Welcome to the first of my special lectures on the subject of lepidoptery. Over the course of the week we will look at a number of special butterflies and consider what we might learn not only about them, but also from them.
Our first featured butterfly is a possible gynandromorph of the ornithoptera priamus poseidon. At least, that is what it said on the envelope in which I received it from the Lepidoptery Society. When shaking it from the envelope, it fluttered under the sofa along with the notes describing its genus. Although I was able to find the specimen, I’m sorry to report that the notes have quite vanished. In consequance, much of what follows is purely speculative.

A gynandromorph, ladies and gentlemen, is a species that has both male and female sexual characteristics and organs. At birth, one may not distinguish the gender of the creature in the usual manner. My dog, Flaps, is also a gynandromorph, which is exceedingly rare in bulldogs. I say “my dog” but I’m no longer in possession of him/her, since I shrewdly donated him/her to the English department of a University where I once worked. He/She was an unwanted gift to begin with.
Note the yellow markings of the tale. They’re nice, aren’t they?
There is a certain school of thought that maintains that Shakespeare’s Hamlet was also a gynandromorph, citing the “more things in heaven and earth” speech as their proof, specifically the lines: “Or such ambiguous giving out, to note / That you know aught of me” (Act I, scene V). The fact that Shakespeare had almost certainly encountered our yellowtailed friend at Stratford Butterfly World lends weight to this theory.
Incidentally, Poseidon was the Greek god of both the sea and earthquakes in ancient mythology; brother of Zeus, Hades and Hera. The Greek myth has since been surpassed in popular culture by a rather splendid Irwin Allen disaster movie, The Poseidon Adventure (1972) in which Gene Hackman in the role of Reverend Frank Scott dies shouting “HOW MANY MORE LIVES!?!”
The Reverend Frank Scott was based on a real life acquaintance of mine, The Reverend Francis Stoat. Francis Stoat did not die in a misadventure at sea, but rather of a liver complaint. Nevertheless, his dying words were the same.
At this point I’d say more, but frankly, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to knock off early and get to the bar. Are there any questions from the audience?

When speaking of insects one tends to think immediately of those small air-breathing arthropods who are generally referred to as creepy-crawlies. Those many-legged ambassadors to the Wyrd that manifested themselves most grotesquely in Sartre’s nauseous terror that his tongue would transform within the fleshy comforts of his mouth into a hideous black centipede.
But the butterfly, with its broad wings of many colours is also an insect, and an indisputably beautiful one at that. The greatest author of the last century, Vladimir Nabokov, was also a distinguished lepidopterist. My grandmother was so fond of these fluttersome rebukes to the repellence of insects that we all went to her funeral with butterflies in our shoes – a gesture far more fitting to her memory than any of the jittery words uttered by the vicar with his remote notions of Eden.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please make yourselves comfortable for Doctor Pockless’ Guide to Lepidoptery.

OK, so I can’t really claim that this song represents my blog. It does, however, represent an important period of transition in my life.
Like so many people (if I only I had known it), I had spent most of my adolescence wrapped up in that particular blend of self-absorption, self-pity, self-hatred, self-subordination and self-consciousness which is the particular prerogative of the Young And Sensitive.
But, of course:
a) My suffering was unique in its awfulness.
b) No-one else had ever suffered like me.
c) No-one else could possibly understand how I felt.
d) Because everybody else hated me and no-one cared. Obviously.
e) Therefore, my suffering was all everybody else’s fault. Bastards.
Naturally, one of the best ways of enjoying this condition was to identify with the lyrics of popular songs of the day – because who else but pop lyricists could possibly articulate my pain?
However, it took a special kind of song to both define and satirise my pain… and this is the unique strength of A Song From Under The Floorboards. With a delicious, almost gleeful sense of sardonic bitterness, singer Howard Devoto is positively revelling in his self-abasement on this track. By the end of the song, he and his band sound positively jaunty about it.
When you have reached the stage where you can actually poke fun at your own angst, then maybe you have also accumulated enough self-knowledge to begin to turn a corner on it. This is where A Song From Under The Floorboards found me.
Every word of this lyric is drenched in personal resonance and significance for me. It is the perfect articulation of my eighteen-year-old state of mind. Having just rediscovered it after over twenty years, listening to this song takes me back to that time – but affectionately, and with wry amusement. It helps me reconnect with the very different person that I once was.
And it might very well be my favourite song of all time.
(Well, either that or Weak Become Heroes by The Streets… but that’s another story.)
Oh, and musically speaking: it’s utterly glorious, of course. Drenched in melody and texture. Why not take a listen for yourself?

The Uborkess herself asked me to post a couple of reminders. “Sure!” I said. “I write reminders all the time!”
The problem is, mostly I write them to myself, and mostly they don’t work. I have one by my elbow here that says “PAY GAS/ELECTRIC BILL.” Hm. Oops.
Nonetheless, she asked me to impart the following before taking to bed, and impart it I will:
One, a last reminder for anyone who still wishes to nominate a track for The Mix CD.
Two, a first reminder that cocktails are to be served today. Fishing through our little pool of instructions from the Maestros Uborka, I find this: Cocktails will, of course, be in line with the week’s theme. Mixed Drinks, then, in honor of the Mix Disc. No fewer than three ingredients per drink, please, excluding ice and garnish. Order away!
I’m delighted to announce my request, as it’s a rare occasion that I can take part in the Uborka Cocktail Hour, my location (and by extension time difference) being a rather inhibiting factor. So it’s with elation that I request, from whoever is tending the bar, a Singapore Sling in a very tall glass.
Don’t forget the cherry.
And with that, I retire.

Bring Bow of burning gold:
Bring Arrows of desire:
Bring me Spear: O clouds unfold!
And though I rest from Mental Fight,
And though sword sleeps in hand
I will not rest til Jerusalem is built
In Englands green and pleasant Land.

And finally we have Blakey again, versifying from his bus. What I failed to notice when I chose this track was that it was 9 minutes long. I could have had three Buzzcocks tracks in that time (Off the top of my ever-so-handsome head, these would have been What Do I Get?, Ever Fallen in Love, and Everybody’s Happy Nowadays) – but while Buzzcocks songs are splendidly sweet in their brevity, I, as you will have noticed, am not.
I tend to go on a bit.
Yes, I love short songs. Songs that surge forward in excitement only to leave you teetering over the abyss of longing; these are the very meaning of pop. But I couldn’t have had This a year fe Rebels by The Godsons for the very same reason. I suspect you haven’t heard it, and if anyone could find a copy lurking on the Net I’d be quite profoundly grateful. It’s a little over a minute, if I remember rightly, and the lyrics consist only of the title sung as a plaintive but insistent refrain. Meanwhile I couldn’t even guess at the instrument on which the melody is played, over a classic rocksteady rhythm. And then it ends, rather abruptly, with the words “Stop right there an’ try the nex’ one.” Which invariably one does.
This is the track that made it onto almost every compilation I ever made. And yet, I no longer have a copy.
In fact, I meant to say a few summary words on Jerusalem, which has been my topic for the week, but sod it. If any one can find This a Year Fe Rebels not only will I make it my back up choice in the event of Jerusalem being just too long, but I will pick up the tab for today’s cocktails.