Apparently, so many newspapers say, people are flushing unwanted terrapins down the loo – thinking they may harm the environment if released into the wild – but they are surviving the sewage system and arriving in the environment anyway. Of course, these cute little creatures grow up and get to dinner plate size (or bigger) and start eating local plants and animals but, since they have no natural predators, continue to multiply potentially causing havoc. Hence the warning not to dispose of terrapins down the toilet. What should you do? Take them to the RSPCA I suppose.

chorus:

PLEASE DON’T FLUSH, PLEASE DON’T FLUSH,
YOUR TERRAPINS DOWN THE LOO.
OR YOU MAY LIVE TO REGRET IT,
COS YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT THEY’LL DO.

verses:

GROW INTO GIANT NINJAS
IN THE SEWER OR THE DRAIN,
AND THEN YOUR FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS
WILL ALL BEGIN TO COMPLAIN.

THEY MAY LOOK SO VERY CUTE
IN YOUR AQUARIUM,
BUT OUT IN THE ENVIRONMENT
THEY’LL EAT UP EVERYONE.

THEY’LL SWIM INTO THE COUNTRY
THE RIVERS AND THE LAKES,
CONSUME ALL THE WILDLIFE
AND SO FOR GOODNESS SAKES.

UNTIL THEY GROW SO BIG AND STRONG
AND BID FOR WORLD DOMINATION
AND WE’LL HAVE TO CALL THE ARMY OUT
FOR TURTLE EXTERMINATION

To Listen: https://soundcloud.com/mauricebaker-1

The lyrics of the song below are not autobiographical – but could almost have been, as I discovered not long ago from digging into family history. It seems that sometime after our father died of TB in 1953, Mum seriously considered sending me and, possibly, my younger brother Paul, away under the Child Migration Scheme. This was operated by various charities but actively encouraged by the British Government and those of other Commonwealth countries, notably Canada, South Africa, New Zealand and Australia.

After we lost our Dad, Mum was also seriously ill and, unable to care for the family, the four of us were put into foster care. The youngest, Matthew, just two years old, was looked after in a children’s home; our sister, Lesley, taken in by neighbours; while Paul and I were fostered by a family living on a council estate a couple of miles away. However, as far as I was concerned, it could have been a hundred miles for, although our new home was reasonably comfortable, it seemed strange, nothing being said about why we were split from our family – not even what had happened to Mum and Dad.

When, after a few months, we were reunited it took us all some time to adjust and settle back into family life. Though, in truth, it was like starting from scratch. Since my parents married in 1943 they had constantly been on the move from one part of England to another and the most recent location, Thames Ditton, Surrey, was quite new to us. So, after we’d broken up and come back together again, the whole situation was unfamiliar and somewhat daunting.

Maybe Mum panicked or just still felt too run-down to cope with bringing up four lively kids alone in an alien place with very little income and no friends or other support network. Anyway, hearing about the possibility of easing her burden by sending one or two of us away to sunnier climes must have seemed an attractive idea at the time. And, of course, many others were also taking advantage of the Assisted Passage Scheme which, for only £10 per adult (kids went free) enabled thousands of Brits to start a new life in Australia or New Zealand. Given that life in the UK during the Fifties was still grim following the war (food rationing was only lifted in 1954) many welcomed the opportunity to start a new life. They were not to know that, on arrival, migrants were placed in basic hostels and the expected job opportunities were often not available.

However, there was a somewhat more sinister side to the Child Migration Scheme where, according to the Child Migrants Trust, ‘Between 1947 and 1967 up to 10,000 children were shipped to Australia. They were sent to populate a nation with what was called at the time “good white stock”.’ Apart from this racist motivation, ‘Parents weren’t told the truth. Their children lost their real identities and were told they were orphans going on holiday to a place where the sun always shines.’

When these children got to Australia they were also often very badly treated. ‘Those who suffered the harshest treatment were the boys sent to Bindoon, an isolated institution north of Perth. The Catholic Christian Brothers ran it – children built it. British children were forced to do hard labour until they were 16-years-old. Some of them had unimaginable abuse inflicted on them.’ What made it even worse was that the scheme was endorsed by the British Government, since it was cheaper to care for children in the colonies than at home in the UK, and that respected charities such as Barnardo’s, the Church of England, the Methodist Church, Catholic Church and the Salvation Armey played major roles.

I was not an orphan, but neither were many other children packed off to Australia for a ‘better life’. In some cases, as with our family, children were separated due to illness or financial circumstances and not told the truth. Neither had they any way to investigate their background and only found out they had siblings or parents alive some years later, helped by charities such as the Child Migrants Trust.

One important and life changing event I do recall, not long after our family was re-united, was a trip to see my paternal grandfather – though I only realised its significance recently. I remember the day well because it was so unusual to see the old man, who must have been in his late eighties, and because my mother took me on my own. He was, or seemed to me then, a genial eccentric, inhabiting a big ivy-clad house in the suburbs of Cambridge filled with antique furniture and bookcases packed with impenetrable tomes. He had been, in fact, a well-respected Professor of Mathematics (Henry Frederick Baker FRS, FRSE, 1866 – 1956) though I knew little about him until fairly recently.

Shown into his presence, the fragile old man was friendly, though perhaps a little uneasy talking to a young lad, asking the usual adult-kid questions about school, hobbies and ambitions, etc. I remember telling him I was interested in history for some unknown reason (I wasn’t) and he handed over a large grey book on British History which I never read. Something I said or did must have impressed him though because, I later discovered, he advised my mother not to send me to Australia.

BOUND FOR AUSTRALIA

WE ARE BOUND FOR AUSTRALIA IN THE MORNING
MY BROTHER AND SISTER AND I
ABOARD A BIG OCEAN LINER TRYING SO HARD NOT TO CRY
THEY SAY THE PLACE WE ARE GOING TO IS A FINE AND LUCKY LAND
IT’LL BE LIKE AN ENDLESS VACATION
OF SUNSHINE BLUE SEA AND GOLDEN SAND

BUT WHEN WE ARRIVED IN AUSTRALIA – MY BROTHER AND SISTER AND I
THEY SAID WE COULD NOT STAY TOGETHER
SO AGAIN WE WERE WAVING GOODBYE
AND I WAS TAKEN TO AN OUTBACK FARM – A PLACE OF HARDHIP AND TOIL
TO SLAVE AWAY MANY HOURS A DAY DIGGING THAT RED AUSSIE SOIL

AND SOMETIMES I WISHED I HAD NEVER BEEN BORN
WE WERE SORELY MISS-USED AND THAT’S FOR SURE
NO PROPER EDUCATION AND NO DECENT EXPLANATION
WAS IT ONLY CHEAP LABOUR WE WERE FOR?

AT LAST I AM LEAVING AUSTRALIA BOUND FOR OLD ENGLAND ALONE
TO DISCOVER THAT I WAS NO ORPHAN
WHEN TAKEN FROM MY FAMILY HOME
THEY CALLED IT CHILD MIGRATION A SYSTEM OF DISHONOUR AND SHAME
AND SHOWED THE COMMONWEALTH NATIONS
STILL PLAYED THAT OLD RACIST GAME

WHEN BOUND FOR AUSTRALIA IN THE MORNING
MY BROTHER AND SISTER AND I
ABOARD A BIG OCEAN LINER TRYING SO HARD NOT TO CRY
BUT NOW THE TEARS ARE A-TUMBLING DOWN
WHEN THINKING OF THE TIMES THAT ARE LOST
AND ALL THE THOUSANDS OF CHILDREN
SACRIFICED AT SUCH GREAT COST
BOUND FOR AUSTRALIA IN THE MORNING

MB  © 2018

This song features in my new book and album, ‘The Key To A Happy Life’, which should be available very soon.

Or at:  https://soundcloud.com/mauricebaker-1

In fact, I’m not a big fan of tattoos – especially those covering large areas of flesh open to public view. Call it prudish if you like but I just think they look naff. Some may say (I don’t) they can enhance a great body – trouble is, most people don’t have a great body, especially as they get older. It’d be okay if, like hair colouring, tattoos were temporary but they are a life sentence – why inflict that on yourself?

BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM
IT WAS BLUE AND PURPLE AND RED.
GROWING LARGER DAY BY DAY ALONG WITH HER MIDDLE-AGE SPREAD.
AND THOUGH SHE WAS NO REBEL, DREAMED ONE SUNNY DAY,
ON WINGS JUST LIKE THAT OLD TATTOO, SHE WOULD FLY AWAY.

CHORUS: FLY AWAY, FLY AWAY, FLY AWAY

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM
LIKE THE BROOCH UPON HER CHEST
BUT THE BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM WAS THE ONE SHE LOVED THE BEST.
ONE DAY MAYBE SHE’D BE DARING
AND HAVE DAISIES TATTOOED ON HER ARM,
AND AN ANGEL ON HER SHOULDER AS A KIND OF GOOD LUCK CHARM.

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM, HIDDEN AWAY FROM SIGHT.
SHE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO EVER SAW IT
IN THE MIRROR LATE AT NIGHT.
AND WHEN SHE WENT UNDER THE NEEDLE
AS A FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY TREAT
IT FELT LIKE LIBERATION TO HAVE AN INSECT ON HER SEAT.

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM – IT COST HER FIFTY QUID
JUST LIKE THE OTHER MATCHING ONE ON HER BOYFRIEND SID
AND SOMETIMES THEY’D DANCE NAKED, BUMS STUCK UP IN THE AIR
BUTTERFLIES AKIMBO – WHAT A WIBBLY WOBBLY PAIR.

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM, UNTILL HER DYING DAY
WITH A NOTE TO THE MORTICIAN – TURN ME UP THE OTHER WAY
SO WHEN LYING IN HER COFFIN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD COULD SEE
THE SECRET SHE’D BEEN HIDING AND AT LAST COULD BE SET FREE

MB © 2018

The photo is two of our three cats, Louis (ginger tom) and Sparkle (too clever for his own good) who spend their days lazing about or looking for meaty treats. If they can be bothered to leave the comfort of the fireside, radiator or armchair, they may take the night air and perhaps chase a lazy rodent. They certainly know how to twist us humans around their little paws – by looking cute and acting cuddly now and then.

Anyway, I wrote this song  for them and all other cat lover

MEOW

I don’t pay no taxes – I don’t pay no rent.                                                                                                                                         I don’t pay no mind to no lousy government.                                                                                                                                   I don’t give a whisker – live a life so free,                                                                                                                                    Only one I care about is – M-E-O-W. Little old me.

I am just so fabulous – I am just so neat,                                                                                                                                   From the tip of my furry tail down to my pretty feet.                                                                                                                   Cute as any baby, sitting on your knee,                                                                                                                                        Only one you care about is – M-E-O-W! Little old me.

Though I may stay out late at night, carousing on the town,                                                                                                   But baby you still love me when I lay my body down.                                                                                                         Though I dream of chicken or fishes from the deep blue sea                                                                                             Clotted cream that I may lick – for M-E-O-W! Little old me.

I know I am superior, like an Egyptian god,                                                                                                                                Not like other animals or some stupid old dog.                                                                                                                               I do whatever I want to – lazy as a cat can be,                                                                                                                              Cos who do you think really owns this place? M-E-O-W! Little old me.

Stefan Westmann (pictured) was a German soldier in WWI. I heard his story on BBC Radio 4 of how he was confronted by a French soldier. Both had rifles with bayonets and, given no time to think, he stabbed the Frenchman and killed him. Afterwards he suffered great remorse as he realised the man must, like him, have family and friends. He was also upset by how easily his fellow soldiers could kill, sometimes in horrific ways.

I found his story very moving and later found it on www.telegraph.co.uk. Then I wrote this song telling the story.

Two soldiers met in no-man’s land – they were from opposing sides

Though they’d not been in battle long – twas now they must decide,

Could they follow orders and stick their bayonets in?

Kill a fellow human though it was a mortal sin?

Now had those soldiers met before, maybe in peaceful times,

They could have been the best of friends, away from battle lines.

But now it was their duty to take all foreign life,

Never mind their families, their girlfriend or their wife.

Both soldiers knew what they must do and aim straight for the heart.

No time for rules of conduct – till one of them depart.

One thousand years of culture and of civilised debate,

Trampled in a muddy field – just numbers on a slate.

One soldier he was quicker there upon that day,

Maybe just a lucky break – could’ve gone the other way.

And as he pulled his bayonet out, he caught the dead man’s eye.

Oh brother pray forgive me – it was either you or I.

Two soldiers met in no-man’s land – they were from opposing sides.

Though they’d not been in battle long – twas now they must decide.

But the one who lived to tell the tale was haunted ever more,

Seems like both those soldiers were victims of the war.

There are loads of books, websites and even scientific papers on happiness – what it is exactly, how to achieve it or lose it, what activities promote it, and so on. Only today, coincidentally, the i newspaper lists the ‘real joys of summer’; 1. Going on holiday. 2. Going to the beach. 3. Eating ice cream. 4. Having a barbecue with friends and family. 5. Watching the sunset. 6. Wearing summer clothes. 7.Walking in the park. 8. Smelling freshly cut grass. 9. Reading books in the sun. 10. Laying in the sun.

This is the start of my new book which I’m currently working on and, after a review of research on ‘happiness’, goes on to tell stories of my own experiences with happiness or otherwise. However, it occurred to me this evening that the greatest cause of unhappiness (it’s always helpful to start by examining the negative) is simply a mismatch between expectation and reality. A kid brought up to expect success, wealth, ease and comfort, etc, will find life does not always conform to his/her wishes. Result; anger, frustration and disappointment. That’s not to say you should expect failure, but you should be prepared for difficulty and set-backs. Happiness comes when you can reconcile expectations versus reality, not simply when you get what you want.

Over Easter I flew over to France, meeting up with Sofie (wife) at our holiday cottage near Bordeaux. As an after-thought, just before leaving home, I grabbed a notebook in case I was inspired to write something while away. As soon as I arrived at the airport an idea hit me – a funny incident from years ago, so I pulled out the book and began scribbling and didn’t stop till I got to France. Over the ten days there, every moment not out on excursions or doing jobs around the house, I was compelled to write. At first my outpourings were just short thoughts, like snatches of poetry (which is what I thought they were) but then some semblance of an theme began to emerge – all summed up by a song I wrote a couple of years ago (see below). Its a jokey little number which doesn’t convert to the page very well but, for posterity, I include it here.

I’m still writing in the notebook and keep having loads of random ideas – mostly autobiographical and often with a musical element. We’ll see where it takes us, but I feel a CD coming on.

 THE KEY TO A HAPPY LIFE

Everybody wants to know everybody’s business,

That’s all they really want to know.

Poking their noses where they don’t belong now,

No wonder those noses grow.

No, no, no… No wonder those noses grow.

C: The key to a happy life is to mind your own business,

And don’t go messing where you don’t belong.

The key to a happy life is to mind your own business,

You know that I’m right coz I sure ain’t wrong.

Tinker, tailor, soldier and a sailor,

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.

They’ve all got a job to do.

You lazy whatsit – so how about you?

Down in the valley in the old back alley,

There is Mrs Muddle on Jeremy Kyle,

Ranting and a-raving and a-misbehaving,

Meanwhile her kids are all a-running wild.

Down the ages turn the history pages,

Kings and emperors went to war.

Leaving a trail of death and destruction,

They all thought they were above the law.

The next door neighbour’s having a party,

Enough damn noise to waken the dead.

Don’t they realize people are sleeping?

They need it like a bang on the head.

One, two, three, four, five – BANG!   (X2)

I was in Manchester a couple of weeks ago attending Salford Magistrates Court on a speeding rap. Yes, I’d been caught on camera once too often and was now facing a 6 month ban. Pleading ‘extreme hardship’ (their terminology) my lawyer managed to get my sentence reduced to a hefty fine – though needless to say the legal fee far outstripped the fine.

Anyway, returning across town on foot to Piccadilly Station I was surprised and saddened to see so many beggars on the street. Manchester is, after all, a reasonably affluent place and the town centre in particular crammed with designer shops, bars and restaurants so the contrast was marked.

Of course, I have no answer to the problem. No doubt many vagrants have drug and alcohol problems exacerbating other circumstances like unemployment, homelessness, poor education and social welfare issues, but one can’t help wonder why there is such a prevalence of vagrancy in this country and in cities like Manchester in particular. My daughter, who makes Panorama and similar documentaries for the BBC, told me she has come across many hard-luck stories in researching her programmes and that often it is the system itself which lets these vulnerable people down. Too much bureaucracy, penny-pinching authorities,  insensitive officials, etc, and simply an unwillingness to spend the time and money required. Working in special education I know that it’s a lot more expensive to deal with people who have problems than those who don’t (obvious really) but in the end it’s a false economy to try and save money there.

So, as I can’t help solve the problem of homelessness I did what I often do with thorny issues, I wrote a song about it. The King Arthur line was going round in my head for ages, till I realised it fitted – beggars and vagrants have been an issue for hundreds of years and we seem no more able to know what to do now than way back then.

OLD KING ARTHUR’S BONES  

I was in a Northern city but it could’ve been anywhere,

The beggars were all huddled in the doorways by the square.

But the people hurried onwards trying not to meet their eyes,

Maybe tomorrow we’ll hear your desperate cries.  

Chorus: When old King Arthur’s bones come dancing home.

Oh the shops were bright and shiny on the boulevard so wide,

And if you’ve got the plastic you’re welcome to come inside.

But if your pocket’s empty better stay out on the street,

Don’t you know it’s not our problem if you ain’t got nothing to eat.

Then up spoke a poor man with a sad and sorry tale,

Of how he’d lived the good life till he crashed right off the rail.

Then drinking to forget about the heartache and the pain,

Give me a break he said to set me right again.  Like old…

From the stone age to the cell phone age it’s always been the same,

Some are losers, some are movers and shakers in the game.

And lying in the shadows are reminders of the cost,

Of how the big society, fails the poor and lost. Since old…

And in that Northern city as I quickly walked away,

Knowing I’d done nothing to help upon that day.

And left with just one question, with no answer I could see,

When will we turn the pages of our ancient history. And see…

When old King Arthur’s bones, when old King Arthur’s bones,

When old King Arthur’s bones, come dancing home.

Come dancing home.

PONGS, subtitled ‘Look To The Far Horizon’, is my latest song collection – all of which are poems turned into songs. These are not simply other people’s poems set to music because in most cases the originals have been changed, added to or subtracted from in various ways.

My first attempt at this was the title track, taken from ‘A Ship Sails Up To Bideford’ by Herbert Asquith (1881-1947), describing the sight of an old square rigged ship appearing over the horizon and heading for port. The poet imagines what cargo might be on board including the ‘fruits of Jaffa, dates, oranges and gold’ and also ‘fine silk from China and bales of Persian dyes’. I got the idea to use the poem almost in desperation after composing a tune but unable to think of any words (an unusual event for me) I began thumbing through an old school poetry anthology called ‘The Book Of A Thousand Poems’. I added a chorus and changed a few other elements to make it more suitable for audience participation.

Since then I have deliberately used this technique and shamelessly plundered poetry books for good material. In fact, most poems are not suitable for a musical treatment – because they have no rhymes or do not scan well, or have no narrative flow and often too subjective in style. However I have used poems by Edgar Lee Masters, Jonathan Swift, AE Houseman, John Betjeman, among others – with poetry which was often intended to be read aloud.

The book is due for publication soon and a demo CD of the songs also is nearly ready too.

As the song says, over 1500 people were killed when the Titanic went down, and many of those were poor immigrants who were locked below decks unable to escape. However, my lyrics are hopeful in the face of impossible odds – even if that was a forlorn hope for many. It seems to me this cry for a better future, for a chance to live even, is indelibly written in our souls – as Paul Simon once sang,

What is the point of this story
What information pertains
The thought that life could be better
Is woven indelibly
Into our hearts and our brains

‘Train In The Distance’ 1981

DON’T GO DOWN      

Don’t go down, don’t go down,

Don’t go down, down, down.

Don’t go down with the sinking ship,

Let her go – let her go.

The captain has his duty, the rich man has his gold,

But you don’t need to drown like a bilge rat in the hold.

Get up on deck and tell the crew by heck

You ain’t gonna die in the cold… down in the cold

Jump into a lifeboat, head out for the shore,

Let’s hope tomorrow is better than before.

JP Morgan’s in dismay – broke and busted on this day,

But you don’t need to die in the cold… down in the cold

From Greenland’s icy shoreline to the north Atlantic swell,

The berg that sank Titanic and sent them all to hell,

Lay waiting in the darkness and split the hull apart,

Like the cracking of a walnut or the breaking…

…of a young girl’s heart.

They said she was unsinkable – make full steam ahead,

Officer Murdoch ordered the warning bell.

But he was too late, and sealed Titanic’s fate,

Losing more than fifteen hundred souls… down in the cold.

Maurice Baker  © 2016