Holed Up and Counting Down...Goodbye 2012

On the first day of this month I was asked whether I was looking forward to Christmas, to which I replied 'No, I f***ing hate Christmas.'   It's not like me to be quite so blunt but this was several cocktails into the evening and my verbal filth filter had been temporarily disabled.  The reply that came suprised me though - 'Ha ha, I knew you would say that.  You're such a cynic.'

This comment came from someone who had known me for the sum total of a week back in August, when we met as fellow volunteer English teachers.  Nevertheless, it stung a bit.  I am a cynic, of course, but it worries me that other people notice, especially after just one week.  It worries me even more, as I work in an establishment where cynicism is practically banned; have my colleagues also noticed this ugly trait in my personality?  Probably.

The strength of my reaction to the whole Christmas thing doesn't come from the usual aversions to tinsel, spending time with family or buying presents though.  None of these things fill me with joy I have to say, but the worst thing, by far, about the Christmas holidays is the abject sloth.  There is a period of about a week when all societal norms go out of the window and even the act of getting out of my pyjamas and into the shower feels like a monumental achievement.  For the first couple of days, I wallow quite happily in this state of suspended animation.  After day four, though, serious cabin fever starts to set in.  By day five or six?  Well I am not completely paranoid delusional yet, but let's just say it's a good thing there isn't an axe in our garden shed or a reprise of Jack Nicholson's 'Johnny' in the Shining could well be on the cards.  Thank god, then, for the New Year.

Everyone knows that New Year's Eve is a let down.  That's a given.  By midnight, most people in their right minds are either too pissed or overwrought to even notice the time.  The only thing that's good about it is that it gets you out of the house.  This is what I'm looking forward to anyway - the two minute walk to my local.  This will happen in approximately four hours, so I have three hours to write this and an hour to make myself look vaguely human before the 'festivities' begin.  In that time, I thought I would try and reverse my natural state and look back at all the things that made 2012 a good year.  Actually, there has been quite a bit.  I'm going to start with the least likely of all.

Sport

Anyone who knows me, will be slightly taken aback by the fact that sport features quite so highly on my list of great things about 2012.  I have never been the sporting kind.  Although I have undertaken various 'sports' in my life, it's not exactly something that defines me.  This applies to football, especially.  I was that archetypal kid who always got picked last for football sides at school (yes, it hurt, but it was thoroughly deserved).   I can honestly say, however, that the moment Chelsea won the Champions League was amongst the happiest of my life.  I love Chelsea FC with a passion which is completely inexpicable and often missplaced.  I don't watch them very often (really, I'm not that into football - watching a match seems like quite a sad way to spend an afternoon most of the time) but when I do, I feel myself turning into a rabid fan.  My love of Chelsea is an enduring love - they let me down time and again but I will always be there for them.  I think my original interest started as a vague crush on Gianfranco Zola back in 1995, but they really gripped me when I happened to catch them beating Liverpool 6 - 2 at the Anfield stadium.  Ironic, as I am now married to a Liverpool supporter (this did cause a drunken argument earlier this year, when Chelsea beat them to the FA Cup).  Now, despite my general lack of commitment, I still consider myself part of a Chelsea family of fans.  The Champions League win was, for me, one of the craziest nights of this year (and that really is saying something). The best thing was that it was won on penalties, ensuring a crucifying few minutes of tension.  Luckily I had brought along my neice, herself an Arsenal supporter but conveniently on hand to cuddle when things got too much.   When Drogba scored the winning goal, the whole place errupted.  I was hugged more times than I care to mention by grown men in tears.  Basically, if that had been the only good thing that happened this year, it would have been a pretty good year.

Of course, you can't mention sport this year without mentioning the Olympics.  I have to say, if anyone thinks I am cynical, then they obviously never met any Londoners in the run up to the Olympics.  The best one I met was on a training course in the Kings Cross area.  God love her, whoever she was, but I have never met a more embittered old hag when it came to the subject.  As anyone living in this country will tell you, however, we all did a complete turnaround once the event was underway.

I myself, in my own act of cynical rebellion, had a friend visiting and had booked tickets to see a comedy show on the night of the opening ceremony.  It was a good night as it happened - the 'flash mob' we participated in on the balcony of Whitstable's Horsebridge Centre being another highlight of the year.   However, the best part of the evening was coming home to find my husband and our 19 year-old house guest glued to the TV in a state of patriotic zeal (funny, as they are both Albanian).  My friend and I managed to somewhat spoil this for them by singing along tunelessly to 'Hey Jude' but, generally, the scene was set for two weeks of the most shameless, partisan, armchair-sportsmanship ever.  At one point, the evening where Jessica Ennis won the heptathlon, Mo Farah won whatever distance it was that he won and the long-jump guy won, well the long jump I guess, I actually sat painting my nails with the Union Jack in the belief that this would somehow send out positive 'vibes' to 'our' competitors.  I also posted this on Facebook:

Just as a final mention for sporting highlights of 2012, I can't finish without reference to Andy Murray.  Tennis is about the only sport I actually participate in from time to time and is, therefore, the only one with any real meaning for me.  I was genuinely quite upset, for instance, when Rafael Nadal pulled out of Wimbledon this year due to injury.  This was tempered, however, by the excitement of a 'Brit' (even a cantakerous, Scottish one) ending up in the final after 70-odd years.  In fairness, he put up an amazing fight and his tears on losing the title were heartbreaking.  In one of many crowd-pleasing success stories  relating to the Olympics, he then went on to win the Olympic title.  What a man - no, really.

Old Friends/ New Friends

It's been a great year for catching up with old friends.  From the 40th birthday party I was invited to in January, where I got to spend time with someone I haven't seen for 15 years and was reminded about everything that made her so special to know, to the extremely wet Jubilee weekend, which included my best friend's birthday party and three food and wine-fuelled days in a caravan with one of my best friends from university, to the unexpected but extremely happy wedding of my best friend's younger brother, to the fun weekend spent with another university friend, ushering in the aforementioned Olympics, it's been great.

I owe special thanks, however, to my dance teacher, who made me aware of the Pueblo Ingles, English immersion programme in Spain.  I applied to volunteer for this in April, thinking that I had little chance of getting on it so late in the year.  It was hugely exciting to be accepted two days later.   I'll be honest, though. My main reason for doing it was to get a cheap holiday.  As the time approached, however, I started to read the small print and realised that I was, in fact, going to be working almost 24-7.  I shouldn't have worried, though.  It was work, yes, but it was also a ball from beginning to end and has pretty much left a lasting impression on me.  It has also left me in touch with a number of people from around the world who I would never have known about otherwise.  It struck me, some time after I got back, that it was the first time in my life where I have travelled anywhere completely alone.  Yes, okay, I'm 41 and have obviously been to places on my own before, but I have also had someone I know to meet me at the other end.  With that in mind, I can't tell you how odd or exciting it is to spend 8 days in the pretty-much round-the-clock company of 53 total strangers.  Time is ticking, and I only have an hour or so before I start to 'beautify' myself, so even if I could tell you, I literally can't.  All I can say is that it inspired me to try things that I have never tried before, prompted me to start learning Spanish again, improved my attitude at work and, above all, reminded me how interesting and lovely people are.  Does that sound cynical to you?  I don't think so.

And finally....dance, dance and more dance

Okay, as well as being a cynic, I am a hedonist.  Maybe I'm selfish and should do some charitable works in my free time but I am also firmly in the belief that everyone needs and deserves a passion that is all their own in their lives.  For me, this is dancing.    Primarily, it is Flamenco dancing and, again, there is so much to say about this that it deserves a blog in it's own right.  Having the chance to perform again back in March was great and also inspiring because I could see how much we have all improved, since our first performances around three years ago.  This is one of the things I love about dancing - you never get any worse at it and, most of the time, if you stick with it, you get better.    There are few things in my life that I can honestly say this about.  Well, perhaps there are, but, as well as being a cynic and a hedonist, I can be very impatient and will tend to drop things like a hot brick if they don't seem to be working out how I want them to.  Also, I love being part of a growing Whistable 'troupe' of dancers.  Again, all wonderful and interesting people, who I am lucky enough to socialise with from time to time.

Recently, though, I discovered a whole new world of Salsa, after inviting myself along to a party night with one of my colleagues from work.  The thing I love about Salsa is it's social nature.  You always dance with a partner and, frankly, that partner could be anybody.  With Flamenco, although I dance with other people, essentially it is between yourself and a largely imaginary 'audience'.  With Salsa, it is about you and one other person, or at least for the duration of that dance.  As a female, you are also surrendering yourself to someone else's lead.

I struggled with this at first, especially as the first person I danced with was a very large Eastern European man, who forced me into a Kizomba hold, before I had even had a chance to get in my first lesson.  Kizomba, for anyone who doesn't know, is a form of dance orginating from Portugal via Zambia and is danced very, very closely to another person.  It is about as intimate as you can get with a total stranger in public without being arrested and looks a little bit like the last dance at a school disco.  Suffice to say, I was a little alarmed when the large man from Eastern Europe grabbed me, especially as my friend from work hadn't even arrived yet.  After treading on his foot for the fiftieth time, I did tell him that I wasn't used to being led.  'No', he corrected me 'you are not used to following...'  I don't know quite what he was getting at here - I like to think that there was some kind of hidden philosphical meaning in it, although in truth he was probably just correcting my English.

Putting this slightly awkward encounter to one side, there is something sweetly intimate and old fashioned about Salsa dancing.  It is customary, I have noticed, to thank your partner after a dance has finished, which I think is lovely.  A Salsa party night is also one time when it is positively advisable not to drink (actually this is probably true of most nights, although can't help thinking there's no fun in that).  It is also hugely entertaining if you like dancing and especially if you love Latin music.   If anyone is thinking about cutting out alcohol for a New Year's resolution, then I can highly recommend taking up Salsa as an alternative.

I myself, on the other hand, have no intentions of cutting out alcohol in the near future, and fully intend to spend this evening jigging away in an embarrassing fashion to the band playing in my local pub (the band in question is called 'Kelly's Heroes' I believe - they sound awful).   I don't know if anyone will read this, especially at this late hour, but if you do, I hope you have a reasonably tolerable evening with your loved ones close at hand and, most of all, a 2013 packed with special memories.  Looking back on  mine has helped put things into perspective - I now feel more myself and less 'Johnny', so all's well that ends well.  And on that note...

Happy New Year!

Dig Out Your Vinyl

Getting to and from work has become more of a chore than usual lately.  This is on account of some long-running and pesky roadworks which, according to the signs, were meant to be finished weeks ago - 28th October, 2012 to be precise.  Colleagues who travel the same way as me have pointed out that the 28th October part has now been scrubbed out.  Which just leaves 2012...I suspect this will go the same way before long.  True to form, we have all noticed that no actual 'work' seems to be going on at these 'roadworks'.    Some have speculated that the work is perhaps going on under the bridge, where we can't see it happening.  I prefer the suggestion I heard yesterday - that there are 'invisible Oompa-Loompas', beavering away right before our untrained eyes.  In any case, at a certain point in the journey, the traffic gets stuck and stays stuck for a very long time.

It doesn't take much for me to drift off at the best of times, but this situation creates the perfect conditions for musing on the most inane aspects of existence.   This week, amongst the usual debris, I have found my head space cluttered with memories of how I used to 'do' music, before the invention of MP3 players and ipods.  This may be due to the fact that my ipod has stopped working in my car.  It may also be due to a documentary about the UK singles chart I saw the other night.   Whatever the reasons, at some point I recall thinking to myself that I am part of the last generation to have 'done' vinyl.

The term 'generation' is one that has perplexed me for quite some time, as I've never been quite sure what it means.  On closer inspection, I have discovered that there are two types - familial and cultural generations.   Familial is the obvious one - measured apparently by the approximate length of time it takes between a daughter being born and producing offspring of her own.  The second, it seems, is pretty much anything you can lay claim to.  In that case, then, I am laying claim to being one of the last members of the vinyl/ mix tape generation.  I would count CDs in this but, when it comes to talking about the music we listen to (some call it 'taste' but, as you are about to see, this really is a misnomer in my case) we are talking about something that germinates and, essentially, flowers in our formative years.  My formative years didn't include CDs as I didn't get a CD player until I was at least part-way into my 20s.  Before that, I had what was unimaginatively described as a 'music centre'.  It was called this, presumably, because it had all the essential components of playing music - in other words, a record player, two tape decks (for copying tapes) and a radio tuner.  This was all you really needed in the 1980s.  Despite it's unattractive design and, no doubt, place at the lower end of the audio equipment food chain, my music centre was fabulous.  For a start, it was loud; a student friend of mine once commented that they could see the walls of our university residence shaking with the sound of my music centre's output.  It was also a reliable companion for many years.  I acquired it (in other words, my parents bought it for me) when I started secondary school and it stayed with me until I was taking my finals at university.   That's over 10 years of general abuse and being moved about - I'm not even sure if it was actually broken when I finally did get rid of it.

So I've covered the equipment, now what about the music?  I've already said, music for me came in two formats - vinyl and cassette tape.   The cassettes are long gone.  Lost in the mists of time or, at least, sitting in an unwound heap somewhere in my mother's attic.  What remains, however, is the vinyl.  And why does the vinyl remain?  Because - as anyone who has ever bought a record will tell you - vinyl is special.  Ok, cassettes were functional and certainly more convenient - especially for playing when you were on the move.   Their successors - CDs, ipods etc - became popular for largely the same reasons.  Owning vinyl, however, had particular meaning.   Buying a single was partly an act of allegiance - showing solidarity with your favourite song and participating in the great social experiment known as 'the charts'.  Having an album went far beyond the music - you could spend many hours with your friends, reading and re-reading the cover notes or studying the images on the sleeve - it was also a lifestyle statement and, certainly by the time I left home, a decorative room accessory.  Vinyl on the whole, therefore, was a shared experience.  Vinyl also demanded your respect.  I remember as a kid having a phobia about placing a needle on a record.  I just couldn't bear the terrible, warped, scratching sound it made if it all went wrong.  I spent years overcoming this and honing the skills necessary to get it right.  As I discovered, placing a needle on a record required focus, good manual dexterity and attention to detail.  Like a high-maintenance partner, a record insists on being loved and treated with care.  This is why, to this day, I still have my motley and somewhat questionable record 'collection'.  Something which, against my better judgement, I suddenly feel like sharing.

The Singles

First of all, I am limiting this to the singles I actually bought, rather than those that were given to me as a kid.  I am doing this in the spirit of openness and honesty.  After all, I can neither lay claim to or admit responsibility for the Adam Ant records my sister gave me. On the other hand, I do have to own up to having bought 'Eyes Without a Face' by Billy Idol.  I'm sure I had my reasons at the time.  And that's the great thing about having a singles collection.  No matter how embarrassing or perverse, there were always reasons. A singles collection tells you a lot about your adolescent self.  My particular one starts in 1983 and ends in 1990,  thus taking me from a child into what should have been adulthood.  Secondly, in the interests of time, I am going to limit it to one single a year (except for 1983).  So (deep breath) here we go...

1983 and the first single(s):  Nena - 99 Red Balloons/ Van Halen - Jump

People often talk about their first single - I can't exactly do this because I bought two on the same day.  What interests me is that these singles are like two sides of the same coin.  '99 Red Balloons' is about the total annihilation of mankind, albeit cosily wrapped up in a catchy chorus and driving guitar riff.  Nena is a German singer, there was still an 'East Germany' at the time and the Cold War was still raging.   It reminds me of how preoccupied everyone, including myself, was with the threat of nuclear war.  Van Halen's 'Jump', on the other hand, is a completely mindless, West Coast American romp of a song - 'might as well jump - Jump! - go ahead and jump'.  There is also something fittingly nihilistic about it, however, and, faced with the threat of a nuclear winter, I suppose I can't blame myself for wanting to even things out.  What worries me most in both of these cases, though, is my apparent liking for soft rock.

1984: Howard Jones - Like to Get to Know You Well

Unlike the book of the same title, 1984 was my year for keeping things light, as well as developing a burgeoning interest in the opposite sex.  1980s electronica seems to feature quite heavily, I was a massive Duran Duran fan and that little sex-pixie Prince hadn't escaped my attention either.  Looking back over my selections, though, I can see that I was also starting to develop something along the lines of a social conscience.  Apart from Duran's Andy Taylor, the most important person in my world at this time was Howard Jones.  Friends and family may see things differently of course, but, to me, he was everything.  It was a slightly unusual schoolgirl crush perhaps.  For a popstar, Howard Jones had the sort of face only a mother could love.  This didn't matter though.  He had a lovely smile and, crucially, he was a man after my own heart - vegetarian, into world peace and mutual understanding and very fond of analysing and pulling apart the things that bond us as human beings.  Ok, so I'm no longer vegetarian but I still hold Howard personally responsible for shaping the person I am today.  I could even go further and credit him (if that is the correct phrase here) with my philosophy degree but that's probably pushing it.  I eventually bought all his albums, of course, but for some reason I also saw fit to buy this single:

Even the cover to this single was thought-provoking.  In my youth, I could only pick out one of the foreign languages above with any certainty.  I'm pleased to say my skills have improved slightly in this area, although the first one still has me completely stumped.   I won't say that this cover alone inspired an interest in travel, but it certainly played its part.

1985: Frankie Goes to Hollywood - Welcome to the Pleasuredome

Looking at my choices from 1985, I can see straight away that Britain was at the height of its 1980s excesses and deep in the middle of it ran a social divide.  On the one hand, I have the over-produced, overblown posturing of Duran Duran breakaway group, The Power Station with 'Some Like it Hot' (bought purely, it has to be said, out of loyalty to the aforementioned Andy) and on the other hand, a cover of Marvin Gaye's 'Inner City Blues' by lesser-known Liverpool band, Working Week.   The Working Week single was clearly a result of my wrestling with a guilty conscience, because, by this stage, I totally loved another Liverpool band -  Frankie Goes to Hollywood.  Frankie Goes to Hollywood did 1980s excess with panache and, in my view, it was more than okay to like them because they were so in your face with their homosexuality.  Having said that, they blew cash like there was no tomorrow and their lyrics were ridiculously over-the-top.  And if you need an example, try this refrain from 'Welcome to the Pleasuredome' out for size:

I will give you diamonds by the shower
Love your body even when it's old
Do it just as long as I can do it
And never, ever, doing what I'm told

The diamonds are a bit off my radar, but there's a lot to be said for this, truth be told.

1986: The Fine Young Cannibals - Funny How Love Is

First of all, I have noticed a disturbing trend amongst my singles choices from 1986 - the jazz saxophone/ jazz trumpet.  Frankly, if I never hear another saxophone solo again, it will be too soon.  Thankfully, the trumpet solo in this song is quite short.  When I looked at this single yesterday, I chortled at my innocence - Funny How Love Is - what did I know about love at the age of 15?  Actually, the song isn't a love song at all.  It's about being ditched and then telling the one who rejected you to get lost and stay lost.  In fact, this was probably the most positively influential thing I listened to in those tender years: I don't want your magazines. I don't want your clothes.  Take them from my house.  Let me be alone - sage words, FYC.  Sage words.  Wish I'd paid more attention.

1987: Jackie Wilson - The Sweetest Feeling

1987 was the year when my taste in music really started going retro.  At this point I was already deeply into The Doors, Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones thanks, mainly, to the more advanced musical taste of my boyfriend of the time.  As well as the heavier stuff, though, my sixties soul button had been activated, in part due to clever marketing by the Wilson estate (I assume), who had a huge hit with a re-release of 'Reet Petite' at the end of 1986.   'The Sweetest Feeling' was the follow up single and I loved it.  It is a very sweet song, full of joy and longing, and still ranks up there as one of my favourites of all time.  I honestly don't know if it reminded me of anyone back in 1987...if it did then it wasn't my boyfriend.

1988: The Mission - Tower of Strength

I was never a goth.  Apart from a fondness for black, I never even flirted with goth.  I was alarmed, therefore, to find a single by 'The Mission' in my collection.  However, after a quick listen on 'You Tube' I was reassured.  It is a good track; over-the-top and dramatic, with an element of optimism and romance - just how how a good goth track should be.   Still not totally sure why I bought it though.

1989: Swing Out Sister - Break Out

If I was reassured to find my only foray into goth was quite a successful one, I am truly horrified to realise that this is the only single I saw fit to buy in 1989.  I honestly don't know what possessed me - it's awful and, not only that, it represents everything I loathed about the charts at the time.  I can only put it down to some kind of forced surrender.  What's worse is, there was some really excellent stuff around that year (Soul to Soul, The Stone Roses - even Cathy Dennis was better than this) - I guess I must have been taping it all off the radio.

1990: Adamski - Killer

Evidently, I only bought three singles this year, but I'm glad to say that at least two of them were classics.  Adamski's version of Seal's 'Killer' was fantastic and, in those days, such a departure from the huge production values of the 80s.  1990 was the year dance music really took off in Britain.  Mainly, however, it reminds me of driving back from a party at a local squat and hearing it come on the radio.  Part of the soundtrack to my misspent youth.

The Albums

The difference with albums, of course, is that you don't always buy them the minute they hit the shops.  In some cases, I have no idea specifically when I bought a particular album - I just have vague (in some cases, very vague) recollections of what was going on at the time.  For this reason, rather than by year, I'm going to do it in three categories - the good, bad and the ugly.  Of course, this means that a large proportion of them will fall in the cracks between these categories, but this is probably no bad thing.  I should say, for the sake of posterity, that the first album I ever bought was 'Under a Blood Red Sky' by U2.  I'm not entirely sure why I bought this album - it was okay I suppose, but I think the main reason I got it was because I had just been taken to the first ever Virgin Megastore and felt I had to buy something.  In later years, being an American import, it was useful for impressing boyfriends with - but that's about it.  Not an impressive start, but I did say I was doing this in the spirit of openness and honesty, after all.

The good:

I can't possibly narrow this down to one - I might be able to narrow it down to four or five.  This goes in phases - phases of moral and spiritual degeneration, largely.

Phase One: Teenage Angst

The ultimate teenage angst album in my collection has to be 'Hatful of Hollow' by the Smiths.  To be totally honest I wasn't a raging Smiths fan like some - but I still thought they were great.  Like Adamski's Killer,  'How Soon is Now' is one of those songs that I can remember hearing for the first time and thinking that I had never heard anything quite like it before. I bought this album some time after it came out. I think I was driven to do so by a friend (who described himself as bisexual) telling me that 'What Difference Does it Make?' was written about Morrisey's experiences in dealing with his own sexuality.  I hadn't read that much into it myself, but I thought it deserved a proper listen.  The best thing about 'Hatful of Hollow' is that all the lyrics are printed on the sleeve.  Perfect for angsty teenagers.  You don't get that with an MP4.

Phase Two: Teenage Rebellion

Truly, my teenage rebellion didn't feel that rebellious.  It didn't help that I had quite laid-back parents, who, after raising three others, didn't seem to mind overly when I stayed out getting drunk with my boyfriend all night.  Maybe I just didn't tell them very much - I certainly never told them how much I was drinking.  Anyway, the majority of my teenage rebellion was conducted to 'Smash Hits' by the Jimi Hendrix Experience.  Actually, as the title implies, this is simply a compilation of the Jimi Hendrix Experience's greatest hits, but it was this album, alongside a borrowed copy of 'Let it Bleed' by the Rolling Stones and my own copy of 'The Best of the Doors', that started the downhill slide.   It also opened my ears to what really great music sounded like.  I'll never forget being semi-conscious on the floor of a friend's house and hearing 'Purple Haze' for the first time.  Of course, these were the days when I could recall things after a night out.  Before, I was always too drunk to get home but could remember every social nuance of the evening with perfect clarity.  Now, I'm always sober enough to make it home, but I'm lucky if I remember how I got there, let alone what I said to anybody.

Phase Three: Teenage Meltdown

The album that probably best signifies the beginning of my teenage meltdown is 'Atomiser' by Big Black.  Big Black was ubiquitous at most parties in the late 1980s, particularly those populated by boys with dyed black, backcombed hair and fringes that covered most of their face.  It's opening track, 'Jordan, Minnesota', is particularly nasty and I would recommend that anyone gives that one a miss.  However, 'Kerosene' and, in fact, most of the tracks on this album, are genius and I can still quite happily listen to them now if I am in the mood.  'Kerosene' had particular resonance for me and, now I mention it, still does - the line 'probably going to die in this town - lived here my whole life' reminded me of life in my current home town of Whitstable (not my place of birth, but close enough for union work, as my brother in law would say).  Oddly, I got away from Whitstable, only to find that I missed it and decided to return.  This lyric, therefore, still applies.

Phase Four: The End of the Road

I am having a hard time figuring out what the last really good album I ever bought on vinyl was - I have a copy of the Beatles' 'White Album', for instance, but I happen to know that I bought this to replace a copy I had on cassette, so I don't think it really counts.  I'm afraid to say, I think there can only be one choice here and that is the album with no title, otherwise know as 'Led Zep IV'.  I listened to this album so much during my first year at university that I feel like I know it better than the back of my hand.  Some of it was, of course, already familiar to me.  Thanks to a mix tape from my sister, I grew up listening to 'Stairway to Heaven' for example.  Yes, most of it is pretty cheesy and the folkish, mystical references are so unlike me but you just can't argue with Led Zeppelin and it sounded really cracking on my clunky old music centre.  I think it is also relevant that I bought my last really good record shortly before hitting the age of 20.

The bad:

Luckily, there isn't too much actual 'bad' in my collection, as every album I have ever bought has a least some merit, even if it is only on one track.  I am happy to make an exception for the Ozric Tentacles and their album 'Pungent Effulgent', however.   I wouldn't mind but I went to see them live about five times whilst I was at university.    The Ozrics were basically part of the whole 'crusty'/ hippy/ traveller subculture that I skirted around the edges of for a while there in my late teens.  I can forgive them for that, however.  What I can't forgive them for, is being 'prog rock'.  I cannot believe I spent literally hours that I will never get back, listening to prog rock.

The ugly:

Another, related subculture I skirted around the edges of in my late teens was punk.  At the time, of course, I never regarded the 'punk' (if I'm allowed to call some of it that - the problem with punks is that they tend to get very defensive) I listened to as ugly.  I have very fond memories of certain albums - 'Margin Walker' by Fugazi or 'The Sky is Falling and I Want My Mommy' by Jello Biafra and No Means No.  These were the bands I used to enjoy watching live.  I'm sure I have some classic 'punk' albums in my record collection.  If they weren't a bit battered, some of them may even be of value.   I will never, ever listen to any of it ever again though.

I'm relieved to say that this concludes my little trip down memory lane.  The sad part is, most of the music I really loved listening to wasn't on vinyl at all.  'Doolittle' and 'Surfer Rosa' by the Pixies are completely missing from here as a result, as is 'Dark Side of the Moon' by Pink Floyd.  Even 'Rio' by Duran Duran was on tape.  All of these are now gone.  It takes a particular type of obsessive music fan to keep hold of an old cassette tape and, as I think the list above reveals, I am not one of those.   It does make me wonder how much technology will poliarize us in the future, though.  It was easy with records. You bought a record and that was it.   As the recent court case between Bruce Willis and Apple revealed, you may pay for it but you never really own a download.  For the less organised or technologically able, it is unlikely that we we keep hold of much of the stuff we download now.  Or maybe I'm just wallowing in nostalgia here.  After all, records take up loads of space.  I can't keep 2000 records in my house but I can on my ipod.  And if, in 30 years' time, you see me compiling a list of these, please feel free to go ahead and shoot me.

'Montalbano Sono'... my reasons for loving TV's Inspector Montalbano

It was the end of my summer - the 'working' holiday in Spain that I had been anticipating since April was over, and I was spending my last few hours in Madrid, with a crumpled map I had printed off the internet, trying to walk off a crippling hangover.  As is usual in these situations, I was filled with self-pity and regret.  Self-pity, mainly, because of the horrible headache that wouldn't go away and regret, mainly, at the belief that I would be in a fit enough state to go and see the Prada that day and the decision, therefore, to book an evening flight.  Of course, having been evicted from my hotel room, the only two options I had were to sit in a cafe somewhere (too painful, too hot) or walk.   

As it turns out, walking wasn't such a bad thing. It meant I got to see some more of Madrid - which, I'm a bit ashamed to say now,  I had written off as being 'not as good as Barcelona'.    However, despite the grandeur of the architecture, and the blessed relief of getting to sit under the shade in one of the municipal parks, the thing that really lifted my spirits was realising that I was standing near a street called 'Calle Montalban'.  Ok, not exactly 'Montalbano' but close enough to remind me that I had a new series of 'Inspector Montalbano' to look forward to when I got home.  When faced with a challenge (in this case, the thought of dragging my suitcase around the metro) sometimes it's the small things that count.

For the uninitiated, let me explain.  'Inspector Montalbano' (or Il commissario Montalbano) is an Italian TV series, based on a popular set of detective novels by the writer Andrea Camilleri.  The stories are set in the fictional Sicilian town of 'Vigata' and are centred around the extraordinary detective powers of one 'Salvo' or 'Commissario' Montalbano (played in the TV series by the equally extraordinary Luca Zingaretti).  The series first started airing on BBC 4 only a year or so ago, but it was first shown by the Italian station 'RAI' back in 1999. Thanks to an accompanying documentary, I have learnt that Camilleri's work is a classic example of the new breed of 'Italian Noir'.  I can't pretend I have a detailed knowledge of this.  In general, I'm not really a fan of detective fiction.  However, the programme was useful in pointing out a few key facts, both about Camilleri's world view and, by default, the world view of his brilliant, sincere but also highly comical alter-ego, Montalbano. 

So why does the Inspector Montalbano series hold such a special place in my heart?  I've already said I'm not really a fan of detective fiction.  I'm not even really a fan of detective shows.  It was first introduced to me by my Albanian husband, who had previously seen some of the early episodes whilst still living there (RAI being one of the most popular channels in Albania).  At first I really wasn't convinced - it all seemed a bit patriarchal and 'Italian' to me.  It is, in fact, very patriarchal and very Italian but, like anything, you quickly get used to it.  One of the funniest examples of this is Montalbano's 'relationship' with his long-suffering girlfriend, Livia.  Livia, for the most part, lives in somewhere in 'the North' and, in truth, we don't get to see much of her and neither does Montalbano.   When she turns up, they usually argue - either because of Livia's fury at, yet again, being palmed off at the expense of a crucial turn in a case or, occasionally, Montalbano's fury at Livia's apparently innocent friendships with other men (which all seems a bit rich frankly).  Nevertheless, until recently, their relationship rocked along at a safe and convenient distance, with Montalbano remaining a faithful, if almost non-existent, suitor.  Clearly, in more recent episodes, some pressure has come to bear on the programme-makers - Montalbano and Livia's relationship has taken a turn for the worse and Montalbano himself has started picking up beautiful young women (usually those attached to a case) like flies to shit.  He does this in a series of awkward (for the viewer that is) and sentimentalised 'romantic' encounters, accompanied by music that best belongs in a cheap, European soft-porn film.  As I said, all very patriarchal and Italian - but you get used to it.

The early episodes (in fact even the more up to date ones) are also curiously anachronistic, especially with regards to technology.  Of course, like his relationship with Livia, this is one of the great 'shticks' of Montalbano.   Even to this day, Montalbano and the majority of the crew at the Vigata police station he presides over, persist in the use of typewriters.  Now, I know we are talking Sicily here, but even I had a computer in 1999.  I am not sure what year this would have been, but at some point during the earlier episodes,  the station 'clown' (the well-loved Catarella - known primarily for his over-eager manning of the phones, comedy entrances and habit for getting names and words wrong) goes on a computer course and comes top of his class.  Catarella, as a result, becomes the only one apparently capable of using modern technology - to the point of obsession as it happens.   The brilliant Montalbano, one the other hand, is seen struggling with the use of a hand-held video recorder in one of the earlier episodes.  And I daren't even mention the size of his television.  

I could go on here.  For instance, why does Vigata never seem to have any people in it?  It seems like a fairly large town (in fact, most of it is shot in the popular holiday destination of Ragusa).  Where do they all go?  Also, for a police inspector, Montalbano seems to have a decidedly relaxed attitude to drink driving.  For instance, he was recently seen enjoying a romantic evening at his beautiful, beachfront apartment over a bottle of wine or three, before sending the poor, love-struck ingenue on her way with the words 'are you okay to drive home?'  This particularly amused our current Italian student, who recently passed his driving test and who will lose his license if even a whiff of alcohol is discovered on his breath.   He kept repeating the words 'he's a police inspector' between the laughter and the pointing.

There are so many things that you could pick holes in with this show and I have just started to do this myself, so I guess I had better redress the balance.  Of course, Zingeretti is the show's biggest draw and, without him,  I wouldn't be writing this now.  However, in the interests of saving the best till last, I am going to talk about some of its other saving graces first.   The only thing to do here, is revert to list format:

1.  It makes you want to visit Sicily...

I've already mentioned that a large part of the series is shot in the province of Ragusa, which I am told is a beautiful location to visit, even at the height of the tourist season (and with people in it).  For information, the beachfront scenes, are largely shot in Punta Secca, whilst other parts are filmed at various locations in south-eastern Sicily.  Sicily itself has a fascinating history, with remains dating back to the Norman conquest.  One day, I will go there but, until then, I will have to make do with this.  We usually record the show, as each episode is quite long at nearly two hours and can't always be done in one sitting.  This also ensures that I get to see the opening credits - a long, birds-eye camera swoop across the coast and into the region of Ragusa, accompanied by the lovely stacatto strains of a soundtrack written by Franco Piersanti....if that doesn't want to make you visit, nothing will.

Opening credits to Inspector Montalbano

2.  Storylines that sometimes make your head hurt...

One of the strengths of the show is that it is, apparently, very faithful to the novels and short stories of Camilleri.  One of Camilleri's strengths is his tendency to circumnavigate the obvious.  For instance, despite it's location, the Montalbano series does not really involve the Mafia.  The Mafia are merely a backdrop to a whole host of dirty dealings, corruption and vice.  This is a deliberate attempt by the author to avoid glamourising them, as well as a way of focusing on more interesting, human subjects than a well-organised bunch of career killers.  I understand that, as an author, he was keen to write his detective novels as a 'social commentary' and this is made clear in the series.  I particularly like the way that Italy's immigrant population is routinely included in the plots, as well as Montalbano's sympathetic treatment of them.  Camilleri's other strength is his ability to avoid wrapping the stories up in neat, morally unambiguous packages.  Killers, more often than not, fail to be brought to justice and Montalbano himself is fairly anti-establishment, making decisions based on his own conscience, rather the expectations of society or those in authority.  The best thing, however, is the complexity of the plots.  There are nearly always two running simultaneously in any episode.  Sometimes they converge and sometimes they don't.  All I know is that I gave up trying to predict the outcome a long time ago.  If you really want to know what's going on, you need to concentrate hard and sometimes even that doesn't work.  One time, my husband and I replayed the same scene three times in order to work out what had just happened.

3. It reminds me of Albania (in a way)...

Albanians pop up quite frequently in Inspector Montalbano stories.  Sometimes he is helping to get some wrongly accused Albanians out of jail, other times he is simply talking about getting information from the 'chubby Albanian' who controls a few of the local sex workers.  Albanians aren't demonised or canonised in this show.  They are just kind of 'there', usually getting up to something a bit dodgy but generally not doing any particular harm (well, apart from the pimping).  This is nice because it reminds me of Albania (in a way) and makes me feel a bit closer to my second 'home'.   Also, Sicilians share the same vocal 'tic' as Albanians...a kind of 'tch', teeth-sucking sound which means 'no' or 'of course not'.  I like that...

4. Supporting characters...

Based on my experience of the TV series, not much is known about Montalbano's background, aside from the fact that he had a fairly distant relationship with his father, who, in turn, owned a vineyard.  Montalbano's true family, it seems, are those he sees every day.  With most of them, you know what to expect from week to week.  There is 'Mimi' Augello, Montalbano's deputy and die-hard playboy, who continues his womanising ways, despite having been married off and becoming a father.  He is a loyal friend, but often too distracted by a beautiful woman to do any real detecting and constantly being upstaged by Montalbano.  Then, of course, there is Catarella, a farcical character who provides much of the comedy, although, in my humble opinion not the funniest bits (there are many who would disagree with this, however).  There is the gun-toting, reckless driver Galuzzo - actually one of my personal favourites, although I'm not sure why.  I think it is the paternal way in which Montalbano has to treat him most of the time (like a dad left in charge of an errant teenager) and, also, when I think of an Italian police officer, he is how I imagine most of them to be.  

Galuzzo with Montalbano

My favourite, however, is Fazio.  Partly, this is because he is such an obvious sweetie - with his big, brown eyes, loyalty to Montalbano and dedication to duty.  It is also, in part, due to his prediliction for warm, zip-up jumpers and brown leather jackets.  However, the best thing about Fazio is the competence and maturity that has grown with him over the years.  I know if I was a Vigata resident in need of police assistance, he would be the first person I would turn to. 

5. And finally...

I am not sure whether to start with Zingaretti or Montalbano.    Ok, I'll start with Zingaretti.  Montalbano will just have to follow in his wake.  First, it has to be said that he is a beautiful man.   He is also as physically dissimilar to the literary version of Montalbano as it is possible to be.  The 'real' Montalbano is tall and a bit overweight, with lots of hair.  Zingaretti is the opposite - and also devastatingly attractive in a kind of macho, Mediterranean 'I work out' kind of a way.   Now clearly as a woman I would say this, but he nevertheless does a brilliant job of interpreting Montalbano.  You might ask how I would know, having never read the books, but I know because there are lot of male, detective fiction lovers out there who agree with me (and they can't all be gay).  Most of all, Zingaretti does understated, comic timing particularly well and he seems to effortlessly capture the nuances of the Montalbano character - mainly that of irritation at the idiocy surrounding him, as well as the more pressing frustrations of having his meals and morning coffee interrupted.   

The point with Montalbano is that he is, at heart, a very decent human being and you get that with Zingaretti.  He is a versatile actor, who can be funny, sensitive and even frightening at times.    One of my favourite scenes took place after he was called on to attend the deathbed of a local Mafia don.  The Mafia figure talks movingly about his fear of death and Montalbano, despite his general antipathy, is clearly affected and offers words of consolation.   As he leaves the hospital room, another member of the police force (from another squad, presumably) makes an ill-advised comment, which results in Montalbano pinning him up against a wall, with his right index finger pointed menacingly at his head.  I liked that scene because it showed the flawed, human side of a character who could sympathise with a killer and be violent himself.  It was also unexpected and, like I say, a little frightening.  I had been told that Zingaretti was also well-known in Italy for playing a pretty horrible and sadistic Mafia boss, in the long-running saga, 'La Poivra' (The Octopus).  I found it quite hard to believe until I saw that scene.  

Another thing that Zingaretti does well is grief.  It is horrible to see Montalbano grieving - kind of like seeing your dad cry.   Thankfully, it has only happened twice.  The first time was during the episode where his father dies.  Here, Montalbano finds a moment of solitude and breaks down inconsolably.  I remember, I had to leave the room it was that intense.  The second was more recent, mourning the death of a lover, who never really became a lover.  I liked that scene because it was a repressed grief - mourning someone who, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, he had no reason to mourn.  The storyline was, on the whole, fairly stupid on this point, but it never stopped Zingaretti being believable. And that is why I like him.  It's not the lovely eyes or the sex appeal - it's the acting.  And if you believe that, you will believe anything.

And on that note I think I really should stop, as this is all getting a bit fanatical, even for me.  I wish I was one of those Montalbano enthusiasts who could remember the names and events of every episode, if only because I could have kept this post more factual and less 'gushing'.   The truth is, though, that this series has become a bit of an institution in my house.  Unfortunately, the last episode of the most recent series was shown last weekend, so this has been my first weekend without it for some time.  It will be missed. BBC4 have shown 20 episodes so far.  I am unsure whether RAI are still making them, so it will be interesting to see what transpires.  I also understand that they have made a prequel - 'Young Montalbano'.  I'm not sure this will have quite the same appeal but I live in hope...

Uncle Alf's Autograph Book

Back when I was taking English A Level at school, one of the books we studied was Robert Graves' autobiography 'Goodbye to All That'.  It was a memorable book and one which I still have to this day.  It is particularly relevant to me because, had it not been for this book (which among other things, spoke with some bitterness about Graves' time as an Officer in the British Army during the First World War)  I may never have been given Uncle Alf's autograph book.

Uncle Alf was not my real uncle.  He was married to my great aunt 'Mog', who I did at least know. He died three years before I was born, so I never met him and have, therefore, only my siblings' accounts to go by.  The general consensus seems to be that he was 'scary', although my eldest brother talks fondly of the fishing trips they used to go on.  I do know that Uncle Alf's mother was Jewish, and that he certainly seems to have inherited her looks.  I also know that he enlisted in the British Army at the age of 17.  He was born in 1899,  so this would have been in or around 1916, with the First World War War in full swing, so to speak.   I also now know, thanks to the photograph album just given to me by my mother, that he was a Freemason - so presumably, he also went on to become reasonably successful in business. 

Of course, with today being Armistice Day, it isn't so much the post-war 'Alf' that I am interested in.  Instead, I am using the occasion to revisit the autograph book that I last looked at as an 18 year-old.  By the age of 18, Alf had already completed his first year's service in the army.  I am not sure exactly how his relatively short-lived army career began but by 1918,  he was a drummer in the 'Bedfordshires', a regiment which, according to one website, 'was engaged on the Western Front, Italy, Gallipoli, Egypt and Palestine'.  I am also not sure where Alf served, but if it was as far-flung as Egypt, Gallipoli or Palestine, I would probably know about it.  All I really know is that he was temporarily blinded by mustard gas and was, therefore, 'lucky' enough to find at least a few month's respite in hospital at some point in 1918.  

Alf must have carried his autograph book with him wherever he went.  On the inside cover he has written his name, 'Alfred Venn', and the date,  'May 12th, 1913'.  So he would have been around 12 at the time.   Most of the entries are dated (I can't help thinking that people were more conscientious back then) and the earliest I can see is from July 1913; a god-fearing two lines from someone by the name of Geoff (or possibly Leo) Reed:

In all ways acknowledge Him
and He will direct thy paths

I can only guess, given the sanctimoniousness, that 'Geoff' or 'Leo' was a school teacher. Thankfully, the final entry in the book, written on October  12th 1922,  is much lighter:

Adam was a good man
He had children seven
He hired a donkey cart
To take them all to heaven
The way was rough and stoney
He knew the way not well
The donkey turned the wrong way
And took them all to 
(and this bit is written upside down) Well I never

This particular contribution comes from a 'J Randall'.  My guess is that this is the work of James Randall, who may or may not be one of my great grandfather's relatives, and who has made more than one entry in this book.  However, it would be nice to think that, in this case the 'J' stands for Jane, Alf's sister in law and my maternal grandmother.

Anyway, back to the point.  The first concrete evidence of Alf's whereabouts and condition during his hospital stay, comes from the following: 

Kindest thoughts and best wishes for a speedy recovery from one who knew you at the V.A.D Hospital.

Newton Abbot, S. Devon
J.White R.F.A.
June 7th 1918

Alf in hospital 'blues': first right, back row (cap covering his face to protect his eyes).

I have had to look up the acronyms in this entry.  V.A.D stands for the Voluntary Aid Detachment - a voluntary organisation, providing field hospital services and eventually hospitals, which started in 1909 and grew in number, strength, training and discipline throughout the First World War.  The second acronym stands for the Royal Fleet Auxilliary, a civilian-manned fleet, initially set up in 1905 to provide coaling ships for the Navy.  I don't know how J. White ended up in the Newton Abbot V.A.D. hospital and I probably never will.  Interestingly, though, this is one of very few entries written in the words of the author.   Most are verses, short poems or sayings of unknown origin.  Or at least, unknown to me.  One, written on June 18th, 1918 by Major V. Graeme, is attributed to Rudyard Kipling, however:

No easy hopes or lies
Shall bring us to our goal
But is on sacrifice
Of body, will and soul.
There is but one task for all - 
For each one life to give.
Who stands if Freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?


I was struck by this entry, mainly because it makes no bones about the loss of life suffered and the sacrifices of war.  It is, of course,  also typical of its era and befitting of a member of the officer classes.  By contrast, and also typical of its era I fear, is a particularly racist entry - a four line poem which I can't repeat - all I can say is shame on you Private Tombs of 6th Worcester Regiment.

Some of the best entries in this book contain few words.  For instance, there are the painstaking reproductions of military badges and, of these, the Welsh contributions stand out.  The examples below both date from June 1918 - the first is by Robert W. Ellis, Corporal in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers (incidentally, the same regiment in which Robert Graves served as an officer) and the second is by Private J. Joseph, presumably of the same regiment:

Given the evidence above, the 'Royal Welsh Fusiliers' were a particularly proud regiment.   Pride of a different kind is shown here by one of the Scots.

The writing to the left of this picture reads as follows:

Sargeant Stand at ease
Pte How can I stand at ease when I got a bee buzzing underneath ma kilt

The entry is signed off with the words 'I wish I'd joined a trouser company - Sincerely yours, Renel, 16th October 1918'.

There are some intriguing additions to this book, which are also worth a mention.    The very first entry comes from an Irene Ryland, on 3rd October, 1918.  I always imagined Uncle Alf as the sort of person who would organise things meticulously, but if that is the case, then it doesn't apply here, as most of the dates are all over the place.  I can only assume then that the significance of Irene's verse being the first in the book is purely coincidental:

Remembrance is all that I ask
But if remembrance is a Task
Then forget me.

At first, I assumed that Irene was one of the nurses.  However, she has signed it off with the acronym 'N.A.C.B' and the name 'Crownhill'.   A few pages on, there is another entry by an Ethel Blunt, written on the same date and signed off in the same way.  I couldn't see the connection with the V.A.D Hospital.  There were few clues on the internet, until I came across a 1917 copy of 'The Stage Yearbook'.  In this, I found an article which talked about how the Army Council under the 'Navy and Army Canteen Board' established theatres and theatre companies in the UK, in order to boost flagging moral.  My best guess is that Irene and Ethel were members of of the 'Crownhill' theatre company.  There is a 'Crownhill' in Plymouth it turns out.  Or maybe they just worked in the canteen.

Another intriguing entry is made so by what is missing.  On 27th March, 1918, Lance Corporal HJ Justice, pinned something in the book and wrote underneath 'The eye that never sheds a tear'.   This must have been towards the beginning of Alf's stay in hospital.  It is certainly the earliest entry from that year that I can see.  Whatever he pinned there has long gone.  I can only imagine it was some kind of regimental badge.  It is not only intriguing, of course, but quite moving.    Alf entered the hospital blinded by mustard gas.  He recovered his sight, but many didn't and his own recovery at that point must have been far from certain.

One entry aroused my curiousity more than the others, though.  It is written by Rowland A George, this time on the 14th March, 1916, which must have been around the same time that Alf joined up.

We sacrifice no worthy friendship by refusing to do wrong.
There is courage greater than the fear of public opinion.

Was Rowland a conscientious objector perhaps?  It seems a pity that I will almost certainly never know.  I quite liked the fact that he wrote this on my birth date, though.

There is one particularly long addition, which I am unable to leave out.   It is called 'The Hour Before' and has been written in tiny, neat writing by 'D.M.N' from 'Warrington Park'  There is, on this occasion, no date but it appears towards the back of the book.  I haven't found the origin of this verse either but whoever D.M.N is, he felt moved to include it:

When the dawn, from out of the east, comes slowly stealing
Cold and stern, the herald of the day.
And a pallid moon, afar, seems farewell bidding
To the things it sees, before it hastens away.

And the men now in the glory of their manhood
Who soon, perhaps, Death's bitter draught must drink,
Stand grimly at their posts, and quietly waiting
'Tis then, in that last hour, that you - think.

Think of the things of bygone years,
With your lips tight - set at the unhid tears
Of these other times - in another place
Of what happened once - and a woman's face
Of the things that are - and the the things that might
Of what perhaps will, in the coming fight.

And your soul stands bare, and stripped of all its cloaking
You are the truth of all, the wrong and the right,
Your stand judged by yourself, perhaps found wanting
In that last hour before a coming fight.

Many of the comments in Alf's book err on the side of glib or trite.  This one seems to aim straight at the reality of their situation.  It is difficult to read, and not just because of the writing.

There is so much to include, that it is impossible to do the entire book justice here.   If I have to sum up, the principal message that seems to flow off the pages, is that of comradery and stoicism.  However, I would like to round things off with this entry from the man himself.  It is dated 31/3/16 and reads as follows:

The tissues of the life to be
We weave in colours all our own
And in the field of destiny
We reap as we have sown

As I've already said, Alf was one of lucky ones.  He got to weave his life in colours all his own and appeared to do it quite well.  I don't know how his wartime experiences went on to affect him in later life.  My Aunt Mog and Uncle Alf remained childless, lavishing attention, it seems, on their own siblings' children.   There is some evidence that infertility can be a lasting effect of mustard gas.  Whether this applies here, I obviously can't say.  All I can say is that he appears to have found some peace in his work and married life.  He died at the age of 69.  Not a long innings by today's standards but pretty good considering.  As I turned over the last page of his waxy old autograph book, a piece of 'lucky heather' fell out.  It seems unlikely he did reap as he sowed when so many lost their lives and futures - maybe luck was just on his side.  In any case, I can't help but feel I know him a bit better now.

10 Fascinating Facts About Honey Bees

As a child, I was always told my name meant 'honey bee' in Greek.  An archeologist friend later corrected me, placating me with the claim that the 'Mel' part comes from the Ancient Greek 'mela', meaning 'all sweetness'.  In any case, it seems fitting and somewhat coincidental that my first post should concern these insects - the only ones known to produce a substance that humans can digest (that's not on the list, you can have that one for free).

I should say that my knowledge of bees is, in general, hazy at best.  I would particularly like to stress that I am not some kind of bee enthusiast or amateur beekeeper.  I just got dragged along to a talk by one today.  Still, for what it's worth, here are 10 'fascinating' facts about bees:

Fact No. 1: Bumble bees and honey bees are not the same thing.

I just wanted to clear that up from the outset.  There is no detail to add here, given that the talk was about the honey-producing variety.  The guy doing the talk mentioned bumble bees in passing and I was too embarrassed to question it.  I suppose I just thought that bees were bees.

Fact No. 2:  Honey bees (and probably all bees) breathe through their bottom.

Ok, strictly speaking not their 'bottom'.  I actually mean their abdomen.  The point here is that they don't have lungs.  In fact, when you next see a bee 'in repose', you will notice that it is moving it's abdomen while it rests.  This is it breathing.  Look out for it next time one comes in for landing.

Fact No. 3: Bees dance to communicate.

Actually, they do a 'waggle dance' and, in all honesty,  it really is fascinating.  The female 'worker' bees fly around until they find some pollen or nectar (there is a difference, although again I was too embarrassed to ask, seeing as there were 10 year-olds present who were more clued up on this than me).  They then fly back to the hive and waggle their arses for a specific amount of time, which denotes how far away the source of pollen or nectar actually is.  By all accounts, it equates to around 1 second of 'waggling' per kilometre, although this gets less accurate the further the distance.   Not only that, but the angle at which they enter the hive determines the direction in which the other bees need to fly.  It has something to do with the angle they are from the sun.  As I understand it, if they fly straight in from the top, then the other bees need to fly straight towards the sun (not literally, of course, just in the same direction).  It is a bit more complicated than I'm making out here, but so is everything to do with bees apparently.  See the illustration below,  just in case you think I'm making it up:

Fact No. 4: It takes the equivalent of a trip to the moon and back to make one pot of honey.

That's it.  Still, that's a lot of buzzing about.

Fact No. 5: Mama queen will only mate with boys from a different hood.

Ok.  This is a blatant attempt to 'sex up' some facts about bees.  However, I was interested to hear that queen bees take their one and only mating flight out and about, rather than messing with the drones in their own hive.  Also, the source of these swarthy foreign bees is a mystery to all.  It is known, however, that she takes in eight of them during this one trip...and that all eight die as a result.  That's some holiday romance.

Fact No. 6: Drones (male bees) are just unfertilised female bees.

Not sure how that works really but, evidently, it's true.  They are also pretty useless by all accounts. They have round bottoms, just in case you ever need to spot one...which you won't.  They can't even sting you.  Absolutely useless.

Fact No. 7: Bees build their cells in hexagons because it is the strongest geometrical shape.

They are clever like that.  In fact,  bees are pretty clever at working as a collective full stop (see Fact No. 10).  They don't have too much control over the size of their hexagons, however.  If left to their own devices, they will build hexagons of varying size, resulting in all kinds of outlandish, Guadi-ish designs, so they're not that clever after all (or are they?...)

Fact No. 8:  Queen bees grow up to two inches long.

I just put this here to freak out people with a fear of bees.  I have also just looked up the word for a fear of bees and, apparently, it is known as 'melissophobia'...so my parents were telling the truth all along.  The moral of this story - never trust an archeologist (or Wikipedia; take your pick).

Fact No. 9:  The aggressiveness  of a hive depends on which male has happened to fertilise it most recently.

No suprises here I suppose, but some males are more agressive than others.  The queen, as it turns out, gets deposed more regularly than you might think, so it is quite possible that mid-way through the year, your nice, friendly little hive, will be invaded by the progeny of the local hoodlum.

Fact No. 10: Bees are somehow learning how to deal with their most dangerous predator to date.

As if the 2-inch long queen bee wasn't enough to deal with, there is an 'asiatic hornet', which is FOUR TIMES the size of the average bee, winging its way across the continent as we speak.  They have already reached the south of France, and it won't be long before they are here, so we were told. Aside from being oversized and horribly ugly, they like nothing more than waiting outside the hive and cutting off the heads of unsuspecting bees as they come and go.  Not pretty.   All is not lost, however, as the bees are fighting back.  Somehow (and god only knows how these things work) bees have started to work out that the best thing to do is invite them in.  After all, it isn't the bees that they want really, just their larvae.   The really clever part is, once in the hive, the bees all jump on the hornet in a kind of 'bundle' reminiscent of a fight in a school playground.  Apparently, bees have a slightly higher body temperature so the purpose of this act is to cause the hornet to overheat and expire.  Clever huh?

In all, despite feeling less than enthusiastic about attending a talk about bees (even with the promise of a cream tea thrown in) I have now spent the best part of three hours writing about them.  There is something very compelling about the little critters.   Apparently bee keepers like to think of the hive like a 'brain'.  There are no individuals in this brain, only collective parts...a sort of high-functioning dystopian nightmare if you like.  But the honey tastes really good.


I should credit the bee talk to a guy called Mark Woollard - resident bee keeper at Whitstable Castle.  The castle have started producing their own honey, which is pretty tasty, if a bit on the pricey side.  It has certainly made me think about buying local honey and also explains why farm shop honey tastes so much better than the average stuff you buy in a supermarket.  I just wish I had a Manuka orchard...