Usually, in competitive sports if you are a complete duffer, you are able to get off the field of play in pretty short order.
I can just about tolerate miniature golf aka crazy golf but I am not as obsessive as Richard and Emily Gottfried, whose exploits came to my attention this week. They have visited and played 743 miniature golf courses, from Cornwall to Loch Lomond and aim to finish the lot – there are some 800 in total – over the next twelve months. The only worm cast on the green is that more seem to be opening up – there were only 600 when they started – making their self-imposed task even more difficult.
It all began, as it often does, at Southsea in Hampshire in 2006 when the couple played a pirate adventure golf course there. Richard won a free game, they returned the next day and they were hooked.
As Emily commented, it was a way of “getting out and about the country.” As someone who once visited all the football grounds in England and Scotland, I can empathise with that.
Filed under: Humour, News, Sport Tagged: couple visiting all Britain's miniature golf courses, H S Scrivener, origin of a good walk spoiled, Richard and Emily Gottfried, Treasure Island Adventure Golf
July 29, 2017
Property Of The Week
The dearth of properties in our green and pleasant land is such that enterprising builders will cram a house into any available space. A property close to transport links is an added bonus and at first glance this newly built, two-bedroom terraced house in Langley Mills in Derbyshire, on sale for £140,000, seems just the ticket.
However, on closer inspection the bus shelter is right in front of the garden path, blocking the garden path. The only way you could get to or from your front door is by climbing over the garden fence.
The estate agents (natch) say that the bus shelter will be removed but as to when, who knows?
Filed under: Humour, News Tagged: bus stop prevents access to newly built house, Langley Mills
