I never did find out if Mavis likes celery

You now, I can't for the life of me remember why I started this blog a fortnight ago by downloading this image of a root of celery.

I know that recently I have been discussing with friends those places where you can buy it cheap and the best ways to maintain its freshness. And how you can spread peanut butter on it as a change from cheese. But to write a blog about it?

I'll leave it there. Who knows? It might provide me with the inspiration that I sorely lack these days. It doesn't help that I now know the end of the story that began on 11 November 2006.

Hey Ho!

Last November I was offline, unable to post. No great problem really, except that I wanted to mark an anniversary on the 10th of the month.

The anniversary, it was, of the day I met the woman whom I called ‘M’, Mavis, a silly name I know, but the one I have selected for my muse, my memory, my dream and my love.

I have written so much about her privately, pages of notes and aborted poems, but have hesitated to make my thoughts public. But the beauty of a blog is that I can give myself the illusion of anonymity and know that only a few people close to me will know the state of my mind, of my heart.

‘My heart’. Those words arouse the cynic within me. I hear him laughing at me. ‘For Christ’s sake, haven’t you learned anything from life? Don’t you know that it never, ever, works? That you always get hurt? That you do a fair bit of hurting yourself?’

But for the first time in years I don’t care. For the first time in years I do care.

*

I met her in an office – let’s call it a bank – where I was transacting some financial matter. She was business-like, but friendly. I detected a sense of humour. I admired the way she dressed and the accent in her voice. I liked the curve at the corners of her mouth, the touch of exoticism in her face, her nose and her eyes. She was slim and her silvery-white hair was threaded through with individual strands of black.

She was beautiful. I realised only later that I had fallen in love.

The older, the wiser? Bollocks! ‘Altior, stultior’ is what I think the Romans said.

*

It took me three months to do anything about it. Three months are pretty precious at my time of life. What happened to that arrogant bastard who once brushed off rejection the way a salesman does, knowing one sale in fifty is a good ratio of success?

But at least I thought I had gauged her personality well enough to know that if I was going to be told to bugger off it would be done in a way considerate of my feelings.

So, in February, we met, and became friends.

Friends.

*

I’ve asked myself why I was so drawn to her. The world is full of attractive women, even Lincoln. What was it that made me want to go and buy flowers – flowers, for heaven’s sake!

She is everything I knew she would be. Hers is the kind of beauty that will never age. And her personality matches it. She is kind, gentle and good. She’s my complete opposite. She’s gregarious, organised, hard-working, positive. My God, she actually likes people! And, not surprisingly, everyone I’ve introduced her to likes her. ‘What a lovely woman,’ they say. With me, it’s ‘Well, he’s all right when you get to know him.’

That’s what they think.

Says it all, doesn’t it?

*

I was doing a crossword the other day. I was struggling until I came across one particular clue. I don’t recall what it was, but the answer came straight into my head and I wrote it in without checking. I didn’t need to check.

The answer was UNREQUITED.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Ten o'clock Sunday morning and I was halfway through watching Emmylou Harris singing songs to illustrate her 'Ten Commandments of Country Music' concert.

There were tears in my eyes. Of course there were, all you unbelievers will say. But you'd be wrong. This was country music as it should be, 'three chords and the truth'. It had all the elements - the plaintive maundering fiddle, the playful mandolin, the plangent steel guitar, the discreet harmonies dragging against the aching vocals of Emmylou, herself as wonderfully mature and beautiful as the music.

When you wake up with a hangover and still tense from the night before's rugby match, it's the only kind of music to listen to. Especially when you have that horrible feeling that you might have fallen in love.

Boo-boo-bi-doo!

I heard once that Tim Rice, lyricist and cricket-lover once quoted as his favourite line in popular music: ‘I’d like to help you, son, but you’re too young to vote.’

That’s from Eddie Cochran’s Summertime Blues and I was reminded of it the other day when I heard Leonard Cohen on the radio talking about songwriting. He claimed that his own favourite line was ‘The moon stood still on Blueberry Hill.’ And who was it who said that the best line in all popular music was Johnny Cash’s ‘I killed a man in Reno, just to see him die?’

Naturally this led me to start jotting down some of my own favourites.

The first that came to mind was a line I’ve quoted before here is the one from Hank Williams’ I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry, namely ‘The moon just went behind a cloud to hide his face and cry,’ which I find terribly sad and evocative. To me, it’s all the more so, because Hank Williams does not strive to be ‘poetic’, in the way that Cohen himself, say, or Bob Dylan could be accused of doing.

I always liked Dylan’s line from Don’t Think Twice – ‘I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul.’ As for Cohen, he wrote, in Bird on a Wire, about being like ‘a drunk at a midnight choir’ and ‘I have tried in my way to be free.’ That in turn reminds me of Kris Kristofferson’s Me and Bobby McGee with its wonderful line, ‘Nothing ain’t worth nothing, but it’s free.’

There was a time when I was always quoting Kristofferson. Sunday Morning, Coming Down is an all-time favourite, for I’ve endured many a long, lonely empty Sunday myself. And I wasn’t even ‘coming down’. ‘The beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad; so I had one more for dessert.’

I’ve realised that this exercise can be very revealing. Not just that I don’t go for rock music, but that I seem to be stuck in the 1960s, nursing a rather pessimistic approach to life. What does it say about me when I cite Cohen again? ‘I was looking for someone with lines in her face.’

So, what about favourite lines that are a little more positive? How about:

‘I love a good bum on a woman. It makes my day.’

Thus Jake Thackray opens one of his wittiest songs, On Again. He goes on to use the expression ‘a posteriori’ to provide a very clever rhyme and pun. That sort of thing impresses me, simple soul that I am.

I’ll get round to being positive in a moment, but allow myself one more snatch of misogyny, namely ‘Why can’t a woman be more like me?’ Actually, that’s irony, not misogyny.

It’s always worth checking out ‘The Great American Songbook’. Before I do, though, I’ll mention the song I’m listening to at this very moment, ‘Je ne regretted rien', by Edith Piaf. How can you not respond to that voice, its tremulous strength and desperate defiance? They say the film about her, La Vie en Rose, is a disappointment, by the way.

What about the child-like exuberance of ‘You make me want to go and bounce the moon Just like a toy balloon’ from You Make Me Feel So Young; or, ‘I’ve got you under my skin;’ or ‘Pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again.’

All of those are remarkable for their artful simplicity. Phrases that are used as clichés every day are made, with the aid of music, fresh and full of delight. In popular music, love is so often a meaningless concept, or a reason for despair, but here it’s fun and happiness. ‘Ho, ho, ho! Who’s got the last laugh now?’

Think of the sincerity in ‘Ah, but you’re lovely, Just the way you look tonight’; and ‘You look wonderful tonight. Even ‘I believe in miracles – you sexy thing,’ and ‘You’re simply the best.’

And, as I think of someone now, all I can say is, ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

Hot Chocolate

My reaction to the recent research into the relative ‘buzz’-inducing qualities of chocolate and kissing was at first dismissive. On reflection, though, I came to feel that such research could add to the stock of human knowledge, only if conducted more rigorously and supervised more closely. Probably by me.

Perhaps I shall return with a statement of methodology. I do have some very interesting ideas for experimentation. The fundamental flaw in the research was that the buzz-seeking scientists overlooked one basic fact, namely that a bar of chocolate is an end in itself, but a kiss is the first step on the road to a much more important destination. Put another way, a kiss is merely an hors d’oeuvre, the prelude to the entrée.

Bearing that in mind, it seems odd that anyone should waste time counting serotonins released by the brain and putting a stop-watch on the duration of raised heartbeat. It’s a clear case of comparing chalk and cheese. Who would choose a bar of chocolate in preference to a kiss and what – on a good day – it leads to.

However, being a man who suffers the liberal curse of seeing the other point of view, I’ve been pondering how an obsession with chocolate can be preferable to a sexual relationship.

The first thought that comes to mind is that there is no need to install chocolate in your home in order to enjoy it frequently. And even if you do, will you ever hear a Mars Bar complain of being neglected when you go out to the pub; or call you a pig when you come home drunk and feeling peckish? No, chocolate is readily available, and furthermore it’s cheap. Since when does a Snickers bar expect half a lager and a packet of crisps before allowing you to nibble it?

And there is such a variety of brands. Chocolate can be very dark, coffee-coloured or milky white. It may be sweet or bitter, soft-centred, crunchy or creamy. It may be flavoured with peppermint or rum or liqueurs. You can eat it ice-cold or drink it piping hot.

And I’ve noticed that no kind of chocolate ever complains when you sample another. Have you ever been nagged by a Bounty bar because you wanted a Turkish delight for a change, or a Crème Egg once a year? A Kit-Kat is not going to make you feel guilty because you couldn’t resist a Cadbury’s Caramel when you saw that sexy rabbit advertising it.

A Crunchie bar doesn’t moan if it lies there untasted because you don’t fancy it, having wolfed down a bag of Chocolate Brazils on the way home from work, or a Galaxy look at you reproachfully when you leave it half-finished. A Toblerone doesn’t demand to be eaten twice or a Malteser complain that you ate it too quickly and thought only of your own pleasure.

Oh yes. I could be persuaded. Just imagine.

All the way home he has been conscious of the hard, neat package, surprisingly heavy in his jacket pocket, bumping against his hip. He goes up the stairs quickly, two at a time, and is panting slightly as he closes the door behind him.

He’s had to steel himself against the temptation to touch it, to hold it, afraid it might melt with the heat of his hand. But now the moment has come. His heart beats faster and appetite throbs urgently in the pit of his stomach.

He longs to tear off the flimsy wrapping, drop the shreds to the floor and fall upon the chocolate with greedy, voracious teeth. But no – wait. It will be better to wait. To delay the moment of satisfaction. He tenderly places the blue-clad object of his desire in the fridge.

He pours a drink and tries to think of other things, but his mind is constantly drawn back to the waiting chocolate. Cold and hard now, but how quickly it will soften for him.

Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. He always comes back to Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. The others offer novelty, variety, the excitement of discovery, but Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is his one true love

The room is dark. The single lamp throws his shadow falls across the waiting, expectant bar. It seems so tiny, so helpless, so yielding.

He fetches the peppermints. Peppermints will enhance the taste, heighten his pleasure. The hot, white disc burns against the inside of his cheek, the roof of his mouth. He picks up the chocolate.

He gently eases the sleeve of paper the length of the bar and gazes at the shiny underwrapping. The foil is crisp and tight, stretched over the ridges of the individual chunks. He carefully eases the silver apart and slowly the slim, dark body is exposed. Saliva wells up under his tongue and its tip tingles with an exquisite sensation that is near to pain.

He touches it; he senses a slight stickiness on his moist fingertips. He grips firmly and the bar breaks. Again, then again. And at last he inserts the first square into his mouth and his eyes closed as it dissolves, spreads round his mouth and oozes down his throat.

He takes another chunk, he takes two. He can’t resist biting into them. He pushes another one in, chewing, chomping. He picks up another – wait, wait, no, to hell with it – he’s chewing faster now, his mouth is full, he’s drooling. But he can’t stop. He’s gulping, he’s groaning, he’s gasping.

Oh God, it’s all gone. He slumps back, exhausted, full, empty, sick with himself. Appetite sated, appetite for appetite lost. He could cry with frustration. A flood of despair and disgust rushes over him. He lights a cigarette.

He thinks. He remembers there’s a packet of Coco Pops in the cupboard. He’ll be able to eat them in a while.

The Muse

I wonder how many poets and other authors claimed to have a 'muse' of their own, or at least a person, real or imagined, who inspires their work.

Dante had Beatrice, with whom he fell in love when he was nine years old and she eight. Horace wrote of Lydia, Petrarch, of sonnet fame, immortalised Laura, and Pasternak's Zhivago Lara. Goethe is supposed to have loved, seduced and abandoned a girl in his youth and was still writing about her years later as Gretchen. I have a feeling the poor girl might have preferred that he make an honest woman of her. But then, poets! They live by different rules, don't we - I mean they.

Shakespeare wrote of his dark lady, whose eyes were nothing like the sun, and the young man of whose eyes Shakespeare felt he could not describe the beauty.

The Roman poet, Catullus, penned these lines to Lesbia - 'I curse her every hour sincerely. Yet, hang me, but I love her dearly.' When I was at school our Latin teacher cunningly mentioned the erotic content of Catullus' work and for a while we studied hard, until we discovered we could getter better and more accessible English material.

And then, of course, there's Mavis. Not too poetic a name to modern sensibilities, and far too much associated with Coronation Street. But it is the good old English name for one of our favourite songbirds. Namely, the thrush. On second thoughts not a poetic name at all.

A few songs

I was typing away the other day, when from another room I heard the unmistakable strains of The Beautiful South's song Don't Marry Her, Have Me (or) Fuck Me, if you prefer. As a matter of fact, I do prefer the f-word here and not just because it's slightly shocking to some.

It is obviously the original word used and is essential to the song's theme, namely the choice between the comfortable cage of family life, with all its restrictions and compromises, and uncomplicated fucking with an undemanding partner. What do want? A routine outline for lust, a panacea for loneliness and someone to do your laundry? Aren't those three L's the usual reasons for a man's marrying? And a woman's? Love, Lucre and Let's get the bastard!

OK, it's cynical, impracticable and juvenile. But that sweet siren voice singing along to that prettily seductive tune is tempting. The adult approach, of course, is to have both.

I first heard it a Lincoln pub, the William IV, at a low point of my life. I was hoping the flotsam and jetsam of failure would drift away on a tide of alcohol - good that! - and found the mantra of 'Don't marry her, fuck me' rather comforting. As was The Mavericks' Just wanna dance the night away.

It looks like I'm travelling down memory lane again. Perhaps I'm using this blog to exorcise nostalgia. But, to continue with songs that trigger memories, I shall move on to Nina Simone.

I was having lunch with a colleague one day (in Martha's Vineyard) when an instrumental version of My baby just cares for me came on. For some reason that middle piano riff just hooked me. I was told it was Nina Simone. Of course, I'd never heard of her, but now I'm a great admirer. She seems to been an awkward, angry old bat, with a chip on each shoulder, and probably a few more hidden under the piano. No doubt she had good reason. What was it she said once? 'Jazz is a white term for black people. My music is black, classical music.'

More important, 'I've got life. I've got my freedom. I got the life.'

It's amazing the music I only discovered by accident, long after it was first released. For example, I'd never heard of Credence Clearwater Revival until I watched An American Werewolf in London on video. Now they are the one rock group I would take to my desert island. Bo Diddley's I'm a Man was another pub discovery (Blandings), as was Frank Sinatra's New York, New York (George and Dragon). Ye Olde Crowne introduced me to Mustang Sally (Commitments version essential). I have a friend who does an excellent rendition of it.

The Levis Originals advertising campaign revived many great songs of the past - I'm Mad about the Boy (Noel Coward was thinking about a boy when he wrote it), Take another little piece of my heart (Irma Franklin), Heart Attack and Vine (Screaming Jay Hawkins - father of approx 100 children). And The Clash with Should I stay or should I go?

And this is where I come to Mavis, for she is associated with many songs. The Clash remind me of a long exposition of the musical reasons for the rise of punk, as a reaction against the prevailing pop culture, plastic pop, glam rock and sophisticated studio production. I'm still not convinced. I think most punk rocker were just tossers.

And then there were the Spice Girls, whose Wannabee we agreed was an excellent pop song, innovative, striking, worthy of its success, like it or not. And that Imagine opening to the Oasis song - was it Don't Look Back in Anger? - which had to be explained to me. But we both remembered Lonnie Donegan's Putting on the Style with affection and respect.

And back to Ye Olde Crowne for the Grease megamix, which I disgraced myself by playing on the juke-box at least six times in a row one Christmas Eve, and later doing the same thing with Hot Chocolate's You Sexy Thing.

And all that is quite apart from that Hank Williams song, I can't help it if I'm still in love with you.

All I have to do is dream

There's hardly a day goes by when Mavis does not enter my thoughts. After all these year, her face, her voice is still with me.

It is not bitterness or lingering resentment, nor is it lust that constantly recalls her. Nor is some desire on my part for self-torture.

The physical reality of her seems to have dissolved into an ideal, something unattainable even when attained.

The other night I dreamt of her. I was in a pub, or maybe a hotel lounge for I was lying on a sofa. People around me appeared to be waiting. Then I noticed Mavis out of the corner of my eye. She was with a woman, a younger woman, her daughter? Mavis hasn't got a daughter, as far as I know. I'm not even sure if I recognised Mavis herself. I think I was afraid to greet her her, possibly through fear of rejection.

Then I felt something being laid on my stomach. Money. And Mavis was standing over me, smiling, and saying, 'Don't you now me?'

Last night I dreamt I was locked up in a mental home. I was wearing a uniform of pink pyjamas. I know Mavis was there too, but I never saw her. Apparently there was a plot to free her from this place, because Bill, an old friend of mine, my first best man in fact whom I haven't seen for 20 years, and his wife were with me, whispering conspiratorially. Somehow a doctor was involved. I believe she had been bribed, but she still had a long argument with me about the extent of Mavis' madness.

While my friends went searching for Mavis, I found myself in a kind of dormitory, where a fight broke out. One of the biggest, most unbalanced inmates started a riot and I took the opportunity to slip out and get into Bill's car. Luckily I found her I was now wearing a jacket and tie and we drove without problem through the security gates. We drove wildly - at one point I had to manoeuvre the steering-wheel from the passenger seat - and arrived in a distant town.

'It's a good thing I found this jacket and tie,' I said, and then realised I was still wearing the pink pyjama bottoms.

Next we were sitting in a pub, waiting. It was obviously a rendez-vous.

We paid a lot of money,' said Bill. I hope she comes.'

After a while another friend came in. This was Tom, also dressed in pink, another escapee. He shook his head.

Everyone except me agreed that Mavis was better off where she was.

I gave Tom a hundred pounds to help him while he was on the run. The trauma of this generosity woke me up.

The day I met M. . .

What is this thing that men have about women in uniform?

When so many young women today seem to dress in order to show off the tattoos on their breasts and their backsides, their thongs and the stud in their navel, with all this on show, why do I ignore them with disdain and invariably give a second glance to policewomen and female traffic wardens?

Of course, I don't like nurses, all that smell of death, and even worse the thought of being helplessly in the power of dictatorial females.

'And how are we today, Mr Bolingbroke?'

'I dont know about you, nurse, but I'm ****ing ill. That's why I'm in hospital.'

I've nothing against traffic wardens - I don't drive a car. And I'm not a particularly persistent lawbreaker. So I'm not afraid of policewomen. Lady bus drivers I'm particularly fond of. It's a good idea, in any case, to be on the right side of bus drivers. If you're polite and friendly, they get to recognise you and sometimes wait when you're a bit late at the stop. Or even drop you off between stops at night. But the driveresses are a bit special. All that femininity encased in light blue shirts and navy blue trousers. I'll tell you, watching their feet working the pedals or their muscles straining aginst the steering wheel is - how shall I put it? - rather appealing.

There are all sorts of uniforms worn by women. From the air force blue of the girl, sporting a huge machine gun, who once demanded my credentials as I tried to get onto RAF Waddington to the the smock of a charlady. But the best is the neat, smart suit of an efficient businesswoman. Trousers are best - Marlene Dietrich knew that - but the skirt which reveals the black-clad knees, the patterned blouse, the practical jacket, the business-like hairstyle and the discreet make-up, the smile which may be more than customer care, these are stuff to dream on.

And this is what I saw yesterday in a local financial institution. I doubt I'll forget for quite a while.

A dog looks up to you,

A cat looks down on you,

But a pig treats you as an equal.

Winston Churchill

Sonnet number 1

A shared assault on crosswords brings us here,

Sitting, watching, arguing, just conversing,

Of course, there's each day's quota of cheap beer -

Well, ling'ring at the bar, waiting, cursing.

Surrounded by a swarm of drunks and smoke,

Thinking, 'My God, there must be more to life.

Just who is that crude loudmouth who just spoke?

And why does that oaf eat peas with his knife?'

But then, one Thursday, squinting through the haze,

Tobacco-choked and fingering our glass,

A light breaks through, and we enraptured gaze:

A blaze of blonde, of beauty, grace and class.

So, lovely ladies, please accept this wine.

A little late, but be our Valentine.

I'd trade all of my tomorrows for a single yesterday

Kris Kristofferson

Madeleine

I once tried to read Marcel Proust. A la recherche du temps perdu. Yes, in French. It wasn't long before I decided that life is too short. But I did get as far as the 'madeleine' that starts of the process of remembrance. I believe its some sort of French cake that is dunked in tea and has a strange effect on the brain, producing symptoms such as intellectual pretension and literary diarrhoea.

It is surprising what inconsequential things can trigger quite vivid memories. Just mentioning Proust himself, for example, never fails to remind me of Monty Python's 'summarising Prowst' competition, or of Bogart and Bacall bantering in The Big Sleep.

I often remember the day I bought my computer and brought all the kit back in a taxi. I remember how my trolley rolling against the cab's boot and the driver's concern that there might be damage. I remember his moaning and simmering road rage on the helter-skelter ride home. For some reason, which I cannot fathom, I remember all this whenever I wash my hair.

Rice Krispies make me think of Davy Crockett. A tin of salmon reminds me of my first wedding day. A waste-paper basket reminds me of an old friend from university and a politically incorrect joke we once shared. And brushing my teeth never fails to bring to mind a woman called Gail, who favoured me for a few weeks after I'd induced her to meet me with a note scribbled on a Laurel and Hardy postcard.

These are trivialities that trigger memories of important events. But sometimes its the event itself which haunts the detail of everyday life. So it is with Mavis.

I see her in movies. I met her on the day Burt Lancaster died. She used to say 'Hey ho', the way Addie Ross did at the end of A Letter to Three Wives. She used to imitate Audrey Hepburn saying 'I washed my hands and face before I come, I did.' She would come out with that sudden smile that Julia Roberts did in Sleeping with the Enemy. Notting Hill is a film that I must be alone to watch.

Every day I see the car she drove, the clothes she wore, the colour of her hair. And I hear songs all the time that were written for her - the nostalgia of Brown-eyed Girl; the angry frustration of Ain't no pleasin' you; the hollow defiance of That'll be the Day; the self-pity of I can't help it if I'm still in love with you.

As Noel Coward said, more or less, 'Never underestimate the potency of cheap music.' So I shall close and listen to the Everly Brothers, because whenever I wan't her, all I have to is dream.

Life just seems to pass us by.

Napoleon Wilson