Lady Chatterley's Lover Visits Harold Hill

My local boozer, The Pompadours - 

and some Lawrence scholars find the Sun Inn, Eastwood, a bit rough ...

 

 

Harold Hill is a long way removed (in every sense) from the fictional mining village of Tevershall, which Lawrence imagines in his novel Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928). 

 

And of course, I'm no Oliver Mellors, the ex-soldier turned gamekeeper who strides through the pages of the above in his dark green trousers "with a red face and red moustache" [1], angry at the world. 

 

Having said that, sometimes when walking around the postwar housing estate on the far north-eastern fringes of Greater London that is Harold Hill [2], I'm tempted to tell the natives - whom my mother always disparagingly called Cockneys - something similar to what Mellors wishes to tell the working men and women of Tevershall:

 

"'I'd tell 'em: Look! look at yerselves! One shoulder higher than t'other, legs twisted, feet all lumps! What have yer done ter yerselves [...] Spoilt yerselves an' yer lives. [...] Take yer clothes off an' look at yerselves. Yer ought ter be alive an' beautiful, an' yer ugly an' half dead.'" [3] 

 

Of course, I'd not say this with a broad East Midland's accent. 

 

And I can't blame the degenerate condition of the locals on years of hard physical toil - on the contrary, it's the fact that many of them don't work (or exercise) that's the problem; that they prefer vegetating on the sofa watching Netflix, eating junk food delivered to their doors, driving even the shortest distance, rather than walk a few hundred yards.

 

To paraphrase Mellors: Their spunk's gone dead - e-scooters and mobile phones and cannabis suck the last bit out of them. Which is a shame, but there you go. 

 

I won't bore readers with statistics, but the stats for the London Borough of Havering when it comes to things like health don't make for happy reading. Obesity, for example, is the norm; if the 18th-century Essex grocer Edward Bright were alive today and decided to ply his trade at Hilldene shops, no one would blink an eye at his great girth. 

 

People down south often like to joke that it's grim up north, but, believe me, it's fucking grim on Harold Hill too [4].     

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, ed. Michael Squires, (Cambridge University Press, 1993), p. 46. For a full description and character analysis of Oliver Mellors, see my post of July 2020: click here. 

 

[2] Readers interested in knowing more about Harold Hill are reminded of the post published on 28 May 2016 entitled 'And No Birds Sing': click here. 

 

[3] D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, p. 219. 

 

[4] And if you don't believe me, see the report in the Romford Recorder which revealed that whilst Havering is home to some extremely affluent neighbourhoods, six roads in Harold Hill have been classed by the UK government as among the most deprived in all England: click here.  

 

   

Notes on Crosby and Crane: Pin-Up Boys of the Lost Generation

Harry Crosby (1898-1929) and Hart Crane (1899-1932)

 

La plus volontaire mort c'est la plus belle.

 

 

I. 

 

The initials HC mean different things to different people. 

 

For example, for poor souls suffering with an unremitting headache, they refer to Hemicrania continua, whilst for those to whom the health of horses is a concern, they refer to the connective tissue disorder hyperelastosis cutis.        

 

Then again, for students of organic chemistry - or those working in the oil and gas industry - HC is short for hydrocarbon, whilst for fans of the Tour de France, HC designates the most difficult type of mountain climb (one which is hors catégorie). 

 

For me, however, as an amateur literary critic, the initials HC bring to mind the two Jazz Age American poets Harry Crosby and Hart Crane ...

 

 

II.

 

Crosby and Crane sounds like a double act and, as a matter of fact, these two are often linked in the cultural imagination; not merely because they were both poets of debatable merit, but because each committed suicide at a young age (Crosby was 31 when he shot himself in the head in December 1929 and Crane was 32 when he literally jumped ship in April 1932).  

 

They met for the first time in Paris in January 1929. Harry and his wife, Caresse, had set up the Black Sun Press and were keen to publish new work by the most interesting authors of the day in de luxe editions. Crane was then working on the long poem by which he is best remembered, The Bridge, which he intended as a positive counterstatement to Eliot's Wasteland (1922).    

 

Crane gave Crosby the MS to read and the latter loved it, encouraging his new friend to complete the poem he had been obsessively reworking since 1923. For Crosby, Crane's poem was full of thunder and fire and swept away all the dust and artificiality of the times, reminding him of Blake and, one suspects, of what he aspired to in his own heliocentric verse. 

 

As one commentator notes: 

 

"Crosby's obvious excitement had its source not only in the poem itself but also in finding a work answering to his own theories of poetry and his own particular enthusiasms." [1]    

 

For example, both had a quasi-Futurist love of speed and modern technology, seeing in the machine a dynamic expression of man's essentially restless spirit and desire to self-overcome; both also valued open spaces in which to move; and both believed that poetry should not only look back to the past, but connect the present to the future and concern itself with the only themes that really matter: love, beauty, and death. 

 

At heart, then, both were Romantics in the era of Modernism; writers who sought spiritual illumination and a glimpse of some essential reality or lyrical absolute. It's no wonder then that despite his initial enthusiasm for the work of D. H. Lawrence, Crosby concludes that the latter is not his cup of tea:

"'I am a visionary I like to soar he is all engrossed in the body and in the complexities of psychology. [...] He admits of defeat. I do not. He is commonplace. I am not.'" [2]

 

This - and the fact that he can't really write for toffee - puts me off Crosby. I can't dislike him, but neither can I accept this son of one of the richest banking families in New England to be the real deal (despite the painted toe-nails and sun tattoo) [3].  

 

As for Crane, well, to be honest, I'm undecided, knowing as I do so little of the man, so little of his work. Many think him a genius and admire his highly stylised and difficult poetry - for its ambition if nothing else. And some scholars working within queer theory champion Crane as an exemplary outsider who struggled with his homosexuality (when not fucking sailors).    

 

  

III. 

 

In late November 1929, the Crosbys arrived in New York for what they planned to be a short visit. Hart Crane threw a party for them at his Brooklyn apartment on December 7th, where fun was had by all (including fellow poets E. E. Cummings and William Carlos Williams).

 

Three days later, however, Harry killed himself and his 21-year-old lover - Josephine Rotch, aka the Fire Princess - in an apparent suicide pact. It was Hart Crane who broke news of this tragic event to Crosby's wife and mother. 

 

Shortly after the funeral, Caresse returned to Paris and arranged for the Black Sun edition of The Bridge to be published in February 1930. Sadly, the reviews weren't great and Crane's sense of failure resulted in a creative slump. 

 

Although he desperately looked for "another great theme around which he might order his work" [4], he unfortunately never found such. Rather, having relocated to Mexico, Crane had simply discovered the intoxicating power of tequila.

 

Having attempted suicide on several occasions, Crane boarded a ship back to New York - the S. S. Orizaba - from where, on April 27, 1932, he jumped into the sea having shouted goodbye to a group of fellow passengers. He left no suicide note and his body was never recovered. 

 

Sy Kahn writes:

 

"Crane's death by water and Crosby's death by exploding bullet in his head, in retrospect, and with the testimony of their poems, seem inevitable acts of self-destruction. For both men death was not fearsome, but a portal through which they might find the tormenting, often elusive, absolutes they felt and sought." [5] 

 

He concludes:

 

"The parallels and similarities (even the accident of their initials) in the works and lives of these two poets express the literary vitality of the 1920s [...] In retrospect it seems almost ordained that these poets should have encountered each other before their deaths." [6]  

 

What a pity, then, that both of these young men had always been "too rich and spoilt" and left with no new pleasures to experience but suicide: "the last sort of cocktail excitement" [7].  

 

Notes

 

[1] Sy Kahn, 'Hart Crane and Harry Crosby: A Transit of Poets', in the Journal of Modern Literature Vol. 1, No. 1 (Indiana University Press, 1970), pp. 45-56. The line quoted is on p. 47. 

      This essay can be accessed on JSTOR by clicking here. 

 

[2] Harry Crosby writing in his diary, quoted by David Ellis in D. H. Lawrence: Dying Game 1922-1930 (Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 472-73.

 

[3] Without getting into issues of authenticity etc, let's just say that, for me, Crosby tries a bit too hard to be un poète maudit like his heroes Baudeaire, Rimbaud, Lautréamont, et al. Some people just are extreme and achieve a state of inspired madness without having to paint their nails. Ultimately, who gets closest to the sun - Van Gogh, or Harry Crosby ...?     

 

[4] Sy Kahn, 'Hart Crane and Harry Crosby: A Transit of Poets', Journal of Modern Literature Vol. 1, No. 1, p. 54. 

 

[5] Ibid., p. 55. 

[6] Ibid., p. 56. 

 

[7] These phrases were said by D. H. Lawrence with reference to the case of Harry Crosby; see his letter to Giuseppe Orioli [18 Dec 1929], in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VII, ed. Keith Sagar and James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 600-601. 

      See also Lawrence's kind letter to Caresse Crosby (30 Jan 1930), Letters VII 634, in which he tells her: "Harry had a real poetic gift - if only he hadn't tried to disintegrate himself so! This disintegrating spirit, and the tangled sound of it, makes my soul weary to death." 

      He also advises that she not try to recover herself too soon; "it is much better to be a little blind and stunned for a time longer, and not make efforts to see or to feel. Work is the best, and a certain numbness, a merciful numbness. It was too dreadful a blow - and it was wrong."

Of Garden Snails and Motor Cars

Garden Snail (SA/2022)

 

What chance have snails upon an asphalt road

When giant SUVs go roaring by? [1] 

 

 

I assume my neighbour loves his wife and children; but I know for a fact he loves his sleek and (to my eyes) sinister looking Sports Utility Vehicle parked proudly in front of his house on what was once a garden full of wild plants, before being concreted over. 

 

And I know this not only because I have seen the way he cares for the car, but heard the way he boasts of its special features, including optimal traction, enhanced connectvity, and a fuel-injected engine (terms which mean absolutely nothing to me). 

 

He's right, of course, when he says it's a marvel of automotive engineering, but I can't help thinking: So what? 

 

The design, development, and manufacturing of motor cars is not something that interests or excites my imagination - certainly not in the way that the snails creeping about in the dampness of my garden after the rain, fascinate and enchant. 

 

For if, as my neighbour insists, his SUV is a marvel of engineering and technology, then a snail is a wonder of evolution, first moving on to land about 350 million years ago. The former may be able to crush the latter under its alloy wheels, but when it comes to possessing special features, Cornu asperum [2] leaves even the most advanced automobile in the dust. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] I'm paraphrasing Harry Crosby, who opens his poem 'The Golden Gourd' with the following lines: "What chance have snakes upon an asphalt road / When giant limousines go gliding by,". The poem can be found in Ladders to the Sun, (Soul Bay Press Ltd., 2013), p. 38. 

 

[2] The scientific name of the common garden snail is subject to intense debate amongst malacologists; although classified as Helix aspersa for over two centuries, the prevailing wisdom now places it in the genus Cornu. Whatever we call it, this terrestrial mollusc - originally native to the Mediterranean region - now dwells happily in several parts of the world. In fact, the only place you are unlikely to find one, is Antarctica.  

 

For an earlier post in which I reflect favourably on the snail, click here. 

 

 

Guards! D. H. Lawrence and the Potency of Men

Guards erect with breasts bright red 

and the skins of bears upon their head

All the nice girls love a sailor, so they say [1].

 

But for D. H. Lawrence, it's all the king's soldiers who catch his eye; especially those guards marching stiffly in red tunics and black busbies in whom phallic pride and sun glory is manifest in equal measure. 

 

This is made clear in the early poem 'Guards' [2], where he writes of smouldering soldiers with dark eyes and closed warm lips who advance upon him in a soft-impulsive but somewhat threatening manner, like a wave, before then turning, leaving him to admire their burning shoulders in retreat. 

 

The encounter is clearly, for Lawrence, one with homoerotic overtones. I don't agree with everything that Gregory Woods writes, but it's hard to argue with his claim that in the section of 'Guards' entitled 'Evolution of Soldiers', "their apparent evolution is similar to that of a penis, through tumescence and detumescence" [3]. 

 

Expanding on his theme, Woods continues:

 

"Perspective causes each man to seem to grow as he approaches with red tunic, black busby and 'dark threats'. He passes 'above us', in the classic position of sexual advantage. At 'ebb-time', when the group has just passed by, its phalluses remain erect for a glorious moment, before subsiding." [4]  

 

 

II. 

 

Almost twenty years later, and Lawrence is still thinking of the soldiers in Hyde Park he saw in the summer of 1909. 

 

In a letter sent to Harry Crosby in 1928, he encloses an extended version of 'Guards' - one with an unpublished third section which describes the soldiers as a "column of flesh erect and painted vermillion" and as "Sun-dipped men [...] all blood-potent", who have come together in their maleness [5].

                   

Again, you don't need to be an expert in queer studies to appreciate that this verse is invested with erotic desire for the male body: "And the male body is the symbol of its own sexual focus, the phallus." [6] 

 

Thus, whilst there is "no questioning the fact that his art is primarily hetero-erotic in intention" [7], Lawrence also loves daydreaming about the potency of men and phallic heroes dipped in scarlet.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] "Ship Ahoy! (All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor)" is an English music hall song from 1908, written by Bennett Scott and A. J. Mills. The song was first performed by male impersonator Hetty King.  

 

[2] D. H. Lawrence, 'Guards!', in The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 34-35. 

      As Pollnitz notes: "DHL regularly visited Hyde Park, in central London. He planned to take Louie Burrows there in July 1909 as he had Jessie Chambers on an earlier visit [...]." See The Poems, Vol. II, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press 2013), p. 843. Whether either young woman was particularly interested in seeing soldiers on parade, I don't know, but Lawrence adored the spectacle of erect young men in uniform marching past.   

 

[3] Gregory Woods, Articulate Male Flesh: Male Homo-eroticism and Modern Poetry, (Yale University Press, 1987), p. 130.  

 

[4] Ibid.  

[5] See Lawrence's letter to Harry Crosby [30 April - 1 May 1928], in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, ed. James T. Boulton and Margaret H. Boulton, with Gerald M. Lacy, (Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 388-390. The third part of 'Guards' is entitled 'Potency of Men' and consists of five rhyming quatrains. It is reproduced in full on pp. 388-89 from Lawrence's MS.  

[6] Gregory Woods, Articulate Male Flesh, pp. 130-31. 

[7] Ibid., p. 137. 

 

 

To read a sister post to this one, on Lawrence's extended version of the poem 'Gipsy' contained in the Crosby letter, click here. 

Little Weed Vs Havering Council

Bill and Ben, the Flower Pot Men, with their female friend Little Weed 

To watch a short clip of this BBC TV classic - with or without your mother - click here

 

 

I. 

 

In a very real sense, I belong to what might be termed the Watch with Mother generation (i.e., those whose televisual imagination was formed during the black and white days of the 1950s and 60s). And I remain grateful still to Freda Lingstrom and Maria Bird for the programmes they created; some of my happiest (and earliest) memories are of Andy Pandy, The Woodentops, and the Flower Pot Men. 

 

So it's entirely possible, then, that my love for wild plants is a result of my pre-school fascination with Little Weed, who used to feature (and grow) alongside Bill and Ben in the last of these shows; of indeterminate species, but with a lovely smiling face.

 

 

II.

 

According to a statement on the Havering Council website, the spraying of (the possibly carcinogenic) weed killer glyphosate across the borough in every crack and crevice, is justified because alternative measures have been deemed ineffective and more expensive, and necessary because weeds "growing between paving slabs or along the edge of the road visually impact on an area and  [...] cause damage to property".

 

Thus, from March through to November, "steps are taken to remove weeds and prevent growth". 

 

Although this includes some manual suppression (i.e. the pulling up of weeds by hand, or cutting them with a strimmer), mostly this involves the herbicidal spraying of public highways and footpaths by a subcontracted private company (SH Goss) four times a year, who cheerfully boast of their long experience in maintenance of the environment via the killing of wild plants.     

 

 

III.

 

I'm sure there are other residents who are unhappy about this - if only because they are concerned about the health implications for themselves, their children, and their pets. 

 

But mostly, I suspect the residents of Havering are happy to see little green weeds and colourful wild flowers pulled up or poisoned. Indeed, I watch my neighbours regularly conducting chemical warfare and utilising high pressured pumps in order to protect their driveways from the unwanted intrusion of life. 

       

However, as I've said many times before on Torpedo the Ark, whilst brute force crushes many little plants, they always rise again and, ultimately, "the pyramids will not last a moment, compared with the daisy".*

  

 

Before and after pics taken in the roadside outside my house

 

* D. H. Lawrence, Sketches of Etruscan Places, in Sketches of Etruscan Places and Other Italian Essays, ed. Simonetta De Filippis, (Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 36.

 

 

See also: 

 

'In Defence of Weeds and Wildflowers' (25 June 2015): click here.

 

'And No Birds Sing' (28 May 2016): click here. 

 

'And Fungal Life Shall Triumph'  (8 Nov 2021): click here. 

 

 

Between Thy Moon-Lit, Milk-White Thighs

Diagrammatic, non-explicit, depiction of a man

performing cunnilingus on a woman

wikimedia.org

 

 

In the spring of 1928, D. H. Lawrence sent Harry Crosby the newly written out and revised MS for his short story 'Sun' [1], by way of thanking Crosby for the five gold coins that the latter had sent him. 

 

Lawrence also enclosed some poems, including an extended version of an early work entitled 'Gipsy' [2]. To the original two stanzas, Lawrence now added a couple more, which contained, he said, a bit of sun. 

 

The first of these reads:

 

Between thy moon-lit, milk-white thighs

      Is a moon-pool in thee.

And the sun in me is thirsty, it cries

      To drink thee, to win thee. [3]   

 

This is certainly an interesting quatrain; one which lends support to the controversial claim that although Lawrence thinks of the female sex organ as a ripe, bursting fruit just waiting to be eaten, the cunt was for him at its most succulent only when "overflowing with semen from the withdrawn phallus" [4].

 

Whether this implies that cunnilingus was, in Lawrence's erotic imagination, a disguised form of fellatio [5], is probably not something we can say for sure. 

 

But what we might note is that via the creampie-loving figure of Oliver Mellors, Lawrence forcefully expressed the view that there is only one place in which it is legitimate and desirable for the male to ejaculate - and that is deep inside the vagina [6]. 

 

Thus, when in the verse above the male speaker uses the term moon-pool, I think we all know that he refers to a deposit of semen and it is this which he wishes to felch from between the milk-white thighs of his beloved; i.e., the sun in him is greedy for the male seed of life, not the female sap that curdles milk and "smells strange on your fingers" [7].  

 

 

Notes

 

 [1] See the letter to Harry Crosby [29 April - 1 May 1928], in The Letters of D. H. Lawence Vol. VI, ed. James T. Boulton and Margaret H. Boulton, with Gerald M. Lacy, (Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 388-90. 

      This MS would provide the base text for the Black Sun edition of the tale published in October 1928.

 

[2] See D. H. Lawrence, 'Gipsy', in The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 14-15. And for an earlier version of this poem entitled 'Self-Contempt', see the letter to Louie Burrows (6 Dec 1910) in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. I, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 196.   

[3] Letters VI. 389. The second added stanza reads: "I am black with the sun, and willing / To be dead / Can I but plunge in thee, swilling / Thy waves over my head."

[4] Gregory Woods, Articulate Flesh: Male Homo-eroticism and Modern Poetry, (Yale University Press, 1987), p. 131. 

      This is taken from a chapter on Lawrence - chapter four (pp. 125-139) - in which Woods argues (amongst other things) that Lawrence had a "deep and obvious fascination with male homosexuality" and that whilst his "main erotic preoccupation is with the possibility of love between a woman and a man", when this seems impossible or doomed to failure, "he turns to the homosexual alternative [...] as a less problematical version of the same thing". 

      Ultimately, says Woods, Lawrence is promoting a bisexual ideal and his erotic grail is the "passionate, physical union of two heterosexual men". 

      Lines quoted can be found on p. 125.   

 

[5] Woods writes: "Cunnilingus is Lawrence's oblique image of fellatio." Articulate Flesh, p. 131. 

      A little later (p. 132), Woods insists that Lawrence's heroes all long to drink from the cup of semen which is the post-coital (spunk-filled) vagina. The American biographer and critic Jeffry Meyers, who has written extensively on Lawrence and published a volume entitled Homosexuality and Literature, 1890-1930 (The Athlone Press, 1977), is not convinced, however, and says that statements such as this, made without supporting evidence, simply reveal the author's own obsessions. 

      Meyers's review of Articulate Flesh can be found in The Journal of English and Germanic Philology, Vol. 88, No. 1 (Jan 1989), pp. 126-129. This can conveniently be accessed on JSTOR via the following link: https://www.jstor.org/stable/27710124  

 

[6] See D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, ed Michael Squires, (Cambridge University Press, 1993), p. 203. 

      Speaking to Connie, Mellors angrily condemns those women who "'love everything, every kind of feeling and cuddling and going off, every kind except the natural one.'" Such women, he says, even when they do allow vaginal penetration, invariably insist their lovers withdraw prior to orgasm and come instead on some external body part. To be fair, the women are the ones running the risk of an unwanted preganancy - not something that Oliver Mellors allows himself to consider.      

 

[7] D. H. Lawrence, 'Fig', in The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 233.

      Again, whether this means that Lawrence imagined cunnilingus as an oblique image of fellatio - or whether, rather, he had a neo-primitive belief that the ingestion of semen increased one's own potency thanks to the magical properties it possessed - is not something I know for certain (any Lawrence scholar reading this who may care to advise is welcome to do so). 

      Readers interested in knowing more about the swallowing of semen might find the post entitled 'Gokkun' (7 May 2016) of interest: click here. 

 

 

A note on further reading: 

 

Those interested in this topic might like to see the essay by Isabella Rooke-Ley entitled '"What is Cunt? she said": Obscenity, Concealment and Representations of the Vulva in D. H. Lawrence', in Polyphony, Volume 2, Issue 1 (University of Manchester, April 2020): click here.  

      Rooke-Ley argues that Lawrence's use of the word cunt in Lady C. is not what it seems, in that rather than being a direct (if vulgar) reference to female genitalia, it is in fact a concealment of the latter and linked to the text's figuring of the cunt and its pleasure as obscene and shameful.

      Turning her attention to the (infamous) poem 'Fig', Rooke-Ley attempts to demonstrate how there is also a link made in Lawrence's work between concealment, obscenity, vulval pleasure, and putrefaction.

      Finally, readers may also wish to see my post 'The Obscene Beyond: It is So Lovely Within the Crack' (1 July 2021): click here.

 

 

For a sister post to this one, on Lawrence's extended version of the poem 'Guards' contained in the Crosby letter, click here.                 

 

 

Would You Fuck a Queen Bee?

Joanna Frank as Regina in 

The Outer Limits (1964)

 

 

I. 

 

Amongst social insects, such as ants, wasps, and honey bees, a member of the reproductive female caste destined to become a queen is known as a gyne. Such a privileged bee is selected at the larval stage and fed a diet consisting exclusively of royal jelly; a protein-rich secretion which ensures her sexual maturity [1]. 

 

Raised in a specially constructed royal chamber, she will emerge as a virgin queen, bigger in size than a worker, but smaller than a queen in her prime. Her initial desire is not to fuck as many drones as possible, but, rather, to seek out and kill any potential love rivals; i.e., any other virgin queens, be they newly emergent like her, or still developing in their cells [2].     

 

Once she has established herself as top bee, the new queen will fly out on the first warm sunny day to a congregation area, where she will accept the attention of her admirers and mate with a dozen or more drones; male bees who exist only to sexually service the queen and who, having done so, fall to the ground exhausted and dying. 

 

In other words, drones are literally fucked to death by the queen and the congregation area is both an orgy zone and a killing field. 

 

Providing the weather remains fine, the queen may return to this area for several days until she feels herself to be sexually satisfied and full of sperm [3]. Then she is ready to start laying self-fertilised eggs at the rate of about 1,500 a day, whilst worker bees surround her and see to her every need (feeding her, disposing of her excrement, etc.).            

 

 

II.

 

So, the question - aimed primarily to heterosexual males amongst my readership - is this: Would you fuck a queen bee were she to assume human form? 

 

It's a question that was posed by my favourite episode of The Outer Limits: ZZZZZ; an episode in which a queen bee, having metamorphosed into a woman, attempts to seduce an entomologist in order to advance her species [4].

   

And why not, indeed? For as the narrator of the episode says: 

'Human life strives ceaselessly to perfect itself, to gain ascendancy. But what of the lower forms of life? Is it not possible that they, too, are conducting experiments and are at this moment on the threshold of deadly success?'

 

Leaving aside the anthropocentric conceit expressed here, let's provisionally grant that other species apart from man are conducting experiments in evolution and (unconsciously) striving for growth and greater complexity in order to gain an advantage over those against whom they compete for resources. 

 

And this is probably as true for bees as for any other species; for what is a bee, after all, but an evolved form of ancient wasp? [5] So, let's suspend our disbelief and experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to the outer limits ...

III.

In the episode under discussion, Dr Benedict Fields (played by Philip Abbott) takes on a new lab assistant; a beautiful, but somewhat odd young woman called Regina (played by Joanna Frank). Inventing a hard luck story, she is provided with room and board by the kindly (but boring) entomologist and his wife Francesca (played by Marsha Hunt). 

 

Fields is conducting research into the language of bees and hoping he might find some way to communicate with them. Regina is excited by the prospect - though not half as excited as she is by the mating habits of bees and the willingness of drones to sacrifice themselves in the act of love.

 

Despite being happily married - and old enough to be her father - Fields is clearly attracted to Regina. This naturally causes a certain amount of resentment in Francesca, although her suspicions of the younger woman are not simply the result of jealousy; she knows there is something queer or not-quite-right about her. 

 

This is confirmed when one night she watches Regina from her bedroom window dancing about in the garden from flower to flower and then momentarily morphing into a giant bee whilst licking nectar from a water lily. Of course, this is dismissed as a nightmare by her husband. 

 

Later, however, when Francesca finally confronts Regina, the latter releases the bees kept in the lab and encourages them to kill Francesca. Grief-stricken, but finally aware of Regina's true nature and purpose, Fields rejects her sexual advances and gives her a moral lecture on the eternal character of love between a man and his wife. 

 

Frightened that he is about to swat her, Regina backs away and accidently topples from the bedroom window to the ground below. The shock of the fall triggers a transformation back into her insect-self and she buzzes off into the night, presumably returning to the hive, or perhaps to die alone in some quiet spot, having failed in her mission to mate with a human.   

 

The closing narration reiterates the moral of the episode, just in case any viewers missed it:

 

'When the yearning to gain ascendancy takes the form of a soulless, loveless struggle, the contest must end in unlovely defeat. For without love, drones can never be men, and men can only be drones.'

 

 

IV. 

 

I have to say, if I were in the good doctor's shoes, I'm not certain I'd've been able to resist Regina's sexual allure and physical beauty; here was a woman not just with bee-stung lips, but a bee-stung body! And surely, as an entomologist, one would have a professional obligation to experience the unique (if deadly and perverse) form of interspecies experience being offered ...?

 

What I'm trying to say is that, in my view, Joanna Frank as Regina could turn any man into a melissophile ...

  

Notes

 

[1] All bee larvae are given a taste of royal jelly in their first few days, but only those destined to become queens are fed this exclusively; the others must make do with a mixture of nectar and pollen known as bee bread. 

 

[2] Unlike worker bees, the queen's stinger is not barbed and so she is able to sting (and kill) repeatedly without causing fatal injury to herself.

 

[3] A young queen stores sperm from multiple drones in her spermatheca, from where she will selectively release sperm for the remaining years of her life in order to fertilise her eggs. 

 

[4] I'm referring to episode 18 of season 1, entitled 'ZZZZZ', dir. by John Brahm and written by Meyer Dolinsky, which first aired on ABC in January 1964. The episode can be watched in full on the Daily Motion website: click here.   

 

[5] Bees evolved from ancient predatory wasps that lived 120 million years ago. Like bees, these wasps built nests and gathered food for their offspring, but while most bees feed on nectar and pollen, their wasp ancestors hunted other insects. 

      Whether this makes the former more perfect versions of the latter is of course highly debatable. As far as I understand it, natural selection is a process that facilitates adaptations to an evironment, thus improving the chances of survival, but there is no intelligent design at work and evolution isn't progressive (unless one happens to subscribe to an orthogenetic model of the latter).      

 

 

How Playing the Part of a Real Troublemaker Secured Roadent His Place in the Pop Cultural Imagination

Roadent in 1977

 

Everyone (of a certain age) will remember the haunting hit single by The Passions, 'I'm in Love With a German Film Star' [1]. 

 

But not everyone will know that the object of Barbara Gogan's desire - whom she once saw in the corner of a bar trying not to pose - was neither German, nor, to be honest, a film star [2]; it was, rather, Stephen Conolly, aka Roadent, an English punk rocker, famed for his association with the Sex Pistols and the Clash. 

 

For me, Roadent is one of those somewhat shadowy and almost legendary figures from back in the day; someone who, to a large extent, is now of more interest than the (surviving) members of the bands whom he once assisted; and someone who, by playing the part of a real troublemaker, has secured his place in the pop cultural imagination.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] The Passions were a post-punk band from West London, fronted by the Dublin-born songstress Barbara Gogan. The single 'I'm in Love With a German Film Star' was released in January 1981 on Polydor Records and reached the top 30 in the UK singles chart (which, for The Passions, was as good as it got). 

      Those who cannot recall the tune, or have never heard it, are invited to click here to play on YouTube. Or to watch a Top of the Pops performance, click here.  

[2] Having said that, it's true that Roadent has had minor roles in a couple of German films - including Brennende Langweile (dir. Wolfgang Büld, 1979) - and he also played the character of Joker in two episodes of the German TV series Das Ding (1978).   

  

On Crystal Skulls and Vitrified Brains

Figure 1: Crystal Skull in the collection of the British Museum [1]

Figure 2: Vitrified remains of a human brain [2]

 

I. 

 

It amazes me that even after the series five episode of Peep Show in which Mark smashes Cally's crystal skull with a brick, having only pretended to share her insane beliefs surrounding these objects in order to get her into bed [3], there are are still people who genuinely think these quartz carvings were crafted by the ancient inhabitants of Atlantis and possess magical powers of healing. 

 

Indeed, even claims of a pre-Columbian Mesoamerican origin have been refuted by those experts who have taken time to investigate them and it seems most likely the skulls were manufactured in the mid-late 19th century, almost certainly in Europe, in order to meet the growing demand for primitive artefacts (this includes the skull in the collection of the British Museum shown in figure 1 above).    

 

It's worth noting, finally - and contrary to popular fiction and New Age fantasy - that stories of crystal skulls possessing mystical properties and paranormal powers, do not feature in actual Mesoamerican mythologies. If you'd held one up to the Aztecs, they'd have laughed in your face (before then ripping your heart out).   

 

 

II.

 

Far more interesting than crystal skulls and their fake history, is the fact - recently brought to my attention by the artist and thanatologist Heide Hatry [4] - that the heat from the Mount Vesuvius eruption in 79 AD was so extreme that it literally turned brains into glass!

 

Who knew this was even possible? Blondie warn about the dangers of having a heart of glass [5], but I don't recall them saying anything about this.   

 

Vitrification, however, is a real process; one which results when material is burned at a very high temperature and then rapidly cooled and the shiny black matter extracted from inside the skull of one poor soul killed by the volcano is indeed the glassy remains of what had previously been squishy grey matter. 

 

Such a process is, apparently, extremely rare. Indeed, according to Dr Pierpaolo Petrone, a forensic anthropologist and the lead author of a recently published study of this topic [6], this case is the first ever discovery of an ancient human brain which has been vitrified.

 

Dr Petrone explains that the victim - found buried by volcanic ash - was probably killed instantly by the eruption and that the intense heat his body was exposed to ignited fat, vaporised soft tissue, and converted his brain into a glass-like substance. 

 

As Mark Corrigan might say: Thank you science, for providing us with this truly fascinating - if horrific - insight.     

 

Notes

 

[1] This and other images of the British Museum's Crystal Skull - along with full details - can be found on the BM website: click here. In brief, the BM purchased it from Tiffany and Co., in 1897, and they readily admit that it is not an authentic pre-Columbian artefact, but one made with modern tools, probably in Europe in the 19th-century.   

 

[2] Image source: The New England Journal of Medicine / Pierpaolo Petrone: click here.

[3] See the episode of Peep Show entitled 'Jeremy's Manager' (E5/S5), dir. Becky Martin, written by Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain, first broadcast on 30 May 2008. The full episode can be viewed on All 4 (the on demand service from Channel 4): click here (note you'll need to sign in or register first). Alternatively, the relevant scenes from the episode can be found on YouTube: click here and here.

[4] See the post dated 3 May 2022 on Heide Hatry's Icons in Ash Instagram account: click here.

 

[5] Blondie, 'Heart of Glass', a single release from the studio album Parallel Lines, (Chrysalis, 1978), written by Debbie Harry and Chris Stein. Click here for the official music video (dir. Stanley Dorfman). 

[6] Pierpaolo Petrone, M.D. (University of Naples Federico II, Naples, Italy), et al, 'Heat-Induced Brain Vitrification from the Vesuvius Eruption in C.E. 79', The New England Journal of Medicine, (Jan 23 2020): click here.

I Wish I Was Skiing (Fragment from the Dementia Diary)

Stan Laurel (c. 1920)

 

 

When you are living in exile and singlehandedly caring 24/7 for an elderly parent with dementia, then, trust me, all days are bad days [1].

 

But some days are worse than other days and feelings of entrapment, isolation, and violent frustration are overwhelming. Today is one such day. 

 

But, for some reason, at times like this, I always remember Stan Laurel on his death bed telling the nurse that he wished he was skiing: 

 

'Oh, I didn't know you could ski, Mr Laurel', she replied. 

 

To which Stan jokes: 'I can't - but doing anything would be better than this.'

 

Amazingly, thinking of this and of Stan's smiling face - or whistling Laurel and Hardy's cuckoo theme [2] - always manages to bring solace and make happy. 

 

It's not that the latter promises a better tomorrow; rather, it reminds one that in the grand scheme of things there is no grand scheme and life is patently absurd. Ultimately, we are all descendants of Sisyphus, forever pushing a giant rock uphill, or, in the case of Stan and Ollie, a piano up a long flight of steps.      

 

Notes 

[1] For an idea of what a typical day involves, click here. 

 

[2] Laurel and Hardy's cuckoo theme - entitled "Dance of The Cuckoos", was composed by Marvin Hatley. For Stan, the tune's melody represented Oliver Hardy's character  - pompous and dramatic - whilst the harmony represented his own character; somewhat out of key and only able to register two notes: Cu-coo. 

      The original theme, recorded by two clarinets in 1930, was re-recorded with a full orchestra in 1935. It was first used on the opening credits for Blotto (dir. James Parrott, 1930). A full version of Hatley's absurdist masterpiece can be played on YouTube by clicking here.