Possibly the greatest advert of all time. :D

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I could say a lot, but nothing would add to it.

Field Stones

In early spring before the grass greened,
before the tubulars of wind plants took hold,

you could see them clearly scattered in the
stubbled fields my father was about to plow:

field stones, like the caps of old men
worn thin from years in the weather of

farm. Where he sent my brother and me
to hook with pick and shovel those

smooth round forms that could
nick a plow point or tip a wagon

or break the leg of some unsuspecting
cow mid-stride on her way to the barn.

We'd pry up the ones not buried deep,
toss them to the side of the field, and swear

at ones that refused our boyish arms, that sparked
the pick, again and again in their stubborn flash of knowing.

Robert Kinsley

What's the story where the farmer's trying to clear his field of stones and they keep coming back? Anyone?

Thri-Kreen Erotica. Cute, well-wroted, knockout at the end and quite hot, I thought.

The witch job that earns £50,000

A Job Centre is advertising a "witch" vacancy with tourist site Wookey Hole, in Somerset, for £50,000 a year.

The witch, who has to live in the site's caves, is expected to teach witchcraft and magic.

Wookey Hole staff say the role is straightforward: live in the cave, be a witch and do the things witches do.

The advert for the post, placed in the local press as well as job centres, says applicants must be able to cackle and cannot be allergic to cats.

The job has come up after the previous witch retired from the role.

"We are witchless as the moment so need to get the role filled as soon as possible," said Daniel Medley from the tourist destination.

"Wookey Hole wants the appointee to go about her everyday business as a hag, so that people passing through the caves can get a sense of what the place was like in the Dark Ages.

"This was when an old woman lived in the caves with some goats and a dog, causing a variety of social ills, including crop failures and disease."

The £50,000-a-year salary is pro rata, and based on work done as needed, largely in the summer holidays, but also at Halloween and at Christmas.

"Wookey Hole is advertising nationally and hopes to attract a strong field of candidates with the £50,000 serving as a major incentive," said the site.

It said ambitious witches looking for a "key career move" should arrive dressed for work armed with any "essential witch accoutrements".

Due to sexual discrimination law, the job cannot demand that the post is filled by a woman. (Good.)

Interviews, which will involve on-site assessment incorporating a range of standard tasks, will take place on 28 July at 1100, stipulates the advert.

This video may assist my fellow applicants:

Torchweek day 1 was ridiculously awesome. I think we just got series 4, and Spooks may have just been cancelled. :D

I shall always cherish his first words to me 35 years ago - "Jonathan King - I've always wanted to meet you".

Greatest Jacko tribute yet. And Alan Moore's forthcoming book disproves death with science.

Alan Moore says that “Jerusalem” disproves the existence of death from a scientific standpoint.

You can't argue with science.

Warhamster 40K Black Templar by deviantart's ursulav. It may be allied to the Hello Kitty Sisters of Battle.

Cheers whoever I pinched this from.

RIP Jacko. Posthuman as you were, nonce or not, at least you contributed some tunes to the human songbook, which is more than Gary Glitter can say. I do feel bad for all those mugs who believed you were somehow in any state to do fifty dates... oh wait, no, I don't. But it is a shame if your demise derails the current Scary go Round storyline. I need my Shauna Wickle fix regular. Where my Daz icon? Whew, for a moment I feared he'd been left behind on my old hard drive!

Former Army officer Tobias Ellwood, the Conservative member for Bournemouth East, was punched in the head after trying to stop a gang playing with a ball in Boscombe high street.

And they say the youth are apathetic! This is the kind of political engagement we need more of in this country. This guy seems to see himself as a bit of an action man, he's always going round picking fights with youths and filming them on his mobile phone (because that isn't suspicious at all...), I feel sure he'll come to a bad end. We should encourage more Tories to convince themselves that they're Charles Bronson in Death Wish.

Also interesting: the Michael Martin interview, which talks about the classism suffered by himself and his wife.

I've seen some terrible telly in my time. I've watched Dawson's Creek. I've got stoned and watched Sons and Daughters at four in the morning. I've watched those shows about police cars chasing criminals down the road with narrators who reckon they're Judge Dredd. I've even watched episodes of Doctor Who with Colin Baker in them. But Kröd Mändoon and the Flaming Sword of Fire is without a doubt the worst thing I have ever seen. It thinks it's a comedy. It is NOT a comedy. It's not even funny in a so bad it's good way: it's too bad to be funny-bad. I've never been able to stand Matt Lucas, and his performance in this makes Keith Allen's Sheriff of Nottingham (itself a bargain basement take on Alan Rickman's funnier movie version) look like... well, I won't say Derek Jacobi because even he's known to have his "AYAM ZE MAAAAAAAAAARSTAAAAAAAAAAAAR!" moments, so Ian McKellen maybe. At all costs avoid Kröd Mändoon.

Buffy to return? I'm less excited about this than you'd think: I'd love to see an animated series with the original actors, but I've read the comics already, dunno that I need a "motion" version. On the bright side, the last ever episode of the current Angel storyline is out today. Kate is welcome to stay in the gang if she's prepared to start bearing any resemblance at all to tv Kate, but I never, ever want to see naked werejaguars in my show again.

A marketing campaign for a gym that promoted classes including Chav Fighting and Bitch Boxing has been cleared by the adverising watchdog despite complaints it condoned and encouraged violence against groups including women.







Never underestimate the violence of class hatred.

Heh. Someone who knows how much I hate Sarah Jane Adventures for its inexplicable erasure of the entire unposh population from its fantasy London was joking with me that I'll feel obliged to watch the upcoming one where ( Spoilers! Imagine I said that in a gloating River Song voice while waving a Book o' Spoilers. ) (I do, but that's incidental.) So I go, oh, it gets worse, guess who ( Spoilers! ) 'I dunno... Nigel Havers?' :D

Obvious idea, but since someone else has gone to the trouble of typing it out...

1. The BNP winning European parliament seats means they have a budget to employ staff and various sub-contractors.
2. These budgets and staff positions are subject to anti-discrimination laws, as they come from public funds. (Everybody is subject to those anyway, they are laws, but the BNP will now need a hilarious anti-discrimination policy.)
3. Watch out for when these positions are advertised. If anyone sees them advertised, chuck the ads about on as many social networks, blogs etc as possible.
4. Man the Harpoons - If you fall outside of the BNP's discriminatory membership criteria, due to being black, Jewish, whatever, apply. If you are white British and want to help out this plan anyway, just spread the idea about.
5. When you/they don't get the job, take it to an employment tribunal.
6. ????
7. Profit.

Idiot river fails to drown Mulcaster. So much for the Spirit of Dark and Lonely Water. Ah well, next time it is.

I was only looking for icons, but I chanced across this amazing fanartist, who is relevant to my interest in deriving more positivity from fandom. Dragons! Adorable timebabies proving that dress sense is hereditary! Lots more things that are made of pretty and you should totally look at if you haven't known about them for years already!

Tony Head on Ripper:

"Originally, when he pitched it to me, it was a series, and it was Giles as this sad, lonely man in England without a real reason to be," Head said. "It was pretty much ghost stories. Week by week, some ghost story would somehow affect him. Then he said he didn't want to. By that time, I think he had been affected by Angel, the need to write a weekly story. I think he found at that point the drive was different, so he suggested this one film that we were going to make. He told me this story that he had written, and it's absolutely beautiful, and I hope that one day it gets made, whether it's in the guise of Ripper or whether we just tell it as a one-off TV movie. It's a lovely, lovely story. It's kind of a ghost story. It's also about a man investigating his own soul, and it's fascinating, lovely, sad, and it's classic Joss Whedon. I hope we get to make it one day. From there on in, if it was successful, maybe he could have been convinced to do a series. As I say, now he's back in the seat of doing a weekly series with Dollhouse; maybe he can be convinced otherwise. Never say never, but at the same time, I think it's on a shelf for a while."

I think it's on the shelf for good. It's a shame, as Joss and Julie Gardner would be a dream team, but I think the Buffyverse is all about the comics now. Okay, so Buffy is drifting aimlessly, the current Angel storyline about naked werejaguars is a lot shit, and even I don't feel the need to read telly episodes like Smile Time and Not Fade Away as comics, but there's still plenty to look forward to. Only one more issue of bizarre werejag fail before Angel returns to Lynch/Urru awesomeosity with a Gunn special, spinning off into the four-part Gunn/Illyria miniseries Only Human, followed by a Drusilla two-parter co-penned by Juliet Landau herself. It's going to be a good few months for Illyriafen, as she'll also be guesting in Fallen Angel, which I read up until the contractually-mandated IDW artfail and shall now pick up again. Over on the Buffy side there's a Tales of the Vampires one-shot to look forward to. Most exciting of all, Lynch will eventually be launching a new ongoing Spike series to follow up his three brilliant miniseries. My favourite character ever has found the writer he deserves at last! ♥

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Via tyrell comes The Hunt for Gollum, a remarkable LOTR fanfilm. I'm not one of those who's always insisting that their favourite fanworks are the equal of the source text, as it's rarely the case, but this might be an extra off the Jackson trilogy DVDs. Long treks through gorgeous scenery, orcs who talk like Bill Sykes: it's fantastically accurate to the films, and indeed the books. The voices are perfect, and the expense of showing Gollum is cunningly circumvented, but when you do see him, he is Gollum, and the orcs are orcs. My only quibble is that the final fight is hard to follow, but it's otherwise flawless, and unreservedly recommended to fans.

MAY, 1825.

All hail to thee, hail to thee, god of the morning!
How joyous thy steeds from the ocean have sprung!
The clouds and the waves smile to see the returning,
And young zephyrs laugh as they gambol along.

No more with the tempest the river is swelling,
No angry clouds frown, and no sky darkly lowers;
The bee winds his horn, and the gay news is telling,
That spring is arrived with her sunshine and flowers.

From her home in the grass see the white primrose peeping,
While diamond dew-drops around her are spread,
She smiles through her tears, like an infant, whose weeping
To laughter is changed when its sorrows are fled.

In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining,
And nature with blossoms is wreathing the trees,
The white and the green, in rich clusters entwining,
Are sprinkling their sweets on the wings of each breeze.

Then hail to thee, hail to thee, god of the morning!
Triumphant ride on in thy chariot of light;
The earth, with thy bounties her forehead adorning,
Comes forth, like a bride, from the chamber of night.

E. C.

From William Hone's Every-Day Book.

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I'll give Sov's new, mature (sigh) sound a fair shake eventually. For now, here's the greatest song of all time:

Robert Evans is teaming with ITV Global on a feature film based on the 1970s British TV series "UFO."

Evans produced some classic movies, and also worked on an early version of The Saint, with Val Kilmer.

The Serbian Orthodox Church has pioneered an effective new way to cure junkies: beat them with a shovel.

One former resident said staff had offered to cure his addiction with "pleasant conversation" and beatings.

A priest running the centre, near Novi Pazar, said a "heavy hand" was needed.

"Whoever has a junkie in the house knows what I am talking about," Archpriest Branislav Peranovic told B92 television.

So true.

A former patient said that sometimes they would be told to form a circle around a "bad one" and watch them being beaten by the priests and other staff.

"They would hit him with clubs, shovels, fists, bars, belts, whatever they got their hands on," he told Vreme.

Archpriest Peranovic, he said, "knows how to hit - his hands are often bloody".

"When he hits, using his arms and legs, his robe flies all over the place. He practises martial arts," the former patient added.

Serbian priests can be quite violent.

Idiot lorry driver fails to kill Mulcaster. So tantalisingly close! Ah well, there's always next time.

We've had cops marooned in the past, now we're going to have them fighting the future.

BBC1's sci-fi thriller Paradox will be directed by Simon Cellan Jones (Generation Kill) and will star Tamzin Outhwaite.

Clerkenwell Films has started pre-production on the 5 x 60-minute series which will star Outhwaite as DI Rebecca Flint who heads a special police force that investigates crimes committed in the future.

The series, being made by BBC Northern Ireland, was commissioned by Ben Stephenson, controller, BBC drama commissioning and will be produced by Marcus Wilson, who previously worked on Whitechapel. BBC Worldwide will distribute the series internationally.

Stephenson said: "Paradox is a fresh spin on the crime genre for BBC1. Stopping crimes before they happen is a fantastically bold idea that allows us to tell edge of your seat thriller stories, whilst also weaving compelling moral and emotional questions about what happens when you try to change the future".

The director promised the show would be "an electrifying white knuckle ride".

He said the series "will leave the audience asking themselves dark, complicated questions about fate, the future and who controls it.

I know I often ask myself dark, complicated questions about Tamzin Outhwaite.

The Fellows of New College in Oxford have time out of mind every Holy Thursday, betwixt the houres of eight and nine, gonne to ye Hospitall called Bart'lemews, neer Oxford: where they retire to ye Chapell, and certain prayers are read and an antheme sung: from thence they goe to the upper end of ye grove adjoyning to the Chapell (the way being beforehand strewed with flowers by the poor people of ye Hospitall), they placed themselves round about the well there, where they warble forth melodiously a song of three or four or five parts; which being performed, they refresh themselves with a morning's draught there, and retire to Oxford before sermon.

The above is drawn from John Aubrey's Remaines of Gentilisme and Judaisme, which is online here if you can read it. The Book of Days has much to say on well dressing as observed in the Derbyshire village of Tissington.

The name of 'well' scarcely gives a proper idea of these beautiful structures: they are rather fountains, or cascades, the water descending from above, and not rising, as in a well. Their height varies from ten to twelve feet; and the original stone frontage is on this day hidden by a wooden erection in the form of an arch, or some other elegant design: over these planks a layer of plaster of Paris is spread, and whilst it is wet, flowers without leaves are stuck in it, forming a most beautiful mosaic pattern. On one, the large yellow field ranunculus was arranged in letters, and so averse of scripture or of a hymn was recalled to the spectator's mind; on another, a white dove was sculptured in the plaster, and set in a groundwork of the humble violet; the daisy, which our poet Chaucer would gaze upon for hours together, formed a diaper work of red and white; the pale yellow primrose was set off by the rich red of the ribes; nor were the coral berries of the holly, mountain ash, and yew forgotten; these are carefully gathered and stored in the winter, to be ready for the May-day fete. It is scarcely possible to describe the vivid colouring and beautiful effect of these favourites of nature, arranged in wreaths, and garlands, and devices of every hue; and then the pure, sparkling water, which pours down from the midst of them unto the rustic moss-grown stones beneath, completes the enchantment, and makes this feast of the well-flowering one of the most beautiful of all the old customs that are left in 'merrie England.'

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I second the sentiment of John Edwards in his A Tour of the Dove, or A Visit To Dovedale:

Still, Dovedale, yield thy flowers to deck the fountains
Of Tissington upon its holyday;
The customs long preserved among the mountains
Should not be lightly left to pass away.
They have their moral; and we often may
Learn from them how our wise forefathers wrought,
When they upon the public mind would lay
Some weighty principle, some maxim brought
Home to their hearts, the healthful product of deep thought.

The custom is indeed still observed, as attested by many colourful illustrations, but here's one from 1899:

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Another remarkable custom, taking place on the eve of Ascension Day, is the Planting of the Penny Hedge: supposedly an atonement for the ancestral sin of slaying a hermit monk who hid a boar they were hunting.

May 20 is apparently the festival of Mjollnir, so a good day to post The Lay of Thrym from the Poetic Edda, in which Mjollnir gets nicked and Thor dresses up as a woman to get it back. I like the Taylor/Auden translation:

The Lay of Thrym

The Hurler woke, went wild with rage,
For, suddenly, he missed his sacred Hammer:
He tore his beard, tossed his red locks,
Groped about but could grasp nothing.
Thus, then did Thor speak: 'Loki, Loki, listen well.
Unmarked by men, unmarked by gods,
Someone has stolen my sacred Hammer.'

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Norse symbolism, you so subtle! What's that? You wanted to see Thor in his pretty dress? Oh, all right then.

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I especially like the second one because Loki is really enjoying himself, Thor really not.

Ah, scarygr_feed, you hoard your goodness and then spoil me. Oh my days! Still, it did get foreshadowage:

Via tormentedartist come the true facts: Satan is real.

Meat-munching foliage invades the Chelsea Flower Show, while David Goode has animated a gnome hunting golem to enforce anti-gnome prejudism. It does not know pain. It does not know fear. It will taste gnome flesh!

Young Dylan: plagiarist? Bob never changes. That's the folk tradition for you. Talent borrows: genius steals.

Oh, K-9! The Doctor should never have left you on Gallifrey!



I might have to give this a go. I'm more optimistic about it than SJA.

Hmm. I've been looking forward to Sherlock Holmes despite the direction of Guy Ritchie, that public school ponce from Hertfordshire who makes exploitative movies about London gangsterism, but I'm not feeling this. It looks like Jude's got Watson right, and his frustration and their mutual affection are correct. Holmes does box, though we don't need to see it in slow motion, and I expect Robert Downey Jr could do something with his drug use, but apparently he isn't. I wanted to see Holmes get the same heroic, icon-buffing relaunch as Batman and James Bond, even this Star Trek trailer is dynamic, but they seem to have gone for jokes. Holmes is funny, but he's dangerous-funny, he's a man forever teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He does drugs, but is not Ozzy Osbourne. He would not wear Ozzy Osbourne glasses, even if he were in disguise as Ozzy Osbourne.

On this day in 1780 a mysterious darkness fell over New England, and it was the general opinion that the day of judgment was at hand, but Abraham Davenport spoke against adjournment of the Connecticut State Council: "The day of judgment is either approaching, or it is not. If it is not, there is no cause of an adjournment: if it is, I choose to be found doing my duty. I wish therefore that candles may be brought." Yes Abraham you bad boy!

It's also the day of St Dunstan, best remembered for terrorising the devil. As patron saint of Stepney he was bound to have terrorised somebody, and he only picked on the devil because he happened to be a saint. The most famous Dunstan story is illustrative of his attitude to the fairer sex, as related in The Golden Legend:

But the devil, which ever had great envy at him, came to him in an eventide in the likeness of a woman, as he was busy to make a chalice, and with smiling said that she had great things to tell him, and then he bade her say what she would, and then she began to tell him many nice trifles, and no manner virtue therein, and then he supposed that she was a wicked spirit, and anon caught her by the nose with a pair of tongs of iron, burning hot, and then the devil began to roar and cry, and fast drew away, but Saint Dunstan held fast till it was far within the night, and then let her go, and the fiend departed with a horrible noise and cry, and said, that all the people might hear: Alas! what shame hath this carle done to me, how may I best quit him again? But never after the devil had lust to tempt him in that craft.

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Nonetheless, there are other stories of Dunstan's dealings with the devil. You know when you hang a horseshoe over your door to stop the devil coming in and making you go kill more people? Well, anyway, it was Dunstan who taught the devil to respect the horseshoe, which I mention only to lead into the hilarious Cruikshank:

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The tongue-in-cheek Ingoldsby Legends have Dunstan's dogsbody Peter using his magic broomstick (!) in a tale that owes something to Goethe (if now inextricably associated with Mickey Mouse). As the Book of Days makes clear, the real Dunstan was a successful politician with something of the James Bond villain about him:

A reaction on behalf of the married clergy now commenced, and gathered strength; and although Dunstan remained minister of the crown under Edgar, his power was effectually shaken. Two circumstances took place about this time, which brought considerable disgrace on his name. At a council held at Winchester, the advocates of the regular clergy were getting the best of the argument, and beginning to demand the restitution of their benefices which had been taken from them, when a voice was heard as if proceeding from a crucifix on the wall, saying, 'Let it not be! let it not be! you have done well, and would do ill to change it.' The regulars, however, suspected trickery, and were not to be silenced so easily. A second meeting was held without effecting anything.

A third was then called at Calne, in Wiltshire (A.D. 978), which was held, not in the open air, as was usual with the Anglo-Saxons, but in the upper room of a house. Another suspicious circumstance was, that the king, who had been present at both the previous councils, was kept away from this. When it came to Dunstan's turn to reply to the arguments of his adversaries, instead of doing so, he professed to commit his cause to Christ as judge, and immediately the floor of the room gave way, and all except the archbishop and his friends were precipitated to the floor beneath. Some were killed and some escaped. The populace sided with the Dunstanites, and it was supposed that the question was now settled by a miracle.

With such a diversity of Dunstans, we may wonder how he saw himself. This is supposedly a self-portrait:

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(He's the one on the bottom right.)

On Monday in Rogation week was held, in the town of Shaftesbury or Shaston, in Dorsetshire, a festival called the Bezant, a festival so ancient, that no authentic record of its origin exists.

In short, Shaftesbury has no water supply, so is dependent on neighbouring Enmore Green to send water up from the valley. Their big cheeses roll themselves down the hill with the Bezant to say cheers in ritual fashion.

On the morning of Rogation Monday, the Mayor and Aldermen accompanied by a lord and lady, appointed for the occasion, and by their mace-bearers carrying the Bezant, went in procession to Enmore Green. The lord and lady performed at intervals, as they passed along, a traditional kind of dance, to the sound of violins. The steward of the manor meeting them at the green, the mayor offered for his acceptance, as the representative of his lord,—The Bezant,—a calf's head, uncooked,—a gallon of ale, and two pennyloaves, with a pair of gloves edged with gold lace, and gave permission to use the wells, as of old, for another year. The steward, having accepted the gifts, retaining all for his own use, except the Bezant, which he graciously gave back, accorded the privilege, and the ceremony ended. The procession returned as it came, and the day, which was one of universal enjoyment to all classes of the population, was brought to a conclusion, according to the hospitable fashion of our country, in a dinner given by the Corporation to their friends.

The Bezant, which gave its name to the festival, is somewhat difficult to describe. It consisted of a sort of trophy, constructed of ribbons, flowers, and peacock' s feathers, fastened to a frame, about four feet high, round which were hung jewels, coins, medals, and other matters of more or less value, lent for the purpose by persons interested in the matter, and many traditions prevailed of the exceeding value to which, in earlier times, it sometimes reached, and of the active part which persons of the highest rank in the neighbourhood took in its annual celebration.

From the Book of Days. Presumably the steward used to get actual bezants before being fobbed off with this:

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Details of another Rogation Monday bounds-beating custom were reproduced with comment in The Antiquary:

"A curious custom was observed at Leighton Buzzard yesterday, in accordance with the will of Mr. Edward Wilkes, a London merchant, who died in 1646, and was the founder of ten almshouses, and the giver of other public benefactions. The trustees of the charity annually, on Rogation Monday, meet in the morning, and, accompanied by the town-crier and a band of boys carrying green boughs, beat the boundaries of the parish at various points, on their way halting at the various properties from which the Almshouse Endowment Fund is derived, and at these spots, as required by the eccentric founder, the will of Mr. Wilkes is read while one of the boys stands on his head. The perambulation over, plum rolls are given to the boys. Until recent years these rolls, with a half-pint of beer to each recipient, used to be given in front of the chief hotel in the town; but the beer is now dispensed with, and additional rolls are given, these being sent to the children in all the schools of the town. The trustees of the charity, the widow occupants of the almshouses, and the town-crier in the evening dine together. A special sum is set apart to ensure that a sermon in memory of Mr. Wilkes is preached by the vicar in the parish church each year."

We are all familiar with the bumping of small boys against boundary trees and stones, or flogging them there, to make them remember the place in time to come, but making an urchin stand on his head while an old will is read at a landmark, is a refinement of cruelty which we commend to the attention of the Society for Preventing Cruelty to Children. Leighton Buzzard must surely be a very nursery of street acrobats. We should rather like to improve on the custom by making the solicitors in the town stand on their heads during the reading of Mr. Wilkes's will. They might perhaps be led to adopt shorter forms of verbiage in such documents in the future. As an occasional diversion, the mayor and aldermen might take the place of the boys. Perhaps some of them have already stood on their heads as boys to hear Mr. Wilkes's will. If so, then a repetition of the adventure might be a pleasant reminder of the days of their childhood. Anyhow, the existing practice is suggestive of all manner of possibilities in the future. It only needs a little "exploiting".

This seems to be Wilkes's will, and while shorter forms of verbiage might have been adopted, the requirement for boys to stand on their heads remains opaque to me. Here's the Book of Days on another side of bounds-beating:

The last perambulation I witnessed was in 1818, at a small village in Derbyshire. It was of rather a degenerate character. There was no clergyman present, nor anything of a religious nature in the proceedings. The very name processioning had been transmuted (and not inaptly) into possessioning. The constable, with a few labourers, and a crowd of boys, constituted the procession, if such an irregular company could be so called. An axe, a mattock, and an iron crow, were carried by the labourers, for the purpose of demolishing any building or fence which had been raised without permission on the 'waste ground,' or for which the 'acknowledgment' to the lord of the manor had not been paid. At a small hamlet, rejoicing in the name of 'Wicked Nook,' some unfortunate rustic had unduly built a pig-sty. Poor grunty was turned adrift, and his luckless shed levelled to the ground. A new cottage, or mud hut, not much better than the pig's shed, was allowed to remain, on the cottager' s wife proffering the 'acknowledgment.' At various parts of the parish boundaries, two or three of the village boys were 'bumped' —that is, a certain part of the person was swung against a stone wall, a tree, a post, or any other hard object which happened to be near the parish boundary. This, it will scarcely be doubted, was an effectual method of recording the boundaries in the memory of these battering-rams, and of those who witnessed this curious mode of registration.

I just discovered that the "New Lammas Lands Defence Committee" beat the bounds of Leyton Marshes today!

Once each year we walk around our former local Lammas Land, following a tradition intended—before maps existed— to re-establish ancient rights of common or access, and to mark out significant community boundaries. These processions often took place during Rogationtide, when prayers were offered asking for the fertility of the land and a good harvest. Our walk is a reminder of this lovely springtime tradition. Willow sticks bedecked with flowers and ribbons were often carried and important boundary markers hit with them. In some places, children would also be beaten with sticks or even turned upside-down to have their heads bumped three times on boundary markers 'to imprint the location on their minds'! (We do "bump" small children, but only with the child's, and carer's, permission.)

I should hope so. Boys used to be tossed over hedges, through brambles and into ponds to fix the boundaries in their memory. The sadists of High Wycombe had a special bumping box for the boys. I can't see the youth of today submitting meekly to being whipped with willow wands, they're more likely to switch than to be switched.

Ah, for simpler, sepiaer times, when ritualised child abuse was a source of mirth unconfined:

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When choirboys loved nothing more than to squeeze one another into tight holes:

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And when sometimes, of course, the high spirits ended in tragedy:

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There are theories deriving the Rogation Days from various Roman festivals, but their Christian form seems to have been devised by one of the Ice Saints as a placatory ritual to ward off earthquakes and invoke a blessing for the fruits of the field. Sadly the bounds haven't been beaten at Gospel Oak, which takes its name from the obligatory preaching under the tree, since 1896, but the ceremony is still performed at the Tower of London:

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Naturally I found a poem I like while I was a-gleaning:

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You can see more comedy bound-beating over here (title lyric very related), and there's a Cruikshank on the theme in his fantastic Comic Almanack. Goodness knows what I'm going to pretty up any future infodumps with (for an lj, if it wasn't blindingly obvious already, is what I have instead of a memory), but we'll beat that boundary when we come to it. Oh, and spare a final thought for the fate of the New Lammas Lands Defence Committee:

Ten Thegns, who are traditionally responsible for ensuring no-one is murdered during the walk, are elected before the stroll around Leyton Marshes. I'd have gone for at least twenty. I do hope they're all right.

St Brendan's day has passed, but it's never too late for picspams or poetry! His adventures have been inspiring artists for centuries, as we shall discover. These are from the 1476 German translation printed in Augsberg:

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This is a modern envisioning by James Christensen:

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This seems to be a replica of the 15th century mermaid carved on the chancel arch at St. Brendan's Cathedral, presumably because of the giant (?) mermaid he's meant to have revived and baptised (you can see that here):

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This woodcut by Robert Gibbings is my favourite, with bonus monsters appended:

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It's from Beasts and Saints, which you can taste over here. It was also used to illustrate Tolkien's Imram:

Imram

At last out of the deep sea he passed,
  and mist rolled on the shore;
under clouded moon the waves were loud,
  as the laden ship him bore
to Ireland, back to wood and mire
  and the tower tall and grey,
where the knell of Cluain-ferta's bell
  tolled in green Galway.
Where Shannon down to Lough Derg ran
  under a rain-clad sky
Saint Brendan came to his journey's end
  to find the grace to die.

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Sauron Defeated includes an earlier, slightly longer version of the poem in the text of The Notion Club Papers:

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It's still May 16 here, the feast day of St. Brendan!

After some consideration, St, Brendan said to them: ‘Behold, my brothers, God has provided for us a suit­able place wherein to abide during the Paschal time; and if we had no other provisions, this fountain would, I believe, serve for food as well as drink;’ for the fountain was, in truth, a. very wonderful one. Over it hung a large tree of marvellous width, but no great height, covered over with snow-white birds, so that they hid its boughs and leaves entirely. When the man of God saw this, he was considering with himself why this immense number of birds were thus brought together in one assemblage; and the question grew so irksome to him that he with tears besought the Lord, on his bended knees, thus: ‘O God, who knowest what is unknown, and revealest what is hidden, Thou seest the anxious distress of my heart; therefore I beseech Thee that Thou wouldst vouchsafe, in Thy great mercy, to reveal Thy secret in what I see here before me; not for any desert of my own worthiness, but solely in regard to Thy clemency, do I presume to ask this favour.’

Thereupon one of the birds flew off the tree, and in his flight his wings had a tinkling sound like little bells, over to the boat where the man of God was seated; and, perching on the prow, it spread out its wings in token of gladness, and looked complacently towards St Brendan. Then the man of God, understanding from this that his prayer was granted, addressed the bird: ‘If you are a messenger from God, tell me whence have those birds come, and why this concourse of them here?’ The bird at once made answer: ‘We are partakers in the great ruin of the ancient enemy, having fallen, not by sin of our will or consent, but soon after our creation our ruin resulted from the fall of Lucifer and his followers. The Almighty God, however, who is righteous and true, has doomed us to this place, where we suffer no pain, and where we can partially see the Divine presence, but must remain apart from the spirits who stood faithful. We wander about the world, in the air, and earth, and sky, like the other spirits on their missions; but on festival days we take the shapes you see, abide here, and sing the praises of our Creator. You and your brethren have been now one year on your voyage, and six more years’ journey­ing awaits you; where you celebrated your Easter this year, there will you celebrate it every year, until you find what you have set your hearts upon, the ‘Land of Promise of the Saints’’. When it had spoken thus, the bird arose from the prow of the vessel, and flew back to the other birds.

On the approach of the hour of vespers, all the birds, in unison, clapping their wings, began to sing a hymn, ‘O Lord, becometh Thee in Sion, and a vow shall be paid to Thee in Jerusalem’ (Ps. lxiv.); and they alternately chanted the same psalm for an hour; and the melody of their warbling and the accompanying clapping of their wings, sounded like unto a delightful harmony of great sweetness.

From The Voyage of St. Brendan. I also like the Judas episode:

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There's a couple of lovely pictures of Jascon the giant fish here.

Brendan eventually found the Isle of the Blessed, and while we're on the topic...

Oh, Arranmore, Loved Arranmore

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wander'd young and free.
Full many a part I've tried, since then,
Through pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing; --

That Eden where th' immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,--
Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
Ah! dream too full of sadd'ning truths!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,--
As sunny and as vain!

Thomas Moore

Tidying up the f-list, nothing personal. If it doesn't go without saying: you never need to filter out my inanities, you can dash me off your list with no hard feelings anytime. Unless you're denying me the last word, of course, in that case I'll fume impotently and probably end up burning you in effigy and accidentally setting fire to my own hair.

A new type of "super rat" with genetic mutations that apparently makes it resistant to commonly used poisons is infesting towns and cities across Britain, a scientist warned today.

Rat, O Rat ...

Never in all my life have I seen
as handsome a rat as you.
Thank you for noticing my potatoes.

O Rat, I am not rich.
I left you a note concerning my potatoes,
but I see that I placed it too high
and you could not read it.

O Rat, dog;
my wife and I are cursed
with the possession of a large and hungry dog;
it worries us that he might learn your name —
which is forever on our lips.

O Rat, consider my neighbor;
he has eight children (all of them older
and more intelligent than mine)
and if you lived in his house, Rat,

ten good Christians
(if we include his wife)
would sing your praises nightly,
whereas in my house there are only five.

Christopher Logue

The Sylar and his Super Friends finale didn't overbrim me with optimisms for its future. Nathan's insane plans are in character by now, but there's no reason Peter would let a guy whose only power is to fly go and fight Sylar alone. Bryan Fuller's good enough to script a watchable episode without Sylar in it (!) but that's still not a show I would watch on the regular. I watched Cold Snap when The Wire was starting later on the same channel, so it was like Super Friends was shamed into upping its game, but I'd also seen Man on the Street the same day. Joss's Obligatory Twists were guessabler than Bryan's, so I've given up on Dollhouse for now. I might start watching Terminator if it gets renewed, that's more interesting to me. Apparently Zach will be back as Sylar, but I'll seek spoilage so I can skip any episodes without him. I'll watch Spock and Friends at some point.

The International Congress of Churches and Ministers have the best flash intro ever, and Julie remains sublimely ridiculous.

Obviously, having had the father I had I have very high expectations of men. On the whole, in the west, where feminism has made its mark, I think they've done great. It's so lovely that even in prison, men who aren't touchy-feely have to be stopped from beating up rapists - not just child molesters, but rapists of grown women. It's a shame that educated middle-class leftwing men can't take feminism on board so effectively.

I found Stalking Pete Doherty on YouTube. It isn't about Pete at all, it's about Max Carlish, and shouldn't be as funny as it is.

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And here's the song that's making me happy at the moment.

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Good argument for a proper DNA database by Jonathan Myerson. I've been saying we should have one of these for ages. My only problem with ID cards is that they're such twentieth century thinking, anyone can see organised criminals and terrorists will find ways to circumvent the system. Getting round a DNA database would be a much more challenging proposition for would-be serial rapists and so on. We'd have to build more prisons to put them all in, getting everyone's samples would be a hassle, but we could do it and it would create jobs. Need a doctor? We're having your DNA. Had a baby? We're having its DNA. Want to visit the country? We're having your DNA or you ain't coming in, try France, they don't have laws. It would pay off in the number of jokers removed from society.

An Ohio State Uni study of perceptions of The Colbert Report:

...conservatives were more likely to report that Colbert only pretends to be joking and genuinely meant what he said while liberals were more likely to report that Colbert used satire and was not serious when offering political statements.

Digital Spy are toying with me. I well remember those halcyon days when Dennis off Eastenders was tipped to play Robin Hood, so it was very wrong of them to use the headline "Walford star tipped as new 'Robin Hood'" when they meant Stacey's dopey brother. I admit to a certain curiosity about how they intend to continue Robin Hood with no Robin Hood, no Maid Marian, no Sheriff of Nottingham, no Guy of Gisburne, no Will Scarlet and no Random Saracen. Alan-a-Dale is clearly the best character, and Friar Tuck was a bad boy in the first episode if not a very good actor in the subsequent one where they translated the Bible into English three hundred years early ('For the love of spondulicks is the root of all evil...'), and I'd rather watch them than Jonas or Sean Slater. The best plan would be an animated spinoff, TuckDales, with Rowan Atkinson as Scrooge McSheriff.

I also well remember when Dennis Nigel had dinner with Russell T Davies, cruelly raising my hopes about my fantasy casting (only 8/1 from Paddy Power!) only to dash them on the rocks of reality. Maybe he'll be in More Gay Men? He's good at gay. I finally saw him in this City of Vice I'd heard about and thought was Miami but which turned out to be London back in the day. He played Miss Kitten who married an Indian copper named Jamaica Mary in a molly house and then gave birth to a doll, but Mary was working for the Pope Emperor from Star Wars so Nigel got tragically hanged. That's olden times for you. I don't know if I should be glad that Nigel will soon grace our screens once more or upset that it will oblige me to watch Hotel Babylon.

Had no idea who Clement Freud was until Gaiman quoted Grimble and I realised I'd read it in my misspent boyhood, which I might otherwise have died without knowing. I'll have a look through the desk-breaking stacks when I get to my mum's, meaning to anyway. Just reread the first two Borribles (disappointing, especially the first one) and am convicted that I own Across the Dark Metropolis (may be a miscarriage of memory, think I came across it at primary and read them out of order). Northern Lights must be somewhere too: I never got further with His Dark Materials, and want to start from the beginning. Halfway through Phantom of the Opera, more than I managed last time. Got next to nothing out of Crick's Scargill and the Miners, typical for nonfiction. "Next to" is still more than I retain of, say, the one about Liz I's love life. Not quite nothing, since I chased up Crick's reference to the Grunwick strike. The righteous Jayaben Desai demonstrates how to talk to the bosses:

What you are running here is not a factory, it is a zoo. But in a zoo there are many types of animals. Some are monkeys who dance on your finger-tips, others are lions who can bite your head off. We are those lions, Mr manager.

He would come to the picket line and try to mock us and insult us. One day he said “Mrs Desai, you can’t win in a sari, I want to see you in a mini.” I said “Mrs Gandhi, she wears a sari and she is ruling a vast country.”… On my second encounter with Ward he said “Mrs Desai, I’ll tell the whole Patel community that you are a loose woman.” I said “I am here with this placard! Look! I am showing all England that you are a bad man. You are going to tell only the Patel community but I am going to tell all of England.

YouTube featured a clip from my favourite Eastenders episode. You really need to see the whole thing, you need to have followed Dennis's raw neediness since the first time he showed his beautiful face to appreciate the point at which he goes nuclear, but basically this is when you realise that Den isn't just creepy and manipulative and controlling: he's a truly sick individual. There's a point early in the second clip where you see it sink into what's left of Den's heart that yes, he has just taunted his son about being abused while in care, and yes, his son has just reacted in a way that confirms it. There was another point where he begs Dennis under his breath not to "make me do this" to him, like a textbook abuser. Den can't bear that anyone else should have Sharon, but he copes by playing weird psychosexual games with Dennis, like letting him find him in bed with Michelle Ryan.

( Spoilers for Dr Who Easter special. )

ILU RTD OBE! So, yes, YouTube is working, and I eventually managed to sort sound.