Monogram

I've passed the old warehouse/nightclub at the end of Posterngate a zillion times give or take and never noticed this intricate monogram. I'm told it reads JP 1831. Someone will know who JP was and might care to inform me. I've even posted the warehouse years ago but perversely cropped out the monogram.

Gilles de Rais was Innocent, OK!

So not last Sunday but the one before that Ed (with the cap) and Dmitry visited to take even more footage of Margot for a short documentary. They chose to use the paddocks off Snuff Mill Lane which on a Sunday afternoon is dog walkers' rush hour. Film making may sound interesting but unless you're stuck behind the camera or making the decisions it's a just big drag so I walked off and left them to it. Which is a shame because on their way back they encountered some native youffs who entertained by "mooning" them so I'm told.

The reason for this tomfoolery is that Margot has written a book, The Martyrdom of Gilles de Rais, about how he was not the devil worshipping, child abusing, mass murderer of French history but rather a bit of a saintly patsy set up and used by the power players in 15th century Brittany. By going over the trial records in detail and asking simple questions (How can Gilles be in two places at once? and how did no-one notice a pile of bones/rotting cadavers lying around in a busy castle?) it is a brilliant and at many times humorous demolition job, nay polemic, on the long accepted 'historical' narrative, concocted mainly by a lazy French cleric and others who really ought to have known better, that bears scant or no relation to the records or indeed common sense ... I may be a bit biased but never forget: ... Gilles de Rais was Innocent, Ok!

And neither was he the inspiration for Bluebeard of folk and fairy tales as so many think. 

You can find out more about (and maybe buy) this book here. 

A touch of camera envy ...

They're smiling 'cos they're going home in one piece ...

Big Hidden Treasures

When they came to build on the farm known as West Bulls just to the west of the Hull/Cottingham boundary they arranged to leave a triangular patch of land about 500 sq yards between the houses to allow for service roads or ten foots as they are known in these parts. In so doing they left behind a pair  trees one much older than the other. I think they are beech trees but don't rely on me. Old maps from 1830s show a big tree at this position, the girth of the larger tree puts it at over three hundred years old ... And for the last ninety years or so they continued to grow, out of sight out of mind, giving home to countless generations of crows until one day not so very long ago some stupid oik(s) with a box of matches and no sense of the fine things in life set a fire to the younger of the pair doing considerable damage to the base. That tree was due to be cut down last year but somehow it has survived and is now putting out new leaves into the chilly April air. If this had been in Hull (which it ain't by a few yards) it would have been long gone. We'll see what East Riding of Yorkshire Council do about it. The trees are according to ERYC under tree protection orders.

C is for ... Carbuncle

C is for Capitalism,  

The bosses' reactionary creed,

                                                                                   Alex Glasgow Socialist ABC

Some may recall Burnett House, how it was restored from dereliction only to stand empty for years and then found not just tenants but a home for a lonely buddleia. It has come to pass that Burnett House now feels it needs to spread its wings with an extension. Fine you might say, the land adjacent has been empty for 40 years or more so build something in keeping with the old building and the low rise Georgian/Victorian neighbourhood, something that respects the area and the view of the medieval church behind. You might say that but the stupid Cs in Hull City Council only went and passed plans for the most hideous, oversized, out of proportion, disfiguring monstrosity. Well see for yourself ...

Image "borrowed" from the Hull Daily Mail

In times past I might have hinted that silver had crossed palms to enable this to go through but after being told, by a Councillor, that such an idea is preposterous I have to conclude the current Council planning numpties are dumb enough to think this is a good thing all by themselves and pat themselves on the back and cannot understand how they might be wrong. Consider how a planning officer, employed by the Council, could say, in advice to Councillors, that the proposal would "preserve the character and appearance of the Old Town Conservation Area and would not substantially harm the setting of Hull Minster".  Clearly such a person is not living  by the same aesthetic standards as mere taxpaying mortals. For the sake of the future appearance of this backwater might it not be a good idea to put the said planning officer out to pasture where he/she will not harm the setting of the town any further.

 

B is for B*****ks!

B's for the Boss who's a Bastard,
A Bourgeois who don't give a damn.

                                                                                              Alex Glasgow Socialist ABC

Today, April12, 2019 might have been (well, it was never really going to be since the bloody Commons took away the only bargaining weapon left; to leave without a deal.)  Brexit Day (Mk2). After a whole two years and more of bungtwaddle from our elected bellends the UK remains as firmly locked onto the Brussels' boobies as ever. We've had bilious backspang and bafflegab from those who treat the majority as something smelly on their boots. All this has left sensible folk somewhat bamsquabbled or bamblustercated if you prefer. It's all a load of buggery-boos, as my old dad would sometimes exclaim.

B-Day Mk3 is pencilled in for Hallowe'en ... no, seriously it is ... Booo!

82 Shades of ....

Just keeping up to date with the latest colour scheme of this bar/restaurant (Bar 82) on Princes Dock Side. You've seen it purple, white and now it can't seem to make up its mind.

Flying the black flag of himself.

A town crow, blacker than ever, treats the Saturday afternoon shoppers and carousers with utter disdain before swooping down on a discarded morsel.