THE SWAN MAN OF ILKLEY

It may be only one swan and not seven - and a plastic one, at that. But I'm thankful for it, anyway; because it's given me a chance to talk about one of British television's greatest treasures.

If I were to ask you to name the longest-running situation comedy on TV, you'd probably say SEINFELD or MASH or even I LOVE LUCY. But you'd be wrong in every case. It's BBC's LAST OF THE SUMMER WINE, the 37-year-old saga of a group of senior citizens enjoying their second childhood as much as they did their first.

Set in the picturesque landscape of West Yorkshire, the show is simple in concept (with characters and plot lines to match).  But it's rich in warmth and local lore and regional humour and has become a showcase at one time or another for just about every veteran actor in Britain - male or female, comic or dramatic.

For the first three decades of its run, the show centred around the antics of an amiably dotty widower named Norman Clegg (played with deceptive nonchalance by Peter Sallis), a lovably shiftless scruff known as "Compo" (played by Bill Owen) and the intimidating widow nextdoor, Nora Batty (Kathy Staff). 

Cleggie and Compo always had a partner in their adventures, someone whose job it was to help get them into trouble and then out again - the last of these being Herbert Truelove (or Truly Of The Yard), a retired copper played by Frank Thornton who was Captain Peacock on ARE YOU BEING SERVED.

The impressive depth of talent in the rest of the cast may have had a lot to do with creating the program's longevity and its seemingly universal appeal.

Howard (Robert Fyfe) is Clegg's neighbour who's always scheming to escape his domineering wife, Pearl (Juliette Kaplan) in order to rendez-vous with his wonderfully tarty girlfriend, Marina (Jean Fergusson). But there's no need to post a warning about Adult Content, since Howard and Marina suffer from the worst case of coitus interruptus on record. They only have to intone those magic words: "Oh, Howard!" "Oh, Marina!" and "Oh, heck!", there's Pearl.

My own heartthrob, though, is Auntie Wainwright (Jean Alexander), the fiendishly unscrupulous junk merchant who always manages to sell people things they never knew they wanted. Once, when she asked Compo if he was at her shop to buy or sell, he said, "What's the difference?" Auntie rubbed her hands with gleeful anticipation and replied, "About 75 per cent." 

Longtime fans of SUMMER WINE tend to divide its history into two periods: The Compo and Post-Compo Eras. And you'll hear endless arguments about whether or not the show should have died in 2000 when Bill Owen did. 

But I'm not one of those.

Life moves on... and so does comedy. And even now, at the launch of its latest season, the show still has legs and still features a remarkable number of its original characters. Even more remarkably, it has the same writer it's always had (Roy Clarke) and the same producer/director, as well (Alan J. W. Bell)! 

I have a reasonably large collection of taped episodes that I find myself watching over and over again. And THE SWAN MAN OF ILKLEY, a show from the 2005 season, has become one of my favourites.

Lenny (played by Bobby Ball) has recently retired from the pickle factory and written an autobiography. As we meet him, he's setting out to sail a leaky, inflatable swan down the canals to Ilkley, thus making a grand entrance and securing for himself the title, "Swan Man Of Ilkley". 

But he's not just swanning about. The purpose behind his journey is to advertise his book. However, when Clegg and Truly want to know what the book's about, Lenny has to admit it's about 40 years of working at a pickle factory. But he reasons that if he calls it 'The Swan Man Of Ilkley', it'll sell a lot more copies. 

Currently appearing on ITV in THE FATTEST MAN IN BRITAIN (not as the fattest man but as his agent), Ball is one of those veteran British comics who's found a comfortable niche in SUMMER WINE, having appeared in two episodes since SWAN MAN. His natural ability to combine sarcasm with innocence makes him funny but likable - the perfect model of that mad, merry uncle that every family has.

In SWAN MAN, while he's still reeling from his first confrontation with the indomitable Mrs. Batty, her new neighbour Alvin (Brian Murphy) tells him, "I'm teaching her line-dancing." Ball furls his bushy eyebrows and mutters, "Wouldn't teaching her to smile be better?"

And smiling is what LAST OF THE SUMMER WINE is all about. 

If it's an acquired taste, it's a taste that doesn't take long to acquire. So, if you happen to have VISION TV on your Canadian cable service or a PBS station near you in the U.S., I whole-heartedly recommend it as a break from the otherwise hectic pace of the Holidays.

And, as a writer, I can tell you that Lenny was right to choose the title he did for his autobiography. Because writers like Lenny and I know that, no matter what people may say, they always judge a book by its cover!

(Scroll down for any days of THE TWELVE DAYS you may have missed. Tomorrow: EIGHT MAIDS A-MOOING.)

  

SIX GEESE A-LURKING

My Uncle Leonard had the classic Middle-Western American farm, complete with red barn, silo, a herd of dairy cows, some pigs, chickens and geese. And the only creatures I came to fear were the geese.

They roamed the barnyard like great honking lords of the manor, harassing dog, cats and young boy in short pants, alike. And no matter how well you got on with the other animals, there was nothing you could do to convince those geese you only wanted to be friends.

I learned that early on and chalked up their bad attitude to some cruel twist of avian genetics.

But years later, I had the lesson driven home again as I was driving home along Silver Falls Road, the riverside route to my Kaministikwia cottage. 

To one side of the gravel track were homes and a few places that had once been farms, before the Finnish settlers discovered that the area's rose-red clay was really no good for growing anything more complicated than hay.

On the other side (within feet of the road) ran the majestic, blue-brown Dog River, once the highway of the Fur Trade and the Voyageurs' route to Western Canada.

On that particular day, I drove my little Datsun along the dusty space between, until I spotted some pedestrians in my path ahead.

A pair of geese were crossing from farm to water with four little goslings in tow. And as I slowed to let them cross, they slowed, too, and craned their long, white necks to have a better look at me. 

Then, apparently having decided that I wasn't going to pass, they stopped dead in their tracks and began to pick at the barren gravel around them in an unconvincing attempt to make me believe there was something there they fancied eating.

I came to a stop, as well, and sighed and waited... and waited... and waited.

A good five minutes went by, as I nervously watched my rear-view mirror for any less patient drivers that might come racing up behind me. 

There was no one about the farm to shoo the geese on; and even if there had been someone foolish enough to try, it would never have worked.

So, finally, I decided I'd had enough and did something I should have known better than to do.

I gave my horn a gentle tap.

And just that one, brief beep set the geese into a monumental rage.

They honked back at me with a lot more volume and raced at my vehicle with such fury that I actually felt the need to roll up the window for protection. 

But they didn't go for me. They went for my bumper and attacked it so ferociously that the little hatchback actually shook from the powerful, pounding pecks they gave it.

I sighed again and folded my arms and waited for their fury to subside. 

And after another two minutes, they stopped, gave me a final scolding honk, turned and waddled with their young down to the river. And as soon as I saw them bend down to have a drink, I stepped on the gas and peeled away. 


For weeks afterward, I dreaded driving past that spot. 

But I was never attacked again. And when I no longer saw any sign of the geese around that farm, I consoled myself with a malicious fantasy.

I pictured the farmer's family sitting down to dinner one night and a large tray being carried from the kitchen. And I only hoped that they enjoyed that meal with as much relish as I got just imagining it.

(Tomorrow: Day Seven - THE SWAN MAN OF ILKLEY - a more gentle view of the relationship between man and bird, as well as a special gift of British humour.)   

A FIVE-GOLD-RING CIRCUS

This year, the Province of British Columbia will be getting a belated Xmas gift (of questionable value) in the form of an international event that has become part sports contest, part mass-marketing exercise, part five-ring circus: Le Cirque De Monnaie, as I like to call it.

Most people refer to it as The Winter Olympics, but it bears little if any relationship to the original ritual held at Olympia in ancient Greece.

It's ironic that today, some women have to struggle just to be admitted to the competitions, when the first recorded Olympic event was a footrace run by young women for the honour of becoming Priestess of Hera. Only later was a race for males added, and the prize for that was the post of consort to the Priestess.

The prizes awarded at the early games were a lot simpler, too: a crown of laurel branches or, even better, groceries for life.

But the five coloured rings of the modern Olympic logo have all gone golden. And the medals of gold awarded to the champions in each sport are valued as much for the product endorsements they draw as for any prestige they may confer.

The Olympics have become as much a crippling financial burden as a boon to the "lucky" venues selected. (Has Montreal yet paid off its debt from 40 years ago?) 

And even without the back-breaking cost of security and the loss of public freedom involved in staging the Games these days, they've always been an inconvenience to the locals - some of whom get uprooted and dispossessed of their homes to make way for grand facilities and quaint villages for the visiting athletes - and most of whom couldn't afford a ticket, anyway.

But the Chamber Of Commerce types continue to trumpet the benefits of tourism and then ignore the hideous stories of tourist gouging that always go with the Games. 

And if all the hype leading up to the Games at Whistler is making you ill, never fear! There's an "official cold and flu remedy of the 2010 Winter Olympics" - just as there's an official everything for them, so long as some corporation has been willing to pony up for the privilege.

Mind you, I don't approve of the methods used by the protester in Guelph who tacked the Olympic torch-bearer. But I can understand the frustration behind the act.

Just thinking about the hours and hours of television coverage ahead of us is enough to get my teeth a-grinding - especially when you realize that some of the "sports" covered deserve the name about as much as Professional Wrestling. 

The difference is that the clowns of the Professional Wrestling Circus are much more honest. They're perfectly willing to admit the gold they're going for is the gold that's in your pocket.




(Scroll down for the days you've missed. Tomorrow, Day Six: SIX GEESE A-LURKING.)

MORE CALLING BIRDS

One of the things I miss most about living in the Bush is the constant calling of the birds, especially the small ones like the sparrows, chickadees and wrens.

I've tried to duplicate the effect in town with a budgie, but one bird just isn't enough. And he seemed to feel that way, too.

He couldn't wait to hear other birds calling on TV. And as soon as he did, he'd start to call back to them, undeterred by the fact that he never got a proper response from any of them.

I was surprised to discover that the sound of our feathered friends is everywhere on television.

They're in the background track of every outdoor shot (and oddly enough, in quite a few of the indoor ones, as well). They're used to sweeten just about every mention of the word "morning". And, if you listen closely, you'll hear them under nearly every commercial, too.

My budgie's favourite bird call show was the British sitcom, KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. The exteriors were taped in Coventry where, to judge by his reaction, the English sparrows are every bit as highbrow as Hyacinth Bucket (that's Boo-kay!) herself.

After a time, he only had to hear the first notes of the program's theme music, before he'd launch himself into an excited, full-volume squawk. And Heaven help me, if I ever tried switching channels!

The birds I lived with in the Bush were much less demanding. Even the Canada Jays weren't as loud, even when I slept in and didn't make them bannock.

In summer, I used to prepare it over a small fire just outside the back door of my shack. And the Jays would perch on the handle of the griddle and wait for the bread to finish cooking. Then, it was a contest between them and me to see who got the biggest portion.

I remember the first time I ever heard wild birds wake at dawn (a time of the day I'm more likely to be going to bed than getting out of it).

It was damp and cold. And just as the sun threatened to brighten the blanket of gray overhead, a single bird gave a tentative call. Then, in rapid succession, another and another joined in. Then, the entire forest seemed to erupt in a chaotic chorus of bird noise.

The shock of that experience has stayed with me all these years and remains one of the most powerful memories of my decade of wilderness living.

But neither can I forget the night I accidentally set off their alarm.

It was the middle of the night; and I was sitting in my shack, waiting to hear a shortwave broadcast from Radio Brazil and enjoying the sound bite the service used as a filler between programs. It consisted of a looped recording of jungle birdsong, a mix of haunting calls from many exotic South American species.

My antenna was nothing more than several yards of snare wire strung around the ceiling. And while it may have been crude, it worked quite well. In fact, it worked so well that, at times, there were remarkably strong surges of volume from an otherwise weak signal.

And that night, as I sat and listened, there came a big one. And suddenly, the pitch-black silence of my little corner of the Boreal Forest rang with Amazonian bird calls.

I lunged for the volume control; but by then, it was too late. I had already roused my feathered neighbours, who slowly shook themselves awake and, for the next few minutes, did their best to answer the unfamiliar calls.

I felt bad about that for days and kept trying to imagine what must have gone through their little heads when it happened.

And I hoped against hope that Hitchcock's vision of avian revenge was only fantasy and that nothing more went through their tiny minds than, "Oh, it's just that hairy, nocturnal animal playing tricks again. But what else can you expect from a two-legged creature that can't even fly?!"

(Scroll down for the days you've missed. Tomorrow: Day Five of THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS - THE FIVE GOLD RING CIRCUS.)

THREE BARTERED HENS

A few Xmases ago, I was passing through U.S. Customs when an agent wanted to know what I did for a living. When I told her I was a writer, she asked, "Who do you write for?" I said, "Anybody whose cheques don't bounce!"

It was the only time I'd ever gotten a Customs agent to laugh.

I was never as lucky with accountants, especially the ones at CBC.

Once when Mother Corp was a few more weeks behind in their payments than usual, I called someone in the Accounting Department in Toronto to see if I could find out why.

"How much money are we talking about?" she asked. And I explained it was a mid-range, 3-figure sum.

"Oh, well!" she said, as if that explained everything. "That's chicken feed!"

"Buck, buck, buck!" I replied. "And you're talking to one hungry chicken!"

She didn't laugh; and it didn't speed things up, either.

Mind you, at CBQ (our local CBC station), we were blessed with a great accountant by the name of Frank Young. And Frank had a delightfully twisted sense of humour - which is why, I suppose, he was so anxious to help me in my campaign to get paid in live poultry for one of my radio items.

It all began when my producer urged me to do a piece on bartering (trading goods and services instead of using money) - one of those schemes that sounds good in theory but never pans out in practice.

The concept keeps popping up, generation after generation, is tried and rejected, only to show up again ten years or so down the road when the memory of failure has faded.

Knowing this, I took up the challenge reluctantly, determined (once and for all) to show that it could work or else entomb the concept forever.

"What if you paid me for the item with live hens?" I suggested.

Rae Katherine and I were living in the Bush back then. And we knew enough about farming not to want to hand over our lives to livestock. But fresh, organic, free-range eggs had a great appeal; and of all the beasts of the barnyard, laying hens seemed to us the easiest to keep.

At any rate, my producer loved the idea and quickly set the wheels in motion. He contacted Frank, who, in turn, contacted Toronto.

But Toronto was horrified!

They'd never gotten such an oddball request, they claimed. And there was no way they would ever agree to go along with this one.

For days, Frank pleaded with them.

He explained that they could simply transfer the funds to him, and he would take it upon himself to convert currency into poultry and present it to me. He promised they'd never see so much as a feather. And since I swore I'd never again ask for payment in kind, this could be considered an entertaining, one-off joke.

"Never!" cried the accountants.

So, as a course of last resort, Frank suggested I speak directly to one of the supervisors in Accounting and use all my considerable eloquence to plead the case.

I did, but I discovered that eloquence was not enough.

And in the end, the stubborn bureaucrats stood staunchly behind that favourite argument of all hide-bound institutions. "It would set a bad precedent," they insisted. "After all, what if everyone wanted to be paid in livestock?"

So, I had to resign myself to rejection.

But, for weeks afterward, I couldn't get one troubling image out of my head. I kept seeing Peter Gzowski, host of the network's flagship morning show, walking up Jarvis Street, driving a herd of cows and tailed by a gaggle of geese.

And I kept recalling what I used to tell my American relatives when they'd ask me what the CBC was like.

"It's like show business," I'd say, "if it were run by the Post Office."

(Scroll down for the first two of THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, in case you missed them.  Tomorrow: Day Three - "MORE CALLING BIRDS".)

TWO LOVIE-DOVIES

It's going to be hard to send this seasonal message to young lovers without sounding like Scrooge. But that's never stopped me before, so here goes!

Despite the obvious fact that there is nothing wrong with being hopelessly, helplessly in love at Christmas time, there is nothing more likely to spoil the festive mood of your friends and relatives than excessive smooching - especially at the Holiday dinner table. That may be why, when wise hosts seat their guests, they tend to separate new lovers.

And speaking of Christmas dinner, no playing "footsy" under the table, either. That's dangerous at the best of times.

Believe it or not, you aren't the first people to be madly in love at this season of the year. And you won't be the last.

So, take a moment to look somewhere other than in your lover's eyes and spare a thought for the sensibilities of others - not only those poor souls unfortunate enough to find Christmas lonely and depressing, but that much larger group who consider this a time to share affection with as wide a section of humanity as possible (strangers and friends and lovers alike).

When you accepted the invitation to spend some part of your Christmas with family or friends, you accepted a kind of social responsibility. In short, you're expected to mingle. And it's precisely because you're in love that other people want you around. They want to get to know you and your new partner and discover what the hell you see in one other.

So, let them!

In other words, remember that the mistletoe is for everyone. Don't hog it! And don't go wild underneath it, either. There are probably kids around.

There'll be plenty of time for smooching when you're alone later by the fireplace (or under the tree, as opportunity and passion dictates).

We know you're in love! It's obvious! And we're happy for you. Honest!

But if you ignore the rest of us or frighten the kids or put us off our Christmas Pudding, we reserve the right to gloat when love goes wrong. 

"I knew it wouldn't last," we'll say. "You could tell, in spite of the way they acted at Christmas dinner."

And we'll enjoy saying it, too.

(The countdown of THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS continues tomorrow with THREE BARTERED HENS.)

AND A PARTRIDGE IN A SPRUCE TREE

It was a week before Xmas, and I found myself sitting in a make-up room of the old CBC television studios in Toronto.

I'd just convinced the woman who was working on me to put away her eye-liner and simply pat me down with a bit of pancake to take away the shine. And she was doing that, while she discussed with a friend the relative merits of aluminum versus plastic Xmas trees.

Aluminum trees last longer and reflect Xmas lights better, her friend contended. But the make-up lady argued that plastic trees looked more like the real thing, and aluminum branches cut you when you trip and fall into them.

And so the debate went on, until my face was fully dusted and she finally thought to ask me, "What kind of tree do you have?"

"The kind that's still growing and has live birds in it," I said.

She pulled the towel from my neck, gave me an exasperated look and sent me on my way.

But I'd only told the truth.

That Xmas, I'd decided not to cut a tree - even though I was surrounded by 160 acres of likely candidates. The tiny shack I shared with a shaggy Samoyed and two Siamese cats didn't have enough room for a decorated tree; and so, I'd settled for decorating the huge White Spruce just outside my window.

I strung cranberries and popcorn and made chains of coloured paper and draped them around its snow-covered branches. And even if I had no lights (which was just as well, since I had no power to light them), the moon would be illumination enough.

When I was finished decorating it, I sat in my recliner chair and gazed out the window and sipped my eggnog and listened to the snapping of the birch logs in my stove and counted myself luckier than anyone who had to make do with an artificial tree.

And I wondered how many other, smaller trees on my hill housed partridge beneath their lower branches snow-bent to the ground - and if those birds enjoyed sheltering in their trees as much as I enjoyed just staring at mine.

And I remembered another tree from years before, a large spruce on the grounds of the seminary at Mundelein that a group of us had chosen to decorate when we discovered (to our horror) that the tree in our Rec Room was artificial.

Someone pilfered a box of votive candles from the Chapel sacristy and got some tinfoil from the Refectory kitchen to make cups in which to put them. And these, laid on the tree's great branches as high was we could reach, served as our Xmas tree lights.

And in the evening, during that short period in which we had the freedom to wander, we gathered around that tree. And, looking like characters straight out of Dickens in our thick, black great coats (called zamarras), we lit the candles and sang carols and celebrated the true gifts of Nature.

But that night, in my tiny wilderness home, the carols came out of a radio.

The other celebrants had long since curled up and gone to sleep - the cats on the down-filled quilt on the bed and the dog in her favourite spot behind the stove. But I stayed up into the wee hours, staring at my tree and enjoying the tranquility of being the only human being for miles.

And if my tree didn't have a partridge in it at the moment, it might well expect a visit from one on Xmas Day to pick at its decorations and wonder how they got there.

That night, I fell asleep in my chair and woke Xmas morning to find one of the cats sitting atop the now-cool stove, demanding to know when I planned to start it up again.

And whether or not that was the best Xmas I ever had, it certainly was the year I had the best tree - with or without a partridge.

STRANGE PREZZIES

It may be taken as a sign that we've reached maturity when we find more pleasure in giving gifts than in getting them. But I have no idea what it means when I find as much pleasure as I do in giving strange gifts.


I suppose I could always claim that it runs in my family. Ever since I was old enough to get a joke, I was aware of a traditional exchange of one peculiar gift between my mother and a cousin of hers: a jar of clam juice - in fact, the same jar.


The tradition (which has now outlasted them both) had its origins in some obscure gag about not knowing what to get relatives at Xmas. And every Xmas since, it's been passed back and forth, disguised in various, ornate and unusual wrappings; until now, when (should the jar ever break) it will require a HazMat team to clean up the spill.


I've never been that outrageous in my Holiday shopping, but I have had my moments. And I've come to recognize three important elements in selecting an oddball gift.


The first is shock value.


One Xmas in Montreal, I came upon a titanium propeller blade from a Viscount turbo-prop airliner in a little antique shop and couldn't resist buying it. I trundled it into a taxi and headed home to wrap it up.


The driver tried to disguise his shock. (Cabbies hate to admit they haven't seen it all!) But finally, he relented and asked what the hell  it was and what the hell did I plan to do with it. 


"It's a Xmas present for my wife," I explained. And he simply shook his head - sorry that he'd asked - and went back to his driving.


But when he dropped me at my apartment building, he said, "I'll wait down here for a bit, if you want." And when I asked why, he said, "Well, you'll need somebody to get you to the Emergency Room, after your wife sees that!"


I suppose I should have explained the propeller wasn't her only prezzie.


The second element is a gift's longterm effect - the gift that "keeps on giving", as they say.


The best example of that was the time I gave my sister a subscription to one of the more outrageous tabloids for which I wrote. Once every week, the postie would arrive at her door with a copy of NATIONAL SPOTLITE, neatly but not discreetly done up in a plain, brown wrapper. And every week, she felt compelled to explain that she hadn't subscribed to a paper like that and that it was her brother who worked for it - which made it even more embarrassing.


The third and less obvious element in a good gag gift is the craziness involved in buying it.


Not many Xmases ago, I was searching for something for my nephew (then in his mid-20s and newly-obsessed with carving). So, the choice was obvious enough: a block of wood. But acquiring such a simple thing proved to be more complicated than I'd expected.


Craft shops had chisels and such but precious little in the way of raw material. So, I ended up in a lumber yard, explaining sheepishly to the clerk at the order desk that I didn't want a pallet-load of plywood or a huge stack of 2x10s but just a small chunk of wood. 


She sent me to the foreman of the yard, and I went through the whole story again with him.


"What kind of wood?" he asked, with remarkable patience. And we went through the possibilities.


Pine? Soft and easy to work but too common.


Oak? Harder to carve but longer-lasting and elegant. 


"Don't think we have any in stock, though," he mused but sent one of his henchmen off to search, just in case.


Teak? Way too hard, expensive and no pieces the size I'd need.


About this time, another two workers had joined the hunt, offering suggestions, then scurrying off to see if there were any scraps about that would suit.  Before long, almost the entire staff of the yard was caught up in the quest; and I began to wonder if my nephew would have half as much fun with the gift as I was having - even before I'd set eyes on it.


At last, someone appeared with a perfect block of redwood; and we all congratulated him on his choice. The bill came to something under $20, but I'd have gladly paid four times that for the enjoyment of the hunt.


I have no idea what my nephew carved from the thing; but when I find out, I know I'll feel an obligation to pass on the news to a certain group of lumbermen.


So, if you're planning to get something humourous for someone special, I hope these tips will help. And as you scan the pretty parcels left for you beneath the tree and wonder what they might contain, remember to be grateful that it wasn't me who bought them. 


P.S. Starting Xmas Day, I'll be counting down the Twelve Days Of Christmas with a new story every day. 

THE AXIAL HOLIDAYS

Deciding what sort of holiday greetings to send at this time of year has become as difficult as deciding what to serve guests at a holiday feast. You never know what they're allergic to.

Some you wish a Happy Chanukah, others a Merry Christmas or a Jolly Eid ul-Fitr or a Bountiful Quanza. And in an Age gone mad with political correctness, heaven help you if you get it wrong!

It's not hard to see why Frank Costanza (on "Seinfeld") should have created his own holiday: Festivus - for the rest of us. 

I've settled on celebrating only the most significant annual holidays, the ones that predate any and all of the celebrations we know today: the Four Great Axial Holidays (the Summer and Winter Solstices and the Vernal and Autumnal Equinoxes).

For, if there's anything more important than the sun and our position relative to it, I'd like to hear about it!

As long as the carbon-based units infesting this planet have been dancing around fires, it's been to commemorate (and even worship) the solar campfire that warms us all. Crops, animals, even rainfall depend on the emanations of the star we call Sol. And that seems  reason enough to raise a glass or two to it at least four times a year.

And since these significant moments are based on the fact that our planet is a bit cockeyed in its axial orientation, what better way to celebrate than with a bit of cockeyed fun?!

We've lost that wonderful Medieval tradition of turn-about, when the social order got turned on its head, when servant became master and master servant. Of course, there are cynics who'd say we've simply institutionalized that concept in our political systems by electing jackasses to rule us all year 'round.

In any case, as the old Romans used to say, "De gustibus, non disputandum est!"  Or "Don't bother arguing tastes, mate!" And how right those old Romans were!

Let's set aside the things that divide us - just for this one day - and gather around the bonfire once more and talk about the sun and how glad we are to see it rising again in the daytime sky. 

And let's hoist a few and tell a few jokes and have some fun at the expense of both rich and poor and try to imagine what happy circumstance has brought us all (as different as we seem) together in this moment.

And in the end, I think we'll come to see that the real lesson of Dickens' A Christmas Carol is not that Scrooge didn't celebrate Christmas but that he tried to avoid celebrating anything at all.

And let's collectively resolve that we won't make that same mistake.

PEACE: HAIR YESTERDAY, GONE TODAY

On the wall behind me, there hangs a painting. Actually, it's more of an oil sketch. 

It's based on a slide I shot in May of '69 in a bedroom of Suite 1742 of the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal. And it's not hard to identify the subjects.

It has an unfinished look to it, but I like it like that.

It's all I really need to invoke a flood of memories about a time in my life marked by wild and wonderful changes. Not that worming my way into John and Yoko's "Bed-In For Peace" changed my life. That event was more symptomatic than causal.

Rae Katherine always said it was one of the two boldest things I'd ever done in my life, but she never did say what the other one was.

It was Spring. And we were just about to quit our jobs (mine at the Instructional Communications Centre at McGill and hers at the library at Sir George Williams), pack our pets and belongings into an old potato chip van and set out for the wilds of Kaministikwia. So, there was a certain sense of recklessness in the air, and that might have had an influence on my thinking.

At any rate, we met after work one evening; and out of the blue, I suggested we go over to the Queen E and see if we could bluff our way in to meet Lennon and his squeeze. 

Rae Katherine was shocked.

"How would we do that?"

"I'll take my camera," I said, "and tell them we're collecting shots for a slide show on the Peace Movement."

If it didn't work, we'd at least have had the fun of trying.

The off-duty cop sitting in the hallway by the suite (the only security in sight!) met us with a wary look.

"There was a bunch here from McGill just last night."

As it turned out, that was a group of my co-workers come to take some 16mm footage for inclusion in a little silent film they were making me as a going-away present. But since they were doing it as a surprise, I had no idea why they'd been there.

Nevertheless, I kept my cool and explained that we were doing a slide show - a completely different sort of project.

The poor man gave us a tired look that said, "What the hell do I care!" and waved us inside. (On the 40th anniversary of the event, I saw him interviewed on television; and he expressed precisely that sentiment about his unorthodox assignment.)

But once inside, I began to have my doubts. We walked into a kind of waiting room packed with Hari Krishnas and all the sort of hangers-on I despised. Yet there we were: a part of the herd.

We edged our way into a corner by the window and surveyed the scene with some dread. Within minutes, a fellow came out of the main bedroom and demanded, "Are the people from McGill here?"

This is it, I thought. We're busted! 

Sheepishly, I said we were. And then came the shock of my life.

"Would you mind coming in now and using the lighting setup we have for the CBC?" he asked.

"Of course," I allowed, magnanimously. "Whatever's easiest for you!"

And in we walked to John and Yoko's bedroom with the full gratitude of his road manager and a profound sense of disbelief.

Now, at that time, Yoko Ono was not a Beatles fan's favourite person, since she was about to "break up the group". And I'd never been a fan of "conceptual artists", at the best of times. But one look at her lying gracefully in that bed, cuddled up next to John was enough to make me understand what the man saw in her.

She exuded a peaceful but powerful and arresting sort of aura. 


Most of the time, she was on the phone to New York or Hollywood or somewhere, arranging the details of a gathering the next day when they'd record "Give Peace A Chance" with Alan Ginsburg and Tommy Smothers and a host of others.

In an alcove of the room, a local DJ was playing "Get Back!" and other Lennon hits; while John did his best to answer the questions of an overly-earnest CBC reporter.

"What do you think of Marcuse?" she asked.

John didn't recognize the name.

"What's his gig, then?" 

Rae Katherine sat by the bed, while I wandered about, snapping shot after shot (most of which came out blurred, because I was using a range-finder Leica and was never very good at judging distance).

We waited through question after question, in an interview that promised to go on forever; until eventually, my courage failed. 

When it came our turn, what was I going to tell them? I could have said I was a draft dodger or that we were headed off to live a simpler, more peaceful lifestyle and chatted about that. But these people were on a mission. And somehow, I couldn't bring myself to keep up any pretext of putting together a presentation on world peace, when I had no intention of doing that.

So, we bailed.

The road manager was very apologetic about the CBC hogging so much of John's time, but we thanked him anyway and said we had plenty of material as it was.  And we did.

I hadn't shed my doubts about the effectiveness of the couple's wacky method of demonstrating for world peace, but I could see that John was sincere... and as affable and down-to-earth as I'd expected... and more in love than I'd imagined.

And years later, when I tried to sketch his features, I realized I couldn't. Instead, I found myself focusing on Yoko's expression. 

Then, it finally dawned on me. 

She was the one I remembered best from that experience. She was the one who'd shown me what Lennon was really like.

And now, she's the one left on my wall to remind me that the work of achieving peace is as unfinished as my painting. And I can almost hear her say that, even if love isn't all you need, it's surely where peace has got to start.

CHANCELLOR PICARD?

The other day, I was purusing the HUDDERSFIELD DAILY EXAMINER (for reasons too complicated to explain) and noticed an article about the illumination of the Huddersfield town Christmas Lights. 


For those unfamiliar with the British landscape, Huddersfield (pronounced 'Uddersfield in the local patois) is a large market town for the surrounding, mainly agricultural area of West Yorkshire (Last Of The Summer Wine country).


The picture that went with the story in the EXAMINER showed a remarkably familiar face. But the caption identified the fellow as "Chancellor of Huddersfield University".

"Naw! Couldn't be!" I thought. But I was wrong.

It was Patrick Stewart, better known to the Next Generation of Star Trek fans as Captain Jean-Luc Picard.

So, how is it that the genial commander of the Enterprise came to take on his new mission as the ceremonial leader of a crew of 20,000 young cadets? Could it have been his experience teaching at the Star Fleet Academy?

Whatever the case, his new enterprise began in 2003, when he was asked to replace outgoing Chancellor, Sir Earnest Hall.

But why Stewart?

Well, after all, he was born in the nearby village of Mirfield (a tiny place with a population smaller than the University's enrollment). And once a Yorkshireman, always a Yorkshireman, I suppose.

The University recently announced the creation of a BA degree program in "Enterprise Development", but it doesn't have anything to do with construction or maintenance of starships. And the program wasn't Stewart's idea, anyway. 


I couldn't find any courses that bore the good Captain's influence. And, as far as I know, there are no plans to teach "Klingon As A Second Language".


In fact, aside from seeing a familiar face on the podium at graduation, students at Huddersfield U. can expect things to remain pretty much the same.


Although I wouldn't be at all surprised if, when they come to accept their academic degrees, the Chancellor didn't look them straight in the eye and say, "Make it so!"   

MACBETH! MACBETH! MACBETH!

By now, I doubt there's anyone who hasn't heard the theatrical tradition that there's a curse connected with Shakespeare's play, MACBETH and that one should never do what I've just done: call it by name - especially inside a theater.

You are, in fact, supposed to refer to it as "the Scottish play". And should you happen to slip and break the taboo, there are a series of silly rituals to be performed to prevent impending disaster.

Some say it's all to do with Shakespeare using genuine witches' incantations, others that the spirit of the real King MacBeth resents the way he's been portrayed.

In any case, there have been deaths during the staging of the play - including one at its premiere, when a real dagger was substituted for a prop one.

In the 1940s, London's Drury Lane Theater was the scene of another tragic accident when the ballpoint tip came off McDuff's sword and the actor playing Macbeth was wounded and later died of blood poisoning. (According to psychic medium, Derek Acorah, the ghosts of both impaler and impalee still haunt the theater.)

But I have no qualms about shouting the Scottish King's name inside a theater or out, because I believe a group of us involved in a college production of MACBETH in Chicago back in the mid-1960s are forever spared the curse. And I'll tell you why.

I'd joined the troupe of actors at Loyola which included David Perkovitch, Keith Urban (the dancer, not the singer) and a number of other classic characters; because majoring in Philosophy was boring me to tears. And these people were all clearly mad and were willing to admit it, which made a refreshing change.

So, my hopes for our production of MACBETH were high.

The fellow cast as the King had a deep, rumbling voice and (better still) came with an already impressive, well-trimmed beard. Keith, who played McDuff, was tall, handsome and athletic. And the fact that the two were roommates meant they had plenty of time to practice their big fight scene, the violently climatic moment of the piece.

They were unusually secretive about their progress, though, and gave the first preview of the duel only at the full dress rehearsal.

Even for those of us watching from the wings, it was chillingly realistic. They had worked long and hard to make the brutal ballet incredibly convincing, and their work had paid off.

Come opening night, we all looked forward to seeing the battle again and to watching the effect it would have on our audience.

Finally, it was time for the arch-foes to square off. Steel clashed, feet stomped, bodies leaped about the stage, so that no corner of it seemed safe from their fury.

And it was obvious the lads were enjoying the action every bit as much as the rest of us - perhaps a little too much.

MacDuff lunged and MacBeth parried with such force that he actually flung the sword right out of MacDuff's hand. It went clattering across the stage. And suddenly, there stood our villain, waiting to be killed by a hero who was totally unarmed.

The audience gasped.

They knew how things were supposed to end. But now, it looked as if there was no way for the play to finish as it was supposed to finish.

Then, in a redeeming moment I shall never forget, the actor playing MacBeth had a flash of inspiration. He stopped, turned to his foe and, with the grace of a cavalier, motioned for him to pick up his weapon.

The audience cheered.

And right then, theater history was made. The man portrayed for centuries as a cold-blooded villain was given a touch of tragic humanity he must surely have appreciated.

And in that instant, I fancy, MacBeth forgave us.

So, I'll go on speaking his name; and I hope the others in that cast will, too. For among actors, we are all blessed.

And henceforth, the Thane of Cordor can direct his curses to those who really deserve them - those deceitful hags who started all the trouble in the first place.

THE COLD TRUTH ABOUT FROZEN WALT

If anyone can speak to the truth of urban legends, it's me. Well, at least where one of them is concerned.

I'm talking about the much-promulgated myth that Walt Disney was cryogenically frozen at the point of death and awaits thawing as soon as the world needs him again. And I can speak to that story, because I'm the one who wrote it.

It all began in Montreal back in the late 1960s when I was writing for the Globe Newspaper Group, a collection of nefarious supermarket tabloids that included MIDNITE, SPOTLITE, BULLETIN, EXAMINER and CLOSE-UP.

One night, a friend had come over for a visit, brandishing an application for a job as editor on one of those rags.

"Look at this," he cried. "Look at what they want me to do! I could never write stuff like this!"

I scanned the story idea they'd asked him to complete and said, "I think I could."

And that simple statement was the start of a two-and-a-half year odyssey into the never-never land of what I liked to call "social science fiction" - not as a tabloid editor, but as a freelance "reporter".

Within a short time, I was churning out 8 to 10 stories a week and (even at the Globe's misery rates) earning as much or more in a couple of hours each night as I made all week at my legitimate job in educational television at McGill.

Not only did I find the work endlessly amusing, but it earned me a certain cachet among the people I worked with, whenever they'd gleefully find themselves written into one of my tawdry tales.

But never did I think that anything I wrote would last past the next issue.

Then, one fateful day, an editor handed me a picture of a cryogenic unit and said, "Your Dad's an undertaker. You ought to be able to do something with this."

And he was right.

After a bit of brainstorming, I decided to put a celebrity in it, then create a fictitious hospital employee who'd stumbled on the freezer unit and discovered the shocking truth.

Now, it happened that Disney had recently died; and since I'd always considered him  overrated and overly commercial, I jumped at the opportunity. But I was careful to lay the blame for his bizarre preservation not with the family but with the greedy, corporate suits who'd inherited his legacy.

Then, I collected my $22 (plus a $5 bonus, because it was used as a cover story) and proceeded to forget about the whole thing.

It was only 2 years later that I happened to pick up a copy of the Village Voice and read about a rebel animator who claimed he fully believed that Disney was not dead but frozen. And once again, I had a good chuckle and moved on.

Then, shortly after that, I was listening to a comedy album by a group called Firesign Theater and nearly fell out of my chair when they made reference to the story, as well. Then, it was Johnny Carson's turn. Then came a British comic called Alexei Sayles, then Jay Leno and on and on and on.

In the 70s, when a former Canadian Cabinet Minister, Judy LaMarsh, began hosting CBC Radio's flagship morning show, I was invited on as a guest to talk about my days on the tabs and the Disney myth, in particular.

"How could a nice guy like you write something like that?" she wanted to know.

"For the money," I replied.

But that was only half true. The fact is: I enjoyed my short-lived spree of literary mischief. In fact, I suspect I learned as much about writing in that brief period as I ever have anywhere else.

And if you think that age and experience have mellowed me and made me repentant... well, think again!

I'm perfectly willing to set the record straight and say that, to my knowledge, Walt Disney was buried exactly as the real newspapers reported and was never frozen.

But I reserve the right to maintain my opinion of the man's work and worth as well as my enduring skepticism about the corporate conglomerate that continues to trade on his name.

And, in lieu of royalties, I'll gladly settle for a good chuckle now and then over urban myths and the people so eager to believe them.

I suppose that's recompense enough.