ThreadZoomMash Celebrity Edition, Siddharta by Hermann Hesse In My Case, Plus Lots More Fascinating Contributions, 16 November 2020

Tonight, another of Rohan Candappa’s left-field ideas. Choose one page from any book of your own choosing; explain your choice and read out that page.

I railed against the Desert Island Discs idea a few months ago…

…do I even need to explain that “choose just one page to read” meets a similarly febrile emotional push-back in my mind.

But I quite quickly settled on Hermann Hesse as my choice of author. George Elliot and Hermann Hesse are the only authors about whom I decided, on reading one novel, that I simply must try to read everything this person wrote.

Hesse’s novels are extraordinary and quite exceptional. I commend all of his novels to you. Steppenwolf and The Glass Bead Game are mind-blowing, but possibly not the place to start with Hesse’s work.

My first Hesse read was Demian. I picked up that novel, pretty much by chance, in a remaindered bookshop on the Charing Cross Road in the mid 1980s. Some of the fictional conversations in that book reminded me of conversations I’d enjoyed with Anil Biltoo, the school pal with whom I went to Mauritius in 1979 and through whom I met Fuzz, the subject of my first ThreadMash piece.

Hesse’s evident fascination with Eastern philosophies and my desire to read more about them took me next to Siddharta. There are two parts to the book; I am going to read you the few hundred words that conclude Part One; a point at which Siddharta reaches a spiritual awakening such that he is, in a sense, reborn in Part Two.

I don’t personally believe in reincarnation, but I did feel a shiver down my spine while researching this preamble, when I read Hermann Hesse’s Wikipedia entry. Hesse died on 9 August 1962. That was the day that Anil Biltoo was born.

Anil Biltoo. Click here or the picture for the Project Gutenberg public domain version of Siddhartha in English

The Events Of The Evening

I went first, so (apart from a short introduction by Rohan before I did my bit), this piece is sequenced in running order sequence.

Kay went next. She read The Owl-Critic by James Thomas Fields, reading from a charming anthology she has kept from primary school. Kay might chime in with the details of the anthology, but I’m guessing it is out of print and hard to find. She had peppered the poem with musical notation as a child, which was a charming additional detail.

Flo read Last Of the MetroZoids by Adam Gopnik. It is a very moving piece about the art historian, Kirk Varnedoe, coaching a boys football team while dying of cancer. It is a very moving piece, which Flo read beautifully.

Next up was Jan, who (Rohan suggested) wanted to style herself as Constance DeVereaux this evening…perhaps an in-joke between “spice”. Anyway, Jan read from Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (another book available in the public domain through Project Gutenberg). She read the bit where Jo sacrifices her glorious head of hair to raise money for the family.

Ian Theodorson read a passage from East Of Eden by John Steinbeck (link is to Wikipedia entry, as the book is still in copyright). Ian preambled his reading by explaining some of the biblical references/allusions involved, not least the Cain & Abel story from the Old Testament.

Then a brief half-time discussion. The topic that got the most coverage was about Little Women and books of that kind, specifically whether there is an equivalent literary genre that helps young men to understand their romantic emotions. We concluded that there is seemingly no such genre.

We then had an actual half-time break, but there was no evidence of anyone eating cut up pieces of orange. Nor, mercifully, did Rohan try to motivate us with glib words and phrases such as “momentum”, “play as a unit”, “give it 120%” or “leave it all out there on the Zoom screen”.

There was then a euphemism-fest, using terms such as “recharging my gadget”, when it was clear that people wanted a toilet break.

I used that time as an opportunity to show those who remained my proud collection of decomposing Pooh.

When it comes to decomposing Pooh…if you’ve got it, flaunt it.

Rohan kicked off the second half by reciting the lyric of What A Fool Believes by Michael McDonald & Kenny Loggins. There’s a bit of involuntary threading in there, as Kenny Loggins also famously produced Return To Pooh Corner, including Loggins song House At Pooh Corner. It’s a fabulous lyric which I looked at a year or two ago with a view to giving it the troubadour treatment; I might just about be able to sing it now.

John read a nerve-jangling passage from Touching the Void by Joe Simpson. It is a heart-stopping true story about a pair of mountaineers in the Andes who survived a disaster in almost-impossible circumstances. It was made into a much-lauded documentary film some years after the book came out.

Jill read a passage from The Book Of Human Emotions by Tiffany Watt Smith. She read the piece about amae, a Japanese emotion which is hard to translate into English. “It means something like the pleasure that you get when you’re able to temporarily hand over responsibility for your life to someone else”, to quote Tiffany herself from this rather fascinating interview with her about the book.

Adrian read an hilarious piece from March Of the Lemmings: Brexit In Print & Performance 2016-2019 by Stewart Lee. The passage Adrian read was a sequence of thank you letters to brexity aunts for their brexity Christmas presents. I learnt that we should all have an Anderson shelter for Brexit; who knew?

Terry read a passage from The Big Book: Alcoholics Anonymous: The Story of How More Than One Hundred Men Have Recovered from Alcoholism, explaining after his reading, in no uncertain terms, that this book saved his life.

Geraldine read us three Robert Frost poems. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but it has dawned on me the morning after, that The Road Not Taken, one of Frost’s best known and most debated poems, is a fascinating echo of the East Of Eden “free will” debate regarding the Cain & Abel story from Ian T’s reading. Geraldine read one other poem the title/detail of which has escaped me (she might chime in with the title), plus The Gift Outright, which Frost recited in person at John F Kennedy’s inauguration.

Perhaps they should book Stewart Lee to recite some fitting words for the outgoing president at Joe Biden’s inauguration, if the narcissist-in-chief bothers to show up.

After the event, a few of us stuck around for some further discussion, although it soon descended into weird debates about matters such as the relative merits of Michael Mcdonald & Malcolm MacDonald, two people who are surely very hard to distinguish from one another.

I have had this problem myself in my time. Who hasn’t?

Just one more parting thought, brought to mind by the thought of stories we loved as children and our parents’ influence. I am blessed to still have many recordings of my parents reading to me. I have several still to go through and upload to Ogblog, but one in particular, from when I was five, remains charming and is a complete story. I uploaded it a few years ago and several friends told me that they have played it many times over to their children. Hare And Guy Fawkes by Alison Uttley:

A Virtual Gathering Of People Who Left Alleyn’s School In 1980, 12 November 2020

Blame Rohan Candappa.

Rohan Candappa: “I have another idea…”

Actually this was a very good idea. The face-to-face “40 years on” reunion had to be cancelled this summer, so Rohan figured we should have a “40 years on” virtual reunion through the good offices of Zoom instead.

Of course, back in the day, nobody used the phrase “back in the day”…

…and back then a Zoom was an ice lolly, not a meeting.

I paraphrase Rohan’s remarks in the form of a quote.

37 of us gathered, from a cohort of some 120. That’s about a third of us, which, 40 years on and with some of our cohort no longer with us…is a mighty impressive haul.

People joined from places as far afield as Ontario (Paul Deacon & Rich “The Rock” Davis), New Zealand (The Right Reverend Sir Nigel Godfrey), Phnom Penh (Andrew Sullivan), Australia (Neal Townley), Barcelona (Duncan Foord), Crouch End (Rohan Candappa) and Penge (somebody, surely?).

It seemed like a recipe for chaos, yet somehow the mixture of untrammelled chat and a little bit of structured “go around the virtual room for a memory each” worked surprisingly well.

Some of the people are friends I have seen relatively recently, one way…

…or another

…but many of the people present I had only corresponded with on FaceBook or not at all in the last 40+ years.

The array of memories was varied and fascinating. A lot of stuff about teachers, good, bad and (in some violent cases) especially ugly.

Some observations especially resonated with me and stuck in my mind. Paul Romain illustrated through readings from his first and last school reports that he was a keen scout at first, but by the end at least metaphorically semi-detached from the school…if not detached and several acres from the metaphorical school. That resonated with my experience.

It also brought back to me my lingering grudge against my late mum for throwing out my old school reports (and indeed all my juvenilia from that period apart from my diaries) on the spurious grounds that “no-one would ever want to look at that sort of old rubbish again”. When I challenged this assumption, by letting mum know that I was REALLY REALLY upset that she had done this, she said, “how was I supposed to know that you cared for that stuff?”. To which my simple answer was, “if you had asked me BEFORE you threw my things away, you’d have known.” No, I’m still not over it.

“Renée is an enthusiastic, diligent lass, but she sometimes allows her natural exuberance to mar her judgement”

I think it was Jerry Moore who held up some editions of Scriblerus (the Alleyn’s School magazine), threatening to scan and circulate some elements of them. I do hope he does that. David Wellbrook mentioned his first toe-dip into performing Shakespeare and the rather damning review Chris Chivers gave of his performance.

That all brought back to my mind my own somewhat involuntary performance in Twelfth Night, I think the year after David Wellbrook’s debut. I remember Mr Chivers’ Scriblerus review of my performance as Antonio; in particular I recall pawing over it on a train with my friend Jilly Black, trying to work out whether he was praising me or damning me with faint praise. I suspect the latter, but I would love to see the review again now that I am older and…well, just older.

I have to be honest about this; I really was not in the mood for a reunion come 19:30 on 12 November. I had received some horrible news just a couple of hours before the event; the sudden and totally unexpected death of a friend, Mike Smith:

Indeed I considered sending my apologies to the virtual reunion and spending the evening wallowing instead. But I thought better of doing that and Janie encouraged me to give the virtual meeting a go…I could always switch off the Zoom early if I really didn’t feel up to the gathering…

…anyway, I’m so glad I did join the group, even if I wasn’t entirely myself throughout the evening. It was great to see everyone and I learn that there is every chance that many of us will be doing it again.

I guess I need to dig out those diaries again and see what else I can find!

Desert Island Diatribe, A Performance Piece For ThreadZoomMash, Plus A Review Of the Evening,29 July 2020

Fuck you, Rohan Candappa.

Desert Island Discs? Desert Island frigging Discs!

Writing and performing at ThreadZoomMash can help us forget about the privations of lockdown?

How? By getting us to imagine the ultimate self-isolation, alone on some crappy desert island with JUST ONE poxy record? Even Roy Plomley and chums allow eight poxy records.

Look – I know that Desert Island Discs is a quintessentially BBC thing that people in Britain have loved for decades. A national treasure. I cannot deny the success of the genre. Nor can I deny its charm. Heck, I have often listened. I have often enjoyed the programme.

But I profoundly dislike the central conceit of the show. In particular the eight-record scenario leaves me feeling sceptical…or do I mean cynical…most times I listen to the show. Who can sum up their musical tastes and satisfy their thirst for music with just eight tracks?

I suspect that most guests go through a “style consultant” process, to help choose eight records that say enough about them to satisfy their fan base, while not turning too many people off them.  That’s why so many people chose some Beethoven and/or Mozart. Unless they are UK politicians, who relentlessly choose a bit of Elgar or Vaughan-Williams; just to prove how very English or British they are.

Actually, that thought about politicians has brought dissembling insincerity to the front of my mind. By gosh, Rohan – this topic choice for ThreadZoomMash reeks of BoJo or DomCum levels of hypocrisy.

After all, YOU are the fellow who recently wrote the lockdown piece, Spotify vs Top Of the Pops. YOU are the fellow who once wrote a live show entitled, “What Listening To 10,000 Love Songs Has Taught Me About Love”. In fact, while you, Rohan Candappa, indulged yourself piloting the latter show at the Cockpit in 2017, a riot kicked off on the surrounding Church Street & Lisson Green Estates. It’s a minor miracle that you and we, your long-suffering friends in the audience, survived to tell the tale.

Anyway, my point Rohan, is that you of all people, the “Spotify, Top Of the Pops, 10,000 love songs” dude, should know how depleting, how devastating, this “one song per island” idea of yours is.

Oh no, not I. I will survive, there, musically. Here is my survival plan.

My object is my trusty friend, Benjy The Baritone Ukulele.

My book, which admittedly has yet to be published…but publishing my choice of book is, frankly, the least you can do for me in these circumstances, is: “The Complete Works Of English Language Song, From The Year c1220 to The Year 2020”.  Ideally with chords & music as well as lyrics for the songs.

My one measly track will be a recording of my own mash-up masterpiece, helpfully spanning circa 800 years of English Language Song. It is entitled Mr Blue Sky Is Icumen In and it sounds like this:

MR BLUE SKY IS ICUMEN IN

Sumer is icumen in, the nymphs and shepherds dance
Bryd one brere, groweth sed and bloweth med
And don't you know, amarylis dance in green–ee-ee-een.

Lightly whipping o’er the dales, with wreaths of rose and laurel,
Fair nymphs tipping, with fauns and satyrs tripping
Mister Blue Sky is living here today hey, hey hey.

Mister Blue Sky please tell us why, you were retired from mortals sight, stars too dim of light.

Hey you with the angels face, bright, arise, awake, awake!
About her charret, with all admiring strains as today, all creatures now are merry…(merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry merry-minded).

Mister Blue Sky please tell us why, you were retired from mortals sight, stars too dim of light.

Hey there mister blue, who likes to love, lhude sing cuccu;
Nauer nu, ne swik thu, sing hey nonny nonny nu.

Mirie it is while sumer ilast, in darkness let me fast,
Flow my tears, farewell all joys for years,
Never mind, I joy not in early, I joy not in early bliss.

Mister Blue Sky please tell us why, you were retired from mortals sight, stars too dim of light.

Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba
Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba

Postscript: The Evening Itself

There were eight of us live on ThreadZoomMash. Rohan Candappa made a short introduction, using John Donne (No Man Is An Island) as a helpful segway into the evening’s pieces.

Possibly it was the Tudor/Jacobean connection that encouraged Rohan to ask me to go first this evening. Possibly he simply wanted to get his own back on me. Who could blame him?

Adrian’s piece followed mine; a really charming rite of passage piece about an evening in 1985 when a 15 year old Adrian was “picked up” and taken to a party by a lovely girl while Live Aid was happening elsewhere.

I guess the Desert Island Discs theme encouraged most of the group to reflect on their lives. Terry certainly did a bit of that, but couldn’t resist the idea of Dessert Island Discs, suggesting that one might be macarooned on a dessert island. Thanks Tel.

Ian Theodoreson made me feel bad about my quip about mendacious politicians choosing Elgar and Vaughan Williams, as Ian admitted that The Lark Ascending would probably be his solo record pick. Sorry Ian – I do not think of you as a mendacious anything; quite the opposite. I guess some people really DO like Nimrod and/or The Lark Ascending best of all.

But Ian’s story mostly focussed on a visit to the Albert Hall to see a Cream Reunion Gig in May 2005. Ian subsequently became convinced that Ginger Baker was making the passenger announcements on Loughton underground station between 2005 and his departure from this mortal coil in October 2019. It’s hard to disprove that theory from where I am sitting.

Jan’s piece was charming and delightful. It focussed on her choice of book: Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There, which Jan apparently read when still ridiculously young and before she read the book for which Looking Glass is the sequel, Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland. This I found fascinating as I do recall loving the earlier novel (Wonderland) as a small child but being perplexed and scared by the sequel. Jan’s made of robust stuff. Who knew? I don’t think Make Someone Happy by Jimmy Durante gets much business on Desert Island Discs these days, but Jan would chose it.

Kay also harked back to her youth and the ways she confused people by not conforming to their gender stereotypes. A beautifully constructed piece, full of Kay’s personality and culminating, with predictable hindsight, playing her choice of record, Rebel Rebel.

Geraldine’s poetic piece explored her young adult background; very different from any of ours. Somewhat earlier and in the USA. Evocative without being straightforward narrative, it can do with reading rather than describing, as my describing wouldn’t do it justice. I felt a little badly for the second time of the evening when Geraldine announced that her sole disc would be I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor, the central lyric of which I had flagrantly pinched as a bridge in my short piece.

Then Rohan read a wonderful piece by John Eltham, who unfortunately was unable to join us for the evening. Not a straight line narrative. Like many of the pieces, it had a rite of passage at its core, by which I don’t mean “passage” in a Night Boat To Cairo sense (although that was John’s choice of record), but in a Bildugsroman sense. It was a beautifully crafted piece. Much like Geraldine’s, it defies description or rather I couldn’t do it justice with description. It should be read.

If we’re lucky, I might be able to persuade some of the others, including Geraldine and/or John, to publish their pieces on Ogblog so readers can judge the pieces for themselves.

In John Eltham’s case in particular this is a huge credit to Rohan as well as John. I remember John saying to me only a few months ago that he didn’t have the confidence to write ThreadMash pieces. He has now written two superb pieces, both brimming with self-assurance and flourish. I’m genuinely impressed and delighted.

Rohan, of course, couldn’t resist closing off the evening with a masterful pun, linking his opening, John Donne, with his ending, which was reciting the Eltham piece, or, as Rohan put it, the piece “wot John done”. Perhaps we haven’t progressed as far from the schoolboy skits and word plays as I hoped.

Still, it was a tremendous evening. With thanks to everyone involved, not least Rohan, for making it happen.

An Authentic Tale Of New York, Virtual Threadmash Performance Piece, 13 May 2020

The challenge, set by Rohan Candappa, the doyen of Threadmash, was to write a piece inspired by one of three pieces of music Rohan sent to us.

I, along with most of the Threadmashers, chose New Amsterdam by Moondog. Here’s my piece.

I first came across Moondog’s music in the late 1970s, when I was buying up second hand albums at Record & Tape Exchange.  I talked in my first ThreadMash piece about my misadventure-ful date at R&TE with a young woman named Fuzz

…whose real first and second names are lost to posterity. I believe it was on that fateful day with Fuzz that I bought the sampler album, Fill Your Head With Rock, which included my first Moondog track, Stamping Ground.

In truth I paid Moondog’s music only occasional heed until 10-12 years ago, when Janie and I began exploring Jazz. But Moondog’s story has long fascinated me and I have always associated him and his music with New York.

Rohan’s choice of piece, New Amsterdam, is a case in point. New Amsterdam was her name, Before she was New York; New Amsterdam is a dame, The heart and soul of Big Apple city.

To my mind, Moondog’s music is the second most quintessential New York music.

So I was surprised, when I started researching this piece, to learn that Moondog was not a native New Yorker. Louis Thomas Hardin, known as Moondog, haled from Kansas. He moved to New York City at the age of 27 and lived there for only 30 of his 83 years. Moondog moved to Germany in the early 1970s, where he lived out his remaining decades. 

Of course this doesn’t take away from the fact that Moondog was known as The Viking Of 6th Avenue. Nor from the fact that Moondog’s music is unquestionably inspired by a glorious mixture of  New York City’s ethnic sounds. But authentic New Yorker, he wasn’t.

So, if Moondog is merely the second most quintessential New York sound ever, what, to my mind, is THE most quintessential?  Ah, well, that comes down to my own New York experience.

My first ever visit to New York was in November 1989 at the age of 27, the same age as Moondog when he moved to New York. Coincidence strongly links my New York timeline with Moondog’s; he made a rare visit to New York, for his last major gig there. that very month.

But my soundtrack of my first New York visit was not Moondog’s music; it was Pump Up The Jam. By Technotronic, featuring Felly.

It seemed to be played everywhere, all the time, while I was in New York. It is said to be the first hip-house hit and has been described as a dance masterpiece. Just listen to those amazing accents; New York, African-American Vernacular. That’s authentic, no?

No. When I returned to the UK with my copy of Pump Up The Jam proudly in hand and played it to my half-Belgian friend, Daniel Scordel, suggesting that it was THE New York sound, Daniel told me that his kid sister reliably informed him that Technotronic was a Belgian act.

Googling now informs me that Felly, the “featured artiste” was in fact a Congolese model who lip-synced on the video and posed for the cover of the Belgian record as a marketing ploy. The actual singer with the “authentic” New York accent was Ya Kid K, an androgynous-looking Congolese-Belgian woman, who was also a co-author of the song. Worse yet, the hip-house genre is said to cross-fertilise Chicago & London styles. Not New York.

In truth, the late 1980’s was not exactly a golden age for authentic popular music.  Consider the Eurodance chart topper just before I set off for New York, Ride On Time, Italian in this case; an even messier mix of lip-synching models in the vid

and samples “liberated” from uncredited artistes.

Walk right in, soul diva Loleatta Holloway; unsung hero, yet one of the most sampled singers of all time.

But now I must move on to my authentic tale of New York.

On the Sunday before I set off for New York, I went to the Barbican Hall.  The story of my chance encounter there with Rita Frank, our bizarre drive in the densest London fog I have ever seen and the coincidence that Rita turned out to live just a few blocks from the Manhattan apartment where I was about to stay, would be worth the price of admission to the Virtual Glad alone.

When I got to New York, Rita insisted that I allow her 20 year-old daughter, Mara, known as Moose, to be my guide. My adventures with Moose (and with other people) in New York are well documented on Ogblog and would also be worth the price of admission to the Virtual Glad alone.

I did have a holiday romance on that trip, but not with Moose – you need to read between the lines of that write up to find it. Instead, Moose was a superb guide; a charming & fun companion in New York.  We became firm friends. I resolved to return the guiding favour when Moose was due to come to London the following year.

But that favour was not to be returned. In June 1990, I was felled by a serious back injury; multiple prolapses in my lower back. Don’t talk to me about lockdown. This was a solo lockdown; my world got smaller for many months. Everyone else was out there having a good time while I was in excruciating pain, alone in my flat, rehabilitating.

It’s at times like those when you find out who your friends are. Many of my long-standing friends turned out to be true friends. So did Moose. Moose still wanted to see me. Moose would bring in shopping for me. Moose spent happy times with me in my confined world. Moose turned out to be an authentic friend.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. You recall the story of Fuzz, whose real first and second names remain a mystery.  Is Moose similarly obscure? Is this Harris bloke a specialist in befriending young women with monosyllabic nicknames, enabling them conveniently to vanish without trace?

In Moose’s case, we did lose touch with each other after she returned to the States, but I did know her real names and I knew where she lived.

So in late 2019, while writing up my New York adventures, Mr Google helped me find her. It took me about three minutes. Not bad, considering she now goes by her married name and has moved to California.

She has 24 children…Meet:

Felly Kilingi, former Congolese model…no no no…Meet:
…Loleatta Holloway, the late great unsung samples singer…no, no, no… Meet:

Mara Holtz.

Mara has 24 different children every year. Mara is a primary school teacher.

The next few lines are dialogue.

MARA: “I am so glad that you contacted me. I’ve thought about you over the years and wondered how you were doing…I’m amazed that you found me…It’s so nice to hear from you.”

ME: “I’m so pleased that you are glad to hear from me…Are you still known as Moose?

MOOSE: “…very few friends still call me Moose. However…I seemed to have accidentally developed a Moose themed classroom, so I usually end up with students calling me Professor Moose.”

MOONDOG: “No matter what name she goes under, I dig her deeply and no wonder, For she’s been lovely to me, And I’m the better for having met her”.

Laughter, Joy, Be Wakeful & Deep Thoughts On The Bus, Lockdown Videos Viewed Before Breakfast, 28 April 2020

I woke up this morning to find two video links in my e-mail inbox, which conjured up very different emotions.

Ian Pittaway, my early music teacher, having seen so many examples of video-conference-based music making in the past few weeks, was amused to find a seeming spoof of the genre…except that the following video was made years before Zoom and lockdown:

I laughed a lot.

In truth, some of the examples I have seen of lockdown music making have been very good indeed, while others have been unintentionally laughable.

Actually the best example of multi-part lockdown music-making I have seen so far came out quite early in the lockdown. Especially impressive because the supremely talented Peter Whelan, whom Janie and I saw at The Wig at the end of last year, really can play several instruments and sing in more than one register…

…so he performs this beautiful Bach Cantata all by himself, with his tongue only slightly in his cheek:

But the really thought-provoking video this morning came from Rohan Candappa. Rohan has now decided to vent his spleen at the UK Government’s mendacious attempt to claim success so far in the coronavirus pandemic, where all the evidence suggests that we have a great deal to learn in the UK if we are to emerge eventually from this crisis without additional self-inflicted damage. It includes a touching tribute to transport workers, who are among the forgotten heroes of the crisis.

Rohan’s short, beautifully-crafted monologue is entitled “Bus”:

This last piece won’t cheer you up, so you might want to go back to The Muppets and/or Peter Whelan after watching Rohan’s piece, to make yourself feel a bit better again.

That’s what I did.

The Night Of Charlotte Thomas, My Piece For ThreadMash Six, 31 March 2020

Is it really only a few weeks ago that we were still gathering in a crowded room above a pub to eat, drink, socialise and deliver our ThreadMash Five pieces to an eager audience of ourselves and others?

Yup.

But in these unprecedented times (oh boy am I becoming sick of hearing that phrase, “unprecedented times”) the only way we can ThreadMash is remotely.

So that’s what we did.

The brief for TheadMash 6 was set at ThreadMash 5. Rohan waved a leather-bound notebook emblazoned with the name “Charlotte Thomas” at us. Rohan had bought that notebook cheap in Paperchase on the Strand. Someone had ordered it before Christmas but had not turned up to collect it. “Who was Charlotte Thomas?”, Rohan wondered. The brief was simply to write a short story that addressed that question.

Eight of us have written Charlotte Thomas pieces. Four of us addressed the mystery of Charlotte’s leather-bound notebook in our stories.

Here is my story, steeped in the experience Janie and I had volunteering for Crisis At Christmas. The character, Sharla, is based on several of the vibrant characters we met at Crisis. As far as we know, none of them were actually named Charlotte Thomas in real life, but then again, you never know!

THE NIGHT OF CHARLOTTE THOMAS

The karaoke was in full swing. Not the best karaoke we’d ever heard, frankly. But also not the worst.  This was not your semi-professional karaoke of regular singers hoping to be spotted. This was impromptu karaoke. Informal, party, Christmas night, karaoke.

We heard one of the guests belt out Delilah, rather well, in a strong Middle-Eastern accent. Then we heard another guest belt out My Way…badly. Daisy and I couldn’t see the karaoke. We were in earshot, well within earshot, but we were on duty and had to remain at our post.

Then we heard Sharla sing. We didn’t know that she was called Sharla at that juncture, of course, nor did we yet know what she looked like, but we did know that the quality of the singing had gone up several notches, above and beyond the Delilah guy.

“…I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key, If I’d known…”

Daisy gave me one of her “I’m impressed” looks. I responded with my “too right” nod.  I wished that I could go and have a look over the balcony to see this singer, but that would have meant breaking the rules and leaving my post. I wasn’t about to do that.

About five minutes after I Will Survive had finished, a pint-sized, super-confident-seeming female guest came up to our station and engaged me and Daisy in conversation.  Sharla was only one or two words into her husky, deep-voiced opening gambit with us and we both knew we were being visited by that singer.

In truth, Sharla had taken a shine to Daisy, not really to me, although she seemed interested in both of us once she learnt that we were not just a duty pair, but an actual couple in real life. At this stage, Sharla pretty much asked all the questions and Daisy provided most of the answers.

Soon after Sharla moved on, Daisy and I were reallocated to a different station; ground floor. It was getting late by then, perhaps midnight, but quite a few guests were still milling about.

We chatted with several interesting people down there, before hearing the unmistakable sound of Sharla singing. The karaoke had long since finished. These were snatches of songs, mixed in with chatter. 

“Pull up to my bumper baby, In your…every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little…”

Daisy complimented Sharla’s singing again and asked her if she’d ever considered singing for a living. Sharla told Daisy that she wasn’t the first person to have asked her that question.

Later, Daisy and I were advised to wrap up warm for front door duty.  Now about 2.00 or 3.00 a.m., Boxing Day morning, gosh it was cold out there. A few guests still hanging out, some having a smoke, others just having a chat. Sharla appeared around the corner, a large mango in each hand. She told anyone who’d listen that a local 24 hour shop had given them to her. She vehemently denied the suggestion that she might have “liberated” them without the shopkeeper’s consent.

Sharla seemed in her element outside; indeed she told us that she was so used to rough sleeping, that she felt more in her element outside than inside at that hour. 

Sharla must have spotted that I was feeling cold – at least Daisy had been given a padded hi-vis jacket to wear, I just had one of the flimsy ones…

…Sharla darted inside and badgered one of the indoor volunteers, who was wearing a fleecy hi-vis, to swap with me.

“Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you, Sharla”, I said, wondering why I hadn’t thought to take that action myself.

“I’m very grateful to you volunteers”, said Sharla, “unlike some of the fucking dickheads around here. I’ve seen some of ‘em being so fucking rude, it’s a fucking disgrace. I was in a bad mood last night, but I’m never that fucking rude to volunteers. I’m ‘avin’ the best night ever tonight”.

Outside, Sharla opened up to Daisy more than before. Sharla talked about her disorganised upbringing and the similarly chaotic upbringing to which she had subjected her own children. She talked about the drugs and the prostitution and the rough sleeping. She talked about her family in Jamaica and her desire to visit them. Not all of Sharla’s stories quite stacked up, nor were they all entirely consistent with each other. But all her stories were eye-opening.

“You have led a fascinating life”, said Daisy, “you should write your stories down and get them published.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that”, said Sharla.  “In fact, just last week, down by the Strand, I was talking to a nice gentleman and he said just that. He said he’d buy me a leather-bound writing book with my name on the front as a Christmas present. He even wrote down my full name and made me spell it out for him. Charlotte Thomas”.

“Ah, Sharla stands for Charlotte”, said Daisy, “our niece is called Charlotte.”

“Nice,” said Sharla, “anyway, that nice gentleman never showed up with my present.”

“Maybe he’ll show up with your present after Christmas,” said Daisy.

“Nah,” said Sharla. I knew he wouldn’t and I know he won’t. People make promises like that all the time, but they don’t really mean ‘em.”

We didn’t see Sharla again for the next few hours. We were on various dormitory floor duties and Charlotte Thomas was clearly not one for using the Crisis beds.

The last time we saw Sharla was at about 7:00 in the morning on our last duty; near the entrance, making sure that incoming daytime volunteers and wandering guests all went in the right directions. We replaced another pair who very quietly pointed to a sleeping Sharla, sitting in a chair, her upper body sprawled out across the table, fast asleep. “She pretty much fell asleep mid-sentence while talking to us”, a grinning volunteer told us, in a whisper.

And there slept Sharla…Charlotte Thomas, for the rest of our shift. The arms of Morpheus had finally got her, just when most of the other guests were getting up and starting to mill around again. What was Charlotte Thomas dreaming about, I wondered? Such a life she leads, so many stories she has. She really could do with that writing book. Maybe that nice gentleman really will turn up on the Strand with her gift after Christmas.

And You Are? by Rohan Candappa, Lockdown Theatre Company, 24 March 2020

I have known Rohan Candappa since Noah was a nipper…

…OK, not quite that long, but we did meet on the first day of our first year of secondary school. We were in the same class…

…but subsequently, Rohan has proved himself to be in a class of his own, with tremendous ideas such as The Lockdown Theatre Company.

Rohan will be livid that I am focussing my preamble on him, rather than the highly-talented actress, Katrina Kleve, who performs the first Lockdown Theatre Company piece.

But the reality is, Rohan has come up with this highly creative and generous idea to help acting folk who are currently pretty much all out of work and finding these difficult times especially challenging.

As I understand it, Lockdown Theatre will publish a short piece each week, normally on a Wednesday, for the next 10 weeks at least.

Here is the very first Lockdown Theatre piece:

As Rohan says on the YouTube blurb (you find that if you click the link to watch, rather than watch the embedded video), this is an abridged version of a longer live performance piece.

I was honoured to attend the preview of that longer piece in November 2018

…and once again found myself honoured with an opportunity to preview “And You Are?” on the Tuesday evening, a few hours before it went live to the world.

Janie joined me at the preview, which we streamed onto the living room telly. Perhaps not quite as dramatic as the Prime Minister’s lockdown address to the nation the night before

…but frankly I prefer seeing Kat Kleve act and I prefer Rohan Candappa’s well-crafted and thought-provoking words.

So there you have it. Rohan was, at one time, an ad man, so I am sure he will want to extract the essence of what I have just said as a promotional quote:

Better than watching Boris Johnson telling you what to do and what not to do – Ian Harris, Ogblog.

Seriously, Janie and I both very much enjoyed the piece and are looking forward to the next one. It is “appointment to view” stuff. You can make your own appointment to view by subscribing to the YouTube channel here.

Virtually The New Normal: Lockdown Theatre Launch, Sri Lanka v England Day One Simulation On King Cricket, NewsRevue Web-Streamed, 19 March 2020

Until this week, Ogblog has been entirely free of Covid-19. Of course, the pandemic, which began in Wuhan in late 2019, has been well underway across the world for weeks now.

Increasing social distancing restrictions, some recommended, some enforced, have been rolled out in the UK in the past few days. I needed to do one or two things at the office yesterday; I doubt if I shall visit the City again for a while.

So, 19 March, I woke up to the new normal. Virtually normal.

The Lockdown Theatre Company

Want to know more? Click the redundancy bunny

My old mate Rohan Candappa has come up with a cracking idea to help his friends in the performing arts. The above picture link takes you to the Facebook site for the Lockdown Theatre – this link takes you to Rohan’s initiating statement.

Basically Rohan is going to produce a short performance piece each week, for several weeks, for which he is paying performers a modest but much-needed fee. initially at least this will be free to view.

Rohan does good stuff, so I commend this to Ogblog readers for artistic reasons but I also commend the communitarian and “new normal” thinking behind the idea.

So, I spent some time promoting the idea through my personal channels and writing to Rohan.

Where it will lead I don’t know. Rohan doesn’t know. None of us know where the Covid-19 pandemic will lead society either. We have to get used to “don’t know where this is going”. Don’t know but let’s give this a try is part of the new normal.

Good luck and good speed, Rohan. If I can help with this initiative, I shall.

Then I spent several hours doing actual work from home, much as I have done, remotely, most of the time in the past 25+ years. Just more video conferences and Skypes than previously. New normal.

King Cricket’s Sim Series: Sri Lanka v England Day One

King Cricket is using a rather more recent version of the International Cricket captain simulation game – click the above pic. to see the Day One report

At lunchtime, I took a break from work and checked in eagerly to King Cricket.

King Cricket’s response to the new normal, which in part means that there is no actual live cricket when there should have been, has been to try something a bit silly. He has picked an “all time greats” Sri Lanka side to play an “all time greats” England side in a simulation of the cancelled test matches in Sri Lanka.

He is going to run his simulation of each day of the two cancelled tests on the requisite day and write some humorous end of day reports for each day. The King Cricket community chime in with comments.

I showed Janie the Day Three report (a few hours before writing this Ogblog piece). I had to explain cricket simulation games to her…

…did Janie not know that I had the 1999 version? She and I were long since together back then, although I suppose the game never travelled from my place to hers during my brief infatuation with it…

…and I also had to explain King Cricket’s match reporting idea and the fact that many readers seemed to be enjoying the idea.

You have all gone completely mad, she said.

Then I did some more work (including those extra Skypes and video conferences) until I was done with work.

Then I had some dinner before hunkering down to a virtual show.

NewsRevue Last Performance Before Covid-19 Closure, Web-Streamed

Just in case anyone doesn’t know about my past involvement with and long-standing love for the 40-year-old comedy show NewsRevue

…I suggest you click one or both of the above links.

Anyway, social distancing means no live shows and stuff for the foreseeable future, as well as no live sport, so the NewsRevue team decided to perform the last show before closure behind closed doors and upload the video for people to watch, from scheduled show time onwards.

I watched the show around about showtime – actually about 22:00 – sat in bed after eating a supersized plate of yummy pasta left over from earlier in the week – thank you Janie.

If you want to see the show, it is embedded below.

Highlights for me were the toilet roll song, “I Love Toilet Roll” at 8:15 and also a wonderful Nicola Sturgeon song at 11:45; a very impressive singing impersonation I thought.

Perhaps not the strongest run ever, but it is quintessentially NewsRevue.

Note to self – do not make a habit of sitting in bed watching a streamed video on the TV while you are digesting your food – the food does not digest well in that posture – especially if you nod off in said posture before straightening yourself out. No need to explain in detail to the readers what can go wrong in these circumstances.

Yes, the end of such a novel day, the virtual new normal, is a time for reflection…and in my case, refluxion.

Threadmash 5, Rohan Candappa’s Thing Has A Birthday Bash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

How does one describe Threadmash? It is sort-of a writing club, where people write and recite pieces, often being encouraged outside their safe places, by ringmaster Rohan Candappa.

But it is not so much about what we do as it is about how it makes those of us who participate in it feel. I probably described that for the first time at the end of the Ogblog piece in which I set out my second threadmash piece:

But the very first threadmash was exactly a year ago. The piece I produced for that inaugural event is set out here and below:

Rohan is not one to let a birthday or anniversary go unmarked…

…nor is he one to miss an opportunity for a party of sorts.

So Threadmash 5 was cunningly scheduled for the first anniversary of Threadmash. Well played, Rohan.

There were several new faces this time, observing the readings and whole-heartedly participating in the party atmosphere. Several of them had “Sh” names, such as Shirani, Shivangi, Shazia and Rowan.

Eight of us wrote pieces to Rohan’s brief this time. Mine is published here:

Terry went first. He wrote a job application letter, to become a taster for Mr Kipling cakes. He used the application as a mechanism to tell us all about his “work experience” as a youngster. It was very amusing and touching in parts.

Jan then read us a letter to a plate of food that she was forced to “study” outside the headmistresses office for the whole afternoon, when five years old, because she had the audacity to abstain from eating the ghastly gunk that was her school dinner. This too was a very funny and touching piece.

Jan’s piece reminded me of a lovely piece of writing I published recently on Ogblog as a guest piece, by cousin Garry Steel, about a similar incident and the “truth and reconciliation” events that occurred decades later:

This was the first of several unexpected, surprising and in some cases downright weird coincidences in the evening’s pieces.

I went next…

…followed by Chris who wrote a letter to his own testosterone, explaining how their relationship had changed and was likely to continue changing over the decades. Not only funny and engaging, this piece was also moving and quite risky in the level and nature of its confessional humour.

Flo’s piece was the fifth one. A letter, decades later, to a youth with whom she had enjoyed extended correspondence and an unfulfilled dalliance “back in the day”, probably because she was less ready for romance at that time than the young man. As with all of the pieces, there was a mixture of drama and humour; this one especially bittersweet because the mismatch was one of those timing things that so many of us probably, if we put our minds to it, experienced one way or another when we were in the early stages of romance. I probably wasn’t the only man in the room thinking, “crickey, I never, ever put THAT much effort into wooing a girl. Poor chap.”

The strange coincidence in Flo’s piece was that she described the young man, on reflection, as “her troubadour”, which seemed a strange, coincidental echo of my references to William of Aquitaine and his reputation as the first troubadour.

Next up was David Wellbrook, who wrote a very moving letter in the part of a soldier on the front line in WW1, writing home having just killed a man in hand-to-hand combat. David is a very versatile writer. To a greater extent than most of us, he is able to pick up on Rohan’s entreaties to stretch ourselves beyond our safe zones and make that stretch comprehensively.

Strangely, Kay’s letter was to her late Grandfather and talked a great deal about his active service in WW1.This seemed like a particularly coincidental echo, coming immediately after David’s WW1 story and also in relation to mine, which was also a letter to a dead relative of the grandfather generation, albeit “grandfather-in-law” in my case. Kay’s piece was very touching, not least because clearly her grandfather had been unable to communicate feelings very much when Kay knew him and also because it is clear from the letter that Kay feels she might not have communicated with him sufficiently either.

Geraldine’s letter was directed by Rohan to be a letter of resignation, but Geraldine cleverly and delightfully twisted the idea to make it a letter of resignation to her former husband, explaining why she felt she simply had to escape the drudgery of the “American dream, American housewife” role in which she found herself cast as his wife. It was a beautiful piece of writing, full of love combined with a steely determination to explain herself and not to apologise. As with all of the pieces, the letter was probably the right length for such a performance piece but (and because) it said so much while leaving me wanting to know more.

After a short interlude, Rohan took us through a 10 point agenda. Is this is all getting a bit business-like?

…not as business-like as it looks, once you read the items

The brief for Threadmash Six is to write about an unknown woman named Charlotte Thomas. All we know of her is that Rohan managed to acquire a cheap moleskin-like notebook that had been customised with her name but never collected from the shop. Our job is to write about whosoever this person might be.

It did cross my mind to recycle my Theadmash One story, which is about a youthful dalliance with a young woman who I only ever knew as Fuzz, thus not even knowing her real first name, let alone her second name. She might very well be (or have been) Charlotte Thomas…

…but that would be cheating – I won’t do that. I think I have already decided on my Charlotte Thomas idea – it will be a bit of a stretch but I guess it is meant to be.

There was an awards ceremony, during which Rohan’s Edinburgh nemesis Rowan presented Adrian (in absentia) and Julie “Croissanita” with awards which, given their origins from the same stable as the Charlotte Thomas moleskin-type thing, I suggested should henceforward be known as “Charleys”.

It was a birthday party so of course there was cake…

…and goody bags.

Even the awkward silence was superb.

Then Rohan performed a new piece of his own, a very evocative piece which the agenda claims to be a collaboration with a top musician. But Rohan actually confessed that Brian Eno is…was unaware of the collaboration. I’m hoping Rohan will tell me which ambient piece he used to back up his words, at which point I shall update this piece with the information and possibly (with Rohan’s permission) let Brian Eno know how well he did.

Update: Rohan reports that the piece used was Neroli. You may hear Neroli on-line by clicking here or the embedded thingie below:

Rohan’s new work, about 15 minutes long, is a lyrical, poetic piece named Park.

Rohan was so pumped for his recital that he even felt the need to change for his performance:

Not only was Park a very charming and thought-provoking piece, it was, in a way, the third coincidence on the topic of troubadours. Of course, we will never know whenether the troubadour tradition was one of singing the lyrical poems to tunes or the dramatic recitation of lyrical poems with musical backing…almost certainly a bit of both depending on the piece and the troubadour. In any case it occurred to me that Rohan’s piece was very much of that 800+ years old troubadour tradition.

As always, the very act of gathering and spending an evening with such super people is a huge part of the Threadmash thing. I have known several of the people for just shy of 50 years now, whereas some of us have just met in the last year and about half the people at this anniversary evening were new to the thing. All were great company.

I’ve written too much already. It was a cracking evening. Thanks as always, Rohan.

Dear William, My Peformance Piece For Threadmash 5, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

The event that was Threadmash 5 is written up as an ogblog piece here and the link below

The brief was simply to write a letter, although Rohan Candappa gave me some additional guidance suggesting that I try fiction this time. Here is the piece I performed for that event.

Dear William

Hi. It’s Prince Harry here.  The sun is streaming in through my window here in France. It’s late morning; 1152 to be precise and you should know…indeed I want everybody to know, that I’m in love, William, I am in love!

Look, I know it isn’t going to be easy. She’s several years older than me, she’s a divorcee and she’s from across the pond. She might not be accepted by the great British public as “one of their own”.

She’s also a bit of a crusader. One tough cookie who doesn’t mind putting up a fight for the stuff she believes in. I like that about her.

William; she is SO beautiful. Not just how she looks in the pictures – those media types can make any old minger look special – but she really is a stunner. Real hotty totty, eh what?

But I’m not marrying her just for my own selfish reasons. Hell no. I’m getting married for the good of my country. We are in such a political mess at the moment. Near anarchy, I’d call it. Britain needs a royal wedding right now.

But, William, I would really like to know what you think. I know you can’t really give me answers, but you really know your pussy. Heaven knows you’ve played the field more than I have, more than most people. Droit du seigneur and all that.

So I wonder if you think my proposed marriage will work? I really could do with some familial advice and frankly I have no-one else credible to turn to in matters of the heart…

…just a second, all hell seems to have kicked off outside the Château. Bloody French, what the hell’s it about this time? They’re always revolting about something or another. Got to go, I’ll finish off this letter later on.

LATER ON

Hello again, William. It was 1152 when I started this letter; it’s 1173 now. Crumbs – when I said that I’d finish this letter later, I didn’t have “21 years later” in mind. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? Heck, how should I know; I’m not having much fun. Frankly, things haven’t gone swimmingly well since I wrote the first part of this letter.

It’s not all bad news. I’ve been King of England now for 19 years, which makes me a pretty important bloke, especially when you also take into account all my Dukedoms and Counties in France, including your old Dukedom of Aquitaine. Nice place. Decent weather.

So I did marry your grand-daughter, Eleanor. Wow, she really is a goer. Boof. We’ve had loads of kids. But therein lies the rub. It is nigh on impossible to keep all the kids happy with lands and castles and stuff. Eleanor doesn’t help because she insists on interfering – you know what women are like.

To be honest with you, I have fallen out with rather a lot of people lately, including Eleanor…and all of our kids…and my former best mate (now late mate) Thomas Becket… the Scots, the Irish, the Bretons, the Flemish, most of the French nobles, many of the English Barons…and the Pope.

But you know what, William? I know it might be hard for you to believe, but NONE of this revolting business is my fault. None of it. Heck, I’m just trying to do my job, establishing some sort of order out of the political mayhem I inherited.  

You of all people will understand what I’m going through. You too fell out with your wife and had a ruction with the church. At least I haven’t been excommunicated; twice. But history will look kindly on you, William. It already does. You’ve not even been dead for 50 years, but already you are remembered as a bon viveur, a great lover and especially as the first troubadour.  Heaven only knows how I’m going to be remembered.

How did you get away with all that stuff, William? Your behaviour…and the language you used in your songs – I’ve never seen the “F” word and the “C” word used so much in all my life.

Times have changed, though, William. The younger generation are prudes and snowflakes.   

In truth, I don’t see much of Eleanor these days.  Heck, I’m a busy fellow with loads of revolts to quell and I cannot bear being nagged. Anyway, Eleanor permanently stays indoors at the moment; I have security see to that. But I do still love her, in a way. A chivalric way.  You of all people will understand that.

In fact, it occurred to me that, as you were the very first troubadour; the chap who established the tradition of secular performance song which will endure for centuries if not millennia…

…I thought I should end this letter with a song that explains exactly how I feel about your granddaughter Eleanor.

Sincerely yours,

Your devoted grandson-in-law

Henry Plantagenet

ELEANOR

VERSE ONE

You’ve got a thing about you; Grandpa was a troubadou, I really want you, Eleanor legally;

Your power intoxicates me, though all the French folk hate me;

There’s no-one like you, Eleanor, regally.

CHORUS ONE

Eleanor, you of Aquitaine, as they speak in Northern Spain, Southern France and parts of Italy;

Eleanor, can you be more kind, I want you to change your mind, try to reign beside me prettily.

VERSE TWO

Sometimes I think your hassle, treating me like your vassal,

Seeking advance for you and the offspring;

Don’t suppose you envisioned, that I’d have you imprisoned,

When your coup failed with Henry The Young King

CHORUS TWO

Eleanor, you of Aquitaine, you’re a right chivalric pain, all our sons will not forgive me;

Eleanor, can you be more kind, I want you to change your mind, at this rate you’ll way outlive me.

OUTRO

Eleanor, gee I think you’re hell, ah-hah; Eleanor, gee I think you’re hell, ah-hah…ha-ah.

Not that they had chords in the 12th century, but for those who might be interested in the chords I used, the image below will help you. Aficionados might note the devils intervals I used to conclude the “musical piece”.

Performed on my Roosebeck baroq-ulele, tuned DGBE. Thus A4th is fret 2 on the G&B strings, D4th is open D and F# on the E string. Not very 12th century but a bit medieval…or just evil.