Fortissimo

A friend of mine recently introduced me to the strange world of Forteana, suggesting that it was the sort of thing that would probably appeal to me. She was right in this belief – in fact, I’d come across the work of Mr Charles Fort before. I’d often passed the house in Bloomsbury where he lived in the 1920s while studying at the British Library (it’s on Marchmont Street, marked with a silver plaque, if you’re interested). I’d looked into the work of this fellow, and discovered that, unconsciously, I was already familiar with it.

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by weirdness – ghosts, alien abductions, monsters in lakes, the lot. Believed in most of it, too. It was only when I got a bit older, developed the ability to think critically and learnt the difference between “true” and “things you really want to be true” that I developed that healthy level of scepticism that has prevented me from, e.g., giving heinous amounts of money to a homeopath every time I get the sniffles.

Charles H Fort is legendary in the circles that take an interest in strange phenomena – in fact, he more-or-less invented the concept of paranormal studies (or Forteana, as such studies are often called in tribute to the man). It may come as little surprise to sceptics among you to learn that he was not a scientist himself – in fact, he was a writer by profession. As anyone who’s read Dianetics can tell you, few things are more irritating than a writer who acts like he has scientific expertise without any actual academic study.

However, he did read widely. From a young age he took a great deal of interest in science. Like Yr. Humble Chronicler, he would appear to have been a science groupie rather than an actual scientist. He was born in New York in 1874 and, from a fairly young age, showed an independent streak (which I think is a polite way of saying “obstinate little bugger”).

His interest in science, combined with his rebellious tendencies,logically led him to take an interest in anomalies that science couldn’t explain. Anything weird and paranormal seems to have entered this field of interest, from spontaneous human combustion to rains of fish to UFOs. The only thing uniting his collection of oddities was the fact that science did not have a definitive explanation for them.

This, disciples of Fort are keen to emphasise, was the point of his work – that science does not have all the answers, and we shouldn’t mindlessly accept the opinion of the scientific establishment. This, I think, is a very fair point. After all, some of the greatest scientific discoveries in history have come from going against what is generally accepted as truth. It used to be accepted that the sun revolved around the earth and that ants have eight legs, but now we know better. Similarly, what we now consider to be a scientific truth may tomorrow be equally discredited.

Unfortunately, it’s here that Fort’s lack of a scientific background makes itself evident. The trouble is that, for all his impish mischief, Fort’s assembly of strange phenomena doesn’t really say anything to the scientific establishment that the scientific establishment doesn’t already know. No legitimate scientist would claim to have absolutely all the answers. Even theories that are pretty well established are constantly being refined and modified as new evidence comes in – consider the effect that the discovery of DNA had on studies of evolution, for instance.

In fact, I’d argue that a lot of the time, it’s the Forteans themselves who more closely fulfil the stereotype of the stubborn and short-sighted student of science. There is a tendency among believers in paranormal phenomena to say “If not X then Y,”  e.g. “If those lights in the sky are not any of these things, they must be alien spacecraft!” That is to say, they have no evidence specifically for their conclusions and don’t admit to the possibility that there may be yet another explanation that hasn’t been considered. This, to me, is just as narrow-minded as outright denying the existence of flying saucers, sea serpents, the Duck Beast of Wincanton &c, &c.

One wonders how seriously Fort himself intended his theories to be taken. His sources were often very dubious, he seems to have simply taken every record of weirdness at face value with no discrimination between scientific studies and anecdotal evidence. Some of his followers view him as a genius shining a light on the falsehoods of the scientific establishment, others view him as a Swiftian satirist out to troll everyone. Perhaps the final word on the matter should come from the man himself.

My own notion is that it is very unsportsmanlike to ever mention fraud. Accept everything. Then explain it your own way.

Make of that what you will.

Life, death and the confusing divide

So anyway, to wake me up in the morning I tend to take a slightly indirect route to work via Goodge Street. This gives me a bracing walk through Bloomsbury which takes me past such scenic locations as the British Museum, Russell Square and the Ministry of Truth. Lately, I’ve noticed these bods hanging around Bedford Square:

Notice they're all dudes. I'm just sayin'.

Protesting is very fashionable at the moment (thank you, Mr Cameron!), particularly in this part of London with its many educational institutions, so I’ve pretty much learnt to tune them out. These ones, though, intrigued me both with their persistence and their message.

 They represent an organisation called ’40 Days for Life.’ Their “thing,” their “bag” as the kids would say, is abortion. The appearance of abortion protesters, or pro-life protesters as they like to be called, is something new in this country. It’s quite popular in America, and there has been a certain amount of hand-wringing in the British press. In the US, the protesters are notorious for their use of shock tactics – giant photos of bloody foetuses, shouting abuse at abortion doctors and the like. There have even been cases from the lunatic fringe of doctors being murdered and clinics being bombed.

Now, I think this sort of behaviour is less likely to become widespread in Britain (although a couple of protesters were arrested in Brighton last October for holding up a giant poster of a foetus), purely because there’s less of a Puritan streak in the UK. To put it in perspective for my Yankee chums, your political “left” is our “centre” and your “right” is our “ha ha but seriously.”

Now, speaking personally, I am pro-choice. Here’s why – and I give you fair warning, this will be tackled with all the gravity you can expect from a semi-humorous blog by a foppish wastrel. The thing about pro-life is that, basically, their goal is to rid the world of abortion on the grounds that life begins at conception and God hates that shit. One of the larger banners these protesters have quotes God as saying that he knew us all in the womb. Presumably in the case of miscarriages and stillbirths, he knew those babies were going to grow up evil and their mothers should therefore rejoice.

But here’s the thing. I don’t believe in God. As I’ve said before, I’m an atheist, and therefore the words of God (or one particular version of him, at least) carry no more weight for me than the words of Albus Dumbledore – and there’s about as much solid proof of his existence. I think of myself as fairly tolerant, but I do object to the idea that we should all live our lives in order to placate the whims of what is to me, if you’ll forgive the confrontational wording, a fictional character. When I see protesters arguing that every life belongs to God, I say “prove it and we’ll talk.”

Okay, that’s faith, you can argue that it’s not their fault if the Bible tells them they’re in the right. But it’s not just a question of religious faith, though. In order to justify and promote their position, the pro-lifers have a tendency to exaggerate and even outright lie in order to discourage women from undergoing the procedure. If you can’t make a case without lying, then you have no case. 

Now, yes, I do appreciate that the decision to terminate a pregnancy is a serious one, and I agree with the pro-lifers that it should not be undertaken lightly. Nor do I feel that women should be pressurised into having an abortion if she does not want one. But under the current situation, the one pro-choice folks are generally happy with, a woman can choose to have an abortion or not to have one. If she shares the protesters’ beliefs then she can choose to keep the kid. Everyone wins. That’s why the pro-choice movement is called “pro-choice” and not, e.g., “pro-death.”

Anyway, this is one of those thorny issues that won’t be solved easily. I’ll tell you what both sides can agree on, though – Scientology!

Fully Booked

Right, chums, I think I’ve finally got the last of my Christmas shopping done. Hmm, that’s odd, I seem to recall having more money than that. Oh well.

I realise that many people here are not so fortunate – indeed, I myself have only got mine complete now as a result of a short-term change in my working hours. I feel I ought to do something to help. Here, therefore, are six of my favourite specialist bookshops for those obscure volumes that you can’t find anywhere else that make awesome presents if you know people of a literary bent and that.

I’m going to steer clear of second-hand and bargain bookshops, and also chains. So much as I’d love to, I can’t talk about Forbidden Planet or The Lamb, although both are excellent in their own way. I am also steering clear of those bookshops attached to museums, though these too are fine places for that specialist tome (The Cartoon Museum and the London Transport Museum both have excellent selections on their respective subjects) for the simple reason that they’d likely end up dominating the list. But do bear them in mind.

Anyway, without further ado…

1. Gosh! Comics

Specialises in: Graphic novels

Where is it? 39 Great Russell Street, WC1B

Nearest Tube: Tottenham Court Road or Holborn

There’s no shortage of comics shops in London, but to my mind Gosh! is the best. Comic shops have a tendency to be slightly grotty and a little intimidating to the novice. Gosh! is far more user-friendly, with less emphasis on mouldering racks of old Marvels and more on indie graphic novels, the kind of hip things that get reviewed in The Guardian. There’s also a superb selection of classic illustrated children’s books if you want something for the kids. An occasional treat for comic geeks like me is the signings they had – Hurricane Jack and I were once privileged to attend a signing by the great and hirstute Alan Moore. He’s really very friendly in real life.

http://www.goshlondon.com/

2. Motor Books

Specialises in: Car and other transport books

Where is it? 13-15 Cecil Court, WC2N

Nearest Tube: Leicester Square

Motor Books describes itself as “the world’s oldest motoring bookshop,” and it’s situated on the eminently bumble-able street of Cecil Court. It has a fantastic selection of books on all transport subjects, but as the name suggests, particularly specialises in those related to automobilia, arranged by category and marque. I’m no petrol-head, but even I was able to almost instantly find one of the books I was searching for. The staff are marvellous, and were able to pinpoint the second book right away. Given that both titles were fairly obscure, I must say I was most impressed.

http://www.motorbooks.co.uk/

3. Persephone

Specialises in: Obscure 20th century books by female novelists

Where is it? 59 Lambs Conduit Street

Nearest Tube: Russell Square or Holborn

Persephone is both bookshop and small-press publisher, publishing mainly female-authored books of the twentieth century that have been allowed to go out of print. Famed authors in their day now unjustly forgotten, lesser-known works by well-known writers and even cookbooks and diaries from bygone eras, all are liable to appear in the distinctive grey covers of Persephone. The bookshop has a real intimacy about it, and not just because it’s small. The staff are extremely knowledgeable and ready to provide advice (Yr. Humble Chronicler being less than familiar with between-the-wars women’s fiction). There’s a regular newsletter, too, and you get the feeling that Persephone is the sort of place that likes to nurture a regular customer base. Which is super.

http://www.persephonebooks.co.uk/index.asp

4. Housman’s

Specialises in: Radical literature

Where is it? 5 Caledonian Road, King’s Cross

Nearest Tube: King’s Cross St Pancras

I suspect this is a shop whose time has definitely come, what with the Coalition working hard to piss everyone off simultaneously. Therefore, you may find this place just the ticket if you’re looking for an alternative. Opened in 1945 as an offshoot of the pacifist movement, it offers a massive selection of political literature, including books, pamphlets and zines. However, if you’re not a very political person, but you are a regular on this blog, you may also wish to examine their massive wall of London-based books. Up the workers, and so forth.

http://www.housmans.com/index.php

5. Gay’s The Word

Specialises in: LGBT books

Where is it? 66 Marchmont Street

Nearest Tube: Russell Square

Gay’s The Word proudly advertises itself as the only specialist gay and lesbian bookshop in London, and its selection is very impressive indeed – they cover the whole spectrum from light-hearted fiction to in-depth political tomes, not to mention a fine range of cards and magazines on queer topics. I was rather taken by Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition, as well as a couple of books on the history of gay London. Recommended to anyone with an interest in gender politics, regardless of orientation.

http://freespace.virgin.net/gays.theword/

6. The School of Life

Specialising in: Philosophy, life improvement, self-help… I’ll get back to you on that one.

Where is it? 70 Marchmont Street

Nearest Tube: Russell Square

The School of Life was founded by Alain de Botton. Not strictly a bookshop, it nevertheless does sell an excellent range of books on topics that are related to improving your life. How to enjoy work, how to be ethical, how to take advantage of the simple pleasures of life, how to make relationships work, how to be happy – anything relating to life that’s not easily categorised. The chances are that you’ll find three or four different books you’ll want yourself, along with a bunch for your friends. Bring money, is what I’m saying.

http://www.theschooloflife.com/

The White Stuff

You know, with all the excitement, I never did get around to putting up my snow photos. Which is a shame, because working in Bloomsbury you get some rather pretty scenes on the way into work. Here’s a snowy photo entry type thing! Hurrah!

We begin the journey, as I did, in Colliers Wood. Not that Colliers Wood is a particularly scenically spectacular place, but I thought it would be nice to get a shot of the virgin snow in the small hours. Virgin anything is a rarity in South London, particularly after a late night.

Here is Colliers Wood the next morning. See what I mean about it not being scenically spectacular? Oh well, that’s suburbia I suppose. Affordable suburbia, at least.

Here we go, Bloomsbury at last. Here are some of the many parks and gardens in the area.

This on the left is Store Street, just off Tottenham Court Road. Is that a really big wreath or a really small building?

Also, what is it with blue lights these days? I bet in years to come, blue lights will be remembered as one of those retro obsessions we had.

The snow had started to melt by the time I got to the Brunswick Centre. Still, there was enough on the Christmas trees for my sinister purpose.

The rather art deco lions outside the British Museum seemed unperturbed by the weather. I call the one to the left of the doors Fortescue and the one to the right Ponsomby.

Fortescue is the impulsive one, Ponsomby is the sobering influence.

Statue of Peter Pan outside Great Ormond Street Hospital. Interesting fact, trivia fans: the ashes of former Prime Minister Jim Callaghan are scattered in the flower bed there.

Now, here are three icons of the city – a phone box, a pillar box and an Underground sign. I liked this blog better before it sold out to the tourists.

And finally, a disgruntled pigeon.

Bona blog

Very near where I work is a house that was once inhabited by the late, great Kenneth Williams. It’s on Marchmont Street, if you’re interested. Just a couple of doors down from Charles Fort’s old place. Stop in at the School of Life if you’ve got time.

Kenneth Williams is, undoubtedly, most famous for his appearance in the Carry On films. From his point of view, this is probably ironic, as he always wanted to be a serious actor. Unfortunately, he happened to be very good at OTT comedy, which doesn’t exactly suggest “subtlety” to casting directors. And given the choice between Art and paying the rent, most actors will go with paying the rent. When Yr. Humble Chronicler was treading the boards back in the day, his fellow actors would glory in arthouse film and prestigious stage productions, but what they really wanted was a long-term soap.

For all Williams’ comic persona paid the rent, it didn’t pay it too well – the Carry On films paid very poorly. Fellow star Sid James would supplement his income with product placement on the sly. Producer Peter Rogers considered Williams very good value for money, as the films were very profitable and cost peanuts to make. For all that, Williams never openly hated the series, and indeed, appeared in more of them than any other actor. Carry On Screaming was my favourite, for the record.

"Frying tonight!"

Before the Carry Ons, Williams’ distinctive style actually managed to lose him the gig for which he had hitherto been best known, as a regular in Hancock’s Half Hour. He would play various supporting characters whom Tony Hancock would encounter in the course of his adventures (much as the same handful of characters may appear in several different roles in The Simpsons, say). Sadly, Hancock, like Williams, believed that silly comedy was a bit beneath him. In a drive for more highbrow humour, he eliminated anything he considered unrealistic – and that included Williams’ smarmy characters.

While the Carry On films were taking off in the 1960s, though, Williams appeared in what might have been his best work (in my not-at-all-humble opinion, at least). I speak of Beyond Our Ken and, better yet, Round the Horne. These were innuendo-laden sketch shows starring Ken Horne. Horne would play the straight-man role while Williams, along with Hugh Paddick, Bill Pertwee, Douglas Smith and Betty Marsden, would play an array of bizarre characters he would meet along his way.

The best-remembered of these were undoubtedly Julian and Sandy, a couple of characters played by Paddick and Williams. A typical sketch would involve Horne requiring a service of some sort and entering a Chelsea business, only to find that it was staffed by the screamingly camp Julian and Sandy. Basically, the whole thing was an excuse for lots and lots of gay innuendo. For instance, there was the time when Horne discovered that the pair had started a political party (“Shake hands with yer prospective member!”), the occasion when he required legal services (“We’ve got a criminal practice that takes up most of our time.”) or when he tried to get a book published (“Trade’s been a bit rough lately…”)

What’s quite astonishing is how much they get away with. Bear in mind this was the BBC, Auntie Beeb, one of the Moral Guardians of the Nation. Yet here were two actors (both of whom were openly gay) basically making lots and lots of jokes about sexing up other men. Granted, it’s never openly spoken of, but even so, you have to wonder how they got it past the censors.

Julian and Sandy’s other great legacy was the popularisation of Polari. Polari was a form of slang dialect made up of elements of criminal cant, cockney rhyming slang, backslang, Romany and tinker dialect and bastardised Italian (the name means, in pseudo-Italian, “talk”). It was commonly used as gay slang, enabling homosexuals to talk openly without anyone having a damn clue what they were on about. It also served as a sort of cultural signifier. A few words of the argot have become more widely known, e.g. “naff,” “troll” (as in “to troll around,” a possible origin for the Internet slang term), “zhoozh,” “bevvy,” “bimbo,” “drag” (as in clothing), “bijou.” Julian and Sandy would pepper their dialogue with bits of Polari as appropriate, in one sketch translating Shakespeare’s “Seven ages of Man” speech into the dialect.

Not everyone welcomed the attention Paddick and Williams brought to the cant, and there are plenty who believe they were directly responsible for Polari’s decline, which coincided with the era when Round the Horne was broadcast. After all, with these characters using it every week on national radio, how could it be used to keep secrets?

If I might offer an alternative theory, the decline of Polari also coincided with the legalisation of homosexuality in Britain. Even before legalisation, it was perfectly possible to be openly gay, just so long as you didn’t get caught. It’s true that in the 1950s there was a wave of arrests, but the police themselves seemed to largely view it as a bit of a waste of time (one somewhat miserably described spending so much time in public lavatories that his cigarettes tasted of bleach). When homosexuality became broadly legal in 1967, in the middle of Round the Horne’s run, there was no real need for any kind of secret language.

Like Polari, though, Julian and Sandy were very much of their time. The idea that you could build a series of sketches around a couple of men going on about the fact that they were gay while reciting gay slang in shrill, effeminate voices would, I think, be loudly shouted down today. Not out of intolerance, you understand, but quite the opposite. As a straight, white, middle-class male I never know what the line is between spreading offensive stereotypes and reclaiming offensive stereotypes. Oh well, I’m off to oppress some minorities.

A Socialistic Enterprise

Life in London is expensive, I won’t deny that. You’ve either got to spend a fortune to live reasonably near the centre, or you’ve got to spend a fortune on travel. That’s before the other costs of living are factored in. And this is why I was intrigued to see this shop appearing.

This site on Lamb’s Conduit Street in Bloomsbury was previously occupied by one of those slightly dodgy convenience stores – one of those ones that’s a bit crappy and looks like it might be the front for some sort of criminal enterprise. I must admit that when it closed, I thought it would become a Tesco Metro or Sainsbury’s Local for sure. Fortunately, it was not to be (probably because there’s one of each within five minutes’ walk).

What we’re getting instead is an interesting little experiment. It calls itself “The People’s Supermarket,” run by locals for locals on a not-for-profit basis. The idea is that it can cut its overheads by using a membership system. The way this works is that if you are a member of the co-operative, you volunteer your time in staffing the shop. In lieu of pay, you get a discount on goods sold there. You also get some say in policy and, says founder Arthur Potts-Dawson, the shop aims in this way to serve the unique needs of the local community. One in Bloomsbury may not operate in the same fashion as one in Bermondsey, one in Fulwell may not operate the same as one in Fulham.

Meanwhile, in line with the “shop local” philosophy, the produce on sale is to be sourced locally. Or at least, as locally as you can get when you’re in the middle of the city. Apparently one by-product of this is that they will focus on “seasonality,” which could be a good thing or a bad thing.

There is a precedent for this sort of thing. The promotional leaflet (from which most of the info in this entry is culled) talks about Park Slope in Brooklyn, which has been doing this sort of thing for the better part of four decades.

Will the idea work over here? Hard to say, I’ve never come across anything like it in London. However, Bloomsbury is a (relatively) residential area, and Lamb’s Conduit Street and nearby Marchmont Street have no shortage of independent shops, so maybe it has a shot here. I definitely think it’s an idea worthy of support in this day and age, and I’ll be keeping an eye on it (I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear that).

Workers of the world unite!

Further Reading

http://www.peoplessupermarket.org/ The website.

http://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/food-and-drink/features/arthur-potts-dawson-lets-take-on-tesco-with-a-peoples-supermarket-1648257.html - Article from March explaining the concept.

www.foodcoop.com The American original.

The Bloomsbury Christmas

A common complaint levelled against Britain is the weather. Speaking personally, I don’t mind it. I’m a cold-weather person myself. When it gets hot I either tend to get snappy and irritable or – to the relief of all – suffer from heat stroke. I overheat incredibly easily. In short, cold = good. What I’ll agree on, though, is that we tend to get our weather at the wrong time. We’ll get a sudden heatwave in September, or a week of rain in August. Most irritating of all is our snow. This never comes when it should, at least not in London. When we get proper snow (that is, snow that lies on the ground as opposed to the lame five-minute flurry that melts on impact), it’ll usually be in February or November or some other time when it does nothing but annoy.

Despite numerous Hollywood portrayals of rosy-cheeked carol singers huddled under a gas lamp in the snow at Christmas time (oh, hey Bridget Jones’ Diary, I didn’t see you there), white Christmases don’t really happen here. Of all the major population centres of Britain, we have by far the lowest number of white Christmases. The highest, by the way, is Aberdeen. This is largely due to the fact that London is a city of seven million people, countless animals and God-only-knows how many machines and electrical devices, all of which produce heat. And I’m afraid to say, all you people who live in less populous and colder climes who put money on it this year, white Christmases are measured from London (if a snowflake lands on the roof of the London Weather Centre on 25th December, it’s officially a white Christmas). Also, unlike many of its neighbours, Britain is warmed by the Gulf Stream, making white Christmases even less likely. Bing Crosby can dream all he likes. So.

That meant that last Monday, when we not only had snow but had it lie, was particularly unusual. I love the snow. I think it’s one of those rare occasions when it’s justifiable to regress to childhood. Others being Halloween, Christmas and birthdays, if your childhood involved heinous amounts of alcohol (mine did).

Unfortunately, not everyone agrees. There’s always a lot of moaning when it starts snowing. And yeah, okay, it delays the trains and means a lot of places have to close, but still, snoooooow! I mean, come on, at least it gives you an excuse not to go into work.

Oh, and inevitably we had the papers getting all snarky about claims that trains were held up because the snow was too fluffy. The media, of course, like this sort of thing because it means they can sneer at the railways. In fact, fluffy snow is not a stupid excuse. The reason fluffy snow causes so much trouble on the railways is that the flakes are small and light enough to get sucked in through electric trains’ air intakes and thus into the workings. AND NOW YOU KNOW.

In the meantime, here are some photos I took around Bloomsbury and environs before the snow started to melt.

Fantabulous Festive Facts

I don’t know about you, but I believe in keeping Christmas traditional. That is to say, spend the entire festive period in a food-and-alcohol-based stupor, slumped in front of the television watching Doctor Who at the family home while the sis screeches like a banshee.I was most pleased with the presents I received this year and, I hope, so were my folks. Londonwise, I was given the book Mother London by Michael Moorcock, which is one of the great London novels, and a history of Eel Pie Island in Twickenham. Eel Pie Island is one of the strangest places in London, if not the strangest, and I really need to write an entry about it one of these days.

The marvellous thing about working in London is that Christmas shopping is really easy. Bloomsbury and environs have an abundance of shops ideal for unique presents. The Ma’s present came from Persephone Books in Lamb’s Conduit Street. Persephone, which I have mentioned before in these pages, is an independent bookshop/publisher which specialises in excellent nineteenth and twentieth century books by female authors that have gone out of print. The Sis’ present came from the Bloomsbury branch of Waterstones, which has an extensive selection of history books. The Sis is a fan of historical stuff, you see. I ended up having a pleasant conversation about London history with the shop assistant. It’s nice to meet a shop assistant who really knows their stuff – the bro tells me he had a frustrating time with one of the staff at Waterstones in Richmond, whose spelling was so atrocious that she couldn’t find any of the books he was trying to find (searching on the system for Evlin War’s Vyle Bodys and Ernest Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Armes apparently drew a blank). The Bro’s present came from Gosh! Comics opposite the British Museum, which to my mind is one of the best comic shops in London if not the best, particularly if you’re looking for indie and classic stuff. The only present I couldn’t find in Bloomsbury was the Da’s, which was an antique Hornby Dublo (that’s “train set” to you) railway carriage – I found it on a model railway dealer’s stall in Tolworth.

But I’m sure you didn’t come here to read about me (although if you did, thanks!). Here, in lieu of something more London-based, are some Festive Facts I’ve accumulated over the years.

• Despite what they may want you to think, Coca-Cola did not invent the modern depiction of Santa Claus. Rather, the modern version of Santa Claus is an amalgam of many different winter gift-givers, dating back to Odin and the Tree-Father of Norse mythology. The tradition of leaving out carrots and hay for Odin’s flying horse in exchange for gifts was absorbed, along with many other Yule traditions, into the European version of the Christian festival of Christmas. The Christian Saint Nicholas (or Sinterklaas), a man famous for his generosity, came to be identified with this gift-giving tradition. In the nineteenth century, this gift-giver was merged with the Danish elf Tomte and the British Father Christmas. Contrary to popular belief, Father Christmas and Santa Claus are not quite the same person – Father Christmas was traditionally a personification of Christmas rather than a gift-giver (like Old Father Time or Old Father Thames). He was traditionally depicted as a huge man in fur-lined green robes – think the Ghost of Christmas Present in A Christmas Carol – although Yr. Humble Chronicler has seen Victorian pictures of him in red and blue robes. The various elements of the Christmas gift-giver were ultimately assembled in America as a result of immigration from all over Europe.
• If any one man can be said to have created the modern Santa, that man is Thomas Nast. Nast was one of the great American cartoonists, who can also be credited with creating the Republican elephant, the Democratic donkey and the modern image of Uncle Sam among other potent symbols. His version of Santa, shown just above there, was drawn in 1863 for Harper’s Weekly. It incorporated elements of the jolly fat elf seen in the legends of Tomte and The Night Before Christmas with the larger-than-life Brian Blessed-esque Father Christmas and the white beard and red robes of Sinterklaas. While Haddon H. Sundblom’s Coca-Cola portrait of Santa is a fine piece of festive artwork, it’s just one of a number of Nast descendents. If one were to be cynical (which I never am, of course), one might point out that it’s a pretty fine piece of corporate brainwashing to make people associate the pleasant feelings of their childhood Christmases with the great taste of Coca-Cola. And yet even though I know this, I’ve got a glass of Coke at my elbow right now.
• The Christmas tree is another pagan tradition absorbed into Christmas, originating with the story of Odin hanging from the bough of an oak tree. These pagan origins are acknowledged in Christian lore. Saint Boniface supposedly came across a bunch of pagans worshipping at an oak tree and, being a total buzzkill, he cut it down. He then found a pine sapling growing among the roots, which he took as a symbol of the rightness of Christian faith (I think if I was a pagan, I would have taken this as a sign that Odin can’t be cut down so easily, but there you go). The evergreen is a potent sign of everlasting life, which of course is very much a Christan thing. Contrary to popular belief, the Christmas tree was not introduced to Britain by Prince Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria. In fact, it was introduced by King George III’s wife, Queen Charlotte. Victoria and Albert, however, did popularise the tree by being depicted around it in engravings published at the time.
• The tradition of the Christmas turkey is, as you might imagine, an American custom. In medieval England, a peacock or boar was preferred. At some point between the medieval era and the nineteenth century, goose became the popular Christmas bird in Britain. Norfolk is the great poultry-farming region of Britain, and before the arrival of the railways the geese had to be physically walked from Norfolk to London. For this, the birds were fitted with dear little shoes to protect their feet. And no, I have no idea how one herds geese, which are not exactly pack animals nor especially docile (they are regarded by poultry farmers as being better than guard dogs).
• A common observation made around Christmas time is that the mince pie – a favourite in Britain around Christmas – does not contain mince.  Stranger still, the spicy, fruity substance that fills the pie is known as “mincemeat.” In fact, in the medieval era, mincemeat did indeed contain minced meat. It was common for sweet and savoury substances to be mixed in the medieval banquet – for instance, sugary comfits were often used to decorate joints of meat. The spices were also believed to help preserve the meat. I’ve not come across this theory in any of my sources, but one might also suggest that if the meat had gone off, the fruit and spices would disguise the taste. In the nineteenth century, actual meat was removed from the recipe, but beef suet remained. Tastes changed, and eventually people realised that beef fat and fruit were totally gross together.

So, in conclusion, may I wish you a very happy remains-of-Christmas. I advise you to continue eating and drinking as much as possible – you can feel guilty about it in January.

Adventures in Manga

Have I ever told you how much I hate manga? Because it’s a lot. Same goes for its more active cousin, anime.

No, that’s unfair. Actually, there’s some superb anime out there. Grave of the Fireflies is one of the most affecting anti-war statements ever committed to film. Akira remains a classic of animation. Many of Studio Ghibli’s fine products should be viewed by Disney with a notepad in hand because that’s how you do family-friendly fantasy.

No, what I hate is all these annoying Western teenagers who think that it’s the greatest, nay the only style of cartoon out there. I once heard one, in all seriousness, suggest that the illustrations in an English children’s book written in the 1950s were “anime-style.” They get most upset if you point out that anime and manga were heavily influenced by American cartoons (hence the fact that all the characters look surprisingly Western for Japanese folk).

And don’t even get me started on all these wannabe-artists who claim to draw in the “anime style.” Pictures drawn by such people tend to have a forced look about them. I’m talking dead-looking eyes and stilted, lifeless “action” poses. Word to the wise: if you can’t draw full stop, you can’t draw manga. If I’m asked to admire one more weeaboo’s crappy drawing with its eyes on two different levels and Photoshop filters like they wuz going out of style, I’m going to kill the nearest person to me. These artists either can’t take criticism or remain oblivious to it. Spend a few minutes around Deviantart to see the sort of artwork I’m talking about or, better still, slam your hand in a desk drawer for a more fun experience.

So when I saw that the British Museum was doing a manga-themed exhibition, my initial reaction was, “Et tu, The British Museum?”

HOWEVER, the British Museum had not let me down. The Museum has a rotating exhibition by its front entrance called “Objects in Focus.” This is an agreeable way to spend part of a lunch hour if you’re in Bloomsbury. Objects in Focus is a room in which an unusual object will be placed on display. Past examples have included a Sami magic drum and a shrine to Iranian wrestler Takhti. The display will explain what the object is, its history and its cultural context. It’s a bite-size display that won’t ruin your appetite.

This was one of those. Admittedly they did feel the need to put posters advertising it outside, unlike most of their Objects in Context, but still.

The manga in question is called Professor Munakata’s British Museum Adventure by Yukinobu Hoshino, and the display consisted of a number of pages from this work, which I understand is soon to be published. Professor Munakata is my kinda hero. He’s an intellectual sort, rather withdrawn and a little bit sad, who goes around solving mysteries in ancient history. This, so says the exhibition, is a rare instance of his leaving Japan.

If you take a look at the panels above, though, you’ll see that manga itself, done properly, is superb. Contrary to the beliefs of Deviantart’s residents, manga is not simply “comics for people who can’t draw.” The panels of Professor Munakata himself there express a massive amount about the character. The detail that Hoshino puts into the artefacts he draws is impressive, and never looks out of place next to the manga-styled characters.

The exhibition gives you a little background to the comic, its creator and manga as a whole, and I feel that I learnt a little something about the symbolism of an artform that, if I’m honest, I often tend to dismiss. I blame Deviantart.

Snow Days Don’t Count

The British Museum. Just near here I met a bunch of New Yorkers who were quite surprised that this was all it took to bring the city to a halt.

This was the sight that greeted me when I woke up.  I mean seriously dude.

Shin-deep snow. The only time I can recall encountering deeper snow in London was back in the 1980s, when it came up to my knees. Mind you, I was three at the time.

While attempting to take this Highly Symbolic Picture of an Underground sign covered in snow, I failed to notice the office block sneaking up on me from round the corner. In the ensuing battle I lost three teeth and a leg.

The junction at Tottenham Court Road.

Looking towards High Holborn. This junction is normally so jammed that it’s impossible to cross. In fact, it’s so crowded with traffic that I once saw a policeman do three drivers for obstruction in one go. Ha ha ha that was funny.

Bloomsbury Square. No humorous caption I’m afraid.

Charles James Fox had himself cryogenically frozen at the moment of his death, along with his entire garden. It is now all he is remembered for. Memento mori.

Looking towards Great Ormond Street. As a meta thing, the guy right in front was just taking a photo himself.

Harry was staying at Hogwarts for another Christmas.