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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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My Dear Americans,
I must have been distracted for the last several weeks,...or to be honest months, because, as of writing, I just noticed this Platinum Jubilee thingy is happening this week, and then I only noticed it because my American wife ordered me to put up some bunting and flags to celebrate. I did remind her which side won the Revolutionary War and that it was fought mainly to get rid of kings (and presumably queens too), but to no avail.
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My Dear Americans,
We just got a visit from [pause] the Shrouders.
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My Dear Americans,
From time to time, I've had comments about the digressive-ity and aside-iness of these essays, not to mention the fact that up to half the content, and often almost all of the meaning in them is hidden away in footnotes which aren't even available without going to the considerable effort of getting online, going to my website, finding the essay, reading the bloody thing and finally scrolling down to the putative note, an effort which is, I freely admit, sometimes just not worth the effort.
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My Dear Americans,
 I visited our local 'Big City' the other day: Norwich1. It bills itself as 'A Fine City', not without some justification. It has two cathedrals (one of each), a castle and all sorts of other fine stuff. It also has a big railway station.
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My Dear Americans,
Of course I'm sure we've all read the Golden Bough and so are familiar with James Frazer's coinage of the term 'Sympathetic Magic' (though, even more of-course-ly, the Germans got there first with Sympathiezauber---bloody typical, innit?).
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My Dear Americans,
as Shakespeare once said, or more likely wrote for somebody else to say, "a nose by any other name would smell, so Romeo would were he not Romeo called"
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My Dear Americans,
I'm sure you have heard of '', as an activity of bored youth in the countryside (and is there any other sort of youth way out in the sticks?), youth blessed with an unkind sense of humor and a vertical cow. Apart from the aspect of animal cruelty, not to mention animal embarrassment, it is a really, really dangerous activity; cows are big and mostly do not take well to being tipped, inverted, pushed over or indeed mucked about with in any way, and have fairly definite (and occasionally fatal) means at their disposal for registering their disapproval. And anyway it's all probably just an urban legend, so no worries. |
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My Dear Americans,
It will probably surprise you to know that I have actually spent the majority of my life (so far) in the States: twenty-odd years, well, actually 22 odd years.... and 20 even ones (since I arrived and left in odd numbered years), 42 years in total since I left Britain and a whopping 54 since I left the Beccles of my birth. Now that I've returned it certainly surprises me that, during that whole vast backward and abysm of time, absolutely nothing has changed back home
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My Dear Americans,
my last letter ended with a wail of anguish at all the work we are having to do on the house over here so, lest you think me merely exaggerating for your sympathy, let me tell you of the room at the front of the house that is destined to be my library. As soon as work started I discovered that the floorboards were infested by woodworm (the UK equivalent of termites, only sneakier and snarkier), indeed it was so infested that the only thing stopping me falling through the floor was all the woodworm holding hands. You could almost hear them singing We Shall Overcome!
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My Dear Americans (well this IS supposed to be a letter and "Muh Fellow 'Mer'cns" seems far too presidential, and anyway I can't really do the accent).
My Dear Americans,
we (Georgia, Buddy and I) have been over in the UK now for more than three months and, and--- I'm starting to miss Texas: now I'm sure I could hear the combined gasps from four thousand miles away if I open the window. The "You must be joking!"s, "What the—"s and the like expressions of disbelief and horror from most non-Texans (and from quite a few Texas residents too). And, yes, I do remember that when some in the state had a poll on seceding there were a lot more yes-votes from those outside its borders than inside.
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