Patience
The source of our tribulation will become our greatest ally, through patience.
Author: Sue Young
It Ain’t Over…Emotions.
Emotions
Some people leak, others cork up.
It Ain’t Over…
I’ve always loved quotes. When I was very small, I used to quote quotes often, because I had a memory for such things but mostly because it was a source of comfort. My father would scoff at me. ‘Let me guess,’ he would say, sarcastically, ‘what you just said, that was a quote, wasn’t it?’ So, daddy had me down as a parrot, a mimic, a quoter of quotes.
Little did he know, I was simply learning. I was merely a student on a journey through the absolute joy of quotes. And, little did I know, that a natural desire would develop to create some of my own. So I wrote my own, through the experience of love and joy and thinking too much and angst and torture and heartbreak and all those other things that make you feel alive, or make you feel that you want to die, also. Inspired by a million other quotes, by gorgeous broken people, and all absolutely heartfelt.
I also remember feeling a bit depressed about something and then my beautiful christian friend from the United States said to me one day, ‘It ain’t over ’till the fat lady sings’ and ever since then, when things aren’t going right, that phrase resonates with me and has really helped. And it’s true, it really ain’t over, ’till the fat lady sings.
Mere words can help so much, and sometimes can lead us out of depths of depression and onto better things, which means words are not just powerful, but miraculous.
Oh Han, put me into hyper drive, the way you used to do…
All the real fans who give a toss will have seen Star Wars The Force Awakens by now. And to those who haven’t seen it, by your very actions, it’s obvious that you’re not really arsed, but I still have to do this
SPOILERS ALERT! SPOILERS ALERT!
I’ve already discussed sexism in Hollywood, and we’ve all seen what a terrible mess it is. Injustice doesn’t come into it, it’s horrendous, but ageism, oh my goodness, now there’s a can of worms, there’s a bargepole no-one will touch. Why, because it’s sticking up, in luminous yellow and undulating like the Alarm Meanies in Yellow Submarine. It’s the huge pink elephant in the room. These Hollywood big shots, these movie moguls, these polyester patriarchs (cashmere I know) just look what they did to Han Solo in Star Wars, The Force Awakens? It was like Euthanasia. Ageism at work. Why the hell didn’t they make him grow old a little more gracefully? Okay then, disgracefully. Beforehand, I had one of those dreaded sneaking suspicions. I sort of knew it was going to happen, I had the inkling, and it doesn’t surprise me one bit. Why? Well, because he’s over fifty, and if you’re over fifty in the movie business…At least, please, let him grow old I said to myself fretfully, don’t cull him, don’t cull any of them just because they’re getting on a bit. Oh, wait, you did? My worst fears were realised. I guess I’m too late, and even if I’d have got there in time, I still wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.
Here’s a guy who has been flying the Millennium Falcon for about fifty years now, lovingly, O.C.D-ishly, manically, lustily even, and then, some snotty nosed kid comes on board, who has never seen its innards, and suddenly starts telling Han how to fly it. Okay, he’s been away a while, but this man knows EVERYTHING there is to know about the Millennium Falcon. He’s an EXPERT. He would have made love to it, if it would have been physically possible. He would have married it and had its babies. So they better not start telling me he’s forgotten how to fly it, or what buttons to press, ‘cos he’s always known how and where to press her buttons.
Just because he’s mature, does that mean he’s not quite up to scratch ? His mental faculties are not at optimum, is that what they’re telling me? That does not ring true with Han, simply because this is a man who has full control of his faculties.
Even though, every pirate and business associate in the universe, are all swarming after him, for debts and favours, in a DELUGE, he’s roguish enough to swindle them and avoid them which makes him competent mentally, in fact, makes him sharper than you’re average guy. He has game and if you’ve got game, you’ve got guile, and if you have guile…you have NOT FORGOTTEN HOW TO FLY THE MILLENNIUM FALCON!
In Star Wars, Episode VI, Return Of The Jedi, Lando Calrissian ‘borrows’ The Falcon for a Saturday night date, (yes I know, not really, but how cool would that have been) and he assures Han that ‘it won’t get a scratch’ and ‘no snogging in the back seat.’ Han replies, in what was to end up, a classic quote from the movie, ‘I got your promise now, not a scratch.’
Now does that sound like a man who, thirty years on, or so, would then allow the Millennium Falcon to get into such a state of disrepair? I don’t care if, during his mid life crisis, he forgot about his ‘oneitis’ (which, by definition, cannot be forgotten really). I don’t care if he bought a red sports car, an electric guitar, a leather jacket and a 18 year old Miss Corellia Coast beauty pageant winner, he would not abandon and neglect his beloved ship. (The Star Wars land, Corellia, is forest and jungle terrain but ‘Corellia Coast’ has such a nice ring about it).
Nowadays, they kill you off before you get your first liver spot.
Are people so afraid of death that we can’t have old people on the silver screen, for a long time, with lots of lines, having meaningful and important roles, that last through to the end of the movie?
So if Han would have lived, perhaps he would have smelled of wee and start wearing purple, who knows.
Come on, let’s give the up and coming stars of tomorrow a chance. We’ve had our day. It’s a young man’s game. It’s not like the forties any more, where twenty year olds would happily be played by fifty year olds. I’m sure that trend will come round again someday.
Until then, the desert is a great training ground, making brilliant pilots at such a young age.
Luke needed many months of training by the great Jedi master Yoda, before he got up to Rey’s standard and she’s barely out of her teens. It’s not like the old days, when skills got learned over time. Luke didn’t know how to spit in a bucket when he left Tatooine. People need a bit of green in them, so we can see the difference later on (I think it’s called growth) but Rey is successfully playing the Jedi Mind Tricks now. And yet it took Luke, what, five years of serious intense training with Yoda, on the Dagobah System, to achieve the same results?
Apparently, it’s fine to be an amazing pilot and learned mechanic, even though you’ve been barely irking out a living as a desert scavenger and can barely afford to eat. Nice to see that hunger and homelessness doesn’t get in the way of self teaching quantum physics, engineering and propulsion, and of course, don’t forget, what took Han Solo many, many years, learning the ins and outs of The Millennium Falcon, took Rey just a few seconds.
No-one likes a smart arse.
Even if she’s a girl.
So, if you’re over fifty, you will either be patronized, humiliated, killed off, given a couple of lines and forgotten about for the rest of the movie. Or, if your name is Mark Hamill, and you’re obviously over fifty, you won’t appear until the last five minutes of the movie. But I’m sure you’ll be in the second one, as you’re bearded and wiser now and a new Obi Won Kenobi. Get used to it.
I hope in the next movie, we are going to see General Leia kicking someone up the arse, telling someone they stink, to their face, and that they are a little too short for a storm trooper, and start swinging off ropes in the Death Star. I was genuinely disturbed by the fact that Leia implied that she had been sitting home night after night waiting for Han to come home to her. He says I know that you missed me, I know about the pain of missing me and that’s why I did it. I was surprised this powerful intelligent confident woman was waiting at home, pining for a man, to turn up, who gleefully enjoys ‘stirring anxiety.’ Of course, Han is a P.U.A, naturally. And then I saw that Han had gone from playfully misogynistic to seriously misogynistic.
Is Chewie going to go off on a big revenge thing or is he going to be resigned to an old Chewie home, which would be consistent with getting rid of the old, and bringing in the new.
I was woefully mistaken in my hopes that we would see some swashbuckling action from Han, in the whole three movie franchise adventure…instead of what actually happened.
What a fool I was.
As I say, it’s a young man’s game. Look at this doddering old man who can’t even start up his own ship. Let’s all laugh at him. Let’s look at the fact that he’s seventy odd and his memory is going. Let’s put that across, so we can then do a spot of euthanasia. Then everyone will think, well, we had to do that really. We had to put him down. It wasn’t fair on him.
Now, all these spring chickens in this movie, will happily attract other spring chickens to the cinema, as they have lots of spare cash and can make the film companies lots of dosh.
Don’t get me wrong, the new up and coming young actors in it are great, and you can see that they have a wonderful future ahead of them. Rey, Finn and Kylo are going to be wonderful in this new saga and will end up as iconic as Han, Leia and Luke. A new generation.
Harrison Ford as Han, is an iconic figure with so much mileage, but they have decided to kill off their golden goose. Han has been slaughtered and euthanised by Kylo. Let’s waste him, in favour of the young ‘uns. Youth is the thing.
Your grandparents are only good for one thing. Presents.
It would have been better if Han would have retired and played golf instead of being impaled like that. He may have made the finals of the desert golf championships on Tatooine. He does look a bit like Severiano Ballesteros, who was supposed to be the Han Solo of the golf word, but he is obviously more like Jimmy Connors, who was well known as the Han Solo of the tennis world in the early 80’s.
There’s another point. Han, at his age, and in his experience, would not still have two bit Chav gangsters coming after him, at this stage in the game. At his age, he’s have more seasoned rivals, more like himself and more in line with his level of experience and skill, which would have been gained by the time he was seventy. He would not still be in dealings with some teenaged gang on a street corner in Mos Eisley.
We keep banging our heads against a brick wall in our lives, sometimes…often, but we learn from our mistakes, even though we keep making them, but..surely Han would have moved on… in some way, somehow…It just doesn’t ring true.
There’s nothing wrong with Han Solo, played by Harrison Ford, so why are they saying he’s forgotten how to fly his beloved Millennium Falcon and this child has to tell him how to do it? Humiliating in the extreme. Listen Rey, you’re a nice kid and all, and somewhere along the line, you’re going to defeat ultimate evil, and stop the destruction of the universe, but don’t teach your granny to suck eggs okay?
It doesn’t ring true. I know, I keep saying it. This guy has social skills. The only thing they keep, of the original Han, is his contrariness, which unfortunately, now that he’s getting on a bit, just comes across as ‘Grumpy Old Man’. They should have put him in a smoking jacket, a silver fox, puffing on Eldorian cigars and drinking sand cider. He married a Princess for Goodness Sake. He married Princess Leia. He would have come up in the world in some small way. He’s been conning the inhabitants of this mythology for a very long time and gained a great deal of experience. By the time he’s seventy or so, he’d be a dab hand. He’d have written a ‘How To Win Friends and Influence Jakku.’ manual, at the very least. I think he would have even run for president. He’d have gone up, on the democratic end, against Arnie of the Star Wars Universe, and probably won.
It would have been nice to see him moving on. Everyone changes and matures with age, even if it’s just into more alternative chaos, or denial that you’re no longer an 25 year old smuggling space cowboy. We all evolve into something, even if we’re losers, or in denial, or won’t/can’t grow up? (This is resonating with me) But we all evolve with time. We have to. He’d have changed, a little. Was Lucas pandering to his fans? Or rather J.J Abrams? That was exactly the case, he has said that, in a round about way, I can see where he was coming from, but, I was upset that Han has not moved on, has not ‘progressed’, has remained frozen, as if he was still back in carbonite, in 1984 in Jabba’s Hutt‘s Palace.
And he would not be in the same garb, we all love that garb, it’s the sexiest garb ever, but he’s older, we’re older. I’m not ready to grow up either but we all like consistency. He would not be wearing the exact same clothes. What if Marilyn Monroe had lived until she was 90, would she still be wearing that iconic white dress, from the Seven Year Itch, the one she wore while standing above the Subway air vent on Lexington Avenue between 52nd and 53rd Street in New York City?
No…and only when she was alone in her bedroom, with a few sherries under her belt.
I admit at first, I liked the idea of Han in his black and white space cowboy stuff, because it appealed to my safe sense of nostalgia. How lovely and warm and fuzzy but fashions and trends change, even in space. Would you be wearing the exact same clothes twenty years on, even in space?
Even men don’t do that.
We all know people who stand still, but not like this.
It just doesn’t ring true to his character that he would let his beloved ship gather dust bunnies like that. It also doesn’t ring true that he would owe all these space gangsters money and favours and they would be still be trying to kill him? He’d have come up with strategies by now. He’d have evolved, surely? Had people to take care of more pedestrian business. Unless, we are really trying to say that he’s a loser, who doesn’t learn from his mistakes, or hone his game? That he was in his dotage and he doesn’t know how to turn ‘her’ on any more. And we’re not saying that, are we?
HAN: Yes, I pressed all the right buttons in my youth but it’s all slippers and afternoon game shows from now on.
You can’t please all of the people all of the time I guess.
But you can still pull a lever and press a button. You can still turn on the Millennium, can’t you, Han?
Okay, so we have encountered extreme ageism in this new saga, so far, but that’s okay, Ageism won’t cause a riot yet will it? It’s not yet politically incorrect to be ageist. It’s not going to get people’s backs up. So, we can let it go and no-one but no-one, will be character assassinated for ageism. So ageism will exist…in your face.
Apart from that, I genuinely liked everything else about the film, especially the fact that this new up and coming young Jedi is a girl. How non sexist! Oh, how forward thinking.
As Geena Davies might say, thanks for the tokenism boys, but will it actually be sustainable? Will it go anywhere? Will it be nothing more but the false girl power of yesteryear, a lip service, an opium of the masses, just to sedate the ladies for a short time? Oh look, a girl is going to be a Jedi! Well then, that should keep us satisfied for the next twenty blockbusters and for the next twenty years. Phew. Good to get them off our backs. Not that they were ever really seriously on them.
Now, after a nice quick patronizing pat on the head, we can sit back and relax girls. Surely we should be happy now. Something to be grateful for. Forget the revolution. Rey is the next Luke Skywalker!
All is well with the world.
Or is it?
Some of us might have thought thought sexism was a problem, and it is.
They way the older, iconic stars were treated in The Force Awakens upset and offends me, and it feels isolating, like no-one else can see it, but it was expected and that’s what is really disturbing.
But, I guess, we ain’t seen nothing yet.
Whatever Happened To…Bernard Sumner
I’m going to say one thing about Bernard Sumner, if I don’t say anything else, and that’s…I like him. He seems like a likeable guy. I could be wrong, but I just read his autobiography, Chapter and Verse, and not only was it informative and insightful, regarding his years in Joy Division and New Order, but Bernard comes across as…a very down to earth, reasonable person. The kind of guy you could have a pint with, down your local, and end up thinking, ‘Oh, that was a really nice evening. We had an intelligent, amiable night, we talked about intelligent, amiable things, in a very civilised way.
‘Life shapes you, and what life does to you, shapes your art.’
– Bernard Sumner- Chapter and Verse.
I may have completely got the wrong end of the stick…according to, perhaps one other former band member, ahem, who I won’t mention…well, not yet. In fact I’m afraid to speak his name. We’ve gone into old school nineties horror here. Just like you don’t say ‘Candy Man’ three times while looking into a mirror, you also don’t say ‘Hooky’ three times into a mirror, not even a cracked one. Oops, I said his name, but only once, I will mention it again later, but you see, in his defence, he thinks differently and he sees things differently. There are always two sides to every story and I will address that, in time.
In the first section of the book, Bernard talks about his upbringing and mostly he has favourable memories of growing up in Salford and remembers it as a happy time. He has many poignant and thoughtful insights about growing up and his sometimes troubled relationship with his mother. Chapter and Verse is also a fast paced, well written account of Bernard’s musical journey from the seedlings of Joy Division to the full bloom of New Order.
Joy Division were formed in 1976, one of the very many bands to be inspired by a performance of The Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall, Manchester on 4 June 1976. Makes you think about the mathematical impossibilities, considering all the people who were supposed to be there, which would actually total 1,000+ by verbal accounts, That appearance spawned a generation of legendary bands, which is strange, because there were only around forty people there. Fortunately for Bernard, he was one of them, along with Tony Wilson and Paul Morley.
‘Punk and The Pistols blew a sneering path through the middle of all that puffed up musical pomposity.’
– Bernard Sumner, ‘Chapter and Verse.
Joy Division were originally named Warsaw, loosely named, after Bernard heard ‘Warszawa‘, a beautifully haunting instrumental album cut from David Bowie’s ‘Low’ album, (1977) co written by Brian Eno (had a huge effect on me too) The band consisted of singer Ian Curtis, guitarist and keyboardist Bernard Sumner, bassist Peter Hook, and drummer Stephen Morris.
‘I was relieved to get a call from someone, (after placing an ad for a new band member) who wasn’t a weirdo, or a mad hippie.’
‘He’s a drummer (Steve Morris) and drummers are odd people. They like hitting things for a living.’
Bernard Sumner- Chapter and Verse.
Tony Wilson signed Joy Division to his Factory Records label and they released Unknown Pleasures in 1979. The producer of the album was heroin addict, and Sméagol impersonator, Martin Hamnet, a musical and creative genius (think Mancunian Trevor Horn) with some social interaction issues. As the band’s popularity grew, Curtis, who suffered from similar problems, including the obligatory interpersonal issues and epilepsy, found it increasingly challenging to perform live. The album was a success, but on the eve of the bands U.S tour, in May 1980, Ian Curtis committed suicide.
‘He said he felt as if he was pulled inexorably into a great big whirlpool. I didn’t know what he meant by that.’
Bernard Sumner. ‘Chapter and Verse.’
Ian married young and had a wife and a baby. When success came, and all that went with it, including late night parties and social opportunities, he embarked on an affair. He had never thought it through, but by then, it was too late, it became impossible for him to make a decision. Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. There was no way out. And so he chose what seemed to be the only way out.
The album Closer was released in July 1980, it would be the second and last Joy Division album. A song from the album, ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart‘ was released as a single shortly after Curtis’ death.
In the empty but restless void of bereavement, New Order was born. It seemed Bernard was the next natural vocalist for the newly named band. He could never fill Ian’s shoes, but then, he never wanted to. He went where he was gently nudged. But where he was gently nudged, seemed to work very well.
Steve Morris’ girlfriend also joined the band, Gillian Gilbert, playing keyboards and guitar.
‘Movement‘ the first album from New Order was released in the winter of 1981. At the time, it received a lukewarm reception, but has since, received much more favourable reviews. Like men and wine, it has aged better with time, and in 2008, the album was re-released in a Collector’s Edition with a bonus disc.
Their fifth single release as New Order was Blue Monday, 1983, which became the biggest selling twelve inch single of all time.
‘Power, Corruption and Lies‘ was New Order’s second album, released in the Spring of 1983, and unlike their first New Order release, was much more positively received. Mainly because it was seen as an album which cut New Order’s umbilical cord to Joy Division’s past. No more tied to the apron strings of Curtis’ legacy, New Order was finally able to run wild and free.
The band went on to release eight more albums and many compilations.
It was around this time, Tony Wilson and Rob Gretton put their heads together and opened their brain child, The Hacienda. It was financed by Factory Records, Tony and …er… revenue from New Order’s success, much to the bands surprise. For the basis of their ambitious dreams, Tony and Rob chose an innocuous warehouse on Whitworth Street West on the south side of the Rochdale Canal. The nightclub was active between 1982 and 1997, celebrating the upcoming trend of acid house and rave music. One of the first artists to perform there was Madonna. She faced a bored, restless, and typically hard to please, northern crowd.
While indulging Tony’s latest fantasy, albeit a guileless and genuine attempt to put Manchester on the map, the coffers of New Order and Factory Records, began to haemorrhage money.
Not that Bernard didn’t enjoy the spoils…
‘I started drinking far too much before gigs. Afterwards, I felt relieved I’d got through it and would drink even more.’
Bernard Sumner- Chapter and Verse.
This wasn’t just during gig time, the nightclub was open from Thursday through Saturday and Bernard and other band members were a permanent fixture at the bar, enjoying every square inch of it, but his Halcyon days in the Hacienda, were about to come to a timely end.
‘I’d been burning the candle at both ends for so long, the flame had finally reached the middle.’
Bernard Sumner – Chapter and Verse.
By the nineties, gang related violence, and a drugs related death, put an end to The Hacienda. When local magistrates and police visited the club in 1997 (I believe it was on a Saturday night when these middle aged, tea-total pillars of the community came round, and, witnessed (through their mini bus/car windows), a near-fatal assault, on an eighteen year old. They saw him being bludgeoned from behind, before being pushed into the path of an on-coming car.
It spelt the end of The Hacienda. It was a combination of the violence, oh, and maybe, just maybe, the dwindling finances, the security services who were unable, or unwilling, to maintain order, the rampant drug use, but mostly, mostly, the inability for anyone to pick up the nightly bar tab.
Peter Hook went on to own the name and trademark, ‘The Hacienda.’
In 1989, Bernard joined up with Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr to form Electronic. Neil Tennant from the Pet Shop Boys provided vocals to a couple of tracks on their debut album.
‘Bernard got him (Marr) in the divorce.’
–Peter Hook. (A humorous and entertaining interview that puts Hooky in a good light…finally.
In 2007, Bernard formed Bad Lieutenant with Phil Cunningham. They released one album and two singles. Bad Lieutenant sound like New Order on amitriptyline. A more mellow, relaxed, laid back version of New Order, which is what you need, and, sometimes want, in your more mature and responsible years. I’m not sure that’s selling it. Hey, but this is good for the ears, whatever age, or rebellious persuasion. Bad Lieutenant calmly and coldly suffocates mid life crisis, with a well placed, well upholstered pillow.
Runaway is a lovely example.
Now Bernard has quite a bit to say about his former band member Peter Hook, and visa versa. It’s the age old story, creative peeps get together, they create ‘art’ together. When they get together, there is a certain chemical fusion and things are good, things gel, for a while, but then something goes wrong. Bonding creatively, through the good times and the bad,and, living in each others pockets in a very short and intense amount of time, well, it takes its toll. After all that, perhaps it’s not so strange when creative harmony suddenly becomes creative differences.
Hate is a soup which takes time to stew.
I can’t say too much about it, because I haven’t seen the other side yet. It’s important to get the other side of the story, as we said before. Peter Hook has written two books about his experiences in the music industry, Unknown Pleasures. Inside Joy Division and, The Hacienda: How Not to Run A Club. I haven’t read either but I will and perhaps review and be able to provide a neutralising and balancing effect to what I’m about to say now.
(When Peter Hook came out of Rehab)
‘Out of nowhere, Hooky launched into this unprovoked , finger jabbing diatribe against me, accusing me of f****** up his past, intending to f*** up his future and telling me that I was responsible for everything that has ever gone wrong with New Order.’
-Bernard Sumner, Chapter and Verse.
In the book, whether deliberately or inadvertently, Hook comes across as an alcohol dependent, angry and unreasonable man.
In this new frame of mind, or perhaps old, Hooky announces publicly, without informing the other band members, that New Order has split up.
‘I’ve neither the desire for, neither the intention, of being drawn into a public slanging match with him but it’s difficult sometimes, especially with some of the more outlandish claims and slurs, calling me highly offensive names in the press. He still seems determined to perpetuate this imagined rivalry.’
Bernard Sumner- Chapter and Verse
Imagined rivalry? You see, that suggests to me, that it is not altogether imagined. If one person is disgruntled then it’s already a reality for one person and the other person is simply choosing not to acknowledge that reality. I think what we have here is simply two very different styles of communication. Hooky is, by nature, more upfront and confrontational, Sumner is more introverted and sensitive.
When he’s not making music, Bernard enjoys taking to the sea in a shallow boating vessel. Yachting helps him relax and connect with nature. We’re talking about a family man here. Relaxed, content and finally at peace with himself.
Bernard comes across as an imaginative, intelligent, down to earth, live- and-let-live individual, with a fair amount of integrity and creative talent. I can’t speak for Candy Man right now, but I will, because, as I keep saying, there are always two sides to every story, and when we properly analyse each side, it will help keep the gossip mongers away and help prevent character assassination. Maybe.
‘They sharpen their tongues like swords and aim cruel words like deadly arrows.’
Psalm 64:3
I think these two like each other, they just don’t want to admit it. They went through so much and not just the shock and bereavement of Ian’s suicide. They made great music together. They need to give it up and shake hands. When creative types work together, it can be absolute HELL, but it’s the nature of the beast. Life is short and these guys aren’t getting any younger.
And the fans, well, they hate the fact that they’re having a go at each other and the vitriol doesn’t seem to dilute, even over many years. In fact it just gets seems to grow stronger.
‘I’m looking after myself better. I’ve given up getting f***** up all the time and, as Jimmy Cliff sang, I can see clearly now the rain has gone. Shit does happen in life, but you can get over it. Don’t let it defeat you. And with that, I think we’ll leave my story there.’
Bernard Sumner – Chapter and Verse.
Whatever Happened To…Geena Davis.
She is tall and beautiful with a dazzling smile and auburn hair. She is an American film star, most dominant in the eighties, who has been in classic movies like Thelma and Louise, Beetle Juice, The Fly, Earth Girls Are Easy and Stuart Little. She has recently starred in successful U.S series Grey’s Anatomy as Dr. Nicole Herman. She is set to star in a Hollywood movie, currently in post production, called Majorie Prime.
Geena Davis discovered from an early age that she was musically gifted and could take to playing piano, flute and organ. She is fluent in Swedish, graduated with a bachelors degree in drama, is a member of Mensa, was a model at Zoli Modelling agency and wait for it, there’s more! … Davis was short-listed for the 2000 Olympics…as an archer. Is there nothing this girl can’t do! I hate her! No, only joking. I love the woman.
And I love her even more for her forays into the nature of inequality in the workforce, particularly in the creative entertainment business. Never mind Hollywood, sexism is prevalent everywhere, the work force, the sex force, the love force, the creative force, the just being friends force.
She has married, settled down and has children, but Our Geena won’t settle down into safe apathetic middle age. She doesn’t want to watch repeats of NCIS in the afternoons or camp down with Haggan Daz, and say f*** the world, I have a blissful middle class life. Who cares about the new sexy tight bodied female actors coming up in the world. Like I care. I got banana ice cream with caramel and cookie swirls and chocolate peace signs on this sofa. Or if it was me, cheesecake with Greek yoghurt and blueberry swirls.
It was a bit like the scene in Labyrinth where Sarah is temporarily hoodwinked into thinking life is good and all she’ll ever need is her teddy bears and her dolls and her hidden object games. She’s in a safe and very blissful place, just having a happy girlish time.
Anyhow, Geena said, hang on a mo, wait there a sec, there’s something not quite right here peoples. I’ve just noticed, I’ve done the math (As we noted before, she’s a member of Mensa) and I’ve been watching films and I’ve noticed that women are a bit like mushrooms. Kept in the dark and fed s***.
Well she didn’t say anything like that. Apparently, she was sitting down to watch children’s telly with her daughter one evening, when she noticed an inequality in male to female roles. Perhaps she saw that in children’s programming first, because she was watching with her children, and then in t.v and movies generally. She must have thought, hang on, I’m smarter than the average pigeon. One word, Mensa.
Having read, studied and appeared in theatre plays, I have noticed, rather gradually (as I’m a slow learner) and rather indignantly, that male roles are first and foremost. They are always the most meaty ones, with the most lines, not necessarily the most poignant or meaningful but they are just there. It seems to be about air time, whether it’s theatre, t.v or film, it’s about maximum male exposure. It’s the flasher made legal. They can be a cad, a rapist, a mad scientist, gangster, a writer, a war hero, an entrepreneur, lodger, bum, it doesn’t matter, as long as they’re male.
Having written theatre plays, I realise I may have been guilty, particularly as a youngster, of placing men in central roles, which is a product of deep seated conditioning, my environment, being a youngster, and a reflection of the social norms of the time. Having recognised that, I hope I can learn from it.
Male actors are always going to get more air time, more importance, more exposure and usually top billing. While men are the central character, always the maypole, the female(s) are not the reason for the story or the plot, they are always the bounce off, the supporting cast,the girl on the arm, the appendage, the trophy.
Geena officially investigated and intensively researched gender in children’s entertainment with the help of the Annenberg School For Communication at the University Of southern California., It was discovered that there were nearly 3 males to every 1 female character in the almost 400 children’s movies analysed.
‘‘When my friends and I would act out movies as kids, we’d play the guy’s roles, since they had the most interesting things to do,’
– Geena Davis.
This happened to me too. Between the ages of 8 and 11, I role played a 27 year old ladies man called Keek Jones. I played him in little original plays and scenarios thought up by me and my on and off screen brother (whose pseudonym was Georgie Jones. We were a kind of Bodie and Doyle from The Professionals. I was Bodie, of course) and got so deeply involved in the character,that I didn’t know I was female and twelve, until I was about twelve.
Geena may not be in main roles in blockbuster movies any more but she is still making a splash in the awareness of gender issues in the entertainment/media industry. Like perhaps many other women, I couldn’t fail to notice discrepancies in gender imbalances in the entertainment industry, but have never thought it any big deal, just accepting it as ‘our lot’ as women. Although the studies have only been done in children’s television entertainment, it sweeps across the board. You don’t need a study from a university to prove it, but it helps.
What would help disprove sexual and gender inequality? Well things like, if Geena had a main female role in a major movie and not be relegated to the sidelines as somebody’s mother …and to be cast as the love interest. Yes, that might do it.
Guys like Harrison Ford are in their seventies and yet, it would be perfectly acceptable for them to sleep with younger women characters. Doesn’t usually work the other way around. There we have the inequality that is ignored, denied and not recognised among the Hollywood moguls, or perhaps in any workforce or walk of life. Girl power never existed. It was the usual lip service, patronized by powerful patriarchs behind closed doors. The Spice Girls just created an illusion designed to make men breathe a little easier.
Geena is currently looking into gender equality in all areas at the moment, not just in children’s entertainment, which doesn’t surprise, as it would be a natural progression. I’ll bet she’s opening up a whole can of worms in that area. She says, “Amazingly, the ratio of male to female characters is exactly the same as it was in 1946. We see The Hunger Games come out and we think … things are changing, but the numbers haven’t changed.’
But apparently, there is an improvement in T.V, as opposed to movies, where women have stronger and more prominent female characters. An example being new marvel phenomenon Jessica Jones. Yet, women constitute just 12% of protagonists in both T.V and film. Only 17 percent of the screenwriters featured on the 2015 Black List were women. The Black List is what people behind the scenes are reading in Hollywood. Men predominantly write the scripts, a place where women are women and men like it. It’s only natural that men have a tendency to write from their perspective, a male one, so until women are represented equally in scriptwriting terms, until those scripts are chosen, until they are allowed to have a voice that writes from a female point of view, equality is not going to happen. What makes it worse, is that the Black List is the result of a survey of 250 entertainment executives, that is 40 percent female.
Geena Davis suggests that, although ground breaking films like ‘Thelma and Louise’ get made and are anticipated to induce a plethora of similar movies, in reality, this is just not the case. While people enjoy movies with female protagonists, they very rarely lead to any long term breakthroughs in gender presence. Instead, they remain simply novelties, designed to patronise and sedate.
Equality of the sexes is still a long, long way away. I open doors for men, as I open doors for women, (just because they’re human) and men get confused, as men do, and think I’m trying to get off with them, and the women never say thanks. I must have SOME motive? Sarcasm? Bitchiness? Likewise, I’ve seen men open doors for women (just because they’re human) and they get short shrift. (Probably, again, because they think the men are trying to get off with them or somehow trying to patronize them). Why can’t people just accept that maybe, just maybe, people are being polite and it has nothing to do with gender. When you open a door for someone, it’s about kindness and thoughtfulness and is just a very basic consideration from one human being to another. Or at least it should be. Why make it a gender issue. Let’s make it a person issue. The same goes for movies.
“Gender discrimination drives me crazy,” Streisand said. “Women are still treated as second-class citizens in the workplace and are not equally represented in Congress.”
Barbra Streisand and Geena Davis have offered a solution. The way forward is for women to join forces with each other in the industry. Women basically need to work together to change things. Nice idea. Well, we all know how uncompetitive women are with each other and how they don’t have a bitchy thought in their heads. If there are self confident women, secure in their own bodies, like Geena and Barbra around, then it’s gonna work, let’s hope it does, but it might take a bit more time and a bit more of a mind shift for others.
And we’ll let Geena have the last word here…
Geena Davis’ TWO EASY STEPS TO MAKE HOLLYWOOD LESS SEXIST’:
Step 1: ‘Go through the projects you’re already working on and change a bunch of the characters’ first names to women’s names. With one stroke you’ve created some colorful unstereotypical female characters that might turn out to be even more interesting now that they’ve had a gender switch. What if the plumber or pilot or construction foreman is a woman? What if the taxi driver or the scheming politician is a woman? What if both police officers that arrive on the scene are women — and it’s not a big deal?
Step 2: When describing a crowd scene, write in the script, “A crowd gathers, which is half female.” That may seem weird, but I promise you, somehow or other on the set that day the crowd will turn out to be 17 percent female otherwise. Maybe first ADs think women don’t gather, I don’t know.
And there you have it. You have just quickly and easily boosted the female presence in your project without changing a line of dialogue’.
Sounds like a plan.
Last Great Female HellRaiser
When nature calls and we really need the bathroom, we might cross our legs, like a four year old at nursery school, and somewhere along the way, eventually, we have to pee, or run the risk of soiling ourselves. Betty May would simply cock her leg to mark her territory and she wouldn’t even need to go.
Physically, Betty May is long gone, but she is still here somewhere. Her will, personality, character and integrity is strong enough to penetrate the present time and is still very pertinent to this age and to the women of today. In spirit, Betty May is still alive. And that’s why I’m going to talk about her as if she is still alive and kicking. Kicking hard.
Betty May is the type of woman who doesn’t care what people think of her. At all. This is a woman who has no sense of self consciousness whatsoever. But that isn’t all. She isn’t just a rebel without a cause. She doesn’t do things just because she can. She has no sense of that awful destructive sin of pride. One of the worst. Or are they all named equal? Sometimes it depends on your perspective.
Her autobiography first published in 1929, is entitled ‘Tiger Woman. My Story. The Incredible Life That Inspired the musical, Betty May. Tiger Woman Versus The Beast’.
Who is the beast? Why, the most famous/infamous magician of all, Aleister Crowley. She takes him on and wins. Or rather, she doesn’t bow down to him or give him the time of day. She sees right through him. She knows he is probably just a creep, who couldn’t get girls when he was an adolescent. He may have internalised this, it may have built and built, as things do, into a rage against the female of the species and the obsessive thirst for that Golden and easily obtained Knowledge of ‘how to control women’ (A least half a dozen of his girlfriends had nervous breakdowns, the other half committed suicide) leading inevitably into deeper misogynistic thinking, paranoia and eventually impotency. Therefore, it’s only natural that he may learn other ‘methods’ of potency. i.e. killing defenceless animals.
Oh no, don’t go up against your local muscle bound peers or even your intellectual ones or your morally superior ones, ‘cos you can’t hack it can you Mr. Crowley? Don’t try to better yourself emotionally, mentally, educationally or spiritually to get ‘power.’ Instead, just act like any poorly brought up, ill educated teenage boy from an impoverished council estate…and kill the local moggy. Oh yes, Mr. Crowley, that is so manly. But you can’t even kill it yourself can you? You have to order other people to kill the cat, because you don’t have the stomach. (Please skip the rest of this paragraph, if you’re of a nervous deposition and/or love animals, especially cats) You would then order others to drink the blood of these animals. What a challenge it must have been for you to catch and kill something so much weaker than yourself, eh, Al? How Satan must have loved you for being able to catch and kill a cat. Where is the challenge in kicking a kitten and taking candy from a baby? Taking the wide road has always been incredibly easy, rather sad, and without challenge, and a real attraction to snivelling cowards.
I’m getting ahead of myself, as usual, and, I am in, a rather bad rant.
Ahem, Cough. Let me out. I apologise and compose myself. No, forget that, apologising is a sign of weakness and I take it back but I should state here that Crowley emphatically denied the cat killing/blood drinking incident. He also attempted to censor the book but was unsuccessful. Some people may think, ‘Well if Betty May fabricated some of the story, who’s to say what is truth and what is lie.’ Fair point but this book is a puzzle that needs to be unravelled and perhaps never solved and therein lies the beauty and the intrigue. So who is this Betty May? Why is she The Tiger and why is she connected with Aleister Crowley, the Great Beast, as he liked to call himself?
Betty May was born in 1893 in Canning Place, into abject poverty. She lived with her mother and brother initially, but, her mother, tired of working tirelessly, to ineffectively support two young children, sent Betty and her brother to her estranged husband. He lived in a brothel, an idle drunken slob and that is where Betty and her sibling stayed for some time. That was until her grandfather, her dad’s dad, arrested him and sent him off to jail. He was an inspector and long tired of his son’s lifestyle choices.
After spending the next couple of years in an idyllic existence, in the countryside with an strait laced and aunt and uncle, Betty escaped to London and became involved in the bohemian world of the Cafe Royal. She would only be matched, decades later, in her drinking, dancing and hell raising by her future male counterpart, Oliver Reed.
Whilst also being worldly in other matters, she was strangely innocent in others. She took a steam boat to Paris one evening with a lecher who tried to rape her at the end of the evening. She stabbed him with a pair of nail scissors and fled, ending up on the street, without fare back to England. Homeless and wandering, she inadvertently and rather haphazardly stumbled into a Parisian underworld rather like a French Mafia, called Les Apaches. A tough knife wielding female gang member was set upon her, as a kind of test. She gave as good as she got and then some. Thereafter she was nick named The Tiger.
I have a feeling that much in that last paragraph may be a fictional account in Betty May’s autobiography. She admitted that the book was ghost written but a large part of the resource was taken from articles she had written herself. She said the first part of her life is wholly true, as is the latter, but there are bits in between which aren’t. The continental Oliver Twist section feels contrived and rather romanticized but there is no way of knowing for sure.
So let’s just say, when eventually she escaped the gang and was able to return to London, she meets a man named Miles L. Atkinson, (1888–1917), nicknamed Bunny. He was a cocaine addict who quickly got her into the habit. He went to war in 1914 and was killed in action in 1917, but May was by now a heavy addict. She married again. Her new husband cured her of her addiction, by using the short sharp shock treatment of making her go cold turkey.
By the end of 1918, May had divorced her husband when she discovered he had been unfaithful. Husband number three was Raoul Loveday, an Oxford graduate. They lived in one room and Betty supported them by sitting as an artists model for sculptors Jacob Epstein and Jacob Kramer. Raoul meanwhile wrote poetry and was a bit of a tortured soul, as poets often are. He became bewitched by all things occult and found solace in the teachings of his friend and mentor, Crowley.
May gave her husband an ultimatum and he her. Stay or else, from her. Go or else, from him. They upped sticks and went to Sicily, taking up residence in the sparsely furnished and threadbare Abbey of Thelema. It was here she became cook and bottle washer for Crowley and his cronies, in exchange for sour cheese and bread every day and the most excellent wine she had ever tasted.
Crowley seems to have spent most of his time pouring over books, studying in the library and meditating like a proper old style monk. Apparently there were no orgies or anything remotely satanic going on at the Abbey, apart from the feline murder and the drinking of its blood.
Betty herself is no stranger to the orgy and had partaken of many in her time. She says nothing like that ever happened at the abbey. The worst thing there was the lack of toilet facilities. No basin or lavatory to be seen. Betty even went rock climbing with Crowley on Sunday afternoons, as a special treat and they had a lovely time. Apparently, he couldn’t half climb rocks. He’s beginning to sound more like a benevolent Uncle, with each new piece of information, gleaned.
A few days after the blood drinking incident, Raoul, Betty’s current husband, and one of Crowley’s most obedient male sycophants, died. At first glance, it appears the ritual had something to do with it, but he drank some dodgy spring water that Crowley had warned him not to. Crowley to the rescue, once more. It’s like an Enid Blyton novel. Take these hard boiled egg sandwiches and lashings of ginger ale and have a wonderful time, but remember children, don’t drink the water.
At least his misogynistic view would be in line with Blyton literature. Remember, Betty May, let the boys put up the tent, ‘cos you’re a girl. (I had that said to me as a kid, but without the Betty May bit and the tent). Saying that, Cuddly Crowley did take Betty May rock climbing. That’s not so misogynistic. Oh, he’s such a mass of contradictions.
With Raoul gone, Betty got out of there fast and returned to London. Unlike Raoul, she resisted drinking the water on that thirsty outing out. I say, Betty May, that’s pretty smart…for a girl.
The book fizzles out somewhat and you just get the impression that she’s about to ride off into the sunset for some more wonderful and exciting adventures and perhaps a fifth husband, of which there is rumour. She apparently moved a bit further north in her twilight years, did some charity work for orphans, stopped having orgies (or perhaps not) and died when she was 86 in about 1986, which wraps it up nicely.
The thing is, the book may have been ghost written, it may be fictional in some parts. (I hope it’s the cat bit, ‘cos I love animals, but I only think it’s true, ‘cos I’m not a big fan of Cuddly Crowley and it seems like just the kind of thing he would do. Well, he was the most ‘Wicked Man In Britain’, no wait, it’s worse than that, the world.
Betty May seems like such a natural soul, so innocent and sweet in some ways, apart from the orgies of course, but we all have our little foibles. She is spontaneous and impulsive and responsive with the people she comes into contact with, a prerequisite for orgies, I think, but also for being warm hearted and lovable. Not sure if we can be lovable if we over think things and it’s so easy to over think things. I’m not sure she did a lot of thinking but she got Cuddly Crowley’s number, and that was rare, for after his schooling in the art of pick up, he was reputedly, hard to resist.
Maybe, this scene will sum up what I’m trying to say about Betty May. I think it says something nice about this woman, hell raiser or not.
She works in a hairdressers and has heard a newspaper report that a woman had caught leprosy from a Chinese hair net. Maybe it’s the drugs, paranoia or both but guess what product she has just started unpacking while she was in the hairdressers? Yes, you guessed it, Chinese hair nets. So she runs out into the street and onto a packed bus, tells everyone to keep away from her. Gives the fare to the bus driver and tells him not to touch it because she has leprosy (she doesn’t) and makes a complete spectacle of herself in front of very many people. She may also have been off her face on drugs, but she cares and that’s the main thing, she genuinely cares.
The Last Woman
Imagine you’re doing a quiz somewhere, let’s say down the local pub. The Quiz Master asks, ‘Who was the last woman to be executed in Britain?’
Your pen/pencil is poised. That’s easy. It went into human consciousness years ago. It’s like being asked ‘Who won the 1966 World Cup?’, or ‘Who was British Prime Minister between 1979 and 1990?’ It’s a no-brainer really, certainly for people of a certain age. You know that you can afford yourself a self satisfied smile, which passes between you and your team mates, as you smugly supply the answer on your quiz sheet.
I wonder though, if, in that smoke free but boozy bar room, the quiz master asked another question instead. ‘Who was the last person to be executed in Britain?’ There is a silence. You can hear people thinking, a few glasses clink at the bar. People shift buttocks. The teams confer with puzzled expressions. They start to cast surreptitious looks to the other teams and their closely guarded papers. It’s a bit like being at school suddenly. Hmm, you tap the pencil on your knee/chin/beermat/glass. Then the quiz master says something you did not expect, a generous clue. ‘It’s a trick question this one.’
He has further added to the confusion, he said person, not woman, still, same thing isn’t it? Maybe that’s where the trick question is. After all, this is the cliché standard answer to a standard question and there is the scratchy sound of pencil on paper as most people write ‘Ruth Ellis’
Now before we get too bogged down in this mythical pub, we’ll come back to that later, it’s been 50 years, this year, that the Sidney Silverman’s Murder Act was passed, abolishing the death penalty in Britain. The famous Ruth Ellis murder trail and her subsequent execution, played no small part in a social awareness evolution. An evolution that was to eventually end capital punishment in Britain.
Ruth Ellis was brought up in a poverty stricken working class home. Her father abused the female members of the family, resulting in him fathering two children to Ruth’s sister, Muriel.
As soon as she was able, Ruth reinvented herself. She escaped to London and into the sleazy, yet often exciting world, of west end night life. The nerdy, bespectacled and rather mousy young woman hid her inhibitors to glamour (her glasses) in a place where they would not offend her, usually her handbag. Then, she bleached her hair an eye catching platinum blonde. She began taking modelling courses, became a hostess and eventually ran a nightclub herself, turning quite a profit.
In this environment, she met the public school boy educated David Blakely and they had an tempestuous off and on affair.
The rest as they say…is history.
Ruth and David make the future Sid and Nancy look like Andy Pandy and Looby Loo, yet, just like the yet-to-be Sid and Nancy, Ruth and David were lost souls, helplessly gravitating towards each other, drowning in their misery, gasping, as they are grasping, and destroying each other accordingly.
In some of the accounts in the biography, ‘A Fine Day For A Hanging‘ The Real Ruth Ellis Story’ by Carol Ann Lee, it appears Ruth was a victim of domestic violence. Many witnesses in her circle, at the time, spoke of the very many and numerous bruises covering her body on a daily basis. The book talks about one incident where she disrobes in front of a man and he was so shocked and disturbed by what he saw (she was so badly bruised) that their night of sexual congress was aborted.
She was punched in public by her lover, two days before she shot him and was often seen with black eyes. She acquiesced to his need to drink and became a drinker herself. It is alleged that she was drinking a bottle and a half of Pernod a day (after meeting David)
The problem was, like most victims of systemic physical or psychological violence, the victims are ashamed and often believe they are deserving of the treatment and/or do not feel they have the strength to leave, or to end the relationship. They are unsure how to resolve the situation and are unable to see any avenues for a way out.
When Ruth gave her statement to the police, there was no solicitor present and during the trail there was very little reference to any physical violence she may have endured at her lover’s hands. Her defence team were woefully inadequate in that department and so, a plea for manslaughter was never in it. Although, it has to be said, Ruth would not help herself in this matter. She would not ‘accuse’ anybody of anything. Apparently, during the trial, she never had a bad word to say about anyone. Wouldn’t. She thought it was ‘traitorous.’ It was very frustrating for her defence team.
Perhaps it was a kind of honour. Certainly, where I come from, there’s a culture where people don’t ‘grass’, don’t tell on other people, even if those other people are to blame and even if it might save our skins. S.O.S. Maybe it’s a foolish kind of honour, but there it is. It’s better to save our souls than save our skins.
However, a plea of provocation was introduced.
Her legal team, credit where credit’s due, did make a concerted effort to make a plea of ‘slow burn’ provocation, but it was not a term recognised either in America or Britain at the time, and this was obviously the case here.
‘Provocation- defined as an act that might reasonably cause a person of sound mind to suffer a sudden and temporary loss of self control, rendering the accused so subject to passion as to make him or her not master of his mind.’
‘With diminished responsibility not yet a legal term, it may be this is why David’s violence over the past eighteen months, together with his persistent infidelity and emotional abuse, were deemed irrelevant in court.’
From ‘Eve Was Framed‘- Helena Kennedy
And then there’s the other angle. The angle of the gun. Desmond Cussen was the other man in the love triangle. He adored Ruth and disliked his love rival, David Blakely. Cussen did seem like a decent guy, but the theory was, he had not only provided Ruth with the murder weapon, he reputed to have regularly oiled it, loaded it, taught Ruth how to shoot and goaded her into shooting David, when she was drunk and deeply emotionally disturbed. There were even accusations that he had been the one to drive her to the scene of the crime. None of this stuck however, as Cussens was never fully cross examined in the witness box and certainly not on this issue. He did perspire in that box however, unnaturally and profusely, like a stuck pig.
Less than twenty four hours before she was due to hang, part of Ruth’s defence team, Mishcon and Simmons, questioned her once more about how she obtained the gun. There was still a slim chance that she could escape the noose. She was keeping it zipped until one of them mentioned how her children would feel if the truth didn’t come out. Then she started to talk about how she had indeed been taught how to shoot by Cussens and more. She had been drinking on the night of the murder. Indeed, so had Cussens. She mentioned how jealous he was of Blakely and how they despised each other. She said he gave her the loaded gun and drove her to the scene of the crime. Mischons and Simmons took her new statement to Whitehall. The person they really needed to speak to wasn’t there, so the information was passed on to somebody else. The Home Office did not delay the execution in the light of new information.
And now back briefly to our mythical pub, when the quiz master gives out the answers. ‘Question 18, ‘Who was the last person to be executed in Britain?’ The answer is ‘Gwynne Evans and Peter Allan. Two men from Preston who had killed a man in a botched robbery.
But does anyone remember them? And do we know who was the last of these men to be hanged? Was it Evans or was it Allan? Indeed, it was a trick question. It wasn’t Ruth Ellis at all. She was the last woman and not the last person, and it wasn’t one person at all. It was two. Two men.
Why then, was Ruth Ellis the one who provoked such incredible feelings from the public? Did it resonate somehow, this crime of passion? Was it because her defence was so abysmally weak? Did we feel it wasn’t a fair trail? We are sticklers for fairness in Britain, are we not?
Or was it because she wouldn’t save her skin? Or was it down to the polite and utterly dignified composure she exhibited during her trial from start to finish? Did her calm resignedness strike a nerve with the stiff upper lips of the nation?
Or was it simply that we, as a nation, had reached an evolution, a certain perception and outlook regarding capital punishment? Britain was getting queasy, squeamish, soft, or maybe just more humane?
‘This was a crime of passion under considerable provocation.’
‘I pray to Almighty God to cause this disgraceful sin (execution) to pass from among us and to cleanse our land of blood.’
‘I reject the death penalty because of its absolute nature, it’s questionable nature and its revolting nature.’
Bishop Of Stepney, who visited Ruth Ellis shortly before her death.
‘Executions are unnatural crimes.’
Ruth Ellis wanted to die. She wanted to be with the man she had killed. She believed she deserved to die. And for that, I think she deserved to live.
‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ said Ruth. ‘A life for a life. I took David’s life and I don’t ask you to save mine. I don’t want to live.’ And for once, in her short and turbulent life, Ruth finally got what she wanted.
Flowers In November
I sometimes like to read about the seedier side of life because that’s where I see the diamonds in the rough, the flowers that bloom in November.
Just before we have our little tea and biscuit chat about Billie Holiday, because that’s the topic of today’s post, I’d like to give a little mention to a flowering plant called the ‘Sea Daisy.’ What’s that got to do with blues singer Billie Holiday you say, well, I’ll tell you, but all in good time.
I acquired the seed, quite by accident. When I was moving to the coast, several years ago, I dropped the pot. Plant, soil and all. My husband, realist that he is said, ‘You’ve lost that now, just bin it.’ and being the dreamer, idealist, that I am,(not necessarily an optimist) I got down on my knees and started to scrape up the earth with my hands, putting it back in the broken pot, much to the amusement of all my new neighbours, who were nosing around at the time.
A little baby leaf, about the size of a fingernail was all I had left of the plant that had died on the kerb, and it wasn’t even attached to anything, so I stuck it in into the soil, put in on the sill of the tiny window, in that dark little (temporary) bedsit, prayed over it, gave it love, baby. How do you give a plant love? Hard to explain. I’m not really one for expression of love, although I do feel it, I suppose, whatever it was, is, I gave it to that pot of soil, with the little biddy leaf.
The leaf grew, went from strength to strength, and I got some funky green things growing, man. It was far out. The plant did indeed regain its former glory but also, also, a strange new plant was born. Sea Daisies. They bloom in April/May and then again in the constant rainy gloom of November, where the days are short and dark, like the chocolate bars of today, but that’s seasons for you, you can’t live with ’em, you can’t live without ’em…
Of course, I notice them more in November. Looking at those copious and vibrant amounts of beautiful pink flowers, year after year, during such a dark, damp November day, would put hope for the promise of spring in most people’s hearts. Any time I feel down, especially during these short days, I just look at those flowers in November and it cheers me right up. I’m looking at them right now. Here’s mine, a bit blurred, but then, I can never take a good picture, always blurred.
Flowers in November and diamonds in the rough and light in the darkest places… brings me right back to Billie.
Short listed for the Orange Prize, the book ‘With Billie’ by Julia Blackburn, instantly drew my attention because she sort of rescued the book, or rather a portion of material for the book. The woman who was originally accumulating all the research was Linda Kuehl. She painstaking and extensively gathered personal letters, photo’s, transcripts, documents from courts, hospitals, police rooms, newspaper cuttings and two shoe boxes full of audio tapes, full to the brim with interviews from everyone to John Levy the bass player to John Levy, the pimp.
Tragically, Linda Kuehl, committed suicide, by jumping from her apartment building, before the completion of her book. It is not known what had tipped her over the edge.
So, already, Julia Blackburn’s book, has a rather interesting back story, not a nice one, but still interesting.
A Jewish guy called Abel Meeropol, wrote a poem called ‘Strange Fruit‘, about the systematic murder of black men by racist groups. Cause of death, strangulation, through lynching. He had been disturbed by a photograph of the murder scene and its victim. He set the poem to music and later changed his name to Lewis Allen. When the song is performed by Billie Holiday, it is still reminiscent of a poetry performance, the music accompaniment and melody is minimal, making the lyric and atmosphere even more potent. In the early 1900’s, lynching was at it’s most prevalent but was still going on in the forties. Black men were lynched for the ‘crime’ of ‘uppitiness’, a black man might be getting ‘above his station’, through job promotions, signs of growing wealth, going out with a woman he shouldn’t be going out with, any excuse. Billie herself had experienced segregation, even at the peak of her career and success. Even in some places in New York, facilities were out of bounds to her, restaurants, toilets, hotels, venues that white people took for granted. Sometimes she would have to stay in her room until she was called upon to sing her songs.
Billie cites one of the main reasons why the Federal Bureau of Narcotics and the FBI was always on her case, was because of that song. After she recorded it and it did so well, she felt it was no coincidence that they were always breathing down her neck. The minute she sung the last note of that song, she became, unwittingly, a political activist. Unwittingly, because she claimed she didn’t know what the song was about, at first. The poem is not without its clever subtleties, symbolisms and metaphors.
She was soon to understand, as time went on, how volatile it really was, and how it would guarantee that even, as she lay in her sick bed, she would be harassed by the authorities until the bitter end. Apparently, she had been getting much better in hospital, eating well and recovering enough to feel optimistic about the future.
But then a nurse reported the presence of white powder around her nose and she was instantly arrested, interrogated, all simple comforts removed from her bedside. No possibility of bail, kept under watch every minute of the day. She was told that now, even if she got better, she would be transferred straight from hospital to prison.
Something broke in Billie that day. All her life, she had battled demons, survived a childhood of abuse, a life time of prostitution, a war with addiction, and finally, her very last battle with the authorities, before the wave of the white flag. All her life, she may have given in, but she never gave up. Now, it was time. Within the month, she was dead.
Many jazz musicians, black and white, were using drugs around the same time Billie was, including jazz legends Sarah Vaughan and Gerry Mulligan. Sarah Vaughan was targeted more readily than Gerry Mulligan. Perhaps, also being black, female and a friend of Billie’s may have made her fair game but as Billie said from a 1947 interview from Downbeat magazine, ‘I’ve made a lot of enemies. Singing that song hasn’t helped any.’
Jimmy Fletcher, a Federal Narcotics Agency officer, was a man who had some regrets regarding the hounding of Billie. He appears to have had conflicting emotions, on one hand, understandably, he hated drugs and all they stood for, but he had a respect for Billie that had little to do with her being a singer and more to do with her humanity, what she was, not who she was. She had class, despite the quagmire that she had found herself in. Although completely swallowed up by her environment, she somehow, in some way, was able to rise above it. Her lack of confidence in the face of her fame and especially her talent, gave her an attractive modesty, a beguiling humility. She was known to be intelligent, kind and appeared to have integrity. Jimmy Fletcher noted that he had an opportunity to help her a few times and never took him up on it. Apparently, that was typical of Billie, she never called in favours from people she had much to get back from.
She came from the gutter and lived in it, but her ‘goodness’ gave her class. I’m not talking about social class, not monetary, silver spoon or hereditary. We all know the biggest fools and mightiest asses can and often do run roughshod through all the social classes, and there’s scum to be found on every shoe. Humanity, integrity, goodness, they’re the important qualities that denote class, in the true meaning of the word. What scale are we on ?
I’m going to leave Jimmy Fletcher with the last word, or at least, second to last. He said of Billie that ‘She was the loving type.’ Many would find it almost impossible to be the ‘loving type’ in an environment like that, and with an upbringing like that. It’s almost a miracle, but then, we know it must be possible, for we have seen flowers blooming in November.
A Voyeurs Guide To Shopping Lists
I just have to include this shopping list of Billie Holiday‘s. Yes, we’re still harping on about the legendary blues singer. Don’t fret, it’ll be all out of the system in a day or two. Now, as far as I’m concerned, all shopping lists are interesting, but the one I’m about to present, just happens to be Billie Holiday’s.
Post punk singer and highly talented musician Kirk Brandon, front man of Theatre Of Hate, Spear Of Destiny and Dead Men Walking, autographed one of my shopping lists, I had nothing else handy and even he appreciated another person’s shopping list. He apparently made a favourable, jokey comment about the last things on the list, beer and vodka. You see, everybody loves everyone else’s shopping lists, and in this case, it was also a good talking point when looking for something to say to a legend. Although, I never spoke to him, I sent my husband to do the deed because I was too shy/chicken shit, whatever. I’ve since lost the treasured autograph, never knew what happened to it. I never have anything disappear in my life, hoarders simply don’t allow things like that to happen, and yet, it just disappeared off the face of the earth. I haven’t seen it for fifteen years and I’ve moved house three times since then. How much do you want to bet that it’s gone forever ? Incidentally, the autograph from Paul Rutherford, of Frankie Goes To Hollywood fame, who was in the audience, at the time, also went missing. Oh he’s a lovely man. He signed his autograph for me twice. I sent my husband to him, the first time, in the venue, and then later on, I approached him to get an autograph for my friend, who was also a big FGTH fan. Twenty years had passed since FGTH had been in the charts, yet we were both still loyal fans. In fact, that’s how we met, through that common denominator. So, I approached Paul Rutherford as he was leaving the venue, alone, late at night, walking down an alleyway. The poor man just wanted to get away, as you can imagine. I actually had the balls to approach him the second time because I was getting the autograph for my friend and not for me. It’s easier that way isn’t it? Granted, he did look a bit scared but he was brilliant. Calm, cool, yet friendly, like someone trying to humour a serial killer. It looks like I’m dropping names now, but if I do name drop, it’ll be because the people in question deserve it, because they’re nice people.
I don’t drink vodka any more and I didn’t really drink it then. A light beer or two still slips down easily enough. But yes, bad stuff vodka. I don’t recommend it. Slippery slope.
I’m in danger of becoming some kind of taller, female, non Scottish version of Ronnie Corbett, during his armchair monologues, so I will just get on with it. Get on with it! I’ve built up the shopping list. Drum roll. Now, let’s enjoy. Here goes, Billie Holiday’s shopping list;
’75 watt (2)
60 bulb
Sugar
Bread
12 eggs
4 tolit (sic) paper
1/2 ham
1 comet
2 bars Camy
2 bars Lux
1 large Lestol
not too small chicken roasting’
A Billie Holiday grocery list, sourced from ‘Billie,’ by Julia Blackburn.
I can just imagine Billie cracking open those eggs and putting in those light bulbs.
So next time you’re out and about, scour the floor, or a lone shopping trolley or the inside of a library book and you might just find gold. Don’t tell me you don’t do it. Who can resist ? It’s a bit like a car crash. Not as nasty as a bum cleavage but even nicer than an septuagenarian’s long lithe tanned legs in shorts.
Oh, there it is, you’ve seen the shopping list, it’s a bit crumpled, a bit sweaty, ‘cos it’s been in somebody’s clammy little hand in a busy supermarket. Maybe it’s folded up once, twice, or just a bit scrunchy. It doesn’t matter, you swipe it with your trembling hand and begin to read. And here is where it gets interesting…
Is it written in pencil, soft or hard? Or biro? Then, in that case, what colour is it: blue, black, red? ‘cos people are sick enough to experiment. So many combinations..and it says so much about the shopping list writer. You will get valuable insight into their psych right there. It speaks volumes. They may as well have just taken off all of their clothes in front of you and bent over.
Coffee, Bananas, Chocolate, Cereal
Really? Okay, fairly innocuous, fairly normal shopping list. Fairly sane. Sounds like a decent law abiding person. I mean who doesn’t need coffee and chocolate now and again, and the potassium in those bananas! You’ve got to have it haven’t you? It’s good for you. Sensible, normal, non perverted person. So, what else, what else did this person want to buy today…
Now, at this point, would you stop reading? I can’t imagine you stopping now, What? Half way through? Surely you have a spare twenty seconds to read the rest of the shopping list? It’s not like you’re Bill Gates or Richard Branson. It’s not like you’re a high powered business man juggling a dozen companies at the same time. Even if you are, you’re on your lunch break and lunch breaks last two hours for the really big ball breakers. So, with this in mind, you read on…
Nuts (2)
Now do they mean two peanuts? Of course they don’t. They obviously mean two packets of nuts, or they could mean two six packs. but what type, what anally messy person would just write nuts (2)
Now you’re intrigued. What other brain teasers do you have for me? How does your mind work? Are you a sicko or just a normal person? I’ll read on.
TV guide
NewsPAPER
Sicko! A small ‘g’, when capitals have been the norm throughout? And why have you started writing in capitals halfway through the word? You mad pixie.
Half pound lucheon meat
You’ve got to be kidding me. And where’s the N? And why luncheon meat? I mean who does that? Why half a pound? Any sane person would just buy a quarter, wouldn’t they, wouldn’t they? (screaming now) Are you some kind of serial killer? What’s next on your list? I’m scared to read now. You’ve actually made me scared.
Big black dild
And that’s when you scrunch it up and realise it was one of your old girlfriends/boyfriends/partners/flatmates shopping list. The one you couldn’t get rid of, felt hopelessly trapped by and you still get beads of sweat breaking out between your shoulder blades at the thought that they might actually live on the same continent as you.
But wait there’s something else…P.T.O and that P.T.O has gone from red serial killer’s biro to green biro. I mean, have you ever seen a strangers shopping list written in green ink? I have and it’s not pretty.
So anyway, you turn it over and there’s nothing there. So why did they say P.T.O ?
Why are they playing with your mind? Do they have an agenda? Is this a conspiracy?
Have you found any interesting shopping lists lately? Send me your favourites at A Voyeurs Guide To Shopping Lists, Strange Fetishes Limited, Blackpool. Lancashire. A prize will go to the person who finds the most interesting shopping list.
Things In My Head 