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Post by helrunar on Nov 4, 2021 16:01:33 GMT
Latest bit of fun from John Linwood Grant. Parody, but seems scorchingly accurate to this looker-on.
COMING THIS CHRISTMAS... THE MEZZANINE: Mark Gatiss’s imaginative new version of the work of M R James. An elderly antiquarian, stuck between two levels of a public library, watches as a picture on the wall slowly changes to reveal the incompetence of the local amateur engraving society. “Darkly comic drama, of particular interest to enthusiasts of Ludwig von Siegen’s innovative seventeenth century printmaking process.” Wolds Tractor Review. “Was Monty gay?” The Guardian.
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Post by helrunar on Nov 8, 2021 15:55:36 GMT
Xmas Day 1961 with Ena, Minnie and Martha. I was fascinated by the brief ritual of "pulling the cracker." But puzzled by the cut-away. I presume there was something in the cracker--or some point to doing it? This is one of those customs I've seen mentioned often in old tales and letters but never known exactly what it was for. www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5Dw7nXgEcUH.
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Post by helrunar on Nov 8, 2021 15:56:28 GMT
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Post by Swampirella on Nov 8, 2021 16:07:41 GMT
Xmas Day 1961 with Ena, Minnie and Martha. I was fascinated by the brief ritual of "pulling the cracker." But puzzled by the cut-away. I presume there was something in the cracker--or some point to doing it? This is one of those customs I've seen mentioned often in old tales and letters but never known exactly what it was for. www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5Dw7nXgEcUH. I thought those names were from early Coronation Street! I've been enjoying it since the mid-80s, further proof of my insanity to some. I believe there's some sort of little prize in the cracker, but I could be wrong....
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Post by 𝘗rincess 𝘵uvstarr on Nov 8, 2021 16:08:54 GMT
Xmas Day 1961 with Ena, Minnie and Martha. I was fascinated by the brief ritual of "pulling the cracker." But puzzled by the cut-away. I presume there was something in the cracker--or some point to doing it? This is one of those customs I've seen mentioned often in old tales and letters but never known exactly what it was for. www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5Dw7nXgEcUH. We still do it. There is usually a joke and a little gift inside, and also a Christmas paper hat in the shape of a crown. It also makes a bang when you pull it.
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Post by Shrink Proof on Nov 8, 2021 17:19:16 GMT
We still do it. There is usually a joke and a little gift inside, and also a Christmas paper hat in the shape of a crown. It also makes a bang when you pull it. Crackers are pulled at an early stage of Christmas dinner. When tugged, they always come apart into two different sized pieces; whoever gets the larger chunk has "won" and keeps the contents as their prize. As The Princess indicates, the contents are always the same - a gift, a joke and a paper crown. The paper crown should be worn throughout the meal, despite the itching it produces and the fact that 90+% of them disintegrate within 5 minutes. The gift is usually something cheap and useless (a plastic stapler that fails to function, or similar landfill from a Chinese sweat shop), whilst the "joke" is traditionally awful. An unfunny pun or a one liner that even Bob Hope would reject, that kind of thing. Traditionally, the folk round the table find all this hilarious, which is an indication of how much alcohol is consumed that day.
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Post by helrunar on Nov 8, 2021 18:08:53 GMT
Superb ethnographic remarks, Dr Shrink Proof. Many thanks!
cheers, Hel
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Post by helrunar on Nov 16, 2021 2:04:36 GMT
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Post by helrunar on Nov 24, 2021 3:31:29 GMT
Fans of shrewish, hysterical women going all to pieces in the Sorry, wrong number vein need to listen to Agnes Moorehead's bravura performance as a vindictive Southern hausfrau in the Suspense radio drama "The Chain" (title refers to a cursed chain letter, not a bicycle part or a bit of dungeon regalia): www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-QCWdw6CwwH.
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Post by helrunar on Dec 2, 2021 17:29:26 GMT
The latest amusing little facétie from the startlingly adroit pen of John Linwood Grant:
THE HOBBY HORSE “This all reminds me,” said Canon Foxthrup (late of Bunbury Cathedral), settling back without enthusiasm into a glass of indifferent sherry, “Of my acquaintance Mr Bettleworth, an incorrigible pilgrim to those establishments which can be found in the more cramped alleys of our Fenland towns. You will have noticed them. Replete with foxed, often incomplete, volumes from centuries passed, with minor curios and orphaned engravings lacking any definite provenance, they seem so little frequented that one puzzles as to how their mittened proprietors draw an adequate living from their trade.” His audience admitted that they had indeed – from time to time – observed the same. “Well then,” the canon continued, “It was at one such ‘shrine’ – Low Church, mind you, no Walsingham,” (here he allowed himself a chuckle, which we must take in the spirit intended) “In a market town we shall call Frenstanton, that Mr Bettleworth came across a rather odd item – a hobby horse of poor, but certainly antique, design. He thought it perhaps a suitably indifferent gift for his young niece, an argumentative child for whom he held little affection, but to his surprise, the elderly proprietor was somewhat reluctant to part with it. “The bewhiskered gentleman insisted that this very hobby horse – no more than a pole surmounted by a crudely carved wooden head, perhaps in beech – was the original source of contention between Jesuit and churchman when it was introduced into the Yule festivities at Wisbech, in the reign of Gloriana herself. For the Jesuits deemed the hobby horse to represent an atavistic set of unhealthy beliefs, and violence had ensued at the time. “As such, the carving could not be passed on without due reverence, or without a level of recompense commensurate with its history. Wisbech in those days, as you will recall, was in effect an ecclesiastical prison for recusants and their ilk.” On shakier ground as to the finer details of Elizabethan period, those assembled chose merely to nod and clear their throats in feigned agreement. “At this point, Bettleworth, having ventured out that day only modestly encumbered with coin, withdrew his interest and left. Yet that afternoon, as he sampled the limited delights of Frenstanton, he found himself inexplicably ill at ease. Twice, three times, he thought he heard the soft whicker or whinny of a horse in the near distance, but saw no beast; when taking tea by the small station, he observed a cabman’s mare staring at him, its eyes dark yet luminous, as if it had questions it would ask. In like manner, the feather-hooved shire on a nearby dray had to be restrained from pressing acquaintance with him... “Eventually my friend found himself once again before the shop in question, and there was the hobby horse in the window, its painted eyes upon him. What was he to do? Bereft of a wiser course, and feeling that it had been ordained – somewhere – that he must respond, he entered and emptied his wallet in exchange for the aforementioned item. By nightfall, he was back in his rooms in Bunbury, the hobby horse confined to a closet until such time as its fate should be determined.” Fringely, the youngest of that evening’s audience, leaned forward in some excitement, interrupting. “How then did Mr Bettleworth discover the significance of his purchase? Had an ecclesiastical enmity – I must surely speculate – lingered in its base material, or been imbued within its shaping? Were the real horses somehow attuned to this echo of history, and to such customs which lie deeper – forgive me – than that of our Church?” Canon Foxthrup eyed his empty glass thoughtfully. “As it happens, no. It turned out that the shopkeeper had slipped handfuls of aniseed balls and sugared peppermints into Mr Bettleworth’s jacket pockets, thus ensuring the interest of every equine within a mile of him. Returning to Frenstanton the following day, somewhat annoyed, my friend discovered that the rogue had seventeen other badly-made hobby horses in the back of the shop, and that he had been operating such a ruse for years, a ruse only effective on the more credulous of his visitors.” Fringely stared. “Why, what a ridiculous story!” he exclaimed. “It is indeed.” said the good canon, polishing his half-moon spectacles, “Quite as bad as the sherry you brought with you, insisting brusquely on one of my ‘scary’ tales. And there, I feel, we have both learned a valuable lesson...” We need not mention that the following week, Canon Foxthrup’s callers came somewhat more humbly to his door, bearing gifts of fine oloroso, oh, and a rather nice Madeira...
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Post by helrunar on Dec 5, 2021 20:15:41 GMT
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Post by helrunar on Dec 16, 2021 20:22:00 GMT
This obituary represents a rather unusually accurate slice of "Americana," a genre often represented by candy-coated, batter-dipped piffle--not so in this instance. www.fayobserver.com/obituaries/m0028451For those who have interest in such things. H.
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Post by helrunar on Dec 20, 2021 22:41:42 GMT
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Post by helrunar on Dec 21, 2021 0:02:47 GMT
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Post by 𝘗rincess 𝘵uvstarr on Dec 21, 2021 14:45:39 GMT
It looks good, but this will amaze you, Dacre Stoker told me it was written by Bram Stoker! How good is that!
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