Rotherham Revisited

As I'm still out of sorts and have no more to tell of Vienna than that which I observe while prone upon my floor, I have recovered and reposted an old blog entry from 16 December 2006, in part because Vlad, in a commendable effort to save as many people as possible from the pain of experiencing Rotherham at first hand, is presently leading an online tour of his home town.

*

They order, said I, this matter better in Rotherham--You have been to Rotherham? quoth my manservant, turning quick upon me with the most civil triumph in the world.

Of course I struck the bounder soundly across his chin with my cane for his impudence, & as his unconscious form crumpled to the floor like a discarded pair of breeches, I thought to myself, Well, surely t'would be a fine thing to visit the place, tho' it be some hours distant--& despite the clouds of foulness which I saw daily at the southern end of Precentor's Court, above the pigeon-coop of the Dean's town house, disgorg'd, no doubt, by the unfortunate burg itself--One ought, I mused further, bear a stout mind in the face of such evil.

So in a matter of minutes I had embark'd by steam-locomotive with two gentlemen friends of mine, worthy fellows & solid companions. Is it, quoth Mr. McKibbin, one of the pair, the case that in Rotherham the sun is render'd quite invisible to the human eye?--Nay, replied Mr. Wilson, Esq., the third of our number, 'Tis not so--for when t'were, t'would be that denizens of Rotherham would be as pasty & wan as geese; &, as is quite often observ'd, they are known abroad by their ruddy & sun-burned complexion. Aye, said Mr. McKibbin, but 'tis also true, Sir--as I have often observ'd of my own labourers--that the wind can render one's face most rough & uncouth without the aid of the sun. To which answer'd Mr. Wilson, Esq., It is so; perhaps one best recognizes a Rotherhamite by his uncouth gait and shifting eyes.

With such banter did we pass the journey; I--for the most part—watched the green fields slowly give way to great mountains of ash, piles of rusty, long-dead industry & endless stretches of ruin'd abodes, such as one imagines are inhabited by the sorry spectres of Hell itself.

Upon arrival in Rotherham we were approach'd by a crudely-featured, dwarf-like creature which introduced itself as Alexander, & promised us an insightful & illuminating tour of the town, should we deign him worthy of a half-shilling; which--following some conference-being agreed, we took the sorry fellow into our service.

Our guide first led us to the market of the town, where he said--& though to render his gutteral speech into English would be an offense to that noble tongue, I shall capture the tone & temper of his words as best I can--In t'olden days, t'market were t'bigger than t'day; an' all t'folk used to come righ' longways to barter and sell t'wares; ee by gum, them were t'days; now us folks mostly come 'ere to kick us faces in an' take smack be'ind t'fish counter.

Our guide's informations had left poor Mr. McKibbin in a state of some distress & confusion, worsen'd, indeed, by his severe aversion to crowds & to common people in general; we thus hasten'd our guide & left said place of barter.

Whereupon we saw the Rotherham Central Library & Arts Centre, the most accomplish'd architecture of the town by common account; -By my word, said Mr. Wilson, Esq., looking over the edifice with dubious eye, Why, 'tis the very image of San Giorgio Maggiore in Venice; do you not agree, Mr. McKibbin? -Why--said the other, having recover'd from his previous disposition--I do believe you are right; one would scarcely imagine that such a treaure could be hidden away in so secluded and hostile a place.

Having cast due appreciation upon the stately dwelling-place of the Muses, our surly guide led us atop a small hill, where we entered a museum devoted to curiosities & antiquities; I have precious little stomach for such distractions, being of a naturally delicate and refin'd nature; & so it was with some horror that mine eyes fell upon a glass case containing a six-legged feline; in retreat, I blunder'd into a large bear--tied to a post, I saw with no little relief--& narrowly avoided its gaping maw and claws, of no mean size. Mr. Wilson, Esq., showing remarkable fortitude--no doubt acquired during his many years as a bear-trainer on the Russian Steppes--stood beside the beast & treated it with such gentleness as t'were a yapping mongrel or starling.

At once the poor creature shut its jaw and bow'd its great head with remarkable grace. I can't get out, declared the bear, - I can't get out, straining at its chains; - God help thee! said Mr. Wilson, Esq., But I'll let thee out, cost what it will; & with that he set about pulling apart the chains which were denying the gentle creature its liberty. In an instant they were broken; the beast, with a great roar, lumber'd from the room towards freedom; which affectionate sight was follow'd almost at once by screams of delight & surprise from Liberty's citizens.

We betook ourselves from the scene with some pleasure, not wishing to trespass on the happiness of others; -Our work here is done, quoth Mr. Wilson, Esq., to which I laughed in agreement, & Mr. McKibbin likewise.

There was little else with which to occupy ourselves once we had traversed the Market, admired the Library & set a bear at liberty; -Fare well, stout Guide, said I once we had return'd to the station, & furnish'd our loyal companion with a half-shilling.

-Nay, said Mr. McKibbin, but look you upon him; why, by his very visage and posture one sees the wicked mockery of Nature, the belly of misfortune, so to speak, whence comes little but s-, if you will forgive my crudity; pray grace the fellow's palm with another half-shilling, for he has served us dutifully & will no doubt suffer for the want of it within a fortnight.

-Give him not a farthing! declared Mr. Wilson, Esq., hitting our guide with some force about the temple. -The fellow is surly & unpleasant to gaze at, &, as you know--& know we did--life has little to recommend it but what Beauty offers; & this fellow offers nothing, but indeed taketh away, as is oftentimes said of the Devil himself. Go therefore! cried Mr. Wilson, Esq., to our unfortunate sometime servant, -Go, take your penny, & spend it on vice you neither deserve nor can afford; else--by G-!--I shall dash your brains upon the pavement with my billy-club.

Our guide fled in much distress, clutching his precious half-shilling; & with a tear I saw him depart, for I consider'd him a fellow most hard done by in the world--But such compassion is a weakness of mine, gentle reader; for well I know that the poor & ignorant are to punish'd in their faults, not encourag'd in them; -And though both I & Mr. McKibbin were for a short time out of temper with Mr. Wilson, Esq., for his brusqueness of manner, he was soon forgiven; & with light hearts we boarded the train & bade Rotherham a lusty adieu!

Verbal Abuse

Here's a poem I wrote when I was seventeen and had found my first thesaurus.

Verbal Abuse

I beg forgiveness should you find abstruse
My rueful lexicon abuse
And hope you view my persiflage
Not as verbal camouflage
For your insensate lambastement
Unless, of course, you knew what I meant
When I coalesced my coterie
(A lie, I confess; read: lottery)
Who bowlderise, as you can see,
Such hedonistic hyperbole
The likes of which you'll find, to this,
Is a pure antithesis -
I find myself too insensate
Right now, and entre nous,
I've heard such obliquy of late
From larrikins like you
Full of a vacuous cachet
Whose rhetoric turns air blue -
Quis talia fando temperet
a lacrimis, and true!

Stick

A British academic was visiting the institute this week and gave a lecture on Thursday evening. As she's one of the leading people in her field (I think she actually invented the entire Carolingian period), I was determined to attend the lecture.

To make sure I'd be able to get to the institute that evening, I went exploring the city for a walking stick. I found one, too, in a tourist shop in the centre which has an entire basement dedicated to hats and cuckoo clocks. When moogdroog comes I intend to take her there, as she likes hats and as far as I know is not hostile to cuckoo clocks. I might even buy a hat myself, then grow a moustache and parade the streets of Vienna with my walking stick looking like this chap.


Unfortunately I must have managed to snap another vertebra during my expedition, as by the time I got back to the flat my old friend the gorilla was tagging along, clutching at my leg. I took painkillers and tried to get to the lecture that evening, but, having wrapped myself up against the snow and hobbled five storeys down to the street, I could walk about twenty yards and could go no farther. I spent most of today lying down. I hope it's better tomorrow, as I'm running out of food again and everything shuts here on a Sunday.

Ha! Crippled by trying to buy a walking stick. If there is a god, I do not appreciate his sense of humour.

At the corner shop

Each day my stupid back is feeling a bit better, which is good. I just need to let it, not me, determine the tempo of my recovery. Today I left the flat for the first time in four days, mostly because I had nothing left to eat except rice, pasta and a tin of herring.

I shuffled rather inelegantly into the English Supermarket across the street and perused the goods on offer. They seem to have everything except perishables, so I could shop there all the time as long as my diet consisted almost entirely of McVites biscuits and Marmite.

At €8.30 a jar? You're testing me, brother

At the checkout it transpired that the girl serving me was not even English, but from Düsseldorf or somewhere. I was so disgusted I was going to throw all my shopping on the floor, but I didn't because I'd bought a bottle of Old Peculiar which would have smashed very loudly and of course I didn't want to cause a scene like some damn European. So I gritted my teeth, said a firm "Thank you very much," and shuffled back out with equal inelegance.

Stupid body

My health deteriorated quite quickly last week when I made the mistakes of sitting down for too long and sneezing, both of which did something bad to my already-injured spine and caused the nerve damage I was hoping to avoid.

It still isn't as bad a couple of years ago (not yet, anyway), when I wrote that full-on sciatica was like having an angry gorilla grab onto your leg and twist it in two opposite directions. In comparison this feels like, say, a marmoset monkey doing the same. But it's still damn uncomfortable and forces me to spend a lot of time lying on the floor.

The worst thing is that I've watched the three classic WW2 movies I brought with me on DVD, so now when I'm lying on the floor there is nothing to watch but Austrian cable TV, which is like having a really annoying gorilla shouting at you in a silly accent to buy things.

Thinking about it, I was probably due for another spinal injury. Over the last six months I'd gradually stopped doing my regular torso exercises, the whole point of which was prevention rather than cure, and I was starting to take having a fully operational body for granted. I shall look on this latest episode as a polite reminder not to do that again...

I write cheap novelettes

Arrived in Vienna on Tuesday evening. Went to apartment. Slept. Wednesday everything was shut for some reason, or at least the small shops. Bought food. Went to Institute to work. Worked.

I love this flat. It’s just the right size for one person, not too pokey, not so big as to make me feel like Vlad’s marble of a brain bouncing about his skull. The walls are hung with paintings by the regular tenant, who seems to dabble mostly in landscapes, with some impressionist and abstract stuff thrown in, and this gives the place a cosy, lived-in feel.

The resident PC took a little grappling with, as it is a) slow and b) in Spanish, but I eventually managed to get Skype and YouTube working, which is all I really want from it. (Apparently connecting my laptop to the internet in the flat would involve phoning up the network provider and arranging with some German-speaking IT technician for the connection to be transferred over from the existing PC and installed on my Mac, which, not least because I don’t have an Austrian phone, sounds like a recipe for two expensive hours of mutual incomprehension and annoyance.)

Aside from that, nothing interesting has happened. Sorry. It is cold. There is snow lying about like albino horse shit. Tomorrow evening everyone in the institute is going for a meal with an academic from the USA who is applying for a professorship here. From what I have learned of academics so far, it will probably end in an orgy of drunken violence, with prominent scholars swinging from banisters and smashing tables over waitresses’ heads.

It's over, it's all over

Gone now.

Apart from watching a snowman disintegrate, yesterday I drew a picture of St Boniface's first monastery at a place called Büraburg in Hesse. It's going to be in Boniface: The Book which is FINALLY finished, or at least it will be once I send all my pictures to the publishers.

I'm particularly proud of the wisps of smoke. The book now has an official cover and everything, which hopefully I'm allowed to put up here.

It won't be published until around autumn if all goes well, just in time for Christmas. Since I get a few free copies, I hope everyone knows what to expect in their stockings this year!

Noel and I went into Brum to see The Road yesterday. If the idea of watching two people stumble through the dead landscape of a nuclear winter with nothing on their iPods except Nick Cave instrumentals appeals to you, as it does to me, then you'll probably like it. Anyway, people who say it's depressing are stupid. It's ultimately much more uplifting than empty celluloid baubles like, say, Love Actually.

I have no mouth, and I must scream

Poor snowman. Day five, and he soldiers on, half-blind, half-handed and mute.

Last night I dug out an old folder of my writing from when I was a teenager. Having a malformed sense of irony meant that I was never able to take any poetry I wrote seriously. I could write serious and heartfelt prose, but not poetry (I still can't). This is good because it spares me the embarrassment of rediscovering the angsty teen laments I might otherwise have written.

Instead, I wrote stuff like this, penned when I was seventeen and not getting out very much.

Old Eejit Bill and his Mysterious Sack

There was a tiny house upon

A grassy little hill,

And in this tiny house there lived

A fellow called Old Bill.

He was a strange old man, they said,

And thought him somewhat queer;

He didn't mind at all, instead

He smiled from ear to ear.

Bill went through town each morn, did he,

And on his back he took

A sack which bulged with mystery

All fastened with a hook.

Up to the well he'd walk each day,

While wearing still his grin,

And, careless, throw the hook away

And empty his sack in!

The townsfolk said that he was mad

And then tried to pretend

They didn't care what things he had

That down the well he'd send.

And so Old Bill was left alone

With his unusual ways

'Til one day on the telephone

A call filled him with amaze:

"What-what, old chap, and tally ho,

And other nonsense too;

Be where you be, go where you go,

But I shall still find you!

"You have a sack, Old Bill, you do,

With which you try to cover

Up your robb'ries, murders too,

Which I shall soon uncover!"

Old Bill, hearing words like these?

What thoughts would be involved?

In any case, and by degrees,

On this he was resolved:

No violent curse, no absent threat,

Would have his judgement torn;

So with his hooks (he had a set)

He readied for the morn.

What he took, nobody knows

(It sagged and smelled of wee).

So on tip-toes, to town he goes

As happy as could be.

He passed right by the butcher's place,

Where the butcher sat,

But rose, and thought lines crossed his face:

"That smells just like hog fat!"

The grocer next, whose name was Seth,

He said, "That smells like fruit!"

So without a moment's breath

He followed in pursuit.

The blacksmith, shoesmith, all smiths down

The street yelled, "Felon, stop!

He's taking all the goods this town

Has ever made! On top

"Of this he strides, with foolish feet,

Towards that very well!"

So they yelled, as young lambs bleat.

The crowd began to swell.

Bill reached the well and took his sack

And threw away the hook.

They yelled, "You fiend, you hand right back

All of those things you took!"

Bill stared them out with crazy eyes,

A grin across his face.

"Nought," said he, "but vile lies -

Now you shall learn your place!"

What happened next is all confused,

But we can speculate;

For we have found the knife Bill used

When each last one, he ate.

FINIS

The Way of All Snow

I built a snowman on Tuesday as a metaphor for the transience of mortal existence, tracing man's inexorable fall from youth into dotage and ending with the final dissolution into nothingness, or, in the case of the snowman, a puddle.

Day 1

He's proving to be much tougher than I imagined. He started to lean to his left hand side quite early, which caused his left hand to drop off.

Day 2

He continued to lean as though hoping to retrieve the lost appendage, but then his left eyeball (a new potato) dropped out.

Day 3

Now, crippled and half blind, he continues to lean, whether out of determination or hopelessness I know not. I honestly don't know how his head hasn't fallen off yet.

Day 4

On Wednesday I went sledging with Abi, Gem and Jason, which turned out to be my biggest mistake of the week as it triggered a back injury from 2008. Now I'm hobbling about on a pair of walking sticks and swallowing the strongest painkillers money can buy. I don't mind the discomfort as I find that latent physical pain focuses the mind (probably a Catholic thing), but I hope I'm fixed by Tuesday because I have a flight to catch from Gatwick.

Last night, as if the back thing wasn't torture enough, moogdroog and I watched Ed Wood's masterpiece Glen or Glenda, less well known than Plan 9 from Outer Space, but just as incompetent and much more interesting. As a film it's a complete narrative mess. It's not just a car crash; it's like three or four car crashes crashing into each other continually for an hour.

Rule, Britannia!

The 'Grove seems to have been the last corner of the country to get snow this winter, but it finally came today! Snow is exciting and exotic, like something from Mars or the tropics. It also meant Kim the Dog got to frolic for a while.

She has the same attitude to snow as she does to piles of autumn leaves and breakers on the shore - it's something to jump and snap at, especially when humans kick through it or throw it about.

I haven't made a snowman for years so today I did. At first Kim the Dog was convinced I was rolling a snowball for her to chase and kept circling about me expectantly, but it kept getting bigger and bigger until it was bigger than her, at which point she freaked out a bit and started barking at it.

But if you think I spent all day messing about in the garden, you're wrong. I also finally defeated Spain in my current game of Empire: Total War, establishing the supremacy of the British Empire in the western Mediterranean and the Americas (where, incidentally, I crushed a minor colonial insurrection around the middle of the eighteenth century).

Here's a video I made the other day to celebrate the British capture of southern Greece from the Venetians.

I also finished an book article this afternoon, so I didn't even feel guilty about playing a computer game! There's a novel feeling.