Days off

Obviously never having "days on" means I don't really have days off either. Still, I remember how precious they are, so that's something to praise, and I can't think of anything else.

What started out as a public counting of my blessings as a means of better appreciating my new Shropshire life, transmuted into a simple goal to see if I could find 365 things to be grateful for, but has now degenerated into a reminder of how groundhog day my life is. I don't mind that - given I've shown there's at least 250 things to enjoy - but am probably going to have to give up the unequal struggle to do one of these every day, and instead let them come in their own sweet time.

I'm not hung up on this completion thing.

As those people actually running this Sunday's Shifnal half marathon can testify.

So, today feels like a day off.

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Cherries

This is going to happen to you any day now if you're not careful. You're going to pop into a supermarket for some milk and beans, and are going to catch sight of some plumptious deep-red cherries loitering in amongst the veg winking at you lasciviously.

You're mouth moistens at the thought of devouring the greatest fruit of all and you grab a punnet on your way to the checkouts. Once there, the checkout operator is going to ring your 4 items through, smile at you and say "That will be £84.20 please".

You need to go foraging, just as I intend to do right now, down our lane, get to the cherries before the thrushes, and then have Anne whip me up a damned fine cherry pie. With custard.


No skin.


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Woodpeckers

Greater-spotted in this case.

Who liven up a bird table considerably, especially when they bring their fledglings along...


I haven't seen a green one since we've been up here. We often used to see one when we went running on Wimbledon Common.

Alan Plater (RIP)

God, I loved the Beiderbecke Affair. And indeed mentioned it in a previous "in praise of", when Dudley Sutton delivers one of my favourite lines ever "There's a particularly good documentary on Channel 4 I plan to sleep through..." Time to track down a box-set methinks.

And he wrote a cornucopia of other terrific stuff, including (and this was news to me) "Oh No It's Selwyn Froggitt" apparently.

Magic....


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Danny Baker

Oft-copied. Never bettered. And of course always on top form come a big football tournament.

"It's important to continually re-assess in the light of new information. It's like my decision to try to stay alive for ever. So far, so good...".

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Mahut and Isner

I was going to praise John Terry's extraordinary attempt at a defensive diving header yesterday, but much more derring-do was happening over at Wimbledon.

In case this passed you by, at 1pm yesterday Nicolas Mahut and John Isner strolled onto court to complete the fifth set of their match. Over 8 hours later they had to stop for bad light with the score level at 59-59. I won't list every record broken because the two most remarkable things are that they didn't have a single injury time-out, and the one and only comfort break didn't happen until 8pm.

In a world where kids seem to partake of sport neatly packaged up into discrete one hour activities, it was great to see the equivalent of a couple of kids playing from dawn to dusk until their mums called them in for their tea.

John Isner looked delirious come the end. He was moving with the speed and grace of Frankenstein's monster. Mahut was probably the greater hero though. He had to serve second throughout, so was always serving to stay in the match, and amazingly only had to save three match points over all that time, which dealt a blow to one of my longest-held prejudices - that the French are the biggest bunch of sporting chokers and quitters on the planet.

The match was nearly as amazing as the time a few years ago, when Pete Davies and I played pat-a-cake at Park Hill tennis courts in Croydon from 10am until 2:30pm, at which point, deadlocked at 13-13 in the last set, we agreed on a gentlemanly draw, and a crawl to Pret a Manger where we treated ourselves to a couple of double-fat locochocaloca frappuccinos and the Polish serving wenches to our taut and fragrant bodies.

There's a short story about a penalty shoot-out going on for infinity. I love the idea of something similar happening here....

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Greenhouses

After two years of burning all my tomatoes and drowning my cucumbers, I seem to have finally got the hang of my greenhouse, and spend half an hour happily messing around in there each day.

I think it was Alan Titchmarsh who divided gardeners into "workers" and "potterers" and I definitely belong to the latter group. I don't want to spend all day double-digging a bed, like the bloke next-door. I want to stroll out in between football matches and wander the estate, watching the growth, checking for pests, pricking out the odd tomato shoot, stroking the lettuce seedlings and wondering if the plant in one of the pots is really a chilli plant or just a weed I've nurtured very lovingly for the last two months.

On a bad day slugs have had my basil seedlings. On a good day the smell of tomatoes takes me straight back to my grandad's greenhouse of my childhood.


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The New Austerity

Spoiler Alert:

I can exclusively reveal the highlights of Mr Osborne's budgetary billet-doux later today:

"Teachers, nurses, firemen, health workers, civil servants, and the small handful of council workers not on long-term sick, stand by your desks.

Pants down. Bend over. Heeeeeeeeere's Georgie."

Blah, blah, VAT, CGT, we're wholly, completely, entirely fucked, bring back town centres full of kids with dogs on string, jumpers for goalposts, coffee, white, no sugar please Vince, austerity for you, one last lick of the spoon for bankers, blah, blah, blah.

And let's finish with a song for all those public sector workers out there who actually voted Tory.

Hallo turkeys. It's C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S...."


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The Stiperstones

The quartz was sparkling on our walk yesterday.

There's a valley between The Stiperstones and the Long Mynd that doesn't appear to have a name, but is really quite beautiful when viewed from either side. Re-exploring the notion that Shropshire is incredibly (and thankfully) under-marketed it occurred to me that if this valley had a name (and these days had a TV programme starring Martin Clunes set there) it would be as popular as somewhere like Wensleydale.

It plainly needs a name. I'm happy with the Longdale Stiper. Anne prefers Stiperdale. Either way I'd be happy to have some ashes scattered at a suitable viewpoint.

Oh, and note to those brave souls who have completed the Long Mynd 50. Sadly, I've had to disqualify you all, as Anne informs me you don't climb up to the trig point on the Manstone Rock. Slackers.

Our new cat

which we weren't looking for, but which came a-yowling;
which is a very small tabby tom-cat (neutered) - maybe 2 years old;
which is micro-chipped but the owner says she doesn't want any more;
which may well have been dumped down our lane;
which Bobby has been staring intently at for 48 hours, in between attacking and being attacked;
which we may as well enjoy before he gets run over;
which is now called Ruby.
Obviously.


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Mick McCarthy

Undoubtedly the star of the World Cup so far.

Now, on the whole, Roy Keane's infamous summation of McCarthy surely holds water:

"You're a fucking wanker. I didn't rate you as a player, I don't rate you as a manager and I don't rate you as a person. You are a fucking wanker and you can stick your World Cup up your arse."

(How many of you have so wanted to say that to one of your bosses at some time in your life?)

However, I always enjoyed the comment he made when celebrating taking Wolves into the Premiership. A reporter asked him how excited he was to be in the Premiership next season.

"Aye, I can't wait. Bottom of the league after 11 matches and sacked by Christmas."

Such bluffness has been just the ticket for most of the matches so far. Such a shame he wasn't co-commentating on England/Algeria last night. It's been like watching a game with your favourite old, bigoted, professional yorkshireman, uncle. A Geoff Boycott in shinpads.

A Serbian defender pretended to have been pole-axed yesterday. McCarthy summaries the play as follows.

"What a tart".

Daryl and I were e-mailing each other our Ascot disasters at the time and both agreed we'd spent the entire match mimicking him.

Much more satisfying than blowing a paper comb I'm sure you'll agree...

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Referees

Not a sentence that trips easily off my tongue - as anyone who witnessed my sending-off against Maesglas can testify...

I was planning to do an in praise of Royal Ascot this week, no doubt a thinly-disguised rant about posh twats, masquerading as a paean to the second best week of horse racing in the calendar. However, the racing's given me such a kicking that I can't get the juices flowing, or be bothered.

Which left my "praise" cupboard bare. So, with me haemorrhaging money quicker than BP spilling oil, and the greatest footballers of the planet having been complete gash so far, I was wondering if there was anyone who was visibly doing a good job at the moment, and I have to say the referees have had a damned fine World Cup so far. Only a matter of time before that goes tits up, so I'll get my praise in before one of them starts getting death threats from a thousand brave faceless bloggers.


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Anne's Great World Cup Culinary Adventure

Somewhat late off the start-line (much like the World Cup itself), Anne has set herself the task of cooking a dish each match-day from one of that day's nations.

And so yesterday we had South Africa's national dish - Bobotie. This brought to mind the episode of Friends where Rachel makes trifle in her own inimitable style, and Joey eats it in his:

"What's not to like? Jelly - good. Custard - good. Lamb mince - good..."

In a nice retro touch Anne served said Bobotie with a side dish of bananas and cocount reminiscent of homemade english curries of the seventies, or more recently if eating with Anne's mum.

It's certainly got me yearning for a France/Italy final.

A Dry House

Not an alcohol-free one obviously.

It's the third anniversary of our big flood. Three years - Christ - where did they go?

Which brings with it two blessings.

a) the flood was easily the worst thing that has ever happened to us, so on any measure of suffering we're plainly incredibly lucky people.

b) we now live on high ground...




The Ballad of Shifnal Floods

It was before midnight though it seemed much later.
We were fast asleep though we hadn't been for long,
When I woke up to the sound of running water.
I thought “Shit, Anne's plumbed the dishwasher in wrong”
And reached for the light switch, but we'd blown a fuse.

A middle-aged fat man
In a towelling dressing-gown
Stepping ankle deep into water
Thinking over and over;
I need some shoes.

I was stumbling round the kitchen in the dark
Still fretting about the dishwasher, thinking
This is insane, we're never going to be
able to rent again, when I opened the back door
And the Wesley brook came sluicing through.

A middle-aged fat man
Wading in water
Up to his waist
Saying over and over
“Umm, where's my shoes.”

I slammed the door shut and only now realised
What must be occurring. I went back upstairs
To wake my wife. She had earplugs in because
Of my snoring; If I hadn't have woken her
I think she'd have slept right on through.

A middle-aged fat man
Shaking his wife
Dripping with water
Saying over and over“Anne, where's my shoes.”

Anne was looking for candles and matches
I was looking at the window latches
Wondering where the keys might be.
We'd only moved in a few weeks before
Not that I'm using that as an excuse

A middle-aged fat man
Head pressed against a pane
Wondering if he'll be the same again
Saying over and over
“Umm, where's my shoes.”

Anne phoned the police before the line died.
I heard her say “Of course I don't have any sand-bags.”
And as I slipped beneath the waves, I heard her snort
“What do you mean, it's much worse in Bridgnorth?”
Little wonder we had not a clue what to do.

A middle-aged fat man
Treading on floor-boards
Floating two feet high
Saying over and over
“Where are my shoes”

We spent an hour moving things to-and-fro
In the dark, and arguing and falling over, and so
I forgot about my savings and investment box
And instead rescued a cheap copy of an old Lawrence Block
And that was about all we didn't lose.

A middle-aged fat man
Waves goodbye to his wife
Rescued by her parents
Saying over and over
“Where are my shoes.”

I was sat outside, with a gaggle of onlookers;
And neighbours and the landlord of the local pub;
When slowly floating down the alley, then off down the road
And into the Wesley, was an old plastic bath tub..
No-one would think this front-page news.

A middle-aged fat man
Sits on a wall in the morning air
Saying once and once only
Oh look over there
“That there's my shoe.”



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Bobby's love affair with my underwear

Bobby's not allowed upstairs, so lately he's taken to trophy-hunting. Every morning after breakfast he sneaks off and collects an item of my clothing from my dirty pile on the bedroom floor. (Ladies, I know exactly what you're thinking. I don't know why Anne doesn't clear them up either.)

His favourite item is unquestionably my tight little loin-packets. This doesn't surprise me to be honest. I'm always running out of pairs, and my suspicion is that for years women visitors have been sneaking upstairs and nicking my under-dungies.

Similarly, I expect they take them home and roll around the living-room floor on them, throw them up in the air and catch them on their head, before putting them on their comfort blanket and giving them a damned good sniff and slobber.

I wouldn't mind but there's usually a good few days wear left in them...

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The Red Arrows

Having grown up at the foot of Gatwick Airport's runway I'm pretty ambivalent towards planes.

However, it was very nice of the red arrows to do a complete show for us over our back garden yesterday. Much appreciated. I expect one of them owed me a favour...



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European Football Fans

Which admittedly does include quite a lot of knuckle-dragging Neanderthals.

However, they do know how to support a football team - by chanting and singing and cheering and jeering at appropriate moments within the game - reacting to the flow of the game, and sometimes orchestrating that flow.

And, quite probably we are actually the best at that. Jose Mourinho, for one, remains in awe of the flagrant over-reaction of British fans when their team wins a corner; and of the explosion of passion that comes from the crowd after a couple of crunching tackles in midfield.

In other parts of the world, and in this case Africa, the game itself seems to serve as a mere tableau, or backdrop to some dancing and partying. You can't actually tell just by listening to the crowd noise what is happening on the pitch. To be honest, five games in, it's pissing me off.

Silly costumes and paper combs belong at kids' parties...


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Forty Years of Hurt

(The lyrics of that song were always wrong - the hurt started at the 1970 quarter finals.)

Right 'ere we go, 'ere we go, 'ere we go. Only a matter of time before the penalty shoot-out victory of despair over hope.

Note to my American friends. Did you know that our two once-great nations clash today in the Soccer Ball World Series? Or that the combined wisdom of the people in my betleague have it down as a tied game? Although I foresee a kick-ass, special teams, triple-play deep in the fourth quarter personally.

Anyway, my prediction is that this time around the burning effigy we're going to use to take our mind off how shit we are at the world's favourite game is of Christine Bleakley, who on the eve of our defeat to Serbia, dumps Frank Lampard, suddenly realising that once he hangs up his boots he's gonna be way fatter than Adrian burger-boy Chiles.

Altidore to be top goalscorer 500/1. Nice.


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My Office Chair

Anne was on holiday last week, and when she returned to her office found they'd had a re-organisation in her absence, and she was now stuck in the middle of the office on a bank of four desks. Oh, the comedown!

Unable to sleep last night with a sore throat I found myself remembering just how status-driven seating was at CU. There must have been a manual somewhere saying what staff on each pay-level were entitled to. A big manual.

As an example of how obsessed people were with their standing, I remember one line manager who was finally entitled to an office. It was built for him (one of those internal pre-fab things), he measured it, and complained because it was one inch too narrow. They had to come back and re-build it.

At the Head Office in the City the window seats were highly-prized. At least until the Baltic Exchange bomb.

When I arrived at Croydon I finally had a large rounded desk, high-backed, swivel-chair with arms in which I could turn around to look out of my very own window and have a quick snooze, and had another chair for visitors. None of which meant anything to me at all. I considered myself the least status-driven person there. So, no surprise that I was seconded onto a Business Change Project Group.

This group was charged with dragging CU into the 20th Century - stripping out the pointless bureaucracy; driving a coach and horses through the hierarchies, and the petty politics; updating into a lean, mean, speedboat; plucking that low-hanging fruit; standing at flip-charts talking absolute fucking bollocks to morons from Bristol to Glasgow. This group (naturally) was very keen on that year's management consultancy must-have: Hot-desking.

Except for me and Simon Clare. Who had worked our way up from banks of desks and brown pump-action armless-chairs-from-hell, to positions of absolutely no power at all at head office where our only obvious role was to be shat on by all sides.

We refused to move to this project group without taking our chairs and desks with us....

So it's something to praise:
a) that I no longer work somewhere where the pettiness seeps into your soul and makes you act like a twat.
b) that I have my own comfy swivel chair, from the comfort of which I intend to watch every World Cup game

I wonder what desk Simon has these days...


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Elderflower

The months are rushing by. Snowdrops, daffs, cherry blossom, and hawthorn blossom (which I assume is "the darling buds of may"?) have all come and gone.

It's elderflower time, and I intend to make elderflower champagne this year, to supplement Anne's elderflower cordial.


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Strange Crushes

I'm not talking obvious totty here. Faye Dunaway, Buffy, Keely Hawes, Jose Mourinho. I'm talking ones you'd be slow to admit to, even to yourself.

The first person I had a crush on? Aged about 10. Princess Anne. See what I'm talking about. In my ragingly hormonal teens it's true I did gravitate naturally to the more obvious charms of the lovely babs from Pans People ("I can't remember her name").

However whilst the world went wild for the admittedly coquettish charms of Felicity Kendall in The Good Life, it was Penelope Keith's mighty hauteur that really got my loins a-tingling. I only remembered this a few years ago when I found myself briefly in thrall to Bree on Desperate Housewives, until Sarah Palin blew her away like a moose on the prairie.

My last crush was of course on the mannequin in Shifnal's dress-shop window, but to be honest I think she's let herself go a bit just lately, and I have a new throb.

Whilst the rest of this sceptered isle seems to be falling for the undeniably sassy Amy Pond from Doctor Who, instead I've fallen wildly in love with Ruth Wilson's psychopathic giggling mass-murderer in Luther. If they don't keep her in the next series, I'm suing.

Who would you admit to having hopelessly inappropriate crushes on...?


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Twin sisters

Yes, I know what you're thinking boys. Well, if it includes a trapeze and a jar of swarfega I do.

But on their birthday let's hear it for two girls who as far as I can tell have never actually fallen out in 48 years.

As Bruce Chatwin put it they swing their axe in the same trajectory. Mainly at my head admittedly, but pleasingly synchronised...


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Ryan Moore

Flat jockeys are small. Incredibly small. Stop and stare small. Sorry, but that’s how it is. Now, it’s fairly unusual to be stop and stare small. In fact I’ve only met a couple of people like that who aren’t actually jockeys (one of them being my Gran who measured a remarkable 4 ft 9 inches in her slippers). I’m sure it’s a competitive area of work, but it’s not quite like football is it. At least with football you know that the top professionals have proven themselves more able than millions of other hopefuls (though how that explains Peter Crouch is beyond me just now).

Which leaves me to believe that whilst sadly a lot of flat jockeys may have to starve themselves; work ridiculously long hours; suck-up to a bunch of obnoxious owners; and drive thousands of miles for a chance of a spare ride, none of this means they’re actually any good. Quite a few of them seem barely able to point their horse in the right direction and let it run. Rarely do they seem to have studied the race, thought about the likely pace, or the effect of the draw, or walked the course, and so on.

Their major talent seems to be in running their horses up the back-side of the eventual winner, weaving off a straight-line in a driving finish, and dropping their hands in the shadow of the post, costing you that life-changing combination forecast.

Which gives some advantage to those jockeys who are obviously highly skilled. And to those punters who can spot the good ones. And the one who has been the best for a few years, and getting better year on year has just won both the Oaks and the Derby with very finely-judged rides indeed. One day the great british public are going to catch on as well....


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Masterchef/Wild Garlic

I have suffered Masterchef for decades - loathing it in all of its guises. Even Anne seemed strangely uninvolved this year. However, I have to now admit that the winner can actually cook. I was never totally convinced, but after a trip to last year's winner's restaurant in Dorset Friday night, I have to say the food was pretty good.

The chef came and schmoozed the table afterwards looking for feedback but immediately dismissed Daryl as a drunken local bumpkin, or as the Beaminster equivalent of the fat, balding grocery seller who always waits for John Torode to tell him what to think.

However, gauntlet thrown down, Anne and I donned our best Pru and Matthew impressions. I suggested his squid and scallop starter was really two separate dishes, something that had obviously been playing on his mind. I was glad to have been able to help him on his way in his fledgling career.

Highlight of the evening though was this exchange.
Chef: "And what did you think of the main course?"
Anne: "I had the rabbit risotto, and it was, umm, what's the word, pedestrian."
Chef: "Oh, The Telegraph gave it 9 out of 10 last week".



IT DOESN'T GET TOUGHER THAN THIS...


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The Derby

Being our 22nd wedding anniversary we are off visiting folk again, so here's Saturday's edition early.

The Derby is where it all started for me. I was 14 and at Pontins Camber Sands having possibly the worst holiday of my life, when we took a coach-trip to Epsom - which drove right past our front door, imagine the horror of driving back to Camber Sands afterwards.

The racecourse was packed and exciting - my mother allowed me £1 to bet with and I had 50p each way on Relkino. My mum put the bet on with a bookmakers - all this was impossibly exotic - and they shared a joke at my expense - Relkino being 33/1.

There was one of the hottest favourites ever running - Wollow - and everyone else had backed him. I have no idea where Wollow finished, and I can't tell you the name of the winner, but I can tell you that Relkino finished 2nd, and I was able to buy a couple of Hammond Innes books to ease the boredom for the rest of the week, (I recall The Lonely Skier as being particularly fine).

I've always had a soft spot for Relkino's babies ever since - Relkeel being one my favourite ever hurdlers. And I've always had a soft spot for 33/1 shots each way too. So, whilst I like Rewilding and Workforce tomorrow, Ted Spread is surely the bet for all first timers, looking to be hooked into a lifetime of thrills and spills, hope and despair...


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The Oaks

Which has always been a good race for me, 40/1 and 10/1 winners in the last decade alone.

However, here's a story from Oaks day 1994. The previous year we had gone to the Derby, right at its nadir, with dwindling crowds and little fanfare, prior to its move to Saturdays. It had drizzled all day, we hadn't sniffed a winner, and Anne was fed up. On the way out of the course I stopped at a burger bar for a shot of cjd, and Anne started moaning. The burger bar bloke went "nag, nag, nag", which phrase immediately entered our private lexicon.

The following year we decided to skip Derby day and go to the Oaks instead. In the pouring rain. But at least Frankie got Balanchine home with a brilliant run up the stands rails, so we were all in slightly better spirits. The late, great Clement Freud had a horse running in the final race, and it's name was of course "Nagnagnag". The only problem was it was drawn on the wrong side of the course, indeed from a stall from which no horse had won a sprint for over 20 years. Still, Tim and I decided we couldn't let the name go unbacked, especially at 10/1ish.

As we massed our guns on the lawn, all around us we could hear blokes saying to their wives, girlfriends, kids - "nag, nag, nag", like a rumbling howl of a comedy routine. The horse was backed down to 6/1 through the sheer weight of fivers from hen-pecked husbands, despite it having no chance at all.

So when Nagnagnag flew clear, the collective roar of his name and communal giggling afterwards remains one of my favourite racing memories.

As for today there's quite a few I'd give chances to, but a good maxim with fillies is to only back them at long prices, so I'll be cheering on Snow Fairy and Meeznah.

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Lemon Meringue Pie

This morning's paean was going to be about dockside regeneration after a sunny stroll round Cardiff's barrage and docks.

However, it's been since hi-jacked by a rather tasty lemon meringue pie, piping hot from Karin's Bristol kitchen.

Having said previously that I came to desserts late on in life, there were a few standards from my childhood that still bring me out in childlike glee. All of them made by my Nan: Welsh scones she made on her enormous bakestone; bread pudding - a regular provider of Proustian flashbacks over the years; creme caramel - one huge bowl of the stuff made just for me; and lemon meringue pie.

Much as I loved the last two they were actually made from mixes, so it's been a constant pleasure to have more authentic versions over the years - not to mention creme caramel's elder sister - creme brulee.

What desserts from your childhood still have the power to delight?


First person to say 'angel delight' does not pass Go, and goes direct to 'talking head tv hell'..


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Killing Slugs

We're away for a couple of days so here's tomorow's instalment.

I said a while back I couldn't harm a fly, and this is true, mainly because I'm useless at hitting them. Slugs however...

Snip, snip, snip, and their entrails spill onto the patio.

Sip, sip, sip, and there they are floating upside down in the beer trap.

Nibble, nibble, nibble, and there goes the blue poison, flooding slowly through their system.

Pinch, pinch, pinch, goes the salt, and there they are shrivelling up like a scrotum in the north sea.

It's a bloody jungle out there, a killing zone. It's a war, and I've got the taste for it. The two hundred yard stare of a veteran; the smell of napalm in the morning; some chianti and fava beans. I'm like an Israeli jack-boot stamping on a Palestinian face, forever and ever.

Oh.




The horror. The horror.

Dessert wine

I'm a late convert to be honest.

In my twenties we used to eat out at Bakers in Bristol and Phil Oakey would exchange my set-meal pudding for a brandy. In my thirties Daryl and I would forego the Douce's Manor sweet trolley for cheese, biscuits and another bottle of red.

However, Shropshire, dessert and sticky wine seem to be a natural trinity not dissimilar to the Church of England, WI and the Tory party. So it seems rude not to partake of a witty Sauternes or fragrant Botrytis Semillon.

But what's with this half bottle nonsense.