my father - william joseph ellis - 2nd may 1918 - 22nd december 2007

Whether he was enjoying my mother’s Sunday lunch, taking the dog for a walk with his stout thumb stick, landing a plump salmon or going for a drink with his friends my father was a man with a serious appetite for life.

Private about his innermost feelings and his early years in Ireland, Dad was passionately committed to the hear and now. Beyond my mother his first love was music and it is my suspicion that it was melody as much as blood that ran in his veins.

I remember his excitement when, by borrowing the Mikado from Swansea’s record library, he first brought Gilbert and Sullivan into the house. Hardly hi-fi on my orange Dansette but Dad loved every scratchy note of it. In fact I’m not sure that somewhere early on he didn’t explain to me that being a musician was the best thing a man could do.

I think deep down that’s what dad was - a very fine musician. Albeit one who never played a note. He had the passion after all, whether it be for classical or opera. He had the intelligence, the dexterity and the sensitivity to have mastered any instrument. I know he had the impulse to play because at the age of 60 for a short time he took piano lessons.

Although Dad was a fisherman his interest in the countryside extended well beyond sport. When the trout wouldn’t take a fly he would while away his riverbank hours identifying the birds into whose domain he had trespassed. As a child on the Brecon Beacons I remember him showing me a curlew chick held in the palm of his hand.

It wasn’t just the bird life that he enjoyed. I think he may have seen god in all of nature. On returning in the early hours one night after fishing he woke me to show me a glow worm he had brought home in a jam jar from some Carmarthenshire hedgerow. I’ll never forget the intensity of the light burning into my sleep sodden eyes. Or the intensity of my father’s enthusiasm as he displayed his find.

He was a gregarious man, loving people and social interaction. In recent days I’ve been stunned by the number of my own contemporaries who’ve told me how much they’d enjoyed his company over the years. He’d come alive in conversation. I remember at my parents’ 50th anniversary party this otherwise staid octogenarian gent skipping around like a robin as he shared a pithy comment with one guest or dropped a bon mot on another.

William Joseph Ellis was very much a self educated man. As I grew to understand him more he regularly impressed me with his knowledge of English Literature. He loved words almost as much as he loved music, savoring the sounds as they left his mouth as another might savor a fine wine. He would often have an appropriate Shakespearean quote ready but was always reticent about it, as if he didn’t want to appear to be flaunting a knowledge to which he was, in some way, not entitled. So I guess he had humility too.

Intellectually astute he avidly followed the cut and thrust of world politics and as a man of the left he avoided dogma and retained a liberal outlook. He focused on the plight of the underdog and supported the political struggle of the ANC and the republican movement in Eire.

Although manifestly non-violent, like so many of his generation he offered his all when he was called to the gun. He had some lucky escapes particularly at the battle of Bir el Gube (pronounced BEER EL GOOBY) but for the most part had what I imagine could be referred to as a good war. Despite admitting that the conflict had left its scars on him he seemed to have enjoyed the comradeship and the travel of his time in the army.

However once he was back on blighty’s rolling shore foreign holidays were completely out of the question. After all once you’ve been shot at and had your tank set on fire in distant lands its only a mug who goes back for more. That would have been my father’s logic.

Latterly his interest turned back to his military experience. He read widely on the various campaigns of the conflict and maintained a cherished bond with his fellow ex-warriors.

My father met his end as a fighter. Against all odds he struggled back from a serious series of medical problems in the autumn and winter of 2005. When it came to his final hour he most definitely did not go gentle. While his body gave up on him his mind and spirit remained strong. He fought with his last ounce of strength and intelligence to stay here with the family he loved.



Blessing for a Journey (Traditional Celtic Blessing)


May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields;
And until we meet again, may
God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Do not go Gentle into that Good Night (Dylan Thomas)


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

first base no1

i guess i must have been the first bloke to get into her knickers. i'd be shocked if i was told different. i mean she was only ten at the time after all.

until last month in the supermarket i'd mostly forgotten about her. then, while gazing at the seventy five different toothpaste products competing for my economic vote, her face resurfaced in the pool of my consciousness.

she completely blanked me of course. but gut feeling never doubted that it was her. the round jaw line, the slightly surprised expression couldn't have been anyone else.

what to do?

let it go. we'd hardly known each other really, even back then and i certainly hadn't laid eyes on her since. 'she's doing the weekend shopping,' i thought. 'back to hubby and the 2.4 shortly. and thats exactly as it should be. leave the past behind.'

but i couldn't. the adventure still burnt painfully bright in my memory. i had to speak to her. as she strode briskly past the pittas and the cakes and biscuits i began to follow.

'oh my god,' i thought. 'what am i doing? they might be tracking me on the cctv. if i'm wrong i'll never explain myself. they'll have me down for a stalker at best and if i have to go into the details ... oh dear.'

no matter how i wrestled with myself i couldn't stop. perhaps i was a pervert after all. maybe i was losing it. maybe i'd never seen her before and my inner demon was egging me on to commit a heinous assault deep among the croissants. i'd just have to plead diminished responsibility and hope to get off with a short stretch in a comfy nick where the cons were just the copeable side of too friendly.

i kept right on. trying to check her face without being checked back. it wasn't easy but eventually as she hove to to alongside the thirty nine types of toilet paper the decision reached itself. 'excuse me,' i said, 'are you caroline thomas?'

she went quite still. 'no,' she said.

'oh god,' i thought to myself. the shiny tiles parted as the sub-supermarket abyss threatened to engulf me, 'you plonker.'

'no that isn''t my name,' she said again as i lamely explained who i was. 'but it used to be.'

as the tiles slid back together i realised i had to move fast. the next phase was going to be a lot trickier than merely asking someone their name. i opened my mouth. 'do you remember...... ?' i said.

she held up her hand. 'i know what you're going to say,' she said. 'just don't.'


CONTINUED BELOW

first base no2

i reckon that sometimes dreams come completely formed. you know like with a past already built in so the struggling with the gunman or combing the lady's hair scene already holds its own backstory. if this is true then, in the same way that the depths and distance of the brecon beacons can be delivered in the single flat plane of a photograph, you can get quite a lot of eternity into no time at all.

i won't say that this is what happened when caroline raised her hand to shush me but as she did so the teetering embarrassment of the moment seemed to isolate us from the other shoppers in the store. back we both went almost half a hundred years. back to a lukewarm afternoon where the river tawe seeps out of the flanks of waun leucu, fan hir and cefn cul. back to a popular picnic spot for families recovering, then as now, from the workaday week.

caroline was my best mate stuart's dad's girlfriend's daughter. the occasion was reciprocation day. stuart would occasionally sleep over at my house. his father was repaying the debt to my parents by taking me along on a day out.

we'd piled up stream-side and mobhanded with the picnic staples, orange juice and tea in a thermos. the car rug had been pulled out of the boot, spread across the reedy grass and weighted down with packages of bread and butter, boiled eggs, tomatoes, plates, cheese, cutlery and cups.

jam was in short supply tho this was as much due to its stickiness quotient as to any post war scarcity. luckily there was neither wind nor wasps.

after eating the convention was that us kids ran around till exhausted then sat silently in the car while stuart's dad slept. can you imagine stroppy contemporary ten year olds swallowing that guff? it was a long, long time ago.

i knew stuart well. he was my best mate after all. but i didn't know caroline. she was a girl and both us boys were a bit wary. so we ignored her. we didn't really understand about girls then. or at least i didn't. i just knew they were different, and as they seemed to think they were different too, i guessed i was probably right.

we played in the uneasy afternoon. we ran, we threw stones into the mountain water and spotted monsters. eventually we got bored. which is probably when i decided to cross the stream. whether i had been encouraged to do this or it was my own idea i can't remember. but it became my plan.

i've been up there many times since. its a great start for a walk to llyn y fan fawr or over to its smaller sister lake llyn y fan fach. in later years it was the kind of place to take a girlfriend. but although it should have been easy, perched as it is in the magic summer of boyhood, i've never again found the site of that first adventure.

where it is still clear is in my mind.

a substantial slab of stone ran directly across the flow forming the lower boundary of a deep pool. its up-stream face was sheer while the lower flank ran away in a shallow fall. the reduced summer water level allowed the rock's spine to stay just proud of the water. this left it more or less dry and just about wide enough for a pair of ten-year-old's daps to make headway.

from the security of the bank it was pretty obvious that anyone walking to the end of this pathway would only have a piffling jump step to reach the other side. so off i scrambled.

momentum keeping me vertical, i soon reached the rock's end. however once there i learned an early lesson in perception. my destination unaccountably seemed to have shifted and i saw now that no matter how vigorously i jumped there was nearly no chance of my reaching the other side. a new reality dawned. i couldn't go on.

then things got worse. although my route had allowed an adequate access it simply wasn't quite wide enough to stand still on. my feet, now stationary and side by side, seemed to be competing with each other for purchase. with my poise seriously in jeopardy i had to retreat.

if the ridge was too narrow to stand on, it was even less use when it came to turning round. but turn round i had to or face watery ignominy. i may not have known much about girls then but i did know that you never allowed yourself to look foolish in front of them. this just could not be allowed to happen. i screwed my courage up tight and started to slowly shuffle to face the home bank.

awkward in a space too tight for a mallard let alone for a ten year old boy, i quickly found myself standing on my own shoe laces. then on my own feet. then, with the inevitability of childhood, i began to lose my balance. i wavered. i tottered. and eventually felt myself beginning to tumble. in desperation i flung myself downstream away from the leering pool.

in the time it takes a trout to leap i found myself sitting in two inches of water on the gentle slope. sure, i was wet but i wasn't submerged or being swallowed by gremlins in the freezing brook. and some degree of honour had been preserved.

relief was short lived. yes i had avoided the deeps, but i was still moving. gentle it may have been but my slope scored pretty high on the slipperiness scale.

as i slid i realised that, like all good things, my sliding wasn't going to last forever. in fact the slope was just about to terminate in a water fall. which itself plunged a good six feet into a second chilly pool, possibly even deeper and more eerie than the one upstream.

by the grace of some benevolent water sprite, just as i go to the lip i stopped. i sat mortified and too scared to move.

then things got worse. the grown-ups noticed. i was scolded. and brusquely ordered to get myself out of that silly mess. then, when i got to the bank, i had to take my clothes off.

it seems reasonable now, what adult would happily sit a wet child in soaking clothes in their car when there was the option of wrapping the thing up and consigning its soggy togs to the boot. at the time i was outraged. this wasn't my family. and i didn't have any dry clothes. what was to become of me?

caroline's mother magicked a towel from somewhere. at least i could cover my embarrassment and dry myself. ok so far.

then things got worse. reaching into her bag once more she pulled out a spare pair of caroline's knickers. i felt a shiver as i looked at them. they were pink.

i was a boy. i looked at them again. they were still pink. and with the towel they were all i had to wear.

the rest of our afternoon was spent sitting in the back of the car, firstly while stuart's dad gave every impression of having an afternoon nap and subsequently, while everyone else chatted, as we drove home. luckily it was summer so it wasn't cold. although it wouldn't have made any difference to me. the hot flush of my embarrassment would have kept me warm even in the depths of winter.

eventually we got back to our cul de sac. i scanned the gardens for any of the other kids in our loose gang. relief, there were none. with caroline's knickers still on and my towel firmly tucked into itself, sarong style, around my waist i gingerly picked my way across the warm tarmac to our house.

and then it got worse. i reached the front gate ok and hurried down the garden path to the house. only to find that everyone was out. i would have to climb in through the kitchen window.

i felt the towel loosen as i hoiked myself up onto the sill but by this stage all i could do was place my trust in friction and the will of a beneficent god. with elbows as tight to my sides as i could manage i jiggled the hopper and reached in to grasp the main catch. using both hands i prised the window open and swung it wide enough for a boy to squeeze through. two more wriggles and i would be in.

the towel fell away completely. what an incentive. the clear image of my pink knickered backside on display to the whole road gave me wings. i shot through that window and into the dark dignity of the kitchen.


CONTINUED BELOW

first base no3

as she lowered her hand caroline's shoulders began to shake with laughter. 'of course i remember,' she said.

as i tried to decide whether i was relieved that i hadn't made a complete prat of myself or affronted that she considered my distress all those years ago so amusing, she carried on. she explained how her mother's relationship with stuart's dad had cooled but that she had eventually married another and settled in a prosperous part of town.

'mum died a few years ago,' she told me, 'she was wonderful. but now you mention it there was one piece of advice she stressed over and over.'

'oh yes,' i said, 'what was that then?'

'well,' she said as she stifled yet more smirks,'she always told me that i was never to go out without a spare pair of knickers.'

insulated from fellow shoppers by our shared memory our sides shook some more.

then off she went, heading for the tinned tomatoes before vanishing beyond the sherry. i doubt if our paths will cross again. i reckon twice in one lifetime will be enough for both of us.

as to whether i had been the first, i never found out. gallantry stayed my tongue. we'd been through plenty that afternoon as it was.

but if neither of us had forgotten by then i don't think we ever will.

peace and love in my black boxers

blogger hazards no 1 ... careful with that compassion, eugene. or ... do fat girls cry heavier tears?

i suppose the first question is what exactly you mean by fat. dumpiness, being often in the inner eye of the beholder, is notoriously difficult to define. it may, in fact, ultimately be a function of one's attitude to oneself. ie am i a dollop? am i grosser than i want to be? and, crucially do i, or any body else, actually give a damn?

murky waters indeed, but nonetheless deep. and dangerously unpredictable as the definition itself becomes a movable feast. starting a few ounces over emaciated it can run, not to say wobble, all the way up to obesity and beyond.

whatever it means the word 'fat' punches well above its own weight. it should be used with caution. finding its way into the wrong ear at the wrong moment the new 'f' word can elicit a bolt of electric venom fierce enough to skin a rhino. trust me. i've been there.

on the other, pudgy, hand of course it can be a great bonding tool. for example to convince your chosen that she is the only one for you, you can use it to describe her enemies. 'yes beloved,' you might say, ' ariadne can be so selfish. could it be because she runs ever so slightly to fat.'

the point being of course not that ariadne is a bit on the hefty side, who cares anyway, but that the apple of your eye demonstrably is not. otherwise how could you have been so reckless as to raise the issue in her company in the first place. no, obviously your remark means that your own true love is the ultimate slender goddess incarnate. while ariadne, poor thing, is heading to frumpdom in a handcart. or two.

once your troth has been plighted the concept may still come in handy. if only by implication. caught admiring another lady's physique in the spouse's company, the first scowl to crackle across the ether can sometimes be earthed with an adroit 'i'm not sure denim looks good that stretched, dear.' your meaning will be clear enough. below the ritual reprimand don't be surprised when your elbow receives an affectionate squeeze as the sun shines through once more.

personally i like ladies with presence. to me they look like, well, ladies actually. and it ain't just visual. no, you roll on with the subcutaneous insulation girls. voluptuous and substantial are big, and i mean big, positives as far as i am concerned.

women themselves, it seems, cannot be so forgiving. especially when its their own tummies in question. martyrs to the fascism of physicality it can be quite upsetting to see how much not fitting into some arbitrary body shape can hurt. so upsetting in fact that, in true bleeding heart style, i take their pain upon myself.

well, that is, i used to. recent events have caused me to reconsider.

you see i'm a sucker for a sad tale. recently while trawling the blogosphere i bumped into a maiden all forlorn. on the face of it her grievance focused around her coiffure but i soon sniffed out the true seat of her melancholy. 'help me, help me, help me,' wailed the sub-text. 'I'M FAT.'

instantly my chivalrous side thrust its way to the fore. gallantly, i thought, i set about to slay the dragon of self loathing that so grievously imprisoned her. 'no you're not,' i commented, referring to the photos on her blog. 'you're just you and altho not a skinny scarecrow, you look fine to me.'

in fact i may have used the term 'gorgeous.' by now i was on a roll and there was no holding back.'i've been around for a bit, doll,' i said, 'and you look great. anyway just think of skin as an erogenous zone. do that and it stands to reason that the more you got the more fun you gonna have.'

'there we are,' i thought once i'd finished. 'that should bring a smile to those full lips.'

huh, did it fairy cakes?

the next thing i knew i was on the receiving end of a sound telling off from her husband. who let me know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't happy with me referring to his wife in this way. further, my reference to her erogenous zones had so enraged him that he was considering crossing at least one continent and ocean so he could catch up with me and 'kick my ass.'

as i don't own a donkey i couldn't imagine what he meant but with my screen shuddering to the stamping of rampant testosterone and snorts of angry breath as they thundered through his text it was clear that he didn't have my best interests at heart. i instantly grovelled in apology.

on thinking about it tho i realised that i hadn't been talking about specifics, just made a general point about skin and its functions. i'd done my best to cheer his beloved up and in doing so had been sorely misunderstood.

hey nonny no, such is the cyber vagabond's misfortune. onwards and upwards ..... but tarry a while, before leaving this tale behind altogether i feel there are valuable lessons to be learned. for all of us.

firstly for her: don't bleat to the universe that things ain't right and then go running to hubby when the universe comes riding to the rescue.

secondly for him: rather than waste all that energy in testosterone posturing at what was scarcely even a virtual violation of his marital condition, perhaps he could spend some time checking out why his beloved needs to reach out to the stars for reassurance and comfort in the first place.

thirdly for me: as far as i'm concerned fat girls can get on with being fat and unhappy. who am i to intervene after all? whether they cry heavier tears or not is no longer of any interest to me whatsoever. anyway its all subjective. isn't it?

peace and love and movin' on.


© Patrick Ellis

dance of the (un)dead

dancing partners. who needs 'em? well we all do as it happens. both metaphorically and really. but just keeping to the dance arena for the moment, if you ain't got a partner why bother?

of course you can preen and strut all you like in your own girational statement. you can shake your booty and casino turn till your body pops in a wild orgasm of rhythm if you so desire. and the assembled wallhangers can marvel or snigger at your skill, or lack of it, as the spirit moves them. but really, if you ain't got someone to hang on to, yours is a truly solitary vice.

personally i reckon a partner is a must. and there's the rub so to speak. just who is this lucky person going to be? who are you going to invite?

for the purpose of this short reflection i'm going to stick to lasses. in salsa, at least where i dance, not many boys dance together. and to be honest, as far as i am concerned girls are more fun.

some say you don't need to make too much of it. the relationship is only going to last for a few minutes after all. a few brief twirls and out before you move to the next beautiful blossom with whom to redefine your conception of personal space and shake that funky thing. so it could be anybody really.

or could it?

that few minutes cuddling up to a fun honey is nearly always over way too soon. but pairing up with the wrong lady can broach an eternity of excruciating faux pas through which to fumble before silently disengaging and hurrying to opposite ends of the room.

there are of course ladies who are crap dancers. they don't have a clue because they've only been doing it for a week or two. they are tense and want to keep their arms by their sides i imagine to protect their bosoms from uninvited manhandling.

they should be so lucky. firstly that isn't going to happen. secondly their chests would be perfectly safe in my hands ... but it still isn't going to happen. and thirdly by the time they've been at it for a few more weeks they won't give a fig anyway.

dance virgins tho they may be these girls are not always the chore they think they are. if they don't actually fight and aren't contrary enough to resist your lead it can be rewarding helping them build their confidence. you can tell that soon some of them will be much better than you are anyway so why not help them now.

anyone who sticks with it obviously will improve. there are plenty of ladies who are very good. tho conversely this doesn't necessarily make them great partners.

apart from whether or not they are prepared to take a lead it also depends on why they want to dance. maybe its an exhibition? maybe they are signaling their physical perfection to a prospective mate? or maybe its a status thing and they want to demonstrate their position in the strutting hierarchy. if that's the case, unless you are more than mortal yourself forget it. you won't get a look in.

so it doesn't have much to do with your partner's dance skill, its really about their innate sense of rhythm and much much more about their attitude. how they feel about themselves and how they see you. and how much they trust you.

everybody's different of course and occasionally someone turns up who stakes out new territory in dance partner land. janey for example is both crap and haughty. and brings a whole bundle of baggage when she condescends to stalk across the floor. its not that she hasn't tried to absorb the groove, its just that she is naturally arrhythmic. not clumsy exactly just slightly, consistently and unpredictably off the beat.

maybe she compensates for this with attitude? its difficult to be sure but being unpleasant certainly seems to be a cornerstone of her technique. so not only is her movement erratic she also enjoys an abrasive personality.

and with janey the lack of fun doesn't stop there. even to touch her is somehow not a pleasant experience. its as if she carries a resentment which makes her uncomfortable in her own body and which she communicates through her skin.

its not a hygiene issue. trust me, you dance with someone you know whether they're clean or not. also its not a skin disease. there are no warts, or acne or scars or scabs. none of that. well not in the physical dimension that is. its just difficult to find her edge. you know, where she starts and stops. she feels formless. and cold as if, were you to sleep with her and be lucky enough subsequently wake up, you might find yourself suffering from a kind of spiritual hypothermia.

so maybe any consideration of dance partners also needs to recognize the cosmic, angry icebergs of the dance scene. those chill, life threatening presences in the pulsing sea of femininity that are best avoided. the janeys in other words.

but make up your own mind. for me, i've spotted her and am going to maintain my course round that particular eruption of emotional anti-matter. from now on i'll cuddle the ladies who are warm and willing.

i know it makes sense.

peace, love and no mittens,

whats not orange and fizzy?

tango of course.

especially the argentinian variety. which these days is the clinch of choice throughout the land. only last night i called the shots as i guided a bevy of compliant females relatively gracefully around a dance-floor somewhere in wales, our eager progress driven by the throbbing strain of a music forged in the meat-packing district of buenos aires during the early years of the twentieth century.

meat-packing? perhaps we'll skip that one till we all know each other better. but i gotta say i don't think this stuff is for feminists. or new men for that matter. in fact i couldn't help wondering whether maybe new men will become an endangered species as this insidious practice spreads.

i don't think of myself as a new man. i do however believe in respect for the ladies and am the first to agree that those with the double X chromosomes are well entitled to equal pay for equal work. and recognise the value of giving birth and home making etc. etc.

so sticking resolutely to the sunny side of gender politics boulevarde, like most of us chaps i reckon i'm a moderate. thus tango caught me unawares. whether tackled in thigh tight skirt, highwaisted trousers and white blouse or tee shirt and jeans theres no getting away from it, the underlying premise of the dance is the control of women by men.

there are gritty antecedents. originally the dance was a mainly masculine manoeuvre amongst the sexually dispossessed compadrones, the tough guys of buenos aires' immigrant districts. as the inevitable bordellos sprang up to temper their tension tango snuck sideways. quickly redefining itself as the ballet of whore and pimp the dance's present day street progeny hasn't left its piquant youth all that far behind.

it isn't quite like that in the uk. here the women who dance tango - the followers - are most emphatically motivated by their own enjoyment. seemingly drawn by a heady testosterone miasma they tumble through the in-door, eager to close their eyes and succumb.

perhaps that's the most surprising thing. the majority of students in the classes i go to are over 30. in many cases by a good long way. and yet its these ladies, who have had plenty of time to think through the issues, who decide to embrace the ritualized acquiescence so fulsomely.

however all may not be as it first appears. for example, of the three pairs of visiting tutors at whose cuban heeled feet i have metaphorically sat, two have been directed by the follower. her partner - the leader - altho accomplished, has more or less done what he was told.

which leads us on to another question. what is it about these narcissistic* sorts that they need to be seen to hold the reins when the missus is actually the one cracking the whip?

do i care? i'm an adult. i consented. and so did the ladies i asked to join me as we paced solemnly and semi seriously** across the parquet. from time to time girls can close their eyes i was told. tho 'not you as well,' counseled one more experienced female. 'you've got to steer.'

by this time too much thinking and not enough groove was sweeping me out of my depth. adrift amongst the pulsating politics and freewheeling pheromones i realised i was hopelessly floundering. and as for the footwork ... i decided to cut the analysis and get on with the dance.

once i had done that the whole thing opened up. i started to get a feel for the leading-with-the-chest trick and we flew round the room. so it seemed that my first tango lesson was much more to do with attitude readjustment than with my clumsy attempts to execute the steps. after all who is naive enough to think that the relationship between boys and girls is ever what it seems? and who says you're ever too old to benefit from the steep learning curve of a dance lesson? i certainly had no complaints from the damsel on the sharp end.

well the not-so-sharp end actually but that's another story.




* it does seem that the boys are fond of themselves. in the style of a true guapo, male tango teachers over a certain age have no fear. certainly when it comes to dyeing their hair. while the younger ones flaunt their ringlets with abandon. or, cutting a dash, shave them aesthetically off.

** at a previous session i was actually reprimanded for talking, and worse still laughing, while dancing. and another time was accused along with my partner of having 'way too much fun.' tango it seems is a serious business where souls entwine. and sniggering is well and truly out. but that's ok. i can go with it. watch me.

bacatta

i've discovered bacatta. have you tried it? its heavy on pelvic nudging and has a characteristic stressed 4th beat when, instead of catching your breath as in salsa, you thrust one hip to the side. can look cool ... but if you're not careful you can come across as a kind of lecherous terpsichorean long john silver. its all got to be there but ostentatiously SUBTLE ... if you get my drift. lots of practice required. preferably in the dark where no one can see.

dance from the heart

i'm in love ....................................... wid me camrafone

elderflower champagne

stuff

• 6 large elderflower (Sambucus nigra) heads
• 1 gallon cold water
• 2 large lemons juice
• 2 lbs sugar
• 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
  

how to

• put it all in a tub and stir it about a bit
• leave for 48 hours
• strain
• bottle it in PLASTIC bottles
• keep letting the gas off (the stuff in the bottles) periodically
• about six weeks should do but it is drinkable before that. the longer you keep it the stronger it gets!!!!!!

ok america, we give up

will somebody come and take david gest home now. please.

how do you know if you're driving too fast?

letter to a friend following my first salsa class

hi buddy,

you should see a salsa class. i've had my mits on so many pretty women this evening you wouldn't believe it. of course it takes a lot of concentration. when you are looking at what your feet are doing its a bit difficult not to gaze down your partner's cleavage at the same time. took some pretty determined focussing i can tell you. i wasn't much good at the dancing. but with twice as many women as men who cares? i'm going to practice.

interestingly enough, although you are no doubt aware of this, the steps tie into the rhythm in eights. its ... one, two, three, rest, five, six, seven, rest. the 'rest' is where i tried to recover from the previous faux pas. for those who know what they are doing it seems to be a kind of off-beat in the dance pattern. this was a great ear-opener for me as previously salsa had sounded like a sort of serpentine percussive writhing punctuated with dramatic hispanic ejaculations. now i know different.

the few men and the ladies, at least the ladies of my approximate age, were really friendly. and started telling me about salsa weekends. which they strongly recommended as there would be 'expert dancers and really good teachers.' 'we dress up,' they said. happily only my imagination boggled.

so far so good. the first part of the class, during which i had impartially stepped on several pretty girls' feet, had been engrossing. the second phase was a different story. this was the 'intermediate' session i was told. for those who knew a bit. i could learn if i watched. so i watched.

sure enough they knew the steps. moving smoothly across the floor with assured reserve, there was not a bead of sweat to be seen. no mistakes. no eye contact. no flirting. zilch.

like a cold shower came the realisation ... these people were enthusiasts. enthusiasts. how disappointing. sure they made the dancing look easy. but they also managed to make it look boring. they had no passion. they could have been collecting rare toilet duck empties or back copies of 'routers monthly'. but would they die for their art? would they fairy cakes?

a bit like jazz, i cherish the idea that this music was born in blood, sex and death. not created by jo and jane soap in the fifty four minutes between finishing their fat-reduced-brekkie-snacks and the trip to B&Q for a vacupac of 20mm cross headed self tappers and the half litre tub of grouting. and it does not need to be commandeered by the rhythm wing of the caravan club. it deserves better. it deserves addicts, acolytes, adepts, fanatics, ego trippers, martyrs, prima donnas, anything in fact, except enthusiasts. ‘a weekend with this lot?’ I thought. ‘you must be joking.’

i’ve done enthusiasts’ weekends. as harmonica player with country and western band frisco i still bare the scars of a new years three nighter at pontins prestatyn on my heart. the punters, tho harmless, were seriously barking. they just wanted to dress up as their favourite western movie character.

in addition to a plethora of bog-standard cowpokes we had several Abraham Lincolns, a smattering of 7^th cavalry officers, more than one high tone east coast lady and a happy abundance of saloon bar hookers. a memory persists of an immaculate six foot apache brave with a scouser accent you could float a liner on. now that is a trans cultural experience.

but, not to be too judgemental, if four nights full board at brean sands encourages the dancing ladies to dress up as skankin’ swamp goddesses, all hot mud and serpents for £175, then why not? and, while we’re all getting primeval, what might flow from their enthusiasm once it had been burnished with a little rum and proximity?

perhaps a salsa weekend might be an experience to remember after all.

just call me snake hips

yours affectionately

personal first and last post

You probably know how powerful a word can be. Sometimes when one feels a little low in oomph a couple, well chosen and out of the blue can make a big impact. In fact in this case, such a big impact that they’ve brought on a creative crisis.

They’ve made me realise that I’ve got a public. And its you, Nava. Oh and a fine upstanding republican chap known as the Johnny b. (No I don’t think he’s republican really. That’s ironic brit humour. So its not funny? Even more ironic, huh?)

Anyway now I feel I can no longer maintain my exclusive correspondence with the moon, the stars and the dark night sky. My days of artistic solitude are at an end because ……….. someone, apart from a few very close friends who only do it because they know i'm going to test them on it later, might actually be reading my stuff.

I’ll have to speak to my agent for advice. Should I continue with my wrandom wrambling style? Or should I focus on turning out more of what first made me famous? I am famous aren’t I? Please say I’m famous.

What about the implications for my heirs? (I haven’t actually got any heirs. But they do say it never hurts to plan ahead.) Will there be dynastic duels over the rights to my oeuvre? (The aforementioned lack of heirs probably answers that one. But you must remember it is the function of the writer to imagine.)

Or perhaps you think I’m over-reacting a little? Possibly a surge of meteor endorphins caused by the butterfly kiss of recognition has lead to irrational euphoria? (is all euphoria irrational?)

You could be right.

But thanks anyway for your second instalment of kind words. Which at the very least allows me to say again how much I liked your portrait of Nitzku. And trust me. I am not so shallow as to say that just because you were nice to me. No I’m not. I really am not.

It’s a beautiful portrait. Wedged with love.

dreams dreams dreams

they're bastards really. dreams. and ironic bastards at that. you can't live without them. apparently. the argument goes that if you can't pretty up the future in your own image what is the point of putting up with the slings and arrows of the outrageous present? there is something in that i suppose but you have to admit that they do absolutely nothing to protect us from the elements. or keep us fed. no they leave all that to us while they just bang on having fun and being dreams.

or aspirations if you want to be sociological. of course the more you filter them through academic discliplines such as sociology the more they subtly shape-change. push 'em through one specialism and they take on the semblance of possibilities. once they've got through two they're starting to look like four-square facts.

in the interests of credibility its tempting to adopt the aspirations tag. they at least may be achievable. serious and unflappable sorts talk knowlegdably about aspirations. which have gravitas. whereas dreams have slightly less substance than the glitter on the christmas fairy's frock.

personally i've never had much truck with aspirations. i find them a bit bourgeois. with too much of the weekend colour supplement about them. there's aspirational meals for example. who would not die for an 8 inch high column of poached toad's liver, prawns, lemon grass and something really clever you (well actually not you but the narcissistic and pouty chef) can do with ugli fruit? especially when its served in a refurbished rural post office tastefully decked out in a myriad shades of brown. well me for one.

then theres the aspirational thatched mansion in kent. a 17th century farmhouse for 2.5 million smackeroonies. or that ever diminishing piece of ice cream-hued neck ware that'll let you download and store the entire creative output of the rock and roll industry through the twentieth century. so useful even if it will take you five lifetimes to listen to, with the proviso that you are so sad you have nothing else to do but plug into it.

and thats not all. the thing's so goddamn clever it'll put you in touch with everyone in the world in the twinkling of a credit card. even the guy on the third seat from the right of the back bench of the shed in chengdu (capital of szechuan, dummy) who supervised the thing's auto-assembly in the first place. and who you might like to phone up to order your next generation gizmo when, after an entire 13 months of selfless service, your current purchase becomes the unforgivably obsolete fashion gaffe we all secretly knew it would.

thats where you'll end up if you allow yourself to be seduced by aspirations.

no, best to stick to dreams. if i didn't have mine i'd have become a cynical old badger myself years ago. that i haven't (i haven't ok!) is down almost entirely to the fact that i've kept a careful eye on them. any sign of upward mobility, you know aspiring to aspiration status as it were, and they've been firmly, and not all that gently, tugged back into line. oh i've been loyal to my dreams i have. but have they been loyal to me?

well they're still there. so they've kept the faith. and i guess that's loyalty. they're not quite so sparkley and fresh as once they were but nonetheless, prodding and calling they are. like so many trees on a far hillside. just as they used to. hauling me back from spiritual dead ends and creative cul de sacs.

so what can a poor boy do if he finds his dreams quietly purring away round his feet under 4 decades of life's rich patina just a little wrinkleyer, but still recognisable and quite lively? one answer would be to scrape away the detritus and give them their head. because by now it might be time to accept that they ain't going to change. nor are they going to leave you alone. and a bit like love, you don't have much choice in the matter.

as if you ever really thought you did.

watch this space .........

sounds of travelling ... work in progresss

listening to the traffic drive up the swansea valley through clydach where i now live digs deep. to when i used to lie in bed in granny's house as the few 1950s cars slowly puttered through resolven illuminating my bedroom ceiling as they passed. it gave me the sensations of excitement and security at the same time. a big adventure negotiated from the cosiness of my own blankets. guess i've always been a home boy. preferred travelling in the mind.

we used to visit resolven a lot mum and i. on the swansea train to the foot worn station serving the little town where she had hated growing up. don't know why she disliked it so much. it must have been pretty dirty, like most of south wales when men had man's work to do and women cooked, cleaned, and had the babies. respectability was rife and no-hope mothers didn't shoot up smack. its nastier and more hopeless now.

granny lived in a nice end of terrace on the main street with rachie her fond neighbour to one side. to the back what seemed like a huge garden held a substantial wooden swing frame, borders, a lawn. pear trees grew uncertainly in a walled bed right outside the back door. there may have been a swing in the frame. honeysuckle swarmed before draping itself over the cross bar.

it was the doctor's house. i never met him. don't know if he ever saw me. he'd been a doc in world war one and since had aquired a taste for the drink. what pain he was trying to fix no-one ever knew. these days one might imagine. post traumatic stress hadn't been invented then and alcoholism was not understood as a disease. more of a weakness.

nobody wins a war. wars give history a chance to blow itself out of a bottleneck. but history is an unforgiving general who thinks nothing of grinding mere mortals under its armoured heel. grandad didn't win his war. like so many of his contemporaries he offered his all in defiance. only to be wasted like the leaves in autumn. my gut feeling is that he probably tried his best. at least to help those who had stopped the bullets. and the gas. and the shrapnel.

she had had the benefit of a good education had my gran. been to university in aberystwyth in the early 1900s. one of the leaders of her age really. and she had married the doctor before he left for europe.

wedding kaylee @ pyllaucochion farm, carmarthenshire

i am not completely at ease. it isn't raining but, although we've got a contract, and amazingly enough a deposit, word is that the bride's mother has booked another band. could this be an ugly rumour? or just poor communication? who can say?

hurtling down the motorway towards the wild green yonder that is carmarthenshire this particular saturday evening there is no alternative but to press on. my heart rate slows as i exit our visually banal arterial road system. passing under the protection of the sentinel oaks which punctuate the hedgerows i drive less frantically. i find myself begining to surrender to wales' emerald embrace.

relief is short lived. our caller chooses this moment to bring me up to speed. in more ways than one. he can'’t get out of cardiff. apparently there is an international soccer match on. which he couldn'’t possibly have anticipated. nor the resultant grid-lock! we are due to play at seven and it is now ten to six. he is 80 miles away. in a traffic jam. discomfort deepens.

then the bass player rings to say he's sorry but he can't make it. he's just got in from work and can't get to the venue in time. he's got to have his tea. and anyway his wife says he can't go out tonight.

hm!

find the gig by six fifteen. happily there is no sign of another band. unhappily the punters are agricultural types chatting in the tongue of their fathers. nothing wrong with that. its the tongue of my fathers too. it just ain't mine thats all. think devon farmers speaking a language you don'’t understand (a bit like devon farmers really but with more sibilant Ls and less rolling Rs.) and you'’ll get the picture. beefy, broad shouldered, big eared and boozing since lunchtime.

forget the politics. i have a real problem with being stared at by a room full of hearty sorts afloat on the pop and chuntering away in what might as well be a foreign language. and it is this: i can't tell whether i am about to be a) offered free mead for the night accompanied by the pick of the tribal virgins, b) stuffed with mistletoe and sacrificed to whichever god happens to top the local league or c) both.

my anxiety accelerates.

only to finally get airborn when, despite our initial salvos revealing that the action music live ceilidh band actually owes a lot more to diddly diddly than to its amerian cousin bo, a few of the younger guests decide this is a good moment to get their metallica requests in.

thankyou, rain, for not falling. at least god might be on our side and after all we are playing in a sloping field under a marquee. so dry is good. and not only for us musicians. there are tents around for the more hardy punters to sleep it all off in.

camp you say? yes. but not as camp as nigel the fluttering dj. anxious to stamp his authority on the event, albeit in a willowy sort of a way, while we are setting up and trying to sound check he fills the night with his signature tune. dancing queen. honest. could he be the only dj in the village?

despite nigel's best efforts, when it comes to preening and posturing the bride is about to show the young man a thing or two. no stranger to airs and graces she vacillates sharply between regal-imperial condescending and spoilt little madam. it is well to beware the stamp of her dainty hoof when she wants her own way.

we explain that we don't go on after the disco. 'you know,' we say with due professionalism, 'its all about dynamics, the volume and the guests' alcohol quotient.' she and her new spouse, whose own a. q. is veering sharply towards red, respond by insisting that nigel starts the ball rolling. he plays a smoocher and follows it up with a meatloaf* medley. we resign ourselves to three hours prizing the punters away from the bar while they call for shania twain. and tina turner. and tom. (tom? jones, obviously.)

as soon as meaty's dulcet warbling has evaporated to the warm welsh stars, kicking into the gower reel we (who are now a trio as the caller has finally got here. with his melodeons. much relief all round.) fire up and show them what we can do. we give it our all.

and the punters? they'’re on the floor like a pack of rats.

and they don't stop. relief is now boundless. we even get asked to name our price for another hour's worth when we are breaking the kit down at the end of the night. we decline. we're knackered and nigel, who despite his early flouncing has been pretty considerate, deserves his moment of glory after all.

back down the motorway with £115 in me pocket and it still isn't raining. despite the stress what could be better than that?

a shag and a curry of course. but you can't have everything.

*as it happens i am a major meatloaf fan. not so much his music. tho he sure can sing. no its more his politix really. anyone who'’s got the bollox to get up on his back legs at a gig in ireland and explain to the assembled throng that bono is "“too far up his own fucking arse," will get my vote everytime. hopefully it didn't rain on him either.

© Patrick Ellis 2006

the old game in an old town

if for any reason you do find yourself at a loose end this evening you may be interested to know that sex is apparently for sale on swansea pavements. it seems that a posse of aspiring turnip polishers and mascara testers from what used to be the eastern bloc have decided that the city's streets are lined with gold.

are they in for a shock? they might actually pull a few punters but will they get paid? your guess is as good as mine but i think it more likely they'll be puked over. and offered a few chips in consolation. poor dears.

swansea swains are a choosy bunch. i remember an incident way back in the 1980s. apparently a Mrs Murgatroyd had secured the attentions of a Wind Street reveller one evening. (yes it was a lot quieter then. is that better for a working girl? or worse?) after a brief discussion the couple adjourned to a piece of waste ground for a little intimate activity.

hardly headline news. well not in the normal run of events anyway. but on this occasion the post coital punch up did attract the attention of the police. it seems that the client, who from memory wasn't named, felt that the service Mrs M. had delivered had not lived up to expectations. consequently he withheld payment and a dispute arose.

i can't remember the end of the tale but i am pretty sure that it ended up in court. public nuisance or something. she might even have been bound over. possibly adding a line to her cv.

i don't think she ever saw any of the money. but she certainly did get plenty of free publicity. (it is not difficult to imagine one or two embarrassing questions at the breakfast table. such as 'Mummy, whats a prostitute?').

all of which leads me to think that if a swansea girl can't get the bucks out of the local lads i don't know how some adolescent Elena is going to cope. puked on and beaten up by her pimp all in one night. i'd be staying snug in my wellies in the beetroot fields if i was her. but then happily for me, i'm not.

i don't know what south wales is coming to. apparently a chap got buggered (against his will) in resolven recently. jesus christ. what is going on between these boys' ears? the answer, i think we know, is the great fuck all.

although somebody did say that the victim was wearing a sheepskin jacket at the time. well. i ask you? if that's true what did he expect? going out dressed like that. the bloke was asking for it.


Patrick Ellis 2006

thats hats

At the end of the day, at least as much as at the beginning, it all comes down to who you can live with. Guy Richie can live with Madonna. Elton John can live with aptly named David Furnish.* And Victoria can live on the same planet as the wonderfully talented David 'Poor Sod' Beckham.

But there are those for whom one is not enough. Me for example. And now is the time to come clean. So bear with me gentle reader As I reveal that to satisfy my own personal cravings for multiple experience I promiscuously share my living space with not one, not two, or even three but with a whole diminutive posse of cranial adornments.

I suppose number one chapeau would have to be 'Bright Eyes', a rabbit-fur-with-lots-of-flaps job. 'Bright' as I call her, carries the cosy memory of a pre-glasnost university trip to Moscow in 1984. It was then that I fell in love, discovered Stalinist Gothic and, when I was surprised at my surprise that Russians didn't actually have horns and tails after all, understood that the press can make a big difference to how I think.

Maintaining covert surveillance on that Rusky dame my compadre ‘Tex’ flies the flag for good ol’ down home capitalism. A straw Stetson from my time in Frisco, the eponymous country and western band that is, ‘Tex’ came on board following a New Year’s Eve weekend gig wedged with scouser apaches in Prestatyn. ‘Tex’ is one ornery hat. There ain’t many around tough enough to square up to his kind of raisin'.

'Tex' would be followed, although not alphabetically obviously, by 'Tensing' a Nepalese peasant hat with an ornamented padded strip on the brow. ‘Tensing’ was brought back from the Himalayas by my boss when I was working as a gardener at Eltham palace. Although glad to get the present I wasn't so sure on the subtext.

Apparently the padded strip is where, if you are a Nepalese rural worker (in the Maoist bit, or peasant in the other), you put the strap for the sack of rocks you are hauling up the mountain. You will appreciate that, as a gardener a boss with these sorts of ideas rattling around between the ears can be a source of significant long term low level anxiety.

Then there are my invisible hats. To name any of these feels like it might risk blowing their cover. So I haven’t. All I will say is that I have these in several styles. You know what I’m talking about? The woolly zenith of the car crim/junkie uniform?

Oh I can see them clear enough. Its just that people I know quite well walk straight past me when I am wearing one. They either don't, or don't want to, recognise anyone dressed like that. As a result I’m very fond of these. They have saved me, and possibly my friends, from countless unwelcome conversations. Such a blessing.

Before you try this at home it is well to be aware that not all woolly hats of this genre guarantee invisibility. I do have a bright red one which seems to work in the opposite way. Especially with the fair sex.

When wearing this it is not unusual for me to be on the receiving end of subtle glances, even the occasional shy smile from a comely damsel. I like to interpret these as signals of amour. Although it has been suggested, unkindly in my view, that they are more likely to be stifled sniggers of amusement. Whatever. I’m sure the response has nothing to do with the old adage about those with red hats enjoying reduced underwear status**.

On the subject of covering up I usually draw a veil (what a vision) over Garry the barbecue chef's hat. Garry has no backbone. Well actually Garry has no back. He is pure facade, held in place by elastic and as such can't really be considered a proper hat. Even if he does yearn to sit on my head. I’m worried about Garry.

Conversely, even though at 59 cms he is a little on the tight side and makes me sweat a bit, I am proud to possess Paco de Panama. And I have respect for Reginald my working person's flat cap with t'pop-stud peak, full segmented crown and apical button. The trouble here though is that he can be a little intimidating. Sometimes I even get the feeling that 'Edgy Reggie' as I have come to think of him, may be borderline schizophrenic.

As far as I can remember at the time of purchase in York he felt normal enough, well adjusted even. From Marks & Spencers no less. And you can’t get more well behaved than that. We started out with a mature bourgeois rapport. Until the hit-and-run incident.

Out of the blue as I was rushing across a busy road a gust whisked Reggie off my head and onto the carriageway. I turned, and stood helpless on the pavement, as a truck went right over him.

Did the driver stop? Did he fairy cakes. After a moment of almost parental anguish I rushed to the rescue. To my relief despite being a slightly flatter flat cap than previous, Reggie seemed ok. But with hindsight I don't think he was ever the same.

Whether it was the physical knock or the post traumatic stress I don’t know. But now that hat has two distinct personalities. When the crown is firmly pop studded to the peak hard Reggie exudes an air of psychotic authority. But with his stud un-popped, so to speak, and the crown swept back effete Ronnie has a much more artsy and, if I am going to be honest, unnervingly camp air.

It gets worse. I am concerned that Reggie/Ronnie harbours aspirations to grandeur well beyond his/their station and may be aiming to sit on a head that leads nations. Or at least a criminal gang in east London. This quirk of personality may have been dormant only to manifest following the RTA. Whatever the reason, although I would never abandon an old hat just because its ..... er .... old hat, or maybe gone a bit weird, I no longer feel at ease with either of these new personas. So I don't wear them anymore.

Does every hat carry a tale I wonder? My latest acquisition does. Another straw job, this time made by Blue Seahorse and a Thai holiday gift from a recovering alcoholic friend. 'Nang' was still covered in flowers when I got him, and soaking from a last dip in the Malacca strait.

For why my pal went I don't know. Why do boys go to Thailand? My friend is a very, very, very keen diver. So for him it was the blue sea, the coral, the gaudy fish, the beach life, the unspoilt jungle ....... and the women.

The country really got him. Well something did. Eventually it turned out that he had found a girlfriend. Before you could say chilli-fried-grasshopper he was as deeply and bluely in love as the gulf of Thailand itself. A basket case in no time flat.

When he came back he was determined he was going to chuck his job and move out there. To settle down in a bamboo cabin on the shore. With his beautiful Thai lady, and possibly some of her mates if they were all up for it, to live off bananas and coconut milk. He's a veggie by the way. We all remonstrated until we realised that he had made his mind up. After that we just wished him well.

He started to put the plan into practice. But this was no spur of the moment decision. It was a calculated move and was going to take a while. He was going at Christmas he said. Once he had sold all his gear.

At Christmas he still had stuff to sell so he revised his time scale. Now he would be going at Easter.

Just before Easter departure date shifted to 'the end of the summer'.

Then to 'definitely by next Christmas'.

A month ago they got married here in UK. They had already cut the deal in Thailand but wanted a British ceremony too. Weirdly she hadn't been so keen on the bamboo cabin by the shore. Or sharing him with her pals. She fancied something different. And thought they might try to make a go of it in Blighty. Where he's got a job and there's a relatively good health service.

So now it looks like he's going to be sticking around. With his whole new bunch of in-laws. Not to mention the kids. She has one of her own by a previous but also got pregnant on the wedding night. Earning him the title One-Shot-Thomas.

What is left but to wish them all well and look forward to their greater future happiness. But I still think I got the best out of the deal.

Because why?

Obvious really ... I GOT THE HAT.

After all now that I’ve come clean about my co-habitees of choice, it can only be onwards and upwards from here on in.

Bring on the pork pie

..... hat that is.

© Patrick Ellis March 2006

* A person so sartorially challenged that he has his threads created out of fabric more appropriate for a three-piece-suite than for a three-piece-suit. Gives a whole new take on stuffing the sofa.

** You know what they say. ‘Red hat - no drawers’.

the trouble with john humphries

i am very sorry to hear that john humphries has once again upset a strident element of the bbc radio 4 listening public. how could he be so impertinent to that nice mr cameron on the today program? especially when the latter was wriggling like a worm on a hook, desperate to oil his way out of the inconvenient contradictions in his position on income tax. it's high time that young humphries was hauled up before the beak for more smacked legs and public humiliation.

if nothing else it will give mr grade the opportunity to further ingratiate himself with the compilers of the honours lists. although hopefully thats a side issue, the question of how many troublesome welshmen you need to bully before you can claim your title remains. whatever, its got to be cheaper than cash up front.

but then humphries isn't quite so young is he? despite his youthful enthusiasm as he duffed cameron up in an exchange worthy of a first term at public school when the new bug gets his head shoved down the lavatory, he's been treading those radio boards for quite a while now.

i wonder how far back his career stretches. back to the brief intermission in deferential wireless that followed the 1960s perhaps. back even to the age of integrity in public life where peccadilloes and improper conduct could actually lead to a principled resignation. (cf. john profumo. although i don't suggest that there is any issue of resignation here. ) back in fact to when our media sleuths were not afraid of losing their jobs if they rattled the bars of westminster. or those that populate them.

perhaps that's the trouble with john humphries. maybe his understanding of the function of a radio journalist is too old-fashioned for modern listeners. perhaps in this virtual age, ferreting after uncomfortable truth is too clearly unacceptable and an indication that it's time to hang up the mike. as is the innocent belief that being in the right is its own validation.

well all i can say is long live john humphries. long may he sink his teeth into our deserving pillars of public life and shake them like a terrier shakes a rat. they do get quite handsomely paid after all.

we need more voices of his calibre on the airwaves. especially on massively bourgeois radio 4. but i fear that in these post- gilligan days of polite media the likes of jh are becoming an increasingly endangered species. who knows when the poison dart is going to find its target between his shoulder blades? much as i'd like to i can't protect him from those who obviously wish to god he'd shut up. but i can admire him. and his stance.

and i do.

patrick ellis