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Here is a Sup—I mean repository of the texts of my together with some readings of them. The essays were broadcast by WXXI 91.5 Classical of Rochester, NY on Salmagundy each Saturday at 9:35am Eastern Time, from the beginning of time (1985) till May 2009 when Entropa (evil Goddess of Change-for-the-Worse-or-Possibly-the-Worst) troubled the minds of the WXXIites and they retired Simon and Salmagundy, and Rochester went into a terminal decline---for ever.
I continued on that brilliant bastion of all that's good and kultured, WCLV's syndicated Weekend Radio on many (mainly NPRish) stations traditionally on the first and third weekends of the month, though weekendage varied, till the horror crept ever onward and that too was devoured (in August 2023, a date which will live in infamy or at lease mild irritation)... and only I remain, defiant though wimpering.
Richard Howland-Bolton
There are pop-up pics and links all over the place here. In text they are indicated by a double underline like this:
mouse-overing brings the pop-up up and clicking (usually) goes to the link |
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My Dear Americans,
the weather here finally being all blue-skyely, warmly pleasant I decided to take a walk up by the old school, ...in The Beatles Good Morning Good Morning sense. Nothing had (since the sixties) NOT changed, it's decidedly not the same. [sings-or rather pinches the Beatles singing] I've got nothing to say but that's okay Good Morning, Good Morning, Good... |
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My Dear Americans,
No!...No! Inspiration comes upon me un announced!! ...
My Dear Yanks,
We should give thanks.
The springing Spring
Like anything,
In flow'ry ranks.
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My Dear Americans,
[Over fading computer noises] Down Boy!… Sit!… Sit!… Stay!! Ah, Good Boy!
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My Dear Americans,
Memory is a funny old kettle of terrapins, and as you get older it gets funnier. You mayn't remember what happened last Tuesday, or even why you just went into the kitchen, but thirty, forty years ago... well...
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My Dear Americans,
[Sings] "Love and Marriage. Love and Marriage...
...go together like malign and disparage" Oh! I don't think I got the words of that song quite right, but I do think I got the timing just right.
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My Dear Americans,
"The Monk Arnulphus uncorked his ink
That shone with a blood-red light...
The Porphyrogenita Zoë the fair
Is about to wed with a Prince much older,—" |
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My Dear Americans,
when I was young (Oh! So many years ago...) cycling in the summer, usually with a couple of the other guys, was one of our favourite activities. |
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My Dear Americans,
I do like to go for a brisk walk of a morning, one of my favourite routes being that to Gillingham: note that it is absolutely vital, before we go any further for us to know that Gillingham (/ˈɡɪlɪŋəm/) is pronounced with a hard 'G', and that it is in Norfolk and almost exactly one mile away from my front door1: pronounced with a soft 'G' (/ˈdʒɪlɪŋəm/), however, it would instead be 113 miles away, or 119 going the pretty way, and in Kent, and instead of taking just under a quarter of an hour to walk to, it would take at least one day and fifteen hours |
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My Dear Americans,
it would be wonderful if you'd all join me in some seasonal sinning of an old, old favourite, one that I'm sure we all know and love:
["Put the boot in, Trevor"]
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My Dear Americans,
Now that the month of Christmas has got well under way (after spending the last couple of weeks rudely trying to elbow it’s way into becoming the six-weeks-of-Christmas-and-then-some and we all gave a great sigh of thanks for Thanksgiving Day for standing up to the nasty great bully) it must surely be time for some seasonal poetry [Clears throat]: |
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