Kaycee’s Klasic Films – Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid

Siobhan Kennedy-Clarke’s classic film reviews
Our fictitious reviewer Siobhan (KayCee) didn't have much of an education but she's passionate about films

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Yeah going back a bit again 1969 some people think of this as a western but I don’t it’s set in those times but it ain’t at all like all those old cowboy films from the 50s its what is now known as a buddy movie.

There are four things I like about this first Paul Newman and Robert Redford both rather tasty don’t you think well I do. Second its funny some of the lines are hilarious its dry wit though kind of supple and I like that. Third the other characters there all good and fourth the music which is unusual I suppose done by Burt Bacharach and sometimes sung by the Swingle Singers who do arabella music with no instruments and no words just singing sounds you may not like that and I can’t say I’ve got much on my iPod but for the film it works great.

Butch and Sundance are outlaws part of the Hole in the Wall Gang it’s Butch’s gang really and they’ve been away for a while so when they get back to Hole in the Wall their hideout this giant guy Harvey thinks he’s taken over. He wants to settle it with a fight cos he’s so tough but Butch walks up to him and says he won’t start till they get the rules sorted out and he goes “Rules? In a knife fight? No rules,” and Butch kicks him right in the cobblers and wins.

Oh, even before that right at the start we find out that Sundance is a famous gunfighter he’s playing cards and someone accuses him of cheating. Butch comes in and tries to reason with the guy but he won’t listen and Butch goes, “I can’t help you Sundance.” The guy just about craps himself and says “I didn’t know you were the Sundance Kid when I said you were cheating. If I draw on you you’ll kill me.” And Sundance goes, “There’s that possibility.” Cool as a cucumber.

You know sometimes when I write these things I don’t want to tell you any good bits because if you haven’t seen it already there’s nothing like the first time but something like this you’ve probably seen before so shall I carry on I guess so.

They rob a train and the owner of the railroad is sick of it and hires a posse of the best lawmen, trackers and that that he can find. Great line from Butch: “If he’d just pay me what he’s spending to make me stop robbing him I’d stop robbing him.”

The screenplay (script) is by William Goldman and if this was all he ever done (which it wasn’t) he could of died happy it’s so good.

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Sundance has a girlfriend Etta (Katharine Ross) and they all decide to move to Bolivia to get away from the posse. There’s this nice bit of brown and white film as an interlude while they go to New York and get the boat to South America and the soundtrack goes all Swingle Singers and they arrive in this one horse town and Sundance is furious and then they find they have to learn Spanish to rob banks to tell the people what to do so Etta teaches them. It all gets very difficult and uncomfortable so she goes back home she’s a teacher and eventually the boys find themselves with half the Bolivian army against them.

Its great so funny nice scenery good music and everything I know it word for word but I still love watching it cos it ain’t one of those macho bang bang things although there is a bit of shooting.

 

 

The English Pedant – And so to Z

iTunes might seem like a strange resource for looking at language, but it’s where I went when I found myself writing about the letter Z. Not only is that the last letter of the alphabet, but it’s probably the most underused.

In English that may be because we often pronounce s as z (was, because etc.) So interchangeable have they become that there is a transatlantic split. The spellchecker on Microsoft Word, being a US national, automatically changes my spelling of organisation to organization, just as it changes centre to center and so forth. Regardless of its being pronounced zee rather than zed, clearly there are more z’s in the USA than in the UK, but it is much more common in Eastern Europe.

So, iTunes. Being a music buff, I have more than 2,000 songs at my disposal, but not one title starts with z. As for artistes, iTunes complicates the search by its insistence on using first names for alphabetical order, but the only two bands in my list are ZZ Top and Zero 7 (whom you’ve probably never heard of and I’ve only ever heard one track, so don’t worry about it).

Thinking about second names, there’s some Frank Zappa among my souvenirs, and The Zombies. You may recall In the Year 2525 by Zager and Evans, but I  never liked that.

Album titles: Zuma by Neil Young. Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust is in there somewhere, but not under z because the album is officially called The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars

Look up any list you like and you’ll find the same story. Films: Ice Station Zebra. Actors: Billy Zane.

US presidents: Zachary Taylor (1849-50). UK Prime Ministers: a couple of Fitzsomethings but no first letters.

Its rarity makes z an exotic letter. Zen sounds mysterious because of the letter at the start. If it was called Ken, it wouldn’t have the same je ne sais quoi.

It does crop up as a penultimate letter from time to time, though, which is what brought it to my attention. In an article about the disgraced American Olympic swimmer Ryan Lochte, written by an American, it told how Lochte was “a jock” (that means Scottish where I come from)  and how university students give newcomers to their fraternity a good “hazing”. Adrift on this sea of Americanism I eventually decoded it. A jock is an athletic type, a fraternity house is like a men’s hall of residence and hazing means giving someone a hard time to the extent of humiliation.

Although it is easy enough to find the definition in a dictionary, the origin of this word is unclear, as is the reason for its recent popularity.

Perhaps it is something to do with the word “faze”, which became widespread a few years earlier. To be fazed by something is to be deterred, put off or intimidated and it is often heard  in a testament to someone’s fortitude. “Nothing fazes him”.

And that has nothing at all to do with the word with which it is sometimes confused, phased, which is occasionally used as a verb to describe a gradual process. “Steam engines were phased out in the 1950s.”

Dispensable though those two words are, at least they  breathe a bit of life into the struggling z.

 

Confessions of an expat – Salute to an unsung heroine

There is a lot of patriotism in Suriname, which is, perhaps, surprising, bearing in mind the amazing blend of cultures involved. The national flag flies everywhere. The ‘I heart Su’ slogan is emblazoned on t-shirts and bags. There are even songs blasting out of car radios, celebrating the claims of Paramaribo as one of the world’s cool cities. But few people here recognize that it is a bona fide world leader in something.

No, not mining, although that is a key industry. Not installing security fences and razor wire, although for better or worse there is plenty of that. But where this country shows the rest of the world how it’s done is in the art of car washing.

All over Paramaribo there are people offering to rinse the grime off your four-wheeled darling for a small amount of money. There are little one-man operations and more sophisticated-looking places with three or four berths, and the good news for motorists who care about their delicate paintwork is that, for reasons of lack of finance, the washing methods here are gentle.

Elsewhere, car wash technology has developed to the extent that in some countries it is completely automated, with whirling bars flailing plastic strips moving on rails forwards and backwards, lashing the panels so hard it’s surprising the metallic bits in the paint don’t jump out. You certainly wouldn’t want to see a human being washed by one of these – and we’re self-healing.

So despite its unwanted limitations, Suriname finds itself at the forefront of an industry because in this case less really is more and less efficient is also less damaging. This is the land of buckets and sponges, with the slicker operators using high-pressure hoses to separate dirt from paintwork. It’s a good thing it rains so much around here, though, because in a country concerned with water conservation – and there are plenty of them, from the deserts to climate-changing Europe – you’d never get away with sending 100 litres of nature’s essential supply down the drain.

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This was a charity event

This admiration for an industry dawns on me as I sit on a plastic patio chair on a street corner halfway along busy, grimy, unfashionable Franchepanestraat, relaxing for half an hour while a highly industrious woman of Chinese ancestry takes a break from badgering her teenage son into doing his homework (I couldn’t understand a word of the conversation, of course, but the sound of a scolding mother is universal) to do a vehicle makeover.

She’s a hard worker, this woman, running an internet café and a carwash business from her  sun-baked shack. I had seen her before as I walked past her premises during the long weeks while a bank and a garage went through their interminable bureaucratic procedures. Now, finally, it is my turn to occupy the waiting area and watch her in action.

It’s not a glamorous job for a woman. You get hot, you get dirty and you get wet. Which makes me wonder why she is wearing flip flops. Wouldn’t something waterproof on her feet be a better idea?

She opens all the doors and cleans the windows on the inside, spraying some supermarket glass cleaner and wiping/polishing with a crumpled sheet of newspaper. Then she drags a small vacuum cleaner out of the shack and does the business with that, after removing the mats and spanking them on a wooden pillar that holds the roof up.

Next she gets out the water jet gun and shoots the dirt off the exterior of the car, powering the water into the wheel arches to get rid of the caked mud.

The car looks fine to me, and the sun will dry it in five minutes, so I imagine that’s it. But no. She shouts for junior, who emerges from his reluctant studies with a bucket, fills it with soapy water and proceeds to lather my pampered Toyota, giving his mother a kiss before she applies some chemical or other to the wheels. Then the water lance comes out again and I’m grateful for the occasional accidental cooling spray as the Queen of Clean brandishes her weapon.

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And this is how they do it in the less sophisticated areas

The soap now on the ground, floating on water two inches deep, I guess this really is it.

Wrong again, as she comes back with a cloth and proceeds to wipe the panels. To get at the roof she has to open doors and stand on the sills, which she has just cleaned. How is she going to do that with her muddy footwear?

I watch in humbled admiration as she lets the flip flops slide from her feet with practised ease to stand on there with her bare soles. She may be no ballerina, but this place is the Bolshoi of its own world.

More newspaper, more squeaky windows. She quoted me 20SRD last week ($2.50 US), but surely that was for the basic job, rather than this de luxe treatment.

The quote stands. 20 SRD and a smile. This woman is a star. An unknown, unsung, unpretentious heroine in her tiny, obscure part of the planet.

 

 

 

 

Ref! On the Olympics and George Michael

The candid thoughts of former Premier League referee Colin Preece, as recorded by our eavesdropping mole in the Duck and Peasant.

 Referee

Evening lads,

So, what did we think of the Olympics then? Needs a rethink, Dave? I don’t disagree with you, mate, but I wonder if we have the same thoughts on the general principle.

Well, it’s a paradox, isn’t it? A paradox, Baz, is… kind of hard to explain. It means two things exist together when you’d think it doesn’t make sense. Like George Michael and Aretha Franklin, Dave, thank you. The American Queen of Soul and an English berk who was a teenage girls’ heartthrob until he got arrested for gay activity in public toilets.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, Baz? I appreciate that we’re men of the world and despite your Neanderthal appearance you’re trying to keep up, but actually there is something wrong with that. Not necessarily the gay part but the public aspect. Look, we’re going wildly off the subject; what’s the matter with you two tonight?

The Olympics, gents. What I was trying to say is that on the one hand it’s supposed to be a celebration of man’s physical gifts – stop it Dave – and yet you can’t believe any of it because you don’t know who’s been taking performance-enhancing drugs. Now I know we once had a spliff before that match against Woolford, but we didn’t ever do it again because cannabis is not performance enhancing. It robs you of your edge.

There was a time when Malcolm Allison was in charge of Manchester City and he caught one of his players in the middle of a match gazing at the sky and when he asked him what the hell thought he was doing the guy said he was looking at the birds flying overhead. That’s only performance-enhancing if you’re a landscape painter.

But athletes seeking to gain an advantage, they’re taking drugs to make them stronger, bigger, fitter. Yes, it’s been going on for years, but it’s got to stop. I don’t know if there is a drug to make George Michael sing as well as Aretha Franklin, but there are some that will make him think he’s as good as her.

Cheers Gary, I’ll have a shot of Jagermeister and see if I get arrested by the thought police because it looks dodgy.

No, you see, it makes football look like an innocent’s game. Apart from Maradona that time with his wild eyes that had “out of me head” written all over him, I don’t reckon the beautiful game has a drug problem. They’ll push the boundaries with things like injecting sheeps’ placenta into an injured knee – afterbirth, Baz; yes I’m serious, believe it or not – but you don’t find footballers looking like Ben Johnson.

I know Gianluca Vialli when he was Chelsea manager gave everyone half a glass of champagne before a match, but that was psychology. You’re never going to win a game if you’re pissed, and that’s what footballers like to do of an evening.

Of course I’m not saying everyone’s at it, Dave. Probably not even all of the Russians, but you just don’t know, do you? When Maria Sharapova, who looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her lap, admitted taking meldonium but said it was for a heart condition and she knew it by a different name and anyway she’d stopped before it became banned – when that happens, lads, we have to admit the current system is  a lost cause.

 

 

Just a song

I don’t think Stephen Stills, best known as part of Crosby Stills Nash and Young, is religious, but he wasn’t afraid of mentioning Jesus on this song, which sounds like a love song for a Christian girl. Incidentally, the Dallas Taylor whose name appears on the cover was not the Christian musician of that name. He was a drummer who played on both CSN and Deja Vu, had problems with alcohol and drugs, had a liver transplant, started working with young addicts and died last year, aged 66.

Bloke in the Kitchen. Tropical chicken stew

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Taking the mystery and fear out of cooking

It is very easy to get into a rut with our cooking, churning out the same old stuff week after week because we know how to do it and we know people like it, but it can get predictable.

One way to freshen things up without overtaxing the brain is to do similar things with different ingredients.

For instance, chuck a bit of meat in a casserole dish with some carrots and potatoes, add a stock cube and some water and you’re making a stew.

But if you use chicken and some less common vegetables, it’s just as easy but tastes completely different. Tropical vegetables are easy to find in most places these days, and people don’t use them because they don’t know what to do with them.

Today we’re going to make a tropical chicken stew with aubergines, okra and plantain.

Tropical veg
Fresh from my garden in the tropics? No, but photographed there

Aubergines, the smooth, shiny purple things also known as eggplant, are a doddle. Cut off the green bit where the stalk is, cut them up and they’re ready to go. We used to be told to lay salt on them to remove the bitterness, but I don’t find them bitter at all. They’re not fantastically flavourful, in fact, but they add texture.

The same is true of okra, which some may find a bit slimy when you have them as a bindi bhaji. In a stew, though, they make it succulent.

Plantains, the macho big brother of the banana, can be cooked when they are still green (we did that months ago as the Venezuelan dish tostones). As they ripen they get sweeter and when they’re very ripe and you fry them they are very much like bananas, funnily enough. For this recipe we’re going to use them in a medium state, on the verge of turning yellow but nowhere near the black state (at which they are still perfectly edible, by the way).

INGREDIENTS

Chicken thighs or drumsticks

One large aubergine, sliced crossways into half-inch rounds

Half a dozen okra, chopped into half-inch pieces

One large or several small plantains cut in half lengthways and into chunks

One green pepper, chopped

Onions, sliced

Root ginger, not grated but chopped into small cubes

Chicken stock

Soy sauce

Chilli powder

METHOD

Marinate the chicken in soy sauce and garlic for at least one hour.

Fry the chicken quickly just to seal it, and sprinkle a little chilli powder on it.

In the same pan, put the plantain in first and give it a minute or two on its own, then do the remaining ingredients – you will probably have to do them one at a time.

Put all the vegetables and the chicken into a casserole dish and add half a pint of chicken stock plus a splash of red wine and a sprinkling of celery salt (not too much).

Cook in a medium hot oven for two hours, checking occasionally. If it is drying out, add more stock and wine. When it’s ready, squeeze some lime or lemon juice over it

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And as the tropical shadows fall across the dining table, dinner is served. I used boneless pieces of chicken this time

VARIATIONS

The plantain provides the carbohydrates, but by all means use potatoes or sweet potatoes for bulk – or mash and serve separately. You could also use yam, dasheen, cassava or one of the other tropical root vegetables, peeled and chopped.

Spice it up with some sort of hot sauce if you like. Chefs in the Caribbean often use white vinegar to liven up this sort of thing. Try a dash and see if you like it.

 

The wisdom of pop songs – The greatest pop song ever

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You know that old thing where someone asks you what your five favourite songs are? It’s very difficult to answer, and even more difficult when you refine the rules. Does that mean five songs or five versions? Could you therefore nominate Like A Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, Spirit, Patti Smith and The Rolling Stones?

What the question really means is which five songs would you take to a desert island if five was all you could have. Even then, it’s pretty hard to decide. For me the list would change every day.

But as a song lover, a student of – and dabbler in – the craft of songwriting, I recently came to this conclusion: the best pop song ever written is I Close My Eyes And Count To Ten, as recorded by Dusty Springfield in 1968.

And why do I state this so clearly? Because it’s a masterpiece of construction, instrumentation and production – with the obvious added bonus of being sung by one of the great pop voices.

The song was written by Clive Westlake, not a well-known name, but The Hollies had a hit with his Here I Go Again and his lesser-known material was recorded by, among others, Elvis Presley, Petula Clark and Tom Jones.

Westlake was a classically trained musician (Royal Academy of Music), which accounts for the majestic intro on grand piano. But it is piano played with verve, with joy, with key-shattering gusto. This owes a lot to the producer and pianist, who I’m assuming was John Franz, Dusty’s usual producer and a renowned pianist (although my internet search failed to come up with anything concrete). If you listen to live versions, the pianist is playing the same notes but it just doesn’t have the oomph, the magic.

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This wasn’t my idea. Bloody photographers.

Then we come to the construction, to describe which I have to get slightly technical on yo ass. Pop songs tend to go verse verse chorus verse chorus, possibly with a different bit in the middle which is often eight bars long and therefore known as a middle eight.

But look at this.

It isn’t the way that you look
And it isn’t the way that you talk
It isn’t the things that you say or do
Make me want you so

It has nothing to do with the wine
Or the music that’s flooding my mind
But never before have I been so sure
You’re the someone I dreamed I would find

It’s the way you make me feel
The moment I am close to you
It’s a feeling so unreal
Somehow I can’t believe it’s true
The pounding I feel in my heart
The hoping that we’ll never part
I can’t believe this is really happening to me

I close my eyes and count to ten
And when I open them you’re still here
I close my eyes and count again
I can’t believe it but you’re still here

We were strangers a moment ago
With a few dreams but nothing to show
The world was a place with a frown on its face
And tomorrow was just, I don’t know

But the way you make me feel
The moment I am close to you
Makes today seem so unreal
Somehow I can’t believe it’s true
Tomorrow, will you still be here?
Tomorrow will come but I fear
That what is happening to me is only a dream

I close my eyes and count to ten
And when I open them you’re still here
I close my eyes and count again
I can’t believe it but you’re still here
I close my eyes and count to ten
And when I open them, you’re still here

Two verses  (It isn’t the way… etc.) and what comes after them is the chorus: “It’s the way you make me feel…”

But then what happens? We get the “I close my eyes…” section, which is a kind of second chorus. The first would have been enough to make it a hit, but here you’ve got your ice cream with chocolate sauce and then some raspberry stuff on top. You’ve got your McDonalds fries with ketchup and mayonnaise. But this is the best one: you’ve got  your tequila with orange juice, which is nice, but then grenadine as well, making it a tequila sunrise and extra special.

So that’s the technical aspect. But that counts for very little unless the song just sounds and feels great. And it does.

It makes me glad to be alive.

Specifically it makes me glad to be alive in the pop era. William Shakespeare, Queen Victoria and even Marilyn Monroe might have had eventful lives and enjoyed many things, but they were gone by the time Clive Westlake and Dusty Springfield brought us their masterpiece.

Sir Winston Churchill missed it by a couple of years.

Billy Wells, the gong striker for Rank films, checked out with just months to go.

And Bobby Kennedy was assassinated at around the time the record was released in the UK.

And here it is. Pity about the dress, eh, ladies?

Kaycee’s Klasic Films – Anjelica Huston

Siobhan Kennedy-Clarke’s classic film reviews
Our fictitious reviewer Siobhan (KayCee) didn't have much of an education but she's passionate about films

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Hollywood is full of beautiful women and the real world is full of women who wish they looked like them I think you’ll agree that’s true. It’s different for men because they can have character roles in movies and then become really big when they get older and looks don’t matter so much.

But for the ladies no one wants to look at a non-stunning girl see I’m not talking about revolting like a witch with a spiky nose and rotten teeth I’m talking about you and me the average women in the street. Sure, we get along okay and there are potential partners out there who think we’re beautiful because they love us but generally speaking it’s easier if you look like Marilyn Monroe.

But once in a while you come across a woman who breaks the rules and manages to get cast in good roles in spite of the fact that when she sees herself in a photograph, she must think, “Why is this funny looking woman always in my pictures?”

I’m writing about this because last night I watched a film in which Anjelica Huston was the only adult female. She had a cameo they call them a brief appearance but since almost every film has to have a woman for people to lust after she must of been it.

Anjelica’s mother was a ballerina and her father was John Huston, a director, and her grandfather was Walter Huston an actor. So I guess showbusiness was in her blood. She started off as a model so obviously somebody thought her looks were unusual but not unattractive and so did Jack Nicholson who she was with for a long time.

She is a kind of role model for girls who aren’t what we would call normal-pretty it’s not having that perfectly proportioned face and body its how you carry yourself and a lot of it is to do with appearing to be happy with yourself. If you’re giving off the kind of feeling that says “Don’t look at me cos your eyes will get dirty” you’re putting a nail in your own coffin. You don’t have to be cocky either mind you or you’ll make a fool of yourself just be confident your all woman and your as good as anyone else okay that’s enough of Kaycee the guru what do I know about it.

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Dead sexy: Anjelica Huston as Morticia Addams

So Anjelica has had a decent career with films like The Postman Always Rings twice (with Jack), Prizzi’s Honor and The Grifters and if your wondering the one I mentioned with the cameo was Seraphim Falls with Pierce Brosnan and Liam Neeson. She was Morticia in The Addams Family (extremely sexy I reckon) and she did a couple of Woody Allens.

Two others who have flown the flag for the woman of character are Judi Dench and Barbra Streisand. Somebody once said of Judi “She’s not beautiful but she can play beautiful” by play they mean act and that’s what I was talking about she dresses well holds her head up and gives it some serious dignity. Being the first female M in James Bond she had to be tough and believable in that way but you also got the feeling that Bond quite fancied her and if they did get together for a night he might learn a thing or two.

As for Barbra she’s such a character that if she wanted you to think she was once an Olympic hurdler and Miss World you’d believe her.

It’s a short list because like I said at the start the film world is full of pretty little things no disrespect to them but there is room for other types too not just Nicole Kidman and Michelle Pfeiffer  there’s hope for us all.

 

The English Pedant – When names become fashionable

Why do certain names catch on while others don’t? A primary school teacher told me a few years ago that suddenly her school, in a poor area in the north of England, was full of Jordans and Kayleighs. Several years on, research has shown that youngsters with such names are far less likely to be at university than people called Josh and Daisy.

Kayleigh, of course, can be traced straight back to the rock band Marillion and their huge hit single in the early 80s. But Jordan? Why?

There was no influential man with that as a first name at around Kayleigh time, and the Scottish footballer Joe Jordan was hardly a cult figure. Michael Jordan? He’s American and a basketball player, so he wasn’t all over the papers and magazines and broadcast media in the UK.

Josh and Daisy are simply names that went out of fashion for a few generations and were then reassessed and popularized. It’s the same with Daniel and Joseph and Rebecca and Rachel. Not many of those were christened in the 1960s and 70s, but suddenly they had a revival, mainly shortened to Dan and Joe and Becky.

These are all biblical names, which is perhaps strange in these unbelieving times, but you can bet your life most of the young parents have no idea what the namesakes were well known for in the Bible. It is probably just coincidence that the current list doesn’t include such catchy names but dubious characters as Jezebel (seductress, murderer, worshiper of idols) and Delilah (cut off Samson’s hair as he slept lovingly in her lap and thus removed his extraordinary strength).

Muslims are more than happy to call their children Mohammed, and the word Islam crops up in names (Cat Stevens, the English singer-songwriter, converted and was known as Yusuf Islam, although he dropped the last name recently, perhaps because it raises the subject of religion when it doesn’t need to be raised).

Why are there quite a few Jesuses  (pronounced hayzoose) in Spanish-speaking countries but none in English-speaking ones?

Perhaps it feels blasphemous or appears to be tempting fate in the UK, US, Australia etc. to call a child after one considered perfect and who was crucified at the age of 33.

Even the clunky old grandparent names such as Mabel and Ruby have undergone a bit of a revival, with the male side not quite so keen, but the occasional Walter and Wilfred is creeping in.

J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan was responsible for a spike in popularity for the name Wendy, which came to the author’s attention when his young daughter couldn’t pronounce “friendly”.

Several years of living in the Caribbean have shown me that names don’t have to be traditional and can be completely made up. Anything that sounds good is fair enough out there, while in the UK,  registrars and ministers are likely to object. The English actress Suranne Jones, for instance, who made her name in the soap Coronation Street and recently won awards for Doctor Foster, was christened Sarah Anne because the minister politely informed her parents that Suranne wasn’t a real name.

The name-pedants’ vigilance hasn’t stopped Jonathan being spelled Jonathon, perhaps because people are used to seeing the word marathon. And talking of the Olympics,  the same contingent must be bracing themselves for a flurry of requests, such as to call boys Trayvon, as sported by American athlete Trayvon Bromell. Then again, the world’s most celebrated athlete, Usain Bolt, hasn’t had his name lifted by hosts of adoring fans. Nor have Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo.

Usain Smith? Trayvon Carruthers? Zinedine Johnson? You just never know.

Confessions of an expat – The terminator

In times of austerity it makes sense to do things for ourselves, rather than call in an “expert”. That, of course, deprives the expert of the money, but, you know, people are doing the same to us, so it’s dog-eat-dog.

That was the line of thinking when my wife noticed a wasps’ nest under the eaves.

This is in one of those Surinamese houses where the living goes on upstairs, while the ground floor is all fresh air and cars. There is a balcony and the bit of roof that keeps the rain off it, the underside of which is called the eaves, apparently. And that is where these wasps have built their nest.

But how do we know it’s wasps and not bees, I wonder aloud. And I don’t know how long this nest has been there, but not even a solitary flying hazard has been seen in the house itself. Clearly they’re not interested in looking at the paintings, admiring the settee suite or even checking out the fridge. But such arguments fall on deaf ears. As the official jack-of-all trades, this is my responsibility.

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This sort of thing, but stuck to the ceiling

The first resort in this day and age is to look it up online. All the advice I find is based on the hazards, not of having a nest under the eaves, but of getting rid of it. Cover up, long sleeves, a hat, gloves and goggles. If it’s in an inaccessible place that you can’t reach, don’t use a ladder because when they come after you, you’re going to panic and fall off. Better to call an expert. Yes, but that’s probably written by an expert, looking for business. And we’re on an economy drive.

More advice. Smoke the wasps out first. What with, a disposable barbecue? Held out on a shovel because it’s somewhere that doesn’t have a handy shelf underneath? It’s surprising what goes through your mind when you’re tackling a problem you’ve never considered before.

Do it in the evening when the wasps have settled down. At last a sensible suggestion.

So, the options: take a broom and knock it off, then make a run for it back into the house and slam the sliding door shut. Poke mothballs in through the entrance? A local chancer once tried to talk me into letting him put mothballs around the edges of the garden to keep out the snakes, charging me a lot of money per ball. But he also told me the woman across the road had just died of malaria and all in all I didn’t believe a word he said.

One online bright-ideas merchant suggests spraying glue in the nest, but there are problems with that. The entrance is on the outside, so even if it was closer, you’d be working on something you couldn’t see. And spray glue? I haven’t seen that for years.

Then the brainwave hits the shore. Downstairs there is a hose for watering the garden or washing the car. Upstairs at the back is the shower, where there is a tap similar to the one downstairs, which you can screw an attachment to. Measure the distance from shower to balcony; check hose. It should reach.

I feel like an RAF boffin during the Second World War, plotting an attack on a German munitions factory. By golly, George, a hose! That just might do it – and it’s the last thing they’ll be expecting.

Trial run. It is just about long enough. I leave it there – they’ll never notice – and will do it at sundown.

As the shadows fall across the patch of weeds and the odd flower at the front, I lure the dog into a room at the back so he doesn’t get in the way. Turn the tap on and tiptoe out onto the balcony. Shoes on but no protective gear because after all, it’s hot around here.

Pull the hose as much as I dare without dislodging it from the clip attached to the tap. The water pressure’s not too good, so I can spray the nest but can’t blast if off. How do they attach it there upside down, anyway? Must be wax. I give it a good soaking and there is a mass exit, but they fly away from the water and therefore from me. After a while the bottom of the nest breaks off, soaked and heavy. We turn the bomber around and head back to Blighty.

Next day there is great activity up there. They don’t know when they’re beaten. Trying to rebuild it. We’ll have to go back tonight, George, and do it all over again. Meanwhile, let’s chuck some buckets of soapy water at it.

As dusk falls once more, day two of the campaign follows the same routine. Get as close as you can but this time keep adjusting thumb position to get a good solid stream. Keep it up for longer than yesterday until parts of the nest are hanging down. The tenants have dispersed, so I slide the broom along and flick the thing off.

Hero? Heartless villain? Bully? In a foreign land you never know what you’re up against. Just doing my job.