Chris and Douglas bought me a swish stamp album for my birthday last month and, seeing as to how I am currently more or less an invalid due to my lungs evidently being shot to pieces, every movement a gasp and a wheeze (sounds like one of those puffs for a Music Hall comic) which is strange because, sitting still you wouldn’t know there was anything wrong at all the breathing is so easy. So I have spent a week “doing” stamps and what a surprise I have had. I never realised just how extensive my collection is. Over the years I have merely put them away in boxes or envelopes and thought no more about them so how many hundreds I have to sort out I dread to think. The American ones on their own can virtually fill the book. Well, not quite, but almost. It’s been interesting though I must say, especially that, at the moment there is no writing on the cards. Not in the mood as yet to start Thornton King number five. Too much research to do first and I probably need a rest from writing anyway. Would simply love to get stuck into the garden again but the wheezy old chest won’t allow it.
Douglas is back in England for his latest proddings and probings. His flight was at sparrow yesterday morning which meant he and Chris both being up by five to set off for the airport. It’s a long journey time wise: Xania to Athens, Athens to London, London to Exeter, Exeter to Torquay. No wonder he’s fed up with travelling. The return journey will be made via Paris which is evidently shorter and cheaper than schlepping all the way up to Heathrow or Gatwick.
Chris has been getting a whole load of ballet DVDs. They’re out every fortnight. The latest was ‘La Sylphide from the Paris Opera which, despite its production and good dancing, I still find one of the most boring pieces ever, like Giselle. Previous to that we had ‘Excelsior’ something neither of us had ever heard of and what a great bit of Victorian style ballyhoo (and a hoot to boot) it is with a cast of thousands. I have never seen a ballet with so much callisthenics in it.
So cavalier Dave has won Beauty’s hand and Tories and Libs are in bed together while the Beast retires to lick its wounds. Can’t say I feel particularly sorry for him. He has always struck me as a rather unpleasant character. I wonder if that one little slip of the tongue, those two little words ‘bigoted woman’ could have had a major effect. Interesting thought.

I finally (after how many months?) finished ‘A Strange Eventful History’ the story of Ellen Terry and Henry Irving -584 pages of it. It wasn’t that it was hard going but, as a bedside book having only two or three pages read a night, that is why it took so long. The last section of the book is devoted to Gordon Craig who I wanted to talk about, but I have since discovered on my bookshelf the biography written by his son, so maybe I will leave it until I have finished that and have a more rounded picture because up to now all I can think of is that he was a totally screwed, crazy mixed up kid for his entire life. His behaviour towards women was appalling (shades of Tolstoy) though they all seemed to find him extremely attractive, in fact besotted might be a better word. I lost count of how many there were or how many children both legitimate and illegitimate. His affair with Isadora Duncan I didn’t know about and that probably lasted the longest. Her two children unfortunately drowned in an accident when the car in which they were seated was not properly secured on a river bank and rolled into the water.
But just why Craig was considered this great icon of the late nineteenth early twentieth century theatre I still have no idea. Maybe son Edward will enlighten me. His writing, seeing as to how it is about daddy, can be a wee bit on the twee side at times, for example –“a baby boy was born” Mum would have had an useful lot of trouble if a big boy had been born or if it had been a baby something else – a lemur perhaps?
So the election in the UK is over and the Tories have come in with the most votes and the most seats, but all the forecasting seemed to have been correct in that the result is a hung parliament. The talk now is all about will Beast Brown wanting to slip into bed with Beauty Nick in order to stay on in power? I can’t see it as being a particularly healthy situation.
Greece meanwhile stumbles from crisis to crisis, from strike to strike, from demonstration to demonstration and, this being Greece, not without unaccompanied and senseless violence. I am beginning to think the Greeks might have a death wish. Certainly their trade unions seem to be still living with the dinosaurs. Talking of which, evidently scientists have discovered that 4% of homo sapiens carry the Neanderthal genome – maybe that’s where the violence comes from.
And here is a thought: thirteen years of a socialist government has brought Britain virtually to its knees and ten years of a conservative government has done the same for Greece. Ain’t that weird? What does it prove? That all political parties are the same and you simply cannot trust any politician further than you can throw him, or her as the case might be? Maybe.
In the meantime Cavalier Dave is wooing Beauty Nick which does seem more logical because even if Beast Gordon won fair maiden’s hand they still wouldn’t reach a majority so what would be the point?
Do you think the whole country is panting to know the outcome? I should imagine ennui must have set in by now.

Release of Video Promo for my latest book Dead on Target

‘There is a sin of secret impurity frequent among lads, and the misery it causes no tongue can fully tell. I know it for a fact. Through this sin a dark veil has been cast over the lives of tens of thousands of schoolboys, and all the freshness, and gladness and power of youth have perished beneath it…’

‘Virtue is strong and beautiful, Eric, and vice is downcast in her awful presence…’

‘We do beseech you to take heed to the warning voice. Otherwise you will most certainly reap the inevitable result of a shattered frame and possible insanity and early death…’

‘Lose your purity of heart, Eric, and you have lost a jewel which the whole world cannot replace…’

Question -‘Is self-pollution as prevalent as they say it is?’ Answer – ‘It has been rightly said that ninety-nine out of a hundred boys of this depraved generation engage in this vile practice and the other one in a hundred conceals the truth…’

So there you are, one hundred percent masturbate and despite the dire warnings face a shattered frame, insanity and an early death so how come the asylums weren’t bursting at the seams and how come so many masturbating boys managed to arrive at a ripe old age?

‘And a truly shocking proportion, alas, is true even of our girls…’

Case history: ‘A young woman aged twenty-two years came under my care in a state of the worst form of insanity. She was furious, noisy, filthy, pale and bloodless. Having no appetite, she was reduced in flesh and strength. Finding her one day calmer than usual, I hinted to her on the subject of masturbation, and informed her that only if she abandoned it might she get well. She promised to follow my advice strictly. In two weeks she was perceptibly better. At the end of six months she was in excellent health, was quite fleshy, and became perfectly sane…’

Then there was Professor Fowler. ‘Professor Fowler I need your help. For a long time a fire smouldered within me but it was never ignited by my husband. Now another man has captivated my heart. He has created in me a literal frenzy of passion and I am sexually insatiable. What to do?’ (You have to admit the lady was quite poetic about it.)

‘You’re on the brink of insanity. Your whole nervous system is on the point of giving out.’

‘I know it but can you tell me the cause?’

‘Amatory excitement. If it is continued any longer, you will become either paralysed or else stark raving mad.’

And now for something completely different: the shortest piece of fiction in English literature. From “The Comic News” 1884.

THRILLING!
In Three Chapters

CHAPTER 1.

He was there. So was the other. Neither knew the other.
Both wore hats. Nothing happened. And so on.

CHAPTER 11.

The air was heavy. They passed on in silence. A dumb cat
winked at a coal heaver’s apprentice. Tears washed away the
memory of the oldest inhabitant. Two postmen waltzed. Never more.

CHAPTER111.

Time passed by. So did the policeman. Night cast her shadow
around as Vivian walked into North Wales and took a voice
lozenge. Repentance came too late. The train had started. Where
Are we now?

The End.

Weird, these Victorians. No?

Have finished writing “The Museum Mysteries” and am very pleased with my first horror story. Eat your heart out Edgar, eat your heart out Wilkie, eat your heart out Henry. It has finally turned out to be a novella rather than something more substantial; 43000 words as opposed to say 90000, and if that’s how it was meant to be, fine. Any more would simply be padding. So Douglas came up with the terrific suggestion that it’s published together with a selection of short stories and that is what we will do. Occasionally over the years I have written some short stories. Fortunately everything’s been kept (except for opus One Act Two, and a story called “Tefu’s Tent Peg” seems to have got lost as well) and I have gone through everything on the shelves in my study, finding stuff I didn’t even know I had written, or had no memory of anyway, and even taking a peek at the first few pages not having a clue as to what a piece is really all about. If time allowed I could take a dozen television plays, let alone stage plays, and turn them into novels but I don’t think that is any longer on the cards.

What I did come across was the file “Say What Shall my Song Be Tonight” and I didn’t realise how close I had got to putting together a full evening’s entertainment.
‘Say what shall my song be tonight,
And the strain at your bidding shall flow.
Shall the measure be sportive and light?
Or its murmurs be mournful and low?
Shall the days that are gone flit before thee?
The freshness of childhood come o’er thee?
Shall the past yield its smiles and its tears,
or the future its hopes and its fears?
Say, say, oh say, what shall my song be tonight?

Also there were extracts from “Eric” or “Little By Little” and “A Boy At Fifteen”. 1880. “Eric” had gone to nineteen editions!
‘The first time that Eric heard indecent words in dormitory No 7 he was shocked beyond bound or measure. Dark though it was, he felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair, and then growing pale again, while a hot dew was left upon his forehead…’

“A Boy At Fifteen” 1903, “Be most careful, therefore, to avoid all thoughts and actions, sights and sounds, which would in any way degrade the high purpose of your body…”

The Reverend George Everard(!) in his capital book for boys called “Your Innings” says, ‘There is a snake or a serpent, or whatever else you may call it, that creeps into many a school and leaves many of the lads with a bite that injures them for life. They carry the mark of it to their graves. It takes all the brightness out of their lives. It always brings with it a bondage and tyranny which follows them every step of their journey. Only lately a few young man were talking over the matter. They came from fifteen public schools and in every one of them this terrible enemy was known to exist.’

More of this wonderful stuff to follow.

I received the following e-mail from my sister and I am sure, reviving more memories for me as it does, she won’t mind my using it as today’s Blog; adding to the list full Christmas dinners eaten in the heat of midsummer, junior birthday parties, adolescent parties, teenage parties, dances; boys in their tuxedos, girls in their best dresses, milk bars and juke boxes, pinball machines, holidays on guest farms and with relations, visits to the homes of school friends down the south coast.

“Reading your latest Blog, 28th April, you brought back many memories for me of the good times of our young days and I really think we had the best years compared to life for the young ones these days. Even travel was a much better experience with a three week cruise to get to the UK and knowing the stay would be a long one, the cabin trunk was packed to the full. Touring Europe was by car with a passport with visas on many pages to pass through the borders to each little country. Exchange money to the local currency and buy souvenirs not made in China and experience the true nationality of French, Italian, Austrian etc. etc.

A roast at lunch time on Sundays and then crumpets or scones with tea in the afternoon, often made by yourself. The camping at Inyoni rocks with those heavy bell army tents, one for the ladies and one for the men. The kids confined to sleeping in the cars.
The old primus stove pumped up to boil the water for tea and so on.

I remember your St. John's competition between teams from different districts and your team lost points because you missed seeing the gas masks hanging in front of the building prop you were to enter to rescue people from. I think what was supposed to have been a fire. We were trying to prompt you from the audience.

I remember crying that you had died when you played a part in the Glenwood High school play, title I think "The Devils Eye". Remember
that you had actually been pierced in the University play when you played Hotspur and concerned that you would be stabbed to death.

Your Blog Monday 26th - Don’t forget the song "Perfect Day" too. This I think Mom and Dad sang as a duet. Dad would place one hand on the piano to help him steady his shaking legs when he sang. Such nerves he had about singing for an audience and yet such a lovely voice. The piano shook and one could feel the vibration on the floor.”

Thanks, Ceri, and I’m sure there’s such a lot we’ve left out.







__________

Continuing the musical saga; of ‘Opus One’ only the first act still exists. Somewhere down the years Act Two got lost; not that it matters. Despite it being a load of old rubbish I was surprised on rereading it to find I quite enjoyed my very first attempt at lyric writing and even then seemed to be fond of “laundry list” numbers. There is one in Garibaldi all about an ice cream parlour listing the various flavours available and there is a kinda one in ‘Peter Pan’ – ‘Soggy Green Cake’. There is also one in ‘Pickwick, ‘Whatever You Want I Can Get it’ sung by Roker the jailor.
WHATEVERYOU WANT I’VE GOT IT,
WHATEVER I’VE NOT I CAN GET.
SO WHATEVER YOU WANT JUST YOU TROT IT OUT,
THERE’S NOTHING’S BAMBOOZLED ME YET.

WHATEVER IS IN YOUR POCKET,
WILL PAY FOR MY SERVICE WITH EASE,
FOR WHATEVER YOU WANT I WILL KNOCK IT OFF,
MY ONLY DESIRE IS TO PLEASE.

A BOTTLE OF BURGUNDY, SHERRY, OR SACK,
A PHEASANT OR TWO AS A SNACK.
THE LASS YOU DESIRE, A MALE VOICE CHOIR,
WHATEVER IT IS THAT YOU LACK.

A SHERATON TABLE, A FOUR POSTER BED,
SOME PILLOWS TO REST YOUR OLD HEAD.
A SURGEON TO BLEED YOU, A MASSEUR TO KNEAD YOU,
A PARSON SHOULD YOU WANT TO WED.

THERE’S NOTHING IN THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD
THAT MONEY CANNOT BUY,
SO IF YOU’VE THE MEANS TO GET THE BEANS
THE GRAVY WILL FOLLOW BYE AND BYE.

CHORUS: WHATEVER YOU WANT HE’S GOT IT.
ROKER: WHATEVER I’VE NOT I CAN GET.
CHORUS: SO WHATEVER YOU WANT JUST YOU TROT IT OUT,
TOGETHER: THERE’S NOTHING’S BAMBOOZLED HIM/ME YET.

ROKER: MY SERVICE IS NOT FOR GRATIS,
A NICE LITTLE WICKET I’M ON,
FOR I’M REALLY A NAT’RUL BORN ARTIST
AND THEY SAY LIFE IS SHORT BUT I’M LONG.

A STATUE OF VENUS, A REMBRANDT OR TWO,
TO LIGHT UP THE GLOOM OF YOUR VIEW.
A SILVER GILT BANGLE THAT WILL NOT JANGLE
THE WAY RUSTY CHAINS TEND TO DO.
A BUKHARA CARPET, A LOUIS COMMODE,
SOME WEDGWOOD, SOME DRESDEN, SOME SPODE,
’A VOLUME BY DICKENS, MAYBE SOME CHICKENS,
I KNOW WHERE THERE’S OPIUM STOWED.

and more...

The one in ‘Opus One’ is all about small-ads. But there’s nothing new, here’s an example of
a laundry list number from the Music Hall, 1881

HERE WAS PLUMS AND PRUNES AND CHERRIES
AND CITRONS AND RAISINS AND CINNAMON TOO,
THERE WAS NUTMEGS, CLOVES AND BERRIES,
AND THE CRUST IT WAS LAID ON WITH GLUE.
THERE WAS CARAWAY SEEDS IN ABUNDANCE-
TWOULD BUILD UP A FINE STOMACH ACHE –
YOU WOULD KILL A MAN TWICE AFTER EATING A SLICE
OF MISS HOOLIGAN’S CHRISTMAS CAKE.

And here’s an example of what I referred to earlier as being a crappy Music Hall lyric –

Slap-Bang! Here we are again!
Here we are again! Here we are again!
Slap-Bang! Here we are again!
Such jolly dogs are we!

Guess it kept the boys in the upper circle happy as they could all join in slap-banging, and anyway right up to date, someone sent me a CD of a musical which has been a big hit on the continent, and one of the lyrics goes. ‘What are you going to do now? What are you going to do now? What are you going to do now? What are you going to do now? What are you going to do now?’ ‘What are you going to do now?’ ad infinitem. Great stuff, huh?