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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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There's an old song from the forties that I've actually mentioned here from time to time "There'll Always Be an England". Written at the start of WWII (or W-Wii as I suppose young Nintendo players now think of it) it became intensely popular as we stood there, defiant, backs to the wall, faces to the channel, all alone, while you guys dithered about whose side was going to pick you and whether you'd be the last to be picked. Anyway with songs like that how could we fail? It epitomized Britain, and casually, almost inadvertently, subsumed the whole into its part: bigger as part of smaller; Britain as a part of England, and only allowed to be part of England if those buggers in Scotland, and Wales, and bits o' Ireland behaved and kept their claymores, and leeks, and shillelaghs off the furniture and maintained an attitude of decent respect for Old England, Oh yes and the Empire too, bless their fuzzy brown heads, "freedom remains these are the chains nothing can break" and however oxymoronic that line from the song may have been, we knew what England was: probably all of the above.
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These essays tend to be written at a date that is, as the adverts say, 'UP TO ONE WEEK OFF---OR MORE!!' than their broadcast date, so as I'm writing this I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the results of your election, so I'll forget all about it.
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 Well, thanks for asking, because Mum is indeed feeling a lot better now about Life, the Universe, Dad and Everything. This is demonstrated in my early morning video calls to her (you do know that we video iChat every morning, between my run and my shower---which means they do tend to be very sweaty conversations, at least at my end, not that that matters). So, she now has lots and lots more interesting stuff to tell me, often at great length, which is a pity because I desperately need to have that damned shower, and get ready, and go to work. Anyway last Monday she delayed my shower even more than usual because she was all excited by something she saw on the Telly the previous night (and this is a woman who would normally prefer to read a book rather than watching, say, Dr Who; so you can just imagine how wonderful she found it). She had been watching the second Eurovision Dance Contest!
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With all the bouncing back and forth across the Atlantic that I’d had to do for a whole month, when everything was finally over and I was about to bounce back to Texas for what I hoped and still hope was going to be the actual last time till my next actual vacation (which with any luck will actually be next year), I thought I’d spend a whole day in London with friends putting Dr Johnson’s comment “No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life”1 to good use.
... One way or another.
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 You would immediately know that I’m back in England for a visit if you could see me now---just one glance at the dripping raincoat and the soaked trouser legs and the sodden shoes (not, for the sake of decency, to even mention the state of the socks)---well, of course all that coupled with the sudden and horrible realisation that I’m writing this on not only Memorial Day back here, or over there, or wherever General Relativity Theory happens to put it; but also on what happens (either by chance, or by undue American Influence or by the forces of General Globalisation not to mention General Relativity Theory) to be the Great British Spring Bank Holiday over here, um, back there, or wherever General Relativity Theory happens to put that.
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Many a long year ago, when I lived in London, I worked for a company called Mullard Ltd1. and from my third floor office in their headquarters I had a fine view of Tottenham Court Road. In the historical ways of that great and ancient city Tottenham Court was a mediaeval manor owned by the church, that by the seventeenth century had gone down in the world to become a fashionable meeting place--or maybe it was up in the world it’d gone. And then it was merely gone. And this was the road to it---when it was, that is.... was.
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Neasden! … [ sfx: laughter choked back ]
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For years I’ve lived off the fact that many (possibly even most) Americans “jest luuuv your English Accent”---(unlike my attempt at an American accent), and because of it will often defer to me, especially in matters linguistic.
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Oh! Blimey! The things I do get myself into!
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[fade in: London traffic, then English children’s voices “Penny for the old guy gov’?” et sim. and then over this, as firework and bonfire noises are added,]
Remember, remember
The fifth of November
Gunpowder treason and plot
I see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
[Fade out effects]
Should ever be forgot
Though actually, now-a-days, there are clearly at least two good reasons to forget, or rather two extremely bad reasons: and both of them are just as clearly your fault!
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