Off The Wall

On Amazon, here in Australia, Pink Floyd’s The Wall costs a hefty $144.80 to buy as a CD.

But weirdly, if one is willing to have video as well as audio, only $10.90. Or $49.91 on vinyl.

Anyway, in my band, Robbie Road, we are saving a few bob by playing some Pink Floyd music ourselves. Not all of it, of ocurse. But including Money.

Goodbye Latin

I always hated Latin when I was a small child at school. I had a second-hand copy of Kennedy’s Latin Primer (I think that’s what it was called) where someone had changed “LATIN” into “EATING” on the front cover and written on the fly page:

Latin is a language

as dead as dead could be

it killed the ancient Romans

and now it’s killing me

I thought that was about right.  Not only did I have to translate in and out of the bloody stuff, but I also had to do the scansion on Latin verse, including the names of all the feet. Viz in particular:

• dactyl: ⁻ ᵕ ᵕ (example: nausea)
• spondee: ⁻ ⁻ (example: Oh Lord!)
• iamb: ᵕ ⁻ (example: despair)
• trochee: ⁻ ᵕ (example: boredom)
• choriamb: ⁻ ᵕ ᵕ ⁻    (example: When will this end?)

When I took my scholarship examinations aged 12, I scored 14% in Latin I and 7% in Latin II.  Unsurprisingly, Eastbourne College did not give me a scholarship, but instead pushed me up a year on my arrival, and conferred on me an exception whereby I would never have to study Latin again.  Together with one or two others, I went through my public school career amid people a year older than me. That was a mixed blessing. When I left school, happily with a bunch of A grades, which were rare in those days, Cambridge was unavailable, because I was too young. I think perhaps Oxford might have taken me at my tender age, but for the fact that I had no Latin O-level. That seemed to me at the time, and seems to me now, utterly daft.

And so I went to Kent in Canterbury with a view of reading theoretic physics. After a year, however, I was allowed to transfer, with the generosity of the lovely Professor Molly Mahood, to the faculty of humanities where I obtained my degree in

Black Ray

I have been enjoying The Blacklist on Netflix.  James Spader is excellent as arch criminal Raymond Reddington, who spends the series dobbing fellow criminals into the FBI

It requires a fair bit of suspension of disbelief.  Indeed, much of it is downright silly; Agent Malik gets onto his laptop and seems to be able to immediately hack into anything automated anywhere in the world. Assistant Director Cooper listens to a few moments of explanation then growls something like: “Agents Ressler and Mojtabai: get down there, and find out what’s going on.  I want these people brought in”. Moments later, agents Ressler and Mojtabai are transported from Washington to Alaska or Germany or wherever else the action is supposed to be like a pair of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, dressed in bullet-proof waistcoats and creeping round corners, pistols in both hands in front of their noses. In moments of need, they are accompanied by a team which follows them around in much the same fashion, but with machine guns instead of pistols. There is a lot of shooting (the baddies have machine guns too). Generally, the baddies die the moment they are shot, whereas the goodies (well, less bad anyway) typically recover after some touching scenes in hospital.

There are inaccuracies. Reddington wears shirts and waistcoats that look as if they have been bought from Walmart. That’s not right. Further, he has referred to his whisky as “IZZ – LAY”. He should know, of course, that it is pronounced “I’LL – a”. [1]