World Opera Day

Lack of wargaming here has been compounded by quite a lot of people that I know going down with Covid plus a large house being rendered totally uninhabitable by a water leak. I haven't been ill and it's not my house - although it used to be - but the knock-on effects have kept me away from my duties as a bloggist. I haven't however been kept away from the opera, and as it's World Opera Day I am minded to catalogue those that I have seen.

The plot of English Touring Opera's 'Amidigi di Gaula' by Handel is a love triangle with added sorceress and knitting. At a key moment our hero shows his friend a picture of the woman he loves, only for the friend to realise that they both love the same person. This trope seemed very familiar and I spent quite some time trying to recollect which other piece of high culture I had seen it in before. I eventually came to the conclusion that I had been thinking of the Laurel and Hardy film about the French Foreign Legion (the name of which escapes me for the moment), in which everyone has joined up to escape a broken heart and are found to  all be carrying a photograph of the same woman. I can't remember whether as many of them end up dead as was the case here.

Death often features in opera, but not usually to the extent of Holst's Savitri where he appears as a character in his own right. In Northern Opera Group's production he comes in through a side entrance and stalks slowly and menacingly through the audience before reaching the stage, being implausibly tricked out of his victim and exiting stage right still singing. I preferred that to the other Holst one-act opera it was coupled with, 'The Boar's Head'. The basis for this was all the Falstaff pub scenes in Shakespeare's Henry VI plays taken out of context and rammed together. I think I'm reasonably au fait with those, but I still couldn't work out what was going on. And for some reason the fact the staging featured a door but no walls irritated me enormously.

Back to death on the stage, although this time in a ballet. Opera North's Bernstein double bill included his opera 'Trouble in Tahiti' coupled with 'West Side Story Symphonic Dances'. In the former no one dies (although perhaps it's true to say that love does), but in the latter, well we all know the story. According to the programme the choreography reflects life in South Africa under apartheid, but it looked like the same old street gangs to me; I enjoyed it anyway.

You can knit a sweater by the fireside

"But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity."

- Andrew Marvell

It would have been Andrew Marvell's birthday today. 

Ghosts, Zombies and Gypsies

“How on the other hand could I make a reference without a new plunge into the hideous obscure?”

- Henry James, The Turn of the Screw

And so to the opera. I have been to see Britten's 'The Turn of the Screw'. I'd seen Opera North's production about ten years ago, but didn't recognise any of it; old age seems to have some benefits. It was appropriately spooky, the music and singing were top rate and it also involved knitting and puppets; so no complaints from me. I should mention the remarkably precocious eleven year-old who played Miles; I should, but I can't because I have mislaid my programme.

Miles of course dies in the end (sorry for the spoiler, but it's an opera so what else did you expect), but doesn't sing afterwards unlike many others - especially sopranos - do. I have also been to see a zombie themed version of 'Don Giovanni' (if you know the plot then you'll realise that it sort of makes sense) in which Il Commendatore did not just sing after dying, but also after his entrails had been ripped from him and eaten by his murderer. So, more realistic than many operas then. 

Finally, I've seen another Mozart piece - 'The Marriage of Figaro'. I previously saw that one while on my post-divorce exile in the upper gallery so it was interesting to see it up close following my return to the expensive seats. It was well worth it, although I can only repeat my previous advice to the composer: lose the fourth act. On this occasion I not only missed my bus, but on top of that the following one was cancelled; thanks for nothing Wolfgang. 

Ciaran Carson

The Irish poet Ciaran Carson has died. Much of his work was about the Troubles, and so will perhaps gain a grim new relevance soon. I have read recently that one of the ironies about the Irish border being so central to the debate about leaving the EU is that it coincides with the rest of the UK becoming divided into two mutually uncomprehending and hostile camps in the same way that Northern Ireland always has been; so perhaps that relevance is already there. Note the closing stanza of this poem (which also incidentally has a wargamer friendly title):

Jacta Est Alea 

It was one of those puzzling necks of the woods

Where the South was in the North, the way

The double cross in a jigsaw loops into its matrix,

like the border was a clef

With arbitrary teeth indented in it.
Here, it cut clean across the plastic

Lounge of 'The Half-Way House";
My heart lay in the Republic

While my head was in the Six, or so I was inclined.

You know that drinker's

Angle, elbow-propped, knuckled to his brow like one

Of the Great Thinkers?

He's staring at my neck in the Power's mirror,

Debating whether

He should open up a lexicon with me: the price of

Beer, of steers, the weather.

At last we talk in code. We stumble on the border.

He is pro. I am con.

We are arm in arm; inextricably, we wade into the

Rubicon

The next poem has rather more personal connotations:

The Fetch

I woke. You were lying beside me in the double bed,

prone, your long dark hair fanned out over the downy pillow.

I’d been dreaming we stood on a beach an ocean away

watching the waves purl into their troughs and tumble over.

Knit one, purl two, you said. Something in your voice made me think

of women knitting by the guillotine. Your eyes met mine.

The fetch of a wave is the distance it travels, you said,

from where it is born at sea to where it founders to shore.

I must go back to where it all began. You waded in

thigh-deep, waist-deep, breast-deep, head-deep, until you disappeared.

I lay there and thought how glad I was to find you again.

You stirred in the bed and moaned something. I heard a footfall

on the landing, the rasp of a man’s cough. He put his head

around the door. He had my face. I woke. You were not there.

1 part PVA: 4 parts water

"You know, if they didn't have the model train, they wouldn't have gotten the idea for the big trains." 

- from 'A Mighty Wind'

And so to the theatre. I have been to see LipService ("The Laurel and Hardy of literary deconstruction" according to the Guardian) perform their new show 'Strangers on a Train Set'. This piece spoofs a whole series of train related films, although - presumably deliberately - not Hitchock's 'Stangers on a Train'. The parodies were framed by the concept of model railway enthusiasts demonstrating their layout, with the small figures that they placed on the table acting out the scenes and even in the end developing a level of self-awareness. And speaking of self-awareness, it was, shall we say, interesting to sit in an audience which was laughing at the idea of sad middle-aged men who seek to escape real life by recreating a world in miniature and by engaging in debates about the accuracy and authenticity of their models. I consider myself fortunate that I don't know anyone like that.

Peter and James realise the infantry's buttons are the wrong type of brass

It was all very funny, with non-anorak targets including 'The 4:50 from Paddington', 'Brief Encounter', knitting and the blue colour of energy drinks (apparently the secret ingredient is woad). I did wonder if one or two of the jokes weren't perhaps too niche for a general audience. There is a scene in which a character who has been bashed about by a rooftop chase along the train is removed for running repairs and then finds himself clutching a paintbrush much larger than himself and complaining that he mysteriously smells of varnish, which I found very amusing, but seemed to baffle my companion for the evening. Even more arcane perhaps was their take on 'The Railway Children'. According to them the landslip which causes Jenny Agutter to wave her underwear about was caused by the modeller using the wrong ratio of PVA glue to water and the cat litter therefore not sticking to the side of the hill properly. We've all been there.

In which my eyes are opened by a cosmic encounter

It's boardgame round up time. Hooray!
Champions of Midgard:  A bit like Lords of Waterdeep, but with a more intrusive fantasy theme, which, perhaps inevitably, made no sense at all. I lucked into a win, but I'm not sure how.

Codenames:  The only problem with this otherwise excellent game remains the potential for a lack of shared frame of reference between the two parts of one's team. The young people of today appear to have no knowledge of the names of fielding positions in cricket. Extraordinary.

Cosmic Encounter: The group of people I played with on this occasion, newcomers to the Leeds gaming group, obviously played the game regularly and now I understand how it should be played properly. I'd always enjoyed it previously, but this was much better. Eye-opening.

Escape from the Aliens in Outer Space: I really want to like this more, but it's a great mechanic - albeit that it's just Battleships tweaked a bit - in search of a balanced game. In fact it's almost, but not quite, a hidden identity game worth playing.

Knit Wit: I did not like this at all. Creativity under pressure is really not my thing. For the record it has nothing whatever to do with knitting, a subject with which thanks to the big, bouncy woman I am increasingly familiar.

Marrakech: I love this game. Who would think a game about rug selling could give so many opportunities to stiff one's opponents?

The Networks: I'm not entirely sure about this game about running a TV network. There wasn't a great deal of player interaction and the silly names of the shows and stars were more fun than the gameplay.

No Thanks!: A fun push-your-luck filler, simple to grasp and difficult to win. Recommended.

One Night Revolution: A mixture of One Night Werewolf and Resistance results in rubbish squared.

Puerto Rico: Morally ambiguous worker placement game (who exactly are these workers that I'm recruiting to my plantation and why are they represented by brown pieces?), but a good game nevertheless. It's a close relative of San Juan which I also enjoyed and which is quicker.

The Pursuit of Happiness: A fun game about living a full life, but much of the amusement comes from playing the theme and not the rules. The way to win is surely to become an ascetic and eschew not only relationships, but also a job. Strangely enough hobbies are a quite sensible route to success.

Skull: There is nothing more to be said. A great game which makes you see people in a very different light.

Thebes: A game of competitive archaeology, a theme which seems to have inspired quite a few games. This one is spoiled by one seemingly minor mechanic, the drawing of unearthed treasures from a bag. This brings so much luck into things that the only strategic advice I could give is to make sure that you draw good tiles.

Pot55pouri

Adventitious apricity has precluded blogging for a couple of days, although life has been full in many other ways. There hasn't been much painting and the only progress on the Great War project has been that the re-released British Heavy Weapons set is apparently on its way to me. It's accompanied by the also re-released Gallic Command, which due to some oversight doesn't seem to contain any chariots. It does however include druids, which has surely got to be a good thing despite me having no current use for them. Perhaps the Romans in Britain rip-off of Pony Wars could use a human sacrifice or two.

There has been some real life gaming, with the first night of Lobositz proving to be good fun and reasonably balanced. I like the varied terrain, with the vineyards on the lower slopes of the extinct volcano making for an interesting challenge for both sides. Like all of James' scenarios destined for conventions this one involves a mandatory attack that no commander in their right mind would make, with Frederick the Great here joining Rommel in the ranks of the guilty.

I have been to the Wharfedale Wool Fair, which was like a more fragrant version of a wargames convention, but with even more ridiculous prices being asked. According to the big, bouncy woman the Leeds Wool Fair features real alpacas, which sound a whole lot more fun.

Walking this week took me to the Pennines by way of a change. I took a picture showing the view from the foot of Lund's Tower on Earl Crag back across Lothersdale, with Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen-y-ghent in the far distance, but it wasn't very good so here's one of a random bit of moor instead.

You can just see Wainman's Pinnacle, the other of the Salt and Pepper Pots, towards the right of the picture.

Baby, it's a Knit Mitt

For those of you jaded with wargaming I offer you an alternative vaguely military related craft based hobby. Check it out here. I have seen the future.

“Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.” - William Blake

A very pleasant complaint for a man in London

"Never go on trips with anyone you do not love." - Ernest Hemingway

I have been to London again (it rained) and have to report that Virgin East Coast managed to maintain their 100% record of delayed or cancelled trains when I travel with them. The excuse yesterday seemed to vary between an 'incident on the line' (a sad euphemism for such a tragic human story I always think) to Kings Cross having been evacuated due to the arrest of a man with a gun. Now I was actually on the concourse at the time of this supposed police action and I saw nothing; which on reflection possibly says more about my powers of observation than anything else.

I made the trip to meet with a group of bankers. It seems that they had advanced a large sum of money to someone. let's call him Jack, for the purpose of buying some magic beans and had taken as security a charge over the beanstalk that Jack intended to grow. They now find that there is no money, no beanstalk and, for all intents and purposes, no Jack. Another triumph for the banking system. 

Speaking of London, I have recently got to know someone living in West Yorkshire who, at the age of 42, has astonishingly never been there. It may be for the best though; my friend - a non-drinking vegetarian whose main hobbies are knitting and growing vegetables - is very innocent and has led a sheltered life. Some people are just not ready to be exposed to the sort of goings on that one finds in the big smoke.