You give me a red cabbage, I give you some courgettes. Peas for mange-tout. New potatoes for a cucumber. Help yourselves to our gooseberries whilst we're away. Here, have some runner beans and cherry tomatoes before you go. No please...A jar of coriander and tomato chutney transmogrifies into a blueberry muffin.
There's no price placed; no equivalence sought; no stockpiling or profiteering. Abundance shared with those who have and those who have not.
You've got to like that - an annual summer outbreak of back-door socialism.
.
Saturday, 31 July 2010
Friday, 30 July 2010
Tadpole
Who sets off in pursuit of the European heptathlon gold in half an hour.
A golden rule of gambling is never to become attached to one horse/player but to judge each tournament on its merits and the prices available. Good advice, but I've always said you should allow yourself a few horses at any one time that are metaphorically stabled with you for the season (Somersby and Weird Al for this jumps season), who you support like a fan.
I extend this to sportspeople and Jessica Ennis joined my stable a few years ago. Kelly Sotherton was in the stable at the time, but it was becoming obvious that she would never win a heptathlon doing well in six events, but throwing a javelin like, well, like a girl. At the time there was a small bundle of energy following her around the arena like a feral younger sister, whom Kelly affectionately dismissed as "tadpole". I couldn't help notice that said tadpole looked likely to turn into a mighty jumping frog. Just worried she may have timed her pre-eminence wrong in terms of winning Olympic gold.
I'm also adding Tom Lancashire to my stable - looks progressive.
.
A golden rule of gambling is never to become attached to one horse/player but to judge each tournament on its merits and the prices available. Good advice, but I've always said you should allow yourself a few horses at any one time that are metaphorically stabled with you for the season (Somersby and Weird Al for this jumps season), who you support like a fan.
I extend this to sportspeople and Jessica Ennis joined my stable a few years ago. Kelly Sotherton was in the stable at the time, but it was becoming obvious that she would never win a heptathlon doing well in six events, but throwing a javelin like, well, like a girl. At the time there was a small bundle of energy following her around the arena like a feral younger sister, whom Kelly affectionately dismissed as "tadpole". I couldn't help notice that said tadpole looked likely to turn into a mighty jumping frog. Just worried she may have timed her pre-eminence wrong in terms of winning Olympic gold.
I'm also adding Tom Lancashire to my stable - looks progressive.
.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Coast
I feel the coast of this island in my bones. Whenever I reach the edge of our land I get all elemental and in looking outwards find a physical sense of belonging inside. Which is about as hippyish as I get without magic mushrooms and The Battle of Evermore on constant replay.
So it's a bit of a shame, considering no-one here is ever more than 72 miles from the sea, that I hardly ever get there. This year I'll have been briefly to Brighton, Lyme Regis and Crosby Beach, all terrific in very different ways.
My personal favourites, for the record, are:
Embleton Beach, Northumberland - "our" favourite.
Trebarwith Strand, Cornwall - "my" favourite, especially with a winter tide coming in.
Rhosili Bay, Wales - where I once drowned.
So, being landlocked on the great prairies of the West-Mids, I like to settle down with a bottle of something and a hanky on my head and watch some overly enthusiastic pop academics prat around at the seaside. I don't pay much attention to them, just look at the scenery and imagine the spray in my face and the sand underfoot.
What I want to know is, where is that outcrop they show at the start of the show, and why isn't it a major worldwide tourist attraction?
You know, the one that spells out Coast...
A Landlocked County
We be a long way from the sea my wife and me,
Though not like Kansas admittedly...
.
So it's a bit of a shame, considering no-one here is ever more than 72 miles from the sea, that I hardly ever get there. This year I'll have been briefly to Brighton, Lyme Regis and Crosby Beach, all terrific in very different ways.
My personal favourites, for the record, are:
Embleton Beach, Northumberland - "our" favourite.
Trebarwith Strand, Cornwall - "my" favourite, especially with a winter tide coming in.
Rhosili Bay, Wales - where I once drowned.
So, being landlocked on the great prairies of the West-Mids, I like to settle down with a bottle of something and a hanky on my head and watch some overly enthusiastic pop academics prat around at the seaside. I don't pay much attention to them, just look at the scenery and imagine the spray in my face and the sand underfoot.
What I want to know is, where is that outcrop they show at the start of the show, and why isn't it a major worldwide tourist attraction?
You know, the one that spells out Coast...
A Landlocked County
We be a long way from the sea my wife and me,
Though not like Kansas admittedly...
.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Mackerel
I can't remember if mackerel is already on my facebook list of things underrated - namely:
Cheddar cheese (before the Gorge runs dry)
The One Show (oh, dear God, what have the BBC done there?)
Hugh Grant (Cary's grandson)
but it damned well should be.
Easily my favourite fish and we had it with a lovely gooseberry sauce the other night.
I think it gets overlooked because it's just too willing to jump on a line and be caught. I bet it would be prized more if it worked harder at holding onto its virtues.
A summer morality tale....
.
Cheddar cheese (before the Gorge runs dry)
The One Show (oh, dear God, what have the BBC done there?)
Hugh Grant (Cary's grandson)
but it damned well should be.
Easily my favourite fish and we had it with a lovely gooseberry sauce the other night.
I think it gets overlooked because it's just too willing to jump on a line and be caught. I bet it would be prized more if it worked harder at holding onto its virtues.
A summer morality tale....
.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Serendipitous Googling
I was looking up some actor's name so that I could do an in praise of Keeley Hawes, in truth just so I could go off on one about what exactly it was that made me love Luther but hate Identity, when instead of finding him I stumbled across the above video, and felt much the better for it...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ue5jyj_nosc
Mirror in the Bathroom
I catch sight of myself and when all's done and said,
I'm not the same man as the one in my head.
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ue5jyj_nosc
Mirror in the Bathroom
I catch sight of myself and when all's done and said,
I'm not the same man as the one in my head.
.
Monday, 26 July 2010
Canals
Being a fully paid-up soft southerner canals remain a relatively new treat to me. Little Venice and the Kennet and Avon are the only ones that spring to mind from my earlier lives.
However, up north* you can barely cross a field without falling in one. We spent a lovely day yesterday at Ellesmere walking along the Llangollen canal - sundry highlights including 16 buzzards soaring together, a record for us - and an obligatory boat pun -"Larkin Aboat".
The collective noun is apparently a "wake" of buzzards.
*For those of you pedantic about where the North begins I can resolve that for you once and for all...
Camden.
.
However, up north* you can barely cross a field without falling in one. We spent a lovely day yesterday at Ellesmere walking along the Llangollen canal - sundry highlights including 16 buzzards soaring together, a record for us - and an obligatory boat pun -"Larkin Aboat".
The collective noun is apparently a "wake" of buzzards.
*For those of you pedantic about where the North begins I can resolve that for you once and for all...
Camden.
.
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Bill Bryson
I know I've said this before, but were there to be a public vote for "The Greatest Living Brit", I would vote for Bill Bryson.
Indeed his continued outsider's enthusiasm for all things British, when compared to our own dawn to dusk whingeing, was one of the inspirations for attempting to do 365 "in praise ofs" in the first place.
It's a long time ago now that Bill flew straight to the top of the book charts, announcing himself to the world with the first chapter of "The Lost Continent" published in Granta (1989 in fact). I can still remember giggling uncontrollably at the first few paragraphs and making a note to buy the book. His ability to be effortlessly and warmly funny is an incredibly difficult job to pull off - I have shelves of half-read travel books from people who have tried and failed. His page on an Italian parking in "Neither Here Nor There" is right up there with Jerome K Jerome.
These days he writes readable history books (almost an oxymoron) for the masses which have one minor problem. I read "A Short History of Nearly Everything" in two days flat - the pages turning quicker than a Stieg Larsson. However the only thing I remember from all its amazing stories, and characters is that Americans spent a hundred years searching for the volcanic crater that must be in Yellowstone somewhere, before finally realising that Yellowstone itself was the crater.
I'm currently just as rapidly flying through his latest book - supposedly a tour of his home - but have already lost count of the number of inventors, builders, and sundry feckless geniuses who've done great things and died penniless we've been introduced to on about three dizzying tours of the world, and we're only on the ground floor of his house.
"I come from Des Moines. Someone had to.
When you come from Des Moines you either accept the fact without question and settle down with a local girl named Bobbi and get a job at the Firestone factory and live there for ever and ever, or you spend your adolescence moaning at great length about what a dump it is and how you can't wait to get out, and then you settle down with a local girl named Bobbi and get a job at the Firestone factory and live there for ever and ever."
.
Indeed his continued outsider's enthusiasm for all things British, when compared to our own dawn to dusk whingeing, was one of the inspirations for attempting to do 365 "in praise ofs" in the first place.
It's a long time ago now that Bill flew straight to the top of the book charts, announcing himself to the world with the first chapter of "The Lost Continent" published in Granta (1989 in fact). I can still remember giggling uncontrollably at the first few paragraphs and making a note to buy the book. His ability to be effortlessly and warmly funny is an incredibly difficult job to pull off - I have shelves of half-read travel books from people who have tried and failed. His page on an Italian parking in "Neither Here Nor There" is right up there with Jerome K Jerome.
These days he writes readable history books (almost an oxymoron) for the masses which have one minor problem. I read "A Short History of Nearly Everything" in two days flat - the pages turning quicker than a Stieg Larsson. However the only thing I remember from all its amazing stories, and characters is that Americans spent a hundred years searching for the volcanic crater that must be in Yellowstone somewhere, before finally realising that Yellowstone itself was the crater.
I'm currently just as rapidly flying through his latest book - supposedly a tour of his home - but have already lost count of the number of inventors, builders, and sundry feckless geniuses who've done great things and died penniless we've been introduced to on about three dizzying tours of the world, and we're only on the ground floor of his house.
"I come from Des Moines. Someone had to.
When you come from Des Moines you either accept the fact without question and settle down with a local girl named Bobbi and get a job at the Firestone factory and live there for ever and ever, or you spend your adolescence moaning at great length about what a dump it is and how you can't wait to get out, and then you settle down with a local girl named Bobbi and get a job at the Firestone factory and live there for ever and ever."
.
Saturday, 24 July 2010
Organic farms
I don't have any opinions worth sharing about the organic/intensive debate - though reading Ishiguro's "Never Let Me Go" certainly made me think more deeply about the farming of animals - and in a direction I didn't expect.
However, yesterday I couldn't have been more starkly shown a certain difference between two farms. Considering I've been walking through their fields daily for three years I'm not sure why it was only yesterday that I properly noticed.
The first farm has wheat, barley, oats and potatoes in at the moment, and I walked the fields in almost complete silence, apart from Bobby flushing out a couple of pheasants. The fields are jam-packed with ripeness, sat swaying, waiting to be harvested. Perfectly nice.
And then I turned to walk between the two fields at Greenacres organic farm, peas on one side, and wheat on the other. First off there were at least 100 swifts swooping over the pea field, beneath them hundreds and hundreds of white butterflies; then a skylark hovered over the pathway, and a small flock of something unidentifiable took off away from Bobby. The pea field was a fading green to yellow, but in between each and every plant poppies were bursting forth, accompanied by occasional clumps of daisies.
It was a bit like when the "Wizard of Oz" goes from black and white to colour...
.
However, yesterday I couldn't have been more starkly shown a certain difference between two farms. Considering I've been walking through their fields daily for three years I'm not sure why it was only yesterday that I properly noticed.
The first farm has wheat, barley, oats and potatoes in at the moment, and I walked the fields in almost complete silence, apart from Bobby flushing out a couple of pheasants. The fields are jam-packed with ripeness, sat swaying, waiting to be harvested. Perfectly nice.
And then I turned to walk between the two fields at Greenacres organic farm, peas on one side, and wheat on the other. First off there were at least 100 swifts swooping over the pea field, beneath them hundreds and hundreds of white butterflies; then a skylark hovered over the pathway, and a small flock of something unidentifiable took off away from Bobby. The pea field was a fading green to yellow, but in between each and every plant poppies were bursting forth, accompanied by occasional clumps of daisies.
It was a bit like when the "Wizard of Oz" goes from black and white to colour...
.
Friday, 23 July 2010
Cat Flaps
Or, more specifically, lockable cat flaps.
The stray who has adopted us has so far had nearly as many names as he has lives - Sam, Ruby, Tink, Cat, Jimmy, cat-who-sleeps-on-lettuce, but none are sticking. I wonder how his new name - Tiger - will fare.
My mother spent the second world war in a pub in Porthcawl owned by her grandmother. Apparently my great granny always used to keep the runt of the litter on the grounds they would turn out to be the "best little mouser". And for sure our cat is a right little runt.
This week he has been bringing us little mouse treats all night - smackerels we'd be ok with if they weren't quite so alive. We've been spending all night capturing and releasing. Well, I say we, but actually that's Anne's job. Mine is to shudder, hide under the duvet and wail like a girl.
(To be fair, I was once teaching a class of 12 year old girls and spotted a mouse sat looking at me. I screamed, much like the housemaid in Tom and Jerry, and jumped on a chair. I can't recall what actually happened to the mouse at all, but I do remember that this prefaced the end of my teaching career.)
Anyway, last night we came to an agreement to lock the cat flap. And slept pretty well apart from the sounds of a tiger hurling himself against the flap every hour..
.
The stray who has adopted us has so far had nearly as many names as he has lives - Sam, Ruby, Tink, Cat, Jimmy, cat-who-sleeps-on-lettuce, but none are sticking. I wonder how his new name - Tiger - will fare.
My mother spent the second world war in a pub in Porthcawl owned by her grandmother. Apparently my great granny always used to keep the runt of the litter on the grounds they would turn out to be the "best little mouser". And for sure our cat is a right little runt.
This week he has been bringing us little mouse treats all night - smackerels we'd be ok with if they weren't quite so alive. We've been spending all night capturing and releasing. Well, I say we, but actually that's Anne's job. Mine is to shudder, hide under the duvet and wail like a girl.
(To be fair, I was once teaching a class of 12 year old girls and spotted a mouse sat looking at me. I screamed, much like the housemaid in Tom and Jerry, and jumped on a chair. I can't recall what actually happened to the mouse at all, but I do remember that this prefaced the end of my teaching career.)
Anyway, last night we came to an agreement to lock the cat flap. And slept pretty well apart from the sounds of a tiger hurling himself against the flap every hour..
.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Sharing links on facebook
This was going to be an "in praise of...Giles Coren"
a) to complete the Coren family set.
b) because his restaurant reviews are terrific
c) because he's just reviewed the Magdalen Arms in Oxford and I wanted to share it with Catherine/JJ and anyone else passing who might have been interested.
But Murdoch has hidden him behind a pay-wall so I can't. And in being unable to do so I realised how much enjoyment I get from giving and receiving. Links, that is.
.
a) to complete the Coren family set.
b) because his restaurant reviews are terrific
c) because he's just reviewed the Magdalen Arms in Oxford and I wanted to share it with Catherine/JJ and anyone else passing who might have been interested.
But Murdoch has hidden him behind a pay-wall so I can't. And in being unable to do so I realised how much enjoyment I get from giving and receiving. Links, that is.
.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Agent Orange and Howard the Duck
Or whatever their names are. You know, the bookends in Take That.
The most highly-paid backing singers in the history of the galaxy. The most overpaid members of a band since Ringo wasn't even the best drummer in the Beatles.
Every morning in the shower Agent Orange smiles as he suds chanting "nope, still dreaming". Howard the Duck preens his feathers thinking - "another tour, another album, another gazillion, what the fuck".
Then they go out and get laid.
I love these guys.
.
The most highly-paid backing singers in the history of the galaxy. The most overpaid members of a band since Ringo wasn't even the best drummer in the Beatles.
Every morning in the shower Agent Orange smiles as he suds chanting "nope, still dreaming". Howard the Duck preens his feathers thinking - "another tour, another album, another gazillion, what the fuck".
Then they go out and get laid.
I love these guys.
.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Cucumbers
Something I seem entirely unable to grow in my greenhouse. And just as well really. Because for all of Anne's 500 cookery books, (when I'm long gone, and she finally dies they will have to dig her out of the house, tunnelling in through the cat-holes to find her in a small space in the spare room crushed by floor-to-ceiling food magazines), for all her devotion to risible TV cookery programmes, she has NEVER CARVED A CUCUMBER BASKET.
I saw one of these on "The Great Outdoors" (gentle tongue-in-cheek documentary last night) and was so excited I didn't even notice what sumptuous smackerel was being used to fill the basket. Whatever it was I bet it was slathered in mayonnaise.
It was almost as exciting as my nan's annual Christmsn Eve treat of "mushrooms in the grass" - meringues on green jelly to the infidels amongst you. (Evaporated milk as optional snow-fall)
I feel let down. Betrayed. Scales fall from my eyes,. The Empress has no clothes on. If Anne has left me wanting in the carved cucumber basket department all these years what other magical food treats am I being denied? Pray tell...
.
I saw one of these on "The Great Outdoors" (gentle tongue-in-cheek documentary last night) and was so excited I didn't even notice what sumptuous smackerel was being used to fill the basket. Whatever it was I bet it was slathered in mayonnaise.
It was almost as exciting as my nan's annual Christmsn Eve treat of "mushrooms in the grass" - meringues on green jelly to the infidels amongst you. (Evaporated milk as optional snow-fall)
I feel let down. Betrayed. Scales fall from my eyes,. The Empress has no clothes on. If Anne has left me wanting in the carved cucumber basket department all these years what other magical food treats am I being denied? Pray tell...
.
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Home-made Pizza
I hardly ever bother with pizza, (unless I'm in Italy).
It's usually a soggy-cardboard, gloopy offence to food. Not to mention the ridiculous toppings on offer these days. In a fake Italian chain restaurant in Drury Lane one drunken night I felt compelled to order a pizza "peking duck". What the fuck?
However, I feel myself becoming as obsessed with making home-made pizza as I was briefly with sourdough bread. I'm currently at the ladybird book stage of hopelessness, but they're quite edible the next day cold, and things can only improve once I work out how to get the pizza on the bakestone...
.
It's usually a soggy-cardboard, gloopy offence to food. Not to mention the ridiculous toppings on offer these days. In a fake Italian chain restaurant in Drury Lane one drunken night I felt compelled to order a pizza "peking duck". What the fuck?
However, I feel myself becoming as obsessed with making home-made pizza as I was briefly with sourdough bread. I'm currently at the ladybird book stage of hopelessness, but they're quite edible the next day cold, and things can only improve once I work out how to get the pizza on the bakestone...
.
Saturday, 17 July 2010
Windswept Golf
God, the commentators were moaning minnies yesterday. "This isn't fair"; "it's getting silly"; "it's so hard to play when you can't ground your putter." And the golfers themselves were mooching round like they were facing mission impossible, impending doom, the valley of death. So it's a bit breezy. It's Scotland. In the Summer. By the Sea. What a pampered bunch of preening fuck-putts.
I love watching them suffer. We were at Birkdale in 1999 when the average score for the day was 77 and by the end every golfer had the 200 yard stare of a Vietnam veteran. Frankly, it was one of the best day's sport I've ever witnessed. Yesterday looked nearly as good.
Rory McIlroy swaggered off the first tee like a cocky young gun riding into Dodge and 80 hapless shots later slumped off the last green like a little boy who has just lost the egg and spoon race at his own birthday party and just wants a hug from his mum. The old cowboys chewed their baccy and looked on. My Betfair account giggled uncontrollably.
Pro golfers get looked after far too well. They get every advantage imaginable to help them. Spectators quiet; rough manicured; free drinks and sandwiches on every tee. The greens they play on are given more care and attention than a Playboy bunny's minge. They hit truly terrible shots (which for us would be balls lost forever), which slam into the grandstand and they get a free shot from an amenable spot. I say cobblers to that - get up in the fucking stands and play it from there -
A few days ago Mark suggested I couldn't appreciate the Tour De France properly unless I had been halfway up the Col Du Tourmalet out of bidons and the peloton attacking. Here, it's actually the other way round.
I'd like to see them turn up at the annual Rottingdean CU Old Boys Pitch and Putt championship, tackling the last nine tricky downhill holes - holes as mangled as a Playboy bunny's- in a late September gale, armed with just a nine iron and a broken putter, with your glasses having just blown to the windmill of oblivion, having just had a Full English, four pints of Guinness, and a slug of brandy on each of the first nine holes...
Pussies...
.
I love watching them suffer. We were at Birkdale in 1999 when the average score for the day was 77 and by the end every golfer had the 200 yard stare of a Vietnam veteran. Frankly, it was one of the best day's sport I've ever witnessed. Yesterday looked nearly as good.
Rory McIlroy swaggered off the first tee like a cocky young gun riding into Dodge and 80 hapless shots later slumped off the last green like a little boy who has just lost the egg and spoon race at his own birthday party and just wants a hug from his mum. The old cowboys chewed their baccy and looked on. My Betfair account giggled uncontrollably.
Pro golfers get looked after far too well. They get every advantage imaginable to help them. Spectators quiet; rough manicured; free drinks and sandwiches on every tee. The greens they play on are given more care and attention than a Playboy bunny's minge. They hit truly terrible shots (which for us would be balls lost forever), which slam into the grandstand and they get a free shot from an amenable spot. I say cobblers to that - get up in the fucking stands and play it from there -
A few days ago Mark suggested I couldn't appreciate the Tour De France properly unless I had been halfway up the Col Du Tourmalet out of bidons and the peloton attacking. Here, it's actually the other way round.
I'd like to see them turn up at the annual Rottingdean CU Old Boys Pitch and Putt championship, tackling the last nine tricky downhill holes - holes as mangled as a Playboy bunny's- in a late September gale, armed with just a nine iron and a broken putter, with your glasses having just blown to the windmill of oblivion, having just had a Full English, four pints of Guinness, and a slug of brandy on each of the first nine holes...
Pussies...
.
Friday, 16 July 2010
Gina McKee
Who's drifted through two dramas this week, lighting up both without getting out of a slow trot, and has always been a favourite of mine, not least because I discovered her.
By which I mean, in much the same way as teenagers (and Mark) like to discover bands and appropriate them as their own, I saw Gina in a Carlsberg advert many years ago and said to Anne how brilliant she was. And so it proved, with Our Friends in the North catapulting her to fame shortly after. Unlike teenagers (and Mark) I didn't immediately dump her for having become too popular/mainstream/sell-out.
As an aside, the four actors from Our Friends in the North seem to have found success in inverse proportion to their talents: Daniel Craig; Christopher Ecclestone; Gina McKee, and by far the best Mark Strong, currently relegated to the voice-over for Who Do You Think You Are.
Anyway, here's the latest star bejewelled on my rucksack - lovingly crayoned over Sally Sparrow - Aisling Loftus who gave a hypnotically slow performance in Dive the other day.
By which I mean, in much the same way as teenagers (and Mark) like to discover bands and appropriate them as their own, I saw Gina in a Carlsberg advert many years ago and said to Anne how brilliant she was. And so it proved, with Our Friends in the North catapulting her to fame shortly after. Unlike teenagers (and Mark) I didn't immediately dump her for having become too popular/mainstream/sell-out.
As an aside, the four actors from Our Friends in the North seem to have found success in inverse proportion to their talents: Daniel Craig; Christopher Ecclestone; Gina McKee, and by far the best Mark Strong, currently relegated to the voice-over for Who Do You Think You Are.
Anyway, here's the latest star bejewelled on my rucksack - lovingly crayoned over Sally Sparrow - Aisling Loftus who gave a hypnotically slow performance in Dive the other day.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Ice Cream Vans
Now there's something that hasn't changed in my lifetime (and god knows how many years before me). Little trundles of joy, spreading sun and happiness in their wake.
The expectant stare upwards into the open window; the synthetic gunk expertly swirled into the cone; the sound of the jingle when they've run out of ice cream.
The childlike glee over a small wee chocolate flake seems as real and intense now as forty years ago. For me anyway.
And last time the ice cream vendor gave me a free half-cone of ice cream for Bobby. Which Bobby thought very considerate....
.
The expectant stare upwards into the open window; the synthetic gunk expertly swirled into the cone; the sound of the jingle when they've run out of ice cream.
The childlike glee over a small wee chocolate flake seems as real and intense now as forty years ago. For me anyway.
And last time the ice cream vendor gave me a free half-cone of ice cream for Bobby. Which Bobby thought very considerate....
.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Tour De France
Now I realise some of you have lives and so have to watch the highlights of an evening, but there really is nothing like having a whole mountain stage rolling along on your TV throughout the day. You need to waste a day of your own time to realise just how good these guys' pharmacists need to be.
Yesterday was supposed to only be a medium-mountain stage but watching the peloton fracture into thirty pieces up the Col de la Madeleine yesterday was incredibly nourishing for the soul.
As if watching Lance Armstrong spontaneously combust in the heat the other day wasn't enough to put a spring in your step, yesterday I got to idle away a couple of hours watching Cadel Evans turn ghost-white, a sunken-eyed and dribbling reflection of the cyclist he once was - 70 minutes and a lifetime ago - pedalling squares, and at one point actually not pedalling at all, dragging my eyes off his maillot-jaune just long enough to reach for another cherry.
And they're not even in the Pyrenees yet...every chance Schleck breaks Contador there from what I've seen. Too much to hope for surely.
.
Yesterday was supposed to only be a medium-mountain stage but watching the peloton fracture into thirty pieces up the Col de la Madeleine yesterday was incredibly nourishing for the soul.
As if watching Lance Armstrong spontaneously combust in the heat the other day wasn't enough to put a spring in your step, yesterday I got to idle away a couple of hours watching Cadel Evans turn ghost-white, a sunken-eyed and dribbling reflection of the cyclist he once was - 70 minutes and a lifetime ago - pedalling squares, and at one point actually not pedalling at all, dragging my eyes off his maillot-jaune just long enough to reach for another cherry.
And they're not even in the Pyrenees yet...every chance Schleck breaks Contador there from what I've seen. Too much to hope for surely.
.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Adults saying naughty words, then giggling.
This has always been one of Anne's more attractive habits. She's spent her entire adult life saying something like "Stroke these mushrooms. Don't they feel just like a foreskin", before breaking down into a helpless bundle of giggles and sniggers. A Full English breakfast of childishness with lashings of Anne or Gary sauce.
Saturday night a whole group of mature, successful, middle-class upright members of society (and Lisa) collapsed into paroxysms of giggles like a bunch of nine year olds saying bugger, shit, buggery, bugger for the first time. It was a group version of when Anne discovered what "wizard's sleeve" was and Finbar Saunders had to phone up and ask her to turn it down a bit.
And all I did was mention granny's tea-towel holder....
.
Saturday night a whole group of mature, successful, middle-class upright members of society (and Lisa) collapsed into paroxysms of giggles like a bunch of nine year olds saying bugger, shit, buggery, bugger for the first time. It was a group version of when Anne discovered what "wizard's sleeve" was and Finbar Saunders had to phone up and ask her to turn it down a bit.
And all I did was mention granny's tea-towel holder....
.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Minimum Wage
So, that's that. I've watched and bet on every game in the World Cup, apart from the 3rd place play-off.
It comes to £1.55 per hour....
.
It comes to £1.55 per hour....
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Sunday, 11 July 2010
Agricultural Shows
Since I've moved up here a lot of my life seems to remind me of my teenage years - albeit without the angst and shoe-staring - and agricultural shows would definitely be included in that.
Yesterday we sampled the Newport Show just down the road. What's not to like? A mere tenner for a whole day's entertainment - all the usual farmyard livestock - cows, sheep, alpacas; beer tents and foodie stalls; the usual display teams on their summer schlep round tory England; traction engines and oldie tractors, and the local brass band playing to the lines of women queuing for the toilets. It was, in fact, exactly what people used to do for entertainment before music festivals were invented.
This one worked out even better as a friend at the heart of club middle england took us into sundry private marquees and plied us with Pimms and hog-roasts until I couldn't eat another cherry (punnets for £1!). It was a bit like being backstage with the band. All I had to do was pretend to be the largest grain importer in Herefordshire, which seems easy enough but god knows what I'm going to do with the 20 tonnnes I purchased off some drunk farmer from Market Drayton...
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Yesterday we sampled the Newport Show just down the road. What's not to like? A mere tenner for a whole day's entertainment - all the usual farmyard livestock - cows, sheep, alpacas; beer tents and foodie stalls; the usual display teams on their summer schlep round tory England; traction engines and oldie tractors, and the local brass band playing to the lines of women queuing for the toilets. It was, in fact, exactly what people used to do for entertainment before music festivals were invented.
This one worked out even better as a friend at the heart of club middle england took us into sundry private marquees and plied us with Pimms and hog-roasts until I couldn't eat another cherry (punnets for £1!). It was a bit like being backstage with the band. All I had to do was pretend to be the largest grain importer in Herefordshire, which seems easy enough but god knows what I'm going to do with the 20 tonnnes I purchased off some drunk farmer from Market Drayton...
.
Saturday, 10 July 2010
Gooseberries
Our latest harvest. Though, to be fair, we didn't have many and I picked them way too early so neurotic was I that a bird was going to feast on them before me. Plus Anne's rubbish at making crumble topping. So, not only could we barely find the gooseberries under the lump of stodge above, but when we did they were on the inedible side of under-sugared. Still, at least some thrush or blackbird went hungry into that good night.
And all was not lost. The shop-bought ready-made custard was blooming scrummy. No skin.
And all was not lost. The shop-bought ready-made custard was blooming scrummy. No skin.
Friday, 9 July 2010
Newspapers
Well, I say newspapers, but obviously I don't include those that just try to drag everyone down to their level. The Star's a comic with tits; The Sun's a crayoning book which can't even muster up a decent headline these days; The Mirror has to be the only thing that has actually got worse for the absence of Piers Morgan; The Mail is a drip, drip, drip of cancerous hatred; and The Express makes The Mail look agreeable.
Of the readable papers The Independent is overly-earnest, and do you really want to get your news via Murdoch in The Times.
Or The Telegraph which I do like, and is well worth buying on a long train trip, as it allows you to polish off the cryptic crossword as a five-finger exercise for something more challenging, check-up on your old public school's rugby score, and find the date of the next Albrighton Hunt.
So I really mean The Guardian, which I've bought every day for 27 years now, and so must be the only brand I've been loyal to all my grown-up life. (Except Crest, Head and Shoulders). There was an interview in said paper with some IT guru/soothsayer who said all papers will have disappeared within 15 years. I found that so upsetting I'm determined not to take it for granted and to enjoy it whilst I can...
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Of the readable papers The Independent is overly-earnest, and do you really want to get your news via Murdoch in The Times.
Or The Telegraph which I do like, and is well worth buying on a long train trip, as it allows you to polish off the cryptic crossword as a five-finger exercise for something more challenging, check-up on your old public school's rugby score, and find the date of the next Albrighton Hunt.
So I really mean The Guardian, which I've bought every day for 27 years now, and so must be the only brand I've been loyal to all my grown-up life. (Except Crest, Head and Shoulders). There was an interview in said paper with some IT guru/soothsayer who said all papers will have disappeared within 15 years. I found that so upsetting I'm determined not to take it for granted and to enjoy it whilst I can...
.
Thursday, 8 July 2010
My New Laptop
My old laptop was called Camilla ("the third person in our marriage") and was my faithful companion for five years, which I guess must make her over 100 years old in IT years. I loved her dearly - even if I had to give her 20 minutes to warm up in the morning, and then spend most of the day shovelling coal into her.
By the end I couldn't look at any videos or download any music and only I knew which secret little buttons you had to press to get her to give up access to her little secrets. Or Betfair even.
So, much like the "boy Lineker done good" I've traded her in for a younger, sexier model. I need a hot, minxy name to boot, so any suggestions welcome.
And for those of you who like all the technoweeny, twin-cam, giggle-bite specifications, hang on, I'll just get the manual and give you the lowdown...
She is black...
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By the end I couldn't look at any videos or download any music and only I knew which secret little buttons you had to press to get her to give up access to her little secrets. Or Betfair even.
So, much like the "boy Lineker done good" I've traded her in for a younger, sexier model. I need a hot, minxy name to boot, so any suggestions welcome.
And for those of you who like all the technoweeny, twin-cam, giggle-bite specifications, hang on, I'll just get the manual and give you the lowdown...
She is black...
.
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Swifts
Saw my first swifts of the year yesterday which is rather late in the year - they'll be back off to Africa as soon as they've arrived.
What amazing birds. They fledge and then spend the next 2 or 3 years entirely on the wing. Don't land at all. Sleep, drink, feed, mate all on the wing.
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What amazing birds. They fledge and then spend the next 2 or 3 years entirely on the wing. Don't land at all. Sleep, drink, feed, mate all on the wing.
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Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Rev
But before I start I'm very disappointed with The Sun. They've managed to miss a really obvious headline this morning.
"Ashley Cole gives Cheryl malaria"
Surely.
Anyway, I'm a bit shy of recommending a comedy after only two episodes (of which I've only seen one). The last one I recommended on here was Nurse Jackie which seemed like it would be a real hoot and then turned into something blacker than Dr Strangelove gone bi-polar.
Still, it made me laugh last night, and even though it looks likely to move towards Dibley-twee rather than high satire you still get to enjoy Olivia Colman tearing up the scenery.
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"Ashley Cole gives Cheryl malaria"
Surely.
Anyway, I'm a bit shy of recommending a comedy after only two episodes (of which I've only seen one). The last one I recommended on here was Nurse Jackie which seemed like it would be a real hoot and then turned into something blacker than Dr Strangelove gone bi-polar.
Still, it made me laugh last night, and even though it looks likely to move towards Dibley-twee rather than high satire you still get to enjoy Olivia Colman tearing up the scenery.
.
Monday, 5 July 2010
Completer-finishers
A year ago we were at dinner and talking of the group's attempt at the Long Mynd 50 when someone asked me whether I would ever think of getting off my fat arse and doing something energetic and challenging and life-affirming (they may have phrased it differently).
When I'd finished laughing, I said that the Shifnal Steeplechase half marathon actually goes directly past my door and so I guess if there was anything that would be it.
When everyone else had finished laughing they all decided we'd best all do it, and so that was that.
And so it was that, yesterday, two half marathon virgins actually made it to the start line, and indeed over the finish line. So here's two fingers up to the doubters, the sniggerers, the doom-sayers, the cynics. The medals hang proudly on the mantelpiece, alongside a congratulatory telegram from Eddie Izzard. A good job, well done.
And as for the slackers, those who pretended never to have been at the dinner; those whose dog ate their homework; and those who typed "fat + running + injury" into google and came up with a handy dose of plantars fascitis, (as if nazi peanuts are any sort of excuse), I say big fucking shame on you all...
Well done Jill and Ian!
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When I'd finished laughing, I said that the Shifnal Steeplechase half marathon actually goes directly past my door and so I guess if there was anything that would be it.
When everyone else had finished laughing they all decided we'd best all do it, and so that was that.
And so it was that, yesterday, two half marathon virgins actually made it to the start line, and indeed over the finish line. So here's two fingers up to the doubters, the sniggerers, the doom-sayers, the cynics. The medals hang proudly on the mantelpiece, alongside a congratulatory telegram from Eddie Izzard. A good job, well done.
And as for the slackers, those who pretended never to have been at the dinner; those whose dog ate their homework; and those who typed "fat + running + injury" into google and came up with a handy dose of plantars fascitis, (as if nazi peanuts are any sort of excuse), I say big fucking shame on you all...
Well done Jill and Ian!
.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Shifnal Farmers' Market
Now that was a pleasant surprise.
A year or so ago Shifnal held a farmers' market. The apostrophe would at best have been singular in that instance though as the market consisted of four empty trestle tables and a wizened old woman selling month-old samosas from sundry tupperware. Ludlow apart, Shropshire markets do tend towards the embarrassing - a huddle of cake stalls under the town hall arches - but this was toe-curdling.
So, when we sauntered off for the re-launch of the market yesterday it was with a pocketful of scepticism, and a very small carrier bag. And we were proved rather nicely wrong. They'd closed the road, and set up 20 or so stalls with a pretty decent range of food considering Shifnal is a small, simple town with no pretensions to foodiness. (As an example of this, the bread stall had sold out by the time we arrived, not greatly surprising in a town where the Bakers doesn't actually sell bread).
The stall-holders themselves were rather surprised at the business they were doing, so it looks like we have an on-going concern. Anyone want to go into business with me selling rotisserie chicken there (as per Chamonix market)?
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A year or so ago Shifnal held a farmers' market. The apostrophe would at best have been singular in that instance though as the market consisted of four empty trestle tables and a wizened old woman selling month-old samosas from sundry tupperware. Ludlow apart, Shropshire markets do tend towards the embarrassing - a huddle of cake stalls under the town hall arches - but this was toe-curdling.
So, when we sauntered off for the re-launch of the market yesterday it was with a pocketful of scepticism, and a very small carrier bag. And we were proved rather nicely wrong. They'd closed the road, and set up 20 or so stalls with a pretty decent range of food considering Shifnal is a small, simple town with no pretensions to foodiness. (As an example of this, the bread stall had sold out by the time we arrived, not greatly surprising in a town where the Bakers doesn't actually sell bread).
The stall-holders themselves were rather surprised at the business they were doing, so it looks like we have an on-going concern. Anyone want to go into business with me selling rotisserie chicken there (as per Chamonix market)?
.
Saturday, 3 July 2010
Tomatoes
Now I don't like to boast, but I fully intend on doing so. For yesterday, July 2nd, at 3:55pm I popped the first of this year's tomatoes into my mouth.
Now I realise most of you will have pathetic little half-growths of spindly spurs and unpricked sideshoots, but don't be too hard on yourselves (apart from Catherine who failed to even get that far). It's an art and a science. A gift and a calling. For every Adonis there's a barrel of fat men who couldn't pass muster.
We can't all be green-fingered, horny-handed sons of the soil. It takes dedication, application and perspiration. Plus you haven't tried my carefully-developed and fully-patented technique of cramming as many plants as possible into the greenhouse and leaving them to fight it out.
I am king. I am a gardener's delight. I doth stride the back-garden like a colossus with my faithful disciple "cat-who-sleeps-on-lettuce" as always by my side. I shall not rest until cherry tomatoes are on every menu from now until the jumps season.
And for those who said it couldn't be done, armed with just a silver trowel and a misting-gun, I say peasants, look on my works and weep.
Take that Titchmarsh. Jog on, Monty Don.
How d'you like them apples....
Now I realise most of you will have pathetic little half-growths of spindly spurs and unpricked sideshoots, but don't be too hard on yourselves (apart from Catherine who failed to even get that far). It's an art and a science. A gift and a calling. For every Adonis there's a barrel of fat men who couldn't pass muster.
We can't all be green-fingered, horny-handed sons of the soil. It takes dedication, application and perspiration. Plus you haven't tried my carefully-developed and fully-patented technique of cramming as many plants as possible into the greenhouse and leaving them to fight it out.
I am king. I am a gardener's delight. I doth stride the back-garden like a colossus with my faithful disciple "cat-who-sleeps-on-lettuce" as always by my side. I shall not rest until cherry tomatoes are on every menu from now until the jumps season.
And for those who said it couldn't be done, armed with just a silver trowel and a misting-gun, I say peasants, look on my works and weep.
Take that Titchmarsh. Jog on, Monty Don.
How d'you like them apples....
Friday, 2 July 2010
Drunken Sing-Songs
Which personally I enjoy best alone. And anyone who's ever heard me sing prefers it that way too.
I'm talking about that moment on the cusp between being drunkenly happy and drunkenly maudlin when you start searching your music collection for those old friends who've been around for ever. The formative ones, the great ones and of course the cheesy ones. I'm not talking about dance tunes, I'm talking about songs to be sung with verve and gusto; like a karaoke American Pie; like a roll out the barrel boozer knees up; like a cowboy in the Mid-West sobbing into his beer over Ode to Billy Joe...
Well in the West-Mids last night we had:
Train in Vain - The Clash
Piano Man - Billy Joel
Knockin on Heaven's Door - Bob Dylan
What You Do With What You Get - Eddie Reader
Fallen For You - Sheila Nicholls
Go Your Own Way - Fleetwood Mac
Anchorage - Michelle Shocked
and if I could have found them I would have played two old Bristol, St George, Friday night standards:
It's Not Unusual - Tom Jones
Everybody's Talking At Me - Harry Nillsson
before laying on the floor for a quick burst of
I am...I said. - Neil Diamond
Kids, I wonder which songs you currently love will still be your soundtrack thirty years on. I hope it's better than one friend's obsession with ending each drunken evening with a lusty rendition of Ernie...
He said "Do you want it pasteurize, 'cause pasteurize is best "
She says "Ernie, I'll be happy if it comes up to my chest."
.
I'm talking about that moment on the cusp between being drunkenly happy and drunkenly maudlin when you start searching your music collection for those old friends who've been around for ever. The formative ones, the great ones and of course the cheesy ones. I'm not talking about dance tunes, I'm talking about songs to be sung with verve and gusto; like a karaoke American Pie; like a roll out the barrel boozer knees up; like a cowboy in the Mid-West sobbing into his beer over Ode to Billy Joe...
Well in the West-Mids last night we had:
Train in Vain - The Clash
Piano Man - Billy Joel
Knockin on Heaven's Door - Bob Dylan
What You Do With What You Get - Eddie Reader
Fallen For You - Sheila Nicholls
Go Your Own Way - Fleetwood Mac
Anchorage - Michelle Shocked
and if I could have found them I would have played two old Bristol, St George, Friday night standards:
It's Not Unusual - Tom Jones
Everybody's Talking At Me - Harry Nillsson
before laying on the floor for a quick burst of
I am...I said. - Neil Diamond
Kids, I wonder which songs you currently love will still be your soundtrack thirty years on. I hope it's better than one friend's obsession with ending each drunken evening with a lusty rendition of Ernie...
He said "Do you want it pasteurize, 'cause pasteurize is best "
She says "Ernie, I'll be happy if it comes up to my chest."
.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Whoops - John Lanchester
I spent my sick day/day off yesterday trading the tennis and reading this book, and I heartily recommend the latter.
Although some of you will know him as the author of the brilliant novel "Debt to Pleasure", he actually seems to make his living from financial journalism. Plus he apparently wrote an article in early 2008 predicting the financial meltdown to follow.
Whatever, he does a top-notch job here explaining the whole 2008 crash - why, who, how. It's in-depth but readable, and as free from political dogma as any such book is likely to be.
I've always been astonished at how we all seem to sleepwalk through our lives without ever acknowledging what an overwhelming effect economics/politics has on us, starting from the sheer lottery of where we're born through shaping nearly all the life choices that we make.
There's also a very good chapter about how useless people are at assessing risk, which won't come as a surprise to anyone taking part in this year's World Cup Betleague...
.
Although some of you will know him as the author of the brilliant novel "Debt to Pleasure", he actually seems to make his living from financial journalism. Plus he apparently wrote an article in early 2008 predicting the financial meltdown to follow.
Whatever, he does a top-notch job here explaining the whole 2008 crash - why, who, how. It's in-depth but readable, and as free from political dogma as any such book is likely to be.
I've always been astonished at how we all seem to sleepwalk through our lives without ever acknowledging what an overwhelming effect economics/politics has on us, starting from the sheer lottery of where we're born through shaping nearly all the life choices that we make.
There's also a very good chapter about how useless people are at assessing risk, which won't come as a surprise to anyone taking part in this year's World Cup Betleague...
.
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