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Here is a Sup—I mean repository of the texts of my together with some readings of them. The essays were broadcast by WXXI 91.5 Classical of Rochester, NY on Salmagundy each Saturday at 9:35am Eastern Time, from the beginning of time (1985) till May 2009 when Entropa (evil Goddess of Change-for-the-Worse-or-Possibly-the-Worst) troubled the minds of the WXXIites and they retired Simon and Salmagundy, and Rochester went into a terminal decline---for ever.
I continued on that brilliant bastion of all that's good and kultured, WCLV's syndicated Weekend Radio on many (mainly NPRish) stations traditionally on the first and third weekends of the month, though weekendage varied, till the horror crept ever onward and that too was devoured (in August 2023, a date which will live in infamy or at lease mild irritation)... and only I remain, defiant though wimpering.
Richard Howland-Bolton
There are pop-up pics and links all over the place here. In text they are indicated by a double underline like this:
mouse-overing brings the pop-up up and clicking (usually) goes to the link |
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With all the bouncing back and forth across the Atlantic that I’d had to do for a whole month, when everything was finally over and I was about to bounce back to Texas for what I hoped and still hope was going to be the actual last time till my next actual vacation (which with any luck will actually be next year), I thought I’d spend a whole day in London with friends putting Dr Johnson’s comment “No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life”1 to good use.
... One way or another.
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Although most of the time I manage to disguise the fact rather well, these essays are supposed to be funny---or at least mildly amusing.
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 You would immediately know that I’m back in England for a visit if you could see me now---just one glance at the dripping raincoat and the soaked trouser legs and the sodden shoes (not, for the sake of decency, to even mention the state of the socks)---well, of course all that coupled with the sudden and horrible realisation that I’m writing this on not only Memorial Day back here, or over there, or wherever General Relativity Theory happens to put it; but also on what happens (either by chance, or by undue American Influence or by the forces of General Globalisation not to mention General Relativity Theory) to be the Great British Spring Bank Holiday over here, um, back there, or wherever General Relativity Theory happens to put that.
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As a codicil to the essay on our celebrations of St Godric the other week (and before we start let me say, in good eremitical flesh-mortifying fashion that I hope you all found your turnip as nicely raw as you could desire and as horribly stale) ... anyway I have to deal with a comment I received to the effect that St Godric wasn’t the most Famous English composer of the Twelfth Century, but that Richard I was.
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Ahh! May the twentieth is fast approaching! Oh! The excitement is growing, and Oh! Godrices Eve will soon be here together with all those wonderful celebrations associated with that one-time pirate who made good and became a hermit and then topped it all by becoming without a doubt England’s greatest known composer of the twelfth century.
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Afterwards the police spokesman said that it had been the most egregious example of stalking they had ever seen. The perp would stand for hours outside her house---on one leg and on the roof; and had even built a large, crude and rather ungainly nest on top of her chimney.
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With sincerest apologies to any old women who happen to be listening out there, I have got to say that, while many American individuals and even American groups can be quite manly and brave and not particularly given to hand wringing or panicking or screaming in a high-pitched, rather cracked voice, institutionally America is an... and I really am sorry to have to say this but, but,
... institutional America is an old woman.
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’Tis now the very lunching time of day
When gullets yawn and hell itself breathes out
Grease vapours to this world: now could I drink hot soup
And do such bitter business as the Peekaboo1
Would quake to look on.2
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If you’ve listened to these essays for any noticeable time at all you will be aware by now that I am heavily involved with computers.
You’re probably also quite well aware of the concept of conspiracy theories and of secret societies.
What you may not be aware of is just how the subjects of these two awarenesses intertwine.
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It’s Sex-Mad-Tree time down here in Plano, and this year the trees are having the wildest imaginable orgies---no, what am I saying?--- I mean the wildest unimaginable orgies (unimaginable unless you happen to be the Marquis de Sade or an English Premier League football player)---orgies with multiple partners---multiple simultaneous partners if the wind is blowing in the right direction! And of late the wind has been very strong, and those disgusting trees have been in full rut! And we all know how horrid rutting trees can be. Yes, it’s the time of trees getting all jiggly and wildly ejaculating pollen for all they are worth, and with no more thought for the morrow than Sen. Joseph McCarthy had for the Murrow and with similar dire results. And it’s me that’s suffering them---suffering from Pollenationally Transmitted Disease again---eye-watering and spluttering and sneezing like an emu on coke!
Ah! There should be a Tree Surgeon General’s warning nailed to every tree!
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