Apocalyptic Visions

My kids love going to the fairground. I do not share this love with them.

A trip to the fair inevitability concludes in:

1) A large wad of cash wasted – one leaves either with nothing at all to show or with something that is actually worse than nothing, such as a dart gun or a squeaky inflatable dolphin.

2) A screaming tantrum from one or both of the boys, who do not realise that there are precisely zero ways for them to have fun at a fair when the cash reserves have been exhausted.

For them to have fun, I say.  There is one thing I take pleasure in at funfairs – and best of all, it’s free.

I am, of course, talking about admiring the astonishing artwork on display.

Now, I like charmingly amateurish unlicensed renderings of popular cartoon characters as much as the next man. But what I really like are epic-scale depictions of beautiful people having KERRRAY-ZEE PARTY TIME!

In hyperreal colours!

Via airbrush!

This, for example, appears to be Amanda Palmer, with the words “Energy Dome” exploding out of her ears. Perhaps this fairground owner is a massive Dresden Dolls fan.

Actually, that’s quite a good one.

What I really like are the ones that defy the laws of perspective; which look like superficially skilful renderings of the human form (or of Porsches), but which have disturbing, subliminal inaccuracies which leave the viewer uneasy for reasons they cannot describe.

You can’t tell me that is not a disturbing image.

If Hieronymous Bosch was alive today, I think this is what his last judgments and visions of hell would look like. 

Reading Homer

Homer, not Uncle Albert

In my last post, I referred to “the child of morning, rosy-fingered dawn”. Some of you may be surprised to hear that I didn’t make that phrase up.

It is, in fact, an epithet used repeatedly by the Greek poet Homer in The Iliad and The Odyssey.

Pretty much every time he mentions the dawn - which is a lot – it’s waggling its rosy fingers.

Anyway, these books are kind of a big deal. They are, I hear, a central part of the Western literary canon.

And as we all know, the Iliad tells the story of the Trojan war and the Odyssey tells the story of Ulysses’ (the translations I read were all Romanised) return from Troy.

Or do they?

In fact, the Iliad tells a very small part of the Trojan war. It doesn’t include:

Just good ol' war buddies

1. The beginning
2. The end
3. The bit everyone knows with the Trojan Horse

Essentially, it tells the story of Achilles acting like a dick because Agamemnon acted like a dick, until his boyfriend Patroclus gets killed and then Achilles kills everyone.

Not included, again, is the bit about Achilles getting killed by tearing a ligament or whatever.

In fact, what we primarily have is to pad out the above is:

• Exhaustive descriptions of various Greeks’ and Trojans’ ancestry;
• Followed more or less immediately by exhaustive descriptions of how those sorry descendents died horribly.

If I learned one thing from the Iliad, it is that there are far more ways to fuck someone up badly with a spear than I had ever imagined.

For example:

The spear struck Archelochus, son of Antenor, for heaven counselled his destruction; it struck him where the head springs from the neck at the top joint of the spine, and severed both the tendons at the back of the head. His head, mouth, and nostrils reached the ground long before his legs and knees could do so.

Thereon Polypoetes, mighty son of Pirithous, hit Damasus with a spear upon his cheek-pieced helmet. The helmet did not protect him, for the point of the spear went through it, and broke the bone, so that the brain inside was scattered about, and he died fighting.

Menelaus hit Pisander as he was coming towards him, on the forehead, just at the rise of his nose; the bones cracked and his two gore-bedrabbled eyes fell by his feet in the dust.

And so on.

So that’s the Iliad. Think you know the Odyssey?

Think again. Far from focusing on the well-known, exciting parts of Ulysses’ voyages (eg encounters with the Cyclops, sailing between Scylla and Charybdis, lashing himself to the mast to listen to the Sirens), these are all dealt with in one flashback.

About 70% of the Odyssey is taken up with the frankly rather weird situation going on with his wife Penelope and 115 “suitors” who have been having a three-year long bender round at Ulysses’ in his absence.

So an awful lot of the Odyssey concerns not, in fact, what you and I might call “an odyssey” – but rather:

1. Ulysses pretending to be an aged tramp and talking to a pig herder
2. Ulysses pretending to be an aged tramp hanging around the party, getting abused (someone throws a hoof at him!)
3. Ulysses continuing to pretend to be an aged tramp long after anyone normal would have said “I’m not really an aged tramp – I am, in fact, the king and I am not happy with all this”

Eventually, of course, the “aged tramp” routine wears as thin for Ulysses as it did for everyone else several books earlier and – as is the way of Greek epic poetry – it all ends happily ever after with a massive bloodbath.

On balance, I preferred the Iliad. 

Waking up early

One of my kids is an early riser. And that means we are all early risers now.

Young Tancred (3) never knowingly misses welcoming in the child of morning, rosy-fingered dawn, with a hearty slam of his bedroom door.

And that’s just a metaphor, because at this time of year “dawn” in the sense of “sunrise” comes approximately half an hour after I leave the house to go to work.

People of England: one compelling reason to hope for, pray for  – hell, even campaign for – Scottish independence is that the only people who actually want the clocks to go back in October would no longer be our fellow citizens.

The 200 or so sheep farmers (and ten to fifteen remaining milkmen) for whose benefit the remaining 60 million of us spend the best part of six months only seeing natural daylight at weekends would be someone else’s problem.

Anyway, back to our youngest.

Usually and non-metaphorically, he’s welcoming that obscure 5.30am to 5.45am slot, during which he:

1. Wakes up;
2. Has a big shit and then;
3. Decides it’s time everyone else – principally (although not exclusively) his elder brother, Roger Jr – was awake too.

Even if I sleep through or pretend to sleep through the initial barrage, I can rest assured that I will soon be woken by one grassing the other up for something or other, or someone needing their arse wiping. My favourite way to start the day. 

Roger Jr and Tancred are very different characters. While Roger Jr is eager to please and (as a corollary) fairly obedient, Tancred is a thoroughgoing anti-authoritarian anarchist. He obeys no law but himself. Nietzsche would be proud of him. Nietzsche, frankly, is welcome to him.

Every night, we pack him off to bed with a reminder that he’s to stay in his room until his clock tells him it’s morning, that he’s not to wake Roger Jr up, that he’s to stay quiet etc. And he goes along with it.

But come the morning, he does whatever he damn well feels like. Which 9 times out of 10 is to disregard the instructions he was given the evening before and go to play “jumping off the bed” or “hammering the floor with a shoe” or whatever else it is he and his brother get up to most mornings.

To be quite honest, this is starting to wear a little thin. Reasoning with a three-year old is difficult at the best of times. Reasoning with a three-year old sociopath is something else.

Your suggestions, dear readers, would be welcome.

Right now, all I can think of is to wait until he’s a teenager. And then wake HIM up EVERY MORNING.

FOR EVER.