Tears In The Fence 49

The latest issue of the excellent magazine (let's face it, at 140 pages, it's a small book) Tears In The Fence is out now.

There's a massive amount, and range of poetry, including familiar (to me) names such as Norman Jope, Tamsin Kendrick, Maggie Butt, A F Harrold, Steve Spence, Mark Goodwin, Ross Sutherland, Sheila Hamilton, Todd Swift, Simon Turner, George Ttoouli and S J Litherland, plus plenty more, reviews and the usual round-ups of what's new.

I have a poem, Worst Case Scenario, in there too - it's a pleasure to be in such company.

Owls, bats etc

I did a fair bit of birding at the weekend. I won't go into all the details (it involved the finer points of gull ID, among other things), but some interesting snippets were:

• As I watched three or maybe four Short-eared Owls at their regular wintering spot at Great Easton, there was the unmistakable hooting of a Tawny Owl. After much scanning with the scope, it was possible to pick out two Tawnys in a nearby tree, sitting tight. One was noticeably much darker than the other. I've been in my current house for getting on nine years, and hear Tawnys on a regular basis, but I've never seen one in daylight, so two was a thrill.
• At Swithland Reservoir, there was a bat hawking for insects in broad daylight (about 3pm). No idea what kind, I'm afraid.
• Also at Swithland, I saw one of the resident Peregrines drop like a stone - the trademark stoop. I say trademark, but they usually seem to use a much shallower hunting dive there. This was practically vertical - and my heart (or maybe it was my stomach) rose to meet it.

Blackbox Manifold 2

Issue Two of Sheffield-based Blackbox Manifold can now be found here.

It boasts all manner of excellent poetry from the likes of Paul Muldoon, John Kinsella, Geraldine Monk, Alan Halsey and Matthew Sweeney, and there are two poems from me in there - The Archaeologist and Sunday Cricket, Eastwood - so have a good browse through it and Issue One.

Morning everyone!

Because of all the sound and fury surrounding the abandoned second test, the Allen Stanford affair, and the thrilling finish to the rearranged test match, there seems to have been relatively little said over here about the sad news that Richie Benaud is hanging up his microphone for good at the end of the next Australian cricket season.

I’ve written before about how, for anyone of my generation, Richie was the voice of cricket, far more than John Arlott or Brian Johnston (great though they were). I’d go further, and say that he stands head and shoulders above pretty well every TV sports commentator I can think of, simply because he grasped the fact that you don’t need to tell viewers something they can see perfectly well for themselves.

So, at his best, on the BBC in the 70s and 80s, Richie was quite content to let minutes go by without saying anything, letting the action speak for itself. In the best traditions of minimalism, what he left out was just as important as what he put in. When he did speak, you knew he’d offer genuine insight, rather than clichés and platitudes. Add to that an ultra-dry wit, and you have a legend.

My favourite Richie moment was in 1998, in the 4th test vs South Africa at Trent Bridge. England were chasing 250-odd to win, and after Mike Atherton had weathered a torrid spell of fast bowling from Allan Donald on the fourth evening, they were approaching their target with some comfort. Richie’s co-commentator Geoff Boycott, though, was getting quite concerned that Atherton wouldn’t reach 100 before the end, because Alec Stewart at the other end was stroking the ball around superbly. Boycott kept telling viewers that test centuries were hard to come by, that Atherton shouldn’t pass up this opportunity, and that if it were him out there, he’d be pinching the strike.
There was a pregnant pause before Richie’s masterfully understated:

“I find that very hard to believe, Geoffrey.”

This had the effect of silencing Boycott for several minutes (no mean feat), but eventually it all became too much for him, and as it became clear that Atherton wasn’t going to follow his advice, Geoffrey started again, pleading with him to pinch the strike. Then, remembering Richie’s previous gentle rebuke, he decided to cover himself, saying: “Of course, I wouldn’t know anything about that kind of thing myself. I read it in a book somewhere.”

Richie’s reply (you could almost hear his eyebrows lifting quizzically): “Autobiography, Geoffrey?”

Another reason for Brits to love him was that he remained resolutely impartial, even during Ashes contests over here. Only once do I remember that cracking – in 1985, when Gower and Gooch in particular were feasting off a weak Aussie attack, and he occasionally sounded exasperated, despairing even.

Finally, while I’m no fan of the honours system, why on earth isn’t he Sir Richie Benaud? Not for his playing career, particularly, although he was a great by any standards. More for his general contribution to the game, as a positive, attacking captain who reinvigorated test cricket, as a great commentator, and as someone always willing to embrace new ideas rather than remain bound by tradition.

One thing’s for certain, and that’s that there’s no one around to touch him, even now. On Sky over here, Michael Holding is excellent, David Lloyd entertaining if a bit annoying at times, and Nasser Hussain good (although unashamedly an England fan). Tony Cozier is excellent, but he’s only on when England play the Windies. Mark Taylor and Ian Healy always sound good on the Aussie commentary, but that’s about it. Oh, and there’s Shaun Pollock, who was on radio and TV last summer, and gave every indication of being a natural. As Richie would say, good effort that, I thought.

Raw Light spotlight

Jane Holland has very kindly published The Memory Of Water, one of the poems from Troy Town, as part of her season of other poets at her Raw Light blog.

It has already featured fine poems from Katy Evans-Bush and Rob Mackenzie (whose book The Opposite Of Cabbage is just out), and I can't help being slightly envious of Katy that she managed to supply a poem of that quality that hadn't made it into her very fine book Me And The Dead!

There are plenty more poets to follow, too, so keep an eye on Raw Light...

What editors want?

There’s a good piece over on Alan Baker’s blog (it’s the second post down) concerning the whole process of evaluating your own work, and whether it’s possible to be a good judge of your own poetry.

It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, because as he says, I tend to find that the work I’m keenest for people to like (and publish) gets the thumbs-down, while the stuff I’m indifferent to or have even come to dislike gets a positive response.

And as he says, I think in the long run that’s a good thing – it reinforces the need for a good editor, and the value of taking your time and looking at your own work from as many different angles as possible, and it makes you think about the whole idea of a readership.

Not that I’m suggesting for a minute that any poet should be writing purely to please the reading public (let’s face it – for most of us, that’s a pretty small group). Just, I suppose, that having written what you want or have to write, it doesn’t hurt to view it through the filter of wider tastes than your own.

Just recently, I’ve had a couple of poems accepted by magazines after they’d sat on my hard drive doing nothing (other than very occasionally being tinkered with) for about three years. In both cases, I’d felt that I’d made a pretty bad fist of a poem that I really needed to write.

But, after both were taken by editors at the first attempt, I can see them in a slightly different light, and see why, perhaps, they actually work a lot better than one or two ‘pet’ poems of mine. I don’t think either are any more obviously accessible, or of the moment, than the unsuccessful poems, just that they pull their weight far better. One, at least, also now suggests itself as the title poem of a small series or collection of poems that I've been writing - again, without the outside opinion, I hadn't necessarily made the link between it and one or two other pieces.

Prize time

The results of the 2008 Plough Prize are out, complete with the winning poems, the judges' comments, and more. It's a great competition, particularly for the support, guidance and potential boost it gives to new and up and coming writers, so take a look, and think about entering this year, when Alison Brackenbury will return as judge.

Another review

Swiss-based American poet Andrew Shields has posted this really fine review of Troy Town over at his blog.

I've mentioned before that the best review you can get, I think, is one that alerts you to things that you'd never noticed before (or were only subconsciously aware of) in your poetry, and this certainly does that. In fact, the more I read it, the more I think Andrew's last line pretty much sums up the main concern of most of the poetry I've written up to now - the desire to be in several places (or times) at once.

Incidentally, you can catch Andrew reading, along with Alan Gay, Jane McKie and Tim Turnbull, at the Great Grog in Edinburgh, this Sunday evening. Admission is £3, £2 for concessions.

Remembering The Triffids

I've raved at length in the past about my love for 1980s Aussie band The Triffids and their idiosyncratic brand of country rock, so I'm delighted that one of my poems, Unquiet, will appear in a book called Vagabond Holes: David McComb and The Triffids, to be published this September by Fremantle Press. Edited by Chris Coughran and Niall Lucy at the University of Melbourne, it will feature contributions from a range of journalists, academics, musicians and visual artists, plus poets including John Kinsella and Laurie Duggan.

The poem is one of a few I've written that owe something to McComb and his band, whether in terms of inspiration, mood or setting. Another, Hutt River Province, appeared in Troy Town.

But anyway, I recommend the book, and any of the band's albums. Today, with the UK in the grip of a proper winter for once, is as good a time as any to transport yourself to the sun-baked, parched expanses of Western Australia.

UPDATE: I think the band's entire back catalogue has now been remastered and reissued - details here. And, if you read my next post, Andrew Shields' review opens by talking about Hutt River Province.

Mark Goodwin: Else

There's a good review of Mark Goodwin's Else, recently published by Shearsman, over at Stride. Mark is a Leicester-based poet, much published in magazines and online, and he read (very well) at the Shindig! event just before Christmas. Anyway, it's a book I must get hold of - there is, as the review says, a very outdoorsy quality to his poetry that sometimes reminds me of an old favourite of mine, Gary Snyder.

As usual, there's plenty of other good stuff to browse at Stride, too.

Big Garden Birdwatch

I took part in the RSPB's annual Big Garden Birdwatch yesterday. The idea is that you watch a garden (or part of your local park, perhaps) for an hour, recording all the species seen, plus the maximum numbers of each at any one time. Because you can't actually see any of my small garden from the house, I did it at my parents' house.

Nothing out of the ordinary, but numbers were up on last year, and it's nice to see a House Sparrow back. I recorded:

Dunnock (2)
Blackbird
Carrion Crow
Blue Tit (3)
Coal Tit
Magpie (2)
House Sparrow
Starling
Great Tit

Unfortunately you can't count species that merely fly over, or I could have added Buzzard, Woodpigeon and Herring Gull.

UPDATE: Three more BGBW accounts at Katie Fuller's RSPB blog, my colleague Mike Weedon's blog, and at Caroline at Coastcard. Katie's post reminded me of a couple of things; firstly, that Greenfinches seem to be increasingly scarce in my part of the world, and secondly, that you can guarantee that as soon as the hour is up, all manner of birds will appear. In my case, a Robin, several more Starlings and more Blackbirds, plus a Woodpigeon or two. And I'm envious of Caroline - I looked for Lesser Redpolls on Saturday, with no luck, although I did find a few Siskin.

Saving The Charlotte

There’s been a lot of talk in the Leicester Mercury lately about fears that legendary gig venue The Charlotte is to close. Local heroes Kasabian have offered their help to save it, the letters pages have been full of it, and so it goes on.

Now don’t get me wrong – I love The Charlotte (I can remember when it was still The Princess Charlotte). Or at least, I used to, back when it was a pub with two smallish drinking areas and a tiny gig space out back. That eventually got enlarged a bit, but the character remained the same, and I spent many a happy evening there, both through choice and when reviewing bands for the Mercury. The pleasure, of course, was in being able to get really close to the bands, who would emerge from a tiny dressing room/broom closet at the back. But the sound was OK, too, the beer good, and in the old days, they used to keep a pot of vegetable chilli bubbling in the front bar. I’ve been trying to remember all the acts I’ve seen there, and some of the most memorable were Prolapse (Leicester band with two singers who should have been huge), Julian Cope, Sugar (Bob Mould’s post Husker Du outfit, while they were still fresh and interesting), The Wedding Present (ear-gratingly loud, around the time of the underrated Seamonsters), and my old favourites Yo La Tengo. When they played, I’d seen them the previous night in London, but they did an almost totally different set, and I was stood a couple of feet from Ira Kaplan as he wrestled with his guitar like a man struggling with a fire hose just after the tap’s been turned on. Oh, and how can I forget my old friends Supereight (later The Freed Unit), one of Leicester’s best-kept secrets.

Unfortunately, to increase the capacity and revenue, they knocked everything through a few years ago, so that now it resembles a long shed, with poor acoustics and a restricted view from a lot of areas. They struggle, too, to attract the names that they used to, and a lot of the time the bill seems to be made up of emo bands, usually local. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but it doesn’t pack ‘em in like it used to.

I can’t help thinking, though, that the response to the rumours of closure is a bit hypocritical. If all the people writing in went to a gig there now and then (and I’m as guilty as them), there wouldn’t be a problem, I suspect. It's similar to what happens when a poetry mag is facing closure, or a publisher gets rid of their poetry list. It's all very well thinking that it's a nice thing to have around, but in the end it needs people to put their hands in their pockets and actually support it. Still, maybe this is the scare we need to get us off our backsides.

Will Hay

I can remember, as a kid getting on for 30 years ago, watching a season of Will Hay films screened on BBC2 early in the evening. My parents were both big fans, so that's probably why I started watching, but it didn't take long to get hooked. They're really very, very silly, which is bound to appeal to a child, but I still enjoy them as much now as I did then, and now I appreciate there's a bit more to them.

Saturday's Daily Telegraph contained this article about a comedian who never seems to get the kudos he deserves. It calls him a missing link between the music hall and the Ealing comedies of the 1950s, but I'd go further. His on-screen partnership with Moore Marriott and Graham Moffat certainly foreshadows the likes of Dad's Army and Father Ted, while his comic anti-hero persona must have influenced characters such as Alan Partridge and David Brent. As the article says, what's great about his films is that there's little sentimentality, no attempt to ingratiate himself with the audience.

Last year, I saw Oh Mr Porter! at the Arts Centre in Stamford, and enjoyed it hugely, but my favourite is still Ask A Policeman (plot-wise, very similar), mainly because it includes a very silly poem. Hay and his two confederates need Marriott's father (he's playing both roles) to remember it to help solve the mystery. I can't recall it all without checking the film, but it starts "When the tide is high in the smugglers cove, and the headless horseman rides a-bove", and then ends with an absurdly long last line.

But anyway, I must get hold of the biography of Hay that's mentioned (as if I needed more books to read).

Poetry Nottingham

The new Poetry Nottingham arrived yesterday, and I spent a fair part of the day browsing it. This issue contains the winners of the PN Open Competition, so there's less space for reviews than normal, but there's an excellent appraisal of DA Prince's HappenStance collection, Nearly The Happy Hour.

The poems include work by the reliably excellent CJ Allen, and there's a definite HappenStance flavour to things too, with Patricia Ace, Gill McEvoy and myself also appearing in there.* My poem, His Old Tricks, was one of the winners of the mini-competition in the last issue - the other winner was Knock-Off Country, by Jon Stone (highly recommended).

*Because the poets in PN appear in alphabetical order, my poem appears opposite Gill's - the second or maybe even third time this has happened, I think. Always nice to be among friends!

The Secret History

My approach to reading is a pretty scattergun one, in that I often have a fair few books on the go at once. Some poetry, a novel, some history or natural history, and maybe a biography. It's one of the reasons why, having bought a book, it often takes me ages to get round to reading it.

Another is that I tend to re-read stuff without always really meaning to. Yesterday, to check a half-remembered incident, I picked up my old copy of The Secret History, or Anecdota, by sixth century historian Procopius. I had to read it at university, and I've dipped in once or twice since, but having started last night, I couldn't put it down.

Procopius spent his professional life as a civil servant at the Byzantine court, including writing fawning, obsequious histories of the Emperor Justinian and his general, Belisarius. In the Anecdota, though, he tells you what he really thinks, lashing out at those two and their wives, accusing them of just about every kind of moral degeneracy imaginable.

It's marvellously entertaining, being probably the most sustained character assassination in history, and of course there's a lot of fun to be had in deciding just what is fact and what is exaggeration. And, when I thought about it later, I realised that a lot of the poems I've been writing lately have had a common thread of secret and alternate histories. So, browsing rather aimlessly does have its up-side, at times - it's helped me start planning some direction for what I'm writing.

PS. Of course, there's also The Secret History, Donna Tartt's splendid 1990s novel, which I remember reading practically in one sitting. I must re-read that, too.

Mick Imlah (1956-2009)

Others have already said it much better than I could, but it's desperately sad to hear of the death of Mick Imlah at the age of 52. He'd been suffering from Motor Neurone disease for some time.

Last year's collection The Lost Leader had attracted all sorts of critical plaudits, but he had spent much of the 20 years between it and his debut collection as a literary journalist and editor, most notably editing Poetry Review and, later, the Times Literary Supplement. Never high profile, but working quietly and selflessly to promote the work of other poets.

He was one of the nominees for the TS Eliot Prize, the winner of which was announced last night. What's happened really puts prizes in perspective, of course, but I suspect he'd have been pleased that the judges plumped for a younger poet, Jen Hadfield, whose Nigh-No-Place is really superb.

Catch them while you can

Plenty of great birds about at the moment – on Saturday, I walked around Cossington Mill / Wanlip North Lakes and had a look for the wildfowl that have been attracting plenty of attention.

There’s one good spot on the path overlooking the whole area, so I set up my scope next to an old chap who arrived just ahead of me, and we started scanning the flocks of geese. We quickly found the White-fronts (counting 16 in the end), and as we checked again after a quick conflab, I could see the juvenile dark-breasted Brent Goose on one of the small floods. It’s a common enough species UK-wide, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one on my very inland patch before.

A lot more scanning produced a Pink-footed Goose, and on the walk back to the car, I crossed the bridge at the weir just as the juvenile Whooper Swan was passing by with a small group of Mute Swans. As I stepped off the bridge, a Stoat ran past only a couple of yards away, and then hid in the vegetation at the base of a tree. Simply standing still often encourages them to come out for a look, and sure enough, its curiosity soon got the better of it, emerging to watch and scent for a few moments before streaking off into the scrub.

Of course, being 80-odd miles from the sea, we don’t get a huge variety or number of wildfowl, but geese on a really cold day in winter are always thrilling, regardless.

As if that wasn’t enough, there was a decent-sized flock (I counted 48) of Waxwings around Meadow Lane in Loughborough yesterday lunchtime. I was only passing, on the way to cricket coaching, but had enough time to watch them being warned off a berry-laden tree by an extremely irate Mistle Thrush. Not that it worked for long, as they soon returned to feed frantically.

Geoffrey Holloway

Just got my hands on this lovely volume, from Arrowhead, the Collected Poems of Geoffrey Holloway. It's been recommended by quite a few people whose judgement I trust, so I'm looking forward to reading it. I read his poem Rhine Jump, years ago, and liked it, but until this book came out he had slipped off the radar a bit.

Holloway was a very active and prolific poet, but it was perhaps because he didn't fit comfortably into any of the usual pigeonholes (mainstream, avant-garde, etc) that he didn't get the recognition he really deserved.

This should put things right to a large extent, and there's an introduction by editor David Morley that puts Holloway's work in context. I have, as I said, been told about this book by quite a few poets, so it's good that there's a bit of a murmur going round about Holloway after all this time.

Selling out

I’ve been working hard to sell copies of my HappenStance pamphlet, Making The Most Of The Light, at readings and open mics lately, and it’s now officially sold out.

Except it isn’t, as such. You won’t be able to buy it from the HappenStance website any more (but have a browse, because there are all sorts of goodies there), but I still have a few issues at home available for purchase or swaps.

If you’d like to buy one, you can order by emailing me using the link in the sidebar, and of course, Troy Town is very much available here or by emailing me on that link again.

Browsing the blogs

Thanks to Jane Holland for flagging up this – Polesworth’s most famous son is finally getting the recognition he deserves, and there’s the chance for you to follow in his footsteps (quite literally, once the poetry trail is finished). Just follow the links provided, and your poetry could be part of it all.

And Carrie Etter has highlighted this – sign up, and you get a poem a week sent to your inbox. Presses involved are Anvil Press, Arc Publications, Cinnamon Press, Enitharmon, Heaventree Press, Landfill, O’Brien Press, Oversteps Books, Peterloo Poets, Salt Publishing, Seren Books, and tall-lighthouse. Hopefully it'll be a chance for some less well-known poets to get a bit of exposure - good on Oxford Brookes.

Rogue Strands

Always good to see a new poetry blog on the scene, and this is Matthew Stewart's. It will have a distinct Anglo-Spanish flavour, I think, because he's based in Extremadura (a veritable birding paradise, of course), so it's worth keeping an eye on.

New year, new list

Back at work today, and despite the backlog of emails and letters to wade through, there's one really good thing about it - it's warm. Really warm.

I spent a large part of the time between New Year and last night out birding, the majority of it at Kelham Bridge, near Coalville, looking for a highly elusive ringtail Hen Harrier. My timing must have been spectacularly bad, because although there have been fairly regular sightings, I've got nothing to show for hours of trudging round there, except what felt like hypothermia last night. I'm not convinced it's actually roosting there - if it is still around, I suspect it's roosting in one of the many National Forest planting schemes dotted around the surrounding area, and commuting to KB to hunt once or twice a day.

I say nothing to show, but that's a lie, of course. Having closed last year's patch list on 150 exactly, I've made a steady start with 64, including a lovely male Smew at Staunton Harold Reservoir yesterday. There have been Willow Tits and even Bullfinches on the feeders at KB, too, and despite my complaints, it's actually been quite nice to get a reminder of proper, old-fashioned winter weather (although the 2 inches of snow this morning was a bit unwelcome). Yesterday, I walked around Sence Valley Forest Park, thinking the harrier might have slipped across there. No luck, but walking along beside the stream, with the ground frozen hard and snow starting to fall, it was something like an English winter landscape is supposed to be. Umpteen Snipe, and one Jack Snipe, flushed from almost beneath my feet, and the occasional little flock of Redwings and Fieldfares.

Still, I wouldn't want it to last too long. Double figure temperatures by the weekend, please.

2008 in brief

It's been a strange sort of Christmas. I was away in Northumberland helping host our Readers' Christmas Holiday on the big day itself, which was great fun. Plenty of good food, a few drinks, quizzes, some poetry, and of course lots of birds. On Boxing Day, we watched a few sites along Druridge Bay, and among other highlights got great views of a dog Otter and a Bittern.

Unfortunately, since getting back, I've been struggling badly with a cold, but it has at least allowed me to get on with plenty of reading and writing. And of course, I've been fine-tuning my Best of 2008 lists.

As ever, they're far from comprehensive, due to me having a less than reliable memory, and the fact that there are quite a few books that I bought this year that I'm only now getting round to reading. But for what it's worth, here they are:

Best new poetry collections (some might be 2007 books)
The Bestiary - Sam Meekings
A Winged Head - Graham Hartill
You Are Here - Simon Turner
The Yellow Studio - Stephen Romer
Breaking The Glass - LouAnn Muhm
Singing In The Dark - Alison Brackenbury
Backward Turning Sea - Kelvin Corcoran

Best chapbooks
Inextinguishable - James W Wood
Lady Godiva and Me - Liam Guilar
Rebuilding A Number 39 - Marilyn Ricci
Paper Run - Jim C Wilson
Lament of the Wanderer - Jane Holland
Persephone In Hades - Ruth Pitter (a new edition from HappenStance)

Best Collected/Selecteds (of those I've read this year - they're not necessarily recent)
Selected Poems - Michael Hofmann
Selected Poems - Bernard O'Donoghue (as mainstream poets go, undeservedly overlooked and underrated, I think)
Magpie Words - Richard Caddel
Collected Poems - Lynette Roberts
Gyrfalcon Poems - Colin Simms (a sort of Collected on a single theme, I suppose. One for the birdwatcher, maybe, but excellent)
Collected Later Poems - RS Thomas

Best anthology
In Person: 30 Poets (Bloodaxe) - not perfect, but a great idea, well executed, and for £12. A format we'll be seeing a lot more of, I think.

Best 'back catalogue' books
Almost - Oliver Reynolds
A Robin Hood Book - Alan Halsey

Best fiction
The Dig - John Preston
Engleby - Sebastian Faulks

Best non-fiction books
Bloodfeud: Murder and Revenge In Anglo-Saxon England – Richard Fletcher
The Man Who Went Into The West – Byron Rogers
Poetry Wars - Peter Barry
The Peregrine - J A Baker

Oh, and best bird of the year? Well, I think it's a toss-up between the Red-footed Falcon at Ingleby at the end of May, or the migrating Black Redstart that appeared just outside my front door earlier in the spring.

So, here's to a happy and peaceful 2009 for everyone. I'll be back in 2009...

Common Yellowthroat

This superb picture of a Common Yellowthroat was taken by Belgian birder and photographer David Monticelli on Corvo, in The Azores, back in mid-October.

It was one of a number of American vagrants that were turning up on the tiny mid-Atlantic island at the time, and David searched patiently for it to get this shot, in the meantime finding a Rose-breasted Grosbeak, and helping the rest of us uncover another Common Yellowthroat.

Merry Christmas!

No sign of any snow (a couple of weeks back a white Christmas was looking a good bet here), but who cares? It's well and truly holiday time, so I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, that you all get exactly the presents you wanted, and that none of you has to eat any more sprouts than a human being can reasonably be expected to.