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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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Oh! Forget your oft-made claims about things that are "Only in the US of A" because what follows should easily trump you while coming under the heading of "Only In the UK of GB & NI" or if you're feeling lazy "Only in Britain". And, furthermore, during the following discourse I'd like you to bear in mind that even today the most important things in society over there have Royal associations---it's always "The Royal Navy", "The Royal Air Force", "The Royal Academy"---so consider this: we have a "Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals" (we also have a "Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Birds" for that matter). Guess what we do for our children? Unlike British beasts of the land (and birds of the air for that matter), all that British children get is a mere "National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children" and you can almost feel the unwritten rider "As Long As it Don't Hurt Poor Little Animals (Or Birds For that Matter)".
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One thing that I really like to do when I first get to work each morning is to check the BBC News web page, just to make sure that that old song about there always being an England1 hasn't been disproved---Yet.
However the other morning I didn't like the experience one little bit, because there, glaring at me, was an article all about how the English don't know much about their history. An appalling percentage of (mainly young) people seem to know nothing about Sir Francis Drake, or the Battle of the Boyne, or even the Battle of Britain. They probably aren't even aware that there were no postage stamps available in the twelfth century!
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Well it turns out that it didn't take me long to get over my jet and tube strike lag, so here I am on the second day of my visit and I'm back to my routine---up at 4 am and out for a run (actually I'm not quite back to my routine, I really only got up at 4:20 but I'm proud to say that I didn't need an alarm clock: and yes I do know that my routine wouldn't pass for normal with normal people, but at least I am back to it). Oh and didn't I mention that I'm in England--- flew in Wednesday, BA, and man I had a dreadful flight, the service was horrible and far be it from me to put down anything with the word 'British' in its name but next time I'm flying American! And then once I got to London I was immediately swept up into the vicious vendetta that London Transport employees have been carrying against me since the early seventies, boy their spies must be good: you see just as soon as they realized that I was on my way they came out on a twenty-four hour strike to cover the day and (note) only that one day that I was crossing London, so it took me about three and a half hours to get from Victoria to Liverpool St., but I did eventually get here in spite of their spite.
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‘I gent to the gentist the o’er gay and...’ well I can stop that nonsense right now, because I only went for my six-monthly cleaning and check up and oil change, and I only mention it because while I was there I had one of those co-incidences without which these essays would be a lot less common.
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January 25th being that great annual Scottish celebration and, to be honest, whisky-fest of Burns Nicht and I myself, in addition, being an Anglo-Scottish half-breed (or as I like to put it a 'Sesqui-scot'1) I can hardly let the one pass without having the other comment on the event, and, since we here at the studio are so strongly against stereotyping, particularly to comment on that non-alcoholic essential for the celebration. I refer, of course, to the haggis.
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Food is of course a dominant concern when travelling, in fact next to the omnipresent concern of the seasoned traveller for that ache in the butt caused by sitting in cars and planes and then more sitting in trains and taxis, all of which are engaged in a life or death struggle for supremacy as the ultimate in discomfort, it is the dominant concern.
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Well, having been travelling around what I’ve always thought of as my native land for a week now, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve become a foreign person or, to put it in a more satisfying way and I’m sure more accurately, that it has become a foreign land.
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Well, after a couple of days of play when we were doing quite well, Pakistan finally beat England in the second test, and a good thing too because we most emphatically beat them in the first match and it would never do to continue the series in that fashion.
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I’m back from England and through the vagaries of just plain asynchronicty, because of the time delay between my writing of this and your hearing of it you will know, as I do not, whether England or the United States or (joy of joys) both of them have got through the quarterfinals.
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Isn’t it funny how things concatenate. I happened to drop into the office of Diana, a co-worker (by the way in England, you know, we write that as “co” hyphen “worker” but I’ve noticed that over here it’s written as one word and I now see why we add that hyphen because it’s so easy to misconstrue the word...
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