Forever Ringo

O Happy, Joyous Eastertide!

Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

William Wordsworth


Spring

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Spring-loaded

April’s where I live,

            the place my heart opens

                    rose-burgeoning, shinyleaf-new

a smell of bursting peonies,

              bumble-dizzy bees bumping

                       butter-and-eggs

swollen buds thrusting

             in the lovesick air.

Leaden, laden, leavened, lavendered, loaded,

one big quivering nose, a moist surprise

hatched out in the nest of my body

April Pegasus-leaps

      in my pulse,

sun-shot                 Pan-piped

           heady, relentlessly

tender,

recklessly

sweet.

Margaret Gunning                                                                

Reborn or undead: the Edison talking doll

I hated dolls as a kid and never went near them, though my mother bought me something called a Debbie doll - she was brunette, with a large head, much larger than Barbie's. I think my mother was afraid I would be a lesbian if she didn't do something pretty quickly. Obviously I wasn't a proper little girl at all.

Now I am dragged as if by hypnotic persuasion to the idea of dolls. I watch "reborn" videos obsessively, even though I think the dolls are insanely creepy and most of the women who own them borderline-unhinged. Some of these dolls actually pee (I've seen footage), some cry and coo, move, and have a heartbeat and an internal heating system. All this is to reproduce, as closely as possible, a Real Live Baby. Reborn videos commonly show the baby being "sick" so the "mother" has to hover over it and pretend to take it to the doctor, or going on shopping trips where "Mom" takes them out in public expressly to shock people and weird them out. (The video of the woman "giving birth" to a reborn has, unfortunately, been deleted.) I don't know if this is just a nasty prank, or a form of casual sadism.

The true glory of the reborn, as with all dolls, is that it never changes. The agony of watching your child grow away from you never needs to happen. That little vinyl blob in your arms is forever in your thrall. In fact, it is under your complete and total control at all times. Think of the power. Women actually weep when they lift seven pounds of quivering silicone out of the cardboard box from eBay. They sob and gasp and whisper to the "baby" for the whole 15-minute video.

I don't get it. Except that I do, or I want to. I'm collecting trolls again, enjoying it hugely - trolls, to me, weren't really dolls, they were a little too weird and subversive. My mother wasn't pleased and did not consider them real dolls, and still wanted me to play with my Debbie doll. My Debbie doll sucked rocks, as far as I was concerned.

I played trolls with two friends, both people who "got" me, and I don't need to explain to you what that means. I don't think it has ever happened to me again. I was ten, and that was my golden year, though I didn't know it at the time. It was my year of the Beatles and having a horse of my own, and being in the special advanced class in which I did not learn a royal rip because I did not have to. We all "learned at our own pace", which means we learned doodlysquat. It was total anarchy, and we literally gave our poor greenhorn teacher a nervous breakdown. He had so been looking forward to teaching this avant-garde, even prestigious class.

I was ten, and there were trolls, and now when I go back to trolls I see they are different, and yet the same. They have come and gone in waves, disappearing for 20 years after that first crest in the '60s, surging again in the '80s, then disappearing, until that Godawful movie came out.

But never mind. I ramble. I was going to talk about the Edison talking doll, but there isn't much to say, is there? It was a hideous thing. Edison was an arrogant asshole and thought he could make fools of the public just by putting out something with his name on it. It didn't happen. The dolls had a tiny version of his new-fangled gramophone embedded in its hard tin carapace. The tinny distorted recordings of nursery rhymes that issued forth when you turned the crank were nothing less than demonic. Curdled dulcet tones waver and shriek, making you wonder just who was  paid to spew this stuff, and how long they've been dead by now.

The dolls worked for about five minutes, which must have broken a lot of little girls' hearts, and most customers angrily demanded refunds. They stayed on the market for less than a year. Edison was known to refer to this project as "spilled milk", another way of saying "writeoff". And yet, and yet. A few must have remained in working order, or we wouldn't still have these blood-chilling horror-movie sounds.

I even wondered if the sound had been recreated artificially, like that wretched so-called recording of Au Clair de la Lune where some electron microscope scanned a very old piece of black paper, fed the random scratches into a computer and came up with The Very First Recorded Sound. It's a known fact that we hear what we expect to hear. I could write a whole piece about that, but I won't. A few years ago my granddaughter had a baby doll that talked, and one of the things it said was, "Allah is great!". Of course, what it really said was "gagamamamblllllgagmmmm", but once the rumor got around, EVERYONE heard the doll say"Allah is great". The dolls were soon pulled off the market. Allah, as everyone knows, is the embodiment of evil.

This video has the largest collection of talking doll horrors I've heard. I won't tell you to enjoy it. Just prepare yourself.

Glorious

Grandma didn't just have cups and saucers. She had CHINA,  the delicate teacups and fluted saucers edged in gold, plates festooned with roses and peacocks and even elaborate hunting scenes. I won't get into the Delft blue-patterned china, because that deserves its own post. My mother had a twelve-place setting of blue Wedgwood china with raised white grape leaf borders, which we only brought out at Christmas, and a gold-edged milk pitcher with a dog for a handle. (She wouldn't serve milk out of a bottle because "the neighbors might see it"). Once when Bill and I went to a 1920s museum in Burnaby, we kept crying out, "My grandma had one of those!" "So did MY grandma!" We came to the conclusion that we both had the same grandma, which fortunately wasn't true in a genetic sense.

These are miniatures for looking only, but must have taken forever to make. Our plates are from Walmart. They're also our "good china". Or should I say, our dishes.

P. S. I just thought of something. The mustard! Or at least I think it was mustard. It was in a little thing that looked like a white china beehive, with a bee on the top. I've looked, and there are similar images, either for honey or mustard (this must have been mustard - we were Irish and that kind of family). 
I never used it, so  it was one of the million-and-one things I wondered about, but never figured out.

Comfy, cozy cat

Cats are either double-jointed, or have such flexible bodies that their bones turn into water in a state of total relaxation. Bentley has assumed most of these positions at one time or another. I don't have too many of these, because I usually take action/beauty shots, but here are a few.

Snowflake photographs from 1902

It's hard for me to believe you could actually photograph snowflakes, but here they are. You'd either have to be in a very cold room, or go very fast. 

Screwed at the border: why was my parcel held hostage by Canada Post?

Now THIS really had me upset, to the point that I made a whole video about it. I cannot figure out why Canada Post would decide I had "imported" a small, normal, everyday item (three baby trolls) from Etsy in the States. I've been dealing with Etsy for years with no problem. I know it's not their fault. I've sent in a complaint, but there were so many forms with flyspeck type on them that I have no idea if any of it will hit home. There was "documentation" required to even think about asking for my money back, along with a full account of exactly WHY I think I deserve to ask. Which is what I sent them.

TO: Canada Border Services Agency

RE: Requesting refund of duties and taxes on CASUAL IMPORTATIONS

I was charged $14.47 for a small parcel containing an item ordered from the internet, with no explanation as to why there would be such additional charges on the delivery. I was not allowed to take the parcel unless I paid it.

This was a small box from Etsy.ca which weighed less than  half a pound. I had paid all charges required by Etsy (see attached receipt from Etsy). It was $30.00 for the item and $16.00 for shipping and handling, which translated into Canadian dollars totalled $59.64.

For reasons which make no sense to me, I was charged for “importing” this parcel when the shipping and handling charges had been entirely paid for. I don’t know what constitutes “importing”, but this was the kind of small purchase Canadians make on the internet every day. I have never had this happen before, and I do not want to EVER have to go through this again with internet purchases! It has forced me to deal with bureaucracy and just hope that my concern will be addressed.

Please refund me my $14.47.

  

Margaret Gunning

February 23/18  

I'm not very hopeful, but we'll see.

My oats are bully: the dating game in 1865

I think I would marry this guy. Decisions like this were made differently then. It was closer to an arranged marriage, which in many ways is a very practical method. In this case, he informs his prospective bride that he has a good set of teeth, no small asset in that era. I had to look up "Andy Johnson" (the President at the time), and figure out that "bully" was used in that other sense, the way Teddy Roosevelt did. Bully was a GOOD thing then, it meant "awesome", except it was "awesome" with some muscles in it. Some character. Anyway, I am up late again, very late in fact, feeling a bit punchy, not quite bully, but I did like this ad and believe it's real, and typical of the lonely hearts industry that was thriving then, as it is now. Only the names have changed.

A Canadian classic, reborn: The Kelligrews Soiree

You may talk of Clara Nolan's Ball or anything you choose,
But it couldn't hold a snuffbox to the spree in Kelligrews;
If you want your eyeballs straightened just come out next week with me,
You'll have to wear your glasses at the Kelligrews Soiree. 

There was birch rine, tar twine, cherry wine and turpentine,
Jowls and cavalances, ginger beer and tea;
Pig's feet, cat's meat, dumplings boiled up in a sheet,
Dandelion and crackie's teeth at the Kelligrews Soiree. 

Oh, I borrowed Cluney's beaver as I squared my yards to sail,
And a swallow tail from Hogan that was foxy on the tail;
Billy Cuddahie's old working pants and Patsy Nolan's shoes,
And an old white vest from Fogarty to sport at Kelligrews. 

There was Dan Milley, Joe Lilly, Tantan and Mrs. Tilley,
Dancing like a little filly, 'twould raise your heart to see;
Jim Brine, Din Ryan, Flipper Smith and Caroline,
I tell you, boys, we had a time at the Kelligrews Soiree. 

 
Oh, when I arrived at Betsy Snook's that night at half past eight,
The place was blocked with carriages stood waiting at the gate;
With Cluney's funnel upon my pate, the first words Betsy said,
"Here comes the local preacher with the pulpit on his head". 

There was Bill Mews, Dan Hughes, Wilson, Taft and Teddy Roose,
While Bryant, he sat in the blues and looking hard at me;
Jim Fling, Tom King, Johnson, champion of the ring,
And all the boxers I could bring to the Kelligrews Soiree. 

"The Saratoga Lancers first," Miss Betsy kindly said,
I danced with Nancy Cronin and her Granny on the Head;
And Hogan danced with Betsy, well you should have seen his shoes,
As he lashed the muskets from the rack that night at Kelligrews. 

There was boiled guineas, cold guineas, bullock's heads and piccaninnies,
Everything to catch the pennies you'd break your sides to see;
Boiled duff, cold duff, apple jam was in a cuff,
I tell you, boys, we had enough at the Kelligrews Soiree. 

Crooked Flavin struck the fiddler and a hand I then took in,
You should see George Cluney's beaver and it flattened to the rim;*
And Hogan's coat was like a vest, the tails were gone you see,
Says I, "The Devil haul ye and your Kelligrews Soiree". 

There was birch rine, tar twine, cherry wine and turpentine,
Jowls and cavalances, ginger beer and tea;
Pig's feet, cat's meat, dumplings boiled up in a sheet,
Dandelion and crackie's teeth at the Kelligrews Soiree. 

There was birch rine, tar twine, cherry wine and turpentine,
Jowls and cavalances, ginger beer and tea;
Pig's feet, cat's meat, dumplings boiled up in a sheet,
Dandelion and crackie's teeth at the Kelligrews Soiree. 

Johnny Burke [1851-1930]

BLOGGER'S BLUH. I haven't really sung this since Canada's Centennial in 1967, when every known (or unknown) Canadian folk song was dredged up, dusted off, sung, then reburied in 1968. I was surprised this actually had an author, as I thought it would be listed under "Anon" or "Arthur Unknown". We dutifully sang it in - what, Grade 8? - under the direction of Miss Maven (and through my internet connections I fairly recently found a PICTURE of Miss Maven, in a group photo with the rest of my Grade 8 teachers, meaning she really did exist. Unless I'm mistaken, she's the lady in teal in the front row, sitting beside Ruby Shaw, wearing ruby red.)

The song is from Newfoundland, of course, but I see similarities to various Irish or Scottish folk songs, such as the Fluter's Ball (which similarly rhymes off lists of waggish people and their merry goings-on). I'm also reminded of that perennial charmer, I'se the B'y ("codfish in the spring of the year, fried in maggoty butter"), not to mention The Squid Jiggin' Grounds, which I think I already covered in another post.

I don't know what half of this means. Birch rine? Did people eat birch bark at this party, or what? Tar twine just seems like desperation to me. Cherry wine mixed with turpentine is plausible, in Newfoundland at least. Cavalances, now - I think I have to look that one up, if it exists.

calavance n

calavance n also callivance, cavalance OED ~ obs (1620-1880); DAE (1682-); DJE sb (1634-1794). Type of small bean used esp for soup (Dolichos barbadensis, D. sinensis).

1895 J A Folklore viii, 38 Callivances: a species of white bean ... in contrast with the broad English bean. [c1904] 1927 DOYLE (ed) 67 "The Kelligrews Soiree": There was birch rhine, tar twine, / Cherry wine and turpentine; / Jowls and cavalances. P 245-61 ~ small bean.

Crackie's teeth? 

Cracky n

cracky n also cracky dog, krackie EDD ~ sb1 1 'wren,' 2 'little person or thing' D; DC crackie Nfld (1895-). A small, noisy mongrel dog; freq in phr saucy as a cracky.

1858 [LOWELL] ii, 293 A 'cracky,' in Newfoundland, is a little dog. [1894 BURKE] 83 He can bite off horse shoe nails and twist crackeys by the tails. 1895 J A Folklore viii, 38 ~ a little dog. 1917 Christmas Echo 14 There was nothing particular about him any more than any other dog. He was larger than an ordinary crackie, but not so large as a sporting dog. 1937 DEVINE 15 Crackie—A small dog. A lap dog, lively, frisking and barking. 1966 FARIS 97 People today only keep small 'krakies,' and have killed or sold most of the part-Husky sled dogs which once abounded. C 66-8 'Saucy as a cracky.' This is applied to a person who usually has a saucy tongue or a person who will answer back.

Now, the source of all this, in case you're interested, is an excruciatingly detailed dictionary of Newfoundland English, the kind you can easily get swamped in within two seconds of opening the page.

http://www.heritage.nf.ca/dictionary/a-z-index.php

Have a go.

Post-post: I was certain that Kelligrews Soiree was so obscure that there would be no YouTube versions of it. Instead I was inundated with every kind of version, including some which did not include the all-important words. I finally settled on Burl Ives, who as far as I am concerned could sing anything, enunciated like cut glass, and even managed a fairly presentable Newfie accent. 

For more information, go on YouTube and enter the title. Pick whichever one you want.

*Not the same George Clooney. The "beaver" is, I think, a reference to a hat, not a living animal.

Get stuffed! The Rice Krispies Stuffy Doll

I don't remember seeing this particular Rice Krispies ad as a kid, mainly because it was a few years before my time. Yes! There are actually things that happened before I existed on this earth, and this ad was one of them.

What's strange about it is that they tell you to send away for something that costs FIFTEEN CENTS, meaning it's particularly expensive in the cereal box world. This was the era of "free inside!", after all, or toys you got just for sending in box tops. I remember laboriously cutting or tearing off box tops and mailing them to Battle Creek, Michigan, for my "free" toy, which usually never came.

But this is really strange. Not only do you have to pay fifteen cents for these things, the "dolls" you get aren't even assembled! You have to cut them out, sew around the outside, then stuff them with cotton, presumably not provided. Which means that you're basically getting a printed piece of cloth.























I don't know how many of these pathetic dolls survive today, but I did find some replicas (which I made into a gif, above) that are quite impressive - probably a lot more impressive than the dolls. We've dealt with the cloth Harold Lloyd dolls that you could get free (with purchase) at the Piggly Wiggly, but those were at least sewn together and looked fairly substantial.





These would look like nine kinds of hell even if you were a good seamstress, and how many eight-year-olds can say that? I can tell that Mom must have ended up doing a lot of these on her sewing machine, turning them inside-out to sew the seam, then finding some "cotton batten" (batting) or kapok, which was what we used back then to stuff anything.

But hey nonny! I cannot believe what I just found - there IS a surviving Rice Krispies doll, on an old page about cloth dolls that came from cereal boxes and such. It's nearly as hideous as I would have imagined.

But this one, oh damn.





OH damn.

Rare Behind The Scenes Star Trek Footage

What is so rare as an outtake on the Desilu lot? Spock smoking, maybe.

In the land of Dairy Queen

I love the impossible: William Shatner is 87 today

Shatner is one of the obsessions I return to on this blog - this strange, oft-disjointed, almost-blog-about-nothing - because it inspires me so much to see a man of 87 (only Betty White has more supernatural energy) who could easily pass for 65. 

It's the horses, too - because very seldom do two of my major obsessions intersect in this way. If someone "gets" horses, then he automatically gets a piece of my soul.

(Author's note. Oh. My God.)

Back when I was so horse-heavy that I actually owned my own horse, in about 1967, I slavishly watched Star Trek, but I wasn't even particularly enamored of Kirk. It was Spock I loved. Spock of the ascetic, carefully-timbred voice, wickedly dark eyes, and strong Jewish-Indian jawline (and no, I don't mean that unkindly - it's just that for years, if not decades, Leonard Nimoy was restricted to playing Comanche warriors because of his looks). Kirk always struck me as a little - what, histrionic? "No blah blah blah!" is my favorite example. But it wasn't just that. Didn't turn my crank sexually, though at the time I was barely aware of those feelings. There were rumors that he wore a kind of slimming band under that Godawful polyester-spandex uniform. And in the one episode where Kirk and Spock both go shirtless, Spock wins hands-down in the WOWZY WOW WOW WOW category.

(BLOGGER'S NOTE. I now have proof that the Shat-man's bear rug far outfuzzes Spock's. For some reason, on shirtless occasions, he shaved his chest.)

But Shatner keeps popping up, even now, and always, and he somehow seems to have shed that whatever-it-was that I didn't like. When he was very young, he was almost too beautiful, and when I recently found out that his ancestors were Lithuanian, I began to put his looks in context. To me, he had never seemed quite the WASP matinee idol that he was made out to be. Those Slavic cheekbones, the slightly-slanted dark eyes that had dreaminess and hurt in them, these were from another world entirely. He grew up Jewish in Montreal, no doubt listening to Russian being shouted back and forth, and seen as somewhat crazy for trying to be an actor. For God's sake, Billy, get yourself a trade!

Well might his parents worry, but Billy rolled up his sleeves and became an actor. In some ways, at the start, he was a typical ex-patriot journeyman actor, playing roles and finding parts wherever he could. He was always in work, even after Star Trek folded and he spent a now-famous couple of years living out of his camper in the California desert. He even showed up in Canada a few times to film Loblaws commercials ("By God. . . the price. . . is. . . right!"), or ads for Shirriff pudding with mini-flavor buds (Eat the pudding, Bill. Eat the pudding: "Mmmmmmm!")

But there has always been another side to this man. When he's with horses, even now when he's just a bit chunky, he becomes that slightly-mystical Lithuanian again, resisting gravity on the back of one of his magnificent Saddlebreds. People who have never ridden don't understand  that on a horse, you can fly. You become the wings of Pegasus, mane-whipped, the wind singing your ears.

He's known as a blustery and arrogant sort, and though I am sure he has developed a serviceable outer persona which can weather all the vagaries of show business, I don't believe that's him. I have tried to watch that awful Old Man's show he is on now - Better Late than Never, it's called, and the less you know about it the better. I did force myself to watch the one where they travel to Lithuania, for obvious reasons (though he claimed his parents were Lithuanian, not his grandparents). What I notice is when all these other old guys (including Fonzie, that guy with the grill, a football guy, and somebody else - who cares? They all look older than he is, though they are way younger) are shouting and booming and blathering around him, he's often sitting there looking down at his hands, apart. I am convinced his true nature is sensitive and often dismayed. He was dismayed then, and he's dismayed now.

How I love his dismay.

Dismay and curiosity keep you in the game, because it means you are never satisfied. It means there always has to be more (more, more, MORE!).  He must have an astonishing gift for living in the moment, staying in the now. This day, the only day you can have any real influence on. It's rare that a man keeps that fire into his 60s and 70s, let alone beyond. If I ever meet him, and *I* am more likely to die before that happens than he is, I want to ask him one thing: did you make a deal with the devil? Is there some trick? Is it genetics, or - ? Because this can't be happening. Unless he has the best plastic surgeon in the world, or is a bona fide time-traveller, William Shatner is just not possible.

And how I love the impossible.

P. S. I wrote this post some time ago, then realized today is The Day, when he turns an impossible 87 years old. Every I time I see him, I think: No. . . . No. But there it is. People don't mention his age all that often, I guess because they don't quite believe it. 

Believe it. I know this is a cliche, but I think he's one of our national treasures.

Behold. . . SIR RICHARD!

Ringo Starr receives knighthood: 'I'll wear it at breakfast'

By Mark Savage BBC Music reporter 20 March 2018

Former Beatles drummer Ringo Starr receives his knighthood for services to music 

Beatles drummer Ringo Starr has been knighted for his services to music. 

The Duke of Cambridge bestowed the honour on the Liverpool-born star at a ceremony at Buckingham Palace.

"It means a lot actually," the musician told the BBC. "It means recognition for the things we've done. I was really pleased to accept this.

The honour comes 53 years after the Beatles were all awarded the MBE - and Starr said he had missed his bandmates' companionship this time round.
"I was a bit shaky today on my own," he said.


 

Ringo joined The Beatles in 1962, shortly after they signed their record contract

When The Beatles received their MBEs in October 1965, the occasion was not without controversy.

Rock and roll was still viewed with suspicion by the establishment and several previous honourees returned their medals in disgust.

John Lennon later claimed that the Beatles were so nervous at the idea of meeting the Queen they sneaked into a bathroom at Buckingham Palace for a cigarette.

"Who said that?" laughed the drummer after Tuesday's ceremony. "I'm not keeping that rumour going."


 

The Beatles at Buckingham Palace in 1965 (left to right): Ringo Starr, John Lennon, Paul McCartney and George Harrison

He arrived at the investiture with his wife, Barbara Bach, offering his trademark peace sign for fans and photographers.

Asked whether he wanted to be known as Sir Ringo, the musician, whose real name is Richard Starkey, replied: "I don't know yet. It's new and I don't know how you use it properly."

Turning to BBC reporter Colin Paterson, he added: "But I expect you to use it."

The 77-year-old added he knew exactly what he'd do with his medal.

"I'll be wearing it at breakfast," he joked. 

BLOGGER'S HURRAY-IT'S-ABOUT-BLOODY-TIME: This was the best news I've had in a while. I don't think people realized then - and perhaps many don't realize now - the extent to which Ringo was the glue holding the Beatles together. He had to bear being the butt of jokes about the guy who tagged along behind all those geniuses, but Ringo's beat was so much a part of their signature sound that when you listen to YouTube tracks without his drumming, they sound almost insipid. Try to imagine She Loves You without that " bompa-da-bomp!" intro, or listen to A Day in the Life again and notice how much his drumming is the "bones" of the song. He was all about loving the beat and playing within the song rather than grabbing solo bits and playing the prima donna. Now he's come full circle and is that cheerful lad from Liverpool again, the one that kept his accent and his attitude. Ringo: I loved you then, I love you now, I'll love you always.

P. P S.: I think it's a little sad that when they run a photo of the Beatles for the BBC, they have to tell us what their names are. Time was, everyone knew, it was tattooed on our brains. But in this, I have hope. . . My kids knew every lyric of every Beatles song ever written, and they grew up in the '80s. Caitlin's best friend is a Beatlemaniac, though she can't really understand it. "God, she has every Beatles album, every Beatles poster, every Beatles t shirt and book and vintage trading card. . . " Caitlin's friend is 14, so perhaps the legend is fated to continue.

P. P. P. S.: If the BBC wants to sue me for lightly borrowing this before giving it back, well then go ahead. With the number of views I get (and I haven't even checked them for months, it's so disheartening) I don't think I am any threat to them. We'll call it "fair use" and leave it at that.