Death as a Career Move

The idea of ‘death being a good career move’ struck a chord with Mumbles.
In a bizarre dream, with his cat (and confidant) Trevor, he came up with a cunning plan.
Perhaps a virtual death?

d r e a m   m u s i c…

Dawn. Washes of candy floss pink and Naples yellow caress the Eastern sky.
Jarring black contrast. Trevor sits atop the winged figure on the bonnet of the Silver Ghost.
He sports his black top hat, Stokely shades, black cane and gloves. Sits statue like, beside himself with grief, but set of his jaw Sherman square. Cortège solemnly glides through Polegate.

trev funeral
Turnout of local marching girls astonishing. Palpable deep grief. Trev tips the cane to acknowledge. The Uckfield Silver Band plays ‘Waltzing Matilda’, a ditty that needs no tuning and certainly didn’t profit from any here.
The splendid procession arrives at the Eastbourne Crematorium. Hushed silence as Trev stands beside the coffin. Coffin is bedecked with a tapestry depicting the heroes of the Tasmanian Artists Rifles Battalion.
Inside, the Crematorium groaned with the tear- stained great and good.

After stumbling over Daniel, Donald, Ronda eventually got to ‘David’ in a reminiscence that was a monument to brevity.
Trev stiffened. His Eulogy was a minute away. He shuffled his notes. Then, he became dimly aware of someone moving in to sit beside him. God, he stank. A horrendous cocktail of BO, Cutters choice roll-ups and over oaked Rioja. A halitosis laden breath engulfed Trev. This stuff would have burnt the paint off a German Battle cruiser.

It was Mumbles! ‘What the xxxx is goin on Trev? Who is the dude in the box? He looks as square as Queen Anne. Mumbles went on…
‘I come in here every day to get warm….about every hour or so it heats up nicely…’ Trev was incredulous.
‘Where is your earring?…’ said Trev…. and then his jaw dropped. ‘You haven’t got a left ear either, what the hell have you done?!’
‘I thought it was a good career move’, came the feeble reply. ‘Besides, I can listen to your terrific eulogy with my other ear……CAN’T WAIT!…..’

Mumbles awoke with both ears intact.

In Vino Veritas 11

Episode 11

 

100 shades of nothing much.

Never mind the sun being over the yard arm (as I ordered the first rinse of the day) the sun was scarcely over the gunwales when Spiro produced one of several cold beers. Not to forget the wine. The consumption of alcohol as an antidote was not terribly clever. Where have I heard that before?

As for the good reader contemplating a tasty bookstore bodice-ripping romance, disappointment awaits. The blanket of boredom was ubiquitous, even enveloping the morose Latin lovers. My new best friend (aka Ronda, she the Kiwi of table tennis fame) was also a pretty savvy poker player. These were unexpected skills from an infant teacher.
It was 50 years, almost to the day, that I savoured the deep joy of victory in the table tennis endeavour. Meanwhile, other on-board friendships, not quite so predicated on an increasing friendly rivalry, also developed.

The boredom cavalry, cleverly disguised as Tahiti, at last made an appearance.

The island will forever be associated with Gauguin, the French painter. He is, or was, the very embodiment of the truism ‘Death is a great career move’. A concept that his part-time mate Vincent would have also understood. Of course, there was the unfortunate ‘lend an ear’ incident. Oh dear.
I can still imagine Gauguin, in his youth, trying to sell tarpaulins in Copenhagen. He was not aided much in this endeavour by his inability to speak Danish or the Danes did not want to know about his wretched tarpaulins.
His biography has been constructed along the lines of the Russian landscape…
Interminable. Suffice to say, one of his final paintings seemed to encapsulate our sailing predicament. The title is : ‘WHERE DO WE COME FROM? WHAT ARE WE? WHERE ARE WE GOING?’ Amen to that. Somebody less charitable than me has suggested that his work as a painter would have been just as good, if not better, had he stayed in Brittany. Shame on them.
The stopover consisted of a few drinks with the locals in a sort of ethnic watering hole.
The natives were friendly, but they had that sort of posing and world-weariness together with the unspoken assessment of ‘just another sad load of tourists’.

Next stop Panamá, or more precisely, Colon, the city at the other end of the canal, so to speak.
The canal (first considered as a possible goer in the 1500’s) was finally completed in 1916 by the Americans.
A momentous piece of engineering, it’s cost in lives was around 6,000
I imagine some TV gardening guru, with his wheelbarrow and spade, chatting to his allotment audience. With a confident wave of the arm, he announced he was about to shift 150 million cubic metres of soil so as he could start planting next week.
Colon was founded in 1850 as a rail head and faster route for those going to California in the gold rush days. In those days, writing copy for tourist brochures for Colon would have been a nightmare. How would you avoid words like ooze, booze, swamps, alligators, poisonous insects, floating corpses, pimps, prostitutes, hoodlums and dictionaries crammed with notes on tropical diseases. I can just see a gaggle of excited SAGA tourists lining up at the tourist info. office, itching to make a start.

panama

When we lobbed in, the first thing spotted was lots of pock- marked holes on the Spanish Mission walls. Was this some kind of indigenous insect nesting site? The natives were friendly, if not effusive. We certainly presented no problem, underscored by the fact that they were armed to the teeth. The insects were obviously made of lead.
It seems there had been recent disputes with the Americans over the sovereignty of the canal. At the other end of the canal lies Panamá City, acres of steel and glass, a sort of Central American Dubai. I wonder if there are any air b and b’s in Colon…

Back to the good ship Ellenis. Let’s go! Not l o n g n o w…. . .

Epilogue.. a few months later…

 

mojos pv

Dear Mr Hayes,

Allow me to introduce myself. I am the director of the Uckfield Conceptual Art Centre and, as such, am delighted to know that you and Mrs Hayes will be attending Mr. Mumbles’ exhibition.

Should you be lucky enough to come to the private view it will add immensely to the occasion. I know you are the former art critic of the Friday Ad and are familiar with exhibition protocols, but I will refresh your memory none the less.
First, although we have a dedicated car park, I would be grateful if you could park your Fordson Major a few blocks away. Please leave Lassie in the cab.
2. There is no strict dress code but we feel your Eddie the Milkman outfit, with it’s ill -fitting jacket and cut down boiler suit plus plastic galoshes would be out of place.
We understand Mrs Hayes will be wearing a little off- the- shoulder BHS crimplene number (c.1970) with matching handbag and gloves. How wonderful! Perhaps we might drop the mother- of- pearl tiara…a bit OTT.
3. Alcoholic refreshments will be provided but may I caution you against over indulgence? I happened to be at Mr. Ecclestones show of splendid renderings of wheel bearings, where, somewhat the worse for wear, you announced to all and sundry ‘This exhibition brings to a close 20 years of promise’. Yes, your credentials as a critic are well known, established by your magnum opus ‘portrait painting in Albania,1204-1205’, a splendid account of a somewhat overlooked period.
I am sure you and Mrs Hayes will mingle with the great and the good. I must point out (entre nous) that Mr Mumbles is of an uneven temperament and prone to bouts of nervous anxiety. This has been occasioned by a recent visit to Silverstone. It seems he was discovered in a somewhat compromising situation in a strangers tent.
This is a matter of some delicacy but the upshot was he had to be prised out of the inside of a tractor tyre. His guitar was turned into costume jewellery.
Anyway, that’s it, please make sure you get all the straw out of the tractor when you set off- it really clings to clothing!!

Sincerely,
Jocaster Palfreman- Prideaux

Director, UCAC

Music Box

The vexed question of ‘titles for paintings?’ is a very old friend. The works I produce are, by their very nature, ambiguous and non-specific. They can sit happily with double identities or no identity at all. After all, they are paintings, not pictures. Self-contained worlds in other words. To complicate matters, no matter what they are called, the subliminal undercurrent that pervades them all, is music.

‘Music Box’ is a collection of works where these links are quite obvious and I have provided a brief note of a more direct connection with particular bits of music. The proud owner of one of these huge works said: ‘forget all that tosh, I love the marks and the colour, sod the rest’. Never mind.
This is tricky territory; the Art Bollocks Cultural Police are always on the lookout for this sort of thing, and quite right too.

PETRUSHKA

This ballet/ burlesque was composed by Stravinsky in 1910/11. It tells the story of three puppets who are brought to life. They are Petrushka, the Ballerina and the Moor.
Petrushka loves the Ballerina but she rejects him in favour of the Moor.
Petrushka challenges the Moor but dies in the attempt to vanquish him.
As night falls Petrushka’s ghost rises above the theatre before collapsing in a second death.
The ballet is a rich tapestry of wonderful music, dance and design. It’s popularity remains undimmed, as does the attraction of this tragic figure.

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Formula Fun 10

Episode 10

Mumbles lobbed into M/Claire land. It was a kind of Late ECO/ early Mother Earth kiddie…loads of hay bales, p.c. Tractor tyres, bunches of sweet smelling plants, peace be with you exhortations and the tea was as herbal as herbal could be. Mumbles had been here the first time around. Never mind.
She gave Mumbles the once over. Seemed impressed. It was rather like an Elysian nymphette gazing at Mount Rushmore. She moved quickly on. ‘Do you need this, that or the other? No?’
‘OK. You do your stuff after the interval. Be half as good as when I heard you and you will slay this lot …don’t screw it up.’ Mumbles gave her the old Clint Eastwood lantern jawed green -eyed gaze… She backed off.

The first few sets gave Mumbles one over-riding feeling… that of calm confidence.
They were OK, but listening to them was rather like wading through freshly laid concrete, which slowly begins to set. Tofu and nuts and raw veg. followed.
An almighty chord on the big guitar announced the new kid on the block. He roared straight into ‘The Fair Dinkum Drongo’ Unexpurgated. Boy, did he pin their ears back.
Mumbles, totally given to his work, did not spot Paul who had slipped in at the back.
The bit about Banjo mistaking a Tassie Devil for a domestic cat and tickling the same had the audience begging for more. Howls of delight. He finished off with some sublime cadenza – like improvisations of all that had gone before… twisting, turning, and, 20 minutes later, resolved on a D major chord that produced a wondrous stunned silence.
The applause was deafening. Encore? You bet.
Paul wanted to catch the last episode of ‘The Stirling Moss story’ so set off, but he WAS impressed.

Mumbles, knackered, left soon after. His progress was slowed by a collision with a mountain of marshmallows. ‘God,’ the marshmallows whispered in unison as their grip became vice-like, ‘you were sensational!!’ Holy ****! It was Mrs. Crusher!! She read Mumbles mind.
‘Stay loose’, she said, He is off on a tractor tyre throwing competition… me tent is bigger than yours, fancy a nightcap?’

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Lucky Dip

Letter from a Wimbledon Wildcard

Letter from a Wimbledon Wildcard

The snide remarks about my sad tennis footwear got to me. Even a whip-round was suggested to deal with this. I would fix.

funky trainer

Whilst playing this wonderful game, I often ruminated on the very close and frequent Schoenberg/ Gershwin tennis matches. I imagined their tennis styles would mirror that of their wonderfully disparate musical genres. Schoenberg would be full of cool, perfectly calculated and cerebral ground strokes, not much spin, Gershwin loads of flourishes, rich slicing and topspin and theatrical volleying. How delightful.
Anyway …thinks, I must support the local High Street, none of this online stuff, as a way of getting my footwear. Putting on my old shoes (in the porch), an hour or so passed before I got to the shoe shop, this involved driving, visits to the Supermarket, and about a kilometre uphill stroll.

Shoes were produced, tried one on, and the sales assistant said I should do both feet. Really? I took of my left shoe. The salesman recoiled in a state of utter incredulity.
Verrucas? Smelly socks? NO! He had seen a bloody great toad right in the middle of that shoe.

Toad was very alive and very well and, one wonders, looking at him, do toads ever become the exact embodiment of being pissed off?
Was he ever!

The assistant became unglued. If I had said ‘look, if you can spare a box of tennis balls and a shirt or two, as a freebie, I will sort this problem and get the hell out of here,’ I bet he would have gone for that deal.
Cooler heads prevailed. ‘Leave him where he is’, I suggested. I will wear my new shoes home, and he can go in the bag in his shoe.

The following morning, our neighbour wondered why on earth there was an old empty tennis shoe planted in the middle of our garden.

They still remember it in the town.

In Vino Veritas

Episode 10

Episode 10

By now I was getting used to the funny ways of my little cabin. Basic, yes, but also slightly problematic. When I first arrived, I noticed that immediately beyond the cabin bulkhead, the steel walls seemed to converge somewhat. The purpose of this marine architecture soon became apparent once we got underway. The sound of the waves slapping against the bow was a bit disconcerting at 3 in the morning.
I guess the likelihood of colliding with some unexploded ordnance or the odd ice-berg would be pretty remote in these latitudes. Accordingly, I took out some medicinal insurance (in 75 cl. bottles) to keep me warm in case I had to swim across the Tasman Sea.
My suit hung forlornly in a makeshift wardrobe. I was musing upon this apparent purchasing miscalculation when an invitation fluttered through the door.
The captains cocktail party no less! My mind fancy flew. Again.

AAAAHHH….The moonlight rippling across the gentle water, the air filled with the saccharine strings of Mantovani’s band …and… and… a young couple holding hands and gazing wistfully out to sea.
A Hollywood hologram no less.

Sod all that.
The reception area for the party was in an architectural style known as ‘EARLY GYMNASIUM’. Retsina and Ouzo seems mercifully absent from the drinks list. There were loads of olives and feta and all things Greek. The calamari was not a million miles away from a bicycle inner- tube. And, of course English and Greek are not the happiest linguistic bedfellows. Although glamour and chic had not caught this bus, it was agreeable enough.
Unhappily, my suit seemed to be a huge hit with the First Officer. Oh Dear.
At some point during the proceedings somebody picked up the communal boredom baton and indicated, inter alia, the good news that our ship had a table tennis table.
My ears pricked up at this. I was pretty hot stuff at this kiddie. The following day a group of us gathered for a few games. I felt like kicking off by handing out a good old fashioned thrashing.
So the score rattled along. 6-2, 8-3, 12,5 16-8, 20-12, 21-13, GAME OVER,
JOB DONE, THRASHED!

I got the 13.
She was bloody good.

AND STILL IS.

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