Fifth series, episode 20

All five series are available here on the HebWeb.

In this episode, George Murphy celebrates the work of Martin Parr, shares the cautionary tale of Joan, discusses Social Democracy and remembers a Christmas Day in the 50s. Readers respond to an item in episode 19, on the worst Christmas songs. There's also his own, which he didn't sing at the Shaggy Dog Christmas party.

So long Martin Parr

Folks round here especially remember Parr for his early work, black and white images of the dying days of Chapel-going on the tops and the eerie wit captured in the gritstone terraces occupied by former millworkers down in the town.

In his later work Martin also recorded our responses to having our own smartphone cameras; taking selfies, capturing friendship and sunsets and posing in famous places.

A Cautionary tale

Joan, who only had eyes for her phone and wor eaten

Her parents wor quite fond of Joan,
And they bought her a mobile phone,
So she could do her homework speedier,
Copying chunks of Wikipedia.
But smartphones have magnetic powers,
Joan fiddled on her phone for hours,
Until one day she wor offended,
On Facebook she had been unfriended!
She screamed and shouted, "It's not fair.
I wor just about to unfriend her!"
Her father said, "What's to do?"
And mother said, "Let's go to t' zoo."
Then Father said, "To enjoy us stay.
Put that blessed phone away."

For Joan had once loved animals
But sometimes childhood pleasure dulls.
She trudged through all t' best parts o't zoo,
Past lions, tigers and kangaroo,
Whose glories wor all lost on Joan,
Who could not use her mobile phone!
But got revenge upon her kin,
By looking as miserable as sin.
Until, at t' giant Reptile House,
Her parents chatting spouse to spouse,
Past giant ferns, all dank with heat,
Joan sneaked off to send a tweet.

Extremely bored and overheated,
"I want my parents dead! "she tweeted.
And on through steamy jungle wandered,
With both eyes on her phone she blundered,
Past DANGER! signs she did not see,
All alone, but feeling free.
Till by deep pools that smelt unhealthy,
She paused to send her friends a selfie.
When a hungry crocodile,
Or perhaps it was an alligator.
Photo bombed! … Then promptly ate her.

Alerted by a noisy crunch,
(A reptile having Joan for lunch).
The Zookeeper - a plucky fella –
Sacrificed his best umbrella.
And propping open t' creature's jaws,
He dived inside to great applause.
For Joan's father, a cautious chap,
Had bought a phone location app.
An' t' creature's dark insides wor braved …
An' smartphone, but not Joan, wor saved!

So think on: put down that phone,
Or else you might end up like Joan.

SD in Scandi

Sadly, Jude's cousin died, aged 32. Kath drove him to Durham for the funeral, whilst my side of the clan celebrated our annual get together in Chester.

The day before my birthday, I enjoyed a chat with my daughter and a small group of Starmer doubting, Corbynistas.

In a TV debate before the Get Brexit Done Election, JC said he believed socialism worked best in Scandinavia. In other words, he wanted a mixed economy Social Democratic Country.

I said, "I'd like to have a cradle to grave welfare system, where people willingly pay half their income in taxes and in return receive same day medical treatment, free higher education and superb nursery provision, whilst business is allowed to thrive. Denmark, for instance, is the second richest country in the world. But this government had to start from where we're at, after years of austerity. From Thatcher onward, taxation has become a dirty word in this country. The trickle down trickled up."

Or words to that effect.

Readers write

The Worst Christmas Song Ever?

I asked if I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday was the worst Christmas song ever. Here's a selection …

Greg Nickson: No. The worst Christmas song is Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas is You. Followed by anything by Cliff Richard, especially Mistletoe and Wine.

Heather Wilson: In order: Slade. John Lennon, Xmas Live Aid, Little Drummer Boy (Cathy Shoemaker's fave, we would cringe at this one together when we were both in Heart Gallery!!). I could go on but I'm feeling a bit queasy.

Leon Waksburg: The worst one is Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time.

Christmas in the 50s

You don't see as many kids playing out these days – even on Christmas Day. When I was a kid, that was the day to show off your new presents to the other kids in the street. One year, when my dad was working for an American company who gave its workers Christmas bonuses, my sisters got bikes. Ashamed that I couldn't ride a bike, I asked instead for a Freddy Mills punch bag and two pairs of child size boxing gloves. I soon got bored of punching the punch bag and went outside with my gloves.

The big lads organised a bout between me and Paul Dunne, who was my height but had a bigger frame on him. I'd seen an old film of Rocky Marciano, who'd retired as the undefeated champion of the world and when the fight started I copied Rocky's style, crouching and waiting to throw upper cuts. Paul punched me in the face. The world stopped for a second or two.

After each time he punched me, Paul apologised. In the 3rd round, Mrs James from next door came out and stopped the fight to avoid me taking further punishment. So I lost on a TKO, whilst my sisters sailed serenely past me, blissfully enjoying their new bikes.

Shaggy Dog Storytellers

The famous tale tellers met for a Christmas party in their usual Stubbing Wharf venue. The pub will shut in January, with the expectation that it will reopen under new management, hopefully in the near future. Meanwhile, watch out for details on HebWeb of the next gathering on the last Friday in January, from 8pm at the historic Dusty Miller, in Mytholmroyd.

And finally …

If a funeral and a party hadn't prevented me from attending the Shaggy Dog gathering, I might have told the tale of Joan and her phone, or possibly a rhyme and a song - if I'd not given up playing the ukulele.

I'm worried about our Percy

I'm worried about our Percy,
I'm right worried about our Perce,
Since joining that storytelling club,
He's been under some sort of curse.
First off he wor telling monologues,
And allus talking in verse,
But now he's bought a weskit,
And he's taken a turn for t' worst.
He's started singing folk songs,
Oh where did we go wrong?
He stands there with his hand to his ear,
An' wants us to sing along!
We've allus done us best for t' lad,
Since he took his first breath,
We played him songs by Sex Pistols
And such as Megadeath.
But just to put a cap on things,
He's bought a ukulele,
It must have cost him twenty pounds
An' he's plucking on it daily!
Father says, "Don't worry mother.
I'm sure he'll soon get bored.
He's been plucking it for a fortnight now,
An' he's not mastered plucking t' first chord!

I've got a ukulele

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