L'Ègoiste

 

It is a simple equation:  me wearing a mask can help you, and you wearing a mask can help me. How can that impinge on your freedom? Yet it seems that many people believe that their liberties are threatened by this act of reciprocity. If only all our heads of government would lead by example.

Nu, several weeks ago this idea for a political cartoon came to mind, and I sketched it out. Today I inked over the pencil (I was really anxious about doing that, afraid of messing things up, but finally I did do it), and here it is. My first go, so a bit rough I know. Also needs a particular cultural reference to make any sense:  somewhere around 1990 there was a tv ad that I absolutely adored and have never forgotten (you may remind yourself or introduce it to yourself here *).

* a translation of what the women are screaming may be found at the end of the wiki article here

She's Alive!

 

Thank you to Barry from Leeds for letting us know that the internet rumours of the death of everyone's favourite Egghead are premature (poo poo poo). UK quizzing fans, e.g., yours truly, breathe a sigh of relief. 

Summer's End is Nigh

 

L says once Ferragosto is over, so is the summer. It may still be hot, but summer it is not. It is certainly less than a fortnight until September, but at the orto/allotment this morning, with the bright sun and the tomatoes busting out all over (all you had to do was touch them and they would fall into your basket), it was hard to believe what she said could be true.

And then, as my students started to pack up their books, just about half-past eight this evening, I looked out of the window of the classroom and saw twilight there. It was the first time this year I'd noticed it at this time of day and I realised, hai ragione L, you called it. Summer is almost over.

Pronunciation is the Key

 

Sorting through some ESL folders I came across this lovely quote which the original poster attributed to Alan Bennett. 

Thinking about accents, mine is an utter mishmash of place and class, with an American 'R' rolling through every language I try to speak. It usually reflects that of the last person with whom I was speaking, although it strains towards RP when I'm reading or speaking in public (which many Americans find quite impressive. I remember once, after giving a eulogy in a small town in Virginia, a friend of the mourners came up to me and remarked, "I have no idea what you said, but it sounded gorgeous!"). I also have a football accent, a fact I only discovered after being interviewed outside Loftus Road before a match and listening back on the website later that day. It was quite subconscious, but apparently I feel the need to try and sound less posh. Sadly, however many glottal stops I may insert, I don't fool anyone. Sigh.

Julie Welch's Fangirl

I may be horribly gushing and over the top, but I have to post this screenshot because for me, at least, it was an incredibly exciting moment:

I read an interview with Julie Welch today in the Guardian newspaper. For those of you not of a certain age, not UK football fans, not female UK football fans, you may not know her name. When I was a teenager, she was one of my heroines. She was the only woman I knew of then who was a football journalist, and certainly made it possible for me to think that one day I could get my own work onto the back pages of national newspapers.

And Julie Welch wrote "Those Glory Glory Days", which I just found in its entirety on YouTube here (Since I bought it as a videocassette in the olden days, I will not feel like a thief watching it again. I still have the VHS tape, but the machine that used to play it is knackered). When I first saw this film, I realised there were others who felt like I did (only not for QPR. TV mentions of the R's in those days were by characters like "Steptoe & Son" or when discussing crims on "Minder"). It was important to know I wasn't the only one.

To be honest, I hadn't thought about Ms Welch in a few years. Then I saw her name at the top of a webpage, and clicked on the link to find out what she had to say. The occasion for the interview was the publication of her latest book:  "The Fleet Street Girls:  The Women Who Broke Down the Doors of the Gentlemen's Club" (Times review here). In the interview, she speaks well of Brian Clough, godfather to one of her sons. From my days as photographer for the U of Nottingham student paper, and one particular incident at Loftus Road the night the floodlights died, I had developed a pretty low opinion of Mr Clough. So I found @DameJulieWelch on Twitter, and sent a message:

"As a female photographer for QPR I will never forget (c. 1985) Clough in my face screaming 'Get back in the effing kitchen where you belong.' Others were mesmerised by his charm. Umm ..."

And she replied.

Indeed it was. Memories came flooding back:  the foul and abusive language of the fans, dealing with projectiles aimed at my back during the game (everything from apples to small pieces of terracing wrapped in snow to fresh urine), the hostility of stewards and the old guard of Press photographers. But also, the players were lovely, one evening the trainer got the team coach to stop and give me a lift when I'd been stranded in the rain after a European friendly, day and night R's all around Shepherd's Bush would greet me with a cheery "Awright!" and, best of all, my dad got to hear the QPR fans singing his firstborn's name in the away end at Stamford Bridge. But back to Julie Welch ...

(Warning:  here comes the gush)

It wasn't just getting a reply, it was that she also followed me. Wow. Thank you Julie Welch. Proud to have stood on your shoulders for a while (at least one of them).

Drawing Practice - with Snoopygrams

 

There WILL be another #DrawingTogetherGM next week (or is it the week after? Better check before I get too excited), but to keep the plates spinning I've been trying to draw something in that slot each Sunday evening. That hour is quite important for my mental health - while I focus on the drawing, everything else is quiet for a while.

At the moment, I'm following the tutorials on Instagram for how to draw figures from Peanuts.  I know it's not the same as creating my own comic, but it is good practice in getting pen to paper, which I find quite difficult. In this drawing, Schroeder is more Little Richard than Clara Schumann. I was quite nervous about having a go at Schroeder as it is a side view and has a big prop. Indeed, I redid the pencil several times, which I haven't done before. 

Nu, hurrah for having a go, and hurrah for spinning the plates, and I can't wait until the group is together again.

Lost in Modena

 

Usually at this time of year Modena is teeming with tourists. Not so during the time of Coronavirus. On my way home the other day, I noticed a couple who looked a bit lost. She was walking in a wandering style, and he had stopped and was looking at his phone and then around and then back at the phone. As I passed them I heard him say something in English, so I said, "may I help you? Are you lost?" "Yes," replied the woman, "but that is the plan." "Ok, " I said, "enjoy!"

And it's ..... Kamala Harris!

 

Breaking news as I type, but old by the time you will read it. Nevertheless, Joe Biden has just announced his running-mate for the election. He has chosen Kamala Harris. Living outside the USA, I don't know too much about her ... yet! Am looking forward to finding out that my vote will be less for a Noah (i.e., someone who is the least awful in their generation, rather than standing out as the best choice on merit) and more for a ticket including a person with values and beliefs that I can share.

BBC report

NY Times (paywall)

The Guardian

Wikipedia entry for Ms Harris

The Independent shares the first attack vid sent out within minutes of the announcement by the current incumbent's campaign

Trending Today: Medieval Wine Windows

 

Lovely story making the rounds today about medieval wine windows (buchette del vino). Read in the Independent (full story here) that a number of establishments in Firenze are reviving a tradition that goes back to the 17th century when bubonic plague ravaged the city:

"During the plague, wine producers would pass the flask of wine through the window to customers in order to prevent contagion.

As for payment, they would pass a metal pallet to the customer, who would fill it with coins, and then the wine producer would disinfect them with vinegar before collecting them."

Not sure which was the original story, but there are now several versions online. I like this one. Don't like wine so much, though. Not at the moment - it's too darn hot. Just one sip of the lovely local Lambrusco and bubbles of my boiling blood burst through my skin. Or something like that. 

How Not to Wear a Mask

 

For some reason, in the heat of the night I began to watch old eps of What's My Line (US version). Just the mysterious celebrity parts. And Groucho was being the expected iconoclast, and refused to wear his blindfold properly. 

Groucho has always reduced me to laughter, usually with little effort on his part. Seeing this picture, however, I went all Queen Victoria on him. After all these months, and all the sickness and death across the world, the fact that so many people still refuse to wear masks, or if they must then do not wear them properly, is utterly disheartening. 

It doesn't work unless we ALL do it.

It doesn't work unless we all do it PROPERLY.

In what kind of world do we live when, instead of feeling that this is something we can do for each other, people feel oppressed?

The numbers are starting to rise again folks, and the autumn's not far away. Better get your haircuts asap and maybe invest in a bidet before the lockdown returns.

Or perhaps just wash your hands and wear a bloody mask.

An Italian Pickle

Pickles are in the news at the moment, well, the cultural news maybe:  latest movie releases include "An American Pickle", which sounds like the 21st century version of my second favourite pre-persona non grata Woody Allen movie, "Sleeper". As for me, last week was my second attempt at making my own pickles, under the tutelage of my good friend W. Here are a few photos to tell the story of the day:

1. Good quality fresh cucumbers are hard to find at a decent price

Will not bore you with the list of places we drove to find my cucumbers. The silver lining was that the rental car had air-con so we were very very happy. Finally we decided to try the horticultural market, and asked the GPS how to get there.

2. This is where the fruit & veg shops in town come to get their produce

You have to buy in bulk. So I bought 2 crates of cucumbers, c. 6 kg, for €10. A risible amount in comparison to the other shoppers. What the market did NOT have, and what we would chase for a couple more hours, were the fresh dill and the mustard seed that we needed.

3. Here are some I prepared earlier

Nice and clean and ready for slicing. Big knife for slicing. W is a chef. I am not. Danger AJ Robinson, danger!

4. Freshly sliced cucumber

5. Freshly sliced fingers

Don't worry, the pickles are still vegetarian. After the second cut, W made me put on gloves. And then he said, "O the knife is a bit dull", and he sharpened it, and gave it back to me. That is trust. 

6. Mustard seed and black peppercorns

W ended up getting on his bike and got the seeds from some secret source. He knows his way around Modena!

7. Brine

There's a bit of maths to be done here when figuring out the ratio of the apple cider vinegar (& red wine vinegar when we ran out) and the other liquid parts of the brine. And then we cook it and pour it through the perfect red funnel into the jars and put the lids on. Almost done.

8. Bagno Maria

There's so much boiling to be done when pickling cucumbers. But W has A/C in his flat so I could wait forever if necessary. And we talked, and listened to music (hence the Dan Reeder track of the title photo) and another thunderstorm came and went, and by early evening we had some

9. Pickles!

Hurrah hurrah hurrah! And thank you W!! I am now the proud possessor of 8 quart jars of pickled cucumbers. That should hold me for a while. And thank me, dear reader, for deciding to omit the particularly graphic photo of my wounded thumb. 

Next up, making tomato sauce from all the pomodori we are picking in the allotment. But that is L's story to tell. 

Yo, Semite!

Was this an early Rosh Hashanah greeting?

O dear o dear o dear. #45's latest malapropism - a President of the United States of America who cannot pronounce "Yosemite". Doesn't he have people for this? And anyway, could he really have lived all his life in that country without once seeing Yosemite Sam with Bugs Bunny?

Meanwhile, the National Museum of American Jewish History is offering this lovely item:

This November, please remember to vote. Please!