The Befouled Weakly News

8 June 2008


Good morning once again and greetings from beautiful downtown Byfield. Pretty good week, by and large, with a wonderful day on Wednesday (more of which to come) and hoping for some good sunshine this afternoon/evening for Sandy’s barbequed salmon with pesto.

Wednesday was, indeed, a wonderful day; the weather was glorious and we were off to London for the second instalment of Ms Playchute’s birthday treat. (By the way, a splendidly splendid Happy Birthday to Hope this morning).

Some weeks ago, Ms Playchute was listening to BBC Radio 4 when they had an interview with Jane Horrocks, a very talented actress whom we have much admired for some time. (If you have ever seen the film “Little Voices” she plays the young woman with the fantastic voice; if you haven’t seen it, see if you can get hold of it on tape or DVD. She also played “Bubbles” on Absolutely Fabulous with Jennifer Saunders, if you ever had the chance of catching that).

She (Jane Horrocks) was about to open an eight week run of “A Good Soul of Szechuan” by Bertolt Brecht at the Young Vic in London and her description prompted Ms Playchute to suggest that we might enjoy a day out in the big city.

So, on Wednesday morning we set off on the 9.15 train from Banbury in glorious sunshine, anticipating that we might perhaps visit a gallery or museum before making our way across to the Young Vic theatre for the matinee performance. In fact, the day was so glorious that when the underground pulled into Regent’s Park and the announcement on the loudspeaker provided us with the information that this was the stop for London Zoo, Ms Playchute suggested that the zoo might be a suitable excursion on such a fine day instead of a gallery. So, we alighted at Regent’s Park and meandered in a leisurely fashion through the park to the zoo.

The last time we had been to the zoo was when the boys were small and although the reptile house and aquarium are still housed in relatively dilapidated buildings, the rest of the zoo has had a reasonable makeover in the intervening twenty-odd years. Intriguingly, both Pen and I commented on how much smaller it seemed than we had remembered; we were able to wander around most of the site in our allotted time. Although there was a considerable collection of gorillas of all varieties, on this occasion (fortunately, I suppose) there was no Guy the Gorilla rubbing himself against a bench in a provocatively erotic manner much to the hilarity and amusement of all the visiting school children.

Bornean Bearded PigOne of the highlights of the visit was the Bugs collection – all manner of creepy, crawlies doing all sorts of creepy, crawly type of things. Most impressive were the leaf-eating ants who were trudging from one Perspex box to another along a rope which was open to the outside world, i.e., us; Pen wants one in the living room. One of the other highlights, as far as Pen was concerned, was the encounter with my look-alike (in looks as well as behaviour I am assured), the Bornean Bearded Pig.

So, after about an hour and a half in the zoo, we set off across Regent’s Park again, enjoying the sunshine, on our way to the underground and on to the theatre.

A short tube ride found us at the Young Vic in plenty of time to make our way to our seats for the performance and it was, indeed, an outstanding performance, not so much in the acting or in the sets and direction but rather in the message – typically Brecht, full of substance.

Essentially, the play addresses the dilemma – is it possible for an ordinary individual to be a good person?

In short, conditions on earth have deteriorated to such an extent that three gods are dispatched to tour the land in seek of a good soul. One god is certainly optimistic – there must be at least one good soul; all they have to do is find him/her to justify their existence. Another god is largely pessimistic – mankind has become so corrupt that there is no such thing as a good soul. The third god is, of course, somewhat ambivalent and prepared to be open-minded about the proposition.

When the gods arrive on earth they are greeted by Wang, a simple water seller, who attempts to assist them in finding some accommodation in Szechuan. As one might expect, no one will provide any shelter until Wang eventually approaches Shen Te, a prostitute who, naturally, never says “no” to anyone. She allows the gods to stay and here, therefore, the gods have potentially found their “good soul”. She is rewarded by the gods for her hospitality with some money which she uses to buy a tobacco shop. This, however, is when her troubles begin as her goodness is exploited by everyone, each individual distorted by poverty and their need to survive which prevents them from being good – it’s a dog-eat-dog world where everyone has to look out for themselves. Shen Te tries to continue to be good, to be altruistic and generous (she leaves rice out for the poor) but everyone takes advantage of her. Thus, her livelihood is in danger and worse, she is falling in love with Sun, a pilot, who is robbing her blind.

In order to protect herself Shen Te poses as an invented male cousin, Shui Ta, who is as ruthless as she is kind, and it is this heartless character that comes to dominate. He rids himself of the scroungers and parasites and succeeds in establishing a very successful business in the tobacco shop selling heroin. Still, even though “he” is ruthless, he is not altogether selfish and indeed starts, once again, to leave rice out for the poor and needy. It’s Wang, the simple water seller, who recognises the contradiction between Shui Ta, the ruthless business man, and his apparent act of generosity in leaving rice out for the poor. He accuses him of kidnapping and/or murdering Shen Te which leads, eventually to Shui Ta’s trial before the three gods where Shen Te finally reveals herself and leaves us with the original quandary – is it ever possible to be a truly good person or, in order to be in a position to be good, does one have to be ruthless? Much enjoyment and much to think about.

Afterwards, with the sun still shining brightly, we walked across Waterloo Bridge, wandered through the water fountains in the courtyard of Somerset House and meandered our way to the Wahaca Mexican restaurant, about which we have written in the past. An excellent repast , a relatively early train home and into bed following a really enjoyable and delightfully glorious day.
                                                    
Finally, I ran across the following on the BBC web site during the week:

Scientists develop baldness cure by cloning hair growth cells
Scientists have developed a 'revolutionary' treatment for baldness which involves cloning the patient's remaining hair.

The technique - which can be used on men or women - could be available within five years.

Its creator, the Cambridge-based biotechnology firm Intercytex, said that it has helped four-fifths of those who have tried it so far.

The new technique uses the person's own hair cells to stimulate growth and although the treatment could end up more expensive than conventional hair transplants – which cost between £2,500 and £10,000 – it is said to be quicker and less painful.

The remedy centres on dermal papilla cells, which are found at the bottom of the hair follicle. They trigger the growth of new hair - and it is their gradual death which causes baldness.

Intercytex has shown it is possible to remove these cells from the side or back of the head, clone them in the laboratory and inject them back into the scalp - where they kick-start hair growth.

I have to confess, I don’t know what was wrong with our remedy - £1.99 each at Woolworths.

The Toupee Brothers

And finally, finally, you can catch some photos of Ms Playchute’s spring flowers in the garden here.

Love to you all,

Greg


A couple felt that their intimate life wasn't what it used to be, so they went to see a sex therapist.

After listening to their complaints, the therapist suggested they try a new position.

"For example," the therapist said, "you might try the wheel-barrow. Lift her legs, penetrate, and off you go."

When they got home, the eager husband was all for trying this new idea right away.

"Well, all right," the hesitant blonde wife said, "but only on two conditions. First, if it hurts, you have to stop right away."

"OK, honey," the husband said. "What's the second condition?"

"You have to promise we won't go past my mother's house!" she replied.


There was once a young man who, in his youth, professed his desire to become not just a writer, but a great writer.

"That will take a lot of work," people warned him. "That's not easy, son," his dad said gently. But the young man was determined.

What did he mean by "great", someone finally asked.

"I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff that people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!" he said. That would be the mark of a great writer!

Well, a wise career counsellor helped him get his wish.

That young man now works for Microsoft -- writing error messages.


On a train from London to Manchester, an American tourist was berating the Englishman sitting across from him in the compartment.

"You English are too stuffy. You set yourselves apart too much. You think your stiff upper lips make your above the rest of us. Look at me ... I'm me, I have Italian blood, French blood, a little Indian blood and some Swedish blood. What do you say to that?"

The Englishman replied, "Very sporting of your mother."


An old East Texas farmer had a wife who nagged him unmercifully. From morning till night (and sometimes later), she was always complaining about something. The only time he got any relief was when he was out plowing with his old mule. He tried to plow a lot.

One day, when he was out plowing, his wife brought him lunch in the field. He drove the old mule into the shade, sat down on a stump, and began to eat his lunch. Immediately, his wife began harassing him again. Complain, complain; nag, nag -- it just went on and on. All of a sudden, the old mule lashed out with both hind feet, caught her smack in the back of the head. Killed her dead on the spot.

At the funeral several days later, the minister noticed something rather odd. When a woman mourner would approach the old farmer, he would listen for a minute, then nod his head in agreement; but when a man mourner approached him, he would listen for a minute, then shake his head in disagreement. This was so consistent, the minister decided to ask the old farmer about it.

So after the funeral, the minister spoke to the old farmer, and asked him why he nodded his head and agreed with the women, but always shook his head and disagreed with all the men.

The old farmer said, "Well, the women would come up and say something about how nice my wife looked, or how pretty her dress was, so I'd nod my head in agreement."

"And what about the men?" the minister asked.

"Well," the farmer answered. "They wanted to know if the mule was for sale."

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