My good buddy Kevin has let go with another rant in response to my earlier video post featuring a skit from This Hour Has 22 Minutes. In the video they expand on the growing fad of cloning popular TV shows such as CSI into various different cities with different casts. They take the popular show Flashpoint and do a send-off of it “Flashpoint St. John’s”. I thought the exaggerated Newfoundland accent and mannerisms came off as funny. Kevin’s take on it, however, was slightly less accepting. For those of you that didn’t catch it in the comments, here it is, in full:

Ya know what pisses me to no end?

Let’s start with number one. In all me days of living, scratch that, existing on the rock, not once have I heard anyone one say “Lard Tundering” or “Stay where yere at” and so on. It’s not that it’s never been said. I’m sure some poor sod has let part of it slip from time to time in a drunken stupor and not realizing that he is classing him or herself with the mainland equivelent of what’s taken for Newfoundland phrasing and dialect. Even in day to day conversation, letting go with a line, as what mainlanders have come to believe are some of the main catch phrases often heard in every port along our shores, like that would have the fella standing next to ya look at you kinda of funny and ask, “What? What da F*&% are you talking about, b’y?” No one I know from from any part of the Newfoundland planet speaks like that and what’s worse is now we’ve got a few displaced personages from our rocky shores (maybe) passing themselves off as the average day-to-day Newfoundlanders. These individuals are seeking to call themselves comedians, and with funding from the purses of the Canadian public pouring into the CBC, they’ve been allowed to put them on our airwaves, and subject us to the uncomedic ramblings of poor writing, the imagination of a fruitfly and the wit and wisdom of stale bread. I cannot find any jocularity in what these individuals call comedic sketches. This hour . . . and the bottom of the barrel cast are a true insult to all that is Newfoundland. They are as limp as a dish rag with a quick line and their approach to comedy leaves you savagely hunting for the remote in an effort to quickly change the said channel. What are we thinking letting these morons pass themselves off as “True Newfoundlanders”? If this is what we are now presenting to the world as a glimpse of what the common everyday variety Newfoundlander is like, then we’re in big trouble.
Not only would the unsuspecting mainland viewer take this a reasonable facsimile of what he might expect should he venture out of the confines of upper Canadiana to the shores of the far east, he would almost immediately think to himself that the Newfoundland idiot he’s been told that exists on these shores is most certainly alive and decaying at the same time. We have allowed these throwbacks to the whoopie cushion, to box us all together in a tragic farce lasting 30 minutes a week and growing and blanketing our combined faces to the viewing world, saying, “This is us, wadda ya think? Cathy Jones needs to find another line of work, the other just need to stop.
As sad as it is, the newfie joke, lately, has been on all of us.

Did I say that out loud?

A Pittance Of Time
Written by Terry Kelly © Jefter Publishing – SOCAN

They fought and some died for their homeland.
They fought and some died, now it’s our land.
Look at his little child; there’s no fear in her eyes.
Could he not show respect for other dads who have died?

Take two minutes, would you mind?
It’s a pittance of time,
For the boys and the girls who went over.
In peace may they rest, may we never
forget why they died.
It’s a pittance of time.

God forgive me for wanting to strike him.
Give me strength so as not to be like him.
My heart pounds in my breast, fingers pressed to my lips,
My throat wants to bawl out, my tongue barely resists.

But two minutes I will bide.
It’s a pittance of time,
For the boys and the girls who went over.
In peace may they rest.
May we never forget why they died.
It’s a pittance of time.

Read the letters and poems of the heroes at home.
They have casualties, battles, and fears of their own.
There’s a price to be paid if you go, if you stay.
Freedom’s fought for and won in numerous ways.

Take two minutes, would you mind?
It’s a pittance of time,
For the boys and the girls all over.
May we never forget, our young become vets.
At the end of the line,
It’s a pittance of time.

It takes courage to fight in your own war.
It takes courage to fight someone else’s war.
Our peacekeepers tell of their own living hell.
They bring hope to foreign lands that hate mongers can’t kill.

Take two minutes, would you mind?
It’s a pittance of time,
For the boys and the girls who go over.
In peacetime our best still don battle dress
And lay their lives on the line.
It’s a pittance of time

In peace may they rest,
Lest we forget why they died.
Take a pittance of time.

The local paper from my home town recently posted the following on its local web site….a testament to tradition, at the same time a note on progress.

Public Service Announcement

The Town of Grand Falls Windsor, Parks and Recreation Department are presently looking for pallets, wood, etc for its community bonfire to be held on November 5. If you have any items that you can donate please call XXX-XXXX, XXX-XXXX or fax XXX-XXXX. You can also e-mail.

Growing up in Newfoundland, Bonfire night actually started mid-summer. The only thing in my life that was more important (at least to my father) was to get the winter’s wood put away. A must if I was to celebrate Bonfire night.

For the quintessential and of course the largest bonfire, we collected pallets, ‘blasty boughs’ for the bonfire finale, tires from every service station we could get to, and anything else that was remotely flammable. Tires were the best…..the steel belting, the smoke, the smell of the rubber, the toxins… we really didn’t care. Not one of us ever went home without the acrid stench of rubber on our clothes, the red smoky eyes, or blackened marshmallow clinging to sweaters and mitts. In later years we cooked potatoes, roasted wieners, and made what my grandmother called ‘frozies’. All cooked over the coals, tires and all. No S’mores for us.

As I was preparing this I remembered the chant we used to sing and racked my brain over the words to the point where I had to phone and ask my parents. Now in their 70’s my father never skipped a beat…..he recited, I wrote, and then he said, “I thought that internet thing was supposed to have all that stuff”…..words from the wise. Anyway here it is:

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,’twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God’s providence he was catched
With a dark lantern and burning match.

Hello boys, hello boys, make the bells ring.
Hello boys, hello boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah!

Interestingly enough, we only knew the second verse.

So now it’s community bonfires. I’m sure this is much safer, more controlled, and more accessible to everyone. I’m also sure that the sight of some smallish boys trapsing through town with axes, and knives is likely now frowned upon let alone the custom of rolling tires through the streets en route to their demise.

The tradition has changed or modified. The more trendy green movement, the recycling of virtually everything from spray cans to tires, pallets to christmas trees has changed this tradition. However, this Newfoundlander has not forgotten, and in my mind’s eye I can see and hear childhood friends Stephen, Lorraine, Blair, Velda, David, on the street chanting. I can also hear my now 77 year old father “Now my son, get that wood stowed up.”