Leaning on gates

When we go walking it's fair to say we typically do it in an entirely calvinistic manner. Travel light, into a rhythm, stare at shoes, reach destination.

No stopping more than a moment to enjoy the view. No picnics. No pub stops. No reaching into pockets for cake and chocolate penguins (as it was when walking in The Lakes with Judy - the only walk I've ever done that caused me to put on weight).

So, thanks to Paula for showing me the importance of stopping and leaning on a gate for a few minutes, taking in the stillness and the view. I think it's all part of adjusting to that change in time and motion that one needs to make to regenerate from Londoner to rural nutter....


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Married, Single, Other.

Not because it was brilliant or anything, but it was a damned sight better than any review I saw (and I've just gone back and checked a few of the early ones).

From the reviews you'd think Amanda Holden and Sarah Parish were going to pop up at any moment and soon every partner would be playing musical beds.

Instead the best thing in it died.

It was much more Richard Curtis than Cold Feet, and frankly that's a good thing.

I'd fear for a second series though...



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Brown Clee

I reaped the benefits of not having done an early "in praise of roast dinners" by being able to parlay said experience into a number of in praise ofs...

I have managed to repeat the feat by not having done an early "in praise of the Shropshire Hills".

This is very useful when all we do each Sunday is walk and eat.

So, here's to Brown Clee, Shropshire's highest hill, stood alone, well away from the Church Stretton range, and complete with radio masts, toposcope, quarryings, old tramway, great views and thankfully few pregnant sheep.



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Queen Victoria's Willy

I used to love showing people around the landmarks of Bristol, but I'd always save the best till last. There's a statue of Queen Victoria at the bottom of Park Street, with her standing proud with sceptre and orb, and if you catch her sideways at just the right angle you would have to agree that Queen Victoria does indeed have a willy.

It's fair to say this has always amused me considerably more than my guests.

Imagine my delight yesterday, when having enjoyed a lovely day in Birmingham - theatre, drinks, scoff - on the way back to the station we passed an identical statue of Vicky and I was able to relive the giggling all over again.

Are there any other cities where one can enjoy this delight?
God save the queen.

The Croquettish Miss Dahl

As this series should almost certainly have been called.

I know, I know. The programme's wrong in so many ways. Not least that a cookery programme should be fronted by someone who plainly hasn't actually eaten since 2004.

On the other hand. Slurp. Munch. Dribble. Dribble.

And as we sit back replete, buttons on our trousers undone, let us raise a toast to that fizzy glass of mozzarella-palpating, loveliness on a stick that is Sophie and enjoy the screams of Nigella's career being scraped into the kitchen scraps bin....


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Eric Ambler's "Cause For Alarm"

Nearly six months into this bloody challenge (Eddie Izzard eat your heart out) and I realise I haven't praised a book yet.

Well, here's one. It's only now I'm old that I've been able to see for myself how authors and books go out of fashion, and sometimes back into fashion. That seems to be the case with Eric Ambler who was deemed very outdated back in the thrusting eighties, but seems to be enjoying a wee revival.

Anyway I read this immediately after Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larsson who seems to be single-handedly keeping bookshops open right now. Nothing wrong with that book (that losing 200 pages wouldn't cure) and no doubt I'll read the other two of his in due course.

I enjoyed Ambler's book much more. His tale of an armaments engineer trapped in fascist Italy on the eve of the second world war reads like a socialist version of The Thirty-Nine Steps. Good stuff.

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Brian Cox (the Solar System bloke)

(as opposed to Brian Cox, the original Hannibal Lecter bloke)

Despite my love of the night sky I have to say my approach to these sort of programmes in the past has been taken from the late great Dudley Sutton in The Beiderbecke Affair: "There's a particularly good documentary on Channel 4 I intend to sleep through."

But this time I've learnt all sorts of fun stuff:
- Venus's day lasts longer than its year.
- Neptune hasn't completed one orbit since it was discovered
- the Aurora Borealis is our view of the magnetic poles deflecting the sun's breath.
Just for starters.

Most importantly though, on the last show, he demonstrated how to launch a Chinese lantern so that you (a) don't burn yourself and those around you, and (b) don't launch it 20 feet straight into a tree....

Life skills folks, life skills.


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Horse racing commentators

Whilst we say goodbye to Harry "he's got him with a right" Carpenter, how about praising those who do what seems to me an impossible job.

If you've ever had a bet in the Grand National and spent until the Canal Turn trying to spot the horse you've backed you'll know how hard it is to call a race of 20 or more horses.

Last Friday, during the last race at Cheltenham, where I had two horses that could get me in the money I was so obsessed by tracking one of the horses that I completely missed the other one right until the commentator told me he had just taken the lead!

A lot of them get a lot of stick on forums, but frankly the worst of them does a better job than I could even imagine doing.

So, here's to them. And to my two favourites in particular. Richard Hoiles who is the very best at describing the action (who's going too fast, who's jumping sloppily etc), and Mark Johnston who can make the lowliest selling hurdle at Catterick sound like the Cheltenham Gold Cup.


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Adventureland

We went to see this film last night and it's terrific.

It's a beautifully observed love story with the lead character not a million miles from Gregory (Gregory's Girl), but American and older.

What I liked most is that it's based on the time just after University, and I can't remember another film that has done that at all, let alone so well. (Some novels have - Saul Bellow's Dangling Man for one) Some people seemed to just walk easily from university into the real world of work whilst some of us seemed to get stuck in limbo (for about four years in my case).

So, if during, after, or instead of, university you had a shitty summer job working with good people, where you were both living in the moment and watching your life slide out of view, you'll enjoy this. And if it was in the 80s even better.

And, thank the lord, finally a film director's found a starring role in their soundtrack for the Velvet Underground's "Pale Blue Eyes". Twice.

If you're thinking about a DVD to watch one Saturday evening and are thinking maybe you ought to see what the fuss was about with the Hurt Locker, do yourself a favour and watch this instead.


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Eddie Izzard

I'm not a big fan of celebrities doing silly self-promotional stunts and charging us for the privilege. In an increasingly unequal society the sight of Dragon's Den's Peter Jones stepping down off his private jet to tax the poor is pretty unedifying.

I'm forgiving Eddie Izzard though (my favourite stand-up of all time, and strangely the only comedian I can think of who can't act).

Because plainly the run had little to do with raising money for charity - He'd already run about 12 marathons before anyone noticed he was running at all - and more to do with him being completely bonkers.

Because the route seemed to be planned using the AA's Great Britain's Busiest Roads Atlas - expertly left open at "Lorries". He was much shorter odds in my book to be run over than he was to complete his challenge. The Hangar Lane Gyratory is for cars Eddie. Cars.

Because he runs much like me. A fat-thighed, stomach-out shuffle. He just kept it up for 1092 miles further. Fuelled by ice cream.

Because that rather puts into perspective half of Shropshire's current obsession with running a half-marathon.

And because he may have raised the bar sufficiently so that we don't have to put up with the Christine Bleakley's of the world blubbing about hanging off the back of a boat for half an hour, when she could have just asked her boyfriend and his mates for the cash and saved us all a lot of time and money...



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The bloke who punched Kieren Fallon

Now don't get me wrong. I abhor violence. Never been in a fight. Couldn't harm a fly.

Yesterday Anne accidentally squished a wood mouse underneath the shed door and the poor thing lay there, its back legs all mangled, squirming its head up trying to move. Anne and I stood there pathetically, bickering about what to do, and who to do it. In the end I dispatched it as best I could - something I only did because Anne was going to go next door and get a real man to do the job - and I think I may need counselling to get over the experience, judged by last night's nightmares.

Still, this morning's Racing Post headline "Fallon punched by angry owner" will have brought a smile to the face of every clued-up punter who's spent at least a decade wishing someone would give him a right good kicking...



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Deer

We've not seen many since we've been up here, but we did stumble across a herd of around 20 fallow deer at the top of the Wrekin yesterday. Or to be strictly accurate, Bobby did.

From Wisconsin to Richmond Park, always a treat....


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Cheltenham Gold Cup

(Though before we start - a bonus "in praise of.....Fulham 4 Juventus 1" - I swear I felt my dad giggling).

So, this is the day we've been waiting for since this day last year. I've already done in praise of Denman and Kauto Star, and the only problem I can see is that no-one thinks Denman is fit and well. Even his owner (who is a proper professional gambler as opposed to a grubby little grinder like me - he once lost 2 million pounds on the All Blacks) plans on backing Kauto Star.

We'll see. Kauto Star is the best horse I've ever seen. He jumps, travels, quickens, stays. In athletics terms he's like Lasse Viren or Haile Gabreselassie. Early on in his career Ruby crossed the line on him and the look on his face had to be seen to be believed - he could smell and taste the future glories.

Denman on the other hand has put up three of the gutsiest performances I've ever seen. He's quite different, taking the Paula Radcliffe approach - get out in front, and go at such a brutal pace mid-race that the rest can't cope, then try to hang on all the way home.

So, Kauto Star should win, but I'll be cheering Denman, and I've backed Imperial Commander at 14/1. I call this an "Olaf Beyer" bet, which you'll have to google if you don't understand...



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Cheltenham - Thursday

Which of course used to be Gold Cup day, back when the festival was a perfectly balanced three day mid-week miracle. That was before greed turned it into the diluted and bloated corporate spectacle we now have, and today as a result is definitely the weak day of the festival. Plans abound to move the festival so that it ends on a Saturday, with this day moving to Saturday, and I actually think that will work well.

Still, mustn't grumble, this new day's been very good to me since its inception, with my biggest ever win here (900/1 treble) and last year's return was the best day's betting I had all year.

Two great things about Cheltenham. Not only is the whole year geared towards Cheltenham so it has a compelling narrative that way, but also the same horses come back year after year, either defending crowns or moving from race to race.

It's entirely possible (though unlikely) for a horse to run in the Bumper, Supreme novices hurdle, Champion hurdle, Arkle, Queen Mum, Ryanair, and Gold cup. That's why us horse-racing fans get much more attached to the jumps horses than we do flat horses who win a couple of decent races and are immediately retired to fuck themselves silly.

The second great thing is that even if your main bets go down the toilet you can still recover with a ludicrous win in one of the hopelessly competitive handicaps. Or indeed, the bumper where I managed to back a horse I'd never heard of at 90/1. Which was nice....


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Cheltenham - Wednesday

In the 90's Mike and I used to go to every day of the festival and in 1997 I had three of the biggest bets in my life on the Wednesday. The three bets were the full extent of my betting bank and they all looked like winning, but all came second. So when Ask Tom refused to go by the winner I had officially bankrupted myself.

And that's how I became a professional gambler. But I won't bore you with that story.

It's just as well I'm no longer a professional gambler as yesterday I had 4 seconds, and would now be on tilt all week.

Today was supposed to be my glory day, with Weird Al and Kalahari King both winning and landing me a small fortune, but Weird AL is injured. The problem with these sort of bets is that you've been thinking about them so long that you convince yourself your horse has already won. (Yesterday's plucky loser Somersby is going to win next year's Gold Cup - for sure!) Then on the day you look at the race afresh and realise that actually there's 5 other horses with perfectly good chances of winning. So it is today with Kalahari King.

Still, as the saying goes, fair heart never won ...


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The Cheltenham roar

(Apologies but it's Cheltenham only this week - children have Christmas, I have Cheltenham - besides I'm trying to convert Karin).

There's four sorts of roar really. The famous one is the crowd's cheer as the horses come into line for the start of the Supreme Novices at 1:30 this afternoon. It's an almighty exhalation of all the anticipation (which as we know starts in October the year before) and a sort of collective braveheart roar as we charge into the four day battle with blood up and hopes high.

The second type of roar will probably come shortly afterwards. It happens as the horses reach the top of the hill fully three quarters of a mile away from the finish and barely visible with the naked eye. If the commentator mentions that a well-fancied horse is creeping into contention, travelling strongly, those who have backed it get over-excited and effectively prematurely ejaculate, which is particulalry funny when their horse then flatters to deceive. Today, it will happen if Dunguib (who carries the winter hopes of the whole of Ireland) is cantering all over his field.

The third type of roar will probably happen soon after - if Dunguib flies up the hill to victory. He'll immediately join the lists of Irish greats - the Arkles, Dawn Runs, Danolis and Istabraqs of the world, and the Irish will immediately start dreaming of next years Cheltenham when he'll come back and win the Champion Hurdle.

The best type though is when three or four fancies runners hit the last fence together and the whole crowd think they've backed the winner. That's bedlam in a way football crowds can't do. I'm thinking the Champion Hurdle today could give us one of those.

Enjoy.

Somersby carries most my hopes today.


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The Monday before Cheltenham

The anticipation; the lull; the assessing and re-assessing of the ante-post vouchers; the totalling up of the best possible outcome and the spending thereof in one's mind's eye; the commentary in your head as Kalahari King begins to get up; the playing of alternative endings - "Kauto Star...three Gold Cups" - "Denman has Pounded Kauto Star"; "Imperial Commander storms up the hill";

The re-runs of past glories on TV and in memories - Brief Gale beating Harcon - Miinehoma and Bradbury Star - Remittance Man - the three faves for the Queen Mum jumping the last in perfect unison, the entire crowd convinced their's was going to win - Istabraq and Danoli - Desert Orchid breaking little ol' Yahoo's heart - Ask Tom's second place bankrupting me many years ago - Mike landing the tricast half an hour later with the greatest last-gasp finish until What's Up Boys overtook 17 horses on the run-in to win at 40/1 - L'Antartique, Taranis and Inglis Drever landing me a Wednesday 900/1 treble - Inglis Drever's third Stayers Hurdle - and last year's mega-double on Imperial Commander and Big Buck's; the last-minute form study of the impossible handicaps; the ferreting around the forums looking for juicy nuggets of information; the walking of the dog whilst planning sensible betting strategies bound to be turned into tilt as soon as Tuesday passes without a winner.

Shame I don't actually bet any more!

Or go racing...


And Weird Al's injury means my £120,000 certainty involving him Kalahari King and Imperial Commander has already bitten the dust, and I'd already planned how I was going to fritter away the money.


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My own bed

Now there's a blessing I take for granted, at least until I spend a sleepless night elsewhere.

And yesterday Anne bought a fine-cotton sheet to make it even more snuggly.

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Hare

Or maybe hares?

Singular in my case though, as Bobby flushed one out of the Hinnington hedgerow I waxed lyrical about some months ago, and the poor thing damned near tripped over my feet.

I say poor thing, but it was massive and lolloped off like Usain Bolt but much, much quicker, with Bobby chasing it from the other side of the hedge.

I'm not aware of ever having seen a hare before we moved up here. So it remains a real treat.


A buzzard sat hunting from our electricity wires this morning also...


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Reality TV people coming over all Alan Bennett

I don't suppose I'll watch that brass band programme with Sue Perkins again, but I keep smiling at one line in it. This particular brass-band is a family thing and their instrument seems to have been chosen for them at a young age to fill in any gaps in the band. The now elderly leader of the band was recalling a conversation she had when she was a child with her own mother over birthday presents.

I said "I want a pony".
She said "You're not getting a pony. You're getting a flugelhorn."



Alan Bennett has since annexed this story for his latest play for northern voices "Camden".


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Growing mushrooms

Judy and Chris bought me a mushroom-kit for Christmas and I eventually got round to starting it off a couple of weeks ago.

Yesterday afternoon I went to spray my little box of compost and up had popped a small perfectly-formed button mushroom. Which was quite the most exciting thing that has happened to me this week.

Except Anne had put it in there for a laugh....


I hate practical jokes....


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Hotel freebies

Of course they're not really free, but who can resist stuffing them in their bags.

After working in Stockport for two years Daryl had enough bottles of shampoo and stuff to open an import/export toiletries business from his bathroom.

This morning I showered with a Molton Brown "re-charge black pepper body wash (gel douche dynamisant)", which smelt as though I was washing myself with kettle chips. I wonder if they do a dis-charge monster munch shower gel (douche-bag dynamite)...



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Sitting on benches

Yesterday I was sat on the bench in the garden, enjoying the sun, watching some sparrows bathing and my dog digging, and thought of my favourite places to sit on a bench and watch the world go by.

Hyde Park (by the Serpentine)
Wimbledon Common (after a run)
South Bank (near Festival Halls)
Brandon Hill (Bristol)
Battery City Park (New York)
Place des Vosges (Paris)



When I do this with Anne, she'll settle down, lean back, and say something like: "Mmmm, isn't this lovely, so relaxing".

Then five minutes later she'll say: "Right, come on, things to do"...


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Bread and gravy

It's just as well I didn't do an "in praise of roast dinners" early on, as I've been able to parlay this up into in praise of horseradish sauce, apple sauce, Yorkshire puddings, and now this. That's more love for roast dinners than I've given to virtually anything else. Remind me why I'm fat again...

My personal favourite way to end a roast, since I was about 10 years old, is to pour the leftover gravy on my plate, slice a hunk of bread, put in middle of plate, turn it over, ensure well-soaked, tuck in.

Some people consider this disgusting. Personally I'd have it as my last meal. Works best with great chicken gravy and homemade sourdough, though last night's pork gravy and crusty white certainly passed muster.


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Landmarks (lost)

I was watching Alan Yentob's take on Las Vegas last night (whilst Anne continued with her emetics), which was full of great shots of old neon signs, instantly recognisable from brat-pack movies and similar, but long since replaced by Venetian canals and dancing fountains.

And it kept making me think of the old Lucozade bottle that used to greet people to London on the elevated section of the M4. I used to love seeing that sign.

And then I thought about other landmarks of my life and the first that sprang to mind was the feeling of arriving home I'd get when catching sight of Eastville stadium (dog-track) on the M32. Now an IKEA, sadly, though that may well work as a landmark for someone else.

Anyone else lost a landmark of their life?


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Culinary Russian Roulette

Also known as shellfish. We've had a bucketful over the last few days: Oysters; the best prawn cocktail I've ever had; spaghetti al vongole; and scallops every which way - queenies with bacon, hand-dived plumptious ones with black pudding and celeriac mash, and yesterday evening on a bed of pea puree.

Anne spent all night re-visiting these tasty little morsels, and is regurgitating the final clam as I type.

And as much as I'm deeply sympathetic I'm also half-waiting my turn. I remember being one of the last to succumb to the Great Horsham Oyster Plague back in '95...



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Seaside towns in March sunshine

In particular, Lyme Regis. The last two days it has been like a cat awakening from a bagpuss slumber. Yawning deeply, stretching languorously in the first sunlight of the season, and scratching behind its ears. Very life-enhancing.

Snowdrops out, daffodils peeking through, the greenkeeper re-painting the holes on a seaside crazy golf course - they all can mean only one thing.

Soon be Cheltenham...



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Liberating pickles

When we go a-visiting Anne always packs a selection of her preserves as presents - whether people want them or not. I always have a moan on the doorstep prior to departure along the lines of "no, you can't take that, it's the last jar of beetroot chutney, that's not on, take them one of the bloody jars of orange marmalade..."

Anyway, this time in Dorset, having handed over my last jar of something schmechlich I do a spot-search of the cupboards and fridge and what do I find? A half-eaten jar of last year's beetroot chutney, and a jar of chilli and coriander jam from June 2008. UNOPENED.

Friends, these poor orphans came back to Shifnal with us. Rescue chutneys re-homed somewhere they'll be appreciated. I did this with a heavy heart and as a last resort. 'Pour encourager les autres'. Heed the call. Use it or lose it...I thank you.



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Bickering

Sometimes mistaken for the mutual contempt of people who have spent far too long together, when actually it's probably the safety-valve that has allowed them to stay together so long.

As Nancy Banks-Smith said of my own particular role models Jack and Vera Duckworth "it works for them like the blades of a pair of scissors".

Which is a roundabout way of saying Anne's been off work this week and we've spent it in a deadlock over the ownership of our respective halves of the breakfast bar. God forbid she ever retires....

So, instead of escalating our own six day's war, we've decided to go to Dorset for a couple of days.

Tomorrow will be the first "in praise of" I will have missed in my mission so far, I'll have to do two Friday (or maybe three Saturday).


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Pheasants

Apparently 35 million of them have been killed over the last four months. I think this is why I'm particularly drawn to the few bedraggled survivors at this time of year.

They exist as singles right now, lost, on their final odyssey home, like Jude Law in Cold Mountain, the cold hundred yard stare of a veteran, fallen wives and comrades in their hearts.

No wonder they spend the rest of the year throwing themselves under cars...




Also good in a creamy sauce....


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