Author: H. Rider Haggard

Publisher: Penguin

Dates Published: 1886

Pages: 368

On his twenty-fifth birthday, Leo Vincey opens the silver casket that his father has left to him. It contains a letter recounting the legend of a white sorceress who rules an African tribe and of his father's quest to find this remote race. To find out for himself if the story is true, Leo and his companions set sail for Zanzibar. There, he is brought face to face with Ayesha, She-who-must-be-obeyed: dictator, femme fatale, tyrant and beauty. She has been waiting for centuries for the true descendant of Kallikrates, her murdered lover, to arrive, and arrive he does – in an unexpected form.

Written and set during some of the strongest points of British Imperialism, 'She' is a classic adventure story that delves deep into the heart of Africa. Instead of languishing in the grim reality of Africa, 'She' further romanticises the mysteries and discoveries that should have been there for explorers, and is self admittedly by Haggard a 'boy's tale'. Lost cities, frightening tribes and poisonous marshlands are described with passionate and vivid detail. Of particular triumph is a dreadfully cinematic volcano setting during the last quarter of the book.

Despite the blurb, the protagonist of 'She' is actually Horace Holly (Leo's step father) who accompanies Leo to Zanzibar. The two characters are opposites; Holly is ugly, even ape-like in appearance, while Leo is often likened to a Greek Adonis. The use of Holly as the voice of 'She' is well placed. Despite sometimes being an onlooker to the main action, Holly coats the events with interesting and clever perceptions. His inner monologue is surprisingly honest and sometimes even shallow. The first person aspect of 'She' is one of its strongest points. Notes are jotted at the bottom of the pages - often future reflections or background information - that add another dimension to the events. Because of this aspect, throughout the story we are aware that Holly and Leo survive, however this is handled well and does not take away from the tension.

Leo could be accused of being nothing more than a mindless hunk - an idea that is actually acknowledged throughout the text (directly and indirectly). Haggard gives the impression that Leo could have been far more interesting if it was written from his point of view, but keeps true to Holly's first person (Holly is usually too self reflective to give much detail on Leo and probably misses more of the subtle nuances).

'She' gets into full swing about a third of the way through - once Ayesha makes an appearance. Ayesha, She-who-must-be-obeyed, is the lifeblood of this book. She is the inspiration, excitement, force and guide. Ayesha is portrayed as the extreme in femininity; she is ever-changing, emotional, powerful and godly. She is the ultimate femme fatale through which Haggard portrays the duality of alluring beauty and deadly menace. The foreboding concept of Ayesha was the main reason I picked up this book (as I love reading strong female characters), and her portrayal did not disappoint. In many senses, I could see this book being either a literary feminists worst nightmare or sweetest daydream (or both).

'She' has many long speeches about the nature of love, hate, humanity, sin, spirituality and mortality (delivered mostly by Ayesha, but also by Holly). This proved a point of great interest for me, but could bore other readers. Of particular beauty is an early musing by Holly of the bittersweet sunrise after a night where they barely survived.

The most irritating quality of Haggard's writing is his use of insanely long and convoluted sentences (especially during the first third of the book). I had to read sentences three or four times, even then sometimes not grasping the meaning. It can also be strange to read a text that is doused in old British Imperialism. Holly is extremely British by nature and culture. Being true to the times racist elements often pervade (the assumption that African races are inferior to higher cultures, such as the British etc). The introduction to 'She' is good enough, describing Haggard's political involvement and the possible influences of his time in South Africa. It also touches on its initial receival by the public and critics (even Sigmund Freud is mentioned), but is probably a little too tainted by a sense of cynicism towards the work.

'She' is a solidly written and very enjoyable read. It will be appreciated by those that like adventure tales and escapism as a setting for philosophical musing. Lovers of romance will also find an aspect to enjoy. Those who aren't interested in an African settings or a plot mostly concerning a woman's undying obsession probably won't be drawn in though.

♥♥♥½ - 3½/5

By Layla J. Merritt

As a kiddly winks coming up in East Sutton, I never thought much about traveling or leaving home. A young pup, still nursing on is mummy and granny, I hadn’t realized there was much of anything beyond my front door, except maybe London. That’s why it’s quite the mendbender now, that I’m here telling my story to a band of Islanders.

You see, people that comes from where I’m from, well, them, they just don’t expect much from life. That’s because E. Sutton is a little pisser of a town, just south east of London. And as you may know, South East London is full of cockneys, thieves, and just about every type of scoundrel and low life sort of nutter you can imagine in the world. This being an obvious fact to which everybody is aware, it’s no surprise then, that the unfortunate border town to south east London would be filled wit nuttin but the most abject of former criminals, retired prostitutes with their teeth gone missin and all types of sailors, discharged from the Queen’s fleet because they’d ad a leg ripped off by an angry shark or an eye blown out by a blast. And most all of em was drunken bastards, going down the boozer until they was boomy proper and singin holy Christmas in April.

East Suttoners was so debased that most all of them looked up to South Londoners. Imagine that! As if those pimps and sharks were somethin to look up to. If a South Londoner came to E. Sutton, e stood out from the locals proper. Is coat and trainers was always gleaming brightly, not gray and tattered like ours. And e always fancied himself some flashy jewelry or gold knockers in is mouth, which naturally was the envy of everybody who dreams of wearing fancy jewels and baubles and such. But them sorts, theys only passing through for one reason, maybe two; depositing off a kilo of dust with the local street merchant or checkin for a mistress tucked away where the wife wouldn’t suspect.

Not to pass along the wrong impression, for there were, ere and there, good, people tryin to live a decent life. It’s just that they was all very poor. And we all knows what happens when people’s poor: They accept debased situations as a part of daily life, simply because they’ve lived their lives with low expectations. But, they’re grimy and thirsty to for the symbols of the other side of the golden arch, where wealth and status glimmer like the boomy stars over the blackened Atlantic.

Anyways, that’s where I was raised up, and where me parents was raised; in the grimiest, filthiest, most debauched borough in the Queen’s, mighty kingdom. Me dad, well, e was something of a scoundrel, hardly present during my up rearing. Usually, he was going down the boozer, or with one of his other families- of which the geezer ad three before he was finished. But his first family, my mum was always proud to know, was with her.

The proud parents first welcomed me, Joseph Graham III, then came me brother, Dewey shortly after me eighth or ninth birthday. Dewey was a very pretty baby, and despite the fact that we dressed him most proper for a lad in blues and greens, there were times in the streets, when he was mistaken for a girl! Most probably because he had the biggest blue eyes anybody ever saw, and fine, petite features, like an itty, bitty nose and pink, roses on his cheeks. We thought it was funny and kind of cute that e looked just like little Drucilla McCarthy, who was called “Drui” on the old sitcom “All for One.” The name just stuck. It wasn’t long after Drui came, that me dad went off and found himself another bird. He began to spend less and less time at home and I remember when he was there, he was always fighting wit me mum. Well, he planted his seed in this other woman although my parents never divorced, and soon, he didn’t live with us at all.

But mum, bless her sweet soul, that woman ad a heart of gold, and despite the fact that sometimes there was no electricity in our flat and we ad to sleep in our puffy, winter pants and jackets, she never let us run short of our Sugar Snaps and Noodly O’s. We was always fed proper, our backs was always clothed, and were always clean. Anyway, mummy always took care and washed us right tight before beddy bye, but deep down, I wanted more for my life. I wanted my family to be together again, happily chewing fish and chips sprinkled with vinegar, instead of slurping Noodly O’s.

Me name be Joe Graham III in honor me dad, as one would expect. Yet it wasn’t much of an honor at’all, because as you know, me father was a blooming idiot- and a drunkard. Him was raised up by me grandmummy, Lucile McCarthy, and his own dad, Joseph Graham. Now if you know anything about the Queen’s England, you’ll recognize that McCarthy and Graham’s not English names, but Scottish. That’s right, me grandparents were born and raised in the Scottish hills of Aviemore, about an hour’s drive from the outer boroughs of Edinborough. Although they fancied Scottish pride over English incarceration, it was the times that brought them down from the hills and into London when me dad was just a seed in the soil. Back them days, you see, Scotland was at the mercy of the Queen and was of course heavily taxed and very poor. But London and Whales, well them was filled wit factories, all bustlin and jumpin from the coal and steel industries. And me granddad, Joe Sr., found himself a job pounding steel on the burner in Sutton. Back in them days, it was the practice of big Sutton factories to put up their workers, at a handsome rate, in shoddily built community flats. They let the lodging at a bloody, outrageous fee, which was automatically deducted from the workers’ pay, so him went home wit just enough to feed his family for the week. This way, the workers was never able to purchase their own flats, and they was forever slaving for the factory.

This is how East Sutton came be: A big plot of family warehousing for the workers. As the steel and coal industries grew, so did the town, and new flats continued to be built right up until the 1940’s, when most of them Sutton factories was bombed into oblivion by the wicked Germans, who wanted to put an end to the King’s reign of productivity and make certain that no new war vessels and fighter planes came out of England. After the war, most of them big factories never reopened at all, and of the few who did- well, most all of them decided it would be bloody wiser this go round to simply build factories farther from London, where’s they might be safer from the scheming, snarky bastards looking to blow everything up.

Those who had been fortunate enough as to save a few quid were able to buy their flats from the masters who ran the factories, but most of them were sold to foreign merchants, who came in after the war, looking to make a cheap investment. These landlords was worse than the masters. They raised the rents without fixing nuttin and they sharked good people who ad been living in them flats for decades, throwin them to the highroad if they couldn’t pay.

Most East Suttoners, with their bread and butter spoilt and eaten, couldn’t afford to stay on near the city and they followed the factories out to Leeds and Liverpool. But me granddad, not wanting to leave, borrowed money from the Bank of England to purchase the family flat while me grandmummy went to work as a seamstress. Me granddad, being unable to find work, fell into despair and began to gamble and drink heavily whilst me grandmummy was off sewing in the factory. Seeing that thems was different times, and being that my granddad, the old Mr. Joseph Graham Sr., was so gloomy and loomey, you can imagine what me young father was subject to endure. A few months after the London racketeering ring came looking to get is outstanding debts settled, he went missing. Three months later, he washed up on the banks of the Thames near Staffordshire.

As you can imagine, having had been named in honor of two family-deserting drunkards caused me quite a bit of resentment toward what I believed was my life’s destiny. When school was out, I often just lay on my bed all day like a corpse, reading books, drawing comic book characters, doing homework, anything to separate myself from me dad. I decided I didn’t want to be like him. I tried my best to stay out of trouble, to play by the rules I found most of my courses easy and excelled in me them. I had hobbies, like comic books and football, that I was fanatical about. I was the number three footballer in our division. My comic book collection was unequivocally my most prized possession and the envy of the other boys I traded comics with. As soon as I had a few quid, I spent it on comics.

There was a bloke named Peter I was chummy with. He had the best comic book collection of anyone. When Peter mentioned one afternoon that is dad didn’t give him an allowance, it surprised me.

“Then how my friend, do you afford all those comic books?” I asked.

I thought Peter must have a cash hustle that I ought to know about. I didn’t expect what I heard next.

“I steal them,” he replied flatly. I searched his flat, white face for a rebellious smirk or drifty eyes to give away his joke, but he just looked straight ahead as nonchalantly as if our conversation had been about what the cafeteria served for lunch that day.

Once, Peter and I were caught pocketing comics. We devised a system we as used in the Megel’s Book Shop. Ellen, the shopclerk, always worked alone during the week. Peter would create a diversion.

“Excuse me Miss,” he would say in his finest gentleman’s rap. Where can I find the biology section?” Ellen’s thin red eyebrows pulled into two arched triangles. Ellen was a big girl, not fat, but statuesque that this. She was bigger than most of the blokes in her class. She was six feet tall with long basketball player arms and giant hands. She had no bosoms to speak of at’all and with athletic and masculine body there were times when she resembled a transvestite. She took in Peter’s bushy, brown hair, the flat white face with orange freckles, then the neck, the chest, his legs, and finally, his trousers. Peter wasn’t the best looking bloke in E. Sutton, but he was sly and he presented well. I figured girls mainly liked him because he was tall and he looked like he could be older, like 15 or 16. Peter and I were just 12.

“Peter I believe you know where the biology books are located, the far isle in the West Library.” Ellen huffed.

“Yes, miss, but you must understand that I’ve been given a medication for my grievous injuries inured while footballing. My vision is blurred. I can barely see the drugs are so strong! I just need this one biology book for my little brova’s class tomorrow.” His pale eyes pleaded with her, his ear was tiled toward his tweed covered shoulder, he smiled feebely as if to say “help me.” Ellen rolled her blue eyes and huffed again.

“Please,” begged Peter.

Ellen looked annoyed peering down at Peter from the large oak desk, but it was just an act. Ellen always went for it, well knowing, that his intent was to make fresh with her in the stacks. I did not think when Peter had his hands under Ellen’s blouse, she knew I was in the front of the shop filling my satchel with Batman, The Fantastic Four and Superman. Once I had the magazines I just walked out the door. But this time when I arrived at the door someone was waiting.

It was Richard, the book shop owner’s son and Ellen’s brother. Richard was 14 and in the top grade at my school.

“Where the fauck are you going so bloody fast?” Richard’s massive frame was stretched out to block my path. He looked at the satchel and his steely eyes narrowed. I was sweating. This kid was famous for killing squirrels and dogs and cats and chickens. I didn’t want him on my bad side. He was bloody vexed and brolic too. I had to think quickly.

“It’s your sister! She’s ad an accident in the biology stacks. I was running to fetch you! Oh God!” I cried for dear life. I must have been convincing.

“What? Come on!” He ran towards biology. I heard Richard shout “Bloody cunt!” Ellen screamed. Then there was a horrible crack, like someone’s jaw breaking, followed by the cascading crunch of books crashing to the floor. That’s when I took off and ran home without looking back. After that, I was afraid to steal and afraid to come around Peter or Richard, since neither of them apparently knew that he’d been set up. I wanted to keep it that way.

********************************************************

I was lucky winter came soon. I was able to retreat from my peers, fairly unnoticed, to my fantasy world of superheroes and villains. My favorite superhero was Superman. I loved that idea that a meager, ordinary person, like Clark Kent could truly be the greatest superhero in the world. I loved the conflicting duality of the character. I thought about the secret that Clark Kent must keep from the world; even from his love, Lois Lane. I thought about Superman’s parents, and how quiet and conservative they were and how much love and support they gave him, although he wasn’t even their real son. I knew if I weren’t me dad’s real son, he’d never speak to me at’all.

Sometimes I wished he wouldn’t speak to me. Sometimes when I was listening to him rough her up from behind the bedroom door, I prayed.  Between the “whack” and mum’s short muffled scream I would pray that he would leave us. Or better, that he would die.

I tried my best to separate myself from my father and granddad. I excelled easily in school, I was a bang-on footballer, and I earned money by purchasing candies and gums and flavored chewing sticks in bulk, then selling them at double the cost to kids at lunch. The extra money made mum happy. I honestly viewed myself, as the sole protector of me mother and brother. Yet, despite my best efforts, I often lay in my bed at night and pondered if I, Joseph Graham III, was predisposed by fate to wind up in a lonely staircase at dawn, a loathsome, drifty drunk, always in the pub on Sunday afternoons, and always tanked on Christmas Day, which after a time, was the only day Joe Sr. was ever guaranteed to drop in on us.

There was one Christmas I’ll never forget. A mere youth of about twelve or thirteen, I was snuggled in me bed, dreaming of Christmas morning, when I was awakened by a loud “Bang! Bang! Bang!” I stirred, dreamily, and heard “Ho! Ho! Ho!” coming from outside. My brova, who was only 5 or 6 at the time, sprang from the bed as if a blaze had been lit beneath it. I knew it was merely me dad, but Drui didn’t mind none. He thought it was the real tub of jolly lard, “ho, ho, ho-ing” outside the door.

“Saint Nick as come! Saint Nick!” shouted Drui fanatically. As my brova shoved our bedroom door open, I saw me mum rise from her bed on the sofa and rush toward the door. I could hear her hissing, “Joe, what have you done?” through the screen as I struggled to keep pace with Drui, who was tripping over his own feet in his hurry to greet the ole’ velvet bum.

Me mum was still hissing and shooing when we approached. Me dad shoved himself past her thin frame and burst into the tiny flat.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!” cried me dad. He looked a million kilometers tall, but even from way up high, I could still smell the whisky that oozed from his pores and circled around us. I don’t know where he got it, but he was clothed proper, in a red velvet suit and fuzzy cap. He even wore a wig and shinny, white beard and moustache that curled up slightly at the ends like Don Quixote. And although me dad had a slender build like myself, he had something of a jelly roll beneath is trousers, the result of him gluttin up the stout so frequent, and that helped him fill out the suit a wee bit in the tummy like the real St. Nick, although is trousers were still sloppy and saggy.

“Santa! Santa!” Drui cried delightedly. Me dad held a large potato sack half filled with presents in his left and. The sack shifted suddenly, then jerked. Something was inside- something alive! Drui’s tiny mouth hung open.

“Fancy seeing what’s in here lad?” me dad asked grinning from ear to ear. A small, muffled noise came from the sack, then it shifted. Drui’s eyes got big as 50 pence pieces. I saw me mum watching nervously from behind the old bloke. I could see her hands wringing and twisting so I knew she was worried and wanted to intervene. I felt myself twitch, like all nervous and bizarre. For the briefest moment, I thought of doing something, creating a distraction to take control of the situation, but I, being only a boy myself, was too, mesmerized by the mysterious contents of the sack.

“Comme eeere lad,” commanded me dad, clearly intoxicated, but sounding more like himself. Drui’s little mouth just hung open as if him wanted a spoon stuck in it. Me mum and I stood frozen to the floor with flies in our bellies as he coaxed Drui closer to the mystery sack.

Sensing Drui’s hesitation the old man crooned,“ere ere laddie, fear no trick from ole’ Saint Nick.” At that, we all laughed and then relaxed a bit and Drui closed in on the old man and his bundle. Me dad leaned into Drui real close and whispered, “You want to know what I’ve got in this sacky?” He was so close to little Drui’s face, I thought the kid might have fainted from the horrible stench on his breath, but my brova didn’t appear to notice and simply smiled at dad, then mum and then me.

“It’s sumtin for you my Drui, because you’ve been such a good boy.” Drui smiled eagerly because he knew he had been good. He was a very well behaved child, something of a mummy’s boy, shy and always clinging to the hem of mum’s skirt, but sweet nonetheless.

Me dad put the sack on the floor and it stopped rustlin. Drui’s smile was wider than his eyes and it warmed mum and me both to see him so happy and excited. Then, me dad released the neck of the sack that ad been twisted up for so long. There was a preeminent gruff, a yelp and then the horror of one small canine with its teeth locked together like an angry devil, leaping blindly out of the dark bag. All in one motion, the beast flew out of the sack, latched his jaws onto Drui’s face and I heard the terrible scream. It was the sound of terror and helplessness as Drui’s little body rolled under the deranged mutt. Me mum snatched a broom from the corner and whacked the beast in the head causing him to loose its’ balance, but that only shook the mad pup, who quickly clamped is razor sharp teeth into Drui’s soft, pink flesh again. The kid screamed and was suddenly thrown to the floor as the tiny demon kept fastened to me brova’s nose and chin.

Seeing the beast tear off me brova’s nose and spit it back into is face, well as you can imagine, drove me into a rage. I ran up on the side of the pit-bull and kicked the devil as hard as I could. The mad dog flew up like a football and it the ceiling. It fell to the wood floor like a lead brick. It may have been dead; it didn’t move, but I didn’t wait to find out. I kicked and stomped the crazed beast until my slippers and my mother’s broom were painted red.

“Joe! Joe, Joe!” I heard my name again and again in the distance like I was being cheered on in football, and all of my anger and my rage poured into that faucking pooch’s kisser. A hand gripped my shoulder and I woke up as if I had been in a dream. My mother was screaming my name.

“Joe! Joseph! Stop Joseph! You’ve got to go fetch help Joe!” Disorientated, I turned to see Drui in my mother’s arms. I couldn’t see is face, there was too much red everywhere. It looked like spaghetti. Me dad simply sat frozen in the same spot on the floor, his mouth gaping from shock and stupidity. Only his face was alive. Its expression was grotesque and twisted. He looked remorseful, like he realized what he had done. “Joe!” shouted my mother again. I declared my hatred of him as I ran as fast as I could out of the little flat and to the street, where I found our neighbor Tiebor the Sailor, working on his roadster, which he always did when he was home from sea.

“Tiebor, Tiebor, come quickly, a mad dog has attacked Drui!” Tiebor, being something of the hero type and certainly having a fancy for me mum, was immediately running beside me with a giant wrench listening to me tell him what had just happened.

Tiebor and I found me mum outside the house with Drui in her arms. Me father was there too, trying to touch her, console her somehow, but each time he did she hissed hysterically in his direction. Tiebor, obviously, could not have anticipated the horror he now viewed, for when he gazed upon the grotesque welter that was now me brova’s face, I saw him gag and lurch ever so slightly, as if he was to be sick, but only for a moment. Tiebor composed himself and rendered the stoic and proper expression of the military man to which we was accustomed.

A moment later we were putting mum and Drui into the passenger seat of the little roadster and Tiebor peeled off for the hospital. As we stood watching the smoke from the tailpipe melt into the sky, my father, still in the horrible, red Father Christmas suit, lifted a cheap, steel flask from his back-pocket, and practically inhaled the stinking stuff that already spilled out of his pores like rotten cologne.

I didn’t want to look him or even remember that e existed, but there he was, like the inescapable consequences of something done while one was still very young. Without raising my head I looked at him again with slanted eyes that hardly concealed my hatred of the miserable wanker. I expected him to say something, to do something, but he just stood there on uneasy feet, sloshing up the brandy and waving to the small crowd of neighbors who had gathered to observe the brief commotion.

At that moment, I felt like smashing out the few wretched teeth he still had in his mouth, so I turned on my heels and stormed back toward our flat. The first thing I saw when I walked inside was the dead beast soaking in its own blood that had stained the pale, wood floor the color of dark, burgundy. Looking at the beaten pit-bull corpse, I realized it was just a puppy, no more than six months old. I thought about the weighty fabric of that brown sack that as been closed tightly by a fist for, well only heaven knows for how long. I felt the tears welling in my eyes when I remembered seeing the damage the pit had inflicted upon poor Drui’s little face. It obviously possessed a strength heightened fear. Why would me dad bring a pit-bull as a gift? Why everyone knew they had a hostile and aggressive reputation. Not quite the pet for a prissy, five year old. I ran to my room, fell on my cot and cried like a girl.

I thought about how I could have intervened, could have somehow prevented the dog from attacking Drui. I thought about how maybe if I had stood behind mum and told that louse to get out that it might have never happened and Drui’s pretty, little, doll face would still be white and delicate and smiling, shyly and sweet. I thought about how Drui might not survive and how people died all the time from attacks and how even if he lived he’d be broken and bitter and frightened out of his wits all the bloody time. I thought about how I might have saved by baby brova who needed my protection and I cried until the cot was damp with my tears and I couldn’t cry anymore.

I lay upstairs alone for several ours before I went back down. Me dad was gone and I was glad. I was too spent and defeated even to gaze upon that wretch. Immediately, I cleaned the carcass of the pit off the floor. I dug a hole and buried it in mum’s garden, placing a large rock over the grave so that the scavengers couldn’t dig it up. Then I went inside and began to mop up the blood. It was dark before I had finished mopping and there was still a faint, red smear on the floor that no amount of water would lift.

I lay awake most of the night waiting for mum and Drui to walk through the door, but they neva did. In the morning, I saw Tiebor outside cleaning is roadster. Tiebor saw me, and stopped his wiping.

“Tiebor, where’s mum and Drui?” There was an odd look, on is face, something like guilt, as he stared down at the rag twisting and tightening in his hands.

“She’s at the hospital.”

“Is Drui all right?”

Tiebor looked at me then, and the line in is forehead was deep and twisted in the middle. His lips moved but no sound came out.

“Dr- Dr- Drui’s in the ospital Joe. I don’t know what’s happened since last night.”

“But you were there! They fixed him right?” I cried.

“Listen Joe, I think it would be best for you if you just waited in the flat until your mum gets back.” His voice was gentle, but I wasn’t havin none of it.

“I’ve waited all night long! I’m going to the hospital myself!” I stomped off half in anger, half in tears. Tiebor didn’t follow me, but he did call out that I should tell me mum to stop and see him when she feels well enough. I didn’t look back.

An hour later, I was in the hospital lobby asking a smiling, flax-haired nurse where I could find Drui Graham. The nurse checked her log and her smile vanished.

I follow her down the stark corridors smelled of ammonia, peeking in each of the rooms at the wounded and sick in their blue hospital robes and thick, white bandages. We passed through several hospital wings before we approached a door that read: INTENSIVE CARE UNIT. There were no rooms inside, but beds lined up in rows with lots of very old people in them. People was moaning and crying and most of em looked like they was very close to death. It was a horrible feeling being in that place. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to actually be the victim in one of those narrow beds until I saw mum leaning over a cot.

“Mummy, mummy!” Mum raised her face and I saw that it was expressionless, just a flat, white visage with red, puffy eyes. I sat beside her, I squeezed her but she didn’t squeeze back, she just looked back to the head of the bed and that’s when I saw me brova.

Drui’s entire head was wrapped in thick, white gauze so that I couldn’t see a shred of skin and there were three tubes, two thin ones and a wide one coming out from the bandages that connected to a machine in the corner.

“What are those tubes for?” I asked mum after a few moments.

Me mum wiped her puffy eyes and said, “That devil chewed off his entire nose and mouth. He has no way to breathe or keep from choking without them.” This she said flatly, as if it were a fact to which she had been aware her entire life. “He’s not been conscious since we arrived yesterday.”

It was all of horrific! I couldn’t speak. I just stared at the little mummy on the cot until I too, wore red, swollen eyes.

All afternoon we stayed like that, with Mummy holding onto Drui’s tiny fingers and telling him how much we all loved him and needed him to come back to us. She neva stopped whispering to him even when the doctors came and said his fate was still uncertain.

“The longer his temperature stays high, the more risk there is for infection,” an American doctor told mum gently. “Hopefully it will go down soon, but until then, all we can do is wait and hope for the best.”

Early the next morning we were still waitin. I was asleep in the chair beside Drui’s bed when I was awakened by a sudden clamor and shouts of panic. Drui was in his bed shakin and jerkin.

“He’s having a seizure,” cried the flax-haired girl as she and another nurse held Drui’s head and body to the bed. The doctor ran over with a huge syringe and thrust it into Drui’s chest, but his tiny body continued to convulse violently.

“Give me another syringe,” cried the doctor and three more nurses came running. The doctor pumped my brova’s little chest with another dose as I watched helplessly, with me mum under me arm, who was crying hysterically and turning her face away in agony. Finally, Drui’s limbs stopped flailing, but his limbs and body just kept vibrating.

“Get those bandages off the top of his head!” ordered the doctor. When the bandages came off we saw that Drui’s head, which had been shaved, was seared bright pink, and beads of sweat ran down it like raindrops on a windowpane.

“He’s on fire,” cried the doctor, “Bring ice, lots of ice, now! Now!”

Mum cried out louder and threw herself toward Drui, but I held her tightly in my arms until she collapsed against my chest and cried as we watched in horror while the doctors tried to save our little Drui’s life. The nurses brought a tub of ice in cold water and set it next to the breathing machine. We could hardly watch the doctor as he picked Drui off the bed and set him directly into it the icy-cold tub. Drui’s arms began to flail again, but the doctor held him in the tub while the nurses frantically held packs of ice to his head and neck.

“He’s going into cardiac arrest!” cried the doctor and they all pulled him back out of the tub, keeping the ice packs on his head as the doctor performed resuscitative action with an electric paddle. Again Drui’s little body jumped and shook. It was almost a good thing that mum and I could hardly see him between all of the white jackets that stood over him, touching, pumping, breathing, shouting. The scene was unreal, like a tragic, unexpected scene in a movie, and at the end of the day, mum and I went home without our little Drui, without our little boy.

The doctor tried to breathe life back into the tattered little soul for thirty minutes before he gave up and they all walked away. He told mum and me that there was nothing left to do, that is little body couldn’t survive the most grievous of injuries. His own body, he said, had burned itself alive trying to destroy the infections that t’was inside. The doctor told us to go home and rest and come back tomorrow to make the funeral arrangements.

************************************************************

I helped mum stand straight as we walked to our flat in silence. We sat in separate rooms, each crying, each suspended in grief and disbelief, wondering how our world had collapsed so suddenly. I couldn’t believe our little Drui was gone, just two days after Christmas day our favorite was gone forever. I kept revisiting childish thinking and wishing I would to wake up any moment on Christmas day to find Drui asleep in the bed next to me, and it would all be a bad dream, but that neva happened.

Two days later we were dressed in our Sunday best to watch the small, wood casket lowered into the dirt. Me dad, well him neva came to pay is respects, which being as it was he who had been directly responsible for me brova’s passing, made the service that much more difficult for me mum to endure. Yet, being as is was, that him had a long history of evading responsibility, his absence at the funeral didn’t surprise me none, but it burnt me clean inside, knowing we was all suffering, and he wasn’t. I knew him was just fine, and his bloody conscience couldn’t have been too bruised, for the neighbors told us they’d seen him outside Bell’s Pub that morning, as the family prepared to see our beloved Drui for the last time.

It seemed that everybody was teary proper and full of boo-hooiness as dear old Minister Morton reflected on the life of Drui.

“The tragedy, that is the loss of a child is one the greatest that we can ever know as human beings,” said Parish Morton emphatically. He was a nice parish; he always remembered everyone, and never told on kids when they went to confession. He wore a black suit with a stiff, white collar.

“Some may question why God, would take the life of such a beautiful child as Dewey Graham. Yet, it is not for us to question God’s motives, but simply to be thankful for the wonderful moments and the lives which were so magically blessed by the presence of this innocent child.” The parish pulled out the bible and began to read:

“John 14.1-6. Jesus said to his disciples: 'Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.' Thomas said to him, 'Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?' Jesus said to him, 'I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.'”

Fat raindrops soaked my good shoes as we made our way through the rain back to our quiet flat. Mum was so frail and weak that I neva stopped holding her from fear that she would collapse under the strain of her own weight. For several ours following the funeral, people stopped by with cakes and biscuits and the women all took a look at the gray, broken woman by the fire and quickly busied themselves making tea or some other cheerful refreshment. One by one they would all come to me mum and plead with her to eat a bit of digestive or sip on cup of tea, but the only thing that stirred was the golden flames that danced in the reflection of her black eyes. I listened from the doorway as the women in the kitchen talked about her and about how dad had destroyed her.

“Well it’s no surprise she’s terrified now,” said Mrs. Worth. “It’s that good for nuttin husband of hers. A downright bum that one, not better than a bum in the street.”

“Quite right,” agreed Mrs. Kent. “Why I remember Charlotte well back during our days at Saint Mary’s School for Girls. She was a lively one that Charlotte- fun, smart, and lovely as well. She could’ve had most any man from East Sutton, had she wanted him. But she married Joe Graham, and who was to know he would turn out so horrible. He was quite handsome when they wed you know.”

“There was no doubt she loved him,” said Mrs. Worth.

“It’s a cryin shame!” proclaimed Mrs. Downing. They all shook their heads towards the floor.

“That man as ruined her, and now he’s responsible for the death of that precious child! Oh poor Charlotte!” sobbed Mrs. Downing.

“There, there, dear,” consoled Mrs. Worth. “Perhaps it for the better, all part of God’s plan. I don’t believe the younger child was in the best of health,” her voice trailed off. “At least she still as her first son, he’s a good boy, that Joe Jr.. He’ll look after the poor soul.

“Let’s just hope history doesn’t repeat itself and he don’t turn out like his father,” said Mrs. Kent after a moment of silence. They all murmured in agreement.

I stumbled away from the door. My face felt hot and my head felt like it had been stuck with a hammer. I was ashamed. How could this have happened? And now everyone expected me to become a loser like him. I didn’t want to be my father’s kin, I didn’t want to be who I was, him incarnate.

Private Eye, ein echter Klassiker von 1989, wird zur Spielemesse Essen neu aufgelegt. In Private Eye spielt man Investigatoren, die im viktorianischen England ermitteln. Genau deswegen war das Werk immer bei Cthulhu-Spielern beliebt, die den Quellenteil zu England und speziell London schätzten. Eine Renaissance erfuhr das Spiel, als die Restauflage von der Redaktion Phantastik übernommen und vertrieben wurde. Bald publizierte man auch eigene Abenteuer. Auch das Fanzine Trodox veröffentlichte einige Private Eye-Abenteuer, die alternativ auch mit Cthulhu oder Midgard 1880 gespielt werden konnten. Einige stammten von Fanziner-Legende Jan-Christoph Steines, mittlerweile bei Pegasus. Bei der Neuauflage hat übrigens eine andere Fanziner-Legende, nämlich Peter Schlauch mitgearbeitet, der für die Gestaltung der Regeln verantwortlich war. Das Hardcover wird knapp 38 Euro kosten und 256 Seiten umfassen.

Im Detail heißt es: "Werden Sie selbst der größte Detektiv aller Zeiten! Im letzten Drittel des 19. Jahrhunderts, im England Queen Victorias, der so genannten Gaslight-Epoche, gehen die Spieler z. B. als Detektive, als Anwälte, Journalistinnen, Polizisten oder alte Damen und Gentlemen auf die Jagd nach Dieben, Betrügern oder Mördern. Dafür wurden die einfach gehaltenen Regeln überarbeitet, sind aber kompatibel geblieben zu der alten Version. Der Spielspaß steht wie immer im Vordergrund, um langwierige Würfelorgien zu vermeiden. Wie bisher bilden die umfangreichen Hintergrundinformationen den größten Teil des Regelwerkes. Die drei Teile Allgemeines, Stadtlexikon und Kriminalität wurden um neue Texte ergänzt, z. B. zur Mode oder der medizinischen Versorgung. Der Allgemeinteil informiert über England und vor allem London und die verschiedenen Bereiche des Lebens in der Stadt wie das Verkehrswesen oder Unterhaltungsmöglichkeiten. Das Stadtlexikon stellt viele Stadtteile und wichtige Bauwerke vor. Im Kriminalteil werden die verschiedenen Methoden der Identifizierung, der Gerichtsmedizin und der Spurensuche so dargestellt und erklärt, dass sie leicht ins Spiel übernommen werden können. Das neue Einführungsabenteuer Familienglück führt die frischgebackenen Detektive auf die Spuren einiger Betrügereien im Pub The King’s Head im London des Jahres 1884. Dazu gibt es einen Stadtplan für das London des Jahres 1895 als separate Farbkarte. Damit bietet das Regelwerk von Private Eye alles, was ein Rollenspiel braucht: Regeln, zahlreiche Hintergrundinformationen und ein Abenteuer."

Ich werde sicherlich einen ausführlichen Blick reinwerfen!

Hier geht es zur Verlagspage. Oder wer auf der Messe Gelegenheit hat - dort gibt es übrigens Greifenklauen!

by Thomas Rooney 

It's all about international football again this Wednesday, with four of the home nations in World Cup qualification action. Some people's enthusiasm for international football may have dwindled somewhat over the last couple of years, but it's still an excellent chance to take part in some football betting. So, let's preview the games involving England, Wales, Northern Ireland and Republic of Ireland.

Belarus v England: Fabio Capello's men weren't superb against Kazakhstan on Saturday but they got the job done and should do exactly the same against a Belarus team that will provide more of a challenge. The football odds are heavily favouring an England win and if Wayne Rooney performs in a central position like he did in the second half on Saturday - he will help England record a comfortable victory. 0-2.

Germany v Wales: To get a result in Germany is a rather tough ask for Wales. They have a very young side and although they will be in good spirits after beating Liechtenstein, Germany should record their third home win of the qualification campaign. Wales to perform admirably but fall just short. 1-0.

Northern Ireland v San Marino: Nigel Worthington's men are without a win so far in their quest to qualify for 2010, but they will never have a better chance to record their first victory. San Marino have lost both their games so far and the likes of David Healy should help Northern Ireland to a comfortable home win. If this isn't the case, Worthington will start to feel the pressure. 3- 0.

Rep of Ireland v Cyprus: Finally for today's preview, it's Republic of Ireland. They take on Cyprus and will be hoping to continue their good start to life in Group 8. They took four points from their opening two away games and will be confident of winning their first home game of the new campaign against a Cyprus side that are winless after two games. I like this Ireland side under Giovanni Trapattoni and they should make it three games unbeaten with a home win. 2-1.

So, it is three wins and one defeat for the home nations if my predictions are to be believed. Wales could upset all football odds and get themselves a positive result in Germany, but there is no doubt that they have the toughest fixture of the evening. England, Northern Ireland and Republic of Ireland really should all emerge victorious.

The trip on Sunday, picks up where we left off at Westminster with our main goal for the day to visit the London Aquarium. We should have gotten off at Waterloo station which I was looking forward to as I was told it is one of the biggest train stations in London, however, it wasn't meant to be as the Jubilee line was shutdown due to maintenance. It seems to be a common occurance in London, the maintenance of trains on weekends is apparently frequent according to the gripes and groans of other English commuters. We proceeded over the bridge near Westminster, not sure on the name, probably Westminster Bridge ;) In any case, we went to the Aquarium and discovered that half the display was of fish from Australia, which was quite funny. For some reason I found myself taking happy snaps at every display and have some 50 odd photos of various fish which I wont bore you with...

After the Aquarium, we found ourselves in Namco, which for the nerdier of readers may know as a computer game brand, in any case it was essentially an arcade games place, it even had bumper cars within the building, which I thought was interesting. Simon and I was having a few shots with the shotty's and I must say that I was able to keep up with Simon's shooting, he won by only 10 points (1 hit = 10 points). Sarah is famous for getting stuffed toys with the 3 pronged claw in these sorts of places and after we got jibbed 4 or 5 times, Sarah finally got a stuffed Kung Fu Panda, which looks about as cute as the behind of a rhinosaraus that has just sat on a camp fire.

We then headed on down to the pub for lunch, the meals in England are really filling, I went for Bangers and Mash and was pleasantly surprised, none of this cruddy sausage that they sell in Australia, and it was drowned in a red wine sauce. We had a Pint of Heineken, (Yes, I know its sacralidge to travel half way around the world to have exactly the same thing that you would have at home). Sarah had a 80oz Mince Steak burger. The rest of the day was spent getting back to home and sleeping, we were wrecked from all the exercise and stayed in for the rest of the night, we got some supplies from Salisbury's and had some Olive Bread rolls which were quite nice.

Have Fun!
Dennis & Sarah

On Saturday night we decided to hit the town and visit the bright lights and big city of Picadilly Circus. We came straight out of the tube into the bright lights and was subsequently stunned like a rabbit in headlights. Snap, there was a couple of photos taken. It was a real eye opener, so many people in one place, all sorts, tourists, locals and weird people.
I haven't heard too many things about Picadilly Circus, so I was a little unsure what to expect, but if you think of a cheesy nightclub with various different groups of people, like the cheerleaders struggling to assimilate to post-school life, unemployed drunkards and people who think they are moths, ie people drawn to lights, then you can imagine what Picadilly Circus is like. Aptly named :)

We had Italian in a nice place, we think we were either in Soho or bordering Soho, which is suppose to be London's version of Kings Cross in Sydney. In any case, the food was good, I had a creamy spinach sauce with my Tagliatelle pasta, Sarah had a Ham, Tomato and Cheese pizza. The pizza itself was really different to the Australian version, time and energy is spent on a good pizza base and sauce, then cheese and slices of ham spread over the pizza. The crust was firm but not dry, it was really nice. Simon had Spaghetti Carbonara which was by all accounts filling :) We subsequently took a taxi, but not your traditional one, it was more like a taxi you'd find in Shanghai, a bicycle with a carriage on the back. It certainly wasn't designed for the likes of Simon and I as we were all pretty snug in the back. Sarah continued her clumsy form by falling out of the taxi while trying to get out. It was quite humourous. We then finished off the night by visiting Trafalgar Square, taking some snapshots and watching people trying to climb on top of the lions which subsequently meant they had to mount said lion from its rear end and gave us a bit of a chuckle as people tried to jump and grab and hold so they could climb up, which effectively looked like something David Attinborough might be around to explain the weird mating habbits of lions in Trafalgar Square.

We finished off the night by missing the last train (12 midnight) on a Saturday night, which we thought was bizarre, even Melbourne trains finish at 1am and had to catch a cab, which was a mega experience as it took us about 30mins to beat someone else to one. Once in the cab, the driver was explaining that if you ever see someone on a mo-ped with a clipboard, that they are knowledge gatherers and its part of becoming a cabby in London, you run around on a mo-ped and write down every street there is on the clipboard and it helps them become professional cab drivers. He says that Sat Navs are being used more and more now in London, but not for their directions as most cabbies know their way around, but Sat Navs in London warn them of speed cameras. When we first spoke to the cabbie I was taken a back as they speak through a microphone and speaker system as they're completely protected, once you get use to it, its not bad and there is no communication issues. His accent was quite funny, nothing abnormal about it, but I was reminded of someone from The Bill, and was half expecting him to tell us "You're nicked!" and drive us down to Sunhill for interogating.

Have Fun!
Dennis & Sarah

Ashford is a new city on the edge of England. Full of concrete, bypasses and all the mod cons, everyone who inhabits this city is very much a product of its history. Beede, the environmental activist who has lost steam; his son, Kane, who deals illegal painkillers to those in need; Elen, the podiatrist married to a man, Dory, who is, at the very least, schizophrenic, with their six year old son, Fleet, who is highly precocious. When something that appears to be the spirit of a 15th century court jester begins to take control of Dory, each of these lives slowly draws together, and drags everyone around them down with it.

It's always so refreshing to read something different and exciting. And that's exactly what this book is. Even though it's a beast of a book (more than 800 pages!), it takes no longer to read than any other average sized paperback. Partially, I suspect, because a large number of page have very little written on them, but also because Barker is just such an easy author to read. Her novel is filled with pop culture references that will require future editions to be laden with footnotes explaining who Miles Davis is, and what a Nokia does, but I'm ok with that. It really feels like a book of its time, and captures life in these new, postmodern towns so perfectly. Only time will tell whether or not this will make the book unreadable in future years. For now, though, it's a brilliant way of talking about what Barker wants to talk about.

Which is not ghosts, even though the blurb will try to tell you otherwise. Yes, there is a certain amount of ghost activity, but when you finally reach the end of the novel, that's not the part that matters. In fact, Barker's ending suggests that perhaps the ghost didn't even exist. Almost. I'll leave you to work that one out. Barker is far more concerned with relationships, and how the happenings and coincidences of everyday life affect the way we interact with the people around us. Each and every character in this book seems to be inextricably connected, so by the end, you think that something bigger must be behind everything. But when nothing is revealed, it all beings to make sense. Perhaps this big, globalised world is much smaller than we think - or, at the very least, each small city contained therein is actually just a big, fractured family. Indeed, the novel ends in a traffic jam, where all the characters are stuck within the same kilometre radius of a burning house (that also belongs to another main character), and are forced to confront people they perhaps didn't want to talk to. And if you are looking for answers to the plot questions that Barker raises, don't hold your breath waiting for answers. They're not spelled out for you. Though, one small, insignificant bit of dialogue does actually answer the entire book, so watch out for it. Mind you, once you start reading said dialogue, everything falls into place, and the book is brilliant.

For all the boldness and brashness this novel gives off before you open it, it is a surprisingly tight and restrained affair. Granted, there are some scenes of absolute insanity, but they fit perfectly in the world that Barker is trying to evoke - new, concrete cities that have popped up out of necessity in a world that is becoming increasingly dependent on roadways and communication. Inhabited within are not bleak, lifeless humans, but people that are simply struggling to keep their heads above water in the insanity and difference that these areas create and sustain. Go and read this book now - it really is very good.

AKTUELL: Kunstprojekte Birmingham.

AKTUELL: Kunstprojekte London.

Kunstprojekte 2008 England (blogging):

Wir in Deutschland wissen gar nicht, dass wir das Klo in der Funktionalität perfektioniert haben. Ob Flach- oder Tiefspülklo, das verdaute Essen wird schnellstmöglich und wassersparend wie ein Torpedo in die Kanalisation gejagt. Doch das ist nicht überall so.

Im unterentwickelten England und Nordamerika ist die Schüssel des Tiefspülklos über die Hälfte mit Wasser gefüllt. Man muss aufpassen dass man sich nicht ins Wasser setzt, und dass man sein Klopapier vor dem Abwischen nicht in die Schüssel tunkt. Beim Spülvorgang wird nicht mit frischem Wasser hinterhergespült, sondern der Inhalt der Schüssel läuft einfach aus, was zwangsläufig mit Rückstandsbildung verbunden ist.  Anschließend wird die fast leere Schüssel wieder aufgefüllt und man muss eine volle zweite Spülung anschließen, da es keine Möglichkeit gibt den Spülvorgang zu unterbrechen.

Vom "Loch im Boden" der südasiatischen Länder bei dem (wenn überhaupt) nur mit einem Wasserschlauch oder einer Schöpfkelle gespült wird, habe ich bereits berichtet.

Doch wie machen es die Chinesen? Die Chinesen verwenden eine weiterentwickelte Form des angloamerikanischen Tiefspülklos. Der Grundwasserspiegel ist relativ niedrig gehalten, aber dennoch höher als beim deutschen Standardklo. Nun aber zum Spülvorgang. Hier verhält es sich genau umgekehrt zu den Engländern. Es wird zuerst die Schüssel bis fast obenhin mit Wasser aufgefüllt - nein- geflutet trifft es wohl besser. Dabei bildet sich ein riesiger Strudel in dem nocheinmal alles aufgeschlämmt wird. Es macht schon fast Spaß zuzusehen, wie anschließend der Todesstrudel die hilflosen Ausscheidungen in wilden Kreisbahnen in den Abfluss reißt, wobei es auch hier stets einige Überlebende gibt. Auch hier mindestens ein zweites mal voll nachgespült werden (mein Rekord: 5).

Mit japanischen Klos habe ich bis jetzt noch keine praktischen Erfahrungen gemacht, doch hab ich auch hier einige Infos. In Japan ist das Klo ein einziges Hi-Tech-Gerät, das mehr mit Elektronik vollgestopft ist als unser Fernseher. Sitzbrillen werden auf Köpertemperatur geheizt und reinigen sich nach dem Benutzen von selbst. Ein weiteres Highlight ist der in der Schüssel integrierte Gesäßreinigungswasserstrahl.  Bei diesem kann Druck, Position und die Temperatur stufenlos geregelt werden. Auf Wunsch kann sogar Seife in den Strahl gemischt werden. Anschließend fönt ein Turbogebläse den dampfgestrahlten Hintern trocken. Der Deckel lässt sich bequem per Fernsteuerung öffnen und seit kurzem gibt es auch Klos mit integriertem Blutzucker und Körperfettmessgerät. Ein Klo mit Sprachsteuerung ist bereits in Entwicklung. Ich hoffe ich schaffe es so ein Ding zu bedienen, ich male mir schon die schlimmsten Szenarios aus. Nicht auszudenken wenn ich das Klo bewundere und aus Versehen den Wasserstrahl anschalte...

Unterschiede gibt es übrigens nicht nur beim Klo an sich, sondern auch beim Papier und der Umgebung. Während es bei uns üblich ist, die Blätter feinsäuberlich zu falten dass auch ja kein Millimeter übersteht, nimmt man in Japan und China einfach einen Buschel hauchdünnes Papier in die Hand. Nicht selten landet dies dann im Mülleimer neben dem Klo anstatt in der Schüssel. Den entstandenen Geruch versucht man dann durch literweises Versprühen von Raumerfrischer zu überdecken.

Japanischen Frauen ist der Klogang übrigens besonders peinlich. Da diese ständig die Spülung zogen um eventuell aufkommende Geräusche zu übertönen, wurde dort in jedem öffentlichen Klo ein Gerät installiert das auf Knopfdruck lautes Geplätscher und Vogelgesang abspielt. Die Wasserersparnis beträgt im Schnitt 20 (in Worten: ZWANZIG) Liter pro Sitzung.

Ich hoffe dass ihr euch diese Informationen ins Gedächtnis ruft, wenn ihr es euch auf einer deutschen Schüssel bequem macht. Denn hier hat die Klobalisierung glücklicherweise noch keinen Einzug gehalten.

Aktuelles Thema "Kunst im öffentlichen Raum":

Bild von Barack Obama (Fotografie, Portrait - Biografie).

Ralph Ueltzhoeffer.

Beitragsforum Kunst & Kultur allgemein:

He lives in a high-rise in the centre of the city on his own. He had been married many years but his wife died just a couple of years back - about the same time his dementia became more evident. Funny how that happens. His children live in different parts of the country and in one case, in a different country entirely. They are in constant contact and visit when their own jobs and family allow.

He has a dementia that makes the past much more vibrant and memorable than the present. He goes for walks in the local neighbourhood where people know and greet him by name. His COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) possibly obtained through a strong smoking habit restricts the amount of walking he can comfortably manage.

Talking to him yesterday about his work, he became more animated that usual. He reeled off all the postal districts in London from memory - along with an explanation of the numbering system.

beggs at Flickr

And he repeated that 'there are no roads in the City of London' a couple of times. I was baffled momentarily until he explained

'They have streets, alleys, lanes.. but they have no roads'.

'What about City Road?' I said, pondering.

'City Road ends when the city starts'

Here's where I admit my love of random trivia. So armed with this new knowledge and because it was the end of the day, I decided to use Google for the purpose for which is it intended and although I have to say, I completely believed him at the time, I was just curious.

I have found enough confirmation of this fact to go along with it and just because I've grown too used to academic writing over the years - I can't leave this post without a reference!

So here's a reference which explains the reason for this oddity far better than I can.

Our sense of a road as being a fixed route or line on land for getting from one place to another came along much later, at the very end of the sixteenth century (Shakespeare is the first known user). This explains the old joke that there are no roads in the City of London (the medieval core of the metropolis), as indeed there aren’t: all the ways there had been named before the word came into the language.

(Obviously, the City of London here is referred strictly to the Square Mile - there are lots of roads in London, in general - indeed, I live on one!).

The crew at 99.94 are delighted that after five day's hard yakka in Bangalore, The Tooting Trumpet returns to open your hearts and hopefully your wallets in a taut, humorous and informative article about one of England's finest cricketers and perhaps her most colourful and contentious character, Sir Ian Botham.

What can one say about His Beefiness that hasn't been said already, usually by him?

Well that's no way to start an article, so instead we'll use the opportunity afforded by his latest Charity Walk to review two curiously opposed aspects of his curious career.

The Bowling

It's easy to forget that Ian Botham, like Andrew Flintoff, is really a bowler who can bat and not an all-rounder in its truest sense of meriting a place via either discipline. This point is clear in his first Test aged 21 (inevitably against Australia, inevitably a win, inevitably with five wickets for the comically slight boy called "Boff-am" by many), in which he batted at eight behind the talented Alan Knott at seven and the rather less talented current National Selector, Geoff Miller, at six.

His bowling in those early days was a superb mix of stock outswing, a variation inswinger and off and leg cutters, with enough pace for a nasty bouncer and the control that allowed him to set up batsmen as effectively as Wasim Akram or Glenn McGrath.

He used the crease well and understood how a change of pace could upset the rhythm of a batsman. For a man who has never shown much inclination since to listen to anyone, it is clear that his relationship with Tom Cartwright (who took his 1536 first class wickets at under 20!) was as important as Shane Warne's with Terry Jenner.

Having taken his 200^th Test wicket in the match that rounded off "Botham's Ashes", there seemed to be no limit to what he might achieve with the ball in  hand. But then he seemed to lose interest in his bowling, or lose interest in the hard physical work that bowlers need to put in year after year, and declined into a parody of his former self, bowling military medium pace and long-hop bouncers.

He still dismissed batsmen through sheer personality, but the gift had been squandered. After 42 Test matches, he had just turned 26 years old and had taken 211 wickets at an average of 20.93. In the remaining 60 Tests of his career, he was to take just 172 more wickets at the embarrassing average of 37.56.

Yes he had some injuries, with many were brought on or exacerbated by his lifestyle choices - but, essentially, this was a man who just couldn't be bothered.

The Walking

The story as told (and told and told and told) by the man, is that he was visiting Taunton hospital with a bad toe one day and chanced into a ward full of children. On being told that it was a leukaemia ward and that the kids had but weeks to live, he was taken aback (as any person would be). Unlike most other people however, Botham decided to do something about it and set off in 1985 to walk the 900 miles from one end of The Old Dart to the other in a kind of pub crawl from hell. He was still a hero in those days, and brokered that status into substantial fundraising.

Incredibly for anyone observing his deteriorating cricketing powers, it was no one-off stunt. Including the current event, Botham has undertaken eleven more punishing walks, which have raised over £10M for childhood leukaemia research and helped lift the survival rate from 20% to 80%.

Yes he has made some mistakes, with many brought on or exacerbated by his lifestyle choices - but, essentially, this is a man who just could be bothered.

Readers can donate here.

Tomorrow: A wrap from either ends of the Earth on every player's perfomance from the First Test at Bangalore.

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2008/soccer/10/13/bc.soc.england.madrid.ap/index.html

I can't remember the last time I heard about racism at an NHL, NFL or NBA game.  However it seems every time I turn around there's another accusation of racism in soccer.

Since the MLS' inception I've heard of a few separate incidents of racism, the most recent has ended up in the lifetime ban of a fan from Houston Dynamo games.  I applaud the MLS and their reaction to this, and I hope it will keep other racists from the games or at least keep their mouths shut.  This is the 21st century are we really still stooping to calling people 'monkeys'?  It's ridiculous.

England, with a recent charge to FIFA to investigate racism 4-1 Croatia match, have canceled their February friendly vs Spain at the Bernabeu because of racism the last time England played in Madrid.  For this I applaud Fabio Capello and think it's the right thing to do.  Hopefully more teams will protect their players in this way and the lack of exciting home fixtures will send the international racists packing.

What's it like being an out lesbian muso?

Great. We played a lesbian / women only gig earlier this year- was fun. There are good audiences out there and many talented lesbian musicians.

You're UK based - please tell South African readers who you are and what you sound like?

We are an Acoustic female duo based in Nottingham. U.K. Called The Idolins, comprising of Karen Smalley-Turner (Vocals and acoustic guitar) and myself, Claudine West (multi-instruments).  We describe ourselves as Acoustic, folk, pop. Melodic music that warms the soul. Songwriting from the heart.  Some of our main influences range from Missy Higgins, The Indigo Girls, The Corrs, Kristin Hersh, The Cranberries, Suzanne Vega, Crowded House. The list is constantly expanding as we find and perform with great talents.

OK, time for a vitally intellectual question - do you get groupies?

Ha ha.  Yes i have been known to pull at a gig. Musicians have great fingers, and hands and rhythm!! (wink wink. Ooh i'm cheeky!!)  I suppose I'm intriguing and maybe scary to some.  There have been girlfriends that i have written songs for and about, some that will never know..   There are the afraid ladies..who don't want to seem like 'a groupie' and approach me. I have the utmost respect for women. We like to hang out and mingle with audiences as we are sociable girls!! Maybe I'll write a book one day about it all.  Life as a lesbian musician is never boring and is very beautiful. I have the freedom to express my art, my beliefs and hopefully entertain you.

Describe your ideal woman?  Is the stage an odd place to meet a girlfriend?

Maybe if she was actually on the stage i'd be a little scared! I've met women through lesbian dating sites and had some really good times. erm..Knitting!! Met women through normal everyday life.  I think sometimes peoples perceptions of you as a musician are a little different from the reality as a person.

My ideal woman. Is sensual, loving, kind, a bit wild now and again good sense of humour (They really have to with me-I like a mess about and a laugh).  I'm not shallow as to say the women who attract me have to look a certain way. I go with the flow. You are who you are. I love the special moments. They are inspiring.  I think if you feel the vibes and the fireworks then it's amazing.  "Feeling the butterflies crushed in your stomach when the beauty, attraction, lust" That's an Idolins quote. I also wrote it with reference to what love does. Combined with music. Life make me smile.

So sometimes the instant spark occurs.Other times love grows. Heartbreak hurts. But if you don't open up and take a chance when someone feels right you might just have lost one of the greatest loves you'll ever have.

I should post my Gaydar Girls profile. ha ha. NO THAT'S WRONG!!

Being single at the moment is fun.   When i'm in a relationship i'm very much a committed woman.   I do long to settle down now I'm in my 30's. But i can't just make that happen.What i should say is... I'm more ready to settle than i was in my 20's.

Would i go with a lesbian musician?  Hell yes!!

Favourite lesbian musicians? And celebrities in general?

I'm a big fan Of K.D. Lang, The Indigo Girls, Melissa Etheridge, Ani Difranco.The L word got me into Betty.  We have some great lesbian musicians locally... Greymatter and Hannah Brackenbury.There are some i can't out.  There are musicians i really really wish were lesbians..I'll keep that to my bedtime fantasies.

Celebrities?  I think i really did fall in Love with Karina Lombard of The L Word at one point. I admire Sigourney Weaver.

What's your opinion of celebrities and closets? Do you think celebs should come out or are they entitled to their privacy?

I think if you are in the public eye, then don't expect your secrets not to be shared. The press love that kind of scandal.  Closets can be very deep dark lonely places.  But then again. Who is really that bothered nowadays?  Cultures are evolving, acceptance of peoples diversities becomes the norm eventually.
Bigots mostly don't change they just get more screwed up.

"There is nothing mixed up about a woman who loves women, who wants to have sex with them, or who identifies as a lesbian. It is society that is mixed up because it punishes people for not conforming to its gender stereotypes" - Edward Stein

What's the strangest thing you've ever experienced at a gig?  The best thing?  The worst thing?

Strangest? Meeting a woman and i spending 3 days in bed with after. No erm..

Performing drums at a wedding and seeing a guest slip and dissapear under a table with a huge bang. To this day i don't know how she managed it? i cried laughing!  With The Idolins it's the ghost that takes our capos and guitar tuners when we get drunk. I need a constant supply!!

Best thing? When people cry with the beauty of our music. Making it special. The magic.

Worst? I get really nervous sometimes and go blank.  Playing a gig in a tent at a mini festival on the coldest weekend of the year camping. But then again it was great when my fingers warmed up.And such a good gig.

Where does the name The Idolins come from?

'eidolon'-A phantom; an apparition.  Originally it was going to be eyedolins. The eye is a window to the soul.  Then it changed to Idol; One that is adored, often blindly or excessively.  The the lins part. Stringed instruments eg violins.

So combining all. We get IDOLINS.  Strings that pull the soul.

The Idolins online:

We're On Facebook 'I like'
http://apps.facebook.com/ilike/artist/The+Idolins

We do have video clips on Youtube of us performing too. It captures a bit of the magic.
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=_yBqVvriK68

Myspace is best at the moment.
http://www.myspace.com/theidolins

My solo songwriting project is
http://www.myspace.com/bogwoppet

Anyway if there was ever a footballer who deserved booing on any occasion even if he's playing well (when was the last time that happened by the way?) the that player is Ashley Cole. The way he left Arsenal, The Book (good God The Book!), the Mike Reilly incident "There's my name, fucking book me, go on fucking book me" the man is sheer class on a stick and for me the biggest blight on this arsehole his treatment of the fragrant, lovely Cheryl Tweedy. What was she thinking?

I suggest ritual booing of Asley Cole becomes prevelant around the country, even at Stamford Bridge where he is far from the most popular player even among the Chelsea die hards. Fuck me, he earns a hundred grand a week, plays for Chelsea and Enlgland and is married to Cheryl. I feel another one coming on BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I bet that hurt eh Ashley.