Euro inflation

'I felt isolated and uncared for. I needed a friendly face'

The Observer

"It is meant to be one of the most positive experiences in a woman's life, yet for many it proves one of the worst. As we launch our Better Birth Campaign, Jo Revill reports on the reality of childbirth in 2005"

If only the moldering government and leaden-footed bureaucrats would get up off their pampered arses and do something.

Malachy Dunhill

All's unfair...in love and war

Straining



"Every three minutes, less, a train rumbles out of sight at the foot of the slope beyond the fence." [...] "The sleepers spring against the ballast, the carriages rock on their bowed springs, and the tannoy system's voice carries up the rise..."

Ossian

Willesden Herald receives honour

We are not a little shocked and very pleased to report that one of our contributors has achieved honour for himself by getting this newspaper mentioned in Irish Writers Online, "a concise bio-bibliographical dictionary of Irish writers". The Willesden Herald is now listed alongside the sainted names of all the great writers from the "Ould Sod".

New painting by Francis Bacon discovered

Willesden Herald Exclusive

by Noël Knowall



This outstanding work by the late Francis Bacon was discovered at the bottom of a river in Wales, after an alert Willesden Herald reader spotted it in one of our pictures (see below). Edmondo Woodward, Willesden Herald editor*, after personally recovering the picture from the stream, sent eagle-eyed Jack Lynch, 61, of Mapesbury an unopened naggin of Jameson's in gratitude. Following careful restoration, the picture is to be offered for sale by Christie New Minstrel gallery in Cardiff, where it is expected to fetch in the region of two million pounds.

* Erratum: I am not the Editor, only the Proprietor. Apologies to Feargal Mooney. (Ed)**

** Feargal replies: Sorry to wash dirty laundry in public, but don't you see how confusing it is to the public when you sign your comments "Ed"! Our agreement was that you would sign them "Red". (Ed.)***

*** Well pardon me for existing. (Ed)

Willesden sunset #823

by Ossian Lennon



12'' x 9'' black Bristol board silhouette on Fuji film Crystal Archive paper high quality photograph. Offers in the region £10,000. Agents: Christie New Minstrel Gallery, Cardiff.

All human life is here

Kronk's law of the conservation of beauty

My objective here is to provide a guide for the layman to my immensely important theory of the conservation of beauty.

While studying a picture of yellow hair under a tree in the great tropical glasshouse at Willesden Gardens, a 5 kilo soursop fell on my head and I passed out for several hours.* When I awoke I had the complete theory of the conservation of beauty in my mind and I rushed to my office to type it out before it vanished.

It occurred to me that I could produce the same picture of yellow hair by spinning a camera in front of any yellow object, for example a forsythia bush in full bloom. Of course forsythia in blossom is beautiful, but it looks nothing like that picture of yellow hair. And yet they are both beautiful. An easy experiment confirmed that the simple action of the camera** was enough to separate the photons of beauty into strands of yellow hair, like that which "maddened every mother's son" (as mentioned by Senator Yeats.)

Now I can reveal why I have often been seen disfiguring pictures of supermodels in magazines and breaking parts off statues - to the perplexity of those unaware of my scientific purpose. It is counter-intuitive to think that beauty could survive any transformation, and if you asked the average man in the street he would say that beauty could be destroyed. The strange fact is that beauty, just like energy / mass, can never be lost, it is merely transposed to another form. Shakespeare intuitively felt this, and I will now proceed to set out the mathematical proof.***

<< Previous | Next >>

by Professor Kronk

*A salutary lesson; never sit under a guanabana tree.

**The camera was kindly furnished by Willesden Observatory.

***A locksmith from Purley knocked on my office door at this point, responding to a call I had placed earlier concerning my briefcase. Most unfortunately, the mathematical proof of my theory - which I had entire - slipped my mind during this person's visit. I will have to start over from first principles, but at least I can now get my sliderule out of my briefcase.

Favourite New Yorker stories etc.

My subscription ended in February after three years, but here is my list of favourite short stories from those years. I posted this message (more or less) on the New Yorker forum, but it's dead as a doornail over there.

A House on the Plains by E. L. Doctorow
A tour de force by the author of Ragtime and many more.

What is Remembered by Alice Munro
One of three in one issue by the high priestess of slow burn short fiction.

The Performance by Arthur Miller
This concerns a vaudeville tap dancer with a troupe touring Europe at the end of the 1930's, when he receives an invitation that will end up testing everything he believes in. It's fascinating how Arthur Miller, even in his fiction introduces elements of drama. Note how the narrator plays the part of somebody "in the audience" with us. Great.

The Thing in the Forest by A. S. Byatt
A massively talented writer. If only she'd use her talents for good instead of evil. Haha.

The Trouble with Mrs Blynn, The Trouble with the World by Patricia Highsmith
Great one. One of the few that are not shown online though.

My Father Addresses Me on the Facts of Old Age by Grace Paley
Funny and compelling.

Sacred Statues by William Trevor
Coarser woven but just as high quality fabric as McGahern's. McGahern is up there in the stratosphere, thirteen years for his latest novel, a book mined from living flesh. Trevor is circling with the eagles just below the cliff edge. (Where are the McGahern stories? He used to be a prolific short story writer. His Collected Stories is a huge volume. Maybe he's not writing short stories, but at least Granta had an excerpt from "That They May Face The Rising Sun.")

The Obscure Object by Jeffrey Eugenides
The best and juiciest bit from the subsequent novel Middlesex. Reviewers on BBC Newsnight Review complained the novel didn't start till chapter N (13, I think). I could've told them - this is the chapter they were referring to.

Already We Knew Nothing - by Dave Eggers
A sort of literary Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. This is youthful and vaguely infuriatingly shallow until you realise that it is really being satirical and by the end it is beginning to dawn on the guys that the world is not what they expected it to be.

Safety Procedures - Nadine Gordimer
Surprisingly ordinary but good enough story by the Nobel prize winner. Could be subtitled Fear of Flying.

The Ocean - Frederik Reiken
This is a beautiful rites-of-passage story, first love at age thirteen against a background of diving on coral reefs. One of my all-time favourites.

Baby Wilson - E. L. Doctorow
Your girlfriend has always been a little crazy. Then one day she walks in with a newborn baby. The only problem is, she wasn't pregnant. You might not decide to drive across America with them while thinking what to do, but then there would be no story.

Travis, B - Maile Meloy
Damn, who is this guy! (Actually it's a gal.) Brilliant. This is a great little love story. It's one of those bleak plains, empty roads, snowy stories.

The Bare Manuscript by Arthur Miller
A writer enjoys early success and romance, but when his marriage and his writing both dry up he finds an unusual way to revive his muse. He places an advert and finds a woman who will let him write all over her.

Summer of the Hot Tubs by Annie Proulx
I hope places like Elk Tooth really exist. (My US friends confirm they do.) Proulx country. A real rib-tickler.

The Fruit Cage by Julian Barnes
All is not as it seems in the black comedy that unfolds, in the heart of darkest England. Funny, surprising and very English.

Sitting with the Dead by William Trevor
Superb trademark rural inscapes.

Bulldog by Arthur Miller
One of the best. A kid buying a puppy from a woman gets more than he bargained for.

Touched by Hanif Kureishi
A classic of its kind by the best British short story writer around, in my opinion.

A Bit on the Side by William Trevor
London office affairs - some of you might relate to this.

Our House by Martin Roper
Dublin household cross-religion blues - wistful.

A Poor-Aunt Story by Haruki Murakami
Amusing. Everyone has a poor aunt, but not like this.

Visiting George by Nadine Gordimer
Short short & poetic. London streets.

Justina's Priest by William Trevor
Touching. Masterful. One almost to restore your faith in religion.

A Boy in the Forest by Edna O'Brien
It's the Brothers again / meets The Butcher Boy. A nightmare. Subsequently part of a novel.

An Unfair Question by Sam Shepard
Horrifically funny party nightmare.

The High Divide - by Charles D'Ambrosio.
Camping seems to play a large part in the lives of some American writers.

Red from Green - by Maile Meloy.
An interesting comparison, camping from a feminine perspective.

Both of the above are brilliant stories in the tradition of Salinger's youth versus the phoniness of the older generation.

Bohemia by V. S. Naipaul
Essential reading for London dwellers. Pity he's turned snob, and misanthropist in old age.

Harvey's Dream by Stephen King
King happens to be a very good short story writer. Also worth reading the New Yorker article On Impact, his vivid account of the day and the accident that nearly killed him, what he thought of the person responsible for it, and how he started writing again.

The Surrogate by Tessa Hadley
Tres amusant as they say, esp. reading from England.

Recuperation - by Roddy Doyle
This is interesting. The rhythm of a daily walk. Easy to read, unusual format, a little repetitive at first, but mirroring an awful emptiness that threatens to engulf us. It's not without its highlights and even a shot of redemption. Well worth a read.

I should also add:
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner by Roddy Doyle
I think I've remembered that name right - same as the film (?) Anyway it was great too. I sometimes worry that he might be exploiting Dubliners rather than representing them. Perhaps I am too close to his target. I feel I'm inside looking out, while he is outside looking in.

Another Roddy Doyle one, recent, can't remember the name of it. As good as the others, better maybe. The whole story seems to cover just the moment when a man decides to say something or not, to rise from his armchair halfway, maybe refuse his wife's request, maybe make waves, and in following his thoughts we get a picture of their entire existence, their relationships, what they've lost - all in a moment.

In The Palace of the End by Martin Amis
Brilliant and apposite account of torturers in some place like Iraq. This story is not online at the New Yorker. It subsequently appeared in Guardian Online.

Long Ago Yesterday by Hanif Kureishi
Kureishi on great form - man I just love his writing, though personally he's not at all winsome, quite the reverse - writing about a son who meets the ghost of his father when they are both middle-aged. Another great one. Look for Kureishi's book "My Head to his Heart" an excerpt from which is on Guardian Online.

I almost forgot to mention the exceptionally wonderful Gogol by Jhumpa Lahiri (later a novel) and the spectacularly great debut by Nell Freudenberger, and just as good follow-up story (collected in the Orange Award nominated, Lucky Girls).

But wait. Why no stories by David Means, Irvine Welsh, James Hamilton Paterson, Edmund White, Garrison Keillor, Gabriel Garcia Marquez ... or did I miss them?

I also miss the New Yorker's peerless non-fiction articles. I'm thinking especially of Jonathan Franzen's piece 'My Father's Brain' and many more, too many to list or ever recall, about everything from Abu Ghraib to Shad to Wodehouse. Oh and the poems, Heaney, Milosz, Kinnell (especially his epic about the twin towers) and Zagajewski - who can forget his back page poem in its context, Try to Praise the Mutilated World.

Ossian

Tyrants in pants

Herald Exclusive - the picture they tried to ban



BBC NEWS World Americas Bush filmed in underwear

"When the US president arranged a visit to Ireland in an election year he wanted to make sure the folks back home could see him - but not dressed in a vest. "

For your edification, in spite of warnings from the little-known Irish President (who has to show her ID to her own sentrymen to get into the state residence) we bring you this picture of Bush cavorting in underwear, at Dromoland Castle last night.*

Mary Whitehouse

*Reprinted from Willesden Herald of June 26th, 2004

Sister Rhododendron and Brother Bee

And I wish I could show you the robin singing on my shoulder.

Ossian

Cuban chemical weapon hits Washington

British MP Galloway says 'blew away' U.S. committee

"I did a bit of sanction busting,' he said, brandishing a cigar. 'I smoked a Havana cigar just like this one. I smoked it inside the Capitol building, I even blew the smoke at the White House.'"

Smokin' George K.O.'d the smooth-talking, double-dealing, corpse-robbing, gun-running, oil-smuggling, Batista-loving sheisters.

New Yorker's take on the British election result

Blair's Bushy Tail

"No doubt the Prime Minister will keep trying to be the President's seeing-eye dog. But he is apt to be more alert to the perils of sitting in his lap." (Hendrik Hertzberg)

At least we're all agreed what his role is, Bush's dog.

Another good reason to go to Dublin

Dublin Writers Festival, June 16-19, 2005

Among the many Irish and international poets, fiction and non-fiction writers taking part are Sebastian Barry, Ronan Bennett, Chris Binchy, Thomas Brussig, Hélia Correia, Carolyn Forché, Christoph Hein, Tobias Hill, Kathleen Jamie, Antoni Libera, Hilary Mantel, Eugene McCabe, Sheenagh Pugh, Robin Robertson, Paolo Ruffilli, Tomaz Salamun, Rachel Seiffert, Gerald Stern, Joseph Woods and Juli Zeh.

Ossian

Galloway scotches US committee's falsified evidence

Sky News

"Mr Galloway said one of the Iraq officials who was said to have given evidence against him was being held in Iraq in the Abu Ghraib prison "

Sky News has fairer coverage of this than the Guardian, which only grudgingly reports Galloway's victory / vindication. (Go figure.)

The Guardian Online has also closed the comments facility on their newsblog report of the hearing, apparently shamed by the unanimity of support for Galloway, which they couldn't bring themselves to acknowledge. You can still comment on Kylie, if you wish, and while you're at it, eat cake if you have no bread.

Anti-Galloway documents forged - proof

'How they forged case against Galloway' - Socialist Worker

Look closely at the entry, which is reproduced above.

The typeface (font) used for "Mr George Galloway" is different to the rest of the line. Indeed the only time this font is used in the entire document is where George Galloway's name appears.

'Mr George Galloway' does not line up with the rest of the words in the entry. It is at an angle to the other words.

The spacings between "Mr George Galloway" and the rest of the words are inconsistent.

The dash after the words "Mr George Galloway" touches the following word.

The words "Mr George Galloway" are at a different type density (lighter) than the rest of the line."

(via Lenin's Tomb)

Galloway is vindicated

After his appearance in front of the US Senate committee today, there can be no further doubt that George Galloway has been the victim of a smear campaign. It was clear that in spite of his crass sycophancy on one occasion, he has been on the right side of the political and humanitarian issues all along. He stood against the murderous cupidity of the British and American governments as they devastated Iraq and Iraqis. Whether he smokes big cigars or has a jaunty, brash, even arrogant style is really irrelevant - he's not asking for your daughter's hand in marriage. There is no doubt that an organised campaign of lies, misrepresentation and forgeries, has been conducted against him - and the only remaining question is by whom? But there is no mystery at all about the answer, it's obvious who the culprits are, and the pile of toxic garbage they were trying to sell blew up in their faces today.

Stare Wares iii - Return of the Shit

Mystic Mavis, doubling as film critic in the absence of Amanda Saxonheart has predicted a rating of one star for this sequel.

Freedom fries all round

Karimov

He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

Once again, the lines from Auden come to mind, and one thinks of Bush laughing and his courtiers forcing a laugh, and his and Blair's tawdry and hollow "emoting" on demand.

Memory of the hands

Mystery of the silent, talented piano player who lives for his music

"Doctors examined the man, who appeared to be in his 20s or 30s, and found nothing wrong with him, but still he failed to respond to questions. He was difficult to assess as he appeared terrified of any new face, sometimes rolling himself into a ball and edging into a corner."

Some woman's yellow hair

has maddened every mother's son

Niamh. How I yearn for Tir na n'Og. The breast. The shoulder. The fair shoulder. But I had to return to Ireland, and wear a thousand years. The myth of guilt was stronger than the myth of love. Are you still there, in Tir na n'Og, are you waiting?

Ossian

How to be British - advice for foreigners

with Malachy Dunhill

A handy guide for visitors, especially authors who may have to visit the island of Britain to bring the light of literature back from across the Atlantic to where it has partially died out in "the ould sod." As well as sensible sexual hygiene practices, it is also a good idea to know a bit about the natives, their likes and dislikes. Don't be fooled by his inoffensive demeanour, Tommy is not a man you would want to have as an enemy.

Be Impassive

Try to get to know a little bit of our culture and you'll find things will go better on your trip. Tone down your voice by a few decibels when you infest our shores, and don't argue with hotel staff. Never wear check, plaid or plastic macs. Remember we Brits are jaded, blasé, and not in the least interested in petty annoyances, so don't become one. If the service in your hotel is bad, simply accept that you have no savoir faire, and made a bad choice. We have a saying here, which you would do well to memorise, and that is "Shite occurs."

Also Be Hysterical
Decide your habiliment of hilarity early and swathe yourself in it on all social occasions. Should your mien gravitate towards the pompous, you may choose something from the house of John Cleese.* As an opening gambit with a bit of fluff at a do, refer to an unrelated item in the manner of the Dead Parrot Sketch. Faced with a wilted lettuce leaf, a Briton from the school of Cleese will invariably declare, "This is an ex-legume, it is sadly etiolated, in short it is dead." You will not be out-of-place afterwards, when sufficient chardonnay has been quaffed, goosestepping around mein host's hallway and bellowing, "Don't mention the war."

For a more contemporary effect, you can be David Brent from The Office, the entire Fast Show - "Ooh suits you!" - or if you have the talent for mimicry that you think you have, big up for Ali G "in da house". If you are a real connoisseur of all things purely British, you will probably choose to affect a modest air of Alan Bennett. Choose your comedy well, laugh like a drain at your own jokes, and remember that to be British is to draw first prize in the tombola of talent.

Wear a Powdered Wig and Tights

Remember to call attorneys "barristers" when translating into the local patois. Britain, or more precisely the main bit of it known as England and Wales, is run by a coterie of these witch doctor-like figures, also known affectionately as "old boys." Easily recognised in their black robes, powdered wigs, tights and garters, they have something in common with Pantomime Dames, but I will save that subject for another article. A significant proportion of them these days are real women.

Barristers are a protected species held mainly in London, in a Royal Park called the Inns of Court, where their numbers are carefully managed. The process of becoming a barrister involves "eating a number of dinners" at the Inns. Whether that is a euphemism or a literal procedure, I dread to think. Some cursory acquaintance with legal precedent is expected as a matter of good form, but the chief attribute required is an olympian ability to make the implausible sound really quite likely. In their spare time, barristers also run the nominal government of Britain from the nearby Palaces of Westminster.**

Within the Inns of Court***, there are miles of ancient squares, buildings and alleys stretching from Temple near the Thames Embankment all the way to Grays Inn Road, a mile or so to the north. These cobbled lanes and squares are full of the ghosts of Samuel Johnson, Boswell, Dickens and I can't think of anyone else. --Oh yes, myriad newly poor litigants.

*Further studies in Hysteria: see "Spamalot".
**Known to all London taxi drivers as the Palace of Varieties.
***Inns of Court: Not many people know what a wonderful little world is here, which has been around for a very long time, and judging by the stone construction of the buildings and alleys, will be for a very long time yet. So here are some pictures by London-based photographer Onion Mbeke, to give you some idea of the place.



One of the delights is this fountain in Fountain Court near Temple. It is shaded by two ancient mulberry trees, now almost horizontal and both propped. You can see the prop holding up one of them in this picture.



Also on view is a marvellous open-air exhibition of hundreds of expensive German cars, as well as a few Range Rovers, Jaguars, Bentleys and the odd Aston Martin.

His Lordship, the minister for graft

Blair crony minister's tax dodge

"Three separate trusts in the name of Drayson, his wife and father-in-law, included almost half of the £90m-plus the family raked in from the sale of the controversial drug firm Powderject.
Three yeas ago, Scotland on Sunday revealed that the peer made a £50,000 donation to the Labour Party two months after Powderject won a £17m NHS vaccines contract at a price four times that of the previous deal. His close relationship with the New Labour establishment provoked further uproar when the company won a £32m deal to provide enough smallpox vaccinations to protect the UK population against a germ-warfare attack."

You voted for this, you arses. Tug your forelock to His Lordship, the unelected minister for ripoffs and graft.

She's back - with a big new column!

Helpful Hints with Mona Bone-Jakon*

No. 1: Never got lost again in a strange city



If only you could carry that map from the station. But wait, you have a digital camera, so you can. Simply take a picture of the map and later you can use the zoom button to look closely at the streetnames if you lose your way. I had to go to Bolton this week to supervise a victim reparations encounter between some local skinheads and a small child they'd set fire to. I'd forgotten to take a map with me, but I had the camera, so Hey Presto - another instant result!

*Mona is a self-qualified counsellor who specialises in Instant Result Therapy.

Victory for the Willesden Herald

It was the Willy wot done it!

DTI loses its crappy new title after one week

"Failing to see the funny side yesterday was Richard Wilson, head of business policy at the Institute of Directors. 'The government is degenerating into a circus and the clowns have taken charge.'"

The Department for Productivity, Energy and Industry has been renamed the Department of Trade and Industry. Stand by for next week's name.* Another victory for the Willy, one of whose many mottoes is Tomorrow's News Yesterday.

The government broke under the pitiless onslaught of ridicule from your super soaraway Willy.

*Papergen? (Ed)