Band of Bluehairs
Another from a church flower festival: handbell ringers. Yes, they’re wearing Union Jack hats. It was ironic. They put them on for this one number. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear what it was.
Land of Hope and Glory, I think.
Here is an important question: when these blue-haired bell-ringers passes on, will that be the end of it? Or will those currently young retire to the country some day and take up the bells?
Will they be allowed to?
Neh. Cold, miserable, wet today (stuck in the middle of a period of sunshine and loveliness). Me for a hot bath and a book.
August 30, 2017 — 8:37 pm
Comments: 20
Guns! Guns! Guns!
I used to love getting the NRA sweepstakes mailing — Guns! Guns! Guns!, it blared cheerfully.
The machine gun from the previous post, because someone asked. Attitudes about guns aren’t so simple here. I know plenty of Brits who think guns are magical self-activating sticks of evil but — especially out here in the country — there are plenty of people who love and miss guns. Including many a sad bastard who had his prize collection confiscated.
I’d say the majority of children at these fetes and festivals are there with their grandparents (blue hair…blue hair as far as the eye can see). Sitting there minding this gun, I wasn’t surprised when grandpa propped a little boy in front of the gun for a picture, but I was very surprised how often grandma did it.
I know what you’re thinking: WWII generation. But no – all the living veterans are in their nineties now. The oldest of these remembered the war from their older brothers going off, or being evacuated to the country themselves. Most have vague memories of rationing. (Uncle B remembers rationing in London, which carried on well into the Fifties. Brits wuz poor after the war).
The laws are a bit strange, too. It’s a hard ban on almost everything, but I’m told they must allow you to buy a shotgun if you apply. The restrictions for keeping it at home are a world of ass-ache, so we haven’t done it.
There was a gun dealer at the airshow we went to last week with a neat selection of old handguns, most of which had been “decommissioned” (ruined, usually by slicing part way through the barrel). But he had one nice little antique revolver that he said was completely intact and I could have bought it on the spot and walked away with it, no restrictions.
“Because the ammunition it needs is no longer being manufactured.”
“Oh,” says I, “it doesn’t look unusual. What is it?”
“320,” says he.
“Wait, what? But that’s .32 – that’s totally still manufactured — ”
“In the US, not here.”
Well, I didn’t know any ammo was still manufactured here. I suppose if I were going to smuggle ammo I might as well smuggle guns to go with, so it isn’t much of a loophole. Still think it’s weird.
Also, somebody I know does cowboy re-enactment. It needs a license, but you can buy powder and ball handguns, including the early-style revolvers. He has a beautiful one of modern manufacture from Italy. I mean geez, I could totally knock over a gas station with one of those.
Oh, and ExpressoBold asked why they were playing the US national anthem. Dude, if you’re going to have a brass band, you WILL play American music (and German, for that matter). We dominate the repertoire. The National Anthem was just the first chunk of a medley, that went on to Oh, Susanna! and The Yellow Rose of Texas. We came in on the Star Spangled Banner and went out on Sussex by the Sea. Nice.
August 29, 2017 — 7:01 pm
Comments: 21
Sure, that looks safe
This is the last public three-day weekend before Christmas and it was blazing hot. What passes for it here, anyway. There were five flower festivals, a circus and a blacksmith demonstration. We managed to do…most of them.
Just one fete today. The moment I set foot on the field, the band struck up the Star Spangled Banner. Seriously, this happened. I felt like the President.
(Aside: have you heard Bill Clinton’s Hail to the Chief lyrics? It goes, “Hail to the Chief, he’s the Chief and he needs hailing.” Good one, Bubbah).
It was the usual: brass band, cake stall, junk stall, produce, plants, splat the rat, tombola, book stall. Dog show. They’re big on dog shows, or what they call “fun dog shows” (to distinguish them from serious formal dog shows, I guess).
Three old guys were there with an old tractor, an American jeep and a machine gun. They were the only people who brought chairs, so I asked to sit in one and we chatted.
Then they asked me to watch their stuff while they went across to the pub. I thought they’d never come back, but finally one old boy did. Lit up like a Christmas tree. He decided I must have a cartridge as a thank you. This wasn’t entirely right, as the machine gun belonged to one of the other old boys, but I couldn’t resist a souvenir.
When fingers didn’t work, he tried the knife. When the knife didn’t work, he got out a hammer. Thank god they’re dummy rounds.
Yes, I got my souvenir eventually, and nobody lost an eye
August 28, 2017 — 8:07 pm
Comments: 26
Titt jokes, getcher Titt jokes!
Mr Titt was apparently a successful engineer. In this display of cast metal signs, there were four or five Titts.
August 23, 2017 — 9:36 pm
Comments: 15
Your Nazis, I have found them!
We had a flower festival, a military air show and a Tractorfest this weekend. This is from the flower festival.
HA! KIDDING! I suppose it’s more of a military/airshow than a military air show; there’s always plenty of Nazis and even a few Japs. And planes! And guns! And big bangs!
There’s a German (or possibly Polish) guy there who sells genu-ine Nazi memorabilia. Coffee cups and place settings from the officers’ mess. That kind of thing.
I’m afraid I paid a stupid lot of money for a WWII German leather mapcase. It’s perfect for my sketching stuff — it has little pockets for pencils and a ruler and an eraser. Also, it has the original owner’s name and addressed inked into the cover flap – I’ll have to get onto ancestry.co.uk about that. Unless anyone has other suggestions for tracking down German soldiers.
I did very well at the art show. I meant to mention that. I put in two little paintings of chickens and they were (so I’m told) the first paintings to sell.
Uncle B is threatening to tell everyone I spent my art show earnings on Nazi memorabilia.
Oh, I meant to ask – did you see the eclipse?
August 21, 2017 — 9:07 pm
Comments: 31
I haven’t had the heart to tell them…
This large fiberglass vegetable sits outside the door of a store where we occasionally stock up on spices in bulk. ‘Paolo’, if you’ve not run across it, is the Italian version of Paul.
I’m pretty sure any self-respecting giant plastic chili pepper in a sombrero strumming a guitar would be Pablo, nay?
When cultural stereotypes go (slightly) wrong…
August 17, 2017 — 8:19 pm
Comments: 29
bucket o’ crabs
This, if you can’t tell, is a bucket of crabs.
I was done early today, so we lit out for a nature reserve at the seaside. There, we met a dour woman catching crabs. It was an older couple with their granddaughter, but clearly only grandma was into it. And boy, was she into it.
She had a crabbing net (an open-topped wire basket on a string, for those who, like me, grew up a thousand miles from the sea) baited with rotten chicken. She’d go to the edge of the pier and play it down into the water until it touched bottom, let it rest a couple of minutes, and haul it up again. She had two or three of the little pinch-monsters in there every time (plus a few shrimps).
She let them go in the end. At least, she said she was gunna, so we could watch with clear conscience. I could never stand watching food struggle to escape.
After that, we went to a cafe for a sandwich. It was sunny and fine. The end.
p.s. First time I ever saw the ocean, I was nine. I’ll never forget my dad showing us the right was to pick up a crab. He scooched it up from the back, gave an almighty howl and flung it out to sea as far as ever he could. We thought he was clowning around, but no – he was bleeding freely from the hole it pinched in his thumb. Heh heh.
August 16, 2017 — 9:34 pm
Comments: 11
Paging Argentium G. Tiger…!
Argentium G. Tiger, please go to the white courtesy phone. Someone you (presumably) know is looking for you and, believe it or not, your most recent internet presence with this nick is a comment on this blog. Drop me a line and I’ll give you the deets.
By contrast to the ploughing match I posted about yesterday, here is the house band from the poshest of posh fetes.
How posh? That ain’t a brass band, son, it’s a silver band. Yes, it’s a thing.
They’re very good, actually. It’s particularly amusing when they break into an enthusiastic version of the Time Warp or sech like.
August 15, 2017 — 9:22 pm
Comments: 17
A lady! Driving a tractor!
And she probably has one of those fru-fru British accents and everything.
Ploughing match. We were told that’s her tractor and nobody else is allowed to touch it.
We managed one fete, one country fair and two parties this weekend, because our lives are just that exciting. You?
August 14, 2017 — 8:49 pm
Comments: 16
Mad as a wet owl
Is that a saying? It should be a saying. Another picture from Saturday’s owl deluge.
In the previous thread, Ric Fan says: “I love the Old English name for August, ‘Weodmonað’ – Bede says it means ‘the month of weeds, because they are very plentiful then’!”
I know this! I’m currently working my way through a History of England podcast (from the departure of the Romans to…not sure. Haven’t finished yet). Most entertaining. He listed the months of the year in the old Anglo Saxon (per the venerable Bede), and I thought it was so cool I wrote it down. Rough notes, I’m sorry.
I’m indebted to Ric Fan for the ð – I used the audio ‘th’. Other Anglo Saxon spelling howlers, undoubtedly.
Here we go!
Dec 25th is Modrenecht: “the night of the mothers”. Not sure what that means or if it’s a pagan festival that predates Christmas.
Month 12, 1 Juil: (Jule, Yule). Last month of the old, first month of the new.
Month 2 Salmanac: the month of cakes. Or mud. They made buns.
Month 3 Arethae. Should that be Areðae or something? No further information.
Month 4 Aeostre. Easter you should recognize.
Month 5 Trimicle. Three milks. Cows are milked three times a day.
Month 6 and month 7 Lethe. Something about the moon. He says we know no more.
Month 8 Weodmonað. The month of weeds, as Ric Fan said.
Month 9 Halechmonað. Spelling unk. The month of sacrifice, festivals, harvest.
Month 10 Wintirfirað. First full moon of Winter.
Month 11 Blodmonoð. Blood month. The time when it makes more sense to slaughter livestock than feed it through the Winter. Much feasting.
I’m getting quite addicted to using podcasts to get me through dull, brainless jobs. This one is recommended, if you have any interest in Jolly Olde.
August 1, 2017 — 10:43 pm
Comments: 24