Unusual Words / Clarke Shooed

Unusual Words

Lewes Garret The holidays are over; Edinburgh Fringe 2006 is all packed up. . . back to harsh reality! To soften the blow, here are 30 of my favourite unusual words:

1. Wantwit - stupid person,
2. Disendow - to take away,
3. Bilbo - sword (or penis),
4. Dastard - despicable coward,
5. Nog - beer,
6. Tangletalk - nonsense,
7. Irenic (or eirenic) - doing something for peace or the common good,
8. Braggart - vain boaster,
9. Mortalled - drunk,
10. Creps - trainers,
11. Glabrous - hairless, bald as a coot,
12. Worldling - worldly person,
13. Parlous - perilous,
14. Mien - air, look, manner or bearing,
15. Lushhouse - lowly public house,
16. Mendacious - lying,
17. Porrect - to hold out for acceptance,
18. Scribacious - tending to write,
19. Leam - to gleam or shine,
20. Jen - compassionate love for all humanity,
21. Dipsomania - alcoholism,
22. Ballyrag - to play jokes on,
23. Cloying - disgusting, distasteful,
24. Summerset - to somersault,
25. Unctuous - greasy, slippery or obsequious,
26. Cuckquean - female cuckold (woman whose man is cheating on her),
27. Litherless - without moral backbone,
28. Choplogic - scatty person,
29. Misyoked - unhappily married, and
30. Popinjay - parrot figure set up to be shot at.

I enjoyed that! My holidays were also fun. Here are some of the places I visited after leaving Edinburgh:

Isle of Wight: Went surfing for a day at a lovely place called Lake, and witnessed a remarkable incident. Someone jumped, fell or was pushed off the passenger ferry, plummeting some 60 feet into the cold water. A lifeboat and a helicopter were scrambled, and the ferry stopped. The survivor was winched out of the sea by the chopper and lowered onto the lifeboat. The passengers and crew of the enormous ferry ship looked on.

Brighton: Superb time, shopping, relaxing and lunching at my favourite seafront cafe. On a sunny day Brighton is one of the best places in the world to be.

Chester (pictured above and below): Walked the Roman wall and rowed on the river. I read The Young Visiters by Daisy Ashford, who was nine and living in Lewes when she wrote it in 1890. We saw a very good production of it in Lewes last year, performed by an excellent company of actors including a neighbour. It is great fun and unusual, relying on a child's take of the adult world and its manners for its comedy.

And I saw Van Morrison - for nothing. Van the Man was performing at the race course. Tickets were expensive. But you could hear him perfectly well from the road overlooking the course - you did not even have to look at the guy! It was good, although Van Morrison hardly set the crowd on fire. They only woke up at the end when he played Brown Eyed Girl, shortly before he vanished without a word. Nevertheless, a great man!

North Wales: Travelling by train, bus and on foot, I did a wonderful little tour of Snowdonia and the rest of northern Wales. Highlights including the steam train journey from Blaenau Ffestiniog to Minffordd, a journey I had done more than 20 years before with a mate and two Irish nurses whose names – Jackie Cronin and Monica Healion (pictured below, Monica Healion, now Monica Stone, top) – are forever etched on my memory.

This time it was sopping wet when we got to the fabulous Portmeirion, one of the world's great follies, but we managed to enjoy the extraordinary architecture.

Two more trains and a long hike up the hill from Betws Y Coed and we overnighted at the Youth Hostel at Swallow Falls Hotel. I really liked it there. It offers an excellent bar and inexpensive room rates - and you can borrow from their collection of old books.

The next day, I have never seen the falls, swollen with the torrential rain, so beautiful.

We took an open top bus to Pen Y Pass (very spectacular) and another bus down the mountain again. The rain had kicked in with the vengeance, so we forked out to take the traction railway up Snowdon. You could see very little but the railway is a remarkable piece of Victorian engineering.

We gradually made our way back to Chester where two drunken rugby players were wresting on the station platform, egged on by a dozen others!

From my travels, here are 10 Welsh words (with their English translations):
1. Lifft - lift,
2. Gwesty - hotel,
3. Seidr - cider,
4. Llety - accommodation,
5. Siop - shop,
6. Thacsis - taxis,
7. Preifat - private,
8. Marmaled - marmalade,
9. Tost - toast,
10. Salad – salad.

 
Clarke Shooed (Flashback to Friday, 5 May 2006).

8.01am. Lewes Garret. The green and yellow of the South Downs are overcast - not at their best. On a more positive note, the Government has been given a thrashing in the local elections. Yet, John Prescott clings on his job by the skin of his teeth.

7.46pm. Garden, Lewes Garret. A few minutes ago my substitute chiropractor hoisted me up and down on what looked like a Hannibal the Cannibal transportation trolley. You could hear my neck bones being crunched into position. They still feel strange.

The chiropractor was a middle-aged Australian woman. A useful session. Afterwards, I walked around Lewes, as recommended, and went to see the manager at my bank to complain about the pathetic lack of progress in the probe into the theft of my money in a Leamington petrol station debit card fraud.

'I saw the story in the Sun,' she chirped.
'Yes, I leaked it to the media,' I explained.

We had a terse conversation which resulted in her offering to ask the bank's fraud investigation unit to get a move on. Later, she called to say I should get my money back within 10 days. A victory of sorts! I am not, however, counting my chickens. . .

Later I bumped into a mate from the Lewes salsa class SalsaMagic who told me he was chancing his arm as a stand-up comic, a trade I had tried for five years. He told me about his first two gigs and I asked: 'Have you got a fail-safe opening gag?'

'Well,' he said, 'I think it's funny. I say, "You look like an attractive audience - you should be at home having sex. Except you, sir [pointing at a man on his own]. YOU'RE A VIRGIN!"' No comment.

It is beautiful here in the garden. Although the sun is almost down and the half-moon bright above me, the sky is the deepest blue, the birds performing their evensong for free.

11.15pm. Bed. Charles Clarke has been sacked as Home Secretary, and Prescott has lost his department and most of his workload, but not his job as Deputy Prime Minister, his large salary, ministerial Jags, central London flat (at Admiralty Arch), or free estate in Buckinghamshire. Nice work if you can get it!

The Cotesbach Rioters / Inclement Conditions

The Cotesbach Rioters.

Leamington Garret. 7.34am. A beautiful morning, and, hopefully, a beautiful day.

I am in a fairly good mood, despite not sleeping well last night. I went over to Cotesbach and saw Tom, Sophy, Dave (pictured on the classic motorcycle he has restored), Phil, Jane, and Taciturn Tom.

A good night. Won at Staghorn again (and bought beers for everyone with my winners). Tom was highly amused to hear of the first live broadcast of a Staghorn match last week.

Soon Staghorn will be as big a pub game as pool or darts!

I took a photograph of the village pond (left) which I helped to build (one of my proudest moments!)

There was much talk of celebrations to mark the 400th anniversary of the Cotesbach Rioters (and their riot) next year. Sophy had been having a meeting with the villagers in the Hall about it.

I think it could be a most enjoyable occasion to revisit the marvellous piece of history of the Cotesbach Rioters.



I got back at just after 11pm and caught the last two songs at the Jug and Jester jam night (although it had closed its bars) and had a beer on my own at Kelseys.

Inclement Conditions (Flashback to Saturday, 20 May 2006)

9.43am. Lewes Garret. Inclement conditions; wet and wind. Despite the weather, today's outlook is fairly bright. The combination of staying sober, and taking cola and ginseng instead of booze, are working wonders for me.

8.16pm. Lewes Garret, Living Room, basking by the open fire. It is cold, wet and windy outside – like the bleak mid-winter – and almost as inclement within.

Had a great time on an outing to Eastbourne, shopping, walking, talking, and beating the slot machines. Played the horse-racing game, putting in 10 pences on the red or the blue (2-1) odds, trying to spot winning runs, and also backing the white (25-1).

As a result of this strategy, I covered my costs much of the time and, occasionally, won £2.50, at which point we would retire from the game. I was quids in by the time we quit the arcade on the pier and headed for the shops to spend my ill-gotten gains.

The weather was wonderful; sunny, hot on the face, and windy. Walking down one side of the pier, I were able to lean 45 degrees into the wind it was so strong. The sea was wonderful hue of green with vertical explosions of spray as the breakers hit the groynes. A sublime sight!

Leamington Love/Hate / Mr Logic

Leamington Love/Hate

8.15am Overcast outside, hungover inside! Drank too much last night. My back is hurting with a vengeance.

This is what I wrote last night: Leamington Garret. 10.20pm by Big Ken, or the even more pleasing 22.22 of the computer clock. Joni Mitchell on the boogie-box, Brazil having beaten Croatia, me in shorts, drunk. All is well.

The sky above Leamers is still fairly light. God, I love/hate this place (love the place, hate its people - sometimes).
Moreover, my back is feeling better – and I am happy. Very happy! I loved the Brazil game which I saw down at TJ's bar, in Leamington. Boy, they will take some beating. Class turn!

I revised, quite successfully, my new poem for Oliver's Poetry which is OK and could be improved on before publication this Friday.

What else? Even though it is dark outside, it is not. I can see the light in the dark, and it is so wondrous. I am almost tripping on that light.

Mr Logic (Flashback to Sunday, 21 May 2006).

9.19am. Lewes Garret. Blustery, wettish and cold, a great deal of loud chirping emanating from the garden below, the roar of the A-road in the distance.

Had a bad night for reasons I cannot reveal. I slept so badly that I awoke at three-thirty, my back in agony, and had to get up to knock myself out with painkillers.

After that, I had a horrible nightmare featuring Mike Parker, my ex-boss at the Daily Star. And when I eventually re-awoke at nine-thirty, there was still trouble.

11.40am. Lewes Garret. It is freezing up here, very unpleasant outside; I can hardly see the South Downs through the rain.

I have received a most helpful email from Demon, reading just like something out of the Mr Logic strip in Viz magazine:

'Having read your email query, it appears indicative that you wish to acquire a free or cheap statistics package that you could use with your home page at Demon.

'Unfortunately, we at Demon are NOT in a position to advise you in this regard. Please accept our sincere apologies.'

Yeah, thanks dude!

Met an interesting guy in Eastbourne yesterday – an old bloke called George Musgrave (pictured who runs a 'museum' devoted to his work. This might sound rather egotistical but it was good.

George Musgrave had toy soldiers which he had designed – I remember buying them from Boswells in Oxford as a small boy – and a 40-minute, 16mm film he had made with a cast of 20 in 1949! Also, a birthday card from the father he had never known (killed at the Sommes) and a Penny Black stamp.

I was amused to see my first camera (a Kodak Instamatic) and a typewriter of the sort I had used on Fleet Street, displayed as exhibits! My life is already history, I thought (correctly). George Musgrave seemed a decent cove.

I took a photograph of him. He looks good for 90, I must say. And who can blame him for celebrating his life?

Here We Go! / The Great Escape

Here we go!

4.38pm.Lewes Garret, garden It is beautiful out here and blisteringly hot. We watched the England - Paraguay match which was a triumph. Three points, under roasting conditions with a bizarre referee.

Of course the negative pundits are looking at the England - Paraguay game and picking fault with England's second-half performance and Sven's substitution decisions. What these soccer grandees forget is that the coach is planning an entire tournament, not just one match.

He is conserving England's naturally limited resources for the big matches and rightly so.

I must write a poem for next week's site update on England's World Cup hopes and the current football fever, and take a good, relevant photograph.

My front, downstairs window is a giant England flag, and a canvas England flag is tacked on to the first floor window as well.

Marvellous!

The Great Escape (Flashback to Thursday, 25 May 2006)

7.29am. Lainesford Garret. The last day of the course. Rarely have I so been looking forward to the end of an event. I am very grateful to my Day-Job for sending me on this course, but doing it has made realise how damn good my previous tutors Chris Keeble and Tom Peters are.

As for my gang here, any bonding between us is purely superficial and temporary. I would be surprised if anyone on this course kept in regular contact, let alone became fast friends.

I have learnt quite a lot about myself, using them as a mirror, but I am dreading today, when, allegedly, they will be making a tape recording with their first impressions of me (and this for everyone). Time to shatter the surface of the Lake of Tranquillity i.e. go for a swim in their pool.

8.29am. It was colder in the pool today. Once again I was a lone swimmer, plashing through the fallen leaves on the surface.

On the way down to the pool, I played Frisbee with myself, running along to catch it. I then walked down the path and found shabby, disused buildings, a falling down greenhouse and old banger cars. It felt like I was looking at the back of a beautiful oil painting.

I packed randomly and rapidly, and climbed into my suit. My exit strategy is to say as little today and try to get out of this place with my ego as unscathed as possible. If I can, I will buy a big card for the tutors. They have not been brilliant but I do not want to leave them with hurt feelings!

4.27pm. Clapham Junction - Lewes train. Phew! I am out of there. A funny last day. It started strangely with the older tutor complaining that we were not all horribly hung-over.

'People used to get so drunk on the last night, we had to hire a specialist tutor to deal with them,' she said wistfully. We looked at her as if she was stark raving mad.

In our groups for one last time, I was touched by the feedback the other members of my group gave me. It was kinder than I deserved. We went round the group saying what we had thought of each other, while our tutor tape-recorded everything. It was quite emotional at times. I realised what an absolutely decent bunch of people they were.

At the end, the hilarious Welsh schools inspector joked to the tutor: 'Now it is your turn to receive feedback.' She almost had a fit, saying it was our course and, besides, there were no tapes left. The forester said: 'You can have my tape. I don't have a tape player.'

The tutor almost blew her top, and flatly refused to allow us to say what we thought of her and her teaching, claiming it was a waste of time (and missing the rather glaring fact that we were winding her up). She had totally lost us.

At lunchtime, I talked the people on the course into playing Frisbee. It was great fun. The forester was a tidy player; the rotund Scottish girl was game though static; the jolly mum was marvellously lacking in co-ordination; the Ministry of Defence chap was enthusiastic although butter-fingered; and I particularly enjoyed watching the graceful economist.

There was a bit more feedback in pairs in the afternoon, although we were now down to 10. The scientist had been taken sick, and the pregnant girl had returned to work - called back by her department. Then, at last, it was over.

The final task was filling out the evaluation form. This the tutors tried to rush. All the same, I had time to write that, although the content of the course was good, and, working with the people on it had been superb, the quality of presentation by the tutors was weak.

I mentioned the nursery language and their lack of engagement with us at mealtimes, and ended up saying that the course members understood each other far better than the tutors had done.


10.52pm. Lewes Garret. Just been checking out the supposed former owner of my bag, Albert Camus, famous French writer. I have not successfully cross-referenced the street name written inside the lid with him yet, but it is looking increasing likely that it really was the case of Albert Camus.

How extraordinary that the case of a surrealistic should have been used in my surreal comedy act; and that it should now carry my poetry. To be associated in this odd way with Albert Camus is a great omen.