Umbro vintage windbreaker

by Umbro

Leeds, West Yorkshire, 1995.

The snowy January gave way to a wet and windy February and then to an equally unpleasant March. The sidewalks were filling with mutilated corpses of umbrellas, and I was worrying that mine would join them in a matter of days, if not hours. (The glorious Fulton was yet to be discovered by me.)

One of those rainy afternoons a thought struck me: maybe intead of an umbrella I need, um, an Umbro? This windcheater stared at me through the shop window with its lonely diamond-shaped eye. “Will you take me home? Please?”

So I did. It must have been the first item of clothing I acquired in Leeds. Naturally, it was not called “vintage” back then. I don’t remember how much I paid for my “famous blue raincoat” but it couldn’t have been more than a tenner. I never expected this oversized piece of 100% nylon to become my best investment, garment-wise. And here it is, three decades later, still up to its job (of protecting me from the elements), as good as new. That’s quality. I’ve worn it over any other garb in my possession, including a puffer jacket and a backpack, from Leeds to Boston to Porvoo to Santander, etc. etc.

Here’s to another 30 years!

Crowdie Ever Mair / Овсянка

by Robert Burns and Samuil Marshak

I was not aware that Burns Night even existed until exactly 30 years ago, yes the very day of my first encounter with haggis and, as I learned much later, Black Brant scare. I arrived in Leeds just three days before and was staying at my Professor’s house while looking for my own accommodation. It started snowing in the afternoon, so we took the early leave — that is, about 5 pm, when everybody goes home. We spent the next two hours in a traffic jam. It was still a pre-mobile phone era and there was no way for the Professor to call his wife to say we’re stuck. At least we were sitting comfortably in the car, listening to the radio, most likely BBC Radio 3 broadcasing, guess what, Rabbie Burns songs.

Upon arrival, we were offered a dinner featuring hot porridge — Mrs Professor was an enthusiast of this dish on account of spending her formative years in Scotland. I found it impossible to refuse the first portion of the stuff but managed to politely decline the second helping.

Which brings me back to Burns. In The Complete Works of Robert Burns, there is a letter to Mrs. Dunlop from 15 December 1795 where he writes:

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots ballad —

“O that I had ne’er been married,
etc. ”

See, Crowdie Ever Mair was already “old” in Burns’ times. I’m sure the Bard changed a word or two to make it sound more modern.

Robert Burns Crowdie Ever Mair

Роберт Бёрнс, перевод С.Я. Маршака Овсянка

O that I had ne’er been married, I wad never had nae care; Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns, An’ they cry crowdie ever mair. Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, Three times crowdie in a day, Gin ye crowdie ony mair, Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away. Waefu’ want and hunger fley me, Glowrin’ by the hallan en’; Sair I fecht them at the door, But aye I’m eerie they come ben. Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, Three times crowdie in a day; Gin ye crowdie ony mair, Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away.

Раз — овсянка, Два — овсянка И овсянка в третий раз. А на лишнюю овсянку Где мне взять крупы для вас? Одиноким, неженатым Не житье, а сущий рай. А женился, так ребятам Трижды в день овсянки дай. Век живет со мной забота. Не могу ее прогнать. Чуть запрешь за ней ворота, Тут как тут она опять. Раз — овсянка, Два — овсянка И овсянка в третий раз. А на лишнюю овсянку Где мне взять крупы для вас?

What’s “crowdie”? According to the glossary here,

Crowdie, a composition of oatmeal, boiled water and butter; sometimes made from the broth of beef, mutton, &c. &c.
Crowdie time, breakfast time.

The Russian translation of the song is called «Овсянка». «Овсянка, сэр» (“Porridge, Sir”) is a popular in Russian-speaking space meme from the 1981 Soviet film «Собака Баскервилей». In this movie, Sir Henry Baskerville was not a huge fan of it. The blasted dish is never mentioned in the novel, so it must have been an invention of the filmmakers. Also, porridge was used as ammo par excellence by Gromit in A Close Shave. Told you, it’s not edible.

In memory of Sergey Valkov

Таких людей на самом деле не бывает. Они из книг, из сказок — никак не из нашей реальной жизни. Серёжа был на самом деле. Юрий Дёмин (Грач)

People like him do not actually exist. They are from books, from fairy tales, but by no means from our real life. Seryozha actually did exist. Yuri Demin

On 11^th June 1997, I received an email with a header: “Your friend is dead”. The body of the message was not much longer. That’s how I learned of the death of Sergey Valkov¹.

I met Sergey for the first time in 1978 or 1979, can’t be more precise, at the Cine-Photo Section of the Moscow Young Pioneer Palace, of all places. I was in the animation group, he was with the camera operators.

Apart from our love of cinema, we were both interested in guitar. Sergey was a poet and a singer, a self-taught cantautor. He was dreaming of making his own film. He wrote script and songs, found actors (well he himself planned to play a role), but he didn’t have any equipment on his own, and it proved to be impossible to shoot in the Cine-Photo studio without the approval of худсовет (“arts council”) of MYPP.

Performing at the Cine-Photo Section of the Moscow Young Pioneer Palace, ca. 1980

Gogs

an animation series by Deiniol Morris and Michael Mort

The first time I saw an episode of Gogs was some 20 years ago, in Leeds, during LIFF. It was an evening of British animated films featuring, among others, Achilles and A Close Shave. At the time, I didn’t know much about Wales, so for me it was like a revelation: Gogs were Welsh!

In the 2000s, I bought the DVD. Our kids practically grew on them, so I forgot what effect they could have on fresh audience. Last year, on my penultimate day in Liencres, I did show my 5-year-olds a couple of episodes — only to be totally ignored. I couldn’t understand what’s wrong with those kids. Wasn’t it gross or violent enough for them? Then again, it took a while to introduce them to Simon’s Cat, which they eventually demanded daily.

Last week, it was a turn of my sixth-graders. On the last day before the Easter break they were clearly not in a mood for science. To my delight, their reaction was exactly what I was hoping for.

— ¡Qué asco!

Yes, my dears. If I don’t teach you a bit of British culture, who will?

Address to a Haggis

by Robert Burns and Samuil Marshak

My first encounter with haggis happened exactly 19 years ago, in the canteen of the University of Leeds. I was told that this is the dish to eat on Burns Night (and, by extension, on Burns Day). As far as I remember, I quite liked it. I can’t say the same about neeps and tatties.

To my surprise, I’ve just learned from the (last year’s, but still, better later than never) Russian TV programme Москва в твоей тарелке (Moscow on your plate) that now you can order haggis, or something looking like it, in one of two Scottish restaurants in Moscow. The programme is presented by Russian poet, gourmand and my old friend Yuli Gugolev. At least, I hope he still is my friend. I last saw him, let’s see, about 30 years ago.

Where were we? Oh, aye. As I was saying, I don’t mind haggis at all. I don’t miss it either. What I do miss though is a Burns Night as it used to be organised by my former employer (typically a week or two after the actual Burns Night): dancing, whisky sampling, food, more dancing, more food and drink, piping of the haggis... actually, skip that, I can’t stand bagpipes... and of course, Address to a Haggis (followed by more food, drink and dancing).

Robert Burns Address to a Haggis

Роберт Бёрнс, перевод С.Я. Маршака Ода шотландскому пудингу «Хаггис»

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak yer place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace As lang’s my airm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dicht, An cut you up wi ready slicht, Trenching your gushing entrails bricht, Like onie ditch; And then, Oh what a glorious sicht, Warm-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmaist, on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, ‘Bethankit’ hums. Is there that ower his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi perfect scunner, Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him ower his trash, As feckless as a wither’d rash, His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit: Thro bloody flood or field to dash, Oh how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his wallie nieve a blade, He’ll make it whissle; An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle. Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies: But, if Ye wish her gratefu prayer, Gie her a Haggis!

В тебе я славлю командира Всех пудингов горячих мира, — Могучий Хаггис, полный жира И требухи. Строчу, пока мне служит лира, Тебе стихи. Дородный, плотный, крутобокий, Ты высишься, как холм далекий, А под тобой поднос широкий Чуть не трещит. Но как твои ласкают соки Наш аппетит! С полей вернувшись, землеробы, Сойдясь вокруг твоей особы, Тебя проворно режут, чтобы Весь жар и пыл Твоей дымящейся утробы На миг не стыл. Теперь доносится до слуха Стук ложек, звякающих глухо. Когда ж плотнее станет брюхо, Чем барабан, Старик, молясь, гудит, как муха, От пищи пьян. Кто обожает стол французский — Рагу и всякие закуски (Хотя от этакой нагрузки И свиньям вред), С презреньем щурит глаз свой узкий На наш обед. Но — бедный шут! — от пищи жалкой Его нога не толще палки, А вместо мускулов — мочалки, Кулак — орех. В бою, в горячей перепалке Он сзади всех. А тот, кому ты служишь пищей, Согнет подкову в кулачище. Когда ж в такой руке засвищет Стальной клинок, — Врага уносят на кладбище Без рук, без ног. Молю я Промысел небесный: И в будний день, и в день воскресный Нам не давай похлебки пресной, Яви нам благость И ниспошли родной, чудесный, Горячий Хаггис!

Leeds

I first visited Leeds in 1994. The place did not look welcoming. It was raining for three days and I saw a bit of sun on the fourth day, when I was about to go. All in all, the visit was a success: I got my first job in the UK. I came back in 1995 and spend three years there. Yuri was born in Leeds. Also, I learned a thing or two about samba and guitar-making. I saw John Abercrombie, Julian Argüelles, Django Bates, Carla Bley, the late Michael Brecker, Juan Martín, Barbara Thompson, Keith Tippett and Stan Tracey playing live. I even bought the tickets to see Stéphane Grappelli, but the maestro got ill and the concert was cancelled. After Leeds, Cambridge seemed to be a deep province. All gigs of interest were elsewhere.

Leeds is an amazing city. It was transforming almost daily when I was there and it keeps changing. Day or night, it is busy with life. It still does not look welcoming though. The pedestrianised area aside, it is not pedestrian-friendly. Come to think of it, it is not motorist-friendly either. As far as cyclists are concerned, it is plain hostile.

Leeds is not an easy city to live in, let alone love. Do I miss Leeds? Sure I do. I miss being called “love” by strangers. (At the petrol station: “Number four, love? Ta.”) Live there again? Probably not.

Central Leeds boasts a bewildering array of shops, bars and restaurants, but it is not easy to spot anything, um, idiosyncratically Leodian. Here is a good one: Pickles & Potter deli cum sandwich bar in Queens Arcade. A welcome relief from Starbucks; cash only.

I saw these pearls of Yorkshire wisdom in a shop window in Grassington. I made note of them for our very own Yorkshireman, Yuri. He especially liked the “pay nowt” bit.

’Ear all, see all, say nowt.
Eat all, sup all, pay nowt.
If tha ever does owt fer nowt, allus do it fer thissen.

Tha can allus tell a Yorkshireman, but tha can’t tell ’im much.