âIĹ Saturnalia!â So went the cry that marked the start of the
eponymous classical holiday. For one glorious week, Roman society was turned on its head: slaves
became masters; togas were out and ostentatious displays of colour were in; gag gifts were given;
and one lucky person was elected the local King of Saturnalia. Whatever
orders the King barked had to be followed, no matter how ridiculous. This tradition clung on even
into the Christian middle ages as the English âlord of misruleâ â a lone pagan vestige in a
monotheistic world.
So, in the spirit of those winter holidays, to lighten up this frosty time of year, i thought it
would be fun to let you play that rule for my website. Welcome, one and all, to the first annual
satyrs.eu Lords of Misrule!
If you write or put together something â absolutely anything â and email it to
misrule@satyrs.eu, come Saturnalia (thatâs December 17 to 23, for those who
understandably arenât up to date with ancient festival customs) iâll put it up on the site, both on
the blog and on its own dedicated, permanent subpage, etched in stone for all to see.
I would ask that you donât submit any political polemics (weâve had quite enough of those) or
anything that would get me in legal trouble, but apart from that, anything goes. Your granâs
chocolate cake recipe? An impassioned defence of Freddy Got Fingered as an ironic
masterpiece? A rant about how keyboards arenât what they used to be? Whatever you â my lords of
misrule â want.
You can submit your entries from today until the 16th of December, 2021. Have fun, and donât be
afraid to get weird with it!
Down a narrow alleyway to the back end of St Nicholasâ Cathedral, in Newcastle, one can find a
rather curious decoration garnishing a door on the opposing façade. The âvampire rabbitâ has stood
watch over the cathedral for at least half a century; while records are scarce (a quick search of
Google Books doesnât bring up anything until the twenty-first century), it could well date back to
the buildingâs construction in 1901.
Spooky.
Hereâs a noticeably brighter bun, as it looked in 1987.
Hereâs the thing, though. Nobody knows how it got there. Indeed, even the name âvampire rabbitâ is a
misnomer; its jet-black fur and red claws were added on some time in the 1990s,i
as were its distinctly batty ears. Some say it was put there to scare away wannabe graverobbers, but
i have my doubts that twentieth-century crooks would be so dumb.
Yet others posit that it represents a
mad March hare, arising at the time
of Easter, or that it refers to Thomas Bewick, a nearby engraver who had a fondness of all things
lagomorphic. Most fascinatingly,
a theory advanced by one Mr Adam Curtis
suggests a Masonic pun in reference to one George Hare Phillipson, a local doctor (hence
vampires) and active Freemason, as was the lead architect, one William H. Wood. It being a secret
society in-joke would also explain why itâs located around the back, rather than the front, which
faces onto one of the busiest streets in town.
Perhaps we might never know for sure. In any case, itâs a fascinating little secret â what do you
think is most likely?
We have a saying in the Netherlands: âNee heb je, ja kun je krijgen.â It translates to
something like youâve already got a no; you might as well try for a yes â itâs always
better to ask rather than stay silent.
Thereâs a few English phrases that are similar. Up north, shy bairns get nowt is a common
instruction from parents; across the pond, hockey player Wayne Gretzky contributed the saying
you miss 100% of the shots you donât take to the local lexicon in a 1991 interview.
Are there any similar sayings in your neck of the woods, or your language? Iâd love to hear.
It was in the evening, just before the sun fell and dusk set in, that i packed my bags and went. A
short jaunt to the cemetery, to see some old friends.
I never knew my great-uncle and -aunt, but their name still holds some worth; their middle name and
surnames i was bestowed at birth. I searched fruitlessly through the old graves, filled with fallen
war-time knaves, but finally, by a bench and basket of waste, i found the coupleâs resting place.
I didnât think it would affect me so much, but just at the sight i felt the touch of a salty trickle
running down my cheeks. I knelt and felt i could weep for weeks. As evening turned to dusk and dusk
turned to night, i jotted down the words inscribed in white:
We often think of bygone days when we were all together
The family chain is broken now but memories live forever
I recently had some downtime and, since âtis the season, watched Censor, a small British
horror film about a film censor during the âvideo nastyâ panic who investigates a strangely familiar
scene.
Itâs tense, stylish, and scary â all the more impressive coming from its first-time director, Prano
Bailey-Bond â becoming more and more surreal the further it progresses. Give it a watch, why donât
you?
The family and i went to a local food-and-craft market at Pontelandâs garden centre this morning. I
thought iâd send letters of recommendation for some of the stalls.
Urban Bakery, from Gateshead, make the most decadent cinnamon buns iâve ever had.
Mrs Bâs Kitchen, from Durham, sells jams, conserves, chutneys, honey, sauces â all the things you ever need in the
top drawer of your fridge. (I got the rhubarb and raspberry.)
Hops and Dots, of Bishop Auckland, make âaccessible craft beerâ with Braille on the labels.
Wilde Farm, of Ponteland, are ostensibly running the whole thing, and sell... you know, farm things. Carrots,
veg, burgers, sausages, turkey â you get the idea. Theyâre currently taking
orders for the winter holidays.
MÄłn oma was een enthousiaste maker van plakboeken en collageâs. Samen met de schilderijen, antieke
kasten en kitscherige hondenstandbeeldjes droeg de muren van haar huis kleine collagetjes van grote
momenten in haar leven en de mijne.
Met ĂŠĂŠn kijkje rond het huis kon je meteen zien wie ze was, en waar ze om gaf. (Haar honden. Zij gaf
veel om haar honden.) Het was ongeorganiseerd; het was chaotisch; het was misschien een beetje
rommelig â maar het was echt van hĂĄĂĄr.
De huidige trends zijn nogal verschillend. Ergens na de grote recessie werd het een beetje tactloos
om met je rijkdom te pronken. De stijl du jour heeft zich gewend aan blanke muren, kale
tafels en misschien af en toe een bloempot. (Voor groene planten, natuurlijk â wat voor soort gek
zou klĂŠĂşr in zijn huis willen?)
Ik heb het gevoel dat we iets verloren hebben. De topresultaten voor âminimalist livingg roomâ op Google Afbeeldingen, bijvoorbeeld, vertellen je bijna niks over de persoon die daar woont:
Vergelijk die met deze meer rommelige zaken, gevuld met boeken, tapijten, foto's en dergelijke, en
het verschil is als dag en nacht:
Tja, misschien ben ik gewoon chagrijnig en nostalgisch. Wat denken jullie?
When i was just a bairn, my oma was an avid scrapbooker and collage-maker. Dotted around the walls,
alongside the paintings, antique cupboards, and kitschy statues of dogs, were little collaged images
of every important moment in her life â and mine.
Just by looking around her house, you could instantly get a sense of who she was, and what she cared
about. (Her dogs. She cares a lot about her dogs.) It was disorganised, it was a wee bit cluttered â
but it was hers.
Todayâs trends are rather different. Some time after the great recession (when it became,
understandably, somewhat gauche to display how much Stuff you owned), the style
du jour turned to blank, white walls, with spare tables and maybe (if you were lucky) the
occasional potted plant. As this bareness took over, i canât help but feel something was lost.i
The top results for âminimalist living roomâ on Google Images, for example, tell you almost nothing
at all about the person who might be living there:
Compare with these more cluttered affairs, filled with alkin books, rugs, photos, and the like, and
the difference in the amount of personality that shines through is like night and day:
I donât know. Maybe iâm just grumpy and nostalgic. What do you think?
TIL that subwoofers are just the bottom end of a whole range of
animal-noise terms for speakers. Subwoofers are the biggest and bassiest, but then you have woofers,
squawkers, tweeters, and even
supertweeters! Neat.
Last time on The Garden: A strip mall turns out to be a place of immense historical curiosity, i am interrupted by a
rude troupe of boy racers, and find myself caught up in the lyrics of a pro-union folk song.
Leaving Seghill, going past a house with a conspicuous
Northumbrian flag, the
landscape once again slips swiftly back into ruralia â a common occurrence on this leg of the
journey. No sooner had i left behind the station house than i found myself on a dirt path which i
wasnât quiiiite sure i was meant to be on.
This was the small hamlet of Mare Close, essentially a farmhouse surrounded by a few cottages. I
have a sneaking suspicion that everyone living there has been friends since primary school, though
i'll never know for sure. Opposite the cottages, by the next leg of my route, lay a
small village church and
graveyard which i dared not enter. Onwards.
Seaton DelavalÎą sits at the heart of the valley. Turning
one way, there lies a charming local coĂśperative store, a
genuine lordly manor (owned by
the townâs namesake De la Val family, who came over after 1066), the
previously-blogged village of Holywell, and, eventually,
the seaside settlement of Seaton Sluice.β Unfortunately, weâll be turning
the other way, by where once stood a colliery.
The former site of Delavalâs station can hardly be considered a sight for sore eyes. Cars and
lorries pass by, horns blaring, trying to weave their way between those turning into the nearby
petrol station.Îł The location of the station itself is an uninspiring gravel
pit on one site with an overgrown nettle-filled path on the other; next door is a chain pub whose
car park will be getting embiggened to accommodate the extra traffic once the railway reopens.
It doesnât get much better. A few interesting-looking eateries (a grimy-looking cafĂŠ called âOnly
Fools and Saucesâ, a venue by the name of the
Secret Gardenδ with a wonderful
hand-painted sign) added some initial spice, but soon i was back to the same industrial wasteland:
Auto recycling! Furniture wholesalers! Caravan storage! Chemical producers! The works!
...I said something about a colliery, didnât i?
16 January, 1862. Itâs half past ten â or, at least, it might be. Youâve been labouring
away in the coal pit since two in the morning, and youâve not seen the sun since. The shift is
almost over, and itâs time to swap over with the next group.
One by one, your comrades file in line to get out. A huddle of people enter the rusting lift. The
familiar ketter-ketter-ketter shudders through the cave â but then, for a fraction of a
second, all falls silent.
Your heart races. A drop of water falls from the ceiling. Nobody makes a sound.
And then, all of a sudden, it is as though Thorâs hammer has crashed
into the ground. The earth around you shakes in terror, lets out what can only be described as an
otherworldly scream, as ten tonnes of blood-red steel smash into the floor.
This was the
Hartley Pit disaster, and its shockwaves can still be heard across town.
Just across from the telltale jackhammers and yellow tape of a housing estate so new Google Maps
hasnât caught up yetÎľ sits a lovely memorial garden, explaining the story of
the tragedy, with a poem to contemplate as you ramble along the path.
In terms of stations, the town has had two â Hartley and Hartley Pit â both right next to each
other, and neither seeming to have any chance of reopening.
I was a bit anxious about continuing on, because there were several serious-looking men in hard-hats
and high-vis jackets, but they didnât seem to mind. They really, really should have tried to stop me
from going to where i was going next.
Coming up on The Garden: your author tries not to disturb some horses, desperately tries to avoid going to fucking
Blyth, and accidentally sneaks in a brief trip to Durham. I promise, it makes sense in
context.
Tja, volgens mij zal datums op een dag dubbelzinning worden. âEhhh â waren die de links van 27
oktober 2021, of 27 oktober 2032?â Het is tijd om de telling opnieuw te beginnen. Welkom, iedereen,
bij het Internetassortiment!
Look â reader, i understand this about as much as you do. It just popped up in my recommendations
one day. I watched the entire series of videos this is apparently a part of, and i still donât feel
like i get it. Something about James Dean and evil national landmarks?
This is one of the better-done things in the recent wave of âanalogue horrorâ that has been
circulating the interwebs â short, spooky videos taking inspiration from late-night public
television or other media of the past. I just think it's neat. Anyone else want to go through the
WASHINGTONWORMHOLE?
