DOLL from HELL: Santa Preemie on eBay

Margaret Mousa Baby Doll 2005 20 inch

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Condition: Used  “nice”
Price:
US $175.00
ApproximatelyC $234.2

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Under Skim Milk Wood: Dullyn Thomas's Maudlin Masterpiece

Blogger's note. It never ceases to amaze me with what reverence people approach the work of Dylan Thomas. You can't even throw one brickbat at the guy! If he were alive he'd be too drunk to notice anyway. But of all his hallowed writings, even more hallowed than Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, which holds the record for the most misquoted poem in the history of the world ("Don't go gently into the night"; "Let's go gently into the night"; "you should go gently into the night, listen to me, I'm your hospice worker," etc., etc.), this one is the most hallowed, even more hallowed than Halloween.

As I was saying (and in this I am approaching the windbaggedness of my own chosen subject), there is one particular work which is considered his Masterpiece. This is Under Milk Wood, in which the ravelled and burlap-clad townsfolk of Llareggub (which is, surprise-surprise, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, "Buggerall" spelled backwards) declare themselves as if each one of them stood on a soapbox in the Town Square.



These people are "good" because they are RURAL: they live in small towns, which makes them Real. They aren't big city folk with their evil habits. They shine with goodness even if they are total rotters and ratfinks. We love them. We love them because Dylan Thomas loves them, and Dylan Thomas loves them because they are lucrative.

It's pretentious, it's showy, it's writing that calls attention to itself, a thing I loathe beyond description. I've probably reviewed 350 books in my time (and if that sounds like a lot, I wrote three or four a month for years and years, and doesn't that add up, folks? Or can't you do math?). It's verbal fireworks, it's "oooooooh" and "ahhhhhh" and "oh, isn't it marvelous", which (like all showing off and verbal swaggering) it isn't.

In my tireless and demanding research for this thing, I discovered how many different versions of this "play for voices" have been produced over the years. God knows how it was supposed to be presented: each player standing in front of the audience with a paper bag over their head? (for after all, each one has an annoying habit of introducing him/herself so there won't be any confusion: "Fiddle-dee-dee, I am Mr. Prothero the Butcher! Come and see my meat!" And stuff like that.)

The thing was made into a movie, of course, with Richard Burton playing the town drunk. I discovered today that there was a highly-praised dance version, though how you can dance in Welsh is simply beyond me.

What next, I wonder? Under Milk Wood performed in American Sign Language? With semaphores, or maybe in Morse code? How about Dylan Thomas on Ice?

There's no end to it, it seems. In my exhaustive (and exhausting) research, I stumbled upon a far better writer who never got his due because he was too busy fuming bitterly about how his famous rival Dylan Thomas got all the babes, even if his prick was as limp as a pickled eel from the Llanfairwlllpggygygogoch Tavern.

His attempt to copy Dylan Thomas almost succeeded until he got partway through the play and broke into one of his inebriated rants. Plus people were just a little puzzled by his name: Dullyn ("Cosmo") Thomas: didn't he look just a little bit like Kramer from Seinfeld? Since Seinfeld wouldn't be invented for another 40 years, it was a strange comparison to make.

So here, without any reservations except for the quality and relevance of the work, I present a heretofore ignored and neglected masterpiece.

Under Skim Milk Wood

by Dullyn Thomas

Hark! Listen ye! Come closer, closer! until ye can breathe in me foul alcoholic breath. For I am about to tell’ee of many things! Of many things, yes! that you are not interested in. Of many quaint people! Of many quaint folk in the buffling, baffling, blustering, blistering darkness, buffooning like circus-tents in the sussurating Swansea spring, of many fair quair folk who aren’t like anybody, see, 'cause I just made ‘em up on the spot.

Come see, everybody, how this imaginary Welsh town carved out of malt and marzipan made Dylan Thomas rich! And an injustice it was, too. It was Dullyn Thomas who got here first, which is how this rip-roaring cascade of clichés got started. The townsfolk wanted to rip his fat sodden gullet out and wring his crapulous neck like a chicken! But that is a tale for another time. For Dullyn Thomas now holds up the wall of the pub, and as he holds it up, he begins to remember. . .

About the old lady, Mrs. Teacozy, who used to sit on her front porch and wonder when the tide would come in. Which is strange, because Mrs. Teacozy lived 450 miles inland.

About Mr. Prothero, the scientist, who blew off his hair doing an experiment in the bedroom and lost his wife’s favour forever, for he blew off his dick at the same time.

(Which is a shockingly earthy, sexual, explicit thing to say. Oh my goodness, Dullyn Thomas is such a sensualist and was probably great in bed.)

First voice: Lookee here, I’m dead! Can’t you tell?

Second voice: Frankly, this play’s so dead, I can’t distinguish it.

Third voice: Extinguished, are you?

Fourth voice: Oh, the wordplay, the wordplay!

Fifth voice: Yes let us gasp at the wordplay as if we’re seeing the fireworks. Which in fact we are.

Mr. Curmudgeon: And you mean to say, me lad, that you don’t think of all this play-writin’ business as just a lot of literary showin’-off?

Me lad: Yes, me Mr. Curmudgeon. It IS a lot of literary showin’-off, but that’s just the point.

Mr. Curmudgeon: The showin’ off?

Me lad: No, the point.

Plump Young Lady in the Bushes: And then I seduced him, aye. I rolled around in the grass gettin’ me dress dairty, and I opened me legs and I sinned and sinned until me diaphragm exploded.

Fifteenth voice: Oh Mr. Playwright, please, please, isn’t it about time this play got started? I meansay, up to now it just doesn’t seem to have much of a point.

Mr. Cadwalladwrrwrr: Oh but the point is, I drownded at sea fifty years ago and it were wonderful. Now the fishes swim through me eye sockets and eat me brain.

Mrs. Cadwall-whatever: You bastard, get back into bed and sairvace me!

(Oh, the earthiness! The bawdiness! The Chaucerian attempts at naughtiness!)

So. Ye heark. Heark ye, for the citizens of Blowitoutyourarse are about to Speak. They don’t have much to say, but that never slowed down that other Mr. Thomas up until now. Moreover, I am about to reveal his Literary Secret, his method. Dullyn (responsible for the stage name of the famous folk singer, Bob Dullyn) collared some lad in the White Horse pub and had him scrawl down any-such-thing because he had a publisher’s advance, see? So it was time for him to get right poetical-like.

Miscellaneous voice:  Yes. Nothing inspires the poet like a few dozen pints of Guinness, a pathetic publisher’s advance that’s already spent and a towering deadline, after which will follow a timely and merciless lawsuit. So it were time Mr. Thomas began to write about his imaginary little village, which to avoid being sued for libel he renamed Lllargybargybrwllltwlltwwlt – 

Another Plump Young Lady, but not as seductive: 
- which keeps on changin’ its spellin’ -         just to confuse the tourists – who come to here to Blowarse, as we like to call it, to see the heavin’  bleedin' whales in  the place of his boyhood – that other Thomas, I mean, the one who could write –

Parson Lllewwellynn: Silence, woman! Shut thy slutty mouth and speak no more! Thou hast been found out: thou possesseth a vagina and will be cast into everlasting hell because you suddenly realized it!

(Oh, the tight-lipped pastor – such wicked mirth at his expense!)

Dylan Thomas:  There are no whales in Wales.

(All voices, in unison): Just wails!

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DO go gentle into that good night! RIGHT NOW! (Or: why Dylan Thomas is a lousy writer).

Not too many people know this, but I'll tell you right now: Dylan Thomas was a really bad writer. He crammed adjectives together in a way that made everyone gasp, "Ohhhhh!" and "Wheeeee," as if they were watching fireworks. But that's not good writing. That is what is referred to in literary terms as a "cheap trick".

He wrote about Wales as if it were the dark side of the moon, some exotic or even erotic place where the sea sang its siren song: but the truth is he hated Wales. Hated its narrow religion and suffocating parochialism and "the museum that should have been in a museum" (and I've seen a few of those). He must have hated where he came from, or he wouldn't have gone to America to read poetry to melting young girls and get so soused his head exploded. He had to have a shtick of some sort, a shtick that other writers hadn't quite thought about, a Yeats-ian, Joyce-ean thing, except not Irish.

You HAVE to love Dylan Thomas. You HAVE to admire the solid blocks of poetry or the yammering sing-songy short stories. The only one I really liked was about the guy in the bar, soused, who meets the love of his life, goes to the men's room and never finds his way back. Ever. Reminds me a bit of This is Spinal Tap and how they can't find the stage. You can't say you hate Dylan Thomas and hold your head up in literary circles. Oh, but look at this image! Oh, but look how he does this, how he does that. Though there are some interesting images in And Death Shall Have No Dominion, it seems to have been written for Richard Burton (soused) to read on the Ed Sullivan Show, which in fact I think he did.

Reading A Child's Christmas in Wales used to be de rigueur in classrooms and around the fireplace on Christmas Eve. Today it all feels dated somehow, dense Christmas pudding or a fruitcake passed back and forth in the family until it turns into the sort of igneous rock that was used to build the ancient Pyramids.

This is only a small fragment of one of Thomas' more interminable short stories, called Quite Early one Morning. It was written to pad out the selections on a Caedmon recording he did in the '40s - I know because I have a copy of it rattling around somewhere. Dylan Thomas was famous for his "Welsh-singing" voice and his magnificent readings. OK, if you like Richard Burton with a headcold and a hangover. There is a definite wobble. And then there was the mess of his personal life, which I will not get into.

This story (the fragment I have shared here: it's about a zillion pages long and I thought you'd get bored) is precious and atrocious at the same time. Pretrocious? It's cute. Those little Welsh people in the town, goddamn! they were funny to write about. It drips with the sort of entitlement that announces to the world, "I have arrived. And you have not." It may or may not be a forerunner of Under Milk Wood: Under Skim Milk Wood, perhaps.

I used to love A Child's Christmas in Wales until I actually read it and saw all sorts of cheap verbal tricks going on. If you really want a good Christmas story, make like Linus in the Peanuts story, hit the lights and open the gospel of Luke. In the meantime, this ISN'T from A Child's Christmas in Wales, so it can't be all bad.

I walked on to the cliff path again, the town behind and below waking up now so very slowly; I stopped and turned and looked. Smoke from one chimney - the cobbler's, I thought, but from that distance it may have been the chimney of the retired male nurse who had come to live in Wales after many years' successful wrestling with the mad rich of Southern England. (He was not liked. He measured you for a strait-jacket carefully with his eye; he saw you bounce from rubber walls like a sorbo ball. No behaviour surprised him. Many people of the town found it hard to resist leering at him suddenly around the corner, or convulsively dancing, or pointing with laughter and devilish good humour at invisible dog-fights merely to prove to him that they were normal.)

Smoke from another chimney now. They were burning their last night's dreams. Up from a chimney came a long-haired wraith like an old politician. Someone had been dreaming of the Liberal Party. But no, the smoky figure wove, attenuated, into a refined and precise grey comma. Someone had been dreaming of reading Charles Morgan. Oh! the town was waking now and I heard distinctly, insistent over the slow-speaking sea, the voices of the town blown up to me. And some of the voices said:

I am Miss May Hughes 'The Cosy', a lonely lady,
Waiting in her house by the nasty sea,
Waiting for her husband and pretty baby
To come home at last from wherever they may be.

I am Captain Tiny Evans, my ship was the 'Kidwelly'
And Mrs Tiny Evans has been dead for many a year.
'Poor Captain Tiny all alone', the neighbours whisper,
But I like it all alone, and I hated her.

Clara Tawe Jenkins, 'Madam' they call me,
An old contralto with her dressing-gown on,
And I sit at the window and I sing to the sea,
For the sea does not notice that my voice has gone.

Parchedig Thomas Evans making morning tea,
Very weak tea, too, you mustn't waste a leaf,
Every morning making tea in my house by the sea
I am troubled by one thing only, and that, belief.

Open the curtains, light the fire, what are servants for?
I am Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard and I want another snooze.
Dust the china, feed the canary, sweep the drawing-room door;
And before you let the sun in, mind he wipes his shoes.

I am only Mr Griffiths, very short-sighted, B.A., Aber.
As soon as I finish my egg I must shuffle off to school.
O patron saint of teachers, teach me to keep order,
And forget those words on the blackboard - 'Griffiths Bat is a fool.'

Do you hear that whistling?- It's me, I am Phoebe,
The maid at the King's Head, and I am whistling like a bird.
Someone spilt a tin of pepper in the tea.
There's twenty for breakfast and I'm not going to say a word.

I can see the Atlantic from my bed where I always lie,
Night and day, night and day, eating my bread and slops.
The quiet cripple staring at the sea and the sky.
I shall lie here till the sky goes out and the sea stops.

Thus some of the voices of a cliff-perched town at the far end of Wales moved out of sleep and darkness into the new-born, ancient and ageless morning, moved and were lost.

(BLOGGER'S NOTE: Just as well.)

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The Troll Doll Channel: Tons of TEENY TINY TROLLS!

This is one of the rare videos where I appear in person. These little trolls are adorable, but as usual I have no place to put them. I love the housing units, but where - ?? At any rate, Bentley makes an appearance as usual.

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😳1950s Retro TV commercial for MAGIC GIRDLE!🙄

In case you think things haven't changed. . . they have. Back in the day, women wore a lot of armour under their clothing. Even the slenderest of women were required to wear girdles so they would not appear "loose". Girdles, garters, silk stockings. . . Now, of course, we have the opposite extreme, with hugely obese women hanging out of their short-shorts and spaghett-strap  tank tops. Not only no girdles, but no bras either. I saw a woman in the mall wearing only a two-piece bathing suit. She probably weighed about 300 pounds, and as she walked her huge bare belly bounced up and down and up and down. No more fat-shaming, I guess. But the obsessive dieting of yesteryear hasn't really stopped. It's just that people have admitted they've given up

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Cat people, dog people - what's the difference?

"Methigel is extremely palatable," the directions on the tube of

medication said. "To stimulate taste interest place a small amount of
Methigel on animal's nose or directly in mouth. Cats: 1/2 to 1
teaspoonful twice daily. Dogs: 1 teaspoonful twice daily."

To me, it looked like old beef gravy which had been allowed to harden
into a quivering semi-solid. To my cat ... well, when I unscrewed the
top of the tube, he took one sniff and ran the other way.

I don't blame kitty for his critical response. Cats loathe medicine,
especially the really noxious stuff. Murphy hates it, just as he hates
to admit that with the onset of middle age he has developed certain
urinary problems familiar to 50-year-old males everywhere.

There is a treatment: Methigel. But why are the manufacturers so
insensitive as to suggest that this stuff is equally "palatable" to
cats and dogs? That's like saying a medicine is suitable for guppies
and giraffes. Frogs and finches. Amoebae and antelope.



Everyone knows there is a world of psychic difference between a cat
and a dog. Just take a look at their owners.

Dog people wear thick Cowichan sweaters, smoke three-dot Brigham pipes
(even women), drink Dewar's White Label, read Hemingway, and sit by
the fire with their faithful pal at their feet. They like to be in
control - of their dogs.



Cat people wear claw-marked cashmere, gave up smoking years ago (Tabby
doesn't like it), drink whatever will get them there fastest, read
Dorothy Parker, and know enough to sit very still so Precious will
deign to jump up and snuggle. They love to be in control - but not of
their cats, who can bite and hiss and scratch and still be named
"Cuddlebug".

Murphy eyed me with mistrust. "I suppose you think I'm going to take
this greasy gunk without a fight," he stated as I prepared an oral
syringe full of the dreaded Methigel.

"No, but I do expect you to take it," I countered, grasping 16 pounds
of cat between my knees for the twice daily struggle.

"Good for cats and dogs? Bah -," Murphy spat, decorating the wall with
most of the dose. "A dog will eat coffee grounds."

He's right, you know. I've seen it. Dogs aren't fussy. In fact,
they'll lick up any old swill with the greatest of enthusiasm, then
sit up and beg for more.

Dogs are prose; cats are poetry. Dogs embody the spirit of rugged
manhood. Cats are the spooky eccentricity of woman. Dogs doggedly
follow. Cats disappear.

I'm writing to the manufacturer of this medicine to suggest a change.
"Methigel for Cats?" No, let's call it Tuna Delight, a tasteful puree
of assorted fish-heads.

There will be a twist to the instructions. Before the owner is allowed
to administer the first dose, he or she must swallow a full
tablespoonful.

Good for cats. Humbling for humans.

NOTE: This is an ANCIENT piece, even pre-dating my blog which I started in 2012, and likely taken from one of my newspaper columns in the mid- '90s. DECADES ago! I found it, miraculously, quoted on someone else's blog (or somewhere), maybe ten years later, which still makes it pretty old. Someone must have seen it somewhere, God knows where, and thought it was good enough to quote. I have pictures of Murphy, but they make me so sad and nostalgic for those good times (and bad, let's not forget) that I decided to use Bentley's hokey gifs as illustrations. Bentley has never been sick, touch wood, but Murphy in his latter years had all sorts of old-cat problems. He was the cat-riarch of the family for a magnificent 17 years. Bentley is, of course, a more than worthy successor, but a completely different sort of cat, more reserved, neater and tidier, quieter, better with his litter habits, and absolutely devoted to both of us, and zealously protective, like many dogs are protective of their owners. And as we get older, his devotion only increases. 

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Before Star Trek: WILLIAM SHATNER and LEONARD NIMOY in The Outer Limits!

I've written about The Outer Limits before - I always thought it was far scarier and even more thought-provoking than the more-celebrated Twilight Zone, which could often be preachy and pretentious. TOL had that creepy announcer saying "WE will control the horizontal. . . WE will control the vertical. . .", which to my child mind meant we were losing control of everything. This was the height or depth of the Cold War, and there was a vague, never-spelled-out terror in the background of life that made me wake up screaming. I found it fascination (to quote Spock) to see that both Shatner and Nimoy had Outer Limits episodes, different ones - though Shatner starred in Cold Hands, Warm Heart, and Nimoy had only a supporting role in the other one, can't remember the title, but it wasn't about an alien invasion at all,  but a nasty quirk of physics that could have (OF COURSE) destroyed the whole world! This one was a bit disappointing because there were no monsters in it, but as with TZ, mankind itself was the enemy, stupid and selfish and maybe even worthy of instinction.

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"Good evening."

I'm back in a Hitchcock cycle again, kind of like the way my orbit takes me around to Dylan, Gershwin and Poe (and a more mixed bunch you never saw!). I'm once again watching all the old Alfred Hitchcock Presents episodes from the 1950s, in glorious black and white, and the even-better Alfred Hitchcock Hour, in which there is a whole hour to develop story lines and characters. 

The half-hour ones are kind of like The Twilight Zone, a short fiction format where you have to get in there fast, do your damage, and then get out (my own formula for writing short stories). I am also re-watching The Outer Limits series which I'm able to stream and binge-watch in its entirety. Some are absurdly hokey, but there are others with a definite film noir feeling to them, not to mention hints of German expressionism, a Metropolis atmosphere of paranoia and lurking danger. We never quite understand what is going on, something is always held back - kind of like life.

One of the most macabre episodes, The Architects of Fear, had Robert Culp slowly morph into a hideous alien creature, and what I noticed most of all was how much David Cronenberg's Brundlefly was modelled on the monster. The basic body structure, the head, the way it clomped around on two legs but still retained a ghastly humanness. . . yes. These geniuses are all affected by each other, notice each other. It may not even have been a conscious choice, but I think he absorbed it.

And in all these old TV shows, we see character actors or even big stars that would go on to be very familiar indeed. Nearly every episode of the Hitchcock series has "oh, THAT guy!" in it - or that woman - the one who has been in so many episodes of so many shows, but whose names we can't recall. And then people like Sir Cedric Hardwicke show up, along with Shatner and Nimoy and those who  would go on to be massive stars. In fact, I did a video on this and should post it.

It's interesting to see the difference between Hitchcock's 1950s series (and by the way, he DIDN'T direct these, just introduced them) and the later hour-long format. For one thing, I have vague memories of it, and did a whole long riff on the eerie episode Consider her Ways, based on a John Wyndham story. This led me to read a whole lot of John Wyndham, leaving me with an aftertaste. The man did not feel good about the future. I watched The Outer Limits - some of it - the ones I could stand - through my splayed fingers, terrified even by that unforgettable opening: "There is nothing wrong with your television set." It was enough to give me night terrors. So when I watch them now, there are little jolts here and there that represent the stirring of deep memories.

Hitchcock would have approved.

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"GET LOST!" Girl dove chased by nasty male pigeons

This lovely domestic white dove has joined the flock of wild pigeons on Burnaby Lake. Originally we saw TWO white doves, and I swear I  saw two black ones, though I didn't think that kind of domestic dove came in black. Now there is but one, but she is VERY popular among the male pigeons, who do  their absurd strutting courtship rituals around her: puffing out their neck so that it looks huge, circling around and around their quarry and even spinning in circles to get her attention. Because all those ploys didn't work and Paloma just blew them off, one of the males gave her an aggressive peck. Pigeons! She just not that into you.

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Holy Honkers! TWO HUNDRED CANADA GEESE in Blakeburn Lagoon!

This was one of those rare sights that makes birdwatchers turn cartwheels of joy. It's what a fellow birdwatcher called "a gathering of the clan" - HUNDREDS of very vocal Canada Geese in one small body of water, a man-made lagoon we love to walk around. A week or so before, the lagoon was almost completely deserted, with only the odd dabbling duck. But as we approached the water, unable to see through the bushes, we heard this incredible racket and had no idea what it was. When I first saw the massive flock, they were so far away I could barely take in the sheer sweep of them, and I was only able to photograph a small portion of a colony that extended far into the other side of the lagoon. With the sun in my eyes, I barely knew what I was photographing, so I was pleasantly surprised to see my zoom had picked up closer shots of them, all sailing along in the same direction and making a bloody racket! The next time we went to the lagoon, about a week later, I did not see any geese at all, but the ducks had returned, no longer crowded out. In fact, I saw mallards, coots, a heron, wigeons, and mergansers all returning from wherever they had been all summer. Such is the endless joy and superb variety of birdwatching. It's literally never the same twice.

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Top 10 Most Outrageous Bootleg Merch

This is just damn funny! I haven't laughed out loud at a YouTube video in a long time. It has all become oh-so-earnest, everybody wanting to get into the act and each upload more pretentious than the one before. Clicks and monetizing and special clubs and merch and all sorts of junk. But this is really funny, because these products (wherever they got them) are such obvious ripoffs, but with badly-translated English titles and descriptions to add to the delight.

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Buick Cars 1960: advertisement as art

This is an example of advertisement as a high art form. Everything about this ad is beautiful, as if it was conceived and directed by a master. Don Draper, maybe. From the dreamy orchestral beginning to the spectacular 360-degree view of the magnificent Buick, this is an ad that was designed with every bit as much care as the car itself. 

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GUEST COLUMN by Sarah Vine: and so say all of us!

Tuesday, Nov 8th 2022 

SARAH VINE: Being a doctor is supposed to be about helping sick people get better, not guilt-tripping them for taking up your time... So why are doctors STILL using Covid as an excuse not to see patients?

By Sarah Vine for the Daily Mail

A couple of weeks ago, I came down with a nasty chest infection. At first I just ignored it. But it got worse: my lungs were on fire.

The bug then took up residence in my ears, rendering me deaf and in considerable discomfort.

I’ll be fine, I said to myself. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ insisted my daughter, home from university. ‘Quite apart from the fact you sound . . . well, gross, you’re insufferable when you’re ill. Go to the doctor.’

Ah, foolish youth. Go to the doctor? If only it were that simple.

There was a time when seeing the doctor was a straightforward affair. You rang, you made an appointment, you went. These days, you might as well be seeking an audience with the Pope.

My first mistake was to call on a Monday morning. Whichever bacterium was rampaging in my bronchioles had clearly not got the memo about Monday mornings.

After 47 attempts to get past the ‘engaged’ tone (my phone logged them), I finally got through to a recorded message about how busy they were, and I was placed in a queue. I actually felt grateful.

I waited a further 40 minutes before the receptionist finally answered, only to be told — you guessed it — that no appointments were available.

On Tuesday, the infection was much worse. I tried again. This time it took 45 minutes to get through. Again, no appointments were available. The receptionist suggested emailing.

Ah, emailing. That involved going through a hideously clunky NHS website called ‘SystmOnline’. As portals go, it might as well have been the gateway to Hell for all the ease of access it afforded: although not even the Devil himself could have devised such a frustrating piece of technology.

I’m quite computer-literate. It’s beyond me how anyone is expected to cope who isn’t proficient with tech, who can’t remember their password or who simply doesn’t have online access.

Eventually, I managed to navigate my way through it, and logged my request. The next morning my phone rang. ‘Are you the person who emailed?’ I was. ‘The doctor will call you.’

I then spent the rest of the day watching my phone like a hawk, only to miss the call when I popped to the loo. When I rang back, the line was engaged. Obviously.

Now I know I’m not the only person who’s been ill these past few weeks, but I’m also not the only person struggling to see their GP.

My daughter, for example, needed a non-urgent appointment for an ongoing issue.

The earliest they could fit her in? Christmas Eve.

A friend came down with a kidney infection. It took her three days of passing blood before her GP would agree to see her.

The truth is, GPs seem to have unilaterally decided they don’t want to see patients any more.

Being a doctor is supposed to be about helping sick people get better, not making them sit for ages on hold, or guilt-tripping them for taking up your time

Their excuse? Covid, of course. But why? Everywhere else has opened up. If the rest of us are expected to go back to work as normal, why can’t they?

To my mind, the answer is simple: it suits them not to have to see patients. Thanks to Covid — that great catch-all excuse for incompetence in public service — they’ve realised it’s easier to keep us at arm’s length, and hide behind ‘precautionary measures’.

But that’s not what being a doctor is about, is it? It’s supposed to be about helping sick people get better, not making them sit for ages on hold; or guilt-tripping them for taking up your time; or making them wait in agony for three days before you prescribe them the antibiotics they need. Or at least . . . it used to be.

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HAMSTER. . . FROG. . . HAMSTER. . . FROG. . .

Hamster, frog, hamster, frog. These images are from an old British TV show of the '60s, Tales of the Riverbank. This was a sort of bastardized version of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows, with rats and hamsters and things "messing about in boats". But there were NO HAMSTERS in The Wind in the Willows! I think hamsters were used because they were more docile and easier to manage than, say, star-nosed moles, or their close cousins, field voles. Watching it again, which I never thought I'd do (because a few years ago there was no trace of it on YouTube), I realize how irritating the voiceovers are. I was less critical as a child and just loved all the creatures in it, including hamsters and frogs. This series spawned several loose sequals: Hammy Hamster, Once Upon a  Hamster, and the infamous Tumbletown Tales, which qualifies as parody. Me and Caitlin used to LOVE Tumbletown Tales, as it came on at weird times and was only 15 minutes long. 

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🌷BETTY BOOP: Treacherous Tulip!😳

What I love best about these early Fleischer cartoons is how inanimate objects are animate - in other words, animated. Things suddenly spring to life, talk, dance, make mischief. Some of them look rather grotesque. Even Betty, adorable as she is, has a massive head balancing on a sexy little body that, after 1934 and the Hayes Code, was covered up from neck to ankles. She looked like a matron in a girls' school, not a sassy little sexpot. 

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When ads were beautiful

 

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Jack Gibbons plays Gershwin's Swanee

ALL RIIIIIIGHT! This may just be the BEST two minutes in all of YouTube. Here Jack Gibbons plays the HELL out of Gershwin`s first hit song, Swanee. Though it`s now negatively associated with minstrel shows (especially Al Jolson, who made this a hit with an excruciating blackface performance), Gershwin did not write those lyrics, and may well have had no idea it would be so darkly transformed. But pay attention to the slam-bam exuberance, the crystalline accuracy, the sheer blinding SPEED of this, the "great heady surf", as one Gershwin associate described his exuberant influence - and note the sheer joy emanating from Gibbons as he allows the song to take him over. The fact he just sat down at a New Years party and played this thing echoes the way Gershwin would sit at the piano and take over the room, and all the people in it.

Right in the middle of all that madcap tumble of notes, Gershwin suddenly quotes that "other Swanee": Stephen Foster's Old Folks at Home, also known as "Way down upon the Swanee river. . ." No sooner have we recovered from that shock of brilliance than he suddenly starts playing a different tune with each hand: his left hand bops and thunders away at Swanee, while his right deftly quotes a delicate spill of notes from Listen to the Mockingbird. 

This song harks back to Gershwin's early days toiling away on Tin Pan Alley, writing and demonstrating songs to various artists who soon realized that this brash young man was on to something. Gershwin's story is bittersweet, because his life was tragically short and his death nothing short of horrifying. He was a kind of Mozart of the Jazz Age, the songs tumbling and spilling through his hands and his brain faster than he could capture them on the page. 

He was just beginning to hit his stride as a serious classical composer - the thing he had always wanted to be - with his astonishing masterpiece, Porgy and Bess, which most critics panned because they had no idea what he was doing. But he did. And then, racked with bizarre symptoms, with agonizing headaches that even in those primitive times fairly screamed "brain tumor", he was allowed to die with little or no treatment, in isolation, separated from the family because his behaviour had become so embarrassing. 

So every time I listen to Gershwin - and, like Dylan, I keep circling back around to him  because he seems to speak not just TO my soul, but FOR it - I feel this melancholy, even anger, that he had to die that way, beloved of the world but abused and mistreated by his own family, and let down by doctors who should have known better. At any rate, I will never stop listening to this because it is a golden performance which I believe strikes closest to the way Gershwin would have played it himself. 

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