A poem about cheese

“The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” G K Chesterton

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The challenge is to tell a tale

That makes one long for Wensleydale,

Or maybe pen a line or two

That calls for Brie or Shropshire Blue.

Of course it never should be said

That there’s no place for Leicester, Red.

And could you ever be so silly

Not to try a good Caerphilly?

Was ever soul so lost or deader

That would ignore the claims of Cheddar?

The land of Shakespeare, Blake and Milton

Is famed for Lancashire and Stilton.

Perhaps it’s once more time to foster

A taste for good old Double Gloucester.

It surely would be far from fair

To spurn a piece of Camembert.

Or will you go for something rarer

Like Trappista or Graviera?

Some folk say you can’t do better

Than Mozzarella, Yarg or Feta.

Can I hear you shouting louder

For Emmental, Edam or Gouda?

Or are you only merely thinking

Bishops should be eaten Stinking?

One only hopes that lines like these

Have made you want to eat some cheese.

 © John Welford

Shakespeare 400 years on

“Four hundred years is a long time”, said Polonius. “It’s a long time to be dead”.

“I know”, said Shylock. “But he left behind a few things to remember him by. You and me, for example.”

“Very true”, said Polonius. “And not just us. There’s Falstaff, and Prospero, and Romeo and Juliet, and King Henry V …”

“But Henry existed anyway”, said Shylock. “Bill Shakespeare didn’t invent him.”

“True”, said Polonius, “but nobody thinks today about Henry V without remembering the Shakespeare version, however inaccurate it might be”.

“And ditto for Macbeth, Richard III, Julius Caesar and a few others”, said Shylock. “But does it matter?”

“Not really”, said Polonius. “It’s the drama that counts. As my mate Hamlet says, ‘the play’s the thing’”.

“Your mate?” said Shylock. “Didn’t he stick a sword in you in Act Three?”

“Indeed he did”, said Polonius. “But it was a case of mistaken identity, so I can’t really hold it against him. And I always come back to life for the next performance, which I’ve been doing the past four hundred and more years, just like you”.

“And that’s the point, isn’t it?” said Shylock. “People have been talking about us for four centuries, which they wouldn’t have done if Bill hadn’t created us. And he gave us some great lines – how about my ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed; if you tickle us, do we not laugh’; I love that line.

“I’ve got some good ones too”, said Polonius. “I particularly like ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be’”.

“Hang about”, said Shylock, “that’s my whole profession gone for a Burton there.”

“Perhaps you should have followed my advice”, said Polonius. “Moneylending didn’t do you much good, did it? You ended up losing the lot.”

“At least I was still alive in Act Five”, said Shylock. “And it would have been a pretty boring play without me as the villain of the piece.”

“And there’s something else to think about”, said Polonius. “I wonder if there are people today, four hundred years on, who are making up little stories about you and me and all the other characters, and having all sorts of fun as they imagine what we might be saying to each other had we really existed?”

“Come off it”, said Shylock. “You don’t think there’s anyone around who’s that daft, do you?”

© John Welford

Mr Jakes

It being the first of October, and Autumn definitely in the Forest air, I took myself down to the pub for a lunchtime pint to cheer myself up.

The usual crowd were there at the Duke’s Head, but I took a table in the corner and comforted myself with a pint of the local brew. I caught the eye of one of the regulars, whom everyone simply calls Mr Jakes – if he has a first name there are not many people who know it, so we just call him by his surname. He doesn’t seem to mind. Mr Jakes doesn’t mind anything very much; he’s our local “philosopher”, but not generally guaranteed to cheer you up.

Mr Jakes came over. He noticed what I was drinking – “Reverend James” it’s called, dark and bitter. It suited my mood, and probably his, knowing the sort of man he was. But today, he surprised me.

“Look out of the window”, he said. “What do you see?”

“Trees”, I said “Changing colour, losing their leaves, getting to ready to shut down for winter.”

“Like you, you mean?” he said. “Do you think you’ve reached your Autumn? Are you now lean and slippered as you look forward to second childishness?”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that”, I said, “But you might have a point”.

“Well think again”, he said. “I know I’ve got this reputation for being an old curmudgeon, but deep down I’ve got another side, and I love Autumn. When you take a second look at the Forest I think you will too, because each of those trees turning a different shade bears a special message, just as if some lover had nailed it on with a hammer.”

He sensed my puzzlement.

“Listen”, he said. “A leaf on a tree is like a little factory. It uses sunshine to make sugars. It draws in carbon dioxide and shoves out oxygen. It does that all through spring and summer, but then it decides to retire and it throws off its green work overalls to reveal what was there all along – the real leaf in its true golden or red colours. It now does nothing at all but enjoys being what it is and shows itself off to the world as it dances in the breeze. It’s the best time a leaf could have – no work, all play.”

“And your meaning is?” I asked.

“That could be you,” said Mr Jakes. “You’ve finished your working days and you now have your Autumn to enjoy, being just what you want to be and doing just what you want to do. You can put on a show, let people know what you’re good at, start something new that you’ve never done before, go to those places you’ve been to before. Or, to put it another way, now that you’ve reached your Autumn, life can be just as you like it”.

© John Welford

Random meetings

When I worked in London during the late 1970s I had a number of random meetings with people who were in the public eye, but these encounters had nothing to do with any action on my part that might have been expected to lead to them. I did not move in exalted circles – I merely went for walks at lunchtime along the same streets that people far more famous than I also happened to be using.

I therefore had to apologise to government minister Willie Whitelaw, with whom I once collided in St James’s Park, and I spotted Michael Foot limping along on his way to an Indian restaurant. A car stopped to allow me to cross the road – the driver was David Hockney. I popped into a bookshop where Frank Muir and Dennis Norden were signing copies of one of their “My Word” books – there was nobody else there, so I had a five-minute chat with them.

In another bookshop Spike Milligan was signing books. I bought a copy of “Adolf Hitler: my part in his downfall”, which he duly signed. “You’re too kind”, I said. “Sometimes three kind”, he replied. On the way back to my place of work I passed Leon Trotsky eating a hotdog. OK – not the real Leon Trotsky but an actor having a break during filming in Carlton House Terrace.

It might sound as though these meetings all happened on the same day, but that is certainly not the case. However, it would have been quite something if all these people been together at the same time in the same place and the meetings had not been so random after all.

Michael Foot and Leon Trotsky might have got on quite well together, although the conversation could have become somewhat heated if Willie Whitelaw, a well-known supporter of Margaret Thatcher, had joined in.

Muir and Norden, who had both been in the RAF during the war, would probably have exchanged stories with former Army man Spike Milligan.

“How long were you are in the Army?” Frank might have asked. “Five foot eleven” would have been Spike’s response.

And what about David Hockney? How well would he have fitted in with the other members of this strange assemblage? He would have been the youngest one there by some margin, the only one who was gay and the only one who would have refused to do military service.

However, maybe he would have seized the opportunity to stand back and observe and perhaps he would have saved the observations for a later piece of art. It was not long after my imagined get-together that he developed the technique of making art from joined-together photographs – so perhaps he was standing to one side and imagining a “joiner” of Muir, Norden, Milligan, Whitelaw, Foot and an actor playing Trotsky?

Random meetings can lead to all sorts of consequences, whether real or just in the artist’s or writer’s imagination. Being alive to such imaginings is what counts.

© John Welford

Lucy in the Library

)

Lucy and her brother Thomas were in the Library with their mother. This was a regular visit for them, especially during the school holidays, when they combined it with doing a bit of shopping in town.

Today was a bit different, though, because just inside the library entrance a group of people were sitting on chairs in a semi-circle. One of them, a man, was reading a story and the rest were listening to him. Just as Lucy and her family arrived he finished reading and a lady spotted them and asked if they would like to sit down and listen to the next story. Lucy’s mother thought that would be a good idea, so they found three empty chairs and joined the group of listeners.

The story was told by a grey-haired lady, but it was not the sort of story that Lucy usually read for herself or had read to her at bedtime. To be blunt she found it a bit boring, although most of the other people there seemed to be interested in it.

Lucy found it hard to catch the drift of where the story was going, but then the grey-haired lady mentioned that the main character had a dog. Lucy immediately thought about her own dog, Bonzer, who had had to stay at home when the three of them left to go shopping, much to his annoyance.

Lucy wondered what it must be like to be a dog who is trapped inside a house on his own when he would much rather be outside with the family, walking along the pavement and sniffing at everything he passed. She wondered if there was such a thing as a doggy fairy godmother who could grant three wishes to an abandoned dog, and what Bonzer’s three wishes would be. Maybe there was a canine version of Cinderella, in which a dog like Bonzer could ride in a golden carriage made out of dog biscuits and …

Lucy’s train of thought was interrupted by a polite round of applause as the grey-haired lady finished her story. Lucy caught sight of her brother, who had apparently just woken up from having nodded off, or maybe his mind had been wandering off just as hers had been.

“Come on”, said Lucy’s mother, “We need to find some books for you to borrow, then we must do our shopping before it gets too late”.

The three rose from their chairs and Lucy’s mother thanked the group leader and apologised for leaving after only one story.

“That’s fine”, said the group leader”. “Perhaps you’ll stop by for another one on your way out?”

“You never know”, said Lucy’s mother.

As the three of them made their way into the children’s section of the Library, Lucy tugged her mother’s arm and said, “Mummy, when we’re doing our shopping, do you think you could buy me a notebook and a pencil or two.”

“Of course we can”, said her mother. “Any particular reason?”

“It’s just that when that lady was reading her story I had another one going through my head and I want to jot down a few notes so that I don’t forget it. When we get home I’ll get on the computer and write it properly. Then I’ll tell you my bedtime story tonight instead of you telling me!”

“That’s brilliant”, said Lucy’s mother. “I’ll look forward to that.”

There was another tug on her arm. This time it was from Thomas. “Can you buy me a notebook too, please?” he said. “I’ve got a story in my head as well, and I’ll bet it’s not the same as Lucy’s!”

“OK”, said Lucy’s mother. “Two notebooks it is”.

She paused for a moment, then said, “As a matter of fact, I’ll think we’ll make that three!”

© John Welford

Ghost swap

Prologue

The ghosts should never have been allowed anywhere near the Internet, and certainly not the partner-swapping sites that seemed to fascinate them so much. It led to considerable confusion.

Scene 1. Elsinore Castle

Hamlet was enjoying a quiet evening cocoa when his mate Horatio turned up to tell him that there was a guy outside from Scotland who needed a quick word. “Show him in”, said Hamlet, “this could be interesting”.

When the swarthy bearded warrior was let in, he began straight away with: “Would you be Prince Hamlet by any chance?”

“I certainly am”, said Hamlet.

“Then perhaps you’d settle something that always puzzled me”, said the man. “You’re the Prince of Denmark, right? Son of the late King?”

“That’s right”.

“Then how come you’ve got a stupid name like Hamlet? Where I come from we noblemen are called things like ‘Thane of Glamis’ or ‘Thane of Lochaber’, like me. We take our names from important places. You’re not even a village, you’re a hamlet.”

“OK”, said Hamlet, “I’ve always wondered that myself. But maybe you could answer a question for me. What are you doing here in Elsinore? Do you want me to kill my uncle?”

“If not sure if that’s for me to say or not to say”, said Banquo. “I just wanted a change of scene that didn’t involve haggis in any shape of form. Can’t stand the stuff.”

“So what’s happening back at your place? Who’s putting the wind up Macbeth if you’re here? My dad?”

“Could be”, said Banquo. “But you’ll have to wait for Scene 2 to find that out”.

Scene 2. The Palace, Forres

The feast was in full swing when Macbeth spotted someone sitting in the wrong place at the table. Not only that, but they appeared to be in the wrong costume and the wrong century.

“According to the script”, he hissed, “you should be the ghost of Banquo. But, because I’ve cheated and already read Scene 1, I know that he’s at Elsinore. But you don’t look much like Hamlet’s father to me.”

“That”, said the apparition, “is because I’m the ghost of Julius Caesar. I’m here because I always wanted to say the immortal line ‘and you, you brute’ in the wrong play. And now I have.”

Scene 3. Near Philippi

Brutus was expecting a ghostly visitation on the eve of battle, but only one. What he got was a committee, some of whom were wearing crowns and one of whom was a woman.

“Who the hell are you lot?” he asked.

“I’m King Henry VI” said the ghost of King Henry VI. “We represent the victims of King Richard III. I’m sorry about the Duke of Clarence – he’s still pi-eyed from all that malmsey he was drowned in.”

“I’m none the wiser”, said Brutus. “I’ve never heard of any of you”.

“That’s because we’re from nearly fifteen centuries into your future and from a country that your mate Julius tried to invade but didn’t quite manage. The original idea was that we would tell Richard that he was about to die in battle, but seeing as the same applies to you anyway, we’ll do just as well”.

“Well, I suppose that’s fair enough”, said Brutus.

“By the way”, said Henry, “I don’t suppose you’ve bumped into the ghost of Hamlet’s father anywhere, have you? We’ve sort of lost him.”

“No, sorry”, said Brutus.

The ghost of Lord Hastings, who used to have a castle at Ashby and therefore knew the area quite well, suggested that Hamlet’s dad might have gone to the wrong battlefield near Market Bosworth, as so many had done over the centuries.

“The thing that worries me”, said Brutus, “is I don’t see the writer can possibly end this story with a decent punch line. Do you think he can?”

“Not a ghost of a chance”, said Henry.

© John Welford

Immediate response

(With apologies to William Shakespeare)

It is not generally appreciated that Horatio, Hamlet’s friend, had quite a profitable sideline as a driving instructor and examiner, so it was no great surprise when he found Hamlet sitting next to him ready to take his test.

“So why do you want to be a driver?” asked Horatio. “As a prince, surely you can be driven anywhere you want? You don’t need to get behind the wheel yourself”.

“All sorts of reasons”, said Hamlet. “I want to take Ophelia to a nunnery for one thing, and I have this idea about driving to northern France and especially going straight through Arras without stopping. It’s a sort of private joke I’ve got with Polonius”.

“I see,” said Horatio. “We’d better get on with the test, then.”

Things went reasonably well as the test proceeded, although Hamlet did have a bit of a problem with the three point turn. Only making three points seemed to be quite beyond him as he entered into every possible aspect of the problem to hand, and the eventual 78 point turn did not earn him a very high mark.

“I want to you make the emergency stop next”, said Horatio. “When I slap my hand on the dashboard I want your immediate response and a safe, controlled stop.”

“You want me to stop?” asked Hamlet.

“That’s the idea”, said Horatio. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“To stop or not to stop, that is the question”, said Hamlet.

“There’s no question about it”, said Horatio. “If you want to pass this test, you’d better stop when I tell you to.”

Needless to say, Hamlet did not stop when Horatio slapped the dashboard. He did not do so the second time Horatio gave the signal either, or the third. However, when Horatio was least expecting it, as they were sliding round a sharp left-hand bend going far too fast, Hamlet duly applied the brakes with full force. The car slid across the road, hit two parked cars on the other side then bounced back and collected an unfortunate cyclist who flew through the air and landed on the road, head first.

Horatio and Hamlet jumped out of the car and ran to his aid, but it was clearly too late. There could be little doubt that the man had breathed his last. Hamlet suddenly realised that he knew who he was.

“Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

“Well, he’s not jesting much now, is he?” said Horatio. “And I don’t much fancy your chances when the Police turn up, which will be in about three minutes flat.”

A sudden thought crossed Hamlet’s mind. “About the test …” he said.

“What about it?” said Horatio.

“Have I passed or have I not passed? That is the question”.

Horatio was able to put Hamlet’s mind at rest quite quickly on that one. “I have never heard of a case yet in which a learner driver killed a cyclist during the driving test and was subsequently given a pass. It just doesn’t happen.”

“You couldn’t see your way to making an exception in my case, could you?” asked Hamlet. “For a friend?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Oh dear”, said Hamlet. “That means I’m going to have to ask to Ophelia to get herself to the nunnery. And I won’t be able to take Polonius to Arras.”

“Tough luck”, said Horatio.

But then Hamlet had a sudden bright idea. “My mother has got a hanging tapestry in her room that she always calls her arras. I shall go to it and do what I was going to do at the place in France, but I shall drive straight through it with my sword instead of the car. Do you think Polonius will get the point?”

“I think there’s every possibility”, said Horatio.

© John Welford