my life as a artist
ridin along in my automobile
Sunday 27th July 2008 10:32 PM
I'm in my m-reg, metaphor-pimped, soul cyber-car, drunk on imagery and stoned on strange connections, speeding down the poetry highway, freewheeling towards the county line, when I see the cold blue light of reason flashing in my rear-view mirror. I'm pulled over by Marshal Steve from the geography police, and he rummages in my comment box and tells me that Glastonbury is in Somerset, not Wiltshire, and could he see my poetic licence, please? I tell him that I was so busy trying to find assonance with 'Blackburn, Lancashire', that I didn't notice that the lights had changed, and he laughs and lets me off, and says, 'Have a nice day in the life!'
Last week, one of my mates, I can't remember if it was Reg or Vic, was telling me about Iceland and the happy fact that they don't really go in for armies. After securing independence from King Lurpak IV of Denmark, in 1918, they were too skint to establish an army, so they made do with a coastguard and an Icelandic Crisis Response Unit, to sweep snow off people's doorsteps and stuff.
In April 1940, following the Nazi invasion of Denmark and Norway, the Icelanders suddenly thought it might be a good idea to get an army together, so they sharpened all the shovels and started training up sixty officers, but unfortunately it was too late, because on 10th May they were invaded by the United Kingdom. They didn't see it coming, and when I was reading it on google, I didn't see it coming either. Why have I never heard or been told that Britain once invaded Iceland?
Although my knowledge of Iceland is sketchy, and the event long ago, I nevertheless feel a deep sense of tribal shame at my countries violation of what, according to Reg or Vic, is a very fine and peaceable nation. When I first think of Iceland, I experience involuntary images of frozen food and a shared car-park with Aldi, but fairly soon I manage to overcome my conditioning, and instead think of glaciers, volcanoes, nightclubs and free geo-thermal power. As for the character of the people, I marvel at how the bushy-browed gravitas of Bjork is leavened by the elfin unpredictability of Magnus Magnusson.
From 1940, according to Wikipedia, Iceland fell under the jurisdiction of North Yorkshire County Council, until the famous Cod Wars of 1976, when King Findus V1 wrestled back his country's sovereignty by the strategic use of huge shoals of cold and slippery, but highly trained fish. Good for him!
Comments
You didn't mention Snorri Sturluson either. I don't think he's Danish but he's got a great name.
Posted by Les Miserable , on Monday 4th August 2008, 4:36 PM
You mentioned all the famous Icelanders except Sigur Ros. Their LP Agaetis Byrjun was a very good effort. Give credit where credit's due, who knows, they may even read your blog!
p.s. Validation word was 'blow', snigger, snigger.
Posted by John (aka Jonault aka Jono) , on Tuesday 29th July 2008, 7:22 PM
I lost my poetic license in a drunken moon / June episode. The shame still haunts me.
Posted by Kevin Betjeman , on Tuesday 29th July 2008, 6:53 PM
Oh, I'm giving up on long and witty comments- the 500 character limit is a lie! You missed a good punchline. x
Posted by Jonny Fluffypunk , on Monday 28th July 2008, 9:05 PM
It's hell getting a poetic licence these days, Rory- you fill in the form from the Post Office, then the muses bid you trawl the black pit of your subconscious, lift a pen against your demons and write out the tragic epic poem of your soul in your ow
Posted by Jonny Fluffypunk , on Monday 28th July 2008, 8:50 PM
Poetic License - my assonance!
Posted by Steve , on Sunday 27th July 2008, 11:08 PM
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