The Past is Another Country: Belgium?

They say that the past is another country: and that country, my friends, is Belgium.

Henry and I have been watching The White Queen with some amusement.  I know one is not really supposed to take it seriously, but we were intrigued by this latest offering from the BBC when we found out it was to take place during the War of the Roses.  Anything that isn't about the done-to-death middle Tudors is fine by me; but perhaps more importantly, our shared great-great-uncle Richie claimed to have fought for the house of York at the battle of St Albans.  A great deal of absinthe having been taken, we naturally assumed that he meant he’d bought a return ticket to York at St Albans Abbey Railway Station, but one can never be completely sure.

Based on Philippa Gregory's historical novel series The Cousins' War, the series is meant to be a rearguard action for feminism as it focuses on the women caught up in the conflict and their quest for power, chiefly Elizabeth Woodville (Rebecca Ferguson), Lady Margaret Beaufort (Amanda Hale) and Lady Anne Neville (Faye Marsay).

Feminism never looked so dramatic

The focus has been on Elizabeth and Lady Margaret in the first two episodes, and to be honest my Suffragette genes have not exactly been stirring yet.  Yes, the women are the focus, but they are still being played with by the men (politically and otherwise).  I'm still waiting for the major power-plays promised.  There is still time though, as I believe it is a ten-part series.

Naturally, we have some other thoughts so far.

Firstly, there’s the enthusiastic cheapness of the series – not merely in the realm of scenes obviously shot in hotels with electric lamps, zips, etc. – but in the absence of texture, particularly crowds.  The Yorkist revolution of 1461 was a massive, mass-participation event that involved, according to Professor Charles Ross, 'all the then known propaganda devices: political songs and poems, ballads and rhymes, broadsheets pinned up in public places ... the harnessing of the papal legate to invest them with clerical blessing, addresses to convocation, political sermons at St Paul’s Cross, the use of every possible ceremonial precedent in the ceremonies of accession and coronation ... [and] the production of a number of genealogical rolls taking their supposed descent right back through the earlier kings of England and the Roman emperors to the kings of Israel, at least as far back as Jehosophat.'

Yeah, him.  You know the guy

And yet, even in the coronation scenes and street scenes, we hardly see a soul who is not an aristocrat, and it's all suspiciously clean and tidy too.  When King Edward IV (Max Irons) tells his wife to go and raise the city of London in his cause, we are left wondering what he means; even his 'army' never seems to boast more than about forty chaps on screen at once, which in turn seems to become a plot element when he is captured, rather (one supposes) too easily.  In reality, no-one of his importance tended to go about without a dozen mounted longbowmen as bodyguards – as my ancestor ‘Snatcher’ McBalantyre found out to his cost when jumping out of the bushes at Princess Marjory in the summer of 1381.

There were some lessons he still needed to learn.

The series was budgeted at £25 million and filmed on location in Belgium, where several landmarks in Bruges and Ghent represent locations in London and elsewhere.  However, despite such a small budget for such a long series, you’d have thought the production could rummage up a few crowds.  Offer a decent lunch and over half my own family would have turned up to mob someone.  (Not too decent, mind, or they might get carried away, forget acting, and actually mob someone.) The Other One would probably do it for free; not only would it raise her acting profile back home as the series is also commissioned by U.S. channel Starz [sic], but her pregnancy hormones would welcome the chance to biff someone over the head with a mace, whether the script called for it or not.

Henry does enjoy that the nobility and gentry do not seem excessively 'polished', which is realistic for the century in question, and in this regard, both Lord Warwick (James Frain) and Elizabeth Woodville's father, Baron Rivers (Robert Pugh), are particular well cast and directed.

Another stand-out performance, we feel, was from future Queen Mother Margaret Beaufort.  Her superb religious craziness seemed wasted in a show that mostly looks and feels like an amateur production from the Midlands c.1985, but Ms. Hales is definitely one to keep an eye on – especially as this the third solid performance we've seen from her, after Ripper Street and Being Human.  I shall be looking out for her in future.

All that being said, however, my main gripe with this production is its rather peculiar time-line: not from anything so bourgeois as an ‘accuracy of historical events point of view’, but from a 'this is making it impossible to watch' point of view.

Hey, it's like watching Thelma & Louise!

The pregnancy Elizabeth Woodville goes through in the beginning of episode two is either too long or too short, but it’s hard to tell.  The date only appears at the beginning of the episode, and then we're left to figure it out as they occasionally throw in the odd '[…] Years Later' subtitle.  How she managed three daughters that appear the same age 'Three Years Later' may be revelatory of some lost scientific marvel; but then, Ms. Gregory has made her a witch, among other things.  She seems to have a habit of turning historical rumour into major storylines, which I do not buy, either in particular or in general.

What was particularly galling was future Henry VII.  He doesn't appear to age at all, and we were left wondering if he had even changed his clothes.  The poor lad is stuck at five years old – probably until the producers cotton on and he suddenly turns into a strapping young lad ready for the throne.

Is it king time now, Mummy?

On balance, I think we'll keep tuning in.  I want to see Lady Margaret Beaufort's story progress, and Lady Anne Neville hasn't had her chance to shine yet either.

However, do tune out before tuning in.  It'll be far easier on the brain.

Here she lies, pickled in gin

We read The Times.  The Other One does not.  She doesn’t even read The Telegraph.  I don't know where she gets it from!  She has taken to flagging down the nearest bus simply to obtain a copy of their Metro newspaper (price gratis).  I happened to take a peek at one of these earlier in the week, and noticed an article about people who write their own obituaries as part of their funeral planning.

How fashionable, I thought!

So, here's mine:

The Scottish beau-monde were today shocked to the very dungeons, when Lady Cynthia Airedale was pronounced dead after an unfortunate incident involving an old Barbour jacket, a pair of Hunter wellies, a home-made gin distillery and a tractor.  We shall all miss her no-nonsense wit and the unique way in which she viewed the world.

Born in [CENSORED] in a sleepy village in deepest, darkest Dorset, to Maj. E.J.R.S. MacNaughton-Hogg-Balantyre (RE retired), land agent, and Sylvia (née FitzEustace-Burbage), a rosy-cheeked, plump housewife and sometime girl-friend of both Doodles Weaver and Gen. Charles de Gaulle, Cynthia rapidly exhibited signs of a knack for agriculture.

Given her first tractor – an antiquated Massey-Ferguson – at the age of three, she won several trophies in the county under-8’s tractor-racing championships, frequently against determined opponents at least double her age.  Scandal broke, however, when her trophies were rescinded; rumours that she (or someone) had ‘beefed up’ her tractor turned out to be true: it was discovered that its ‘tractor engine’ was merely a hollow shell containing a supercharged 20-litre V-12 Rolls-Royce ‘Kestrel’ aircraft engine, as well as a missing Jaguar straight six fitted in lieu of a starter motor.  In her defence, Cynthia said she didn't think anyone would miss them.

Her first words were 'Clover, if you kick the bucket over once more…!' and no one could catch and milk a goat quite like she.

Soon, however, she had to leave the sunny hills of home to attend St Margaret’s School for Precocious Girls.  A very jolly-hockey-sticks period of her life ensued, during which her West Country accent did not die, but rather just faded away.  Also during this time, due to an unexpected rash of alcohol poisonings, wanderings into canals, and very poor firearm safety among a large group of near and not-so-near relatives, Cynthia’s father accidentally became an earl.

After a very productive time at school and then at finishing school, Cynthia attended the Royal Agricultural College, Cirencester, where she met her husband, (not yet Sir) Henry Airedale, whilst beagling.

She then moved to Scotland and got on with it on her new estate of Airnefitchie.

She acquired a criminal record, but due only to a single incident of indecent exposure, i.e. riding through the Royal Highland Show in Edinburgh ‘Lady Godiva style’ to protest against the price of milk and how farmers should get paid more for it by the supermarkets.  Despite most of the attendees being in favour of this peaceful protest, one anxious mother did complain that her already highly-sexed young teenaged son had not left his bedroom since they got back from the show; and the police felt compelled to issue a warning.

She is survived by her husband (just about) and three children, The Other One, Alistair and darling Sylvie.  The battlements are just about surviving her too.

My headstone shall simply read:  'Here she lies, pickled in gin.'

All Together When We Go?

You'll have to forgive my absence these past few weeks.  Dear Henry got it into his head that the conflict in Syria will lead to another Cold War, but this time actually ending in nuclear fallout.

Sure was fun though, am I right?

As he spent most of the 1980s living in an underground bomb shelter, Henry has been trying to recreate one at home using the wine cellar, much to my chagrin.  Daddy would not be impressed by his son-in-law disturbing the vintages after years of settling.

At first I let Henry just tinker away down there, muttering to himself about barrels of pickled herring and vats of clean drinking water, until he moved a load-bearing wooden beam to create a base for a steel wall and the Aga fell through the floor.

Could have been worse, I suppose.

Luckily, this occurred at the end opposite the most valuable and most drinkable wine (we keep them very close together as a sort of ‘wine roulette’ for dinner parties), but it did cause rather significant damage to the kitchen.  I called in our tame structural engineer, Barry (whom you may remember from my green roof plight), and commissioned him not only to repair the kitchen flagstones and replace the beams, but also to help Henry create a proper bomb shelter.

Apparently, Barry is not only a serious 'prepper', but is actually a bit of a nut when it comes to bomb shelters.  He's member number 0012 of the British Bomb Shelter Association and an honorary member of the American Bomb Shelter Organization [sic], which is not to be confused with a certain rather popular Blairite sentencing order.  In 1997, he won the international Van Humpenschrieck prize for best-prepared shelter, named for Hubert Van Humpenschrieck, who disappeared underground during the Franco-Prussian war and didn't reappear again until 1969, having been perfectly preserved by eating pickled limes and drinking nothing but gin.  Sadly, he (Van Humpenschrieck not Barry) was hit by a bus the very moment he left the structure, which owing to events had found itself underneath lane two of the M74 motorway near Uddingston.

It's bad enough being on top of the motorway

In any case, Barry is ‘prepping’ due to the threat of the apocalypse.  Not being much of a Bible reader, he assumes it will be caused by a natural disaster, hyperinflation, virus outbreak, nuclear war or just a good old gas shortage.  After a brief chat, he convinced Henry that it's not Russia we should keep our eyes on, but the Chinese and North Koreans.  Either way, a nuclear fallout shelter would be relatively easy to install between the wine cellar and the dungeon.

Apparently, when it comes to long-term food storage, the Mormons are a handy bunch to know, but Latter-Day Saints are a bit thin on the ground around Airnefitchie, so we'll just have to make do on our own.  Henry spent some hours considering steel cans and Mylar Bags – one being rodent-proof and one being rust-proof.  I suggested Mylar bags just popped into a steel can without sealing the can, but wished I didn't.  Now there's no stopping them.

I actually spent time with The Other One, as she drove around the entire county trying to find someone selling iodized salt – this following a health scare on the Daily Mail (which people all over California apparently read and take seriously).  This alleged that developing-baby retardation corresponded with the lack of iodine in the pregnant mother's diet, or somesuch.  We ended up purchasing it from the internet in the end.

Who needs a midwife when you have Dr Daily Mail in da house?

For two days we taste-tested great gobs of dehydrated and tinned survival foods (including doggie dinners for Patches and Fang) before Henry bought the final choices for the bunker.  For three days I helped him gather wheat, rice, sugar, salt and beans, though I’m not entirely sure he knows what to do with any of them.  I surreptitiously added our spice rack to the bunker.   Then, for the next four days, I had to convince Henry not to make emergency blankets out of my old Rigby & Peller brassieres lined with tin foil.  On the seventh day (when, it might well be remembered, even God rested) I had to convince the authorities that Henry was not illegally practising medicine, despite the bushels of new hospital supplies in our basement.  It only took one look at Henry for DS MacTavish to be satisfied that he wasn't making drugs with the intent to supply.  Apparently, if you wear a tweed three-piece suit all the time, even when building steel walls into a dungeon, you're exempt from those sorts of assumptions.

I'm really just a drug baron, not a proper baron at all

Eventually, the boys had finished.  Barry was particularly pleased with himself, although a little disappointed that we won't allow him to use our new fallout shelter as an entry in the Best UK Prepper competition.  However, he was buoyed up by the thought of inviting himself to our cellar when the apocalypse eventually eventuates.  We scarcely had time to protest before he swanned out of the castle, whistling 'It's a Small World After All'.

I had a sneak peek at the place when I went down for this evening's wine roulette spin.  As impressive as it is, Henry appears to have forgotten all the gin.

That's all well and good, but I have the world's last non-radioactive cucumber here and it needs some gin!

Grand Canyon, My Foot!

I finally saw the film Thelma and Louise at the weekend.  Twenty-odd years late, but the Airneford Odeom does eventually get the blockbusters.

The fresh lick of paint is even later.

Rather than tell you everything that's wrong with the film, I thought I’d make some helpful suggestions for improvement.

Alternative Beginnings:

The SENSIBLE Beginning:

Drive straight to your destination and don't stop at a pub for drinks.  Buy some on the way, and enjoy your hangover on the first morning of your lovely weekend by having a bacon sandwich, not by fleeing the police.  (You’ll have noted with pleasure the absence of an obvious ‘police’/’pig’ joke here.)  Admittedly, this makes for a very short film, so throw in some lesbian experimentation with your friend, and the audience will come flocking in.

Good, clean, family fun.

The MILDLY SENSIBLE Beginning:

Very well; you have insisted on going to a dive bar.  Fine.  Have your drinks (non-alcoholic if you're the designated driver, of course) and eat your dinner – perhaps avoiding the seafood.  Don't engage with anyone but the waitress.  Then pay your bill, leave a nice tip, drive to your destination, and enjoy your hangover on the first morning of your lovely weekend away by having a bacon sandwich, not by fleeing the police.  No doubt you ignored my advice and had the seafood, so cue hilarious female 'frat-boy' comedy.  You trailblazer, you.

The EVER-SO-SLIGHTLY CRAZY BUT STILL WON'T END UP DRIVING INTO THE GRAND CANYON Beginning:

Right.  So you’ve insisted on going to a dive bar and engaging with the local folk.  We had discussed this, but you're a sheltered lass, who hasn't really experienced life and you want to grab it by the testicles.  And indeed, you have actually grabbed that man’s testicles as you line-dance your evening away.  Ah, and now he's trying to rape you.  But it's perfectly all right, because your friend has turned up with a gun.  He insults both of you, and your friend shoots him.  But where does she shoot him?  Straight through the heart?  Bad idea.  Try the knee instead.  Or if you're a particularly angry female, try the penis.  Hang about and ring the police yourself.  They will probably believe you, given the state of your clothing and the fact that your friend is pretty shaken up.  The waitress will back you up on what a slime-ball the rapist was.  No Grand Canyons need apply.

I'm sorry.  You're surplus to requirement.

Alternative Middles:

So you’ve ignored all my advice regarding how to begin your weekend away.  You are now fleeing the scene of the unnecessary and completely avoidable crime.

The SENSIBLE Middle:

After a day of reflection upon what happened, you turn yourselves in.  The police have stated that you have not been charged with murder and they understand what happened.  They're on your side.  Of course, they might not be trustworthy, but it's Harvey Keitel and he sounds very sympathetic.  You will probably, at worst, be done for accidental manslaughter, and into the bargain get a free 1,000-day holiday from work, rent, grocers’ bills, and your smarmy husband.

The MILDLY SENSIBLE Middle:

So, you don't trust Harvey Keitel at all.  Just to be safe, why don't you drive to Mexico and hole up there.  Get your statement to the relevant officials and see what happens.  At no point do you rob convenience stores, trust Brad Pitt just because of the way his mouth gapes open like a goldfish…

The very picture of untrustworthiness.

…entrust your life’s savings to your flaky friend, or imprison a police officer in the boot of his own car.  Do say you'll marry your boyfriend – you could all live happily in Mexico, drinking tequila and laughing about the time you shot a man in the penis in the car park of the worst seafood restaurant in Arkansas.  You could even write a hit ‘country-and-western’ song about it.

It worked for some people.

The EVER-SO-SLIGHTLY CRAZY BUT STILL WON'T END UP DRIVING INTO THE GRAND CANYON Middle:

So, you've robbed a convenience store, trusted Brad Pitt, lost your life’s savings, and imprisoned a police officer in the boot of his own car.  You need to get to Mexico tout de suite, because the police are getting more suspicious – and even they aren’t trusting Harvey Keitel anymore.  May I suggest you drive through Texas?  Because not driving through Texas to get to Mexico is like trying to get to Cornwall without going through Devon: utterly stupid, as Lady Beatrice and I once found out, to our cost.  Yes, you had a bad experience there, but you are now, apparently, a bona fide bad-ass with nothing to lose.  Go through bloody Texas.  Grand Canyon indeed.

Bona fide.

Alternative Endings:

So, you haven't turned yourself in or driven through Texas.  This scenario is getting ever more ridiculous.  We can but try to salvage it.

The SENSIBLE Ending:

...Would have been your lesbian misadventures in the cabin by the lake, had you followed all the SENSIBLE advice.  At this point, you are no longer entitled to a sensible ending.  

The MILDLY SENSIBLE Ending:

Turn yourself in!  Harvey Keitel is still on your side.  Wave a hanky and be done with it.  At this point, you'll have a longer term of imprisonment, but you won't be driving off the edge of the Grand Canyon after horribly overreacting over an obvious case of self-defence.

The EVER-SO-SLIGHTLY CRAZY BUT STILL WON'T END UP DRIVING INTO THE GRAND CANYON Ending:

Have a shootout with the heavily-armed officers behind you; build a bridge over the Canyon using their cars and corpses as your bridge.  Save Harvey Keitel though.  He may now have absolutely no sympathy for you, but he may enjoy Mexico when you finally get there, having kept him as a hostage to guarantee your safe passage… through TEXAS.

I have this nagging feeling we've forgotten something…