Fifth series, episode 10
All five series are available here on the HebWeb.
In the latest episode, George Murphy recalls the hot summer of 1976, considers the social etiquette of swearing, tells the tale of a House Cat who left home, confesses his addiction to Traitors, provides a statistical analysis of folk song tragedies, reflects on the recent Heptonstall Festival and shares a cautionary tale.
Seventy six and twenty five
In 1976, Britain had its longest drought for 250 years. A hosepipe ban was declared and a stand pipe appeared at the end of our street. With exquisitely bad timing, I had contracted pneumonia that summer, was off work and weighed seven stones. So I stayed indoors with my heavily pregnant wife, and we played scrabble.
On the 5th July, Kath's waters broke, rudely interrupting my enjoyment of Bonny and Clyde on the telly. We lived half a mile from Halifax General Hospital, so when I rang for an ambulance they didn't take long to appear. At the entrance to the GP Unit, we were asked what religion we were and said, "We're non-believers." So 'C of E' went down on the form.
The midwife disliked the new policy of allowing men into the labour room. She took one look at me and said, "If you faint we'll just step over you."
From one am to six or so, despite her mum's best endeavours, we waited for darling daughter to make her debut appearance.
When she finally emerged, squinting beneath the bright theatre lights, she had blue extremities and a vermillion and yoghurt coloured torso. No one else seemed at all surprised by this dazzling colour combo, so I kept stum. Once the nurses had given Leah a wipe down and wraparound, I was allowed to check her name tag and was carefully counting her tiny digits when our GP appeared. Doctor Lord's role was to do what the nurses described as 'a stitch up'. At which point, matron ushered me off the premises. Walking home in the early morning sunshine, I knew our lives had changed for ever.
In the 49 years since then, we've had several hotter and drier summers, especially in recent years. In 2025 alone, we've had three heatwaves so far. And now Yorkshire Water have declared a hosepipe ban, which might last till Christmas.
Tittums
I never swear. Well, almost never.
Recently, darling daughter came round to change some of our downstairs ceiling lights. As I held the steps for her, I noticed she had a purple and yellow bruise on her knee. She said she'd banged it on the corner of a side table as she let one of Rosie's mates into her house and admitted she'd shouted the F word! Then she apologised to her young guest.
So, although I almost never swear, neither do my grown up children. Or so I thought. Although, come to think of it, when Leah was tiny, but old enough to play out with some bigger kids in our terraced cul-de-sac, she came indoors one day and surprised me by saying, "Oh fuck!"
I said, "What did you say?"
"Oh fuck, I said."
Not wanting to over-react, I said, "Oh."
Actually, I'm not a complete hardliner on the no cussing rule. Like Jerome K. Jerome, I save up my swear words for when they're really needed. The author of Three Men in a Boat, thought it did a man good to swear, especially if we've just stubbed a toe, or suffered some other sharp pain.
"Swearing is the safety valve through which the bad temper, that might otherwise do serious internal injury to our mental mechanism, escapes in harmless vapouring."
He didn't think to include women in his rules for allowable swearing, but he reckoned his cat Tittums swore a lot. In fact he thought he wasn't in her league when it came to swearing. Perhaps he should have prevented her going outside of a night and getting bad habits from neighbouring moggies.
House Cat absconds
Recently, a 'House Cat' escaped from a neighbours' house.
I'd never heard the term House Cat, but, apparently it's a trend. AI reckons a Nottingham University scientist thinks it's possible to breed cats that lose their hunting instinct.
The Notts Prof reckons that, by tweaking a gene or two, House Cats can spend more of their time doing what they really like to do: sharpening their claws on furniture, eating, running up vet bills, eating some more, visiting the litter tray, and most of all sleeping. To sleep perchance to dream.
PW has two domestic house cats, and I quite enjoy hearing them snoring away. Dreaming perhaps about the times when they used to bring us little headless presents culled from nature's rich fauna. Rather like Puddy Cat, the oldest of the once famous physicist Sir Oliver Lodge's cats. Olly reckoned that Puddy Cat spent most of her time lying by the fire, dreaming. He wrote, 'More and more her mind focuses on the invisible."
In his working life, Lodge's research into electro-magnetism led him to invent the first wireless receiver. But, in later years, he wrote and lectured about Spiritualism, claiming to have received messages from his son, who died in the First World War. But, being sceptical about such matters, I wonder if Sir Oliver had nodded off on occasion, and was dreaming by a lovely warm fire alongside his Puddy Cat when he received his son's messages.
Anyway, these thoughts came to me when I heard that our neighbours' House Cat had jumped from an open window during the recent heat wave and escaped captivity via the Rochdale Canal towpath. For several days, it was the main topic on our Street WhatsApp. Then, one twilight evening, Nicola next door spotted the furry fugitive and, with the help of a trail of Felix cat food, lured Bruce the wandering House Cat into her arms and returned him to his grateful owners. And, best of all, to their young son when he awoke next morning.
Worldwide traitors
Tired of watching boxsets of drama and murder series drawn out over too many time consuming episodes without ever reaching satisfactory conclusions? Well, try Reality TV! In particular, watch Traitors, and be shocked at how group thinking operates. Then feel smug about how much better you would be at 'traitor hunting'.
Originally devised in 2021 as a Dutch Reality TV competition, the UK and US adapted their own version of Traitors in the next few years. In the English speaking world, the game is also played in Australia, New Zealand and Canada. Unfortunately, antipodean versions suffer from being short of ancient, atmospheric castles, Claudia Winkelman or Alan Cummings.
The BBC is launching a Celebrity Traitors this autumn, but I prefer watching wide-eyed, hapless members of the general public getting murdered or being banished. I quite admire the poker faced resolve of the players chosen as traitors, but really appreciate contestants who don't take the game too seriously. The majority of faithfuls get too emotional in the banishment room for our liking, perhaps because survival can lead to winning substantial cash prizes.
If you get hooked on Traitors, you can tell yourself you only watch it from a purely sociological perspective. For myself, as a would be folklorist, I relished the dénouement in a recent Down Under series when the traitors turned on each other in a way that recalled The Pardoners Tale in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.
Sing a sad song
I enjoyed reading 'a rare public service announcement' from Holmfirth Festival of Folk Music, entitled Causes of Death in Traditional English Folk Songs. I've presented their findings with the frequency of themes shown here in descending order:
- Broken Heart
- Drowning
- Cruel Wars
- Hanged for being a Highwayman or Footpad
- Stolen away by the Queen of Elfland
- Being mistaken for a swan by a trigger happy hunter
- Wandered off into a wood, lay down and died
Try to avoid the above in this parched summer season and you won't go far wrong.
Peace at Last
In our little house in Glen Terrace in 1976, Leah's cries were waking the neighbours. Her mum was breastfeeding and using a pump to fill up a bottle, so I was on feeding duties every other night. One night I heated the bottle for too long in a pan of hot water and Leah screamed and pulled her head away. PW thundered down the stairs before I could put the bottle under the cold tap.
One day, Mrs Connor from next door said we should let Leah cry and not give her a drink after midnight. She said, "You'll find she'll sleep through after three nights."
Well, this went against all the rules in the books we'd been reading by Miriam Stoppard and Doctor Jolly. But we were desperate and the baby didn't seem to be enjoying waking up so often. So, I held my wife down when we heard Leah's wails. And, lo and behold, after three nights they stopped. But PW just had to tiptoe to her room to make sure Leah wasn't dead.
And finally
The standard of the performers at the Heptonstall Festival Spoken Word was exceptional and it was a privilege to start the first of three sessions at the Octagonal Chapel. The building is eight sided because there's no corners where the devil can hide, according to John Wesley, back in 1764, when he opened the place. I performed a short set of "Cautionary tales for adolescents." But looking around the pews, there appeared to be only one youth in the audience, who was kindly pointed out to me by her dad.
Post Script
PW, when reading my fond recollections of feeding baby Leah, (after ignoring my rules of etiquette for swearing) has demanded a right of reply to my item Peace at Last.
From Kath Murphy
George,
I think you will find you are mistaken, or your memory is impaired. I remember it well, if not vividly, even after all these years, as I hardly got any sleep (as you slumbered on!). Leah woke up every night as she was a terrible sleeper and I breastfed her as she would not take a bottle or even a dummy. Yes! you did give her a bottle when she was nine months old and I stopped breastfeeding her, as she developed top and bottom teeth, making it too painful!
Present Wife!
(for now)
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