A bona read!

Fabulosa! The Story of Britain's Secret Gay Language

Paul Baker

Reaktion Books

‘How bona to vada your dolly old eke!’ If you know what this means – or at least recognise something about the words – then a new publication from Reaktion Books might well be for you. If you don’t, then it still might be for you. 

But there is a proviso: Fabulosa! The Story of Britain's Secret Gay Language by Paul Baker will make some people uncomfortable. Polari, a slang that was used predominantly by theatre workers and camp gay men (mostly working class), was not for prudes.

The sentence that opens this post means ‘how nice to see your lovely old face.’ So nothing to worry anyone there.

But here’s another phrase I can remember without making an effort to learn: ‘Scharda there’s nada to vada in the larder’.

Literally, ‘a shame there’s nothing to see in then larder’. Euphemistically: ‘a shame he’s got a small penis’.

It’s a highly sexualised code and full of bitchy potential.

But then, as Baker explains, it was used by people who were outlaws within UK society – derided and persecuted on the basis of who they fancied/had sex with and how they presented. And Polari was not only an incredibly important way to communicate discretely, it also had a sense of in-your-face ‘fuck ’em’ in its bitchiness.

Baker, who has spent 25 years studying his subject, starts this book by carefully explaining the sort of technical stuff about what constitutes a language and, indeed, how Polari developed and from what roots. 

That’s fascinating enough – and it most certainly is – but in many ways, the book really gets into its stride when he starts to look deeper into why it developed: why, indeed, it was needed and what it gave to its users.

Polari has all but died out as a gay language since the end of the 1960s – partly because of decriminalisation (although Baker makes clear that that was far from the magic pill it can sound like now), but that that  also came at the end of its greatest prominence, when used as part of the Julian and Sandy sketches in the classic radio comedy, Round the Horne.

Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddick were the eponymous pair: Baker interviewed co-writer Barry Took late in the latter’s life, and Took makes clear that the duo were the ones who knew Polari and fed that into the sketches. Took was apparently also rather shocked at some of the (possible) double, double meanings Williams in particular seems to have contributed, not least via ad-libbing.

But that actually emphasis how playful Polari was … how playful it IS.

One of the gay-friendly pubs in London, from the first half of the 20th century, that Baker mentions in the book – the Royal Oak on Columbia Road – was the first place I heard Polari: drinking with gay men who rattled off bits of Julian and Sandy as late as the 1990s.

I’ve long loved the camp bitchy thing – Priscilla, Queen of the Desert remains a favourite film, as does Victor/Victoria (even if the latter is not quite so camp bitchy). I don’t generally do personal ‘pride’ in much – but I do remain bloody chuffed with a couple of times I set the Oak crowd roaring with a comment.

Fabulosa! is an easy read – in places, very, very funny. But it is also a welcome social history that is a reminder of what gay men in the UK faced.

Very much recommended.

Arrival is well worth the cinematic journey

Is it better to have loved than have lost? The question asked by director Denis Villeneuve’s new film, Arrival, is very much along the same philosophical lines, and getting to that point provides viewers with a compelling, grown-up, cerebral cinematic experience.

Based on Ted Chiang’s Nebula-winning short story, Story of Your Life.

Some time after a family tragedy, linguist Louise Banks is visited by the US military, for who she has previously undertaken translation work.

This time, the world is in panic after 12 vast spacecraft appear across the globe, hovering just above terra firma.

With host nations forced into sharing information in an effort to work out what’s happening, Banks is to accompany Ian Donnelly, a military theoretical physicist inside a ship in Montana, where they will face a pair of aliens and try to communicate.

But as they appear to be making some headway, crisis nears, as one host nation after another threatens to attack the unknown visitors.

It’s to Villeneuve’s great credit that a film where linguistics is such an important component never lags, even though it builds up slowly and allows time for some linguistic theory to be explained. And however emotional the story is – and it is – it never leaks into mawkishness or cheap sentimentality.

The aliens are as alien as could be imagined and, even more important, their way of communication is also completely alien, while Bank’s methods of trying to break down that barrier ring completely true.

Amy Adams turns in a superb performance as Banks – quietness, fortitude, fear and grief all conveyed with great subtlety. It would be a surprise if she doesn't feature when the Oscar nominations are announced early next year.

Jeremy Renner (last seen by me in the utterly dreadful Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters) proves a perfect foil – again, this is a finely-judged piece of screen acting.

Forest Whitaker is in fine form as a senior US military officer, weary, under pressure to provide fast answers, but with enough intelligence to be persuaded by Banks, while Michael Stuhlbarg as a smarmy CIA officer lends further weight to proceedings.

The look of it is fascinating, from soft-focus Montana landscapes to the dark, almost monochrome look of the spacecraft interiors – though one could suggest that some scenes could have benefitted from a little more light, but this is being pernickety.

Jóhan Jóhansson’s score is worth noting, but I particularly liked the use of Max Richter’s On the Nature of Daylight, which bookends the film.

Arrival is a fine, contemplative film. It’s in cinemas now.

In search of mythology and ravens: a trip to the Tower

Merlina

Connections, connections; links and connections. Back in November, The Other Half and I spent a few days on the Normandy coast, in Deauville.

Last year’s health-based fun and games had rather left us in need of clean air. But during our stay – the first time either of us have been to that part of the world – we visited Caen.

And there, we saw both the remains of the castle built by William of Normandy and the place where the remains of his remains are said to be buried after originally being disrupted and tossed around a little in 1562, during the French Wars of Religion. This grave now holds a single remaining thigh bone.

For Brits, William is better known as The Conqueror: 1066 and all that.

So it was intriguing to see how differently the French see him (heroically – certainly in that part of the world), as opposed to our rather more conflicted view.

But just over a week ago, with The Other Half away for work and time on my hands, I decided to head back into William territory and to the Tower of London, the iconic fort he founded in 1066.

Crows atop the trees

I haven’t visited since – oh, 1971, on the eve of my family’s departure for Mossley after living for three years in west London.

I remember the Bloody Tower, the crowds and my sister (three years younger) crying so much that we left quickly.

A return – rather longer – visit has been in my mind for some time. But in the event, it was spurred less by the William connection than my growing love affair with Norse mythology and not least, Huginn and Muninn.

Those, for any readers not in the know, are Odin’s ravens. Huginn represents memory and Muninn, thought. The All-Father sent them out to fly around the world each day, yet dreaded that they would not return.

Some scholars speculate that this is an idea of fear of not being able to come out of a shamanistic trace. But for a modern reader, it could also suggest someone afraid of losing their memory and capacity to think in age.

Morning sun over the Tower of London

A god fearing Alzheimer’s or dementia. That is a rather poetic idea: in other words, this is a god who is more than a touch human; not perfect; flawed.

As I really get into reading the Norse myths, that’s one of things I love about them.

The gods are human – and are certainly not the supposedly perfect (and boring) gods of the monotheistic big three from the deserts of the Middle East.

And so it was that, on that Saturday morning, I peeved the cats by getting up early and heading out toward the Thames.

Passing first through a nearby park, it was almost eerily quiet. Rows of crows topped the naked trees, chorusing a cawed greeting that echoed across the grass.

Get inside as early as possible

For a moment, as though on the periphery on my senses, I could almost feel the German woods again.

A short journey on the newish overground train to Whitechapel and then a further two stops on the District line brought me to Tower Hill.

There was a chill to the air and the late winter sun was battling through the clouds as it climbed above the Tower itself – a building that seems squat by comparison with the glass and steel that girds it – as in so much of the capital these days – on three sides, with the Thames flowing past on the fourth.

HMS Belfast is to the left on the far bank, with Tower Bridge just a little to the right.

I was early. Too early, indeed, even for the ticket office. A hot chocolate in one of the surrounding buildings warmed me through, before I started a queue at one of the ticket booths.

A few moments later, I ducked past a gathering of grockles and, after a quick bag check, found myself heading through the gates.

Traiters' Gate

There was hardly anyone around: if you want to feel atmosphere within these walls, then early in the day is when to find it, when it’s still enough so that can almost hear the old stones breathe.

With only a limited idea of which way to head, I turned toward the Bloody Tower’s entrance before being halted in my steps by a deep, throaty call from just beyond a wall nearby.

The ravens were calling.

Backtracking, I made a quick left, then another – to find myself at the foot of the grass that slopes down from the White Tower, facing these magnificent, mythological birds in their smart, new homes (by Llowarch Llowarch Architects and just nominated for the RIBA London regional architecture awards 2016). 

According to some sources, ‘most’ people refer to a group of ravens as a ‘flock’, which is rather unpoetic of them, given that the alternative collective nouns are ‘unkindness’ and ‘conspiracy’.

Armour inside the White Tower

Incidentally, their smaller, park-living corvid cousins are sometimes referred to as a ‘murder of crows’.

It’s a small conspiracy at the Tower: the nation-preserving six, plus two reserves, for safety’s sake.

It was nine, but Somerset-born Porsha died in late January, at the tender (for a raven) age of eight.

It’s indicative of the esteem and affection in which the ravens are held that they are buried within the Tower’s walls.

In the early days of WWII, with Hitler having taken an early lead, two of the Tower’s ravens had to be put to sleep after being badly injured in a bombing raid. It brought the number to just four.

There are those who have speculated that this accounts for Britain’s loss of empire in the years following the war.

All this seems to have stemmed from Charles II’s time when, after complaints from the royal astronomer that a rather larger unkindness of ravens was disrupting the royal stargazing, the king decided that six would be kept and the astronomer royal banished to Greenwich.

White Tower, grey day

They can fly, but since some of their feathers get a regular trim (akin to a haircut), they don’t go far – although a couple of years ago, one did make it as far as Greenwich!

I stood watching them for some time. After an attempt to sketch them – difficult at best and made harder by the cold – I nipped into the nearby ‘ravens shop’, where I discovered that there was no certainty that they would be let out and, if they were, it was likely to be around lunch – some time off.

Looking back at the cages, one suddenly appeared to be empty – for a moment, I wondered whether a large crow was one of the ravens (as did the shop staff) – before one of the shop staff suggested that, if two had been let out, they’d be likely to be up around the ‘coloured cannon’ or on Tower Green.

Off I sped, but to no avail. At which juncture, I decided to have a look around the White Tower, which was engaging enough, as it holds part of the Royal Armouries collection.

Coming out, I was contemplating heading off when I noticed a very large black bird hopping around on the grass slope. Back off around to Tower Green, I arrived in time to see a very big black bird perched on the edge of a bin, rooting around inside.

Merlina rooting (note trimmed feathers)

The bench next to the bin was empty. I sat down quietly, as near to the bin as possible, and got the camera ready.

This, I learned later via the Ravenmaster on Twitter, was Merlina (born in South Wales in 2005).

She rooted for a while until she pulled out a piece of banana, placed it on top of the bin and scrutinised it carefully, before picking it up again, hopping down and taking it to a small pond on the grass behind.

There, she dropped it in the water, twiddled it around a bit with her beak and then retrieved it – doubtless in an effort to assess when that had rendered the banana edible.

'What do you mean this isn't meat?'

Hopping the short distance to Tower Green itself and the site of the scaffold, she hopped around the back of another bench where a young couple were munching crisps, with me in stealthy pursuit.

As I was standing at the side of the bench, she hopped up suddenly onto the arm, sending the crisp-crunching female into paroxysms of squealing terror.

The girl ran – then ran back to grab her rucksack. Her boyfriend went with her.

In the meantime, I – having not run – was snapping away. And as though to reward me for not being a squealer, Merlina stayed on the back of the bench for quite a few moments, allowing me the opportunity to snap some wonderful shots at close quarters.

'She ran away quickly enough ...'

After she’d had enough and hopped off, I – grinning like a loon by this stage – went to take a remarkably crowd-free glance at the crown jewels. They’re quite surreal, to be honest, and I found myself musing that they looked like something out of a theatrical production.

But then again, that’s precisely what they are.

It was an enjoyable and educative visit. But you can keep the bling – I’ll take Merlina and the gang over them any day.

• To follow the Ravenmaster on Twitter, go to @ravenmaster1.

The language of demonisation – and the language of change

Makeshift Ethiopian Orthodox church at Calais migrants' camp

It’s not often that the media has much actual meat to get its teeth into during the annual silly season, but this summer has been an exception.

There has, of course, been the ongoing issue of many thousands of people attempting to flee into Europe from war and poverty.

That some have then made it to Calais, where they have attempted – and are still attempting – to circumvent security and make it to the UK via the Chunnel, however dangerous the journey, has given rise to a particular strand of coverage in the last couple of months.

The lurid, sensationalist language of invasion and of insects – yes, Mr Cameron, I am looking at you, with your use of “swarm” – has again indicated the piss-poor nature of British public and political discourse.

For some in the right-wing media, it brought with it the equally wonderful opportunity to bash the BBC as Auntie filmed an edition of Songs of Praise from a makeshift chapel in the Calais camps where migrants are staying.

Many are the same sort of people who waste no opportunity to intone how ‘we are still a Christian country,’ but either their knowledge of actual Christianity is sadly lacking or they simply don’t mind being steaming hypocrites who have no intention of actually acting and thinking on the basis of that religion.

The idea that showing human compassion – never mind the variety recommended by Jesus (according to the Good Book) – is automatically a synonym for ‘let them all in’ would be ridiculous were it not for the way that it has been taken up by substantial numbers of people who appear incapable of rational thought.

The vicious hate to be seen on newspaper forums, on social media etc about the issue can make you despair. It’s yet another example of how easy the demonisation of ‘others’ is – and it’s a salutary reminder of how what happened in Germany in the 1930s did happen.

Always easier, of course, when many in the population are struggling, have little security and see little hope for improvement.

Anyone claiming that ‘we’ can easily accommodate a few more thousand etc would apparently be oblivious to the reality that, at present, ‘we’ cannot provide work or a home for all those currently in the UK. And see the previous paragraph.

Mass immigration is also problematic in terms of economics quite simply because, in increasing the size of the available labour market, it helps depress wages: there is a reason that the likes of the CBI do not want restrictions on immigration and even persuaded then Conservative leader Michael Howard out of making manifesto pledges on reducing and restricting immigration.

It’s also worth noting that this used to be the mainstream left-wing view on the subject – before that metamorphosed into Tony Blair and his fellow neo-liberals.

And there is a reason that Margaret Thatcher declared New Labour/Blair to be her “greatest achievement”.

The long-term solution to the migrant situation need to be global and need to involve the sort of peace and prosperity for all that will obviate the need or desire for hundreds of thousands of human beings to take great risks to improve their lives or even to survive. Anything else is mere sticking plasters.

Which brings us rather adroitly to the summer’s second media circus – but one where, unlike the issue of would-be migrants, the right-wing media is failing to control the terms of discussion and use it as a means of further controlling the populace.

The Labour Party’s leadership election has seen the astonishing rise of Jeremy Corbyn – “astonishing”, that is, if you don’t pay any attention to anything much at all.

In case you missed it, things started getting messy when Corbyn got just enough nominations to be included on the ballot – partly as a result of people nominating him in order to expand the nature of the discussion that would occur during the election process.

In addition to this, the election process has been changed, with people able to register with the Labour Party as a ‘supporter’ for £3, and then vote.

It’s a clunky (to put it politely) mechanism – and unfair on activists who have spent years in the party working for it on a voluntary basis – but the aim, of opening up the process and encouraging engagement, is a valid one.

And it is one that has been achieved.

But now we’ve got the horror of loads of Trotskyist entryists trying to vote (for Corbyn, of course), plus loads of Tories doing the same – as openly encouraged by the Telegraph, in an example of why it’s days as a class newspaper are behind it.

For the latter, the idea is that Corbyn as Labour leader would finish the party for decades.

It’s good to know how much some care about democracy.

The Labour hierarchy is in meltdown, running around like headless chickens, while New Labour grandees such as Blair himself and Peter Voldemort Mandelson warn that it would be the end of life as we know it and they should stop the election itself.

Jackboot Jack Straw has weighed in, and even Charles Clarke has popped up to leave most scratching their heads and wondering who he was.

Blair in particular managed to be particularly snide, asserting that, “if your heart’s with Jeremy Corbyn, get a transplant”.

Packin' 'em in in Middlesbrough

Which, given the way the Islington MP has been packin’ ’em in at rallies across the country, and appears to be gaining support from across the spectrum of age, gender, race etc, is a large number of people requiring radical cardio surgery.

One cannot help but wonder how an NHS that was helped on the path to privatisation by Blair will cope.

Behind all this is the belief that a Labour Party headed by Corbyn cannot not possibly win a general election.

Brits don’t want a lefty – look what happened to Michael Foot etc. Actually, what happened to Foot was that he was doing fine in the polls until Margaret Thatcher had a little war that she was able to garner support from. It has not been known, for years, as the ‘Falklands Factor’ for nothing.

But let’s not allow facts to get in the way, eh?

Various right-wing papers have been trying smears.

Having already spoken to the market trader who sells him his vests (when it was all still funny), and then failed to make allegations of anti-semitism stick, the Daily Mail ran out of material for attempted smears and last week turned to an epic piece of fantasy fiction titled “Prime Minister Corbyn … and the 1,000 days that destroyed Britain”.

Alternative histories are a popular sub-genre: perhaps it’ll be nominated for a Hugo.

So a simple question, folks: if Corbyn is ‘unelectable’, why has the right-wing media suddenly gone from pointing and laughter to desperate attempts to smear?

And why are the neo-liberal Blairites running so scared?

Well, the reasons should be clear to anyone.

The right is perfectly well aware that he could actually win (in an interview with the Huffington Post, Conservative grandee Ken Clarke stated this quite clearly) – because the right knows that people actually want an alternative to the neo-liberal hegemony of the last 30 years and it knows that Corbyn presents the possibility of a Labour Party that offers one.

The general public show no sign of currently wanting a Labour Party that, quite frankly, is little different from the present government.

They are sick of career politicians who are smooth and slick – and never give a straight answer.

Corbyn’s campaign has been gracious and he has refused to stoop to the negative (there has been negativity and nastiness from some supporters on all sides).

His policies – far from being the “hard left” that so many are claiming: in that previously-mentioned interview, Ken Clarke described him as not as left-wing as Foot, and Clarke is no fool – are being welcomed widely.

And given the continuing housing crisis in the UK, who can be surprised that the idea of building more council housing would be welcomed?

Who can be surprised that it’s popular to talk of renationalisation of the railways – just as we learn that rail fares are rising by three times the rate of pay increases?

Corbyn’s economic ideas have received backing from 30-plus economists – and even a blog from the Financial Times that explained that his idea of ‘quantitative easing for the people’ is not actually nonsense and could actually work (nor is it wildly radical).

Even some on the right are noting that, while they might disagree with his ideas, it’s refreshing to see a conviction politician again.

Earlier this year, Scottish voters rejected the idea that austerity is the only way – and dumped a party that had treated the country as a sinecure for years.

The idea that Labour can win an outright majority at a future general election by winning some Conservative votes south of the border, at the same time as not losing more core votes in the heartlands (it also lost an estimated five million core voters between 1997 and 2010) and all the while without winning back Scottish voters, is barking.

The idea that the Ed Miliband election manifesto was too anti-business (as former Chancellor and shadow chancellor Ed Balls claimed at the end of July) and too left-wing to win in May is nonsense.

When Miliband announced the idea of a crackdown on non doms, his and the party’s ratings increased. And promising to tackle corporate tax evasion is not a synonym for being anti-business – or if you think it is, then you have a problem.

The right-wing press got lucky in the spring: they latched onto something that caused swing voters the real horrors: the idea of a coalition between Labour and the SNP. There was a reason that, having once spotted the impact of that message, they hammered it home for the final fortnight of campaigning.

To reiterate: the idea that Labour can win a general election on the basis of winning those same potential swing voters, without returning to winning ways in Scotland, and without losing even more core voters elsewhere, is illogical nonsense – at best.

This is not about saying that Jeremy Corbyn is some sort of messiah: it is about pointing out that people want an alternative to the busted flush of austerity – even the IMF has warned the UK that the cuts are too much – and they do not want a party that is interested only in winning for power’s sake.

They want Labour to be an actual opposition – not limply abstaining on Bills that are set to hurt many thousands of ordinary people. And claiming – as some have – that such things would make Labour just a ‘protest party’ is an avoidance of what ordinary people are facing.

People want alternatives – that’s why smaller parties, from the Greens to UKIP, have been gaining support.

This entire process also suggests the possible end of Blairism in the Labour Party – Liz Kendall, the Blairite candidate for the leadership, was absolutely mullered in the constituency nominations, securing just 18 as opposed to Yvette Cooper’s 109, Andy Burnham’s 111 and Corbyn’s 152.

All this the neo-liberals and right-wing know.

And that is why they’re not laughing at Corbyn any more.

Whether he wins the election or not, he has changed the nature of the debate and triggered a reinvigoration of political discourse reminiscent of what was seen during the Scottish referendum campaign a year ago.

If you like hegemonies, that’s not good.

So, in the remaining days of the campaign, the best that could happen would be for Kendall, Cooper and Burnham to stop condemning Corbyn and his supporters – and to concentrate on suggesting some policies that show that they do believe in something; indeed, that they believe that there is a meaningful alternative to the policies of the current government.

Because, if they do not believe even that simple little thing – then what is the point of their being in opposition?

• For the record, I am not registered to vote in the Labour leadership election and did not apply to do so.