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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 is a lady who reads the news and snippets from the papers and the like really early in the morning (Texas time) for the BBC's World Service and who has what I like to think of as a Mid-Atlantic accent (not that I like to think of it much). You know the sort of sound---wet, windy and miles from anything useful, not to mention rather fishy when you get really down to it.
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You know for once you don't really need to listen to this week's piece because it only exists as part of a frantic attempt to remember to send my mother a card and, perhaps, some flowers or something for Mothering Sunday.
Now please note carefully this is not that Mother's Day thing you have in the middle of May, but the real thing on the fourth Sunday in Lent, and I think (or rather desperately hope) it is on 25th of March this year.
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I am going to speak to you at this time, very seriously, about a dreadful disease. A disease, nay an epidemic, more vile than the black death, more subtle than whatever Hollywood has attractive young stars of weepies die from these days, and more unmentionable than what’s-it’s-name that we’re not allowed to mention on the air. I am going to speak of a disease which seems only to afflict my fellow Englishmen. I am going to speak, of course, of Ethno-deficiency. … Ethno-deficiency, you may not have thought of it much before, but think of it now. Ethno-deficiency is that condition that the English find themselves in of being bereft of national characteristics.
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