Fabulous Animal Rescue Project

Howdy folks!

With the unseasonal warm weather we've been enjoying in London recently, I have been quite remiss at keeping you abreast of what has been happening here at Catbird Craft. While I have been warming my bones by the pond, it has been a busy time for the cat and bird, they have completed quite a few new items for the shop and partook in their first craft fair. All very exciting! What I really wanted to tell you about though, is The Fabulous Animal Rescue Project.

Many months back we got in touch with FARP, they do on a global scale what we do in our own small way for the animal rescue centres we support. We wanted to get involved, and finally the cat produced two collages for them to use.

Original available here

 There are many talented artists involved with FARP who have also donated images that have been turned into badges, cards, posters and more! There are also interviews with rescuers from around the world talking about the work they are involved in.

Original available here

 You can buy the Catbird Craft cards here and our interview on their blog which you can find here

There are many ways to find FARP online:
Blog
Etsy shop
Twitter
Tumblr

Until next time my regards to you all,

Frank
x

Spring in Nunhead Cemetery

Howdy folks!

Yesterday was spent with a happy afternoon at Nunhead Cemetery, a beautiful Victorian cemetery, the sister site to Highgate. It is still in use today, but most of it is given over to the wild now, overgrown with huge trees and crumbling tombstones.

The sound of birdsong over the city noise is amazing and the dappled light through the leaves gives off an otherworldy ambiance. It is still cold, but walking around discovering new life springing back in the March sunshine, there is nothing to beat it. Squirrels chattering and chasing each other high on branches, and Robins pouring their hearts out at the tops of the trees.

 Blackbirds flit from undergrowth to the vines that wind lazily around massive trunks. Crows cawing to one another, while parakeets look and argue over the best nesting sites (seen nosing about in abandoned woodpecker holes, in a tree that looked like it had been struck by lightening).

Blue Tits and Great Tits zip between the twigs, and all the while people with dogs of a myriad of breeds roam the trails that wind about the land, seemingly oblivious to the busy world just above their heads. The snowdrops may have nearly finished their chimes, but the primroses are lifting their dainty heads to the sky and the daffodils with their cheery yellow bring a warmth to the otherwise sombre tones still on the ground...

Ah, Spring!

The bird was in her element photographing as much as she could, while the cat whiled away her time gazing at the gorgeous blue sky and pointing out anything that could be of interest that the bird may have missed.

If you get a chance to visit this wonderful place, do! It is open nearly every day of the year (with two open days - one in May, the other in September run by Friends of Nunhead Cemetery when the old chapel and crypt is open to the public) and there are also guided walks run by F.O.N.C fairly regularly.

My regards to you all,

Frank
x

Craft Britannia Etsy Team

Howdy folks!

This week I managed to get hold of another very busy lady, Margaret of MissElany, the Captain of the CraftBritannia team on Etsy. We found this team by chance when someone posted about a BNR† they were involved in over a weekend in January. The cat went to investigate, and that was it, we didn't see her for the rest of the weekend! Aside from the selling and buying throughout that weekend, which moved extremely quickly, the conversation flowed and it was lovely to find a group that has such varied and interesting members.

Mirabelle Fabric by Libetry of London from MissElany

 Margaret graciously allowed me to gently interrogate her about the workings of the team, how it's developed, and what is expected of it's members. So, without further ado...

Country Kitchen shelf sign blocks by Sparrow Primitives

Frank: When did you first start the team?


Margaret: Frutejuce, Dayzeelove, AREJewellery and myself were friends on another team on Etsy. We felt we wanted to widen the net to include the rest of the UK so we got together and decided to start our own team. That was back in November 2009 and since then we have gone from strength to strength. Since that time we have also added TWINKKNITS and CariadClay to our group of leaders that help in the smooth running of Craft Britannia.

Upcycled Handmade Mr Brown Bear by Mundane and Beauteous

 F: How long has Craft Britannia been on Etsy?


M: We started the team in November 2009 but it took quite alot of work between us before we actually launched the team on Etsy.

Cream Cake Necklace by Little Red Star

F: How would you describe the goals of the team?


M: The whole ethos behind our team is primarilly for promotion of each of our shops and Etsy within the UK. We have created a coffee shop feel within our team where we have virtual colleagues within Etsy. We are a friendly bunch who help one another out with tips, hints and also the most important factor we all help each other promote our shops. Without everyone doing some work in this field our team would not survive and be successful so we have no room in our membership for lurkers, everyone is expected to get involved and support the team.

'Red Song Yorkshire' Limited Ed. Linocut by Artlaz

   
F: Do you have to be on Etsy to become part of this team?


M: The team is open to all Etsy sellers based in the UK.

Crochet Charm Purse (Eco Friendly!) by Maimy

F: Is there any other way of finding out about Craft Britannia?


M: There is a team blog which is edited by dayzeelovedesigns, sassalynne and firephoenixjewellery and can be found here with tutorials, interviews, team treasuries and more, or go directly to the team page craftbritannia

Below are some examples of more Craft Britannia members' fantastic items:

Paper Shakespearian Garland of Hearts by Bookity

'Sundress' 7x5" fine art photographic print by DearOhDeer

The White Herald mini pocketwatch brooch by AlteredEras

Cat art Portrait Original drawing by stupidcats

All works are copyrighted to the artists shown above.

† BNR stands for Buy'n'Replace which is organised by a group of sellers, generally taking place over a weekend. A treasury is made of sixteen sellers, curators help oversee buying and conversations. Any seller can buy out another seller in the treasury and they in turn replace them and so on.


Thanks to our Team Captain, Margaret, and we are proud to be members of this friendly team on Etsy!


Regards to you all,

Frank
x

Anything but a plain Crow!

There's a WHAT behind me?

Howdy folks!

How is this for a spectacular shot? Taken by the bird in Peckham Rye last week on one of the few wintry sunny days we've been lucky enough to have. I myself stayed in the warmth but both the bird and cat seemed very pleased with their afternoon's outing.  I have been informed that as soon as the printer is up and running (it is new-ish and the cat has yet to fathom it's vast array of complicated buttons!) there will be prints available for sale on the website and Etsy shop.

My warmest regards to you all,

Frank
x

Skull Fetishes and more!

Howdy folks!

Well, it's been all go here at Catbird Craft this weekend, fur has been a-flying and feathers a-ruffling. The bird has finished four skulls (one fox, three birds) and they are looking mighty fine too!

Great Spotted Woodpecker Skull

This is what a fetish is (in this sense of the meaning) for those who would like to know:

Fetishes are considered sacred ceremonial objects. Every animal, bird, or plant, has traits and teachings that we can learn from. To call upon the spirit of a particular animal or bird, maybe so that it might help teach, heal, or protect us, a corresponding fetish can be used. Some fetishes are carved from wood or stone, whilst others are made from feathers, bones and skulls. Shamans believe that these objects are doorways of communication with the spirit world, within which the essence of the animal or bird still resides, and as such they are always treated with great care and respect. 

 Red Fox Skull

The cat has just finished some mini heart paintings too, just in time for Valentine's Day!

 

 One for the purists, and one for the romantics!

You can find all these and more at either our website www.catbirdcraft.co.uk or our etsy shop www.etsy.com/shop/catbirdcraft

Belle and Claude have been keeping well out of the way while all this activity has been going on, but I have been providing sustenance to the weary workers, they are both now sleeping as I type this up. It's nice to have the room to myself again for a little while, I can enjoy my cigar in peace!

Well, that's all for now folks,

My regards to you all,

Frank

x

Krampus Christmas

Howdy folks!

  So, boys and girls, were we all well-behaved throughout 2010? And did we all survive Krampusnacht without severe psychological or physical trauma? Krampusnacht? I hear you cry. What on earth is that? Well I did some roving reporting to answer that question, and here's what I discovered.

Scary

   Before the bearded fat bloke in a red suit, more commonly known as Santa Claus, started coming down our chimneys every December, folk were visited by St Nicholas. Every year, on 6th December, St Nicholas would visit bringing a sack load of toys and gifts for the townsfolk. A routine that wasn't all that different from Santa Claus. 

    These days, Christmas Eve involves bribing Santa with mince pies and brandy, maybe a carrot or two for the reindeer - an evening that forms happy Christmas memories for many children. And in theory, when Santa visits, the boys and girls who have misbehaved during the year may receive only a lump of coal, (or a potato if they're lucky), as a sign of Santa's disapproval.  No huge trauma, (though, of course, not getting the Xbox or Sylvanian family that you've desperately coveted, is indeed a distressing disappointment.) But, and especially if you're still weeping into last year's wrapping paper that contained your annual Christmas jumper, spare a thought for those whose seasonal rituals involve a visit from the Krampus. 

    The Krampus was St Nicholas's sidekick who traditionally visited on 5th December, otherwise known as Krampusnacht, (Krampus night). The Krampus, sometimes known as the Pelzebock or Schmutzli, was a devilish creature with goat horns and cloven hoofs, rattling chains and bells wherever he went.  It seems that his only purpose in life was to terrify the local children into being well-behaved, and punish those who have ignored the previous year's warning. If the children hadn't been 'good', like his later counterpart Santa, St Nick would only give a gift of coal or vegetables, and we don't want that... especially when there are limited edition coloured Wii consoles on sale. 

Less scary

     So, as the night of Krampus began, the Krampus would chase children through the streets, sometimes beating them with chains and sticks. Those children that really had been utterly awful during the year were bundled into the basket on the back of the Krampus, and supposedly carried away back to the fiery underworld. I can only assume that ultimately their fate was unpleasant, to say the least.

  After discovering all this information on traditions from another time and place I was, understandably, curious to meet the Krampus for myself. Not knowing exactly where Krampuses/Krampi, hang out when they're not terrifying women and children, I sent out a message to my underworld contacts. I know that this is all very cloak and dagger, and I can't reveal my sources, but a meeting was soon arranged.

  

   Three days later, inside a gentleman's smoking club, I met my first Krampus over a glass or two of brandy. As I sat in my, very comfortable, winged leather seat, I concede that initially I was a little startled by the Krampus's rugged appearance. He may have been wearing a very smart pinstripe suit and tie, and his horns were clean and polished; but it was impossible to ignore that he was exceptionally hairy, and he dribbled every time he spoke. And, if I'm brutally honest, he also smelt somewhat like a farmyard bonfire, a smell that no cologne on earth could mask. But his manner was very pleasant and accommodating, and as a result I soon adjusted to the company of my unusual interviewee. Although he was originally from mainland Europe, Klaus the Krampus spoke exceptionally good English.

Klaus, out finishing the last of his Christmas shopping

    "Christianity aside, the main problem is that, generally speaking, children just aren't scared of me anymore," said Klaus. Before continuing he took a long drag on the cigar that was wedged between his cloven hooves. "I can growl all I like, and to them I'm still just a hairy goat with bells on.

   "I'd given my all to this job, so it was hard for me to accept that my unpopularity had waned. At first it was soul destroying. This loss of direction and purpose in life led me into a very dark place. I was in a state of despair and drinking too much. But the fact remained - these days children see far scarier things than me on Saturday night television. Chasing them with chains and bells is entirely futile when they just ridicule you with their laughter. 

   "But, after some considerable thought, I now accept that, when they spent a large proportion of their lives playing shoot 'em up games on their games consoles, the youth of today aren't going to be overly concerned by me brandishing a handful of birch twigs. They just think I'm a psychiatric patient who is keen on fancy dress...and there's no coming back from that.

   "It's a consumer driven world, a world in which I'm redundant...I mean, these days it's even frowned upon to leave lumps of coal as gifts to demonstrate our disapproval of current behavioral standards. As the earth slowly overheats, we can't be seen to be encouraging the use of fossil fuels."

  

     Having been in employment for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years, I was curious to know how Klaus now spent his Decembers. Despite having sampled the finest of brandies with him, a subject on which he was very knowledgeable, I was still surprised by how civilised his reply was.

   

    "Oh, I'm lucky as I have many interests....Over the years I've had many offers to do pantomime, but that would mean I'd be busy right through into the new year. I have a deep passion for the opera and ballet, and now that I'm not working every December I'm, at last, able to attend seasonal performances. I'd hate to miss those annual treats for the sake of a pantomime with Barbara Windsor. 

   "And, as long as they've behaved throughout the year, like most other people, I like to spend December purchasing gifts for my nearest and dearest. However, I do try to avoid buying socks and jumpers." In a tone that suggested he was resigned to his current circumstances, Klaus continued, "I guess it's a case of 'if you can't beat them, (which I can't as beating children is now frowned upon) then I may as well join them in the shopping frenzy and max out my credit card in Topman."

 As Klaus poured another brandy, I then asked the old goat what had become of his friend, St Nicholas?

   "He's still quite bitter about the arrival of Santa Claus, whom he calls 'The Imposter'. He put him out of work so it's understandable. He now lives in a retirement home for legendary historical figures. I can't tell you too much about it, for obvious reasons, but it's somewhere in Eastbourne. He shares a room with Merlin the magician. They have a great time together, causing mischief, so I think, despite his misgivings, he's been enjoying his enforced retirement. I try and visit him a few times a year, but I always make sure that I'm there over December 5th & 6th. We chase the staff around the building, just for a laugh. It's like the good old days."

   These days, where the Krampus is still celebrated, (sometimes) drunken adults dress like satanic goats, carrying flaming torches as they cavort through the streets, scaring, and probably scarring, the local children, as they birch them with twigs...but I sure would have liked to have seen Klaus himself in his full regalia...As long as I'd been a good boy all year, that is.

And now I will leave you with footage of a recent Krampusnacht parade...

And on that dark note, I'm off for a bath,

Regards to you all,

Frank 

x

The weather in Weatherfield

Howdy folks!

       Hasn't it been chilly this past week or two? I might be living in the more temperate south now but, with the influx of snow, I've been cold to the bone. As my knees knocked, I couldn't help but think how my northern friends would be coping. It's true that they're made of sterner stuff than us delicate southerners but, nonetheless, the weather has been rather atrocious up there.

 Back in the day, about fifty years ago, in fact, I lived up north, in an area called Weatherfield, (rather apt considering that it's terrible weather that's sparked these memories.) At the time I thought I was still being hunted for the murder of that journalist in 1943, and was living in disguise. For a few years I, Fannie Walker, ran the local public house, The Ravers Return, and such fun I had as landlady - births, deaths, marriages, I saw it all. Although always concerned the law would come knocking at my door, it was a very happy time for me.

    Breaking news...Worryingly, now I hear that there's just been a terrible explosion, which somehow has caused a tram to hurtle into the road. Some of the residents lie dying, or are seriously injured. The rest are, most likely, traumatised. At this terrible time the residents of Co-ordination Street are very much in my thoughts. I'm not usually a man of faith but tonight I pray.

My regards to you,

Frank

x

Shop now open!

Howdy folks!

   
       We may have had no Z-list celebrity to cut the ribbon, and no warm white wine to wash down the stale vol-au-vents, but, nonetheless, the shop on www.catbirdcraft.co.uk is now open!

    There will be more items added in the next week or so so keep an eye out. Once those particular shelves are fully stocked, the cat and the bird can begin making some new items that they're especially excited about!! More about that another time.

As the snow begins to fall around the UK, keep warm folks!

My regards to you all,

Frank

x

Her name was Lola...

Howdy folks,

  In the summer of 1943 I was back in the U.S.A. staying with my favourite aunt, Jessica. I had a job in Boothbay Harbor helping the fishing trawlers unload when they returned from their fishing trips. As a result of my summer job, I smelt pretty darn awful pretty much all of the darn time. The smell of the sea seemed to burrow into the nooks and crannies of my bones. No amount of soap and water seemed to rid my personage of the unpleasant aroma. The only way for me to smell delightful was for me to stay away from work for at least a week, which wasn't entirely feasible. Thankfully, being a fishing town, nobody really noticed the smell; but the trouble began when we visited the New York city for a couple of days.

     It was nearing the hottest day of the summer and my aunt was due at a launch for her first novel, 'The Corpse Danced at Midnight.' The publishing house believed this book would prove to be a huge success, and, as such, they'd organised a launch party at a swanky hotel in the city. Anyone who was anyone was invited. Understandably, Aunt Jessica was terribly nervous about it all, so I agreed to accompany her.

   We'd arrived the day before to get settled into our hotel suites. I did get a few funny looks as I entered the hotel. People's noses wrinkled as I, and the accompanying fragrance of dead fish, wafted past them. My aunt and I were so used to the smell we were no longer conscious of it. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said of rich New Yorkers. They definitely noticed; I think everyone assumed that I smelt this way because I was, technically speaking, dead, and as such they were too polite to mention it to me directly. It didn't even occur to them that I might have been hauling halibut about all week.

     I got the same funny looks as I strolled into the hotel bar later that evening. I'd just ordered a large brandy when the launch party's creative director approached me, pulled a face of distaste, and then insisted on paying for my drink. It would turn out that he had taken one look at me and had had an idea - a surprise for my aunt Jessica; she always did like a bit of drama. But he would need my help if it this surprise was going to happen.

   The following night, as the launch party was in full swing so I made a discreet exit. As I reached the lift in the lobby there was already a man waiting for a lift to return to the ground floor. I recognised him as a greasy, balding, and paunchy newspaper journalist who had interviewed aunt Jessica earlier in the day. After a few drinks at the party he was returning to his room to finish writing up the interview. His nose crinkled as I entered lift 'A' behind him. I politely asked which floor he wanted. He replied that his room was on floor 25 so I pressed the buttons for floors 23 and 25. For the entire duration of our ascent he stood behind me, his breathing slow and raspy. It was an uncomfortable journey, to say the least.  I was relieved when the bell pinged and the doors opened on floor 23. I said goodnight to the unkempt hack, and without once looking behind me, I strolled up the hallway to my room. I changed into the outfit supplied by the creative director, and made my way back to the lift. Lift 'A' was still on floor 25 but lift B was open and waiting for passengers. Within moments I was in the hotel kitchen.

   The climax of the evening was nearing so a giant cake had been wheeled out into the centre of the ballroom. All attentions were, quite understandably, focused on this gloriana of sponge and butter icing, so nobody noticed two police officers and a nervous front desk clerk standing near the door. They appeared to be looking for someone.

  As the clock struck midnight the spotlights turned red and purple, making the cake look as dramatic as a cake has, possibly, ever looked. At the second gong of the clock, like a corpse from the grave, I slowly began to emerge from the top of the cake. By the sixth gong I was out of that cake, dressed as a ballerina and dancing as if my life depended on it. The crowd, initially startled were soon whooping and laughing.

    Aunt Jessica was delighted by the surprise, but, if I'm honest, she seemed even more at home with what happened next.

  As I was 'throwing shapes' on the dance floor, I suddenly heard the desk clerk holler, "That's him!"

    I, of course, looked up just as the crowd parted to let the officers through. Through the crowds centre parting I could now see beyond the police officers walking towards me, through the ballroom door and out into the lobby. It was then that I witnessed the body of the now deceased newspaper hack being hoisted out of lift 'A' and onto to a stretcher. Somebody screamed because she also saw the body. Everybody else then screamed because somebody else was screaming. It was pandemonium. I quickly realised that the front desk clerk had seen me getting into the lift and it was now assumed that I'd murdered him. I subsequently learnt that he had been less than kind about Aunt Jessica, (something about a 'meddling country busybody', if I remember correctly) so I can see why they thought I might have killed him.  As it happens, I hadn't killed him. But in my panic, rather than suffer full body collapse, I legged it.

It's amazing how fast one can run when one is being pursued by the law. I can only assume that it was the tutu which gave me that extra lift. I sprinted through the hotel kitchen, out of the back door, and into the summer's night.

    Lady luck must have been on my side that night because it just so happened that, at that exact moment, a dancing troop were just boarding their tour bus at the rear of the theatre next door. Just as the bus doors were closing I jumped aboard. Within seconds we were driving off into the night and the police were left floundering.

     The dancing girls were on a world tour, tonight New York, tomorrow, who knew. I didn't care I was just glad to still be a free man. They'd seen my agility as I'd hopped onto the bus, so girls were very accepting of me, despite the smell. With my artistic flair I seemed to naturally fit into their troop so when they invited me to join up I leapt at the chance. So that she wouldn't worry, I would call Aunt Jessica as soon as I got the opportunity. At our next stop, which was due to be Massachusetts, I would obtain a fake passport and then I would enjoy my life as a dancing fugitive.

   Within hours of my exit, Aunt Jessica had proved that I hadn't killed the journalist. At least, not intentionally. It appeared that he, (the journalist) had tried to hold his breath in the lift, all the way to floor 23, and had accidentally suffocated himself. The police didn't believe Aunt Jessica until she suggested that they smell some of my clothes. They did so, and the puzzle was instantly solved. I was free to return but I was having such fun that I was in no hurry to come back.

    My feet blistered and my bones ached but such fun I had. I learnt more about periods, breast tenderness, and tapeworm, than any dancing man really needed to know. But in return I visited many of the earth's greatest cities. I pirouetted on some of the finest stages, and I made friends all over the world. I almost proposed to Betty, one of the dancing girls, but at that point common sense prevailed. 

   After two years of being on the road, I decided to return to 'normal' life. By that time Aunt Jessica had written a number of bestselling books. Unfortunately corpses were also making a habit of turning up everywhere she went. I'm sure it was wonderful inspiration for her novels but it made people nervous. So I returned to work with her as her public relations officer...and that's a whole other story for another time.

Right folks, I fancy a ride with the hairy bikers,

My regards to you all,

Frank

x
 

Happy Samhain!

All at Catbird Craft would like to wish everyone a happy Samhain...And now it's probably time to crack open the pumpkin liqueur!!

And work recommences...

Howdy folks!
                             Well, I'm relieved and pleased to announce that work has recommenced in The Doghouse. The studio is now fully roofed (thank you, Mr Spitzer), insulated and, as such, is warm and dry. The Cat is working at a gentle pace as she recovers her health. Here's the proof...

 

   I do believe we're moving forward now. There's stock on the shelves! So our little acorn will be ready for planting on the 31st!

My regards to you all,

Frank

x

Mary & the milk of human kindness.

Howdy folks,

                   When I'm not working, and sometimes when I am, I spent a certain amount of time just staring at the television. Whilst indulging in this frightfully guilty pleasure of mine, I have recently taken issue with advertising; particularly advertising involving our friends - the dairy cows. There seems to be a spate of advertisements involving bovines currently showing on the television. These also have questionable messages, but I want to focus on just one - Mary, the Muller cow.

     And what has really got my goat about this particular advertisement? Where to begin...Firstly, the making of the advert... I'm not a bovine specialist but, as far as I'm aware, cows are herding animals. This instinct serves as a protective mechanism against predators. The more of you there are, the less likely you are to be picked off by a hunting lion or such like. Therefore, to be separated from the herd is a stressful thing for a cow. So, unless the rest of Mary's herd was just out of view, maybe having a donkey ride up the beach, Mary probably wouldn't have found the filming of this advertisement to be an overly enjoyable experience.

      I cannot deny that they show us just how beautiful cows are, but I dread to think how far that cow would have had to run to get those pictures in the can. It's not that cows can't run - they definitely can run. I've been chased by cows more than once. But you only need to look at a dairy cow to see that they aren't designed to be athletes. I know they probably would have had a cow relay team or something, the make up department would have made sure all their patches matched, and no cow would have to run further than she could manage. If they absolutely insist on making an advert like this, then I hope it was tag team running, and that Mary didn't have to do it alone.

      I'm also telling myself that encouraging Mary to run along the beach was merely a case of her farmer riding ahead on a donkey, rattling the feed bucket. I'm sure that the helicopter overhead (how else did they get an overhead shot like that) and the fright that would have caused, had absolutely nothing to do with causing the cow to run. And to set the cow's experience to a soundtrack of REO Speedwagon is, frankly speaking, unforgivable. A very peculiar way to say thank you.

     'Yes, but Frank, Mary wants to be a stallion; therefore she wants to run and run along pretty New Zealand beaches and, even if only in mind, she has the body to do so,''  I hear you... but it's an advert and I presume they'd use an acting cow whom, chances are, doesn't want to be a stallion. Unless she was supremely skilled in method acting, I sincerely doubt that she could fool her body into performing as if it were fitted with the cardiovascular system of a horse. So I stand by my previous points. Just the making of the advert has antagonised me, but what say I about the premise of the advertisement - Mary wants to be a stallion.

      I know that there are plenty of naturally occurring, well adjusted, transspecies and/or transgendered individuals out there. Thus, I know that Mary's desire to be a stallion isn't at all impossible. But, uncertain as I was about how common such desires are in dairy cattle, I put on my roving reporters cap and endeavoured to find out more. Belle bird suggested that I visit some old friends of hers. She was certain that they'd speak to me if I waited by the tree in the centre of the field until the herd returned from the milking shed. So, following Belle's advice, I made my way to Hefty Dollop farm to find out more about the life of a dairy cow.

   I'd waited nearly three hours when I heard the sound of bovines approaching. "Please will somebody teach that young farmhand how to handle the more sensitive udder," squealed a pained Felicity, #27, the youngest of the herd. "Duck and bell, Goddess please bless my chafed teats - they really hurt now!"

    "He does have a tendency to pull on them as if he's trying to pull a pint of ale," agreed Myfanwy, #33, the herd's matriarch. "But another couple of years of having that machine strapped to your udder three times a day, and you'll have lost all teat sensitivity."

    "The gentle thrill of having dandelions brush past them will be a thing of the past," interjected Jeremy, #42.

     Surprised by her friend's candid disclosure, Myfanwy momentarily stared at Jeremy before continuing as if she was also speaking from experience. "Unfortunately, Felicity, the only thing you have to look forward to is mastitis. Bounce whilst you can is all the advice I can offer."

    The cows seemed to be temporarily lost in their own bouncy thoughts so I interrupted with a polite cough.

   "Well, what exactly do we have here," queried Jeremy, #42, when she saw me. "Bit of a scrawny runt, aren't you?

   "Howdy cows!" I said. "My name's Mr Frank L. Fettle. Your dancing dumpling, Belle, suggested that I visit you."

    "Oh, I see," said Myfanwy. "How is that daft bird? We miss her around here."

    "And why do you want to see us?" Asked Jeremy, #42, without hesitation.
     I explained to the herd why it was that I was there, lurking under their favourite tree, and up to my bony shins in mud. "So, you see, I'm interested in the life of a dairy cow - how does reality compare to television?"
    So they knew what I was talking about, I showed the herd a selection of the recent crop of cow telly adverts. I don't think they were especially impressed with what they saw.
     "Well, I'm not sure which farms these ads are based upon but please book me a room there, straight away" hooted Felicity. "It looks like a holiday camp!"

     "If fate dictates that I absolutely have to regularly experience a tugging sensation between my hind legs, then it may as well be pleasurable experience," said Jeremy. "But I'm not entirely sure that I actually want to be a stallion; I've always wanted to be a tractor."

  Aside from Jeremy's desire to be a piece of farm machinery, within the small herd of approximately 50 cows I discovered that; one cow secretly desired to be a rabbit so that she could have a fluffy tail; three yearned to be birds so that they might be able to fly free, lay eggs and be free of milking; one wanted to be human so that she could experience the wearing of shoes and eating cake; one wanted to be an agent for the secret service. The remainder of the herd would settle for the opportunity to raise their offspring as nature originally intended.
 

     "It bears little resemblance to the world I know," replied Myfanwy. "We are artificially suckled two or three times a day. Between our trips to the shed we eat grass, and then spend the rest if the day chewing the cud and belching. Every so often we are impregnated. Do I get bored? Of course I do. Sometimes I crave to just sit beneath the tree and do some farmyard scenes in needlepoint. But I doubt my idea of heaven would sell many blocks of butter, nor would the reality sell many pots of yogurt."

  
    "Do you see that cow standing next to the gate?" asked Myfanwy.

    I looked towards the gate, and sure enough there was a lone cow standing there; her muscular body was pushed right up against the fence as if she were halfheartedly trying to force her way through it. Maybe it was because of the exhaustion but she seemed oblivious to the barbed wire scratching at her black and white throat, which was slowly turning crimson. The farmer had had to turn off the electric current which normally ran through the fence, because not even the repeated jolts of electricity deterred the distressed cow. It was a pitiful sight.

      "That's Millicent," said Myfanwy. "We've heard our farmer talk about mad cow disease, and how awful it is, but Millicent really has fallen into insanity. She won't move from the fence, not even to eat. It seems that harming herself is the only thing that makes her feel alive. The farmer has been herding her into the artificial suckling shed with the rest of us, but now that she's stopped eating her yield has come a poor harvest. He knows she's in a bad way but if she doesn't snap out of it soon he will have to call in the vet, and we all know what that means. We're all terribly worried about her. They don't show this kind of thing in the the pretty little adverts. But I guess the reality wouldn't sell milk and we'd all be out of a job."

      From the guinea pig to the whale, mammalian mother's produce milk. Obviously whales aren't that easily farmed, and you'd need huge quantities of guinea pigs just to bake a cheesecake; but cattle have been domesticated because they're perfect for the job. I know that for there to be fresh milk to pour into my tea, first the cows must bear their young. Yet, when I looked around the field, I saw very few calves.

  "The farmer takes them pretty much as soon as they're born," mooed Myfanwy. "A few of the males are reared elsewhere, where they grow up to be veal or beefburgers. But most of our newborns perish in the bang of a shotgun. Our children are an expense the farmers can't afford so most of them are dispatched as quickly as possible...They took one too many of her calves and Millicent's now been overwhelmed with grief."

    Unsure of what else to say I asked why they kept making milk if there are no calves to feed? Is there any reason why they couldn't cease production in protest at the loss of the calves?

  "You mean any reason aside from that we'd all be slaughtered if we stopped producing milk?! No more milk and the dairy cow might well become an extinct species. You seem a nice chap, Frank, and as much as we've complained to you this afternoon about the unnatural amounts of milk we have to produce; the losses we suffer as a result; how our teats, udders, feet, and hips hurt, still I'm not sure that mass suicide is really the answer," snorted Jeremy, # 42, somewhat in a state of dismay at my apparent inability to grasp the route to the abattoir.

    "But if the farmer doesn't have the space or money to feed them, then we are powerless to prevent our calves from being taken from us at some point in their young lives. So maybe it is better they are taken soon after they come into the world,"said a thoughtful Felicity, showing her youth. "You know, before we have the chance to bond." 

     "Maybe," said Jeremy, first gazing at the distraught Millicent, and then at her own swollen stomach. "We may only have until the colostrum runs dry to count every perfect eyelash, but we don't forget those months where we feel the kicking of little hooves," 

     "True," conceded Felicity. "But at least if they take your little one, then you know the unfortunate heiress isn't here yet."

    "The unfortunate heiress?" I asked, fearing the reply.

    "When we're considered too worn and weary to produce a decent yield, then our number is up. The unfortunate heiress is what we call the calf that we're allowed to suckle to our breast. But she is also the calf that will replace us in the herd, and she will have a life very much like ours," replied Myfanwy, resigned to her and her next daughter's fate. As the eldest of the Myfanwy's next calf, (which as I write, isn't much more than an embryo,) could easily be her last and she'll be off to the slaughterhouse like her mother before her. 

     My heart plummeted at the news that the cows suffered such losses in their lives as a matter of course. It seems to me that my new friends are merely milk and meat factories in a no win situation, at least no win for them.
  This herd at Hefty Dollop farm are some of the lucky ones. They are on a small farm, their farmer knows them all by name, and he treats them with as much kindness as he can. But still, it's not an easy life for a cow.  

     I'm not going to preach to people to stop eating dairy products. That would be utterly hypocritical as I'd be a truly hopeless vegan, I love cheese far too much. But since meeting the cows, I know that I will be mindful and more appreciative of the milk in my coffee, and I will pay zero attention to cow adverts on the television.


For more information about the welfare of cows, and how you can help, please check out the Compassion in World Farming website. There you will also find more information about the Cows Belong in Fields campaign. 


Some other horrors...

The Anchor Cows - I hardly no where to begin...

Cravendale - I quite like these strange adverts - at least they don't use real cows.

Yeo Valley - Hooray! It's the humans doing the hard work - This advert makes me want to join the young farmers. 

My regards to you all,

Frank

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Getting there...

Howdy folks!

                    Well, what a chaotic time it has been. Much has changed since my last blog post. The Cat is still recovering from her ill health. It will take a while so I, and the bird, have been insisting that she rests as much as possible. That has been easier said than done when there's been so much to do.

Neither the cat or the bird...but the sentiment is correct

   The shed is now a studio, (affectionately named 'The Doghouse'). The roof has been expertly felted by Mr Dominik Spitzer. He was such a star, out in the garden with a blow torch in the bucketing rain. He's done a fine job, and we're confident that it's well and truly waterproofed now. 

  The studio has also been 90% insulated. The cat and the bird caught a mint green sheep made from recycled plastic bottles, which was discovered wandering about in a local DIY store. They've lined the walls with this peculiar fleece and so far it seems warm and toasty in there. 

     Skylar Le Callen and Markus Wehrhahn were kind enough to give up their time and energies to help empty the old studio. With the help of the weary cat they managed the task in just a few hours. 

    The following day there was some tidying up to be done, and a few bits and pieces to be collected. But it gave the cat and the bird the opportunity to say goodbye to their time with the old studio. I think they were quite surprised at how sad they were to be leaving. They can't fault their time in Forest Hill at the Whirled Arts studios, but, sadly, good things aren't always practical. Huge thanks to Mike and Lee, you were both fantastic with your support.

   The majority of the contents of The Doghouse have been sorted out. The minority remain in the back of the van, waiting patiently for relocation to their new home. Very soon it will be a hive of productivity out there. Unfortunately, what with all this recent rain, the back door of the flat has swollen shut. Luckily it's a stable door so the top half still opens. This unexpected obstacle, at the very least, makes the commute to work 'interesting'. Oh, but such a laugh I had watching the cat and the bird climb over the stuck half of the door. Next time I will try and get photographs of this peculiar natural event. I don't think she especially appreciated me suggesting that she just fly over it, but the bird's attempt at door climbing really did remind me of Hannibal taking his elephants over the Alps. 

  

 So what else is new with Catbird Craft?

  Well...the business cards have arrived! The first of them were left in Catbird Craft's favourite fish and chip shop. I'm really not sure what this says about Catbird Craft; but it is fair to say that during this extremely busy time, that particular fish shop has saved them from starvation on more than one occasion.

   If that isn't exciting enough, the first of our greetings cards have also arrived. There are a few more designs due to go to the printers, (who have been super helpful indeed). This means that there will definitely be something ready for the grand opening on October 31st. 

We're definitely getting there!

My regards to you all,

Frank

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Skeleton friends reassembled

Howdy Folks!

                            I think it's perfectly normal to occasionally wonder what happened to friends and enemies of the past. You know, those people that you've somehow lost contact with. As I've been alive for so long now, over the years I have lost contact with many people. Okay, so that's because most of them have died...but there are a few 'lost friends' still around who are nearly as old as I am.
  As much as it baffles me most of the time, there are perks to the modern world; and thanks to the joys of Facebook I now know what has happened to one of my oldest friends, Mr Harold Featherstone.

Harold, as he is today

  Back in the 1960's, Harold and I were actors, dahling. We may not have been the leading men but we had some meaty roles. At least, as meaty a role as any skeleton could really expect. Our friendship had been flourishing until early 1964. What went wrong? Well, it was all rather unfortunate.

      The previous year we'd been involved in the making of our first major feature film, 'Jason and the Argonauts'. We were taught how to fight with swords and shields. It was a painstaking process but all of the skeletons worked really hard, and by the end of filming we were like professional sword fighters. Mind you, it wasn't all work hard - we played hard too. We had such fun, and, not for the first or last time in my life, it was just as well I didn't have a liver or it would have been in a very sorry state indeed. As filming ended Harold and I were still on good terms. His next job was a low budget horror production, and I was preparing to film an episode of 'Z-Cars back in the UK. I'm confident that everything between us would have been fine had 'Jason and the Argonauts' not been an unexpected box office hit.
      As the crowds queued around the block to see the film for the second, third, time, the interest of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences was piqued. For some reason they chose to overlook the rest of the film, which left the director, Don (Chaffey), less than pleased; but the academy did acknowledge the skeletons with a nomination in the 'best skeleton crew in a motion picture' category. What should have been a prestigious occasion would turn out to be one of the worst nights of my life.

      Walking up the red carpet, all dressed up in our tuxedos and best dresses, was a surreal experience. The crowds who had gathered were very enthusiastic to catch a glimpse of their screen idols. I didn't know that young girls, and some men, could scream quite that loud. This, combined with the sheer number of flashbulbs going off, made the experience overwhelming. As a consequence to all this stimuli, I was beginning to get flustered. The photographers were shouting, 'Frank...Give us a smile...Frank...Over here Frank!' When flustered I comply, so I walked towards them without hesitation. I smiled a little, posed a bit, and then continued on towards the civic theatre. It was over in a matter of seconds but it was during this moment that Harold first began to think I was getting above my station, that I was somehow going to steal his limelight. The rot of jealousy had set in.
     As the day of the ceremony neared, as a group we had decided that, in the unlikely event that we should win, Harold would collect the award on our behalf. He would also read the speech that he'd lovingly prepared. But, as I nervously flounced about on the red carpet, the seeds of Harold's resentment had been sown. What neither of knew was that, actually, the photographers had been shouting for one of the world's finest film directors, Frank Capra, who had been standing behind me. Unless making an idiot of yourself in public is your thing, there was nothing for Harold to be jealous of.

Our fifteen minutes...

        If that wasn't awkward enough, worse was to come. By the time our category was about to be announced we'd already patiently sat through hours of other awards and acceptance speeches. It's fair to say that by this point we were in a bit of a slumber. But, as everyone politely applauded the nominees as they were announced to the audience, we were suddenly roused into action; phantom pulses were racing, nervous brows were being mopped. As Cary Grant proudly declared, "And the winner is....'The Skeleton Crew for Jason and the Argonauts'". The crowd began to clap enthusiastically; music from the film began to play; and Harold was supposed to be getting to his feet to go and collect the award. I'm not quite sure what happened. I initially thought he'd died of delight. But I believe, just as the announcement was about to be made, he'd leant down to pick up the glass of champagne he'd accidentally knocked over in the excitement. In doing so he somehow got his bony hand wedged between the seats. As the spotlight fell on him it was clear that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. In a nervous desire to help I leapt to my feet, grabbed his other hand, and began trying to tug him free. Sidney Poitier, ever the gent, also sprung to his feet and tried to help. One muscly heave from the scrumptious Sidney, and Harold's arm broke free from his body. (Unexpected joint dislocation is a common consequence of having no tendons.) Thankfully, the sound of the orchestra muffled most of Harold's screams. Sidney and I landed on our backsides. Now thinking that this was a farcical set up, the audience roared with laughter.

      To say I was flustered would be to grossly understate. Harold still couldn't get to his feet; the orchestra were now repeating themselves; and nobody had yet collected the award. Then Sidney said to me, "Aren't you going to go and get it then?" As I say, when flustered I comply. So up towards the stage I went. My knees were knocking so badly that I sounded like a herd of horses on cobblestones. Just to make matters worst, and much to my horror, I realised that I still had hold of Harold's arm. But there was no time to dither as on my arrival to the stage I was immediately embraced by Jack Lemmon and Cary Grant; handed our Oscar; and pushed in front of a microphone. In my defence, not only was I was startled but I also had no prepared notes. As a result my acceptance speech was short, but shamefully cringe-worthy. To some of the finest actors and filmmakers in the world, I said, "This one's for my friend, Mr Harold Featherstone. Don't let his extensive horror film experience put you off; he's armless, really." I waved both arm and award in the air in a celebratory fashion, grinned like an idiot, and then promptly left the stage to generous applause. It was awful.

Not one but two

    If I thought that was bad, the worst was yet to come. When I returned to my seat, Harold, now free to leave his seat, was quietly seething. I gave him his arm back and sat down next to him. As the nominees for the 'best actress in a supporting role' award were being introduced, he leaned over and whispered to me, 'You planned that, you bony bastard!' I was shocked for I'd done no such thing. I certainly didn't recall doing so. I'm really not a malicious sort of individual, and, as far as I'm aware, I have no inclination to trap people in theatre furnishings.

     "Are you really that desperate for a role on The Dick Van Dyke show!?" Harold sniped at me. To be honest, I had no desire for a part on the Dick Van Dyke show, but I was now finding Harold's ungracious envy a most unappealing character trait. I was about to suggest that we go and get a drink in the bar, when I suddenly heard Elizabeth Taylor say, "And the award for best actor in a supporting role goes to...Frank Fettle."

   Well that was a surprising turn up for the books as I wasn't even nominated. It was worse than an erroneous episode of Australia's Next Top Model. The audience may have been whooping wildly, but I was still able to hear Harold suffer a severe case of sudden bone collapse - a condition not unusual in skeletons who've just received a major shock to the system.

     I was on my way to the stage to collect an award I didn't deserve at all, and my friend was now just a pile of bones in a tux. As he lay there, staring at the underneath of his theatre seat, his face stuck in the remnants of his spilt champagne, his conviction that I had, somehow, constructed this entire charade didn't once falter. He'd be fine once he'd been reassembled and had two cups of hot sweet tea, but, nonetheless, none of this had been in the script for the evening.

     The final straw came when, during my second acceptance speech of the night, a little voice wafted up from between the seats of rows C and D to fill the auditorium. My heckling friend had soon turned the air a shade of blue with his insults. Thankfully, Rex Harrison was mindful enough to lean over and disconnect Harold's jaw from his skull before he could continue his tirade no longer.

    His words were so vulgar I dare not to repeat them in polite company. It had been quite unnecessary. But, alas, so was my response. The gasps of shock had abated and silence had returned. So as I finished my short speech about how shocked I was, I brought it to a swift conclusion by saying, "Am I now eligible for a guest spot on the Dick Van Dyke Show? What do you say, Dick? Am I?" The crowd roared.

     Had he been in better shape I'm sure Harold would have gladly beaten me over the head with my own femur. I never got the chance to find out. The rest of the crew dragged him out the the bar to be reassembled, and before I knew it I'd been dragged backstage to calm down. My knees were still knocking so Katherine Hepburn brought me a drink and whispered that she'd put a 'little something extra' in there. I can only imagine what that was because soon enough my nerves had ebbed away and I was having a great time. 

    My theory as to how I ended up with an Oscar is this...It is still my belief that Don Chaffey was so determined to win his film an Oscar that, after the crowd warmed to me, he sneaked into the envelope and scribbled my name on the results card. I knew I had a natural flair for sword fighting but I was no Olivier. That was just my theory nobody else believed me. Everyone else was hailing me as a new physical comic genius who had somehow hijacked the Oscar ceremony. It was all a terrible mistake.  People who had never heard of me before this night were telling me how much they loved me; knowledgeable people approached me to tell me how much they loved my work. Amazing, considering I done so little of it. This, was what Harold was jealous of?   The appreciation I received didn't exactly put flesh on my bones, or a beat in my heart.
The following morning my face was on the front cover of all the newspapers. My interloper status had been discovered, and the true winner (Melyvn Douglas) informed. Once I'd been found out, so to speak, I immediately returned the statue of the little gold man.
     In time the furore calmed down but, still believing that I'd made all this happen, Harold refused to speak to me again. Back in 1978 I thought I'd caught a glimpse of him in an episode of Quincy, but I'd lost all contact with him long before. That was until this past weekend, when my good friend, Mr Michael Taylor, visited Lincoln University. It seems that Harold was on duty as part of their open day. I presume that he was in the science department.  Not only am I thrilled to know that's his reassembly was successful, and that he's still 'with us'; but it's good to know that he's still working.  

Right folks; that was a pointless tale from my past...and now the brandy glass needs a refill. 

My regards to you all,

Frank

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