George Macaulay Trevelyan

 I've been doing a little bit of research about the collection of model soldiers at Wallington in Northumberland. Unsurprisingly perhaps I discovered that this wasn't the first wargames blog in which the figures have featured. There's a bit more detail and a lot more photos on a post on Tom's Toy Soldiers from October 2013. The eponymous Tom seems to have found some notes about the collection, which is more than I did. Maybe he was extravagant and bought a guide book. It's interesting to note that the Trevelyan brothers seem to have bought whatever figures happened to be available and then used them to represent whatever they needed them to be; it seems nothing much had changed between the 1880s and when I started wargaming in the 1960s. It also explains why I thought there were figures from the Risorgimento.

I hadn't come across Tom's blog before, but it looks like it will be worth reading. In another of those happy coincidences which always intrigue me his post from last Monday also concerned model soldiers at a National Trust property.

The George mentioned solely by Tom in terms of his role as a substitute for dice rolling grew up to be the distinguished historian George Macaulay Trevelyan. This fact was picked up by an even earlier, and with all due respect to Tom, even more celebrated wargames blogger. In his Wargames Newsletter #114 (*) from September 1971 the late, great Donald Featherston says that Trevelyan credited this early study of war games with his ability to so vividly describe battles in his own writing. Among Trevelyan's major works is his trilogy about Garibaldi; I wonder if that interest was also inspired by the figures in the collection.

* This edition also contains a letter from Gary Gygax and the exciting news that Airfix are to release a set of French Napoleonic Infantry.

The Spur in the Dish Warns the Border Chief that the Larder Needs Replenishing

 Well, another month nearly finished and not many posts, but let's see if we can squeeze one more in before September starts. In any event I continue to attract thousands of views a day without bothering to write anything. The blog's stats page tells me that the most popular article yesterday was that from a few weeks ago complaining about the constant trawling by AI. Coincidence? I think not; these LLMs seem to be as vain as one of the blog's previous, and much missed, followers, who had a strict policy of only reading posts in which she featured.

And speaking of coincidences... I have been in Northumberland for a few days and finding myself in Alnwick I obviously popped in to Barter Books. I didn't stay long as it was hot and crowded, but I did buy a book almost at random just to show willing: "The Adventures of Speedfall" by John Fuller, which I didn't enjoy and don't recommend. I would describe it as a mediocre mashup between P.G. Wodehouse's Mr Mulliner and Tom Sharpe's Porterhouse Blue and, having put it to one side, I found the latter of those on my Kobo (*) and started to re-read it. I quickly came on a passage in which one character, as part of a diatribe against the feckless working class, mentions a painting that he once saw in which a wife served her husband a spur on a plate rather than the dinner which he was expecting. That struck a chord with me because I had myself seen that very painting - it's by William Bell Scott - the day before at Wallington. Also seen there, and of somewhat more relevance to the blog, were these:

As well as the Napoleonic figures there were what looked to be some units from the Risorgimento. Unfortunately the hand written labels seen in the first photo were all the information displayed, so I don't know how old they are. In terms of scale I would judge that they were in height a small 20mm, think Irregular or Tumbling Dice, but they were very slender. Let's end with a photo of Dunstanburgh Castle as approached from Craster:

No kippers were harmed in the taking of this picture.

* I have, not before time, kicked Amazon into touch.

Games, must we?

 In my last post I said that the opening scene of 'Owen Wingrave' contained a reference to Austerlitz. I nearly made a smug comment to the effect that I was probably the only person in the audience that picked it up. Two things stopped me. Firstly, the realisation that I was probably the only person in the audience that cared at all. And secondly, the possibility that I might have deduced the wrong battle anyway. There was no mention of the battle by name, simply a few oblique clues. One of these was the name of General Vandamme.

As it happens the villain in Hitchcock's 'North by Northwest', played by James Mason, is also Vandamm - no 'e', but close enough.

Two days before seeing the opera, I went to see Wise Children's stage version of the film, and am happy to report a return to form for the company. It's a whimsical crowd-pleaser rather than a straight thriller, but there is intelligence in the way that verbal humour, physical comedy and audience interaction are substituted for the darkness of the original. And then there's the action scenes. The film featured locations such as the UN building, various trains and stations, a cornfield being buzzed by a crop-spraying aircraft and, of course, Mount Rushmore; all are transposed to the stage with imagination and invention. It's well worth seeing.

Fact of the day: Eva Marie Saint, who played Eve Kendall in the 1959 film is, astonishingly, still alive and is the oldest living Academy Award winner.

To me, to you

 I have been asked why my round-up of famous Barrys in showbiz omitted Chuckle. Good question. At the risk of confirming AI in its belief that this is a YouTube channel, let's have some music from another one. And is it just a coincidence that the Leeds born Ryan brothers (real name Sapherson) shared first names with the Chuckle brothers (real name Elliot) (*)?

* Yes, it is.

Partizan 2023

 Enough of things I've done before, here's something new: I've been to Partizan for the first time ever. I have to say, it was just as good as I was told it would be and I enjoyed it a lot. It's a nice venue, which didn't get too hot, plenty of traders and far more games than one gets at, for example, Vaprnartak. No doubt comprehensive, photo-replete reviews will appear elsewhere so I will cover the fact that I didn't take many pictures or write down the details behind anything by just concentrating on a couple of the highlights for me.

Inevitably perhaps, the first would be the refight of Möckern using C&C being displayed by the Old Guard from Bexley. The coincidence of us having played this exact same thing last week is perhaps lessened by the point I made in the last post that there aren't very many published scenarios for Epic C&C. They were using 28mm figures on, I think, 6" hexes and so had room for much more terrain and larger unit sizes than I use. I've seen elsewhere on someone's blog about the show that he found the players to be somewhat uninterested in speaking to punters. I have to say that I didn't find that to be the case and they passed on one or two tweaks to the scenario which they use to even it up a bit. I may well incorporate those into at least one of the two further reruns of this that I am planning for this week. (For those wondering why I would do that it's because I want to host two games and I don't really have the time to set up anything else. In an exciting development we shall be back in the Legendary Wargames Room of James 'Olicanalad' Roach for the following week.)

My only purchase of the day - although there may just possibly be a rather large follow up on-line order - was also C&C related. I bought some activation markers from Warbases. As readers may know from photos in previous posts I use a small marker behind each unit which shows type and strength. It has been our practice for many years now to rotate this by ninety degrees to indicate that a unit is activated for this turn. However, this has proven to be an increasingly complex concept for one player - an age related issue maybe? - so I thought I'd try a different tack to see if it was simpler. I believe the markers I bought are actually intended for Chain of Command, although I got involved in a demo game of the same and didn't see any such markers.

I say 'involved in' rather than 'played in' because it had finished before I had managed to remember anything much from my one previous play of the game. We - a British paratroop force - won from a losing position by rolling a double activation, which I believe is exactly what happened in my first game; another spooky coincidence. You may just be able to see towards the far end of the table a burning German AFV (possibly a Stug III) which, in my only real contribution, I had caused to be knocked out by the anti-tank gun at the bottom of the photo (possibly a 6 pdr) by rolling a shed load of 5s and 6s. The distinguished looking chap on the left is Don Avis, my first ever wargaming opponent, now acting as proof-reader, event-organiser and all round consigliere to Richard Clarke of Too Fat Lardies fame. I hadn't expected to see Don there and we hadn't been chatting for more than a minute or so before the subject of our failed career as rock musicians was raised; it was ever thus. Don also dragged me into a game of What a Cowboy, which I thought was great fun, enhanced perhaps by the fact that the boys from Boreham Wood cleaned up the town and took down the bad guys.

So, all in all, a good day out.

Pot57pouri (slight return)

 I have been absent. In my absence I have been away. Lots of culture was involved, so watch out for a long boring post about it all. In the meantime here's a photo of one very non-cultural site which previously featured on this blog here.

By coincidence I bumped into the same two characters as last time, looking even more grizzled as they came out of the tunnel than they had at the old White Hart Lane. It has to be acknowledged that it's now a very impressive stadium indeed, although it by no means resembles going to the match as I remember it. As if to prove the point we brunched along the Tottenham High Road on organic eggs benedict accompanied by designer sparkling water in an expensively pretentious bottle, the days of several pints and a kebab now being merely a distant memory.

There was no sign of the Costa del Sol Cup. 

Zolotoi Petushok

 I had been thinking for a while that one way of regaining my blogging mojo would be to revisit favourite themes from the past. The opportunity to do so was handed to me on a plate earlier today, when I returned home after my morning constitutional to find my spare bedroom on fire. The failure of smoke detectors to detect, well, smoke has featured here before in consideration of smouldering chariots, exploding laptop chargers and a number of others. However, damage was minimal and given that the whole episode would appear to be my fault, it's probably best to move swiftly on. Instead, I shall be looking to exploit the distinction of being the only wargames blog which reviews operas.

The plans of opera companies are fixed years in advance, and so it is entirely a coincidence that English Touring Opera are presenting Rimsky-Korsakov's 'The Golden Cockerel' at this time. The work is a satire on incompetence in war and on political corruption, first written in response to the debacle of the Russo-Japanese war and the resultant unrest in the streets, which Lenin referred to as 'the great dress rehearsal'. This could have been a 'cometh the hour, cometh the touring opera company' moment, in which art once again reflects and challenges real life. It isn't, and it doesn't, mainly because a focus on knock-about slapstick completely undermines any bite the anti-war message might have had. It is "all mirth and no matter", as Beatrice said. The director is also let down by a truly dreadful English translation of the libretto, whose sub-Gilbertian doggerel must have been really dated back the forties or fifties or whenever it was done. The original was based on a poem by Pushkin, who has presumably been turning in his grave for decades at the insult. 

Sadly, despite having a fairy tale at its heart it just never managed to become magical. Having said all that, the music was good, as were the performances, especially Paula Sides as the Queen of Shemakha and Alys Mererdid Roberts as the eponymous fowl. The design placed it in the pre- Great War court of Nicolas and Alexandra, complete with Tsarevitch (two actually) and Rasputin-like astrologer. The striking design on the curtain in place between acts was apparently inspired by the Rayonists, themselves active in Moscow and St Petersburg during that period. "What can you tell us about the Rayonists?" you ask, and "Not much." I reply. According to Wikipedia they could be considered to be Cubo-Futurists, so I suggest that's how you think of them. It also rather tantalising says that in 1913 they started to paint their faces and published a manifesto entitled "Why We Paint Our Faces". What it fails to include is any reference to the contents of said publication, which is sad because, who knows, if their argument had been convincing enough I may have reached for the maquillage myself. 

A Question of Balance

 The lack of posts on the blog has been to a great extent driven by a lack of balance in your bloggist. By coincidence the cover story of this week's edition of the New Scientist is about the fact that the population as a whole is falling over more often and that the problem is occurring at a younger age than ever before. They point the finger at less and less physical movement being undertaken by the bone idle denizens of the modern world, or at least that's what I think it said, but the magazine is on the other side of the room and I can't be bothered to go and get it. I have been placed on a regime of Balance Retraining exercises, about which I shall simply say that it is a good job that I live alone. Yoga has been mentioned, as it frequently is, especially by those who don't do it themselves. However, as I can't currently walk in a straight line, the Revolved Bird of Paradise may be some way off.

Anyway, here's some Sam & Dave, dedicated to the fond memory of those who perform the Downward Dog.

Shahnameh

"They say the Lion and the Lizard keep

The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep"

- The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Following a recommendation on nundanket's blog, I watched the first part of the recent BBC series on Persian Art. I enjoyed it - despite it following the BBC's house rules of the presenter starting by telling us that she was going on a journey to discover stuff; silly me for assuming that she got the gig because she already knew it - and would have watched the other parts if I hadn't faffed about for so long that they had vanished from iPlayer. I had never before heard of the Shahnameh, the national epic poem of the country, the stories in which the programme compared to what we know of actual history. The very next day I was reading some P.G. Wodehouse and there was a reference to Jamshyd. The name seemed familiar and, sure enough a quick google showed him to be one the mythical rulers whose adventures are contained in the work. It's a small world.

Bracing

I have been to Llandudno, which turned out to be a very pleasant place, although it would have been even better if the temperature had been ten degrees higher. I had never been before and had no idea that it was a purpose built resort in the manner of Cancun or Pattaya, albeit on a more human scale than the former and less sleazy than the latter. The promenade is particularly impressive, kept free of tack and with all the low rise Victorian hotels painted in pastel colours. I saw a spectacular fireworks display from the promenade one evening. The reason it was held a few days earlier than in the rest of the country was that they set it up on the beach and the date is therefore determined by the times of the tide.

It was colder and gloomier than this when I was there

In an attempt to shoehorn in something vaguely wargaming related can I point out that the Great Orme, seen rising behind the town in the photo, is home to the flock of goats from the Royal Welch Fusiliers select their regimental mascot. More directly connected to military history is the magnificent Conwy castle:

The town of Conwy, which has virtually all its medieval walls intact, is very nice as well, with plenty of coffee shops to duck into when visitors lose feeling in their extremities. It also boasts Great Britain's smallest house:

As I was in full tourist mode I paid my quid and went in. I can confirm that it is indeed very small. I wanted to know whether the claim that it is GB's smallest house meant that there is a smaller one in Northern Ireland, but the otherwise charming Welsh lady in the picture affected to have no interest in one of the most contentious current constitutional issues and said that she didn't know.

I may in due course explain exactly what took me to North Wales, but for now let me relate one thing that happened last week which touches on this previous post about people dying in theatres.  I was in the Venue Cymru and as curtain up approached I was eyeing the vacant seat next to me with a view to putting my coat over it if no one arrived to claim it. The lady sitting on the other side of it leaned over to me and said "It's OK, she's not coming. I've just been to her funeral."

Henry Liddell, father of Alice, had a holiday home on the West Shore at Llandudno and was possibly, depending on whom you believe, visited there by Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. In any event the town is littered with statues of characters from his books. In one of those coincidences that I like even if no one else does, on the day of my return I went to see June Tabor and the Oysterband at Leeds Town Hall and for their first encore they did a cover of Jefferson  Airplane's 'White Rabbit'. Astonishingly Grace Slick was 80 last Wednesday, so here's the original as performed at Woodstock:

Unhasty orison

I have mentioned before that I find coincidences interesting, but I am am obviously aware that they don't really signify anything. The brain looks for patterns (especially if one is as analytical by nature as me); if it doesn't find anything it moves on and makes no note; if it does spot something then it says "Aha", or "Would you believe it?" or "Bugger me" according to taste. And given that we are in November 2018 it is also no coincidence that I have seen another play about the Great War, this time a new production of "Barnbow Canaries", which I first wrote about here. It's still funny, still sad and still relevant. I suspect I was the only member of the audience trying to shoehorn the play's message into one of two competing interpretations of the relation between state and capital and I can't pretend it added all that much to my enjoyment. The play is about the sacrifices demanded by total war as viewed through the sufferings and solidarity of women, and to any sensible person that would be enough.

What definitely does count as a coincidence is the close proximity in the St Symphorien Military Cemetery of the graves of Private John Parr, the first British soldier to die during the war, and Private George Ellison, the last such. The juxtaposition comes about because Mons was where the BEF first sought to delay the German advance and was also where the British had themselves reached again by the time of the armistice. The irony of spending four years and millions of deaths to get back to where one started needs no elaboration from me. On Friday the British Prime Minister will lay wreaths on both their graves; we shall have to wait to see what lessons regarding how to conduct relations with other countries that she chooses to draw from her experience.

Private Ellison, who was already in uniform when the war started and had served throughout, was from Leeds and yesterday (understandably a little earlier than the centenary itself because Sunday will be a very busy day for all concerned) was locally honoured with unveiling of a plaque in a short ceremony attended by members of his family and representatives of the successor regiment to that in which he served.

Foosball

"Table Football is a combination of Soccer and Shish Kebabs." - Mitch Hedberg

It is my practice to every now and then publish a photograph of a bunch of grizzled old men with no accompanying explanation. Here is another one:

There are herein a couple of coincidences of the type much celebrated by your bloggist, but of no interest whatsoever to anyone else. Firstly, did you know that table football - a game that I really love playing by the way - was invented in its current form in Spain during the civil war, a topic in which I have obviously been immersed for the last couple of weeks while I was there (*). Secondly, one of the chaps in the photo spontaneously and with no prompting brought up (**) the subject of the Gong concert about which I blogged a few weeks ago. He claimed to have 'looked after' me at the time and added a lot of spurious, and - given the length of time that has passed - obviously unreliable, detail about just how unwell I was.


*   There will be no Spanish Civil War project in the annexe; should any Spanish speaking rebels ever appear on the table they will be Mexicans.

** Pun intended.

Pot82pouri

Your bloggist loves a coincidence and so finds it noteworthy that after he included a link to the Palouse Wargaming Journal blog in his last post that blog has subsequently announced that it is having a competition and asks that links are provided to it. So here's one directly to the post about it. It's a most interesting and colourful blog, somewhat intimidating to those of us who are slow (and crap) painters.

I have however quickly knocked out the troops necessary for a trial of Square Bashing; Great War uniforms are good for that. I have had a solo run through the extensive pre-battle process seemingly common to all Peter Pig rules and set up the table with the result. I won't include a photo just yet because I don't like the way that the squares representing built up terrain look. The grid squares are much bigger than the single hexes used for C&C terrain and that is compounded by the fact that terrain always fills two adjacent areas. I have a couple of ideas, which naturally involve spending money; what doesn't? Coming back to the rules, they are fairly clearly written, but like the other PP rules I own (Bloody Barons) seem very prescriptive about things that don't appear to affect  gameplay one way or the other. I haven't noticed any obvious holes though; Bloody Barons memorably omitted any rules at all for cavalry vs cavalry melees.

Wargaming in Wharfedale will resume this coming week. We shall be back in the Peninsular as James has been painting. What he has written about Cazadores in his blog absolutely guarantee both a mid game rule change and that they won't stay as skirmish only troops in the long run; trust me, I've known him for a number of years.

W.G. "Bill" Boorer, 144 squadron

I mentioned earlier in the year that I had hurt my toe, which precluded walking in the Dales. I had been slowly building up the distance I was walking locally and yesterday decided the time was right to go for a longer - in this case ten miles - hike. I walk with a number of different groups, but on this occasion went with the local branch of the Ramblers Association who, inevitably given the fact that they walk on weekdays, are all retired. They are all somewhat older than me, and incidentally are an excellent advert for the benefits of regular walking. Anyway, I was strolling along in the sun - which continues to beat down here - minding my own business when I overheard a name that I thought I recognised. I asked the lady concerned if she had said 'Bill Boorer', and confirming that she had, she told me that he had been her godfather, following which a brief discussion made it clear that this was the same chap that I had known in London some fifty years ago.

I hadn't thought about him in a long, long time and didn't know him well, but he had a wartime experience in which readers may be interested. The following is taken, with no permission whatsoever, from 'A Drop in the Ocean' by Jim Burtt-Smith and John French. The whole book is full of stories like this and is fairly readily available second-hand. These are Bill Boorer's own words:


'After briefing on Thursday, 3 May, 1945 the Dallachy wing of "Torbeau" anti-shipping strike aircraft flew off from Dallachy for a major strike against a large fleet of enemy shipping which was assembling in Kiel Bay. Intelligence had suggested that the Germans were intending to escape to Norway and continue the war from there.

Peter Brett and I were one of the crews on the wing with the longest experience and we were therefore appointed as the "outrider" - the aircraft which would fly ahead of the main strike force, select the best targets and direct the strike force on to those targets.

We flew on ahead on a "flak free" route across Denmark selected by the 2nd Tactical Air Force, and made our landfall at Ringkobing. We were hedge-hopping a full throttle towards the "Little Belt" when we suddenly found ourselves engulfed in flak. We had flown between two batteries of 88 mm anti-aircraft guns.

Our port engine burst into flame immediately, but our speed and low altitude carried us quickly out of the danger area. Peter turned back for home with the intention of flying back on the starboard engine only. It was not to be. A short while after crossing the coast the remaining engine failed and we had to ditch in the North Sea.

At the time of ditching the sea was very calm and we had no problems - or so we thought. The dinghy emerged from the port wing and, as a non-swimmer, I jumped into it as it drifted back. Alas, I found it to be as flat as a pancake, having been peppered with holes from the flak which had shot out the port engine during the attack. Pete swam up, the Beaufighter gave a gurgle and disappeared beneath the waves, and we inflated our Mae Wests. We spent what seemed to be hours finding the various holes and sealing them with the adhesive repair patches. Finally we had to inflate the dinghy with the hand pump and clamber aboard, which was not quite as easy as it sounds. Suddenly we remembered the airtight container carrying the emergency rations, which was attached to the dinghy by a tie-line. we saw it floating a short distance away. As we pulled on the line, however, the container disappeared beneath the waves. Consequently we had no food or water throughout our ditching.

During the night the weather deteriorated, but on the morning of the second day, 4 May, we were in reasonably good spirits and had every hope of being picked up. For our particular operation Air Sea Rescue Warwick aircraft had been on patrol along the western coast of Denmark and I had managed to send an SOS on my radio set. I learned later, however, that, although my message was actually received, the signal was so weak because of the very low power generated by our one remaining - and failing - engine that the message had been indecipherable. Moreover we were drifting southwards quite rapidly. In fact when we were finally rescued we were some 50 miles south of our original ditching position.

During the second day we heard and caught glimpse of two aircraft and fired off some of our two-star red cartridge signals. But there was no response. In spite of a heavy sea that night, we were still relatively comfortable.

On Saturday, 5 May, the heavy sea continued throughout the day. In the evening the weather worsened into a heavy storm, with waves up to sixty feet high. Sometimes we were at the bottom of these huge waves and sometimes at the top, like a seaside roller-coaster. During the course of the evening we saw a Liberator some distance away. We fired off our last two-star red which they obviously saw, as they turned and flew right above us and a member of the crew waved to us from the rear door. Unfortunately, the sea was so rough that they lost sight of us almost immediately after, and although we watched them as they continued to circle and search, they gradually moved further and further away. And, of course, we had no more two-star reds! During that night we shipped gallons of water. Several of the adhesive repair patches became non-effective and had to be replaced with conical rubber plugs.

The weather eased slightly during the course of Sunday, but became extremely rough once again that night. We both began to feel the torture of thirst and had to resort to moistening our lips with our own urine - not a very encouraging experience. As the holes in the dinghy grew larger, the conical plugs had to be pushed further in and eventually had to be replaced with larger sizes. During the day I felt the need to sustain my spirits with a little hymn singing, but I had the feeling that Peter did not really appreciate my efforts.

By this time, too, my underpants, which were Canadian cotton issue, had shrunk considerably and I was extremely uncomfortable in a very sensitive area. Finally I cast modesty aside and left a certain part of my physical equipment hanging free. Peter described it as looking like the head of a very ancient and wizened tortoise.

By Monday morning the the sea had moderated considerably and by nightfall the wind had dropped. For the first time since our ditching the previous Thursday it was quite calm. Early in the morning we had fixed a piece of chewing gum to a line and thrown it into the sea in the hope of catching a fish. During the afternoon the dinghy gave a heavy lurch, the fishing line went taut and, sure enough, there was a cod on the hook. Despite our best endeavours to get it aboard, however, it eventually broke free and disappeared. In retrospect, I am not sure what we would have done with it had we actually landed it in the dinghy.

We had entered our fifth day aboard the dinghy feeling pretty weak and we again resorted to urine to stave off the demoralising effects of thirst. There was a growing apprehension about our future, particularly as the rubber plugs had now progressed to the largest size available and were now inserted well into the holes in the rubber, so that there was little of the plugs remaining for further insertion. Our spirits reached a low ebb.

As night closed in once more, we became aware of a gradually increasing noise. Eventually a small ship loomed on the horizon. Peter and I discussed whether or not we should attempt to attract its attention, since we had heard reports that Germans were prone to shooting up any British dinghies that they came across. We finally decided that in view of our deteriorating condition we did not have much option, so we blew our whistles, shouted and waved our hands. The ship, which turned out to be the Ella, a fishing boat from Esbjerg, altered course and hove alongside the dinghy.

Someone leaned over and shouted, "British Tommy?" and on hearing our affirmative he then shouted "Germany kaput!" This was the first intimation we had had that Nazi Germany had at last thrown in the towel, in fact on midnight of the day we had ditched.

Once on board the fishing boat I became somewhat delirious and the skipper, Christian Peterson, turned back to Esbjerg.

We arrived in Esbjerg fishing harbour during the morning of Tuesday, 8 May, were offloaded and taken by ambulance to the Central Hospital, arriving at midday on VE Day. One inmate, a victim of Gestapo treatment, sent us in his radio and we listened to the celebrations from Piccadilly.'


Mr Boorer never spoke to me directly about his experiences and the above is pretty much all I know, except that he subsequently sent flowers to his rescuer and his wife every year on the anniversary of them being picked up and that he named his elder son Christian.

To end on a random note, Boorer's younger son played guitar in Morrissey's post-Smiths band. Before that he had been in the Polecats, who had a UK top forty hit with a cover of Bowie's "John, I'm Only Dancing". Astute readers will spot that phrase as having been used as the title of the blog posting on Wednesday, the day before I went on the walk and overheard the conversation which engendered the train of thought which led us to this point. Make of that what you will.

Leaving the furrow

“But the point is, now, at this moment, or at any moment, we're only a cross-section of our real selves. What we really are is the whole stretch of ourselves, all our time, and when we come to the end of this life, all those selves, all our time, will be us -- the real you, the real me. And then perhaps we'll find ourselves in another time, which is only another kind of dream.”

- J.B. Priestley, Time and the Conways

I have been back to the Bradford Literature Festival, this time for a talk on “Mysticism in the Work of J.B. Priestley”, which was fascinating stuff, demonstrating once again just how ahead of his time the man was. Since attending a talk at last year’s festival on his theories of time (clearly as Priestley is by some way Bradford’s most distinguished literary son there is something about him every year) I have read “An Experiment With Time”, by J.W. Dunne, a book which influenced Jack (as I believe he would have wished me to call him) enormously. My reaction to Dunne’s work was essentially “Hmmmm…”, and to be honest I am not suggesting that you follow my lead. I did try the experiment on myself, with results that failed to prove anything about me and what I dream about that I couldn't have told you in the first place.

As usual I came away from the talk with some reading to do, this time around the concept of bardo; it’s just possible that it will provide an explanation as to what has happened to wargaming activity in the Casa Epictetus over the last few months.

Ilipa

“We find that the Romans owed the conquest of the world to no other cause than continual military training, exact observance of discipline in their camps, and unwearied cultivation of the other arts of war.” – Vegetius

None of which was to any avail last night in the refight of Ilipa (see here for James’ report and photographs). It was, as he says, a good game and very close until the last turn when the wheels rather came off for the Romans. I really do like ‘To the Strongest!’ and they’re even better once you remember them correctly.

It’s odd that James is going to play the Romans next week and most of the changes to the scenario favour that side, but then I suppose that coincidences do happen. I don’t think I’ve ever played a game where the elephants achieved any success whatsoever so it will be interesting to see how that rule change plays out; still badly for the Carthaginians I’m sure.

It's Friday Night, Got To Go Home Now

As proof that people can reappear in one's life as well as disappear, I have heard from one of my closest friends at school (for our US readers I really mean school and not university) after a gap of many years. This has brought some sadness - inevitably bad things as well as good have happened in a couple of decades - but also some amusing coincidences. We shared many interests back in those days. I think I may have mentioned before that I played keyboards in the worst band of all time; Don was the bass player. Of more relevance is that he and Charlie (Charlie was the drummer) were my first wargaming opponents, using - naturally - Donald Featherstone's rules from the local library's copy of Advanced Wargames. I seem to remember refighting Waterloo as part of his CSE History project, although I also remember it being rigged so that Napoleon would win.

Anyway, it seems that in retirement he has returned to the one true hobby and spookily was already a fan of the blog. Not this blog obviously, that would be beyond coincidence even as we students of the higher mathematics interpret the word. No, he is a follower of James' blog, in common with the rest of the wargaming world. What I'm not clear about is why he didn't spot me in the photos of the legendary wargames room, after all I have hardly aged a bit in the last forty years.

Many a true word

Two guys were discussing popular trends in sex, marriage, and family values.

Bill said, 'I didn't sleep with my wife before we got married, did you?'

Mike replied, 'I'm not sure, what was her maiden name?' 

No ifs, no buts, no disability cuts

No doubt foremost amongst your worries is whether all this work has interfered with my dedication to cultural vultureness. Fear not, I am as pretentious as ever and have been packing them in.

First up was 'The Threepenny Opera' in a lyrically updated version by the Graeae Theatre Company that was in-your-face in a way that would doubtless have been admired by Brecht and Weill themselves. This is yet another of those classics that I had somehow managed to miss previously, although we are all familiar with the opening song. Altogether now:

"Oh the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white"

Graeae champion 'accessibility' and they integrate deaf, blind and physically disabled performers into the action in a performance enhancing manner that doesn't make one not notice them, but actually makes one glad that's the way it is. Personally I was very taken with the way that the BSL interpreters' roles became as important as the singing main characters. Top marks to Jude Mahon in particular.

Next was 'La Boheme' in a revived Opera North production, but one which still did it for me. Classic Puccini and an opera that I would suggest for those who have never been to one. Lush tunes, nonsensical plot and it doesn't end well for the heroine; what more could one want?

And finally Bedroom Farce, another play that I had seen before, and one that reinforces the point that British farceurs regard the word sardine as inherently amusing, although in this case the fishy comestibles are - in a very minor plot point - replaced in due course by pilchards. Despite that slightly incoherent exposition of the plot you should see it when it comes your way; as it will because it is regularly revived. As with any Alan Ayckbourn play one is guaranteed several laugh out loud moments. Oh, and can I just preempt any rumours that MS Foy may be about to spread on his blog; Mr Ayckbourn is as alive as his namesake Mr Bennett.

P.S. In one of life's unaccountable coincidences, immediately after writing the above I opened the door to a furniture delivery man who was whistling 'Mack the Knife'. Spooky.