Eleven years ago, I devoted an episode of Hooting Yard On The Air to reading out a list of 601 birds, plus an astronomer, a newsreader, 2 jazzmen, 5 film directors, and 34 stars of stage and screen. This recording – hugely significant both culturally and ornithologically – has now been made readily available, split into three parts by dint of YouTubeosity. I strongly advise you lot to listen to the whole thing, repeatedly, umpteen times a day, until you have it committed to memory. You will find it invaluable next time you are leaning insouciantly against a mantelpiece at a sophisticated cocktail party and there is a lull in the conversation.
Listen here to yesterday’s edition of Hooting Yard On The Air which devotes much time to puppets, both shadow- and glove-, neither of which are usually found on the radio, for obvious reasons. The show includes rather ramshackle recitations of From The Mountains To The Sea, A Family Of Goatherds Unparalleled In Their Rapacity, Two Sparrows, A Person Of Unhinged Mien, Tuesday Weld Goes Berserk, and New Verse By Dennis Beerpint.
Here is a recording, gouged out of Mr Key’s radio programme, of “British Psychology” from Further Science, Book 20 by Norman Davies (of whom, more soon …)
There are now more than 100 episodes of Hooting Yard On The Air available for your listening pleasure on Mixcloud. This means you could shove some headphones over your ears and listen to Mr Key babbling for two whole days without a break, and there would still be more to come. What bliss!
Yesterday the umpteenth series began with this thrilling broadcast. Please note that the audio remains obstinately silent until about one minute in, due to technical gubbins beyond my puny understanding. Thereafter, you can listen to readings of When I Was Borp, Expulsion Of The Fools From The Orchsrd, Pierre Et Clothilde, Pierre Et Les Pantoufles (featuring Plastic Bertrand) and The Pauper And The Princeling And The Pea.
As ever, your monetary donations are more than welcome. Hit that Donate button over on the right, daddy-o!
Point your pointy pointer towards Mixcloud to listen to yesterday’s episode of Hooting Yard On The Air, brought to you by ResonanceFM.
It’s Episode One again! Listen here to the exciting first episode of Hooting Yard On The Air In The Electro-Magnetic Field All Around My Hat. And for those of you bored senseless by Mr Key, the show features some fine prose by Thomas Nashe.
Prick up your ears and click here and you can listen to the first episode of Hooting Yard In The Electro-Magnetic Field, a brand new show from ResonanceFM.
As I write, boffins in a top secret research laboratory buried somewhere beneath the Swiss Alps are trying to calculate just how this show can be differentiated from the much-loved Hooting Yard On The Air. Initial measurements would seem to indicate the answer is “not at all”.
To listen to yesterday’s exciting episode of Hooting Yard On The Air, click here.
I am old enough to remember – albeit dimly – the Latin Mass. For younger readers, and non-Catholics, I should explain that until the mid-1960s, throughout the Catholic church, Mass was conducted exclusively in Latin. The priest would deliver the liturgy in Latin, and the congregation, when required to voice responses, would do likewise. The change to the use of the vernacular came about when Pope John XXIII instituted various liberalising reforms. There remain a few recalcitrant diehards – notable among them being the father of Mad Max star Melvin Gibson – who cling to the Latin Mass, although I understand this is much disapproved of by the Vatican, and may even be illegal.
On the council estate where I grew up, there were many Catholics but no Catholic church. To save us from having to trudge a fair distance to St Bede’s, the parish church, an arrangement had been made that a pub on the estate would host our Sunday Mass. Thus every week we would troop into the Moby Dick on Whalebone Lane. We used the main bar area of the pub, with chairs temporarily aligned in rows, though I cannot recall what served as an altar. I do remember that towels were draped over all the beer pumps at the bar. After Mass, a goodly proportion of the congregation, and probably the priest too, would remain in the pub waiting for opening time. My parents were not drinkers, though, so we were herded home.
Around the same time as the introduction of the Mass in English, the service itself was moved to a new community centre on the estate. Thus passed a particular, and in retrospect profound, part of my childhood.
I stopped attending Mass when, as a nincompoop teenager, I turned my back on the faith. Then, and for many years afterwards, if I thought about the Latin Mass at all, it was as a prime example of the stupidity of religion. How preposterous, for people to gather together to listen and respond to what for most of them (and certainly for the infant me) was a babble of incomprehensible gibberish!
It is only recently that I have realised the significance of this early experience. One must bear in mind that for the vast majority of people, there was nothing remotely swinging about the 1960s. Particularly on my council estate, it was a dull, pinched, grey (or beige) time yet to emerge from the austerity of the immediate post-war years. We had no television, telephone, refrigerator, central heating, or other home comforts. Life was uneventful and devoid of any but the most paltry excitements. (I now look back with nostalgia for the peace and tranquility.)
There was thus something quite magical and passing strange about those Sunday mornings. We gathered in the gloom of the pub, while a man dressed – improbably – in often colourfully embroidered raiment stood, with his back to us (as the priests did in those days), intoning a litany of words, and always exactly the same words, which we did not understand, and bore no relation to anything we heard elsewhere, in any circumstances. Indeed there was nothing about it that had anything whatsoever to do with the world we inhabited the rest of the time. It was baffling and bizarre, but, by dint of weekly repetition, comfortingly familiar. And it was deeply, deeply serious.
It has now dawned on me, at long last, that, in my own faltering yet determined way, I have been trying to recreate this numinous childhood experience by babbling, once a week, in Hooting Yard On The Air on ResonanceFM.
May I remind you that this week is fundraising week at Resonance 104.4FM? The finest radio station in the known universe, and indeed in several parallel universes, urgently needs at least part of the contents of your bank account, plus any loose change you have scattered about your hovel. If you wish to continue listening to Hooting Yard On The Air, and plenty of other tremendous programmes, then please give generously.
Yesterday’s episode of Hooting Yard On The Air. May contain plums. Listen here.