ISSUE 294 Date: 12th July 2013

Stafford’s MP presented petition in

House of Commons on Tuesday

LIFE OBSERVATIONS It’s really not a good idea to take a three-year-old to a four hour outdoor Shakespeare performance in the baking heat ... Shorts ... Oh dear ... Enough said ... Geckos are clever: Lionel has worked out how to escape from his vivarium by standing on the water dish and paddling on the corner of glass door with his leg. (Wikipedia image because Lionel wouldn’t come out for his picture to be taken today ...) The more I learn the more ignorant I realise I am. Have you ever noticed just how many different types of grasses there are? It’s worth tak-ing a closer look next time you’re in a field or walking along the roadside. It’s remarkable how quickly you can react when the machine you’re using starts smoking.

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Ungent n Ointment or salve

Yean v term used in in animal husbandry meaning to give birth

Squamata n: The Squamata, or the scaled rep-

tiles, are the largest recent order of reptiles, compris-ing all lizards and snakes. With over 9,000 species, it is second-largest order of vertebrates after the Percifor-mes. Squamata are distinguished by their skins, which bear horny scales or shields. They have movable quad-rate bones, making it possible to move the upper jaw relative to the braincase. E.g. snakes, are able to open their mouths very wide to accommodate comparatively large prey. They are a variably sized or-der of reptiles, ranging from the 16 mm dwarf gecko (Sphaerodactylus ari-asae) to the 6.6 m green anaconda (Eunectes murinus) and the now-extinct mosasaurs, which reached lengths of 14 m. Squamates are closely related to tuataras, which superficially resemble lizards. (Source/image Wikipedia)

Xystus n Roman name for a gym; a covered area for exercise

Zarf n a metal holder for tea/coffee cups (glass or porcelain) used in Arab

countries usually filigree decoration ... To see image follow link below

http://www.shutterstock.com/pic-78415858/stock-photo-arabic-coffee-pot-

with-hot-coffee.html

Ziggurat n stepped, terraced pyramid Babylon

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Random Words : pease-pudding, new, dangerous, juxtaposi-tion, genre, nine, ewe-lamb, ridiculous, scapegoat, asthmatic, rhythm, fold Assignment: rituals or the passage

Mailish the page was tired of his overbearing master. “Sweep here, fetch this, carry those, tidy that!” he ordered all day long. Then there was the endless rhetoric and moaning. Mailish was certain it hadn’t been in his job description! Really, the arrogance of the man! OK. So he ruled the kingdom of Trentby, but it wasn’t a page’s place to put up with all that. That was the role of the Queen! He would see Merlin about it. “No problem!” smiled the old magician. A few ground-up bones, a ginger root and a bat’s wing and before long, he had produced a milky concentration in the bottom of a glass flask. “The King is partial to his nightcap. When you serve him, slip this into his glass and you’re guaranteed a wonderful result tomorrow”. Sure enough, in the morning, there, wearing a crown, was a fat, brown toad. (PMW) We’re all sorry to hear the last of Mailish the Page now the farce is finished ... perhaps he’ll turn up again one day still holding the hem of Merlin’s cloak.

YE SLIGHTY OBLONG TABLE OF TRENTBY

YE CAST OF CHARACTERS NB: Historical accuracy is NOT encouraged

Nobles and similar

Harffa Ye Kyng. Not ye sharpest knyfe in ye drawer. Queen Agatha (the tight fisted) Don Key O’Tee Spanish ambassador to Court of Kyng Harffa .. Wants saint’s big toe back Baron Leonard Bluddschott (Stoneybroke) Gwenever Goodenough Wyfe of ye Baron Della Bluddschott Ugly Daughter of Baron Bluddschott. Galla of Hadnt Hall A Prince but Charmless Daniel Smithers Constable of Bluddschott Castle and maybe the Corowner of the County Old Maids Vera, Gloria and Bertha husband hunting sisters of Baron Bluddschott Evil Sherriff and Baron Morbidd up to no good (and son) Morgan le Fey king’s evil sister - Merlin the king’s magician Ye Knights [they’re better during the day] Lancealittle, Dwayne, Cottavere, Percivere Mailish (Narrator) Page to Baron Bluddschott (Probably Son by wife’s sister) NEW CHARACTERS: Sir Richard Coeur de Poulet — returning Crusader Sir d’Just Holdthis and Sir Halle of Hadon who’s is dead, his page is Nigel Religiouse Lionel, Bishop of Trentby keeper of the Mappa Tuessdi Abbot Costello of Nottalot, a Nasturtium Abbey desperate for pilgrim pennies Vladimir A monk from far off somewhere, a Calligrapher Wyllfa the Druid Sorcerer Others Big Jock A Welsh poacher and short wide-boy. Robbin’ Hoodie another poacher and wide-boy. Peeping Barry member of Hoodie’s gang of miscreants Clarence the cook and a Wandering Troubadour None living The Two Swords of King Harffa ... The real one and Axcaliber The Mappa Tuesdii ... Velum map of the known world bought in a bazaar in Constantinople for a few pennies by Vladimir oft times copied The toe bone of St. Hilarious. The gallstone of St. Gastric (PLOT CHANGE) Crocodile and a Unicorn and a Dragon carved in stone plus various fairies and wood spirits

It ’ s finished in draft ... still needs proofing ...

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Nigel carried his still knight back to the little beach hut that served for a changing

room. Removing his master’s armour, Nigel found Sir Halle to be stone dead, blue

and cold. What to do? Should he remove his master's garments and toss him out-

side where he would be quickly trampled by passing heavy horses and turned into

mincemeat? Once revealed as flesh and blood he might be mistaken for a dead

wretch. No-one would bat an eyelid, the once noble knight would become a man of

no importance. As Nigel undressed the knight, a strange thing happened to him,

he was puzzled by his new and unwanted underclothes. He wore a blue onesie,

which would not come off. It had an egg shaped lozenge on his chest, inscribed

with SuperNigel in big red letters. The most troublesome garment was a red cloak

attached to his shoulders which would not come off.

After Nigel removed the dead knight's clothing and put it on himself, still trou-

bled by the strange blue onesie which held tight to his skin. The little red cloak was

even more pestiferous, because try as he might he just couldn't tuck it all into his

suit of armour, it stuck out jauntily like a red bandana from the front of his visor.

He dressed the knight in his own ragged wretches clothes. He muttered a short

passage from scripture by way of a blessing and tossed his master's body onto the

runway, where several saddos and losers of the failed knight were thundering up

and down practicing their biscuit slicing techniques. Soon the corpse was ground

into mincemeat or rather minced knight. It looked no different from a commoner

once it was mashed. No one paid it mind.

When Nigel emerged from the beach hut he was swept along by a crowd of

knights, pages and wretches towards the king's gallery. Nigel had intended to re-

veal the deception and throw himself on the king's mercy but it was impossible.

The king arose and announced: 'Go to the lake forthwith, seize the golden sword

and you will be king. The wife and I are keen to retire so that we can spend more

time on our allotment.' The king knew that there was a strong chance that this un-

known knight would be eaten by the ferocious Crunchy the crocodile. He had no

intention of stepping down: he enjoyed the power, the cruelty and the bloodthirsti-

ness too much.

Nigel took the trusty and loveable Boris and rode to the little inlet on the lake

where he had last seen the croc. On the way he passed The Little Wench of Des-

tiny. As usual she was singing softly to herself in Welsh as she picked dandelion

leaves from a hedgerow to make a refreshing jug dandelion and cowpat for the

wedding feast. Nigel was into a lie over his head and he knew that he should con-

fess all before taking a wife but the heart has its reasons and he leaned down and

took the girl by the hand and swung her onto Boris's soft woolly back. As they rode

along he sang a little song:

Pansies are blue, silly, silly, Cabbages are green, silly, silly, When

I am king, silly, silly, You'll be my queen.'

The little wench did not reply and Nigel felt a surge of shame. He flew down to

ground level and hovering as if on one knee, he said: ‘Mistress, please tell me your

name?'

'My name is Lanfairpwllgwynllwydrobll...' she said shyly.

'That's lovely my fair one, is there something shorter I could call you?'

'Gwen,' she said as shortly as she could.

‘Where are you from? My lovely one, Stanis?'

‘I'm from Llandudno, the Saxon caught me on the slave ...'

Nigel sighed, several trees uprooted themselves at his mighty super sigh. He

knew her story already nearly all the staff in the castle were Welsh slaves. Taking

her little hand in his, he said: 'Dear little Gwen, do me the honour of becoming my wife; we

will live happily under the greenwood tree and soon we will hear the patter of tiny wretches.’

Without hesitation she said, 'Yes'.

He joined her on Boris's broad back and the faithful old horse plodded along. He knew

from experience that whenever there was a wedding there would be a nosebag full of sweet

hay and a rubdown before a good nights stand up sleep and a jolly good snore or two. Be-

fore long they had a following of the tournament crowd who were spoiling for a nosh up and

a good feast.

Robbin’ Hoodie, Friar Tuckin, Alan a Dale and a few merry men had tagged along. Many

aristocrats had followed as Trentby emptied and servants could not be found The King and

Queen and the Bluddschott Ugly Sisters tagged along to see the fun. Mailish resisted this

trend for a little while but as he puzzled over his face flannels he lost his patience and flung

all fifty of them into his wash basin. How hard could it be? He mused, a pink one for your

face and a green one for your bum, or was it the other way round? He decided he’d had a

wash last month so probably didn’t need one anyway. Those wretches, they complicate the

easiest job, he thought. With that, Mailish followed the crowd down to the lake.

Meanwhile Boris and SuperNigel had already reached the lake bank. Crunchy, the once

fearful crocodile was sitting on the bank with the golden Sword of Destiny laid out beside

him. The golden sword was garlanded with dog roses, the old croc still liked prickly stuff. The

croc was transformed into a mythic beast. He was bright buttercup yellow and sprouted two

large green donkey type ears. His toenails were bright green and painted with red spots. He

had found Nigel's nightline and mistaking it for croc bling, he had wrapped it around himself.

Fish heads and tails hung from his crocodile body. Circlets of dried weed and bits of shriv-

elled worms hung from his body.

Now that his mouth was empty of girl's arms he spoke in a Brummy bass voice: 'Thenks

fowr de bling, Oi've givin up bein a man eater Oi'm vegetarian from now on. Adopt me, Oi

wanna be in your family, yowr pet croc.' And with that Crunchy began to dance along the river

bank, waddling two steps forward and two steps back, in a style later adopted by jazz fans in

New Orleans. 'Toike the sword Nige, it be yourn matye.’ Nigel picked up the sword and before

the assembled crowds knelt before the king. He handed the sword reverently to the king.

'Drat and double drat, muttered the king, the allotment in Meiresby will have to wait.'

'Sir,' said SuperNigel: 'May I have your permission to

marry my true love, ' he pointed to the LWD.

'Yes, of course,' he said to his wife, ‘this young man is just too weird and powerful, I will

have to humour him.’ To Nigel he replied, 'Yes, of course, and I will ennoble you both. He re-

membered The LWD, he had caught her on a slaving trip to Wales a few years back; 'Take

Lady Gwen and marry her, just be back in time for the Royal Wedding this afternoon.’

Nigel flew off into the sky and zoomed around the site of the former golf club, tearing up

whole trees and shaping them with his teeth. He made furniture and curtains from leaves

and twigs that he stamped on turning them into MDF. All of this was accomplished in a su-

perfast way. To the assembled crowd it seemed as if he had been away for a minute or two.

However Nigel had been away for a year and a day, he was Super Nigel.

Taking the LWD's hand he lifted her gently onto Boris's back behind him and off they

rode into the greenwood, followed by crowds of wenches and wretches who were wearing

flowery garlands which they had plucked from the trees as they went along. Some of them

had drunk so much Dandelion and Cowpat cordial that their green faces matched the tree

canopy above. Nigel was followed by Crunchy the croc, who pattered and stomped along to

a jazz beat in his head.

And, as far as we know, they all lived happily ever after.

Wikipedia : Buzz Aldrin footprint on the moon 1969

Apollo 11 Mission

Have you sent in any title suggestions for the RBW 2014 poetry collection?

Josie Turner Wins Welsh Poetry Competition!

The Welsh Poetry Competition 2013 organisers have announced the winners of the 7th international

competition and the overall winner was Josie Turner for her poem Rations.

‘I’m not sure there are enough superlatives to adequately praise this poem. Stunning, touching, moving, fas-

cinating, beautiful. From the immediate history given to us by its first line, ‘Then they shook off their bod-

ies’ it grows, giving us a small window onto a far bigger picture. It provides us with a sense of the immedi-

ate and the implied. The poem, succinct in form, is far larger than its lines. Revealing itself more with each

reading we are given a glimpse of the relationship between three people. Rations touched me profoundly

and I want to read more,’ said Eloise Williams, competition judge.

The winners were as follows:

1st Prize – Rations by Josie Turner

2nd Prize – Sleep is Mending by David E. Oprava

3rd Prize – The Moneychanger and his Wife by Gill Learner

Eloise also choose another seventeen poems for the ‘specially commended’ section with winners from all

over Wales and the UK, as well as from Canada and Australia, which once again highlights the fact that the

Welsh Poetry Competition is a truly international event. All winning poems and judges’ comments can be

viewed on the competition web site – www.welshpoetry.co.uk

‘The overall standard was once again excellent and we’ve had poets enter from almost every country in the

world.

‘Each year we go from strength to strength, and we had even more entries this year than last year. All win-

ning poems can be read on our web site and we also have a fantastic anthology of previous winning entries

from five years’ worth of competitions, which is also available from our web site.’ said Dave Lewis, compe-

tition organizer.

To get involved with next years’ competition, buy the anthology or just keep up to date with what we are doing you just

need to visit The Welsh Poetry Competition web site, join our mailing list, Facebook group or follow us on Twitter.

Competition Web site - www.welshpoetry.co.uk Competition Judge – www.eloisewilliams.com

Organiser Web site – www.david-lewis.co.uk Twitter - @welshpoetrycomp

Riots in the Potteries; 1842 The Chartists were a radical political movement of the first half of the 19th century, de-manding reform of Parliament, Though they never preached revolutionary violence, they were associated with a number of incidents between 1839 and 1846. They never achieved much; their main importance being that they were the first genuinely working-class political movement in British history. 1842 was a year of economic depression, which led to renewed Chartist agitation, and also to outbreaks of industrial trouble in many areas, which were awarded the good journalistic name of the “Plug Plot” - referring to attempts to force works to close by knocking out the plugs on the steam-boilers. I want to focus here in what happened in North Staffordshire. On May 21st the Chartist leader Feargus O’Connor visited Stoke. He addressed crowd of 1500, then led a procession through town and held an evening meeting. He attributed distress to financial problems caused by Napoleonic Wars, 30 years earlier, and the only economic nostrum he offered was cultivation of unused land (in which we find the origins of the Allotments movement). One sees how O’Connor gained the reputation of being an ineffective windbag. He said nothing which could be deemed a call to violent revolution, but violence did follow. There were to be serious disturbances in and around Stoke-on-Trent that summer, involving the colliers and various other trades suffering unemployment or hardship. Ac-cording to local paper, “Stafford Advertiser”, troubles began on July 11th. A miners’ usual pay was 3/6d for a working day of 10 ½ hours, with an allowance of free coal; but now Sparrow’s works in Longton announced a reduction of wages to 3/- a day, pleading that their prices were being undercut and they could not afford more. The workers refused to accept this and went on strike. The dispute quickly spread through the coalmines and ironworks of the Potteries, to Silverdale, Kidsgrove and as far as Cheadle. Some firms prudently shut up shop, and others were forced to close by threats of violence to managers and unco-operative work-ers, and some damage to machinery. There were several mass meetings, addressed by Chartist orators. Staffordshire had as yet no county police force: instead the magistrates had to call out the Yeomanry (a volunteer militia on horseback) and requested the assis-tance of regular troops. In the meantime, “the most respectable inhabitants” of the Pot-teries were sworn in as special constables. During the second half of July things were generally quiet, though Apedale Hall at Chesterton, the home of Richard Heathcote, a coal owner, was besieged for a while. Companies of infantry and dragoons arrived in Stoke, and a few men were convicted of rioting, receiving short prison sentences of two or three months. Most collieries remained closed, with the miners demanding pay of 4/- a day, but a few had returned to work. Then, suddenly, the situation boiled over in the second and third weeks of August. Trouble first broke out in Burslem. Four men had been arrested, but were promptly freed by a mob armed with pickaxes, who then proceeded to smash the windows of the town hall. The George Inn was then trashed and plundered, followed by the home of Mr Riles, the superintendent of police, and other houses. By the time the soldiers arrived the riot-ers had dispersed. The peak of the violence came in Hanley on Monday, August 15th. A mob said to number several thousand first freed their comrades from the town lockup, then ran-sacked the police station, scattering its papers. They then moved on to the Court of Re-quests at Shelton Bridge, where books and documents were seized and thrown into the canal. Attacks then followed all over the Potteries. The windows of Stoke police station were smashed, and the homes of Mr Allin at Fenton and Mr Rose, a magistrate, at Penkhull were looted. At Longton the town hall and police station were attacked, and the Reverend Dr Vale, Rector of Longton, had his house ransacked and his furniture and books carried out and burnt on a bonfire. Many women came on the scene and were re-ported to have drunk themselves insensible on Dr Vale’s looted wine. Albion House in Old Hall Street, Hanley, the home of the magistrate Mr William Parker, was plundered

and then set on fire, as was that of the Reverend Mr Aitkins, vicar of Hanley, who saw his exten-sive library destroyed. No apparent effort was made by the authorities to put out these fires, and one gets the impres-sion that throughout this the troops were always a couple of steps behind the rioters. Dragoons were, however, ready the next day, the 16th , when a Chartist meeting was held in Hanley, and a mob from Leek was reported to be marching in through Smallthorne. The Riot Act was read, stones were thrown at the troops and shots were fired; one man was killed and a number wounded. An inquest was heard the next day, in the course of which the coroner, Mr Harding, learnt that his house had been set on fire! Then, for no clear reason, the violence subsided as quickly as it had begun. There remained merely the tidying-up. Damage was estimated at over £10,000, including £4,000 at Mr Parker’s house, £2,000 at the Reverend Mr Aitkins’s vicarage and £1500 at Dr Vale’s. A special commis-sion was set up to try rioters. These included Joseph Capper, a blacksmith from Tunstall, who was charged with sedition resulting from a meeting back in June, and William Ellis, a potter from Burslem and a Chartist lecturer, who was charged with treason. Altogether 54 men were sen-tenced to transportation (11 of them for life), 153 imprisoned, and 66 acquitted or discharged. The solitary dead man, who had been shot through the head by the troops at Burslem on the 16th, proved to be Josiah Henry, a shoemaker from Leek, aged just 19 but already a widower and a fa-ther of three. These disturbances were in fact typical of riots which had been taking place in England since the mid- 18th century; and by this time seem curiously anachronistic. The causes were always economic, resulting from trade slumps which led to pressure on wages and on living standards, but only irrelevant political solutions were offered. The rioters never killed anyone in these occa-sions, and here in Stoke the only fatal casualty was the man shot by the troops - unless we in-clude Thomas Adkins, a sawyer from Lane End, who died of alcoholic poisoning after drinking too much stolen liquor. On the other hand the rioters, as always, caused a great deal of damage to property, targeting their attacks on symbols of authority and the homes of unpopular people. No one, least of all the Chartist leaders, had any kind of revolutionary strategy. The demands of the rioters, as in the previous century, were actually rather conservative, centring on restoring old rates of pay and prices. No-one as yet had any concept of “workers’ control”. Nor had methods of riot control changed much over the decades. True, soldiers could now reach a town by train in a few hours, but once they were there, communications and troop move-ments could proceed no faster than a man on horseback - or, more likely in a conurbation like Stoke, no faster than a man on foot. Furthermore, soldiers with only slow-loading single-shot weapons had little advantage over a rampaging mob. Over the next half century, everything would change: government would become much more powerful and society would become much more peaceful, but also theories of revolution would be developed, and the huge pointless destructive 18th century style riots would become a thing of the past. It is astonishing to learn that, even after this experience, there was still opposition amongst the ruling classes to Staffordshire having its own county police force. The creation of one was being discussed in Parliament at this very time, but in October Lord Sandon voted in the House of Lords that such a force should function only in the urban areas, not in the rural districts. As late as this, the great landowners still resented any loss of their local power. The 1842 riots are the scene for Benjamin Disraeli’s novel “Sybil; or the Two Nations”, pub-lished in 1845 (the “two nations” being, as Disraeli explains, “THE RICH AND THE POOR”, put-ting these words in block capitals to make sure that the reader gets the message. The novel fo-cuses on the Black Country rather than the Potteries, and climaxes with the sacking and burning of the stately home of the unpopular no-bleman, Lord de Mowbray, by a mob of coalminers and metalworkers from Willen-hall (which Disraeli calls “Wodgate”). Per-haps unexpectedly for a future Conserva-tive Prime Minister, Disraeli sympathises with his working-class characters, and his Chartist leaders are portrayed as heroic figures. (See my Blog entry on Disraeli’s novel)

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WILD FLOWERS Assignment Anne Picken The legacies we get from our parents are largely taken for granted but, if thought about, can yield up some interesting theories. As a child I knew the names of most wild flowers and was amazed when others did not, but what made my mother pass on this knowledge? What made her acquire such knowledge herself? She was very vague on, for instance, careers for girls. 'Domestic Science,' she said as I was about to leave grammar school. 'You'll always get a job if you have Domestic Science.' She and her three sisters were domestic goddesses, spring cleaning their houses daily, and I often blush in shame at my own sluttish ways. They must have got it from my Gran, I thought, although I never saw her housekeeping but she did manage a family of six on a nightwatchman's wage. The family then, at the turn of the century, lived in the middle of Liverpool, in an area designated by the police as particularly vicious, and three brothels were housed in nearby premises. One great grandfather, an Irish immigrant, was designated 'tailor' which could mean a lot of things and his son, my grandfather seems to have been brought up in an Industrial school. As was my Gran's mother. Ah! That's where the meticu-lous housekeeping originated, for what else were those poor girls taught but to be servants, to labour and to know their place? Their own homes when they married might be humble in-deed, but they would be shining and spotless. So what about the wild flowers? Well, just before my mother was born the family, including my gran's father, moved out into the country and opened a grocer's store in the front room. Not perfect – the toilet was a midden in the back yard requiring copious quantities of chloride of lime – but at least you could breath clean air and go about your business without being propositioned ten times a week. How superior the country must have seemed, how privileged its inhabitants, how risen in status was the family now. Who would ever want to go back to the dirt and disgrace of the city? Much better to be-come a country person. Actually, my gran's father had always been a country person, a general farm labourer from Worcester-shire, and he probably came to Liverpool docks because of rural poverty. But now that his labouring days were over, I imagine he spent a lot of time with his youngest granddaugh-ter, passing on the country lore. And she passed it on to me; a love of gardening etc, including the names of several wild flowers. So although I can't haven't inherited the housework culture of my great grandparents' generation, I have cleaned up on the horticul-tural bit.

Doug Engelbart obituary Silicon Valley visionary: the man who invented the computer mouse http://www.guardian.co.uk/technology/2013/jul/04/doug-engelbart

Ginger Haired Man A lonely man with ginger hair was partial to whiskey to deaden despair. He always was so arrogant Always felt better than all the rest Never went out without a clean vest. And if there was something you wanted to know Then he was the one that always knew best. His life was ordered always tidy; Fulfilled marital obligations Once a month, always a Friday. He found it hard to speak English plain His rhetoric was a major pain. He thought he was wonderful with his long words But on a misty morn he failed to see the trees or birds. So when his life neared its end - He had just the Daily Telegraph crossword But not a friend. He used all his concentration for a single clue 5 letters " A Skeleton Crew" Ah it’s "Bones" He moans and groans He's through. July 2013

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Family Tree back to 1753

Out of the six generations of farmers, I and

my father were the only ones to benefit from the use of tractors.

I am second of four, father was eldest of four, grandfather was one of eight, G. grandfather was youngest of seven, G.G.

grandfather was youngest of eight, and my G.G.G. grandfather was born in 1753.

My G grandfather left the family farm (being the youngest of seven) in Derbyshire when

he got married and moved to Littywood Manor near Bradley this is an old picture of

his daughter Bertha's wedding in 1872. Search: "Littywood manor" on the net to see the old house how it is now: it’s not changed much

and it’s a wedding venue as well.

Our Family Tree

A family tree we’re working on, to see from where we came, Of people who we never knew, we all have the same name,

We all remember our own grandma and grandpa as well, But they remember their old folk, a tale of old to tell.

Big families of eight or nine, and some they lost quite young, Some they stayed as spinsters or bachelors unsung,

Working on estates and farms, in houses cold and damp Some on their own farms, on land their mark to stamp.

Looking back on old grave stones, name chiselled bold and clear, Got to look where they’re christened who their parents were,

Who they met and married, the families joined and spread, The kids that came along so quick, along same paths we tread.

We scour along old census records from many years gone by, See the age of head of household and all who lived and why,

Some left home at early age for to find some work, Spread around the villages, none of them to shirk.

Need a bigger sheet of paper, as the families spread and grow, William Thomas Charles and John, reoccur in all lines we know.

Now we’re back to where we’re found, back to 1753 we tow, Following all the records of, the church and census as we go.

Our turn will come soon enough, as time it flashes by, Never know when that will be, it’s better laugh than cry,

Name and date of birth and death, chiselled into stone, A patch of good old England, neath turf that’s our last home.

Countryman

It’s easier to put on slippers than to carpet the whole world.

Al Franken

Black Hole.

Has anybody seen my keys?

I know I put them down somewhere. I’m in a rush to get to work.

Could they have slipped behind the chair?

We’ve got a brand new neighbour

And I’m sure I know her face. I’ve seen her somewhere else before

But I can’t recall the place.

One time I had a pair of socks

But now there’s only one. Two went into the washer.

But mysteriously one’s gone.

The light bulb on the landing’s blown

But I’m sure I’ve got a spare. It must be in the cupboard, But I just can’t see it there.

I need to find my passport.

We’re flying off to Rome

I know I put it somewhere safe

But it’s nowhere in my home.

I’ve come to the conclusion

That somewhere there in space

A vast and secret hole exists And my stuff is in that place.

Stockfreeimages: 404987

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Hood was born in London to Thomas Hood and Elizabeth Sands in the Poultry (Cheapside) above his father's

bookshop. Hood's paternal family were Scottish farmers from the village of Errol near Dundee. Hood left his private school master at 14 years of age and was admitted into the counting house of a family friend. Hood began to write poetry and had his first published work, a letter to the editor of the Dundee Advertiser.

In the annual the Gem appeared the poem Eugene Aram. He started a magazine in his own name from a sick-bed, from which he never rose, he composed well known poems, such as the "Song of the Shirt" (which ap-

peared anonymously in Punch, 1843 and was immediately reprinted in The Times and other newspapers across Europe. Dramatised by Mark Lemon as The Sempstress, it was printed on broadsheets, cotton handkerchiefs and was highly praised by Charles Dickens.) Likewise "The Bridge of Sighs" and "The Song of the Labourer"

are solemn reminders of conditions of life which were published shortly before Hood's death in May 1845. Nine years later a monument was raised by public subscription, in the cemetery of Kensal Green.

William Makepeace Thackeray said of Thomas Hood: "Oh sad, marvellous picture of courage, of honesty, of

patient endurance, of duty struggling against pain! ... Here is one without guile, without pretension, without scheming, of a pure life, to his family and little modest circle of friends tenderly devoted."

Faithless Nelly Gray A Pathetic Ballad

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,

And used to war's alarms;

But a cannon-ball took off his legs,

So he laid down his arms.

Now as they bore him off the field,

Said he, 'Let others shoot;

For here I leave my second leg,

And the Forty-second Foot.'

The army-surgeons made him limbs:

Said he, 'They're only pegs;

But there's as wooden members quite,

As represent my legs.'

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, --

Her name was Nelly Gray;

So he went to pay her his devours,

When he devoured his pay.

But when he called on Nelly Gray,

She made him quite a scoff;

And when she saw his wooden legs,

Began to take them off.

'O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!'

Is this your love so warm?

The love that loves a scarlet coat

Should be a little more uniform.

Said she, ' I loved a soldier once,

For he was blithe and brave;

But I will never have a man

With both legs in the grave

'Before you had those timber toes

Your love I did allow;

But then, you know, you stand upon

Another footing now.'

'O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!

For all your jeering speeches,

At duty's call I left my legs

In Badajos's breaches.'

'Why, then,' said she, 'you've lost the feet

Of legs in war's alarms,

And now you cannot wear your shoes

Upon your feats of arms!'

'O false and fickle Nelly Gray!

I know why you refuse:

Though I've no feet, some other man

Is standing in my shoes.

'I wish I ne'er had seen your face;

But, now, a long farewell!

For you will be my death' -- alas!

You will not be my Nell!'

Now when he went from Nelly Gray

His heart so heavy got,

And life was such a burden grown,

It made him take a knot.

So round his melancholy neck

A rope he did intwine,

And, for his second time in life,

Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam,

And then removed his pegs;

And, as his legs were off -- of course

He soon was off his legs.

And there he hung till he was dead

As any nail in town;

For, though distress had cut him up,

It could not cut him down.

A dozen men sat on his corpse,

To find out why he died, --

And they buried Ben in four cross-roads

With a stake in his inside.

Thomas Hood (23 May 1799 – 3 May 1845) a British poet of the human condition.

His son, Tom Hood, became a well known playwright

and editor.

Hood’s best known work during his lifetime was

a poem titled "The Song of the Shirt". A lament

for a London seamstress compelled to sell shirts

that she had made, the proceeds of which lawfully

belonged to her employer, in order to feed her

malnourished and ailing child.

Hood’s poem appeared in one of the very first editions of

Punch in 1843 and quickly became a public sensation,

being turned into a popular song and inspiring social

activists in defence of the countless labouring women

who lived in abject poverty despite their industriousness.

Extract ... Song of the shirt

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread--

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch

She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work—work—work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's Oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work!

I Remember, I Remember

I remember, I remember

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon

Nor brought too long a day;

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember

The roses, red and white,

The violets, and the lily-cups

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birth-day,

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heaven

Than when I was a boy.

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