aNot all men, in their vans and their cars,
Decide to shout out of the window; To graphically make their opinion known, Or worse, those who slow down and follow you home. Some men might have their say with a beep, You may still disapprove, but I’d rather a beep, To the creep who is crawling the curb at my side, So, with eyes dead ahead I must quicken my stride, And will my periphery to disappear, A bud in each ear, I pretend not to hear, And I fish in my handbag to pull out my keys, As the jelly in my legs finds its way to my knees, And I’m biting my tongue so as not to engage, This isn’t fear, this is searing hot rage, But talk back and you feel the abuse fly your way, So, it’s better to walk on with nothing to say, Stay silent ‘til home, then declaim in a wave: "How have men still not learned how to behave?!” But I settle myself and remember again, That these are the actions of some; not all men. Not all men, with their glittering eyes, Try to put their hands on you; To take what they want without your consent, And when caught, laugh it off with no mind to repent; Some men might just comment as you walk on by, You may still disapprove, but I fortify, (With a sigh) if it’s just a few words and no more, Rather that, than the guy who is starting to paw, At his trousers, legs spread as he gives me a wink, And I think that I might have found the “Missing Link”; When, who should sit next to me? -Elbows Galore! Who takes what he’s given then jostles for more, For the plastic where my bony elbows had rest, Now finds itself entirely repossessed, And not just the armrest, he’s now in my chair, I take a deep breath at this “manspread” affair, My island has pirates invading its coast, Impaled elbow to rib, a reluctant spitroast; Or the guy on the street who ignores personal space, And with smut on his tongue walks right up to your face, And pours “What I’d do to you” into my ear, And looks half offended when I quick steer, To avoid that kiss he goes to plant on my cheek, As I shriek, coz I know that this isn’t unique, Coz it’s 7am, and I’m sorry to say, That three of these already happened today, And honestly, it’s just an action replay, For the women who daily get treated this way. And I'm angry for us, but I'm sorry for them, For the ones who get tarred with this brush yet again, For each time we mistake "one" as "all" and condemn, We are planting the seed from which hatred will stem, So I think of my friends and I pick up my pen, To say these are the actions of some; not all men.
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ohttps://www.economist.com/britain/2018/03/01/the-quiet-decline-of-music-in-british-schools
"The quiet decline of music in British schools" - that is the headline of the article found on The Economist's website. Stories like this frustrate me immensely, and I know I am not alone in this. I understand that Music as a subject, even as a hobby, is not for everyone - but for some children it is as important as Maths and Science. The larger percentage of people I know – through this route I have been lucky enough to take - have had their futures shaped by the music lessons provided by schools during their formative years - be that within the curriculum or through peripatetic lessons. Not everyone goes on to make a career out of it, but so many children benefit from the subject in terms of experience. Those of you who were lucky enough to perform at The Royal Albert Hall as part of The Raven King when we were 8/9 are prime examples of this. When I think of the number of my Dad's students I have as friends on here, and the greater number more who were involved in his music department and the wonderful shows that were staged; the choirs and the orchestras, the idea that a generation of children will miss out on these experiences makes me angry. For myself, I don't know what I would have done had I not had the sanctuary of our dear (almost inherited) Music Room whilst at Heolddu - not just for the lessons taught by teachers, but what we taught ourselves; collaboration, rehearsal technique, how to share... (which admittedly didn't always go too well when it came to the beloved grand piano…). For all of us who spent our break and lunch times in that room, we had a friendship group based on common understanding and a genuine passion for music, and I cannot imagine my school experience without that. Honestly, not only was the music room a place where we could share and develop our skills as musicians, but often it was also a place to feel at home and comfortable in an environment where the music clique are not usually the popular clique 😉 Before the trolls crawl out of their holes and start accusing me of hypocrisy, yes I was fortunate enough to grow up in a house where music and the opportunity for private lessons was afforded to me, and you will never hear and ungrateful word as those lessons are very much what built me; but also a lot of that upbringing was spent watching my Dad inspire hundreds of Valleys children to pursue such a past time, seeing him teach and arrange school trips to West End Shows - and even now I watch him continue to develop and evolve music within the South Wales community - amongst young and old alike. Music is important to people – the Welsh especially (we are the land of song after all), so it breaks my heart to hear about Music (and other creative pursuits) being stripped from the curriculum; of schools where all concerts have been cancelled due to costs, and of further budget cuts – this is a disservice to so many children. The day that music stops mattering to us is really a day when we might as well give up entirely. So about 2 months ago I decided it was time to take a leap of faith. After 6 years dedicated to my team of Secret Escapers at RSVP Media Response Ltd, I realised that a change was needed - something big to shake things up - and so with a tingle of excitement mingled with trepidation and a touch of sadness, I handed in my resignation and started my month's notice. My last day at RSVP was unlike anything I could have imagined - the care and attention that was exercised by my friends and colleagues in making it an unforgettable day was overwhelming. From my last first moments through those glass doors, I was lavished with love, arriving to find my desk entirely covered with balloons and presents, a huge unicorn helium balloon tied to my chair, time stamped G&Ts lined up on my desk to get me through my final day, and most importantly, my greatest friends sat around my desk wearing party hats - who had arrived pre-7am in order to make sure I was not alone. Pretty emosh, right? I received gifts from the most unexpected of team mates, and the presents both from my team, other RSVP departments and the Secret Escapes Head Office proved one of the most lovely things - people had taken notice of the topics that I had shown great passion for in the years I shared their company. Mostly I was utterly moved by the words. To quote Rudyard Kipling; “I am, by calling, a dealer in words; and words are, of course, the most powerful drug known to humanity.” The sentiments that filled the many cards I received convinced me that I had achieved my primary goal - to help and support those who helped and supported me. I was given a huge scrapbook filled with photos, quotes and messages from the people I had spent the greatest number of hours with over the past 6 years and my heart was warmed. Some of my very best friends even turned their hand to one of my great loves; poetry, whilst others simply came and crouched next to my desk to chat for a little while, as we had done so many times. Then the pub. It was a tremendous night - even people who were not at the office that day attended to raise a glass with me. I played it safe and stuck largely to vodka-cranberry's, though there was a tequila shot with a real life Viking and a shot of Patron XO (which really hit my throat in the most unfortunate way) with a wonderful Spaniard. I had intended just to write a short introduction to prefix the poem I had written for my last day; but as is customary with me, once I started reminiscing, the catharsis of writing it all down for posterity was too seductive. The point however, was to further prove the purpose of my poem; that it was the people of RSVP who dictated the length of my service. As I said in my final Friday meeting, these were the people who became like family - who I genuinely missed when they were not there, and with whom I shared the daily (often dark) humour. And if this family is anything like my own, it now means that we might not see each other for some time, but the next time we do, they'll tell me I've grown and ask whether I have a boyfriend yet. Likely the answer will still be, "No." So finally, here is my ode to RSVP; my swansong if you will. Over and out for now. A question asked at interview those 6 long years ago:
"Which character would you want to be from a West End show?" No need to think, my little dress and shoes gave me away, "Galinda; Wicked" I said. They said, "Can you start Tuesday?" The wheels now set in motion - the job to be temporary, But I already liked the people who made RSVP. Next week I started selling for a company named Which? Sales was not my forte but when Which ran "The Big Switch" My "pleasant tone and friendliness" had me moved to CS, (Had I been kept on sales I'd have probably been there 6 years less!) As our "Golden Age" proceeded it became quite clear to me, That it was the people who made RSVP. Secret Escapes dawned my horizon towards the end of May, Who could conceive that I would be its Manager one day?! But I started at the bottom and joined the agent ranks, Learned everything I had to learn, but mostly I gave thanks, For every day the laugher brimmed from every escapee, Because it was the people who made RSVP. Time rattled on, I found myself entering my third year, And soon this "temporary job" turned in to a career. From here I'm not sure what to say; there were good days, there were bad, But the peaks and troughs were shared with some of the best friends I have had. I think you get the gist by now, the pattern's clear to see; That is the people who make RSVP. So it's the end of an era, a crazy slice of time, And what better way to commemorate it than celebrate in rhyme? For all I'll miss, and all I won't, the truth ever will be, That is is RSVP who helped in making me. Everyone the world over has heard of the Titanic. Everyone knows the events – or at least a heartbreakingly romantic, beautifully underscored version of them – that occurred on that fateful night in 1912, where more than 1,500 men, women and children died in tragic circumstances. You may even have heard of the Lusitania, the British ocean liner sunk by a German submarine in May 1915, during World War 1. Of nearly 2000 people aboard, around 1,200 lost their lives – causing international outcry due to the large number of civilian passengers aboard at the time the ship was torpedoed, around 11 miles off the coast of Ireland, in what Germany had declared a “war zone” just months earlier. But it is likely that you have not heard the fate of the MV Wilhelm Gustloff – which resulted in the single largest loss of life in a individual ship sinking in history. The MV Wilhelm Gustloff was launched in 1937 and was originally to be named the MV Adolf Hitler – but was instead named for a Nazi leader from the party’s Swiss branch who had been assassinated in 1936. Hitler had chosen the name himself after sitting next to Gustolff’s widow at his funeral. It was the first purpose built cruise liner used by Kraft durch Freude (German for Strength through Joy), a leisure organisation conceived to promote National Socialism, and which became the largest tourism operator in the 1930s. The purpose of the ship was to provide middle-class leisure activities to the general populace, regardless of status, and this was used as a tool to suggest equality between the members of the German “master-race”. During the summer of 1939, the Wilhelm Gustloff served as a hospital ship, and later was used as accommodation for U boat trainees in the newly named Gotenhafen, near Danzig in Poland. In 1945, as the Red Army advanced on Germany, “Operation Hannibal” was put it to action, seeing the naval evacuation of troops and civilians from Courland, East Prussia. As the ship left Danzig on January 30th, 1945, there were over 10,500 passengers on board – including a crew of 173, 918 officers and submariners, 373 female naval volunteers, 162 wounded soldiers, and over 8,900 civilians – including Gestapo personnel and an estimated 5000 children. The ship was overcrowded and due to this, many passengers refused to wear their life jackets – against strict instruction. MV Wilhelm Gustloff had 4 captain’s on board – the ship’s captain, 2 merchant mariner captains and 1 U boat captain, yet between the 4 they could not agree on the best course to take to guard against submarine attacks. Finally, the captain of the Wilhelm Gustloff - Friedrich Petersen – decided to set course for deep waters which were known to have been cleared for mines. Later, he was informed via a mysterious radio message of a German minesweeper convoy in the area, and thus activated the ships navigation lights to as to avoid collision. This made the ship stand out like a beacon on the dark waters and later investigation and speculation would introduce the theory that the radio transmission was a false report delivered by German POWs who had been “turned by the Soviet’s” in order to mark the ship out as a target. Captain Fredrich PetersenCaptain Alexander MarineskoThe ship was soon sighted and tailed (for nearly two hours) by Soviet Submarine S-13, under the command of Captain Alexander Marinesko.
The submarine sensors and anti-aircraft guns upon the Gustloff and her accompanying torpedo boat escort; Lowe, had frozen leaving the vessels defenceless. Three torpedoes were launched under Marinesko’s instruction; the first was named "for the Motherland," the second "for Leningrad," the third "for the Soviet people" and there was also a fourth torpedo which got jammed in the torpedo tubes, called "for Stalin”. All three torpedoes hit the liner on her port side. The third torpedo hit the engine room directly, disabling all power and communications. Only 9 life boats were able to be lowered – the rest had frozen in their restraints. Less than 40 minutes after being hit the Wilhelm Gustloff was on her side, her occupants spilling in to the freezing Baltic waters – many of whom were not wearing their life jackets. The majority of deaths were caused either directly from the hit of the torpedoes, or from drowning as the water rushed on to the vessel – though others were crushed in a stampede caused by understandably panicked passengers on the stairs and decks. Only 996 survivors were rescued by German forces – making the total loss of the sinking over 9,300 passengers – making this event the largest loss of life from one vessel in maritime history. Submarine Captain Alexander Marinesko was facing a court martial for his problems with alcohol and for being caught in a brothel before he had embarked on the voyage which saw him sink the Wilhlem Gustloff. For these reasons, he was deemed unsuitable to be titled a “hero” for his actions and was awarded the lesser title of “Combat Order of the Red Banner”. He was dishonourably discharged from the navy 9 months later - though was reinstated in the 1960s. Marinesko was posthumously named a Hero of the Soviet Union by Mikhail Gorbachev in 1990. The wreckage of the Wilhelm Gustloff is classified as a war grave and is one of the largest shipwrecks on the Baltic Sea floor – the site is now protected and diving is forbidden, though it has for years attracted much attention from those searching for the missing Amber Room. But that’s another blog for another time. Dedication: To my Grandad Don – who served upon an aircraft carrier named the HMS Unicorn during WW2. Unicorns; if any one thing has become the ultimate symbol of 2017, then it is the Unicorn, which has bled its way in to every facet of life over this past year. But where did the story of the Unicorn begin? This elusive creature which embodies grace and beauty has been found in art and writing since antiquity, however you may be interested to learn that it’s source lies predominantly in natural history – NOT mythology. Ctesias was a Greek physician and historian who lived in the 5th century BC and was author of one of the earliest descriptions of a Unicorn, which he placed as an inhabitant of India and described as “wild asses, fleet of foot, having a horn a cubit and a half (approx.28 inches) in length, coloured red, white and black.” This is a far cry from our modern day interpretation of silver sleek ponies galloping through enchanted glades, their spiralling horn projecting majestically from their foreheads, however throughout early civilisation, similar accounts are common place with the creatures being described as “ferocious” and “unable to be taken alive.” The one horned animal can also be found on seals from the Indus Valley Civilisation which existed during the Bronze Age (3300-1900 BC) and extended from what today is northeast Afghanistan to Pakistan and northwest India. To outline the genesis of the Unicorn myth during the Middle Ages and Renaissance period we need to look towards the Bible – most notably The King James Bible (completed in 1611) which mentions Unicorns (now predominantly represented as a horse) no less than 9 times, in 5 different books, by at least 5 different authors: by Balaam, Moses, David, Isaiah, and even God himself in the book of Job. Also, during this age, texts knows as “Bestiaries”; compendiums of animals and rocks found in natural history, usually accompanied by a moral lesson, were popular in art and literature. However, these writings did not distinguish between animals of fact and those of legend; texts would often refer to dragons, basilisk, griffin and unicorns as commonly as they would describe accounts of boars, bears, lions and deer. It was works such as these that popularized the allegory of “the Unicorn and the Maiden” as a representation of the incarnation of Christ. In this narrative, as soon as the unicorn sees the maiden it rests its head in her lap and falls asleep – thus sealing the creature’s emblematic status within the Church. Some religious writers even went as far as to interpret the unicorn and its subsequent death as the Passion of the Christ – a beast that can only be tamed by a virgin, again allegorical for Christ’s relationship with the Virgin Mary. Outside the Church, Unicorns had started their progress in to folklore – indicative of beguiled lovers, virtue and chastity. These characteristics led to the belief that the unicorn’s horn could neutralize poison, act as an aphrodisiac and held magical and medicinal properties – the alicorn (the name of the horn itself) was often falsified by substituting powder from the tusks of narwhals (appropriately known as the unicorns of the sea). The Throne Chair of Denmark located in the Castle of Rosenborg in Copenhagen is said to be made of Unicorn horns! By the 15th century the Unicorn (now primarily depicted as a horse) became popular in Heraldry, most often shown collared with a broken chain attached, showing that it has broken free from its bondage. As a heraldic device, the Unicorn became most popular in Scotland – seen as a proud and glorious beast who would rather die than be captured (in keeping with the Scottish ideal of retaining independence). Our fascination with Unicorns continued steadily throughout the years – both in and outside of fictional spheres. “This obsession with unicorns is nothing new — with social media, we’ve just found a different way to show it,” says Vaughn Scribner, an assistant history professor at the University of Central Arkansas who studies mythical creatures. “In the 18th century, the smartest men in the world were running around trying to find unicorns and mermaids and monstrosities.” This quote underlines what I believe to be society’s main attraction to this mythical creature; hope. A shared desire to believe in a being which embodies magic, honour and decency in an age in which mankind is leaning forcibly towards to the opposite. Throughout history and fiction, the magical powers of the unicorn have become legendary - their horns said to be harder than diamonds and their tears capable of healing both physical and emotional wounds (as well as being the source ingredient for Unicorn Tears Gin, of course!) The person with such faith of heart which allows them to see a Unicorn may have a wish granted as a reward, and many will be aware of that within the Harry Potter series, powerful wands are made with a core of unicorn hair, with their blood able to sustain the almost dead. The Unicorn had their first revival in the late 80s/early 90s with the introduction of the My Little Pony franchise – one that I found myself wholeheartedly enchanted by as a child. There were the Earth Ponies, Unicorns, Pegasus, Sea Ponies, Flutter Ponies – each represented by their bright mane and tails, alongside their individual “cutie marks”. As well as the pony figurines themselves the concept was adapted in to animated features including Rescue at Midnight Castle, Escape from Catrina – and my favourite, My Little Pony: The Movie. All endorsed courage and kindness, often containing a sub plot where someone would need to accept they were wrong, or needed to apologise / atone for a mistake, all sandwiched between catchy songs (some of which I still remember word for word). And the Unicorns themselves? Well their horns allowed them to magically teleport from place to place (or “wink out”, as it was termed). rThis wouldn’t be a history on Unicorns without mentioning the book and subsequent animated film, “The Last Unicorn” by Peter S. Beagle. Quite the antithesis of My Little Pony in many ways, The Last Unicorn explores more bittersweet themes including love, loss and regret. In a story in which our Unicorn heroine (Amalthea) needs to be transformed in to human form for her own safety, the tale culminates with a final battle in which the Prince she has fallen in love with, is killed. Returned to her Unicorn form she is able to revive her Prince, but chooses to return to her forest, contemplating on the new truth that she is the only unicorn to have felt regret – but also the only to know love. The full on cultural phenomenon – our Unicorn Renaissance if you will – came crashing in to the main stream in 2016. The shimmer and sparkle element were first to infiltrate social media, perfect Insta-fodder in terms of hair and makeup posts. The colours and palettes becoming popular on our bodies then transferred to our foods – unicorn toasts, lattes, bagels, Frappuccino’s… it only made sense that clothing and products came next and hence the brand strategists symbolic dream was conceived. All of a sudden, every imaginable product was telling us to keep calm and be a unicorn, to always be ourselves – unless we can be unicorns, to be a unicorn in a field of horses... and a conundrum emerged. Can we (specifically women) embody the sparkles, the rainbows, the positivity and individuality this emblem evokes, and not get trapped in a field of apologetic feminal qualities where the cynics in the audience may go so far as to interpret the alicorn itself as a psychosexual token of phallic symbolism? Just a theory. Not one I subscribe to; but certainly one that could be opened up to the floor for an interesting debate. And mirroring the elusive nature of the Unicorn itself, the definition of the word in modern context continues to shimmer and shift. The term “Unicorn” can refer to that perfect partner, a rare find, someone special who is hard to catch; to quote Urban Dictionary, “The term is often describing someone who is remarkably attractive (above a 7.9), but not at all batshit crazy…” Well… Yet, at the same time, a “Unicorn” is described as a person who is willing to join a previously existing couple in a sexual encounter whilst rejecting and resisting the development of any emotional attachment to either member of said couple. To conclude, the Unicorn has returned to us at a time when we needed it most, bringing with it a proposal of tolerance, acceptance and an openness to make that leap of faith towards the idea of magic. And no, not witches and wizards and wands magic, but simply the good things that we as people can create when we concentrate our power (like a beam from an alicorn maybe?) in the right direction. Do not let the beauty of the Unicorn distract you – the heart is where the power lies. I think Lewis Carroll put it best in “Through The Looking-Glass”;
“Well, now that we have seen each other," said the unicorn, "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you.” "What would Anne do?", I thought. By which I mean Anne Boleyn, of course.
I close my eyes as I stand wedged in to a corner of a crowded Northern Line carriage, transporting the week weary London workers home on a Friday evening; city strain etched on their - or should I say, our faces. It has not been an easy month. My mood - much like the events themselves - vacillating wildly between lethargy and serenity; fits of joy mingled with apoplexy, attacks of assured energy punctuated with panic. Yes, there have been easier months. But in an attempt to centre myself, I keep coming back to a singular question, "What would Anne do?" I am sorry Jesus - I do not mean to take the acronym printed on many a badge and bracelet in vain, but Anne sort of "gets" me - looking out at me from the case of my ever present phone and converting my doubt and anxiety to something more solid, more practical. Or it is that I "get" her. That is to say the woman I have made of her, which may or may not be exactly who she was… As I stand in the queue at Bounds Green Tesco, laden only with Strongbow and cream filled doughnuts, listing the musical theatre songs I wish to belt out and annoy my neighbours with when I get home, I contemplate a personal theory that it really does not matter if I have understood Anne *exactly* for who she was. I think she would take great solace in knowing that someone 481 years removed from her considers her an icon of strength and grace. I should only be so lucky to be remembered as such. After 5 very loud songs (which I sing better now than I ever did when it mattered how I sang) and part way in to the Strongbow supply (I know, it’s so delightfully trashy!) I feel that such cerebration has done me good this evening and that, had Anne been alive today, this may well have been what Anne would have done. 💖😘🔥🍷💋💄👠👑 Quite recently, on a night out, a man described himself to me as the ‘Belvita’ of men. The comment was intended as a chat up line – the success of which depended 1) on my propensity to respond to cheesy lines and 2) my liking of Belvita.
It is here I point out that I chose to return home alone that evening. Now as it goes, I am not impartial to Belvita from time to time – personally I am a honey and chocolate chip girl, but I do not fool myself that they are in any way a healthy snack. At face value, you can’t go wrong – they look nice, taste nice, give you everything you require from the breakfast/consumer relationship (18-20 grams of whole grain, 3 grams of dietary fibre and a good source of four B vitamins and iron! *All of this information can be found under the nutrition profile on the Belvita website.*) What they neglect to advertise so boldly is the equivalent of 3 teaspoons of sugar which no doubt contributes to that little energy boost. Like I say, I have no inherent dislike of Belvita, but think it should really be relegated to the biscuit aisle with the other sweet treats. I’d almost definitely still buy it. As for the guy, I wonder quite what he meant when he compared himself to the breakfast snack? Does he also slowly release over 4 hours? I imagine he was in fact trying to suggest he would be good for me – when in fact, all he would be was just another naughty little biscuit. A few days ago I was lucky enough to attend a gala dinner at The Globe Theatre. It was a beautiful and lavish affair but my favourite part was – unsurprisingly – the historical exhibition outlining the role the Globe played in Elizabethan and Jacobean culture, right up to modern day. The winding streets of London Bridge, Southwark, then just over the river to the Tower and the City are some of my favourite to walk – they are filled with the blue plaques of English Heritage and I derive great satisfaction from recalling the events that occurred on these very streets. But what of the streets themselves? Or more specifically, the street names. To quote the good bard himself, “What’s in a name?” I’m quite happy to admit that this is lowbrow humour masquerading as highbrow education however I must stress that all content here has a factual grounding; so let’s jump straight in with Cock Lane, EC1. Cock Lane- EC1 Yes, that’s right; tucked away in the streets of Smithfield (the site of many a gruesome medieval execution!) you will find Cock Lane – or Cokkes Lane as it was known back in the day. And quite appropriately named it is too, as it was the site of some very popular legal brothels. It’s not fancy, but I suppose it is an example of some very straight to the point marketing! It even has its own ghost called… um… well… ok so the ghost is called “Scratching Fanny”. Yes. Now I must ask you to remove your head from the gutter – where I admit I purposely led it – and let me explain that Fanny was the name of a woman who died from smallpox, and the way she made “contact” with the living was by scratching the walls. Not so funny now, is it? (Ok, it’s still funny). Well let us leave the City for now (we can go via Back Passage if you so wish…) and head somewhere a little more refined. Ah yes, W1. Mayfair. Swallow Street – W1 So you see where we’re going with this, yes? First mentioned in the record books in 1671, Swallow Street found fame through shall we say… oral tradition. This continued right up until the 1970s when it’s nightclubs were notorious haunts of prostitutes – and a rival to the East London “Hookers Lane”. Now shall we head east again to visit a street a little less pornographically based…? Cumming Street – N1 Well, as we’re passing through central London, it seems only appropriate to make a quick stop off at Cumming Street in the King’s Cross area. I know I said we were heading to a less risqué part of town but with King’s Cross being at the heart of London’s travel network, it was quite necessary to travel through it – as many did and still do today. Industrialization and the development of the canal and railway was key to the expansion of this area, and with increased commerce came a swell in trade of another kind. Many a service would be offered here for years to come but the regeneration and gentrification of King’s Cross in the mid-1990s saw an end to the infamous red light district. Shall we move on? I hope you are enjoying the tour. Sherborne Lane – EC4 Sounds pretty tame, doesn’t it? Well, it did have to be softened a little in order to comply with contemporary sensibilities. Back in the 1200s though, had you been travelling through the Bank area you may have found yourself on Shittborwelane, later known as Shiteburn Lane, a particularly fetid street which was more akin to a cesspit and was basically a track of compacted human, animal and general rotting waste. Today, should you have reason to visit Sherborne Lane, you will find it is now mostly investment banks and a Travelodge; but at least the street is a bit cleaner. Now let us meander down Puppekirty Lane (Poke Skirt Lane) as we venture on to our final destination. We’ve come this far together, and where else could we end our little tour than the legendary Gropecunt Lane. If you are of a milder disposition – well frankly I’m surprised you’ve followed me this far – but nonetheless, I wish no offence. My only hope is to raise a smile as you learn a little more about English heritage and the scandalous streets so many still walk, entirely unaware of their previous purpose. Of course, you will find no sign post directing you to this part of town, but unconsciously you may one day find yourself on St Pancras, Soper Lane just off Cheapside. London, as well as many other towns and cities in the UK, once had a Gropecunt Lane on their maps – after all, as you’ve seen it was quite common for a medieval street name to reflect its primary function and this particular street made it blatantly obvious that prostitution was the aim of the game.
The year 1230 sees the first record of the name and by this time organised prostitution was well established in London, though mainly confined to Southwark. As for the language, it is believed that the latter part of the name may have yet been considered vulgar, but not as taboo as it is by today’s standards. In fact, the word was widely used in an anatomical sense since the late 13th century and even Chaucer uses it in “The Miller’s Tale.” (I will let you do your own research for this one.) A research in to medieval prostitution shows that streets of this name were almost always at the centre of the town, just off the main market place or high street, and the uniformity of the choice of name across the country suggests that the business was quite commonplace during these times. Of course, as times changed so did our collective sensitivity, thus prompting the demise of such a descriptive address. As I have mentioned, in London we now walk along St Pancras, Soper Lane; Norwich now has its Opie Street, and Oxford saw several contractions of the name, trying out Grope Street, Grape Street and Grove Street before settling on the unrelated Magpie Lane. Here we part ways; as you can see from the map above, the labyrinth that is Bank station is just at the end of the road. I hope you have enjoyed our virtual stroll around this saucy and sinful city – maybe one day you will join me and we can visit the true sites. Again, to paraphrase Shakespeare, “A street by any other name would smell as sweet…” unless you were on the Sherborne Lane of old, of course. And that’s another #HistoryWithHelena Every year on November 11th we celebrate Armistice Day, commemorating the armistice signed between the Allied forces and Germany, which brought about the end of fighting and hostilities on the Western Front during World War I. It is important to note that Armistice Day coincides with Remembrance Day - commemorating members of the armed forces who have died in the line of duty and observed by the Commonwealth of Nations; and Veterans Day, remembering military veterans who served in the US Armed Forces. Each of these days deserve to be honoured in their own posts, and over the next few years I will try to give due air time to each individually – but for this year I have chosen to outline Armistice Day specifically. On November 11th, 1918, at the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month”, the warring parties of World War 1 signed the Armistice of Compiègne – an agreement to halt the hostilities and fighting on the Western Front. This marked a victory for the Allies and whilst not a formal surrender, a defeat for the German forces. It would take another six months for negotiations to conclude a peace treaty known as the Treaty of Versailles, signed on June 28th, 1919. From as early as September 29th, 1918 the German Supreme Army Command had informed Kaiser Wilhelm II (the bombastic and sententious German Emperor and King of Prussia) that Germany was facing a hopeless military situation and demanded a ceasefire be requested with the Allies. Quartermaster General Erich Ludendorff also suggested that the Kaiser accept the demands of US President Woodrow Wilson, known as “The Fourteen Points” – principals laid down for world peace. However, by late October, Ludendorff changed his mind and declared the conditions unacceptable and demanded to resume the war. On November 5th, the Allies agreed to begin negotiations for a truce and the next day, the German delegation headed by publicist and politician Matthias Erzberger departed for France, arriving the morning of November 8th. They were taken to a secret destination and handed a list of demands and given 72 hours to agree. What followed was a series of intense discussions between German and Allied forces, amounting to the demilitarization of the German army and decommissioning of their submarines. The Germans were in no position to refuse signature. On November 10th, the delegates were shown a newspaper headlining the story that Kaiser Wilhelm had abdicated and fled to exile in the Netherlands. Erzberger signed the treaty. The Armistice was agreed at 5am on November 11th and was effective as of 11am Paris time. There were 35 terms agreed to within the Armistice, including the termination of hostilities on land and in air within 6 hours of signing, the immediate release all French, British and Italian POWs and the immediate removal of German troops from France, Belgium and Luxembourg within 14 days. In many sections, fighting continued right up until 11am – at which point conflict ceased. I read and write about these momentous occasions in world history and often enjoy to imagine I was there; to try and place myself at the heart of them and ascertain how I would have reacted in the situation. Of all the eras I research, the wars illicit the most emotion from me - numerous times my housemates have caught me shedding a tear whilst engrossed in a documentary about U-boats or the liberation of Paris etc. Logic would dictate that the ceasefire would be a joyful and euphoric circumstance for all involved – even for the side who has technically “lost”. However, reports of the actual event details that reactions were muted; after an exhausting 52 months of brutal warfare, the survivors were gripped by the solemnity of the occasion – now the soldiers would return home with the scars of battle forever imprinted on their minds, waiting to hear the total number of men who had fought and died for their cause and country. On the final day of the war alone, there were 10, 944 casualties – 2738 of whom died. The first official Armistice Day events were held at Buckingham Palace on November 11th, 1919, hosted by King George V. Sir Percy Fitzpatrick suggested a two-minute silence, and this is still observed at 11am local time across the countries commemorating loss on this day. A moments silence has become a sign of respect the world over and on Armistice Day the first minute is typically dedicated to the 20 million people who died in the war, and the second minute to those who lived on afterwards – the wives, children, and families who survived but were deeply affected by the conflict and loss of so many. In 1939, Britain moved the two-minute silence to the nearest Sunday to November 11th, as they were now in the midst of a new war and didn’t want to interfere with wartime production, should the occasion fall on a weekday. After WWII ended the Armistice Day events were also moved to the nearest Sunday, thus commemorating both World Wars within one occasion – Remembrance Sunday. The Remembrance Poppy was introduced in 1921 to commemorate the military personnel who gave their lives during WW1, inspired by the poem “In Flanders Fields” by Canadian Physician Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae who fought in the war. I’m sure we all remember the evocative display of ceramic poppies at The Tower of London in 2014, in an installation called Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red. The floral moat consisted of 888,246 each intended to represent one British or Colonial serviceman killed within the war – and the poignancy continued in the knowledge that the Tower itself had been utilized in the early days of the war as a training ground for the City of London workers who had enlisted to fight – the Stockbrokers’ Battalion. So, “Lest we forget” these events that passed – for the very fabric of our society today is built on the sacrifices of those brave soldiers. But it is not enough to simply remember what happened, we must also learn from it – and despite all of the great things we have managed to achieve since, we have still not yet developed a strategy for peace. It is only right that we conclude this #HistoryWithHelena with that iconic memorial poem, “In Flanders Fields”. McCrae himself died of pneumonia on January 28th, 1918 – just months before the Armistice. I wonder if he could have ever conceived the legacy that he was committing to paper in the trenches of Belgium on May 3rd, 1915? Unlikely, I think, but a pleasing notion nonetheless. “In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.” ⚘⚘⚘⚘ 2016, you did confound;
The year disaster was abound, And nonsense found a place to thrive, A year many did not survive. Wogan, Bowie and Rickman started A year where many stars departed, And it continued in this vain, Too many a household name. March for Brussels brings attack, 32 souls do not come back, Again we must disseminate; Islam is not Islamic State. June 23rd – a feat or stain, Depending if you’re Leave or Remain? The year the UK became divided, Like it or not – Brexit was decided. In August Britain won acclaim, Under the Olympic flame, A 67 medal victory, For the athletes known as Team GB! November brought the biggest shock, When common sense took quite a knock, As the US chose to elect, An architect of disrespect, To disaffect and yet infect the self-respecting intellects. A prefect who interjects and misdirects the circumspect, With speech unchecked, some genuflect to this affected insect. So one month and a half to go, The “Jingles Bells” and “Let It Snow”, Before we bid this year goodbye, In with a roar, out with a sigh. But what do we move toward; Like pieces on a chequered board? Can 2017 restore united “espirit de corps”? Full steam ahead to the frontier, We’ve a lot of work to do next year. - Helena Christie, November 9th 2016. |
Author - Helena ChristieLittle Welsh Sprite. A Manager of people. A wearer of heels. A drinker of gin. A disciple of musical theatre and medieval history. You can find me on Twitter under @HistoryWithHelz and @HelenaChristie4 Archives
July 2018
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