The Angry Exile: Pish of the day

The Hangman

Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame.
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air,
And built his frame in the courthouse square.
The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.
And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime
That the Hangman judged with the yellow twist
of knotted hemp in his busy fist.
And innocent though we were, with dread,
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead --
Till one cried: "Hangman, who is he
For whom you raised the gallows-tree?"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply:
"He who serves me best," said he,
"Shall earn the rope of the gallows-tree."
And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for another's grief
At the Hangman's hand was our relief
And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn
By tomorrow's sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his Hangman's cloak.
The next day's sun looked mildly down
On roof and street in our quiet town,
And stark and black in the morning air
Was the gallows-tree in the courthouse square.
And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike
And his air so knowing and business-like.
And we cried, "Hangman, have you not done
Yesterday, with the foreign one?"
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed,
"Oh, not for him was the gallows raised."
He laughed a laugh as he looked at us:
"Did you think I'd gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That's a thing I do
To stretch a rope when the rope is new."
Then one cried "Murder!" and one cried "Shame!"
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man's place. "Do you hold," said he,
"with him that was meant for the gallows-tree?"
And he laid his hand on that one's arm.
And we shrank back in quick alarm!
And we gave him way, and no one spoke
Out of fear of his Hangman's cloak.
That night we saw with dread surprise
The Hangman's scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute,
The gallows-tree had taken root;
Now as wide, or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up on the courthouse wall.
The third he took -- we had all heard tell --
Was a usurer, and an infidel.
"What," said the Hangman "have you to do
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?"
And we cried out, "Is this one he
Who has served you well and faithfully?"
The Hangman smiled: "It's a clever scheme
to try the strength of the gallows-beam."
The fourth man's dark, accusing song
Had scratched our comfort hard and long;
"And what concern," he gave us back.
"Have you for the doomed -- the doomed and Black?"
The fifth. The sixth. And we cried again,
"Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?"
"It's a trick," he said. "that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap springs slow."
And so we ceased, and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score.
And sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.
The wings of the scaffold opened wide
Till they covered the square from side to side;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast its shadow across the town.
Then through the town the Hangman came,
Through the empty streets, and called my name --
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall,
And thought, "There is no one left at all
For hanging, and so he calls to me
To help pull down the gallows-tree."
So I went out with right good hope
To the Hangman's tree and the Hangman's rope.
He smiled at me as I came down
To the courthouse square through the silent town.
And supple and stretched in his busy hand
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.
And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap,
And it sprang down with a ready snap --
And then with a smile of awful command
He laid his hand upon my hand.
"You tricked me. Hangman!," I shouted then,
"That your scaffold was built for other men...
And I no henchman of yours," I cried,
"You lied to me, Hangman. Foully lied!"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
"Lied to you? Tricked you?" he said. "Not I.
For I answered straight and I told you true --
The scaffold was raised for none but you.
For who has served me more faithfully
Then you with your coward's hope?" said he,
"And where are the others who might have stood
Side by your side in the common good?"
"Dead," I whispered. And amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me:
"First the foreigner, then the Jew...
I did no more than you let me do."
Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
None had stood so alone as I.
The Hangman noosed me, and no voice there
Cried "Stop!" for me in the empty square.

Maurice Ogden

Tuesday 6 September 2011

Pish of the day

Pop quiz: what do you expect to find in the harbour of a British fishing village or town? I know the industry is a shadow of its former self but I'd still hope that most people of my age, give or take ten years, would probably say things like harbour walls, jetties, boat ramps, chandlers... oh, and since there's a bit of a clue in the word 'fishing' there, probably some fishing boats. Cynics, and I'd count myself among them, might expect sheltered, state edumacatified townies with little ability to picture the source of what's on their plate to be surprised to find fishing boats in harbours, but surely not someone in their 40s. Surely not.

Oh no, you've got to be kidding.

... when David Copp came across a fishing trawler moored in Ilfracombe Harbour he took great offence and complained about the “disgusting” smell.
The 46-year-old was outraged that his children, aged seven and nine, had been forced to endure the sight of 12 crates of dead fish and crabs, piled up on the quayside.

Oh, the humanity! Er, piscinity? Whatever. (Image from here.)

Look, David, you peanut, it's a fishing harbour. Fish-ing. Har-bour. What the hell did you expect to see there? Bubble pits? A petting zoo? Disney's little mermaid?

He said the ordeal had left them “quite distressed” and demanded to know why the harbourmaster was not more considerate to tourists.

Yes, David, you demand those inconsiderate fishing people trying to make a living supplying seafood be evicted and replaced with Ariel and her mermaid friends, just so it doesn't upset your kids. Or not.

AAAAAAAARGH! DADDY, IT'S COMING FOR ME!

“There were flies flying around and the smell was awful,” he said. “The ship was just sat there not doing anything, and there were 12 crates of dead crabs and fish just lying there covered in flies."

Yes, David, because they'd just been pulled out of the sea not long before and had not yet been cleaned and gutted. Did you think fishing boats just lower nets and bring the catch up already boxed? Who would kill and box the fish down there? Well, apart from that creepy red headed mermaid, of course. She looks like she'd murder anything else with fins just for shits and giggles, and could probably be persuaded to package them up ready for the supermarket in exchange for your children's souls. But otherwise ten seconds rational thought should have told David Copp that what he was seeing was pretty much what he should expect to see.

But instead he rang up and complained.

Mr Copp called Ilfracombe harbourmaster Rob Lawson to complain about the smell that had emanated from The Lady of Lundy trawler before calling the North Devon Journal to air his woes.
[...]
“He was very upset that he had come across the boxes of fish and thought it was entirely inappropriate and not a good sight or smell,” [Mr Lawson] said.

I'm glad to see that unlike my last post on offence seeking there's no report of any apologies being made here. Rob Lawson simply explained the facts of life in a working fishing harbour, though with apparently limited success.

Mr Lawson tried to explain that fishermen depended on the daily catch for their livelihoods and that it was a common site on a working quayside.
[...]
“I explained the workings of the harbour and that it was a working quay and that while it was not ideal, sometimes this happened.
“But he didn’t calm down, he went to the local newspaper and then when they printed his complaints, he came back to me to see what I had to say.”

So having blown a good opportunity to educate his kids about where food comes from in favour of looking up the actual phone number of the actual harbourmaster and picking up an actual phone to complain, this tool then compounds it by whinging to the papers when the harbourmaster doesn't take his complaint about fishing boats in a fishing harbour terribly seriously. Jesus Christ on a jetski!

How things have been resolved is not reported, but I understand that the suggestion that Birdseye will be redesigning their packaging is a rumour and has no foundation.