How I am Related to John Peel

In my family, the ability to tell a good story has always been held in higher regard than the ability to command facts and figures.

My Dad (author of the posthumous "Letters from Conrad" blog) did not enjoy arguing as much as he enjoyed watching other people argue, and he would sometimes make monstrous assertions or deny commonsense facts purely in order to see how people would respond. This was in the days before the internet made the instant verification of most facts a straightforward matter. (These days we are reduced to arguing about which one of us has the fastest internet connection.)

Among the stories Dad used to tell was that that his father, also called Conrad (a professional gambler and a professional drinker – subject of many barely verifiable stories) had been named after a racehorse that had died after falling at a perilous fence while running the very first Grand National at Aintree in 1839. Conrad was ridden by a Captain Martin Becher, and the fence thereafter became known as Becher's Brook. The problem with this story is that it gives no explanation as to why a local infant born fifty years after the event would be named after a horse that had failed so spectacularly. When I was younger, such fanciful, groundless assertions used to infuriate me, and I argued with my Dad about the truthfulness of his account.

But another story my Dad used to tell was that he was related, via his mother Mary Moore (1909–83), to the DJ John Peel, whom he would describe as "one of those Ravenscoft–Moores". Could this assertion have some basis in fact? John Peel was born John Robert Parker Ravenscoft, in the right part of the Wirral, and there are certainly plenty of Ravenscrofts, Moores and Ravenscroft-Moores to be found in and around Liverpool.

It's not entirely unlikely, but I felt that I needed substantive proof before daring to repeat this rumour. So I signed up for a free 14-day trial of an ancestry website, and got to work, using as my basis the work of Geoff Brunström, a distant cousin of mine (and father of the ever-controversial former North Wales Police Chief Richard Brunström – stories about whom you'd be hard pressed to believe if they weren't well recorded).

And you know what? I came up with nothing. No birth, marriage or death records, nor a single dicennial census entry for either a Mary Moore born in 1909 or a John Ravenscroft born in 1939. It is as if they both entirely escaped the radar of governmental interference (unless some sort of official cover-up has taken place).

With thirteen days remaining of my fourteen-day free trial, I contented myself with a more fanciful use of the website's online resources. It was surprisingly easy to retrieve documents that traced the male Brunström line back to the first Brunström (the Ur-Brunström: Olaf Brunström (1785–1857) – whose story I'll tell you another time).

Thereafter, drawing not on primary evidence but on the wholly undocumented work of fellow subscribers, I traced the the line back further, through a series of patronymic ancestors. Thus, I discovered that I am . . .

Michael O. J. Brunström (1974–), son of
Conrad K. M. Brunström (1928–2011), son of
Conrad K. M. Brunström (1889–1967), son of
Otto Leopold Brunström (1856–1927), son of
John Leopold Brunström (1824–74), son of
Olaf Brunström (1785–1857), son of
Lars Svensson (1768–1827), son of
Sven Olofsson (1727–97), son of
Olof Persson (1681–1766), son of
Per Persson (1650–87), son of
Per Persson (1620–98), son of
Per Andersson (1580–1652), son of
Anders Persson (1550–1614), son of
Per Andersson (1520–1609), son of
Anders Olofsson (1500–64), son of
Olof Eriksson (1480–1540), son of
Erik Salomonsson (1460–1500), son of
Salomon Persson (1420–65), son of
Per Eriksson (1400–41), son of
Erik (1360–1420)

Erik, my earliest recorded ancestor, is therefore my great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great grandfather.

Aside from the grotesque multiplication (19x) of patriarchal primacy, the surprising thing about all this information is how boring it is. Unless we invent stories to superimpose on this dreary list of names and dates, the genealogy is no more meaning to us than a page torn from the phone book. In order to gain any appreciation of the fact that Olof Persson married Sigrid Svensdotter on 12 June 1710 in Anundsjö, Vasternorrland, for example, we must fill in the details of the day from our imaginations. He was 29. She was 19. Was the weather fine? What was her wedding dress like? How many guests attended and how much did they drink? How were the couple feeling?

Facts don't make stories. Colourful details do. The more the factual information is missing, the more of the story we feel we must invent. What's more, when the information is clearly inaccurate, the story gets better. When I stumbled across an ancestor from a different lineage who appeared to have married two different women from the same village with the same surname within three years of each other, but continue to father children with the first woman during his marriage to the second, it is clear enough that a careless genealogist has muddled up two individuals. But the story it implies is better than the reality. The story of the bigamous Swedish ménage à trois is the one I want to hear.

The slenderer the collaborative evidence, the bolder and more entertaining we must be with our assertions. Have I learned my lesson yet? I must admit – the story that I am related through my grandmother to John Peel is simply too good to subject to the tedious scrutiny of facts and evidence, which will only point up a reality that is less colourful and compelling. So yes, I am related to John Peel. I will continue to insist on it, while working on my version of his warm, Liverpudlian drawl.

Backgammon

I have a confession to make. I am addicted to backgammon. I am addicted to playing backgammon on my phone. My productivity and sociability have lately been decimated by my addiction to playing backgammon on my phone. The app is called Backgammon NJ. (The "NJ" is a mystery to me. Is backgammon big in New Jersey?)

Currently, I can beat my phone at backgammon about 50 per cent of the time on the "Medium" skill level. When I have overturned these statistics and gained a positive advantage over "Medium", I will move on to "Hard" and subsequently "Expert". Trouble is, my win rate has been about 50 per cent for some weeks now. I am stuck. I am Heracles chasing Zeno's tortoise. I can never catch up. What am I doing wrong?

I am convinced that my phone is cheating. It rolls itself fantastic dice and dances gaily around the board, while leaving me with the dregs – rubbish 1s and 2s that get me nowhere and leave my pieces trapped and exposed. I love playing my phone at backgammon, but it often drives me to tears. It is an thoroughly punishing, self-destructive addiction and I need help. Help.

The role of cheating is not taken into account in my theory of games. Here's my theory of games.

In most games, there are three variables that determine the outcome.

1 Your own skill
2 The skill of your opponent(s)
3 Luck

The best games are those in which luck and skill have a comparable degree of influence, but skill must always be the more decisive and interactive element.

Luck is, of course, an important factor in every card and dice game, but it also has a part to play in some sports. In Test cricket, one team may be favoured by the weather, which may change suddenly, and the result of the coin toss may prove critical to the overall shape of the game, but skill will normally be the critical factor, unless rain rescues one team from defeat.

Golf is a game in which the weather can be a variable, and might in theory favour the technique of one player over the other. But since the position of one player's ball has no influence on the other's, the game is not interactive. This is exactly what makes golf a stupid game, but not as stupid as darts, in which chance environmental factors are taken out of consideration altogether. The opposition of one player to another is entirely artificial, and they may as well be aiming their arrows at different dart boards in different countries at different times of the year.

Most sports, like darts, attempt to minimize any environmental factors that might favour one player or team over the other. They do often this enforcing a change of ends. Games such as tennis offer an interesting example of this, but it is technically possible to win a game purely through the lack of skill of your opponent, without touching the ball. A series of double faults will give you a game, but the players swap service as well as ends to correct this anomaly.

Other games – such as ludo – are interactive, yet feature more luck than skill in them, so they tend to produce random outcomes. In the case of casino games, the luck is weighted in favour of one of the players (as I suspect it is in the case of Backgammon NJ). The ultimate game of luck, in which both skill and interactivity are excluded altogether, is Snakes 'n' Ladders. (Yet even Snakes 'n' Ladders somehow seems less stupid than darts.)

At the opposite end of the scale are skill-only games such as chess, which constitute a completely interactive battle of wits. Although these involve the purest form of contest, the games that demand an interplay of skill and luck are the most compelling and addictive. These are the games in which bad luck can be overcome by good play and good luck can be squandered. The losing side can choose to console themselves that they were cheated by fate. At the conclusion of each game, both winners and losers are eager to start again, to see if the result can be replicated or overturned.

The two games that illustrate this the best are Test cricket and backgammon. They are the greatest games ever invented, with the exception of such games as "love" and "improv". If "life" is a game, then success and happiness consist in recognizing and understanding the interplay of skill and luck – in other words between those things that are in our control (our own abilities and attitudes), those that are not (the abilities and attitudes of others) and the things from which we may allow to affect us either positively or negatively (chance events).

The reviews on the App Store for Backgammon NJ are mostly glowing. But its perfect 5-star rating is compromised by a handful of malcontents.

★★★★★ Works well both offline and online. Can't fault this app. I didn't think it would be as good as this.

★★★★★ Only trouble is I spend too much time playing backgammon!

★★★★★ Brilliant.

★★★★★ The AI is brilliant and it's a great learning tool.

★ Sorry but I have to agree with others here in that the luck seems to be hugely in favour of the computer opponent. I have lost count of the number of times that the exact numbers required are thrown whenever a computer opponent's piece is "captured" and the enormous weighting in favour of the computer throwing doubles.

The accusations of cheating levelled against Backgammon NJ have forced its creators to issue lengthy statements explaining how the dice rolls are generated according to the Mersenne twister algorithm, which produces what we are assured are "high quality random numbers". We are invited to print out the dice rolls in advance or to roll the dice ourselves rather than rely on the makers' word alone, so as to test and prove Backgammon NJ's superior AI.

In spite of my humiliating record of 50 per cent success at this excellent game, and a gnawing resentment at its apparent flukiness, it is my duty to come out in defence of the creators of Backgammon NJ. For surely, if my suspicions of cheating were to be correct, I would have to presuppose a far greater conspiracy – namely, that the assurances offered up by the makers of Backgammon NJ are a fabrication, and that they have gone so far as to create a fictional cover story for their deception – a remarkably dishonest bluff. They would need to have developed a quasi-random algorithm that gave the impression of being fair, sufficiently subtle to fool most of the people most of the time, while introducing a significant mathematical advantage at an undetectable level that stood up even to critical analysis.

Firstly, if they were going to go to such enormous lengths, why shouldn't they just spend that time and trouble developing an AI that was just really good at calculating backgammon moves? Secondly, why should they perpetrate such a fraud in the first place? In order to cheat and win against random members of the public, customers of the App Store whom they will never meet in person? What sort of vain, tortured, love-starved freaks to they believe these Backgammon NJ programmers are?

I still have a great deal to learn about this game. As it is in backgammon, so it is in life. Think upon that, the next time you're tempted to complain about all the bad luck you've been having lately.

Alan Watts and Etymology

The word "etymology" derives from from two Greek words: ἔτῠμον (truth) and λόγος (account). As such, it claims to be far more than a merely linguistic discipline. In its original sense, etymology attempts to get at the truth of an utterance, rather than merely the history of a word.

This is balderdash, of course, but it neatly summarizes the way etymology itself is often misused. We should be more sceptical.

I've been thinking about etymology a lot since listening recently to Alan Watts' lecture on "The Mythology of Hinduism". It's given me much to think about – about philosophy, life, improvisation and much else – albeit in a sketchy, pithy way. It's a large topic, which Watts condenses into bite-sized mental snacking material. Extracts of his recordings have been animated by Tray Parker and Matt Stone, the creators of South Park.

And wow, he sounds amazing. His is one of the truly great voices. It resonates near the peak of an audio podium that I have made for my voice heroes, who include Oliver Postgate, Thurl Ravenscroft, Tim Gudgin and Vivian Stanshall. It is fruitily English, yet wavering, as if his cracked vowels were walking a tightrope between tears of comedy and tragic laughter. It's beguiling and seductive. No wonder he was married three times.

I don't like his rhetorical flourishes, though. They jump out at me, especially his excessive use of etymological examples to clarify the "original" meaning of modern English words. He peppers his simple poetic language with little these over-clever bits of supposed learning, which seem inserted to support his ego rather than his argument. It's a shame that he feels he has to appeal to mundane, spurious and earthly authorities, rather than the unadorned expressiveness of the myths he relates.

Because I like to be positive, I will give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume that his use of etymology is as ironic as he makes it sound. Surely he of all people understands that words and truth are not the same thing. In fact, the pauses, intonation and little chuckles in his voice often carry more truth than the literal meaning of his gnomic, aphoristic witticisms.

That's not to say that etymology is never revealing. The game of tracing a word's history is a fun one – all the more so when its conclusions are absurd –  but playing it to prove a point is as flawed and dangerous an idea as drawing conclusions about a person by tracing their genealogy. If words do have authentic meanings, that authenticity resides in the space that opens up at the moment the word is spoken – and in the shape it makes in the mouth of the speaker – but not in a mummified remnant from an arbitrary past time.

We learn more from learning that the word "tragedy" derives from "goatsong" than from learning that "comedy" comes from "festival song", but there's far more still to be discovered about both words by performing them.

The Return of the Improvised Greek Tragedy

Is it possible to improvise Greek tragedy? Come and learn how.

In this now-famous workshop led by Michael Brunström, a wide range of improvisation techniques are rallied to allow the spontaneous extemporization of Sophoclean drama. Based on the work of poetic geniuses from Aristotle to Zorba, and from Heraclitus to Ken Campbell, this is a dizzying romp through language, stagecraft, narrative, archetypes and high emotions. 

At the end of the afternoon we will improvise a complete Greek tragedy.

Expect choral chanting, masks, incest, flutes, divine punishment, trochaic tetrameters, catharsis and a singing goat.

Numbers are limited, so book early to ensure a place on an improvabout that is guaranteed to be quite unlike anything else you’ve ever done before. 

The Return of the Improvised Greek Tragedy
Sunday 29th January, 2–5pm
The Bookshop Theatre
51 The Cut
London SE1 8LF
Nearest Tubes: Waterloo and Southwark

Cost: £10, or £5 if you book in advance
Contact: michaelbrunstrom@hotmail.com or 07757 756119

Michael Brunström is a seasoned improviser who has worked with some of the biggest names on the London scene. The creator of Frogspawn, The Spouting Club, The Human Loire and The Curt Hatred Trilogy, he is also known for his original and unconventional improvabouts.

Bleigießen 2012

Following my dad's principle that anything you do twice immediately becomes a tradition, steeped in its own solemn and uncontestable lore, yesterday we did Bleigießen on New Year's Day for the second year running, thus initiating a new annual custom. ('The same procedure as last year, Miss Sophie?' 'The same procedure as every year.')

Bleigeißen (lead-pouring) is a German form of molybdomancy practiced at New Year, in which small lead shapes are melted down in a spoon over a flame, then quickly tossed into cold water, where they harden instantly, often into unlikely, surreal shapes. These are analysed by means of the shadows they cast under candle or torch light. These are checked against a list of official interpretations in a booklet provided with the Bleigießen set, although other online lists are available.

Many of the shapes carry the sort of open-ended, generally positive messages that we associate with horoscopes. For example, a bottle-shaped shadow simply indicates 'happy times to come', which is nice, but rather unhelpful. Other shapes are astoundingly specific. A frog says 'You will win the lottery'. You must leap into action if the shadow looks like an eagle owl. This means 'Someone is breaking into your house'. If you see a cradle, it is confidently predicted that 'You will become a Baptist'.

Because there is a strong element of personal interpretation at work, both in the making sense of the predictions and in the finding of the shadows, Bleigießen makes for a superior method of fortune telling, along with dream reading and tarot. I am unable to back up this assertion with scientific proof, as unfortunately I can't remember what last year's shadows were shaped like, or what the predictions turned out to be. Accordingly, I am making a record of this year's Bleigießen predictions here, to test their accuracy. Revisit the blog in twelve months' time for the results.

I used three pieces of lead, in the shape of a bell, a pig and a crown. On being poured into the cold water, No 1, the melted-down bell, split into two pieces, which I interpreted as representing two facets of the same destiny.



1a, viewed from one angle under torch light, gave a shadow that looked like two people on a boat or gondola, which predicts a long journey. From another angle, I think it looked like either a parrot, which means 'short fickle luck', or a goose taking flight. The goose means 'love bears fruit'. 1b was the smaller piece, resembling nothing more than a twig. Fortunately, 'twig' appears in the accompanying booklet. Its interpretation seems to contradict that of the parrot in 1a, as it signifies 'faithful luck', whatever that means.

No 2, the pig, produced this unusual shape, whose shadow seemed to me like a marching soldier. I couldn't find an interpretation for this in any of the Bleigießen literature (I will keep searching). From another angle, however, I was able to turn the molten lead into a laughing dog puppet with flappy ears and a big jaw that went up and down. Although the booklet doesn't offer a prediction specifically for 'laughing puppet dog', under the general heading 'dog' it says 'unbelievable news'.

The crown, No 3, turned into this magnificent complex shape. Again, when I held it from different corners, and at different angles, it offered up a wealth of interpretative possibilities. Most obviously, it was a long-nosed animal – an aardvark, dromedary or kangaroo – for which I looked under 'camel', and read that this meant 'new duties', doubtless relating to my job. From a slightly different angle, the nose became a beak, and the shadow took on the shape of a dodo or pelican. The pelican shape means, apparently, that I will bring something to a successful completion, possibly an restatement of the goose in 1a. Holding the lead from the opposite corner, I was able to discern a monkey, which, according to slight variations in the angle, appeared to be engaged in a series of sophisticated activities: fishing, reading a book, hailing a taxi. Again, the flimsy booklet didn't have an entry for 'sophisticated monkey', but under 'monkey' it said 'be cautious about being tricked'.

There we have it. My Bleigießen predictions for 2012. New duties, a long journey (I would very much like to visit Toronto this year) relating to luck of a flighty/faithful nature, or unbelievable news. Perhaps I shall be fortunate enough to avoid being tricked. Without doubt, however, the most startling and unlikely prediction is that I will successfully complete something. This runs counter to my normal way of doing things. In fact, my reputation for leaving projects unfinished is so well established that, if by some strange chance I should successfully complete something by the end of the year, that alone would constitute irrefutable proof of the amazing predictive powers of the Bleigießen.

I am keen for the Bleigießen to be proven correct. I'd better get started.

Happy New Year

It's that time of year again, when we are invited to examine the last twelve months and tot up the hits and misses; a perfect occasion to gaze regretfully back over a year of lost opportunities and to look forward with misgivings and dread to the failures that await us in 2012.

In terms of number of days lost to depression, 2011 was certainly one of the best yet. How else do you calculate the relative value of a year in a convenient, scientific way? Allow me to offer up the benefit of my experience. To gain a useful perspective over the year's mistakes and disappointments, I find it handy to do two things. Firstly, make a list of everything you told yourself you would achieve, but didn't. Be as exhaustive as possible, and include both ill-defined desires that went unfulfilled and specific undertakings that you simply botched.

Secondly, and more importantly, compare whatever paltry wins you might have clocked up with the extravagant successes of those who are closest to you. Observe how certain of your friends or family appeared to breeze through the year, sweeping up accomplishments and accolades as they passed, driven by the sort of deep-seated goal-oriented ambition and resolve that you lack.

When making New Year's Resolutions for 2012, remember to add unfulfilled resolutions from previous years to your list. Thus, each January the list grows incrementally, and you will start to carry around with you an ever-lengthening litany of self-disenchantment, the burden of which will eventually become absorbed into your daily habits in the form of a personality trait.

In the forthcoming year, in addition to my usual New Year's Resolutions – become good at backgammon; finish my translation of Gustave Le Rouge's paranormal sci-fi horror epic Prisoner of Mars (1911) and its sequel, War of the Vampires (1912); eat more chickpeas – I have promised myself that I will copy the tactics of people who achieve personal success without appreciable talent or effort. I resolve to toady up to attractive and influential people, and to jump on board projects that bring fame and popularity rather than what I have pompously and prissily insisted on up until now: a dubious, so-called 'artistic integrity'. I shall strive to be more ruthlessly go-getting and mercenary. I shall stop arbitrarily seeking out any distinction between actual news and mere personal opinion in what I read, thus gaining a hitherto unrealized reputation for passionate political conviction. Finally, I shall bury any misgivings I have about myself, hide my real feelings and express myself as though I am unconditionally, uncritically convinced of my own brilliance. Already I feel that 2012 will be even better than 2011.

Happy New Year from Tingtinglongtingtingfala!

Unassisted Human Flight

A few days ago: I'm standing in a drably decorated room with dark walls and a thick carpet of indeterminate colour. It is furnished with a series of three or four squat 1980s-style pine coffee tables, each one surrounded by four low, chunky, square armchairs upholstered in orange fabric. It is a waiting room, but for what? My guess is that I am in a travel agency, but travel agents don't have waiting rooms, do they? The room is empty of people, but the smell of tobacco lingers in the air, combined with that of cheap air freshener.

The armchairs and tables cover almost every square inch of floor space, so moving among them is awkward. I step up on to one of the tables, and, with a single bound, I leap over the two armchairs in between so as to land neatly on the next table. It is an impressive jump, accomplished with ease. A thought occurs to me, and I decide to see if I can jump over an entire table/chair arrangement and land on the next-but-one coffee table. This too is done effortlessly. I seem to glide through the air, setting myself down on the my target as light as a feather. That's unusual, I say to myself. I'm not usually so athletic and graceful. The only plausible explanation is that . . . I'm dreaming. There's one way to test whether or not this is real: if I can hop from this table and successfully fly the entire length of the room to land on the table at the far end, I can be absolutely certain this is a dream.

Sure enough, I am carried weightlessly across the entire distance. This is a dream, I tell myself, and not just any dream! This is a lucid dream, a dream in which I am conscious that I am dreaming. I am completely free to explore this fictitious consequence-free world as I choose. Aware that such dreams are often short-lived, arriving shortly before my eyes open, I put my time to good use. I tell myself that to attempt to leave the room will almost cause me to wake up. I allow myself to hover in the air, and begin a series of drifting and spinning manoeuvres in this unlikely waiting-room setting, all the while being careful not to bank too steeply or turn too fast, as any sudden events will shake me out of my dream. My curiosity, however, gets the better of me, and I decide to have a go at floating upside down. The unusual sensation is vivid enough to wake me.

I've read that in order to have lucid dreams on a more regular basis, you should get into the daily habit of checking whether or not you are dreaming. Scan your surroundings ten times a day with an eye for the implausible. Pinch yourself in the street. When the ingrained habit is repeated in your dream, so the theory goes, you can gain awareness of your dreams and direct them freely.

The dingy waiting room is a novelty, but the method of aerial propulsion is as old as I can remember. In every one of my recurrent dreams of flight, I have become airborne by jumping up over an object and then allowing myself to drift, as if I had pitched myself at just the right angle to be carried on a gust of wind. Both the method and the dreams certainly date back to my early childhood.

The year is 1983. I am eight years old and I am attending Gurnell Middle School. (My education career is complex. I was at Gurnell for only three years in between Montpelier Primary School and City of London School for Boys. Gurnell no longer exists. It is now Hathaway Primary School.) Among the many contradictory aspects of that strange school are its playgrounds, consisting of paving slabs bordered by grass, tarmac basketball/hockey courts, and two large grass fields bordered by gnarled old hawthorn hedgerows, of which the back field is out of bounds. (The first pornography I ever set eyes on was found among Gurnell's hawthorns, in the form of magazines left there by anonymous adult benefactors.) In between the paving slabs and the basketball courts are two landscaped knolls of grass. It is on the steeper of the pair that I am conducting my experiment.

I have recently begun reasoning as follows. The theory that unassisted human flight is impossible is just that: a theory. While it may be claimed the human body is unsuited to flight, grown-up physicists and engineers have given up too soon. Might it not be the case that the only thing required for people to fly is for the correct angle of trajectory to be found? The optimum angle, which makes flight possible, might be prohibitively narrow for practical purposes – a matter of a fraction of a fraction of a degree – but if it existed it would be worth finding? Am I not ideally placed to search for it, being a skinny eight-year-old with an entire lunch-hour to kill? And so, for an entire hour, I run up the knoll and fling myself from the top of it, only to tumble back to earth, landing safely but suddenly on the grass on the other side. (By the end of the hour, I have recruited a couple of gullible recruits to my project.) Not once in the whole lunch hour do I or my assistants fail to hit the ground. The result of the experiment: inconclusive.

While it is far easier to contemplate a large-scale transformation through a single, dramatic act (such as the invention of the aerofoil wing) than it is through the patient trial-and-error exploration of available options (How many frogs must be kissed? Ten thousand? Ten trillion?) it is nonetheless intriguing to speculate that this transformation lies under our very noses, attainable perhaps only from exactly the right angle, or less than a millimetre from where we are now, but in a dimension separate from the three we normally inhabit. The world of dreams, in which unaided flight is possible, might be closer than is commonly supposed, especially if we learn how to dream lucidly every night. Ask yourself what criteria you apply to determine whether or not you are awake.

But time will always be a factor. Memories, such as the one I have reconstructed about a lunch-hour at Gurnell Middle School in 1983, are made out of the same substance that dreams are. They fade as quickly as they form, and we must preserve them through telling, though they become less lucid, less real, each time they are recounted.