1066 and all that
England! Oh England!
Much time in my Anglo-French household is spent debating the victories in battle of the English over the French and vice versa. It’s time to put the record straight. Apart from Bill le Conk and Joan of Arc, the French have beaten the English in battle very few times. The wars went on down the centuries from 1066 until the nineteenth century. It seems that the English fought the French more often than they fought any other nation! Apart from a short run of bad luck in part of the fifteenth century, one might say… there’s Agincourt, Waterloo, Oudenarde, Trafalgar, Blenheim, Poitiers and Crecy to name but a few of England’s victories!
But I’m not going to strut triumphantly around the kitchen lest I be personally defeated by the rolling pin of the French contingent here. I shall appease them immediately by offering this excellent account by Sellar and Yeatman of 1066 and all that…
“1066 and All That...
The Norman Conquest was a grisly tale of treachery, deception and intrigue. But why and how did it happen?
Normandy was a region in northwest France which, in the 155 years before 1066, was settled in by Vikings. In 911, French ruler Charles the Simple allowed a group of Vikings, under their leader Rollo, to settle in northern France with the idea that they would provide protection along the coast against future Viking invaders.
This worked well and the Vikings in the region became known as the Northmen (from which Normandy is derived). The Normans quickly adapted to the indigenous culture, doing away with paganism and converting to Christianity, transforming the language of their new home into the Norman language, and intermarrying with the local people.
Why did they invade England?
Well, it's a bit complicated, but very dramatic.
William, Duke of Normandy, was born in 1027. In 1064, he was named heir to the throne of England, based on the fact that his aunt was the mother of King Edward the Confessor of England, making the two men cousins.
According to William, Harold Godwinsson, Earl of Wessex, carried the news to him, and swore a holy oath to support his claim, and to follow him. However, Harold claimed that Edward the Confessor on Edward the Confessor's deathbed in January 1066, he commended the country into Harold’s care. Knowing this claim must have sounded a bit dodgy, Harold had himself crowned king of England the day following the death of Edward.
Harold was excommunicated by the Pope for going against his holy oath to support William's claim to the throne.
Now invasion from Normandy (and a miffed William) was inevitable, and for several months, Harold kept his army ready. However, as the summer wore on and no assault came, supplies were used up, and eventually Harold had to stand down much of his force.
The third wannabe
As if things weren't messy enough, at this point a third contender for the English throne, Harald Hardrada, king of Norway, made a move to capture it. His claim was based on an agreement with Harthacut, the last Danish king of England, who preceded Edward the Confessor on the throne.
In mid-September Hardrada tried to invade Yorkshire, and Harold was compelled to lead his forces north to counter this threat. The Battle of Stamford Bridge followed, and Harold's men beat the invaders.
However, as the English army was recovering, news came that William had landed at Pevensey in Sussex. Harold had to subject his troops to another forced march along the length of the country to meet the Normans, a far scarier enemy.
The armies were about the same size (4,000-7,000), but the English force was made up of peasants and poorly trained infantry, while the Norman force was purely fighting men and contained archers and cavalry, both of which the English lacked. To make matters worse, Harold's troops were tired, while William's were fresh.
On October 14, after the customary insults were exchanged, the armies started fighting.
Harold's troops made a shield wall, to protect themselves from arrows, but even so, they made easy targets for the Norman archers, and as the bowmen began to fall, William brought his cavalry to the fore, to charge the English shield-wall.
Throughout the day, he wore down the English. William pretended to retreat twice. The English give chase, and the Normans turned and charged them. The result was devastation for the English. Harold and both his brothers were killed, along with much of the English aristocracy.
It is very unlikely that the figure with the arrow in its eye depicted on the Bayeux Tapestry is Harold. Reports from the time say that, in fact, Harold was so badly hacked and disfigured that his mistress had to identify him.
William moved on to London and was crowned king on December 25, 1066, his name becoming William the Conqueror.”
Missing England...
So there you have it! I do find myself from time-to-time feeling a little homesick for England. I love English humour and the quirky eccentricities of English life. I’m sure part of what I miss is an iconic illusion of yesteryear and nothing properly to do with any English reality. It’s about warm beer, fish and chips, Rumpole of the Bailey, Just William, the idyll of the village pub, Blackadder and Monty Python! But then the part about warm beer is probably right! I happen to like warm bitter beer!
The late poet, John Betjeman, is something of an English icon too. He used to love to mock the “nouveau riche”, the aspiring English lower middle classes. Here’s one of my favourites of his on that same theme:
How to get on in society
Phone for the fish-knives, Norman,
As Cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.
Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.
It's ever so close in the lounge, dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea,
And Howard is out riding on horseback,
So do come and take some with me.
Now here is a fork for your pastries,
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know what I wanted to ask you --
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?
Milk and then just as it comes, dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.
by John Betjeman [1906 - 1984]
In a TV interview he gave in his old age, John Betjeman was asked "Do you have any regrets?"
He replied: "Yes. I wish I'd had more sex."
Late-Flowering Lust
My head is bald, my breath is bad,
Unshaven is my chin,
I have not now the joys I had
When I was young in sin.
I run my fingers down your dress
With brandy-certain aim
And you respond to my caress
And maybe feel the same.
But I've a picture of my own
On this reunion night,
Wherein two skeletons are shewn
To hold each other tight;
Dark sockets look on emptiness
Which once was loving-eyed,
The mouth that opens for a kiss
Has got no tongue inside.
I cling to you inflamed with fear
As now you cling to me,
I feel how frail you are my dear
And wonder what will be--
A week? or twenty years remain?
And then--what kind of death?
A losing fight with frightful pain
Or a gasping fight for breath?
Too long we let our bodies cling,
We cannot hide disgust
At all the thoughts that in us spring
From this late-flowering lust.
by John Betjeman [1906 - 1984]
Some of my readers from across the pond might not get this next one. It needs to be read in a cockney accent. I’m unsure of its origin but I believe that it was an old music-hall song:
DAHN THE PLUG'OLE
A muvver was barfin 'er biby one night,
The youngest of ten and a tiny young mite,
The muvver was pore and the biby was thin,
Only a skelington covered in skin;
The muvver turned rahnd for the soap off the rack,
She was but a moment, but when she turned back,
The biby was gorn; and in anguish she cried,
'Oh, where is my biby?' - the Angels replied:
'Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug-'ole,
Your biby 'as gorn dahn the plug;
The poor little thing was so skinny and thin
'E oughter been barfed in a jug;
Your biby is perfeckly 'appy,
'E won't need a barf any more,
Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug 'ole
Not lorst, but gorn before!'
Anon
À Bientôt… À la prochaine!
But I’m not going to strut triumphantly around the kitchen lest I be personally defeated by the rolling pin of the French contingent here. I shall appease them immediately by offering this excellent account by Sellar and Yeatman of 1066 and all that…
“1066 and All That...
The Norman Conquest was a grisly tale of treachery, deception and intrigue. But why and how did it happen?
Normandy was a region in northwest France which, in the 155 years before 1066, was settled in by Vikings. In 911, French ruler Charles the Simple allowed a group of Vikings, under their leader Rollo, to settle in northern France with the idea that they would provide protection along the coast against future Viking invaders.
This worked well and the Vikings in the region became known as the Northmen (from which Normandy is derived). The Normans quickly adapted to the indigenous culture, doing away with paganism and converting to Christianity, transforming the language of their new home into the Norman language, and intermarrying with the local people.
Why did they invade England?
Well, it's a bit complicated, but very dramatic.
William, Duke of Normandy, was born in 1027. In 1064, he was named heir to the throne of England, based on the fact that his aunt was the mother of King Edward the Confessor of England, making the two men cousins.
According to William, Harold Godwinsson, Earl of Wessex, carried the news to him, and swore a holy oath to support his claim, and to follow him. However, Harold claimed that Edward the Confessor on Edward the Confessor's deathbed in January 1066, he commended the country into Harold’s care. Knowing this claim must have sounded a bit dodgy, Harold had himself crowned king of England the day following the death of Edward.
Harold was excommunicated by the Pope for going against his holy oath to support William's claim to the throne.
Now invasion from Normandy (and a miffed William) was inevitable, and for several months, Harold kept his army ready. However, as the summer wore on and no assault came, supplies were used up, and eventually Harold had to stand down much of his force.
The third wannabe
As if things weren't messy enough, at this point a third contender for the English throne, Harald Hardrada, king of Norway, made a move to capture it. His claim was based on an agreement with Harthacut, the last Danish king of England, who preceded Edward the Confessor on the throne.
In mid-September Hardrada tried to invade Yorkshire, and Harold was compelled to lead his forces north to counter this threat. The Battle of Stamford Bridge followed, and Harold's men beat the invaders.
However, as the English army was recovering, news came that William had landed at Pevensey in Sussex. Harold had to subject his troops to another forced march along the length of the country to meet the Normans, a far scarier enemy.
The armies were about the same size (4,000-7,000), but the English force was made up of peasants and poorly trained infantry, while the Norman force was purely fighting men and contained archers and cavalry, both of which the English lacked. To make matters worse, Harold's troops were tired, while William's were fresh.
On October 14, after the customary insults were exchanged, the armies started fighting.
Harold's troops made a shield wall, to protect themselves from arrows, but even so, they made easy targets for the Norman archers, and as the bowmen began to fall, William brought his cavalry to the fore, to charge the English shield-wall.
Throughout the day, he wore down the English. William pretended to retreat twice. The English give chase, and the Normans turned and charged them. The result was devastation for the English. Harold and both his brothers were killed, along with much of the English aristocracy.
It is very unlikely that the figure with the arrow in its eye depicted on the Bayeux Tapestry is Harold. Reports from the time say that, in fact, Harold was so badly hacked and disfigured that his mistress had to identify him.
William moved on to London and was crowned king on December 25, 1066, his name becoming William the Conqueror.”
Missing England...
So there you have it! I do find myself from time-to-time feeling a little homesick for England. I love English humour and the quirky eccentricities of English life. I’m sure part of what I miss is an iconic illusion of yesteryear and nothing properly to do with any English reality. It’s about warm beer, fish and chips, Rumpole of the Bailey, Just William, the idyll of the village pub, Blackadder and Monty Python! But then the part about warm beer is probably right! I happen to like warm bitter beer!
The late poet, John Betjeman, is something of an English icon too. He used to love to mock the “nouveau riche”, the aspiring English lower middle classes. Here’s one of my favourites of his on that same theme:
How to get on in society
Phone for the fish-knives, Norman,
As Cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.
Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.
It's ever so close in the lounge, dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea,
And Howard is out riding on horseback,
So do come and take some with me.
Now here is a fork for your pastries,
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know what I wanted to ask you --
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?
Milk and then just as it comes, dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.
by John Betjeman [1906 - 1984]
In a TV interview he gave in his old age, John Betjeman was asked "Do you have any regrets?"
He replied: "Yes. I wish I'd had more sex."
Late-Flowering Lust
My head is bald, my breath is bad,
Unshaven is my chin,
I have not now the joys I had
When I was young in sin.
I run my fingers down your dress
With brandy-certain aim
And you respond to my caress
And maybe feel the same.
But I've a picture of my own
On this reunion night,
Wherein two skeletons are shewn
To hold each other tight;
Dark sockets look on emptiness
Which once was loving-eyed,
The mouth that opens for a kiss
Has got no tongue inside.
I cling to you inflamed with fear
As now you cling to me,
I feel how frail you are my dear
And wonder what will be--
A week? or twenty years remain?
And then--what kind of death?
A losing fight with frightful pain
Or a gasping fight for breath?
Too long we let our bodies cling,
We cannot hide disgust
At all the thoughts that in us spring
From this late-flowering lust.
by John Betjeman [1906 - 1984]
Some of my readers from across the pond might not get this next one. It needs to be read in a cockney accent. I’m unsure of its origin but I believe that it was an old music-hall song:
DAHN THE PLUG'OLE
A muvver was barfin 'er biby one night,
The youngest of ten and a tiny young mite,
The muvver was pore and the biby was thin,
Only a skelington covered in skin;
The muvver turned rahnd for the soap off the rack,
She was but a moment, but when she turned back,
The biby was gorn; and in anguish she cried,
'Oh, where is my biby?' - the Angels replied:
'Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug-'ole,
Your biby 'as gorn dahn the plug;
The poor little thing was so skinny and thin
'E oughter been barfed in a jug;
Your biby is perfeckly 'appy,
'E won't need a barf any more,
Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug 'ole
Not lorst, but gorn before!'
Anon
À Bientôt… À la prochaine!
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