Your Humble Blogger enjoyed the audio (with accompanying still photos) of Lynn Redgrave as the titular Grace provided by the New York Times. I was about to write the lovely and marvelous Lynn Redgrave, so as to distinguish her, I suppose, from some other Lynn Redgrave of your acquaintance, but in fact she is substantially less lovely than she was, and substantially more wonderful, perhaps in proportion. A remarkable woman, and a remarkable actress. Anyway.
In the bit excerpted on the Times site, her character is lecturing to a class about William Paley’s Watchmaker analogy, which, she assures the class, is absolute bollocks. Well, and perhaps it is. But it occurred to me, and not for the first time, to wonder why it is that testicles are equated with falsehoods. I know, I know, it isn’t falsehood as such, but a sort of muddle-headedness, misrepresentation and mistake, not altogether unlike bullshit.
In American English, balls are pretty much only associated with courage. This is perfectly understandable, as courage connects to manliness in some sense, and manliness to testicles. In addition, there’s the whole actual biological testosterone thingie, for whatever that’s worth. Castration, emasculation, feminization. It’s understandable, if not, you know, a particularly good model of the world as it is. Still. Balls are courage.
In British English, however, balls can indicate a mess of almost any kind. What we call a screw-up they are more likely to call a balls-up (or a cock-up, which I understand to be, oddly, from the Yiddish, where cock is shit, and alte cocker, or old shitter was a common phrase of great pungency). One can, in England, make an utter balls of it, balls it up, make it an utter balls-up. It can even be ballsed-up, which is absolutely frightful, whatever it is. This is, by the way, different from balling up a piece of paper, which (by coincidence, I assume) is also screwing up a piece of paper, which is different from screwing up. Fucking up a piece of paper is not the same, either, and although one can fuck it up, and it can be fucked up, a person can be fucked up on either side of the Atlantic (a friend recently referred to the possibility of Larkining up her children, which was too good not to be passed along, although it was not the impetus for this note, which is, if you remember, about bollocks).
Balls can also, in British English, be a general all-purpose curse word. Oh, balls, you can say, the tea’s gone cold. As with a lot of British English terms, it can also be used in American English to increase the pretentiousness quotient. Am I pretentious? you can say, Am I balls! and I think that should satisfy everyone.
My understanding of the English attitude toward profanity is that it is generally far more loose in terms of the connection between the word and the circumstance; as I think I’ve said, an American can fall into water that is damned cold, damn’ cold, fucking cold, or cold as hell, but an Englishman can fall into water that is arsing cold, cunting cold or even bastard cold. I connect this with a difference I once read in an analysis of English versus American limericks; the American style tends to have some sort of twist or pun along with the filth, whilst the English will award points for the pure filthiness of it.
But my point, if I had one, and somewhere in the dim recesses of my memory I suspect I did, and do you know with all the databases available to hand, I still can’t find where the dim recesses of memory originates as a phrase? It’s clear that recesses are frequently dim in the late nineteenth century, but those I found are either actual recesses, as cellars, forests and storerooms, or geographical recesses, as backwaters and sub-urbs. By the early twentieth century, though, dim recesses of memory is already a completed and contained phrase.
Wait, that wasn’t my point. My point was that for some reason balls or ballocks or bollocks (or even bollox) indicates incorrect information, usually through incompetence rather than deliberate deception (although one can feed someone a load of bollocks, I suppose, all the same as a line of bullshit). But why? Is there some connection there that I’m missing? Other than just the random choice of something profane?
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.
So. It has often been remarked that one of the signs of a really good book is that every time you read it, it’s a different (but still good) experience. I shouldn’t have put that bit in parenthesis, should I? In fact, that’s the whole point. I’ll begin again.
It has often been remarked that one of the signs of a really good book is that every time you read it, the experience, while of course different each time, is good. No, that doesn’t sound right, either.
Look, you can’t step in the same river twice, right? It’s not the same foot, it’s not the same water. We all know that. When you reread a book, though, it’s not the same you, but the words are the same. Often, a book that you liked once, you find on rereading has very little left to interest you. Another book seems to be an entirely different work, deeper or sadder or more topical or more comfortable. Sometimes a book will lure you back to your old self, a copy of it, more or less. Well, less, usually. One kind of good book is a book that lures you forward, to another new self.
I first read The Remains of the Day in college. Your Humble Blogger is, as you know, a pathetic old Anglophile, and I suspect I enjoyed the book primarily on an Upstairs-Downstairs level, learning about the workings of a Stately Home, etc, and enjoying the little jokes about English reticence and so on. I read it again, later, and found the depiction of pro-Nazi sentiment deeply disturbing and affecting. I was taken by it on a moral level, you understand, how Stevens comes to term with the undeniable fact that by his choices he wound up helping the Nazis.
This time through (going back to it after adoring Never Let Me Go), I was taken by the politics of it. By the subtle damnation of English pre-War society, and the way that the aristocracy really was on the fascist side of the fascist-communist split. It’s because I just finished reading about Jessica Mitford, of course; her father was one of the more prominent of the Nazi sympathizers who Kazuo Ishiguro incarnates as Lord Darlington. And this time through, he portrayal does not seem so sympathetic, so poignant. No, this time through, he seemed pretty harsh, and rightly so.
Of course, this time through, I have our own fascists to worry about.
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.
Your Humble Blogger is saddened by the news that Alan Coren has died. I have a fondness for Alan Coren, mostly born of a handful of hilarious essays in Golfing for Cats. The interview with a bitter, alcoholic middle-aged Pooh Bear was stunning. There was a marvelous bit about disguising airports against terrorists that was probably funnier back then. There was a very nasty and hilarious 1984 joke. The Times obituary, as one would expect, is both perfect and bizarre. “He was the most reliable of contributors. He always filed early and wrote to the length required.” Wouldn’t you like to have that in your obituary?
Sadly, Mr. Coren also delighted in the use of comic dialect, and not always successfully. In fact, often painfully. Comic dialect is a touchy thing to begin with (nohmeen? nohm’sayn?) and always runs the risk of losing the reader entirely. I never made it more than a page or two into the Idi Amin book or the Miss Lillian Carter book. Still, I don’t demand that everything a writer puts out is wonderful. A decent percentage. And if you write as much as Mr. Coren did, a decent percentage of wonderful might well mean a lot of crap. Sadly, Mr. Coren not writing any more crap means no more good stuff, as well.
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.
Your Humble Blogger would like to congratulate Moira Cameron for becoming a Member of the Sovereign's Body Guard of the Yeoman Guard Extraordinary.
I didn’t know that to become a Beefeater, a person must have at least 22 years exemplary military service. It’s not surprising, then, that only now are enough women becoming eligible for that particular glass wall to be broken. If you happen to be in London, Gentle Reader, stop by the Tower for me and wish Ms. Cameron (Warder Cameron? Warrant Officer Cameron? Yeoman Cameron?) good luck for me.
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.
“Around about half-past-three this afternoon, the thrill returned to English Test cricket”, writes Andy Bull for the Guardian. “It was one of those gripping moments when Test matches come into their own; people in offices give up any pretence to doing anything else and gather around TVs or computer screens, and radios are turned up loud.”
The result? A draw. Because it was raining too hard to finish play. I am serious. And so was Mr. Bull. That wasn’t sarcasm, it was cricket.
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.
It has come to Your Humble Blogger’s attention that not all Gentle Readers are familiar with George Orwell’s essay on A Nice Cup of Tea. Y’all will remember that I have little use for Mr. Orwell’s ideas, but I do recognize that he has a talent for starting arguments. In fact, my recollection of the essay (which appears to have been incorrect) was that he began by asserting that people should (a) have strongly held opinions about tea, and (2) disagree with each other about those strongly held opinions. In that vein, herewith a few of my own rules for tea drinking.
First, tea must be tea. Mr. Orwell restricts it to tea from India or Sri Lanka (Ceylon that was), and that is my preference as well. There’s nothing wrong with a nice lapsang souchong, although I don’t like the smell very much, and an oolong can be tasty, so I do part company with Mr. Orwell to some extent. Where I draw the line is that tea must be made from tea leaves. Other infusions are not the thing at all.
Second, the tea leaves must be oxidized, that is, the tea must be black. Again, oolong tea, which is only half-oxidized, is not an abomination, but for a Nice Cup of Tea, we are talking about black tea.
Third, permissible oils to flavor the tea are as follows: vanilla, jasmine, orange, cinnamon, bergamot. That is all.
Fourth, whenever possible, tea should be purchased in bulk, loose rather than in bags. Your Humble Blogger recommends t-sac paper filters, but of course tea-bells and tea-balls are presumably better for the environment, and the madman Orwell thinks you just fling the leaves in loose. Do you know how, with tobacco, the best leaves are used to make fine cigars, and the next best are used for the best pipe tobacco, and the next best for good cigars, and the next best for good pipe shag, and then decent cigars and ordinary pipe tobacco, and so on and so on, and then they sweep up whatever is left on the ground and make cigarettes out of it? I suspect much the same goes for teabags. Even if you only want a cup, it’s best to use loose tea.
Fifth, Mr. Orwell is correct that tea is best made by the pot, preferably an earthenware pot. The Brown Betty is one good option out of many. In general, though, the closer a teapot is to a Brown Betty, the better I like it.
Sixth, a good cosy is essential, if you are planning to drink tea over any substantial length of time. Putting tea in the microwave (or worse, putting water in the microwave before steeping the tea) is a poor second. I do it, of course, but it’s not the right thing to do.
Seventh, use more tea leaves than you think you need. The rule of one teaspoon for each cup and one for the pot applies to a cup, that is, eight ounces or so. An actual teacup or mug is likely to be twelve ounces or more. But the point is general, that is, use lots of leaves.
Eighth, the water should be hot but not too hot. The ideal temperature is achieved in the following manner: when the kettle whistles, pour a cup or so of water into the empty pot. Slosh the water around for a moment or two and set the pot down. Then spoon out your leaves into your filter or ball or strainer or whatnot. When that is ready, the teapot should be warm, so pour out the water. Put the tea in the pot and pour the water onto it. The water has had the chance to cool a degree or so off boiling, so you won’t scald the leaves.
This, by the way, is one of the aspects of tea-making that makes your own brewed tea so much better than that purchased at a coffeehouse or restaurant. Coffeehouses generally keep the water very hot, which not only scalds the leaves but (particularly in the tall cups they tend to use) results in a twenty minute wait for the tea to be drinkable. Restaurants, on the other hand, will give you a little carafe of warmish water that will just about turn the water brown, but results in a tasteless wash. Even places that have decent quality tea (not Starbucks) provide an inferior tea-drinking experience. Some get it right, but those are few and far between.
Ninth, the steeping should be brief. Much less than the three to four minutes you have read about. Two minutes, or even a minute and a half should be fine. For a nice strong cup, use more leaves, not more time. Most people don’t use enough leaves, steep it for longer to make up for it, and then dilute the resulting sludge with milk and mask the burnt-leaf taste with sugar. These are well-meaning people for the most part, and one shouldn’t attempt to inhibit their “enjoyment” of their “tea”, but keep your own cup away from theirs.
Tenth, as could be inferred from the above, proper teamaking means you should avoid adding either milk or sugar to tea. Tea made by other people may require milk, if it is particularly strong. If the leaves have been scalded, you may want to sweeten it, as well. But sugar and milk are the duct tape of tea. You should have some around, and be willing to use it, but any time you do, it’s because there was some failure somewhere.
Oh, and if you do need to sweeten tea, honey is better than sugar, and set honey is better than clear honey. A decoction of tea-and-honey, though, is best thought of as a treatment for a sore throat, rather than as tea.
Eleventh, if you have made your pot properly, that is, with plenty of leaf and a shortish steep, you can make another pot with the same leaves. The second pot of the day will still be tasty, but will have very little caffeine. No, it won’t be as good as the first pot, but it will be better than decaffeinated tea, which has essentially been through the same process, but before you bought it. Some people who have been warned off caffeine will simply throw away the first pot; I hope to stave off that day for a while yet.
Finally, my Best Reader would be disappointed if I did not add that it is well known that Marxists drink herbal tea.
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.
Clearly, Your Humble Blogger will never again have the opportunity to devote a period of sustained concentration to thinking, or for that matter to typing. I am just about able to bookmark the odd thing of interest, to indicate to myself the possibility of perhaps thinking about it, and then perhaps, if I thought any particularly thinky thoughts, writing about it. Sadly, this will not happen. So, just in case some Gentle Reader would like to think my thinky thoughts for me, here are some of the things I have considered thinking about recently...
Heut' kommt der Franz zu mir
Freut sich die Lies.
Ob er aber über Oberammergau
Oder aber über Unterammergau
Oder aber überhaupt nicht kommt
Ist nicht gewiss
As has been seen in recent years, the POTUS can be embarrassed by requests for pardons, and the decision whether or not to pardon a staff member has no good outcome. Therefore, in order to facilitate the advancement of our agenda, to govern effectively, and to serve our President and our Country, the White House requests that all employees follow the fucking laws, you cocksuckers!
Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.
Richard Whiteley has died. Now that might not mean much to you, Gentle Readers, but it gives me a chance for a bit of a Puff Piece, such as been sadly lacking round these parts. In addition to being the answer to a terrific trivia question (who was the first person shown on a Channel 4 broadcast), Mr. Whitely personified (to YHB at any rate) one of the facets of English television that I like so much.
Countdown was forty-five minutes (with one commercial interruption, if I remember correctly) of minor manipulation of letters and numbers. There were two games: a letters game and a numbers game. In the letters game, one contestant asks for either a consonant or a vowel, which is flipped off a stack and put onto a board, then ask for another, then another, and so on until nine letters have turned up. Then there’s thirty seconds of music and scribbling, after which the two contestants reveal the longest word they made from those letters, usually seven or eight letters, usually two or three letters longer than the longest word I found. Then we go to the panel, two people, one of whom is actually a lexicographer, who may have come up with a longer word, or may not have, depending. They do this three or four times in a row. Seriously. Just “May I have a consonant, please? A vowel? A consonant? Another consonant. A vowel, please. Another consonant, a vowel, a consonant and a final consonant please.” Then a comment or two, thirty seconds of music, then “What did your come up with, then, Jim?” “A six, Richard.” “Ah, and how about you, Sarah?” “A seven, actually.” “Excellent, well, let’s start with Richard.” And so on. Three or four times in a row.
Then, for a break, they do a numbers game. The contestant picks numbers, again off two stacks. This time, there’s a stack of small numbers and a stack of large ones (25, 50, 75 and 100), the contestant gets six of them. Then there’s a random three digit number revealed, which is the target number. The contestants have thirty seconds (with the theme playing, of course) to combine their six numbers using the four basic functions to get as close as they can to the target number. So, for instance, if the numbers are 3, 6, 4, 2, 25 and 50 and the target number is 742, you could do, um, [(6+4)(25+50)] - 4 - 3 for 743, right? I never ever ever ever get these. In thirty seconds, I usually can’t get within thirty, much less within five. The contestants always are within five, and often hit the button. Anyway, they see who gets closest, and then (I’d forgotten about this) the girl who flips over the letter part comes up with a better way, and then back to the letters game.
They do the letters game eleven times, and the numbers game three times, and there’s a tiebreaker nine-letter anagram that goes to the first one to get it. That’s it. It’s a simple, difficult game, and they get contestants that are very good at it. And they play it over and over again.
And this is the clever bit—they don’t fuck it up. They just bring on the contestants, play the game, bring on more contestants, play the game again, come back tomorrow and we’ll play it again. They didn’t make it easier, or harder, they didn’t add a third game, they didn’t make it more visual, or double the money. Actually, I can’t remember them talking about prize money at all. I suppose there must be prize money involved, but I have no idea if it’s in the thousands or if it’s twenty quid and coach fare. All they do is play the game.
And, you know, if you don’t like it, there are three other channels.
As for YHB, well, if it were on tv here, I suspect I would not only arrange my afternoon so I could watch it (or else invest in some of that new-fangled automated recording technology) but stop everything else and sit with a pad of paper scribbling and humming the music.
chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek,
-Vardibidian.
