Robbie Burn's legacy certainly lives on, from renditions of Auld Lang Syne (which incidentally means Old Long Way) every New Year's Eve, and more quixotically, in the celebration of Scottishness that accompanies the anniversary of his birth every year. I had never celebrated a Burns night before, despite being a part of innumerable other random British and Oxford traditions, from singing in the spring on May day morning, to wearing suits to exams. This was something I was keen to rectify so I jumped at the chance of attending a Burns night celebration at the Shoe.
And what good fun it was. The place was bedecked in tartan and of course with Scottish saltires, courtesy of the St Andrew's society of Singapore. The bar staff wore kilts, and there was the obligatory piper. The most fascinating part of the Burns night tradition is a ceremonial procession honouring the haggis, where it is marched in to the sound of pipes. There is then a traditional address to the haggis, usually in the form of Burns' famous poem, read out preferably in full Scottish brogue.
Everyone was given free haggis with neaps and tatties (which I found to my disappointment was no more exciting than potato and turnip). A bottle of Macallan whisky was raffled out and the winner generously decided to share it around. I am told that the best way to accompany a haggis is with a single malt - it probably helps to mask the taste!
In the spirit of Burn's night I thought I would mention some bits of Scottish trivia. Apparently, it is a tradition that real Scottish men don't wear anything under their kilt. Perhaps the idea though is to keep everyone guessing. As a member of the Scottish parliament said: "The mystery of what a true Scotsman wears under his kilt is as big a part of our culture as the Loch Ness Monster". Perhaps the best way to find out? Find a kilt wearing Scotsman and ask him to show you!
26 January 2010
12 January 2010
New Year's Greetings
This is rather rather late, but better late than never. So to all my friends, and to the (seemingly non-existent) readers of this blog, I offer my New Year's greetings:
May you live in adventure and mystery, in the warm glow of enchantment, and the thrill and fright of shadowy things. Read books that are good, and wise, that make you laugh and cry. May you kiss someone you love, and perhaps more importantly, be kissed by someone who loves you. Catch a snowflake or moonbeam, delight in the inconsequential. Most of all, find something not quite happiness somewhere in between rapture and joy.
[As inspired by Neil Gaiman]
May you live in adventure and mystery, in the warm glow of enchantment, and the thrill and fright of shadowy things. Read books that are good, and wise, that make you laugh and cry. May you kiss someone you love, and perhaps more importantly, be kissed by someone who loves you. Catch a snowflake or moonbeam, delight in the inconsequential. Most of all, find something not quite happiness somewhere in between rapture and joy.
[As inspired by Neil Gaiman]
10 January 2010
700 Sundays
700 Sundays| Billy Crystal
Those used to the name dropping and revelations that are a staple of celebrity biographies will be pleasantly surprised by this book, a quietly humourous portrait of Billy Crystal's family which ends just as he begins his ascent to Hollywood fame. The book covers Crystal's childhood as part of an extended Jewish family growing up on Long Island, centering on his relationship with his father, and delving into his three abiding passions in life - baseball, dixieland big band jazz, and what would eventually bring him fame and riches, stand up comedy.
The book had its impetus in a Broadway show, which won a Tony award, and it is easy to see its roots. The advantage is the powerfully authentic and often personal voice that comes out of many of the pages. You can almost audibly hear in your head Crystal's famous voice doing his shtick. The drawback stems from the same source: for however good it translates to prose, many parts of the book begs to be performed. You want to see him work the crowd and do the physical expressions that are fundamental to some of the portraits in the book. A number of jokes in the early part of the book fall particularly foul of the translation from theater hall to the page, in particular a re-enactment of his very own circumcision, which might have worked with Billy charm and sense of comic timing but doesn't seem that funny inked out.
What a family Billy had though. The stories abound, from his Uncle Milt founding the famous Commodore Records which meant that the young Billy had personal interactions with a whole slew of jazz musicians, both famous and forgotten. Indeed, it was Billie Holiday who took a young Crystal to watch his first movie, and Billy's grandmother decided to give Louis Armstrong a hilarious piece of advice when Louis visited the family, which Armstrong thankfully didn't take. Billy's father eventually came to work for Milt and helped in the running of the record business as well as staging jazz performances and dances, and the result is a wonderful portrait of the grandeur and sophisticated charm of big band dixieland jazz in its heyday.
A particularly powerful portrait from the book, one that is easily overlooked, comes in the third chapter which takes the form of an extended one way phone conversation between a favourite aunt and her friend in which she reveals, complete with numerous asides and digressions, her coming to terms with her daughter being lesbian, and the brave decision she made to attend her daughter's wedding. It was an utterly authentic, real and moving portrait of everyday domestic bravery which deserves to be celebrated.
One of Billy's big passions is baseball and this is well represented in the short book, from his first visit to Yankee stadium, which began a life long love affair, to numerous household games with his two older brothers where they played out entire imaginary games, including their very own backyard World Series. One of Billy's abiding memories of the 700 Sundays he spent with his father is his dad patiently teaching him the fundamentals of baseball, and Billy finally mastering a way to hit his father's wicked curveball, all of which served him well when he managed to win a baseball scholarship to College.
It was also Billy's father, along with an utterly hilarious Uncle called Berns who had a special talent for accents and mimicry which an inspired Billy soon adopted, who initiated Billy's love of comedy. Billy used to perform jokes (often boardering on the inappropriate and sometimes scandalous) copied from stand up acts he had seen, at large Crystal family gatherings. Thankfully, the extended family not only has the grace not to take offence at the gall of the young budding comedian, but actually laughed uproariously.
Tragedy was to strike when Crystal was 15, when his father died of a heart-attack during a weekly bowling game, following some angry words with Billy, leaving his son both heartbroken and guilty. The rest of the book is probably the weakest section, tapering off with largely narrative sections depicting Crystal dealing with his grief, meeting and falling in love with his future wife (which strangely seems a bit dead and lacking much sparkle), and eventually ending with the death of his mother.
700 Sundays is a short volume, but is an enormous surprise as celebrity autobiographies go. This is a funny, moving portrait of an All-American family that is equal parts laugh out loud hilarious and poignant. It certainly deserves to be read, and if you are so lucky, perhaps even seen.
Grade: B+
Those used to the name dropping and revelations that are a staple of celebrity biographies will be pleasantly surprised by this book, a quietly humourous portrait of Billy Crystal's family which ends just as he begins his ascent to Hollywood fame. The book covers Crystal's childhood as part of an extended Jewish family growing up on Long Island, centering on his relationship with his father, and delving into his three abiding passions in life - baseball, dixieland big band jazz, and what would eventually bring him fame and riches, stand up comedy.
The book had its impetus in a Broadway show, which won a Tony award, and it is easy to see its roots. The advantage is the powerfully authentic and often personal voice that comes out of many of the pages. You can almost audibly hear in your head Crystal's famous voice doing his shtick. The drawback stems from the same source: for however good it translates to prose, many parts of the book begs to be performed. You want to see him work the crowd and do the physical expressions that are fundamental to some of the portraits in the book. A number of jokes in the early part of the book fall particularly foul of the translation from theater hall to the page, in particular a re-enactment of his very own circumcision, which might have worked with Billy charm and sense of comic timing but doesn't seem that funny inked out.
What a family Billy had though. The stories abound, from his Uncle Milt founding the famous Commodore Records which meant that the young Billy had personal interactions with a whole slew of jazz musicians, both famous and forgotten. Indeed, it was Billie Holiday who took a young Crystal to watch his first movie, and Billy's grandmother decided to give Louis Armstrong a hilarious piece of advice when Louis visited the family, which Armstrong thankfully didn't take. Billy's father eventually came to work for Milt and helped in the running of the record business as well as staging jazz performances and dances, and the result is a wonderful portrait of the grandeur and sophisticated charm of big band dixieland jazz in its heyday.
A particularly powerful portrait from the book, one that is easily overlooked, comes in the third chapter which takes the form of an extended one way phone conversation between a favourite aunt and her friend in which she reveals, complete with numerous asides and digressions, her coming to terms with her daughter being lesbian, and the brave decision she made to attend her daughter's wedding. It was an utterly authentic, real and moving portrait of everyday domestic bravery which deserves to be celebrated.
One of Billy's big passions is baseball and this is well represented in the short book, from his first visit to Yankee stadium, which began a life long love affair, to numerous household games with his two older brothers where they played out entire imaginary games, including their very own backyard World Series. One of Billy's abiding memories of the 700 Sundays he spent with his father is his dad patiently teaching him the fundamentals of baseball, and Billy finally mastering a way to hit his father's wicked curveball, all of which served him well when he managed to win a baseball scholarship to College.
It was also Billy's father, along with an utterly hilarious Uncle called Berns who had a special talent for accents and mimicry which an inspired Billy soon adopted, who initiated Billy's love of comedy. Billy used to perform jokes (often boardering on the inappropriate and sometimes scandalous) copied from stand up acts he had seen, at large Crystal family gatherings. Thankfully, the extended family not only has the grace not to take offence at the gall of the young budding comedian, but actually laughed uproariously.
Tragedy was to strike when Crystal was 15, when his father died of a heart-attack during a weekly bowling game, following some angry words with Billy, leaving his son both heartbroken and guilty. The rest of the book is probably the weakest section, tapering off with largely narrative sections depicting Crystal dealing with his grief, meeting and falling in love with his future wife (which strangely seems a bit dead and lacking much sparkle), and eventually ending with the death of his mother.
700 Sundays is a short volume, but is an enormous surprise as celebrity autobiographies go. This is a funny, moving portrait of an All-American family that is equal parts laugh out loud hilarious and poignant. It certainly deserves to be read, and if you are so lucky, perhaps even seen.
Grade: B+
9 January 2010
Book Sale
Having spent a fair amount of time spring cleaning during the December holidays, I decided to organize a garage sale of sorts to get rid of old books and CDs which were no longer wanted. It was a kind of open house excuse to catch up with old friends as well. All in all, it was fairly successful. As expected, the interesting items were mainly the ones to go - double copies of good books like Ian Kershaw's Fateful Choices, and a volume of Frank Miller's Sin City.
Karin took several black leatherbound volumes of Agatha Christie as I expected she would; I also convinced her to take Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons - given her love of British comedy, I was sure she would love the book. I also managed to sell several other classic books among them a copy of E.M Forster's Howard's End, Greg Bear's Blood Music and several others.
Of course that left me with an enormous pile of hardbacks, which had mainly been purchased on offer from Borders, in the first place, which nobody wanted to touch. It's a classic rule which I have now learnt - nobody, and I mean nobody will touch hardback fiction, even secondhand. Blackwell's bookstore in Oxford knew that fairly well - one of their few rules governing the secondhand department was that they would not take any hardback fiction.
And of course old thrillers, Stephen King novels, and other such rather banal brainless reads were also left languishing, not that I was surprised. I mean, it was rather evident that my close friends were hardly the types who would pick up this stuff which was expressly dumped by me because I hadn't read them, or felt I would never read them, or found them to be horrible.
I also failed rather spectacularly to get rid of any CDs barring three Jars of Clay albums and Savage Garden's Affirmation. Admittedly, what was on offer was rather dire - Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, Richard Marx, Bob Carlilse, Rick Price smacked of overwrought sentimental ballads and were precisely being sold being they were relics of embarrassing teenage years. And no, I deny any responsibility for the two Spice Girls CDs on sale. Still, there was some half decent rock stuff which nobody picked up.
It was good seeing some old friends again, and I was quite pleased that I managed to raise over $100 for charity - in this case Habitat for Humanity. I should really try and prune even more of the mountain of books that I own and sell them, but human beings are acquisitive creatures but nature, and it is always hard to part with what you own. Still, a enjoyable enough evening, and for a good cause.
Karin took several black leatherbound volumes of Agatha Christie as I expected she would; I also convinced her to take Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons - given her love of British comedy, I was sure she would love the book. I also managed to sell several other classic books among them a copy of E.M Forster's Howard's End, Greg Bear's Blood Music and several others.
Of course that left me with an enormous pile of hardbacks, which had mainly been purchased on offer from Borders, in the first place, which nobody wanted to touch. It's a classic rule which I have now learnt - nobody, and I mean nobody will touch hardback fiction, even secondhand. Blackwell's bookstore in Oxford knew that fairly well - one of their few rules governing the secondhand department was that they would not take any hardback fiction.
And of course old thrillers, Stephen King novels, and other such rather banal brainless reads were also left languishing, not that I was surprised. I mean, it was rather evident that my close friends were hardly the types who would pick up this stuff which was expressly dumped by me because I hadn't read them, or felt I would never read them, or found them to be horrible.
I also failed rather spectacularly to get rid of any CDs barring three Jars of Clay albums and Savage Garden's Affirmation. Admittedly, what was on offer was rather dire - Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, Richard Marx, Bob Carlilse, Rick Price smacked of overwrought sentimental ballads and were precisely being sold being they were relics of embarrassing teenage years. And no, I deny any responsibility for the two Spice Girls CDs on sale. Still, there was some half decent rock stuff which nobody picked up.
It was good seeing some old friends again, and I was quite pleased that I managed to raise over $100 for charity - in this case Habitat for Humanity. I should really try and prune even more of the mountain of books that I own and sell them, but human beings are acquisitive creatures but nature, and it is always hard to part with what you own. Still, a enjoyable enough evening, and for a good cause.
3 January 2010
Old Brown Shoe Pub Quiz Record for 2009
I've been keeping a record of my participation in the Old Brown Shoe pub quiz over the years. So here's how it stand for 2009. Overall, I took part in 39 of the 52 quizzes for the year, a better than three quarter participation rate. The record reads at 22 wins, 8 second places, and 9 times taking the mantle of the quizmaster.
To go an entire year finishing in the top two is no mean feat, particularly given the evenings when some of the usual team mates hadn't been around for some reason or another. It has only served to underline how effective the team is - a potent mix of Britishness, youth (well, if I show up that is!) and a completely random range of interests.
I've especially enjoyed taking the helm as the quizmaster 9 times and I sincerely hope I will get the chance to be the quizmaster on regular occasions this year as well. It's not easy to set a good quiz, particularly a balanced one, but there is a real thrill to having created a good set of questions which everyone will enjoy.
To go an entire year finishing in the top two is no mean feat, particularly given the evenings when some of the usual team mates hadn't been around for some reason or another. It has only served to underline how effective the team is - a potent mix of Britishness, youth (well, if I show up that is!) and a completely random range of interests.
I've especially enjoyed taking the helm as the quizmaster 9 times and I sincerely hope I will get the chance to be the quizmaster on regular occasions this year as well. It's not easy to set a good quiz, particularly a balanced one, but there is a real thrill to having created a good set of questions which everyone will enjoy.
2 January 2010
Try and Try Again
The title of this post is taken from the old dictum that if you fail, you should, well you know. Unfortunately, I'm making these new resolutions not with the enthusiasm and go getting spirit encompassed within that saying, or indeed exhibited by the little engine that could (I think I Can! I Know I Can!), but rather with a resignation bordered with hope (not the other way round).
So I hope that I can do the following this year: exercise at least once a week; set clear targets and meet them (this post is hopefully a sign of that); be more punctual; walk the dog more often, keep in closer touch with friends; blog more regularly (twice a week); pick up a nice hobby/interest/passion; decide what I really want to do with my life.
They say as you grow older you become more set in your ways. You ossify. You grow comfortable, or complacent, or resigned. Which makes it perhaps even more imperative, year on year, to make urgent changes. Because next year, it won't be try and try again, but oh f**k it all.
So I hope that I can do the following this year: exercise at least once a week; set clear targets and meet them (this post is hopefully a sign of that); be more punctual; walk the dog more often, keep in closer touch with friends; blog more regularly (twice a week); pick up a nice hobby/interest/passion; decide what I really want to do with my life.
They say as you grow older you become more set in your ways. You ossify. You grow comfortable, or complacent, or resigned. Which makes it perhaps even more imperative, year on year, to make urgent changes. Because next year, it won't be try and try again, but oh f**k it all.
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