All good friends and jolly good company as we get set to tour

The fortnight at Harry’s home in Child Okeford was not only for preparing for the tour, making sure everything was in perfect condition and packed properly in the Sooty van (some fragile items were to travel in the back of Harry’s Range Rover), it was also to give us time to get to know one another before we spent the next six months almost living in each other’s pockets.

Obviously Harry and Tobes already knew Lawrence from their visits to Basildon when he had worked on the Sooty Show, backstage. Similarly Lawrence and I knew each other through the Basildon Arts Centre.

We had to become an even more cohesive group, however, to ensure the show went without a hitch.

Going over the equipment, rehearsing the sequences – especially the water garden – worked well. Just as working in an am dram group can bring a small cast together for that show so that they perform like a well-oiled machine. Well, that’s how it worked at the Little Theatre group.

The guest performer, Howard the escapologist, was not initially part of that togetherness because other than the Arabian Nights UV sequence he only had his own section of the show. Of course, by the end of the tour we all came to know him far better and we made a happy little family.

The family consisted of more than the five of us, however, there’s no show without Sooty and there’s no Sooty without Sweep being there as well. That’s the way I remember it on TV.

I remember Sooty from my childhood and always linked him with Sweep. The show first appeared on TV in 1955 and Sweep did not join his little bear pal until 1957 but I always thought of the two together.

During the two weeks prior to the start of the tour Lawrence had to keep working with the swazzle, which was the device with a reed in it which transformed ordinary talk into Sweep speak.

He would also work with a Sweep puppet to make sure all the movements were right. During lunchbreaks and other down time I would use an old Sooty puppet to give Lawrence a target to talk to and react to.

At times these little impromptu “shows” would end up with improvised conversations between the little bear and his doggy pal. Of course I had to interpret for Sooty, remember he has never been known to say a word.

In the early days I would pretend Sooty whispered in my ear and tell Sweep (Lawrence) what he said. Lawrence would respond in Sweep Speak and initially I would make a rough guess at what he said. It wasn’t long, however, before I understood exactly what Lawrence was saying as Sweep and soon after I was having conversations directly with Sweep.

This was to set my reactions to the three puppet stars for the whole tour.

I felt that Soo was well-intentioned (very much like Tobes) but also somewhat bossy and very much a 70s women’s libber, (very unlike Tobes). Sooty wasn’t really as clever as everyone thought he was – I believe Harry translated the little bear’s whispers to make him sound more intelligent.

Sweep, however, was a completely different box of doggy biscuits. He was a joker, a mischief maker, even a prankster, but there wasn’t a bad bone in his body. When it came to naughtiness Sooty was the real ring leader and led Sweep astray. Once you got Sweep on his own he was just a loveable scamp, a puppy dog out to please anyone who wanted to be his friend.

Of course I couldn’t let the rest of the team know how I rated the trio. Sooty was Harry’s pride and joy but Sooty’s magic all came from the self-same Harry who really was a magician. He was very well-thought of in the Magic Circle as I found out – but that’s a story that comes after the tour ended.

Except for the bossiness Soo was really just a puppet version of Tobes, sweet, charming and just wanting things to run smoothly.

Just as when I was a child Sweep was my favourite, and still is.

Two weeks after I arrived at Child Okeford we set off for the first date on our tour. To this day I still cannot remember those early places on the tour. All I can remember is that the first few were in the South, starting off not far from the Corbett home.

We set out on the Sunday with Harry and Tobes in their Range Rover, towing their plush caravan, followed by Lawrence and myself in the Sooty van towing our, not quite so plush, caravan.

I left my beloved green Moggie Minor behind at Harry’s place.

NEXT TIME: Curtain up, light the lights.

A Song: “Men of England”

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1792-1822
Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed and clothe and save
From the cradle to the grave
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat - nay, drink your blood?

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

The seed ye sow, another reaps;
The wealth ye find, another keeps;
The robes ye weave, another wears;
The arms ye forge, another bears.

Sow seed - but let no other reap;
Find wealth - let no imposter reap;
Weave robes - let not the idle wear;
Forge arms - in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells,
In hall ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade and hoe and loom
Trace your grave and build your tomb
And weave your winding sheet - till fair
England be your Sepulchre.

NB: have our poets and our songwriters lost their flame? Why do so few poets write to the people in the way Shelley did?
What do you think?

Tomorrow

by Mal Melville

Australian poet: on refugees and war
Today another town in flames
another army bears the blame.
Before the bullets the people flee,
nowhere to hide for you and me.
My heavy heart is filled with sorrow.
Where will you be tomorrow?

Desperate and lonely refugees
the unknown our new reality.
Children cry and women weep
the old and frail, a lack of sleep.
We stumble on this road of sorrow.
Where will we be tomorrow?

Nowhere to hide there's no escape
we struggle onward to our fate,
this seething, fleeing human tide,
treasured possessions cast aside.
Broken hearts are filled with sorrow.
Where will we be tomorrow?

Now gathered in this foreign place
I'm searching for your familiar face.
Thousands thinking just like me
just how cruel the world could be.
And though my heart feels so much sorrow
I'm praying you'll be here tomorrow.

The armed militias

by Naji Almurisi

Yemeni poet
The armed militias
Plant gunpowder in gardens
And harvest the holes on the streets
Crushing dreams
Robbing smiles
Spreading pains
Everywhere
Here
Dove of peace
Looking for peace
Here
The olive branch
An arrow
Dripping with bloods
Here
All flowers
Smelling of crying
Here
The truth becomes a kind of stupidity ...

Poem for the Children of Gaza

by Michael Rosen

January 15, 2009
In Gaza, children,
you learn that the sky kills
and that houses hurt.
You learn that your blanket is smoke
and breakfast is dirt.

You learn that cars somersault
clothes turn red,
friends become statues,
bakers don't sell bread.

You learn that the night is a gun,
that toys burn,
breath can stop,
it could be your turn.

You learn:
if they send you fire
they couldn't guess:
not just the soldier dies -
it's you and the rest.

Nowhere to run,
nowhere to go,
nowhere to hide
in the home you know.

You learn that death isn't life,
the air isn't bread.

The land is for all - you have the right to be not dead.
The land is for all - you have the right to be not dead.
The land is for all - you have the right to be not dead.
The land is for all - you have the right to be not dead.

The Day War Came

by Nicola Davies

UK children’s poet
The day war came there were flowers on the window sill
and my father sang my baby brother back to sleep.
My mother made my breakfast, kissed my nose
and walked with me to school.

That morning I learned about volcanoes, I sang a song about how tadpoles turned at last to frogs.
I made a picture of myself with wings.
Then, just after lunch, while I watched a cloud shaped like a dolphin, war came.
At first just like a spattering of hail
a voice of thunder ...
then oil smoke and fire and noise, that I didn't understand.

It came across the playground.
It came into my teacher's face.
It brought the roof down, 
and turned my town to rubble.

I can't say the words that tell you
about the blackened hole that had been my home.

All I can say is this:

war took everything

war took everyone

I was ragged, bloody, all alone.

I ran. Rode on the back of trucks, in buses;
walked over fields and roads and mountains,
in the cold and mud and rain;
on a boat that leaked and almost sank
and up a beach where babies lay face down in the sand.

I ran until I couldn't run
until I reached a row of huts
and found a corner with a dirty blanket
and a door that rattled in the wind

But war had followed me.
It was underneath my skin,
behind my eyes,
and in my dreams.
It had taken possession of my heart.

I walked and walked to try and drive war out of myself,
to try and find a place it hadn't reached.

But war was in the way that doors shut when I came down the street
It was in the way the people didn't smile, and turned away.

I came to a school,
I looked in through the window.
They were learning all about volcanoes
And drawing birds and singing.

I went inside.
My footsteps echoed in the hall
I pushed the door and faces turned towards me
but the teacher didn't smile.
She said, there is no room for you,
you see, there is no chair for you to sit on,
you have to go away.

And then I understood that war had got here too.

I turned around and went back to the hut, the corner and the blanket
and crawled inside.
It seemed that war had taken all the world and all the people in it.

The door banged.
I thought it was the wind.
But a child's voice spoke
"I brought you this," she said "so you can come to school."
It was a chair. A chair for me to sit on and learn about volcanoes, frogs and singing
And drive the war out of my heart.

She smiled and said, "My friends have brought theirs too, so all the children here can come to school."

Out of every hut a child came and we walked together,
on  road all lined with chairs.
Pushing back the war with every step.

You take the high road or the low road – I’m heading down the middle

Please note: If you are a fan of Vladimir Putin or Volodymyr Zelenskyy you might not be keen on what I have to say in this article.

The war (or military operation or invasion – take your pick) in Ukraine has very clearly polarised opinion in this country.

We all know and love or loathe Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. Born in 1952 he joined the KGB in 1975 and had a brilliant career as far as we know even though KGB members did not really publicise their careers.

In 1991, as the USSR was disintegrating after General Secretary, later President, Mikhail Gorbachev had attempted to bring it up to date and join the world beyond its borders, Putin quit his work with the KGB (better to get out before the whole edifice comes tumbling down) and decided to become a politician in St Petersburg.

Five years later he moved to Moscow and hitched his star to the bandwagon of the President of the new Russia, Boris Yeltsin. Initially he was in charge of security (not much difference to his KGB days) but in 1999 he was appointed as Prime Minister (yes, not elected but appointed).

Bearing in mind that one of Boris Yeltsin’s priorities was to keep the Russian vodka industry alive and kicking, if for no other reason than to make sure his personal supply never dried up, it is not surprising that a few months later he stood down as president (probably for health reasons) and Putin was appointed acting president and soon afterwards was named as President of United Russia.

We know how it went from there: two terms as president, and then a term as prime minister (no president was allowed more than two consecutive terms) while his pal, the former prime minister Dmitri Medvedev, became president. The four years later he was “elected” president again with his pal back in the role of PM.

It also appears that from this point he has become president for life (wasn’t that how Julius Caesar upset his fellow senators which led to his sudden death on the senate floor).

Now let’s turn to his opponent, the President of Ukraine Volodymyr Oleksandrovych Zelenskyy, elected as the country’s sixth President in May 2019.

He’s quite a bit younger than his adversary Putin, having been born in the former Soviet Socialist Republic of Ukraine in 1978, and before turning to comedy gained a law degree at the University of Kiev (Kyiv). There are equivalents in the UK: both John Cleese and Susan Calman hold law degrees. Neither of them have become PM of the UK, however, although that might have been better than what we have been lumbered with.

One of Zelenskyy’s most famous roles was in Servant of the People in which an ordinary man became President of Ukraine. Basically it portrayed a comedian acting the part of a teacher who came from nowhere to the presidency.

The series lasted four years, 2015 to 2019, and obviously gave the star a taste of being top dog in the Ukraine, so in 2019 Zelesnkyy stood for the presidency and, to everybody’s surprise won. Nobody was surprised when Putin became President of Russia.

So there we have the background. It is a journalist’s job to look for the background in any story, especially a story as serious this.

Last year Putin started building up his forces on the borders with Ukraine as part of a “military training exercise” and then in February he announced a “tactical operation” which involved crossing the border and then, rather than just concentrating on the Donbas region (a bone of contention between Russia and the Ukraine) his troops aimed into that region but also struck at other major cities and headed for the capital Kyiv.

The Ukrainians, in the main, were not happy about this intrusion and many have since fled to safety to the West with the men, even untrained civilians, staying put, joining the army or preparing to defend their homes, their villages, their towns.

As I have said many times before, as a journalist I look for facts and do not judge a situation on what I see at first glance.

It’s a bit like a policeman at the site of a crash.

The car might be in a ditch, the driver slumped dead across the wheel, and a strong smell of whiskey as though the driver had been saturated in it.

At first glance, it could be supposed the driver had been drinking, possibly even while driving, had lost control of the vehicle, banged his head on the wheel or dashboard and died where he was.

A second glance might reveal the smell of drink was because a gift-wrapped package of unopened whiskey bottles had been thrown off the parcel shelf, between the front seats, shattering on the dashboard and soaking the front of the car and the driver in drink.

At third glance it could be seen that the driver went off the road with no sign of braking and fourth glance – or rather following a forensic examination by the pathologist – the man had died of a heartache and had no alcohol in his blood.

Thus: heart attack; car continues but goes into ditch; gift package of whiskey shatters and drenches driver. No blame, just a terrible accident.

I am not going into all the ins and outs of the current situation in the Ukraine. Stories of atrocities have been levelled from both sides and I do not have the evidence to judge for myself.

What I am going to do is to take a Twitter comment I made the other day to demonstrate how hard it is to take the middle ground.

The wording is exactly as I posted it:

A picture shows some dead civilians in Bucha had packs of military rations.

A. did they steal them and get shot by Russians?

B. did the Russians give them the packs and then shoot them?

C. did Ukrainians shoot them as collaborators paid in ration packs?

Shades of grey.

One of the first replies came from an anonymous poster who considered themself to be worldly wise:

You think shooting a person who may or may not have taken a mouldy ration pack is justified?! What is wrong with you?!

Now I must admit this kneejerk reaction annoyed me and my response might show through:

Typical. If you bothered to read that properly you will discover I asked three questions. I have not justified any potential actions or answers. What is wrong with you?

My worldlywise attacker came back with:

The fact that you posed such a question says everything!

To which question I responded:

Why?

Here endeth THAT conversation.

The next response came from another source, identified but also bearing an odd Twitter handle and using the blue and yellow colours of Ukraine as an avatar:

E. Can you **** off?

My response*:

Standard response from someone who accepts everything they are told as the absolute truth. I posed three questions to which I do not know the answers. As a journalist I look at a situation and ask questions. I expect the people who provide answers to prove those answers.

PS: what happened to E?

PPS: I meant what happened to D?

To which the person replied:

You’re posing the question “are there mitigations for Russian atrocities in Ukraine?” the answer is “no”. Hope that helps.

My response:

I would not consider anything could possible (sic) mitigate any atrocities. All I seek is evidence to go with any answers. Any decent reporter would want to see that evidence. PS: I think Vladimir Putin is a despicable man who puts Russia to shame.

Response:

In that case “Shades of grey” is an unfortunate choice of phrase.

Me:

Why? My comment just means nothing is black and white.

Response (although there may have come a point where posts crossed):

The reason your seemingly reasonable questions are offensive is the notion that lofty objectivity is always justified. It is obviously true that whatever the exact circumstances of their deaths these corpses are a result of Putin’s aggression. In “no” sense did they deserve it.

Me:

At no point have I suggested anyone “deserves” anything that is happening in Ukraine. Nobody deserves to have their home invaded whether it is invaded by a thief or an army. Nobody deserves to die. Please do not put words into my mouth or think you can read my mind.

The final reply:

I’m sure you’re one of the good guys. No offence intended. X

This is an example of how Twitter conversations often go. No matter how carefully you word a comment in the main others do not read everything everything before leaping to the keyboard and condemning everything you have said.

I would like to hear from anyone who feels they have a comment make. All I ask is that you read it first and then check that your answer actually applies to the article.

Please be polite as I don’t think free speech is a defence for obscenities.

Yon Wild Mossy Mountain

by Robert Burns

1759-1796
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me hae  the charms o'yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequestered stream,
Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Among thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow straith;
For there, wi' my lassie, day long I rove,
While o'er us unheeded flie the swift hours o'love.

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.

To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling e'e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart beating love as I'm clasped in her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!

Harold and his Saxons see off the Norsemen at major battle

Following the death of Edward the Confessor in 1066 the English crown was claimed by the dead king’s right-hand man, who had charge of the royal bodyguard. His claim that Edward named him as successor was approved by the Witan (a sort of Privy Council as it was called in latter days) who unanimously voted to give Harold the crown.

Not that he was the only claimant, as we well know.

First there was Duke William of Normandy, just across the channel, the descendant of Rollo, a Viking or Norseman granted land by the French king. The Duke was also known as William the Bastard as his mother was not married to his father.

He had a double claim. First he claimed Edward had named him his successor when the king was in exile in Normandy. His second claim was based on Harold having sworn an oath, having been shipwrecked and rescued by William, to support William’s claim.

William raised an invasion fleet but could not set sail because the wind was in the wrong quarter and remained so for months.

Meanwhile Harold kept his army on standby ready to repel any invaders.

The wait lasted through the summer at which time the fyrd {the major part of the army called on when necessary as the rest of the time they had land to be farmed and raise crops to feed the country) was eventually disbanded to go back to their land.

This was when the third claimant to the throne, the King of Norway, Harald Hardrada, stuck a spanner in the works when he led an invasion fleet of 300 ships to attack in the North of England. His claim was based on his descent from King Cnut, a Dane who ruled England peacefully for many years.

He was supported by Harold Godwinson’s younger brother Tostig who brought mercenary troops from Flanders and joined Harald’s invasion force at Stamford Bridge, near York, in September 1066.

When King Harold received the news that Harald’s invasion was boosted by his own brother Tostig he set off with the core of his army to face the usurper, picking up members of the fyrd as they headed North.

Meanwhile Hardrada’s force had attacked York having defeated the Earl of Mercia’s army. They then retired to Stamford Bridge having ordered the defeated earl to send more hostages and supplies to their camp.

What he didn’t know was that King Harold had made a forced march north with his expanding army and went round the city of York to take on the Norwegians at Stamford Bridge.

Having taken only four days to get there they caught the invaders by surprise on 25 September, 1066, and after a long and bloody battle, most of the blood being Norwegian, Harold won the battle and the remnants of the enemy sailed away in just 30 ships – there weren’t enough men left out of the approximately 8,000 force to man any more ships.

The invasion had been launched because the wind that kept Duke William bottled up in Normandy had favoured the Norwegians.

Then the wind changed, speeding the defeated Norwegians back to their homeland but now blowing favourably for the Norman invaders.

Harold and his men rested up following their forced march and the bloody battle, but just a few days after the battle riders came from the South and met Harold as he was heading home to tell him that him that William and his Normans had landed at Pevensey, East Sussex, on 28 September and appeared to be making camp there while they unloaded the men, horses and equipment.

Harold knew his men were worn out from battle and he took them to London were they stayed for at least a week, gathering strength and replacing supplies.

Surprisingly the Normans remained in their camp all this time.

On 13 October Harold took his army of 8 to 10,000 men to Caldbeck Hill above a valley which lay on the road to Hastings. They took their positions that night on a hilltop ridge about 800 yards wide and with sharp inclines on either side.

Guards were placed and the men took what rest they could, but ready at a moment’s notice to defend their king and country.

COMING SOON: Harold prepares to send the Normans packing.

Amidst the Noisy Ball . . .

by Aleksander Pushkin

1799-1837
Amidst the noisy ball, in Hell
Of everyday distress,
I've seen you, but the secret's veil
Was covering your face.

Your fair eyes were sad and bright,
And voice was so sweet,
As sound of a pipe apart
Or murmur of the sea.

I've liked your fine and slender waist,
And thoughtful image, whole,
And sound of your voice - it nests
Forever in my soul...

When tired, in my lone nights,
I lie down to pause -
And see your beautiful, sad eyes,
And hear your merry voice.

And sad, I fall asleep to see
My dreams that run above...
I'm sure not whether I love thee -
But, maybe, I'm in love.