Going grey - me and George! (there the similarity ends)
This week we've had or will have:
one child's (16th) birthday.
one child started his driving lessons (second one today).
one child's prom for leaving junior school.
one child's prom for leaving high school (as Head Boy).
one child's participation in a school music concert.
and (just into next week) a Grade Three violin exam.
On top of all the other usual chaos of family life (and preparing a first VAT return! yikes!)
And we lost one chicken at the end of last week to a fox (tunnelled into the run, broke off the 'egg basket' lid - now nailed down). It was one of the speckledys...
It's been quite a busy time! if I have a few more grey hairs than before, well, no surprise.
And the baby goldfish in the pond are getting bigger - about an inch and a quarter long and now more grey than black.
I don't know if we can get paper triple crowns (if not why not?) but anyway, a very Alles Gute zum Geburtstag to the Holy Father, our very own German Shepherd.
It's also St Magnus Day - the Patron Saint of the Orkney Islands and as most of the people in our house have an Orcadian ancestry it seemed fitting for a decent celebration.
So off we went to a folk evening in a local(ish) tavern. There was a great mix of music, English, Welsh and Irish (no Scots that I recognised, but you can't have everything), with all sorts of influences and real ale on tap. Mmmm.
Happy Birthday Holy Father! We sang along in your honour.
And Wigan beat Arsenal 2-1 (hoorah for the underdog) and so all in all it was a great evening. Now if Cardiff can win tomorrow and keep their place in the play-offs... oh we hope so!
I was in the shed today, and just to break the habit of a lifetime I was pottering. The sun was shining (that'll be it until May or June) so there were jobs to do in the garden. Gloves, loppers and a pick axe were the order of the day. PTD* was with me and after tethering him, I got to work.
Mrs H and the youngest (Naughty Nel) were off to the first round of the Youth Eisteddfod, the local stage. As it always runs very late - we learnt this through bitter experience over numerous years - I had the day to do the chores (Mrs H wants another raised bed to grow more veg, she is nothing if not a stern taskmaster).
Anyhow, as I went back into the shed (any excuse) I heard a song on the radio that brought back some vivid memories. I had suppressed these memories for many years, like the survivor of some horrific crime. OK, it may not be as awful as the Armenian genocide (look it up!), but this is only a matter of degrees surely?
You see, dear reader, when I was little more than a tiny tot, my parents would often sing songs from the 1950s (and some from the 60s) around the house. Such cruelty. I shudder now as I bare my soul to you. Luckily for them Esther Rantzen's Childline wasn't in existence back then or it would have glowed red like Commissioner Gordon's Batline in the 60s TV series on a daily basis.
Imagine being woken up as someone waltzed around your room, allowing the sunlight to stream in whilst singing:
"Good morning, good morning, you slept the whole night through, good morning, good morning to you..."
or
"It's nice to get to up in the morning, but it's better to stay in bed," (often adding a cheery "poop poop" for good measure).
This was infringement of my "human rights" at a very basic level. Where was the European Court of Human Rights or the Equalities Commission** to fight my case through the courts of the land at huge expense to the tax-payer?
"Holy Itsy Bitsy Batman!"
If all this wasn't bad enough there were lots of other songs sung jauntily or cheerfully throughout the day. "She wore an Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini..." was one that is seared in my memory, despite my best efforts to bury it away.
Yet this song on a Radio Wales show earlier today was one that was sooo very bad, I had repressed this memory successfully, only for it to be regurgitated on hearing the song for the first time in many years. I was fixed to the spot. It was only because I am just so very brave that I didn't burst into tears at the thought of the innate cruelty of my parents who made me listen (well, I lived in the same house) to them as they sang snippets of these songs as they went about their daily tasks.
So what is this song that could evoke such memories of terror and dread? I had never previously known who sang it (apart from Old Pa Hurley, very badly) nor even its title and so there I was, a grown man, with muddy boots and gloves on, waiting through every harrowing syllable of the song just so I could know the name of the song that had pained me so much as a child.
My forehead was beaded with sweat. I shifted weight from one foot to the next. I could feel myself breathing. Each second lasted forever.*** The song went on. The terror continued. The repressed memories flooded my mind. I wanted to run and scream like a big girl's blouse**** but I had to stay. I had to know. My very sanity hung in the balance (what do you mean "too late?").
Then all of sudden the song was over. The feeling of terror mixed with nausea subsided. The silence hung in the air like a big hangy thing. I licked my dry and cracked lips, like Captain Oates deciding whether or not to have an after dinner stroll, with the weight of destiny on my shoulders just as much as it was on that fateful day in the Antarctic. I hope I'm not being too melodramatic, but as a reality TV show contestant might say, "it was pretty intense."
Then the words I had been half-longing to hear, half-dreading to hear filled my auditory canal. The song in question was...
This is that really annoying bit.
With tense music.
That they put on TV shows.
Like Master Chef.
And all those Simon Cowell ones.
With the awful self-obsessed people.
Who probably have blogs (um... er... oh.)
Where they think it adds tension and excitement.
But in reality is just really annoying.
And the winner is.....
Slim Whitman singing Indian Love Call.
And, back in the room. Can you imagine the sheer terror of hearing a parent singing/yodelling "When I'm calling You...oooooeeeeoooo....oooooooooeeeeeeeoooooooooooooo" quite often whilst coming through the front door?
Dear. Lord. In. Heaven. And people wonder why I grew up to be the strange, weird, and twisted individual that they so very often accuse me of being.
These are just a few snippets of the awful singing of 50s and 60s songs my siblings and I had to endure. People file reports to the NSPCC for less. And worse still, they also (especially Old Pa Hurley) had the habit of singing more "modern" songs by 'popular beat combos' and getting the words wrong. I think the CIA did something similar to internees at Guantanamo Bay.
Perhaps you too grew up in a house where the "grown ups" used music (and I use the term lightly) as a form of torture? If so get in touch. Perhaps we could launch a campaign. Posters for schools for those currently suffering. A helpline. A medal for survivors. A ribbon (colour to be decided) to be worn on November 22nd (Feast Day of St Cecilia, patron of music). A "funky" fund-raising t-shirt to be worn on our annual 'put your feet up and have a nice cup of tea' day***** (as an antidote to fun runs because in my experience running is rarely fun, especially if public transport is involved******).
There is so much to do, and so little time. Carpe Diem (trans: god's fish).So if someone can do all that for me, I'll swing the entire weight of this blog behind it. Can't say fairer than that.
And when the phone helpline opens, if my children phone up, I'll sing Boney M's "Brown Girl in the Ring (Tra La La La La)" even louder! After all, if I suffered so should they.... (cue evil cackle) Mwah ha ha! ;-)
P.S. Naughty Nel and her compadres won first place in their Welsh recital, so now we go to the regional finals. The world is at our feet!
*Patch the Dog
**I know I'm clutching at straws.
***Not literally, but you know full well what I mean Mr. Picky!
****"That's so gay."
*****Sponsored by Glengettie
******Anecdote time: Another infamous blogger, who shall remain nameless, if egged on to run for a bus or tube with the words "that's our bus/tube" would always replay "no - ours is the next one" as an antidote to running. He later shocked everyone by walking on pilgrimage to Rome.
I get a lot of visitors to my blog - ah! searchers for Truth in this mad world! - some of whom come across my wittering and blarney whilst searching for the most weird things.
Two days ago someone from a place called Spring, Texas come across my blog by searching for:
One of my favourite songs is Tara Hill by the the Fureys. OK, its an old romantic song, in the sense of idealised Ireland and historic romanticism, but it's still wonderfully evocative.
We all have a place we remember with fondness, a place that we'd long to go back and see perhaps for personal memories, for associations with times past, or because they link in with our national psyche.
It could be the pub where you first met your sweetheart, a park where you used to ride your bike as a child, or a windswept ancient building which speaks to you of the stories of the people who lived, fought, or died there.
And sometimes, people just don't realise what treasures they have:
And look: Even the apostate King Henry VIII is out for saving Tara Hill! ;-)
And to think I was happy to see Roath Park after a few years away! ;-)
You know how lots of people moan about everything becoming homogenised? Every high street is the same. Every out-of-town shopping area is the same. Every "mall" is the same. Pop music is hand-picked, toys are mass-produced. And so on.
Sometimes, despite the neon lights, the bright colours, the sugary tastes -- the very feeling that we are all playing, eating, watching, wearing and buying stuff made and sold by the same handful of companies can make everything seem, well, a bit bland.
Sony, McDonalds, Tesco's, Coca Cola, Asda, Adidas... It's getting to the point where we're all "consumered" out.
Now being a man of a certain age (the nomenclature "bloke" seems apt), being a Hurley, and the apple not falling far from the tree and all that - it is rare for me to open my wallet. 'A fool and his money are easily parted' is my favourite saying. Oh I do my fare share of alms giving to deserving causes - but I loathe giving money to big businesses when I can help it.
Of course I live in the real world and when the boss brings the shopping in to assuage the fears of my mouths-to-stomachs-on-legs - sorry, I mean the children - I detest the fact that some fat cat is sitting by his pool toasting my health as items from Lever Brothers, Kellogg's and others go into the pantry.
So anything we can do to buck the trend is akin to a small victory. A tiny guerrilla ambush against the huge armies of the corporations invading our metaphorical homeland.
We have to pay our utility bills, mortgage, credit cards and much else besides too, all of which is like being an indentured slave. All those fat cats must be toasting my health (so long as I can work every hour God sends just to pay their over-inflated bills) as they sit by their heated pools.
So the other day when the boss (Mrs H) and our youngest made these sock puppets, from er... socks, using buttons and such like I gave an ear splitting war cry, held them aloft in the living room and cried out to heaven: "Take that Mattel and Hasbro. I will not be your consumer-slave any longer."
Then I dashed to the kitchen, dug out some blue poster-paint from the corner of a cupboard, smeared half my face in it a la William Wallace (the Welshman), ran out into the street and cried "FREEEEEDOM!"
If our Nanny Hurley hasn't washed since Tommy Steele kissed her sometime before the telephone was invented, we believe this is a faithful reconstruction of her new wardrobe for Summer 2011.
If you see her on the streets of Cardiff, collecting bags, throwing cats at passers by, cussing at teenagers, please be kind.
Ever since that Tommy Steele peck, it's been downhill all the way! ;-)
go to you tube to: - Tommy Steele "Singing the Blues" and Bill Haley "Rock around The Clock" and show the kids the music Nan loved and went to see them in Concert.
Tell them that Tommy Steele came out at the back of The Gaumont Cinema in Queen Street (Where Top Rank was afterwards) sang this song and kissed me on my cheek... told my friend Nesta I wasn't going to wash my cheek for a week!!!!!
They will wet themselves laughing at that..
Also Jim Reeves I love you because and the special one of Nat King Cole singing "When I fall in Love" Poppa ###* asked for this to be played on board the cruise ship for my Birthday he always says it was his song to me.............. Got the bucket ready!!!!!!!
Indeed I have! I think it will have to be a vomit trough for the whole family though!
*I have deleted the name for his sanity, his good name down the Cons Club, and just in case I get sued (bad taste etc.)
