A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped
and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Over 450 years after the Romans left Britons to fend for themselves the people they left behind had gone West (no, I don’t mean they were all dead, they had literally gone into the West) and the Jutes, Angles, Saxons, Danes and other assorted “visitors” had taken over most of the area that is now known as England.
Alfred the Great (the one who burned the cakes) had finally pushed the Danes back into the small area of Danelaw and by 886 had finally become King of the Anglo Saxons.
Things went reasonably well while Alfred was in charge and on his death in 899. His son Edward then ruled for about 25 years to be succeeded by his son Aethelstan who styled himself King of England.
The reigns of the next few kings of England were often quite short and for some time it was brother succeeding brother (sometimes half-brother).
On the death of Aethelstan the north of England fell back into Viking hands but the dead king’s brother Edmund succeeded him in 939 and took the north back. He died young in 946 and his sons were considered too young to take over so his brother Eadred ruled for nine years. As he was unmarried he was succeeded by King Edmund’s son Eadwig who was 16 when he was crowned and a “bit of lad”. He was allegedly prised out of his bed on coronation day, taken from the arms of a “strumpet”. . . and her mother/.
He was dead by the age of 20 (causes unknown) and was succeeded by his younger brother Edgar who appears to have been less of a roisterer than his brother and who reigned for 16 years.
After his coronation he took an army north to Chester and met with “six kings of Britain” including the King of Scots, King of Strathclyde and princes of Welsh districts. They are alleged to have sworn allegiance to him by rowing him in his state barge across the River Dee.
I have a sneaking suspicion that if this was true then the Scots and Welsh would probably have dumped him into the water as the tide was going out and he would have been swept out to sea.
Still, the story made his successors happy.
Edgar’s eldest son Edward succeeded his father after 16 years. He was just 12 and there was a dispute about succession with followers of his much younger half-brother, Aethelred. Civil war was looming and then Edward was murdered and his step-mother claimed the throne for her boy.
At the age of 10 Aethelred didn’t really seem ready to rule – a problem highlighted by the fact that less than three years after becoming king he fled to Normandy as the Danes led by Sweyn Forkbeard invaded following the massacre of a large number of Danish settler.
Forkbeard was acclaimed as king following Aethelred’s departure but died five weeks later and the young English king returned but spent the remaining few years of his reign battling with Sweyn Forkbeard’s son Cnut.
When he died he was succeeded by Edmund (known as Ironside) who did a deal with Cnut by splitting the kingdom between them. Edmund got Wessex and Cnut got the rest.
The deal was that when one died the other would become King of England.
Soon afterwards Edmund died (what a surprise) and Cnut ruled England for almost 20 years. He also married Emma of Normandy, the widow of Aethelred.
There’s that Normandy cropping up again.
Cnut was succeeded in 1035 by his bastard son Harold the Harefoot (apparently he was a speedy and skilled hunter) when he stole the throne while his half-brother Harthacnut was busy fighting to save his Danish kingdom.
Harold ruled for five years and then died just as his brother Harthacnut was heading for England with a large invasion fleet.
Harthacnut was the last Danish king of England and had told his mother, Emma of Normandy, that her son by her first husband, Aethelred, would be king. The young Edward was allowed to return from exile in Normandy.
Within two years Harthacnut died and Edward (known as Edward the Confessor) became king, returning the Royal House of Wessex line to the throne of England.
So everybody was happy. The Vikings had mostly gone home, Edward ruled England and the Anglo-Saxons were top dog once more.
Well, not everybody was happy, but we’ll look at that next time.
Samson, grinding bread for widows and orphans,
Forgets he is wronged, and the answers
The Philistines wrangled out of him go back
Into the lion. The bitter and the sweet marry.
He himself wronged the lion. Now the wheat
Caresses the wind with its wifely tail; the donkey
Runs in the long grass; and having glimpsed heaven,
The fox's body saunters the tawny earth.
2
After death the soul returns to drinking milk
And honey in its sparse home. Broken lintels
Rejoin the sunshine gates, and bees sing
In the sour meat. Once more in the cradle his
Hair grows long and golden; Delilah's scissors
Turn back into two tiny and playful swords.
Samson, no longer haunted by sunset and shadows,
Sinks down in the eastern ocean and is born.
A little cloud swims to the sun,
With all her crimson borders trailing,
And beckons to the sun to sleep
And covers it with rosy veiling,
Cradled in the dark blue sea,
As a mother lulls her child ...
Lovely to the eyes ... And now
It seems the heart is still,
For one little hour of rest,
With God speaks quietly ...
Like an enemy, the mist
Falls upon the sea
And the little rosy cloud,
Darkness in its wake
The grey mist rolls and billows out,
And the silent dark
Throws its shroud upon the soul,
And you don't know where to wander,
Longing, longing for the light,
Like small children for their mother.
Up and lead the dance of Fate!
Lift the song that mortals hate!
Tell what rights are ours on earth,
Over all of human birth.
Swift of foot to avenge are we!
He whose hands are clean and pure,
Naught our wrath to dread hath he;
Calm his cloudless days endure.
But the man that seeks to hide
Like him, his gore-bedewèd hands,
Witnesses to them that died,
The blood avengers at his side,
The Furies' troop forever stands.
O'er our victim come begin!
Come the incantation sing,
Frantic all and maddening,
To the heart a brand of fire,
The Furies' hymn,
That which claims the senses dim,
Tuneless to the gentle lyre,
Withering the soul within.
The pride of all of human birth,
All glorious in the eye of day,
Dishonored slowly melts away,
Trod down and trampled to the earth,
Whene'er our dark-stole troop advances,
Whene'er our feet lead on the dismal dances.
For light our footsteps are,
And perfect is our might,
Awful remembrances of guilt and crime,
Implacable to mortal prayer,
Far from the gods, unhonored, and heaven's light,
We hold our voiceless dwellings dread,
All unapproached by living or by dead.
What mortal feels not awe,
Nor trembles at our name,
Feeling our fate-appointed power sublime,
Fixed by the eternal law.
For old our office, and our fame,
Might never yet of its due honors fail,
Though 'neath the earth our realm in unsunned regions pale.
A Sunday drive in late summer from North Wales to Dorset, in a 1950s green Morris Minor, is one of the most relaxing journeys I can think of. Well I found it relaxing on that sunny day in 1974.
It was just as well that I have always found driving myself from A to B to be more relaxing than being driven, or travelling by train or bus.
I was turning my back on a profession I had followed for nine years and starting a a new adventure in which I would be in a new town every Sunday for the next six months.
I arrived at Harry Corbett’s home in Child Okeford, not far from Blandford Forum, in the late afternoon and as I drew in to the large yard behind the house I could see Lawrence waiting to greet me, standing alongside a deep blue three-ton Luton van with The Sooty Show painted in bright yellow on the sides and the rear and images of Sooty on both sides alon%%%%with varying sized stars.
Not a vehicle designed to go unnoticed.
As I got out Lawrence came over, welcomed me and told me that Tobes had told him to bring me straight into the house for a cup of tea.
That was when I first discovered that Harry’s wife, Marjorie, who was also the voice and operator of Soo, was known as Tobes (as in Toby jug) to family and friends. I gather it was a name given to her by her sons, Matthew (actual name Peter) and David, when they were children.
Harry Corbett with his wife Marjorie (known as Tobes) and their puppet family, Soo, Sooty and Sweep
Tobes greeted me as though I was a member of the family she hadn’t seen for a while and gave me a great big motherly hug. She told me to sit down while she brewed the tea and as she handed me a mug Harry came in and also gave me a friendly greeting.
We ate with Harry and Tobes that first night and then, tired from the drive, I retired to my bed in the caravan which Lawrence and I would be sharing for the tour.
When I woke the following morning at about 7.30 I had to think first as to where I was. My bed was at the dining end of the caravan and the table dropped down between the two seats to form a double bed. The cupboard door folded out to create a partition.
The other end was a sort of U-shaped seating area (a bit more squared off) and a part similar to the table slotted in to create another double bed.
Over the next few months those remained as beds for the tour and it gave Lawrence and myself our privacy.
After breakfast that first day I was shown around the set store and the workshop and soon realised how efficiently organised everything was.
There were three main sets which were about ten feet wide, but folded down for easy storage on the truck. I know there was a kitchen scene because Sooty baked a pie and I had to make sure the “dough” was ready in place.
Then there was the finale set which was a water garden in which Sooty produced a water fountain from his wand, Sweep’s head, Harry’s finger if I remember rightly, and various other props on the set including a potted plant.
Again this was an unseen role for me as I kept my head down behind the set, made sure the water tank was full, and ensured there was the right water pressure when Sooty “magically” switched the fountain to the other objects.
I think the other big set was a Haunted House. This sequence did not involve me as much as the water feature and I had my role as soundman to keep me occupied (same as with the kitchen scene).
In the fourth Sooty sequence we had a set which consisted of black drapes and a low piece of set at the front, cut to look like rocks or waves and painted in bright colours.
The colours were really bright because they were fluorescent and the whole scene was done with UV lighting. It was an Arabian nights setting and included the magical appearance of a genie.
The genie was controlled by the guest on the Sooty Show Tour, an escapologist called Howard (I don’t remember his surname) who joined us to rehearse his UV role a day or so before the first performance.
I went on a steep learning curve during the fortnight we were at Child Okeford and my first lesson involved providing Sweep’s voice.
Lawrence operated Sweep during the tour and required an “instrument” called a swazzle to make sure he got the right note for Sweep’s squeaks. If you listen you will realise it is like the Clangers and you can actually make out what was being said.
I used to make 20 swazzles a day at the beginning because each one had to be at exactly the right pitch and Lawrence would try them out. The ones that failed to pass the test were junked. Later in the tour I could make a few swazzles at the beginning of each week and one would last the week.
Each day was busy, preparing the sets; making sure all the lighting rigs worked; that the sound system was functioning properly; all the stage drapes were clean and folded neatly for storage on the Sooty van.
That was something else we practised during that fortnight – loading and unloading the van. Everything had to be placed in exactly the right position so that unloading was easier for ensuring the right things went in first.
I’ll give you an idea of how full that van was at a later date and you might be surprised about what we got into it.
I know at the end of the first day I was more worn out than I had been at any time in my journalistic career.
When we knocked off for the day Lawrence and I went to the nearby pub for a well-earned drink or two.
It was a fascinating little pub, really just the front room of a cottage. The serving hatch was in the back wall and the place was run by a little old lady who looked as though she had been there since the year Dot.
There were seats in the tap room with tables and there were benches outside as well to take advantage of the last of the summer weather.
One thing I did find out was that at 10pm the old lady went to bed and trusted regulars to draw their own pints, leave the correct money and turn everything off and lock the door when they left.
As far as I am aware nobody took advantage of this honesty system.
As if in a dream
I hear the radio playing Ukranian patriotic songs
and lovingly produced discussions
about the history of Ukraine
and admiration pouring out of my radio and TV
for the brave people of Ukraine
daring to stand up to this terrible invasion
and I felt warm and sad at the same time
wrapped in the care and kindness of it all
and I was pouring out my admiration too,
and images of the TV came to me from last night
of hundreds of people squashed into a station subway
trying to get out on a train to Poland
and more sounds from the radio of people on the border
shivering and hungry and crying
not knowing if they could get out
while arcs of light flashed over apartment blocks
and the morning showed the cold gray ruins of people's homes
and I heard the words of sympathy
from our leaders
while they explained that Ukranians
would need visas or relatives in Britain
if they want to come here
and I wasn't sure that people crushed
into the subway would have visas
or relatives here, would they?
so if they don't have visas and relatives
what happens to them in the freezing cold
on the Polish border?
and I thought about the care and kindness
coming out of my radio
and I felt uneasy
that I remember other invasions and other bombings,
and the same radio and TV stations
pouring out hours of words
on why similar bombings and invasions
were necessary and good bombings and invasions
and why those resisting were crazy and bad
and of course - as always -
why there wasn't room for
people of those countries
to get out and come here
and I was left looking for the principle being defended here.
This principle can't be that it's wrong to invade
other countries.
The principle can't be that it's wrong
to bomb civilians.
The principle can't be that we must help
those who resist invasions.
The principle can't be that we must help
refugees.
But then I thought,
what's the matter with me?
what is the matter with me?
why am I looking for a principle?
Well, not a principle that lasts
or a principle that is valid in all places.
Our leaders' principles are things
they pick up, boast about and then drop
in the hope that we can't remember anything
from before last week.
Or that we don't notice what else they do
in other parts of the world.
One moment they are friend with people
who are tyrants or backers of tyrants
snd the next they are explaining to us
that the tyrants are tyrants
and the friends of tyrants are friends of tyrants
as if we didn't know that the tyrants are tyrants
and that they themselves are friends
with the friends of tyrants
as if we hadn't noticed this
as if we had forgotten this.
And this is a cycle
that goes on turning,
it's turning in my mind
remembering my parents
talking of the leaders of their town
chumming up with Nazis
corporations selling oil to Nazis
oil they would use to bomb us
and my parents talking of uncles and aunts and cousins
who criss-crossed the very same land
that the refugees are crossing now,
one who escaped
the rest who didn't
and it's a cycle
it's a cycle that grinds millions into the ground
burnt, dismembered, starved, maimed
and I am listening to the radio.
And I am listening to the radio.
The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set -
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink -
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES THE CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their life was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, and -
Just How the Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr Rat and Mr Mole -
Oh books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelf with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites, and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks -
Fear not, because we promise you
That in a week, or maybe two
Og having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start - oh boy! oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.
Having made my decision to move on it was not just a simple case of finish work as a journalist at 5pm on a Friday and start working as a roadie for a puppet show at 9am on the following Monday morning.
Giving up the flat would be a bit of wrench. It was the first home of my own (I don’t count the caravan and cottage in Burnham as that was always temporary) and I had had some good times in it. There had been parties galore in the 18 months I had lived there.
It was also where I had told the love of my life how I felt and knew that my feelings were reciprocated.
On the other hand that link to my love would have been a daily torture if I could never see her again, and that was the way it seemed.
Handing in my notice to the corporation, as landlords of my flat, was simple enough. I would need it up to the last moment of work in Basildon would sleep there on the Friday night. Before leaving on the Saturday morning I would leave the keys with a colleague and the corporation agent could collect them on the Monday morning.
Before that, however, I had to arrange to get the majority of my furniture and belongings stored somewhere safe. Where else would it be safer than with my parents.
It was fortunate that there was clean, dry storage place in the outbuildings at Mum and Dad’s place. Each weekend for three weeks I hired a Transit van and took some of my stuff up to North Wales.
There was one mishap and that was on the middle weekend. when on the motorway the traffic ahead of me stopped suddenly and I just managed to stop about two feet short of the car ahead of me. I automatically checked in my rear-view mirror and could see the car behind had managed to brake hard enough not to run into me.
A few seconds later I was jolted back on my seat and the van was shunted into the car in front.
I got out just as the driver in front got out and headed towards me. Before he could say a word I said: “I was shunted.” At which point we both went to the back of the van and could see that vehicle was nuzzling my vehicle’s bumper.
The driver was getting out and, seeing us bearing down on him, before we could speak he also said: “I got hit.”
I was sure he was right because I had seen him stop, so the other car driver and myself moved down the line. There were only three more cars and each had a crumpled front and rear except for the last one. His rear bumper was bent but there was no car behind him.
He claimed he had been hit but the car had reversed and then gone to the outside lane, which had been clear.
We had our doubts but couldn’t really be certain as to whether he was the one who had failed to stop in time.
In the end all the vehicles were driveable, I escaped the worst because Transit vans are solidly built. I swapped details with the driver in front and the driver behind and after they had also swapped details forwards and backwards we managed to drive off soon afterwards.
While I was at home with my parents I typed up the information on the shunt, including the details from the other two drivers, and gave it to the hire company when I returned the vehicle.
I never did find out what had caused the initial stoppage but I did suffer from a stiff neck for the next few weeks. It probably wasn’t helped by the fact that I was shifting scenery and loading and unloading the equipment before it had eased.
On the third weekend I took the last of it up, except for basics like a plate, mugs and kettle and pans, having bought myself a camp bed and sleeping bag to survive the last week.
Work kept me busy and my weekends were spent in North Wales but that last week was not easy. I was giving up everything and going on the road for at least six months. I hadn’t even considered what I would do after that.
On that last Friday I didn’t really have much to do. All the stories I had been working on and had been tied up and my notepad was clear.
I did have to say goodbye to one special person, a goodbye I believed might be forever. That didn’t stop me giving her a list of our tour dates with addresses and phone numbers for each theatre.
I woke early on the Saturday as I wanted to leave before the town was brought back to life. The keys were popped in an envelope which I dropped off through the letterbox at the office.
Then I was heading for home (North Wales will always be my home) in my car, a Morris Minor again, with my suitcases, camp bed, sleeping bag and kitchen essentials stowed in the boot and on the back seat.
I stayed with my parents overnight and packed away the last of my stuff.
On the Sunday morning I packed all that I would need in a single suitcase.
I had two black polo neck shirts; two pairs of black trousers; two black button up shirts; five pairs of black socks; two pairs of black cotton gloves; five pairs of briefs; a pair of black plimsolls; and a pair of black Chelsea boots.
You may have noticed a theme with this stuff – it’s all black.
I could say that I chose to do a Johnny Cash (Man in Black) as I was heading for a life with a broken heart. Actually I needed all the black clothing for stage work as although some changes would be done in blackout you would be less likely to see a stage hand dressed in black than in bright colours.
All the above were packed in my suitcase, along with toiletries, I also had my trusty portable typewriter with me, but as it happened my travelling attire was also black, trousers, shirt, socks, slip-on driving shoes and a black leather casual jacket (not a biker jacket).
I said my farewells and then I was on the road, heading south for Harry Corbett’s home in Dorset, in the village of Child Okeford near Blandford Forum.
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the holls,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone -
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming up on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance -
and have you felt for anything
such wild love -
do you think there is anywhere,
in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed -
or have you too
turned from this world -
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
Robin's Nest 