Not that I like his music much - that falsetto voice and dodgy lyrics.
Still, I've no idea what he's done to deserve all the opprobrium heaped on him by music snobs everywhere. He's written a catchy song. Get over yourselves.
No, the reason I feel like praising him is that I must have seen him on about 8 chat shows now, and every time he has been one of the most effortlessly funny people I've ever seen interviewed. Seriously.
Given the cognoscenti's distaste for him, he's joining my facebook list of things under-rated, that now reads: Hugh Grant, cheddar cheese, The One Show, mackerel, iceberg lettuce and James Blunt.
.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Friday, 29 October 2010
Hamlet
Which is of course one of the most preposterous stories ever staged. You know all those thrillers - books and movies - that start off as compelling and end up in a frenzied vortex of entirely unlikely, mindless slaughter? Here's your template. The ending, with the dead bodies of all the main characters strewn over the stage, gets more farcical every time I watch.
Still, Shakey managed to invent the teenager a few years before Elvis and James Dean - there's never been such a shoe-staring, box-room rebel as dear old Hammy. The play is a part of me having studied it for A-Level, but watching it these days it spools over me as a set of my own favourite quotations...every year I become more and more like TS Eliot's notion of a collection of other people's fragments.
"The morn in russet mantle clad
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill."
"How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world."
(Yes, Kevin, now clean up your room...)
"Frailty, thy name is woman"
"The funeral bak'd-meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables."
(which I used on here just the other day)
"Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads."
"Give every man thine ear, but few thine voice."
(I think Polonius's advice to Laertes is the key to the staging of the play to be honest. Polonius is usually dismissed as an old fool throughout, but I think that's wrong. He's just old. And seen as a fool by Hamlet - and Laertes and Ophelia - ie by the "teenagers". Today, this speech remains great advice - to everyone but the young.)
"Neither a brorrower nor a lender be."
"To thine own self be true..."
"And to the manner born"
"It is a custom more honour'd in the breach than the observance"
"I do not set my life at a pin's fee"
"There is something rotten in the state of Denmark"
"Brevity is the soul of wit"
(unlike the play itself, and indeded this "in praise of"!)
"What a piece of work is man"
(though I usually say this cynically)
"There are more things in heaven and earth, blah, blah, blah"
"What's Hecuba to him , or he to Hecuba
That he should weep for her?"
"Ay, there's the rub"
"Shuffle off this mortal coil"
"Conscience doth make cowards of us all"
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks"
(Methinks, surely that's a modern word?)
"I must be cruel only to be kind"
"Good night ladies, good night sweet ladies; good night; good night"
(TS Eliot did a great cover version of this one)
"When sorrows come they come not single spies
But in battalions"
(The Flood years)
"Hoist with his own petard"
"The rest is silence"
(Thank fuck)
And, by the by, Tennant should have stuck to Doctor Who.
.
Still, Shakey managed to invent the teenager a few years before Elvis and James Dean - there's never been such a shoe-staring, box-room rebel as dear old Hammy. The play is a part of me having studied it for A-Level, but watching it these days it spools over me as a set of my own favourite quotations...every year I become more and more like TS Eliot's notion of a collection of other people's fragments.
"The morn in russet mantle clad
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill."
"How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world."
(Yes, Kevin, now clean up your room...)
"Frailty, thy name is woman"
"The funeral bak'd-meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables."
(which I used on here just the other day)
"Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads."
"Give every man thine ear, but few thine voice."
(I think Polonius's advice to Laertes is the key to the staging of the play to be honest. Polonius is usually dismissed as an old fool throughout, but I think that's wrong. He's just old. And seen as a fool by Hamlet - and Laertes and Ophelia - ie by the "teenagers". Today, this speech remains great advice - to everyone but the young.)
"Neither a brorrower nor a lender be."
"To thine own self be true..."
"And to the manner born"
"It is a custom more honour'd in the breach than the observance"
"I do not set my life at a pin's fee"
"There is something rotten in the state of Denmark"
"Brevity is the soul of wit"
(unlike the play itself, and indeded this "in praise of"!)
"What a piece of work is man"
(though I usually say this cynically)
"There are more things in heaven and earth, blah, blah, blah"
"What's Hecuba to him , or he to Hecuba
That he should weep for her?"
"Ay, there's the rub"
"Shuffle off this mortal coil"
"Conscience doth make cowards of us all"
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks"
(Methinks, surely that's a modern word?)
"I must be cruel only to be kind"
"Good night ladies, good night sweet ladies; good night; good night"
(TS Eliot did a great cover version of this one)
"When sorrows come they come not single spies
But in battalions"
(The Flood years)
"Hoist with his own petard"
"The rest is silence"
(Thank fuck)
And, by the by, Tennant should have stuck to Doctor Who.
.
Sunday, 24 October 2010
Holiday Compatibility
Anne and I discussed the secret of our relationship the other day. After much silence we settled on the twin titans of fear and indolence. But, after due consideration, there is a third secret - holiday compatibility - which we seem to have in spades.
There's a great film (almost completely forgotten) called "Two for the Road". 1967, Albert Finney, Audrey Hepburn. The film follows them as a couple over a number of years, holidaying through Europe, charting their relationship from giddy first love to bitter, addled partners.
An early scene sees them looking at an old couple sat in a restaurant in silence:
"What sort of people don't talk to each other?"
"Married people"
You can guess the later scene.
Whatever else they may be, holidays are definitely a good stress-test of a relationship. One of my friends seems to have gone on holiday at least three times as a couple and come back single. And Anne and I have been witness to some extraordinary rows between couples when we've been on joint holidays. I'm not immune, one of you will remember my three day sulk in Skye many years ago.
Still, over the years we've negotiated all the UK, most of the US, a smorgasbord of European cities and islands, and thrown in the odd corner of Australia and the Far East, and through all the jet-lag, travelling, tiredness, language barriers, fear of the new, boredom, proximity, drink and hangover, we've hardly had an argument that couldn't be assuaged by something as simple as the balm of sex in a strange bed.
The only time we went truly helter-skelter was when a bike-hire vendor in Vancouver persuaded us to try a tandem. Anne took badly to the lack of control and I expect Stanley Park still echoes to the ghostly siren call of a woman's passive-aggressive silent-screaming.
Plainly, that's the secret, clearly-defined roles. Anne does the planning; I do the sunburn. Anne does the talking hopefully in pidgin-European to perplexed foreigners, I stand behind her giggling. Anne does the driving; I do the sitting like an armchair-jockey shouting instructions at Tony McCoy, even though he's never even sat on a horse, as I wonder out loud why, after around 20,000 attempts at it over her driving lifetime, why Anne is so fucking useless at parking. (Well, Ok, one argument then...)
There's a great film (almost completely forgotten) called "Two for the Road". 1967, Albert Finney, Audrey Hepburn. The film follows them as a couple over a number of years, holidaying through Europe, charting their relationship from giddy first love to bitter, addled partners.
An early scene sees them looking at an old couple sat in a restaurant in silence:
"What sort of people don't talk to each other?"
"Married people"
You can guess the later scene.
Whatever else they may be, holidays are definitely a good stress-test of a relationship. One of my friends seems to have gone on holiday at least three times as a couple and come back single. And Anne and I have been witness to some extraordinary rows between couples when we've been on joint holidays. I'm not immune, one of you will remember my three day sulk in Skye many years ago.
Still, over the years we've negotiated all the UK, most of the US, a smorgasbord of European cities and islands, and thrown in the odd corner of Australia and the Far East, and through all the jet-lag, travelling, tiredness, language barriers, fear of the new, boredom, proximity, drink and hangover, we've hardly had an argument that couldn't be assuaged by something as simple as the balm of sex in a strange bed.
The only time we went truly helter-skelter was when a bike-hire vendor in Vancouver persuaded us to try a tandem. Anne took badly to the lack of control and I expect Stanley Park still echoes to the ghostly siren call of a woman's passive-aggressive silent-screaming.
Plainly, that's the secret, clearly-defined roles. Anne does the planning; I do the sunburn. Anne does the talking hopefully in pidgin-European to perplexed foreigners, I stand behind her giggling. Anne does the driving; I do the sitting like an armchair-jockey shouting instructions at Tony McCoy, even though he's never even sat on a horse, as I wonder out loud why, after around 20,000 attempts at it over her driving lifetime, why Anne is so fucking useless at parking. (Well, Ok, one argument then...)
Friday, 15 October 2010
In praise of....in praise of (part three)
And so, as I sew my completer/finisher badge on my sleeve, it's time for the acceptance speech thanks to those who came along for the ride, and left little comments so that I knew there was an audience. (Actually, this has never been a problem for me as anyone who followed my betting blog for over 7 years can testify!)
Still, here's some of my favourite comments from the year:
20. "Marina from Stingray, and then Nanette Newman when I was a teenager" (Phil, praising wildly inappropriate crushes).
19. "I've never noticed the farting. I hope that does not put me in the not nailed yet bracket." (Iain, finally realising my long-term crush on him).
18. Davida and Lyn - two old flames - who have never met each other, hi-jacking a serious posting in praise of organic farms in order to have a chat about their kid's/cousin's performances in various summer surfing contests. (Facebook can be a very surreal place.)
17. "A very small point of order, these days Playboy bunnies don't have a minge" (Eve). Golf takes a back-seat, as Eve updates me on the latest downstairs grooming fads. JJ suggests Eve's own knowledge needs updating. Iain, wisely, tries to get back to the golf.
16. "There's an auto body shop in Laguna called 'the hand job'. (Eileen) when I asked for funny signs. This just about pips Lyn's "Now is the winter of our discount tents" because as Anne will tell you, nothing trumps a knob-gag.
15. In a desperate (and unsuccessful) attempt to stop the Slitherins taking power, I tried to talk up Gordon Brown. This occasioned Wayne to agree - "I've always liked that Stranglers song too."
14. Mark - throughout the year adopting the role of Ezra Pound to my TS Eliot - thinks the predominance of food in my 'in praise ofs', should have led me to renaming them "The Waist Land".
13. "Apparently, Catherine has fully-set tresses" (JJ)
" He means trusses" (Catherine).
JJ - showing he knows more about Playboy bunnies' minges than he does about growing tomatoes. Which frankly is how the world should work.
12. "I expect Gordon Sumner kept a photo of Sting by his bed-side as well" - because it made me laugh, if no-one else.
11. "As your wife, I can tell you, you sound snobbish". (Karin), without whom's support (as with so many other things), I would have given up on several occasions over the year.
10. One of my pet-hates over the year was people inserting a comment on the "in praise of" before I'd even typed the narrative. The one time it actually improved the 'in praise of', however, was Susie's comment after I'd written "In praise of ....Coast":
"What, the woman's high-end boutique clothing-store. Who would have thought....."
Tim's later well-planned and executed "Do I insert the comment in here, Anne", isn't worthy of further comment.
9. "My personal view is that no man who's goolies extend more than 50% the length of his thigh should wear shorts." (Catherine) who appears to have been traumatised by a goliath in her past life. Karin doesn't think they should wear shorts either...
8. "Fucking just north of Salzburg takes some beating" (Ian). This comment actually improves taken out of context. As does, "Strange, isn't it, how Numpnett Thrubwell beats Fucking?" (Mark)
7. "I measure out my life in restaurants I've visited - tastier than coffee-spoons" (Anne), who would have more comments in here, but I had to delete all the snitty ones. Besides, I still haven't forgiven her for the great mushroom practical joke - though karmic forces did see the mushrooms reap their revenge.
6. "Is it too late to send an invoice for those gooseberries?" (Tim) somewhat too late realises he's been partaking of dubious communistic practices and the gooseberries probably aren't even tax deductible.
5. I did an 'in praise of...meze', referencing an unfortunate dining experience I'd had with the CU boys some years ago. Simon remembered it well: "Since then I have had the unshakeable belief that dip is for girls. Normally fat ones."
4. "Toe-curdling, that's one of my favourite ever typos"
"You have to add the oil more slowly to avoid this." (Eve)
3. Early on I did an 'in praise of ...footballs in the stream" where Bobby and I came home along the river, singing songs.
"Has he a good singing voice, your Bobby?" (Karin)
"Well, he's no Kenny Rogers, that's for sure."
2. Mike's comment as a voyeur from afar "Rhythm not habit is man defined" was actually quite moving. It would be number one if I was a sensible person, but in a fight between humour and profundity my money's always on the clown holding the pie.
1. What do you do when clicking the "like" button isn't enough?
"I think you have to click the love button to feel any sort of satisfaction" suggested Sarah, who I haven't ever met, but who asked to be a friend because she'd read the posts on Anne's wall and wanted to join in.
Thanks all, and apologies to anyone feeling left out, or under-appreciated!
.
Still, here's some of my favourite comments from the year:
20. "Marina from Stingray, and then Nanette Newman when I was a teenager" (Phil, praising wildly inappropriate crushes).
19. "I've never noticed the farting. I hope that does not put me in the not nailed yet bracket." (Iain, finally realising my long-term crush on him).
18. Davida and Lyn - two old flames - who have never met each other, hi-jacking a serious posting in praise of organic farms in order to have a chat about their kid's/cousin's performances in various summer surfing contests. (Facebook can be a very surreal place.)
17. "A very small point of order, these days Playboy bunnies don't have a minge" (Eve). Golf takes a back-seat, as Eve updates me on the latest downstairs grooming fads. JJ suggests Eve's own knowledge needs updating. Iain, wisely, tries to get back to the golf.
16. "There's an auto body shop in Laguna called 'the hand job'. (Eileen) when I asked for funny signs. This just about pips Lyn's "Now is the winter of our discount tents" because as Anne will tell you, nothing trumps a knob-gag.
15. In a desperate (and unsuccessful) attempt to stop the Slitherins taking power, I tried to talk up Gordon Brown. This occasioned Wayne to agree - "I've always liked that Stranglers song too."
14. Mark - throughout the year adopting the role of Ezra Pound to my TS Eliot - thinks the predominance of food in my 'in praise ofs', should have led me to renaming them "The Waist Land".
13. "Apparently, Catherine has fully-set tresses" (JJ)
" He means trusses" (Catherine).
JJ - showing he knows more about Playboy bunnies' minges than he does about growing tomatoes. Which frankly is how the world should work.
12. "I expect Gordon Sumner kept a photo of Sting by his bed-side as well" - because it made me laugh, if no-one else.
11. "As your wife, I can tell you, you sound snobbish". (Karin), without whom's support (as with so many other things), I would have given up on several occasions over the year.
10. One of my pet-hates over the year was people inserting a comment on the "in praise of" before I'd even typed the narrative. The one time it actually improved the 'in praise of', however, was Susie's comment after I'd written "In praise of ....Coast":
"What, the woman's high-end boutique clothing-store. Who would have thought....."
Tim's later well-planned and executed "Do I insert the comment in here, Anne", isn't worthy of further comment.
9. "My personal view is that no man who's goolies extend more than 50% the length of his thigh should wear shorts." (Catherine) who appears to have been traumatised by a goliath in her past life. Karin doesn't think they should wear shorts either...
8. "Fucking just north of Salzburg takes some beating" (Ian). This comment actually improves taken out of context. As does, "Strange, isn't it, how Numpnett Thrubwell beats Fucking?" (Mark)
7. "I measure out my life in restaurants I've visited - tastier than coffee-spoons" (Anne), who would have more comments in here, but I had to delete all the snitty ones. Besides, I still haven't forgiven her for the great mushroom practical joke - though karmic forces did see the mushrooms reap their revenge.
6. "Is it too late to send an invoice for those gooseberries?" (Tim) somewhat too late realises he's been partaking of dubious communistic practices and the gooseberries probably aren't even tax deductible.
5. I did an 'in praise of...meze', referencing an unfortunate dining experience I'd had with the CU boys some years ago. Simon remembered it well: "Since then I have had the unshakeable belief that dip is for girls. Normally fat ones."
4. "Toe-curdling, that's one of my favourite ever typos"
"You have to add the oil more slowly to avoid this." (Eve)
3. Early on I did an 'in praise of ...footballs in the stream" where Bobby and I came home along the river, singing songs.
"Has he a good singing voice, your Bobby?" (Karin)
"Well, he's no Kenny Rogers, that's for sure."
2. Mike's comment as a voyeur from afar "Rhythm not habit is man defined" was actually quite moving. It would be number one if I was a sensible person, but in a fight between humour and profundity my money's always on the clown holding the pie.
1. What do you do when clicking the "like" button isn't enough?
"I think you have to click the love button to feel any sort of satisfaction" suggested Sarah, who I haven't ever met, but who asked to be a friend because she'd read the posts on Anne's wall and wanted to join in.
Thanks all, and apologies to anyone feeling left out, or under-appreciated!
.
Thursday, 14 October 2010
In praise of...in praise of (part 2)
And so the shameless never-ending farewell world tour continues. Over the year I did find the creative juices flowing occasionally. I'll cobble together the best few and see if I can get them published somewhere.
Here's the countdown of my personal top twenty...
20. Cucumbers - (the one where Anne left me wanting in the carved-cucumber-basket department).
19. Experimental Novels (part 2) - (a not very well-received trilogy, but I enjoyed writing this one on Geoff Ryman's 253, not least because, as in the book, it was exactly 253 words long - not that anyone noticed!)
18. Fat Cooks - (the shortest of all in praise ofs, but which kick-started an interesting discussion on the merits of vegetarians, fat or thin, and presaged our decision to give up meat for the year).
17. The New Austerity - (a little bit of politics there, as Draco Malfoy's henchman prepares to arse-rape the public sector. I'm away on 20th October but feel free to rewind and play).
16. Growing things from seed - (the cost of grow-feed, slug-pellets, vitamins, homeopathic remedies, acupuncture etc that all good middle class seedlings need to survive according to the Guardian weekend gardening page £125)
15. Fields of rape - (where every village has a frigging Brigadier)
14. Killing Slugs - (which was actually a satire on that day's Israeli act of atrocity, but garnered only more advice on how to kill slugs...)
13. Playing Tennis - (the one where the yummy mummies of East Sheen are distracted by my top-spin lacking lobs and sheer athletic magnetism).
12./11. A Few Good Men/Spooks (we need them on that fence-line).
10. Wearing shorts all summer - (the one where I like to swing free, whilst old people wear enough gore-tex to get them to the south pole).
9. Striking up conversation with complete strangers - (the one where the slightly slutty shop mannequin is pleasingly soulless, but slightly aloof. Also headless.)
8. Watching my dog and cat play - (A Florentine analogy).
7. Growing Tomatoes - (Take that, Titchmarsh. Jog on, Monty Don).
6. Completer-finishers - (or congratulations on completing the Shifnal half-marathon).
5. Liberating Pickles - (a cautionary tale, pour encourager les autres).
4. Irrationally hating certain singers - (where Jennifer Rush and evafuckingcassidy get their comeuppances, with help from wikipedia).
3. Sir Woy Hodgson - (a sentimental tale of Fulham).
2. Being a regular - (the one where The Guardian is hidden away behind Fisting and Orgasm).
1. Bobby's love affair with my underwear - (where it's been my suspicion that for years female visitors have been sneaking upstairs and nicking my under-dungies).
Looking through them I also noticed that I gave you a total of six select gambling tips over the course of the year. Imperial Commander won the Gold Cup at 10/1 and I also gave out the 1,2 in the Oaks, a whopping 300/1 forecast (which Iain at least was prescient enough to take notice of). And I suggested we all jump on Chris Hollins's pink-sequinned high-stepping campervan of love at 6/1. How d'ya like them apples...
.
Here's the countdown of my personal top twenty...
20. Cucumbers - (the one where Anne left me wanting in the carved-cucumber-basket department).
19. Experimental Novels (part 2) - (a not very well-received trilogy, but I enjoyed writing this one on Geoff Ryman's 253, not least because, as in the book, it was exactly 253 words long - not that anyone noticed!)
18. Fat Cooks - (the shortest of all in praise ofs, but which kick-started an interesting discussion on the merits of vegetarians, fat or thin, and presaged our decision to give up meat for the year).
17. The New Austerity - (a little bit of politics there, as Draco Malfoy's henchman prepares to arse-rape the public sector. I'm away on 20th October but feel free to rewind and play).
16. Growing things from seed - (the cost of grow-feed, slug-pellets, vitamins, homeopathic remedies, acupuncture etc that all good middle class seedlings need to survive according to the Guardian weekend gardening page £125)
15. Fields of rape - (where every village has a frigging Brigadier)
14. Killing Slugs - (which was actually a satire on that day's Israeli act of atrocity, but garnered only more advice on how to kill slugs...)
13. Playing Tennis - (the one where the yummy mummies of East Sheen are distracted by my top-spin lacking lobs and sheer athletic magnetism).
12./11. A Few Good Men/Spooks (we need them on that fence-line).
10. Wearing shorts all summer - (the one where I like to swing free, whilst old people wear enough gore-tex to get them to the south pole).
9. Striking up conversation with complete strangers - (the one where the slightly slutty shop mannequin is pleasingly soulless, but slightly aloof. Also headless.)
8. Watching my dog and cat play - (A Florentine analogy).
7. Growing Tomatoes - (Take that, Titchmarsh. Jog on, Monty Don).
6. Completer-finishers - (or congratulations on completing the Shifnal half-marathon).
5. Liberating Pickles - (a cautionary tale, pour encourager les autres).
4. Irrationally hating certain singers - (where Jennifer Rush and evafuckingcassidy get their comeuppances, with help from wikipedia).
3. Sir Woy Hodgson - (a sentimental tale of Fulham).
2. Being a regular - (the one where The Guardian is hidden away behind Fisting and Orgasm).
1. Bobby's love affair with my underwear - (where it's been my suspicion that for years female visitors have been sneaking upstairs and nicking my under-dungies).
Looking through them I also noticed that I gave you a total of six select gambling tips over the course of the year. Imperial Commander won the Gold Cup at 10/1 and I also gave out the 1,2 in the Oaks, a whopping 300/1 forecast (which Iain at least was prescient enough to take notice of). And I suggested we all jump on Chris Hollins's pink-sequinned high-stepping campervan of love at 6/1. How d'ya like them apples...
.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
A year of "In praise of" (part 1)
So, to the last three "in praise ofs" for this challenge.
All self-respecting American sitcoms and drama series, long after they've jumped the shark, like to pad out their season with entirely self-indulgent shows that are simply a collection of flashbacks and highlights, if you're lucky featuring Monica in a fat suit. Same here! Three shows celebrating a man with completer/finisher carved on his gravestone...
I did actually enjoy doing one of these every day, though it often didn't feel like it. The biggest problem was in not allowing myself repetition. I could have had a hundred happy moments in the day but still not something new to write about. Still, I did like:
a) The mind-trick of forcing oneself to be glass half-full at 9:30 every morning - it was much like having my own personal NLP-accredited soothsaying fuckwit whispering in my ear, and was a step up from the simple act of counting one's blessings in the shower.
b) Realising how much of my life is rhythmical, rather than just habitual. I was surprised how in tune I was with:
The four seasons; the weather; the night sky; migratory birds; the football season and the racing seasons; TV and film seasons; the veg growing season; the clothes my mannequin wears season, and of course seasoning.
c) The audience reaction and participation, worthy of its own in praise of on Friday, if only in thanks for the 10 or so friends who came along for the ride.
When I started I said it would be difficult because all I like is gambling and red wine. Well, my in-depth statistical analysis of the data suggests that is nearly right. 80% of postings cover 10 broad areas:
1. Television, film and radio 56 posts
2. Food and drink 50 posts
3. Sport 36 posts
4. Shifnal and Shropshire 34 posts (+ 5 for London)
5. Anne, friends, Bobby 28 posts
6. Books and writing 24 posts
7. Gambling 23 posts (top if combined with sport)
8. Vegetable gardening 22 posts
9. Wildlife - esp birds 19 posts
10. Travelling/memories 19 posts
Which hardly makes me a renaissance man...
All self-respecting American sitcoms and drama series, long after they've jumped the shark, like to pad out their season with entirely self-indulgent shows that are simply a collection of flashbacks and highlights, if you're lucky featuring Monica in a fat suit. Same here! Three shows celebrating a man with completer/finisher carved on his gravestone...
I did actually enjoy doing one of these every day, though it often didn't feel like it. The biggest problem was in not allowing myself repetition. I could have had a hundred happy moments in the day but still not something new to write about. Still, I did like:
a) The mind-trick of forcing oneself to be glass half-full at 9:30 every morning - it was much like having my own personal NLP-accredited soothsaying fuckwit whispering in my ear, and was a step up from the simple act of counting one's blessings in the shower.
b) Realising how much of my life is rhythmical, rather than just habitual. I was surprised how in tune I was with:
The four seasons; the weather; the night sky; migratory birds; the football season and the racing seasons; TV and film seasons; the veg growing season; the clothes my mannequin wears season, and of course seasoning.
c) The audience reaction and participation, worthy of its own in praise of on Friday, if only in thanks for the 10 or so friends who came along for the ride.
When I started I said it would be difficult because all I like is gambling and red wine. Well, my in-depth statistical analysis of the data suggests that is nearly right. 80% of postings cover 10 broad areas:
1. Television, film and radio 56 posts
2. Food and drink 50 posts
3. Sport 36 posts
4. Shifnal and Shropshire 34 posts (+ 5 for London)
5. Anne, friends, Bobby 28 posts
6. Books and writing 24 posts
7. Gambling 23 posts (top if combined with sport)
8. Vegetable gardening 22 posts
9. Wildlife - esp birds 19 posts
10. Travelling/memories 19 posts
Which hardly makes me a renaissance man...
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
Toast
I had just enjoyed my usual morning two slices of toast - home-made white loaf smothered with home-made blackberry and apple jelly, when Slim pinged me an e-mail asking if I'd read Nigel Slater's toast, which apparently has a scene set in Shifnal.
Such synchronicity highlighted an unfairly overlooked object of praise, considering breakfast is such a high point of my home-shirking life, and so I'll just get my praise of toast in under the wire.
.
Such synchronicity highlighted an unfairly overlooked object of praise, considering breakfast is such a high point of my home-shirking life, and so I'll just get my praise of toast in under the wire.
.
Monday, 11 October 2010
Mushroom Foraging
Or as I like to think of it - mushroom roulette.
Well, I was going to praise it, but Anne is off to Telford A&E this morning to check if she's got mushroom poisoning...
Well, I was going to praise it, but Anne is off to Telford A&E this morning to check if she's got mushroom poisoning...
Saturday, 9 October 2010
Richmond Park (deer)
Whilst Wimbledon Common is my favourite green space in London, adjoining Richmond Park runs it close, and it's nice to see Autumnwatch covering the deer rut there this year.
It's a great place for cycling, walking and running - indeed even I ran in a 10km race there back in the day - against Paula Radcliffe amongst others - honestly, she was so competitive - but most of that activity takes place around the outside of the park and it's pretty easy to get away from the crowds.
One winter's day we were walking through the morning mist up a secluded glade in the middle of the park when we all but tripped over the entire deer herd, who were sat down ruminating. We had walked right into the middle of them without even seeing them. I could have reached out and touched one the stags. They didn't seem much bothered.
A memorable brush with nature so close to the city...
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It's a great place for cycling, walking and running - indeed even I ran in a 10km race there back in the day - against Paula Radcliffe amongst others - honestly, she was so competitive - but most of that activity takes place around the outside of the park and it's pretty easy to get away from the crowds.
One winter's day we were walking through the morning mist up a secluded glade in the middle of the park when we all but tripped over the entire deer herd, who were sat down ruminating. We had walked right into the middle of them without even seeing them. I could have reached out and touched one the stags. They didn't seem much bothered.
A memorable brush with nature so close to the city...
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Friday, 8 October 2010
Iceberg Lettuce
I'm going to add it to my "in praise of" list of things under-rated, which as far as I can remember is: Cheddar cheese, The One Show, Hugh Grant and something else popular but sniffed at by some self-appointed cognoscenti somewhere on my list of facebook friends.
Nigella apologised for using it last night and Anne treats it as though it's the Madame Chalfonts of the devil himself. Which is silly, because it's crispy and iceberg-watery, and perfectly suited to loads of dishes, and in the absence of any home-grown lettuce of our own, I'd much rather eat it than some strawberry-imperialism bag of mixed salad leaves where the word mixed refers to the cocktail of chemicals they've preserved it in to keep it 'fresh'.
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Nigella apologised for using it last night and Anne treats it as though it's the Madame Chalfonts of the devil himself. Which is silly, because it's crispy and iceberg-watery, and perfectly suited to loads of dishes, and in the absence of any home-grown lettuce of our own, I'd much rather eat it than some strawberry-imperialism bag of mixed salad leaves where the word mixed refers to the cocktail of chemicals they've preserved it in to keep it 'fresh'.
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Thursday, 7 October 2010
Skipping
No, not the one with a rope - an activity shared (uniquely?) by boxers and pre-pubescent girls.
The skipping that lies somewhere between walking and running, and which I doubt I've done in over 25 years, (35 years if you don't count post-ironic, drunken, nostalgia-frenzy).
The church was having a service for the local primary schools this morning (harvest festival?), and whilst walking for the paper, I followed a number of mothers doing their best to make their kids get a move on. In trying to keep up, at least three of the kids skipped for a few paces.
This seems quite natural to them, and yet I was struggling in my own head to remember how to do it exactly. I'm not sure my body actually knows how to start any more. Which seems sad, because not only do I have vague and distant memories of it coming naturally, I also remember it as an expression of uncontrollable giddiness. (Bobby has a similar "funny five minutes" back-wheel spin thing that he does when overcome with excitement, which has always been a delight - excepting when he did it up and down the village hall at his first obedience class.)
No doubt somewhere down the line I was made to realise that skipping was childish, or girlish, or both, and by such constraints do we all proceed to look through the glass darkly.
So, I fully intend to have a go today. When I'm well away from any remote chance of being spotted obviously. Anne, if I'm not home later I'll be behind the sewage works somewhere, with a broken ankle...
The skipping that lies somewhere between walking and running, and which I doubt I've done in over 25 years, (35 years if you don't count post-ironic, drunken, nostalgia-frenzy).
The church was having a service for the local primary schools this morning (harvest festival?), and whilst walking for the paper, I followed a number of mothers doing their best to make their kids get a move on. In trying to keep up, at least three of the kids skipped for a few paces.
This seems quite natural to them, and yet I was struggling in my own head to remember how to do it exactly. I'm not sure my body actually knows how to start any more. Which seems sad, because not only do I have vague and distant memories of it coming naturally, I also remember it as an expression of uncontrollable giddiness. (Bobby has a similar "funny five minutes" back-wheel spin thing that he does when overcome with excitement, which has always been a delight - excepting when he did it up and down the village hall at his first obedience class.)
No doubt somewhere down the line I was made to realise that skipping was childish, or girlish, or both, and by such constraints do we all proceed to look through the glass darkly.
So, I fully intend to have a go today. When I'm well away from any remote chance of being spotted obviously. Anne, if I'm not home later I'll be behind the sewage works somewhere, with a broken ankle...
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Cormac McCarthy's The Road
Not many books have given me bad dreams seven straight nights in a row. Which is more of a warning than a recommendation...it could have been a life-changing sort of novel had I read it at 18, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now...
Mark Schoen recommended it to me with the comment he had to get up in the middle of the night to finish reading it, and that quality seems to me the triumph of the book. I haven't read many books I've had a physical connection with. Kazuo Ishiguro's "Never Let Me Go" had me checking for my internal organs every few pages, but that's about it.
This book, where the protagonists have to keep moving along the road, for no obvious reason, despite all the horrors along the way, is written in such a way that, for me and Mark at least, you have to keep on reading, for no obvious reason, despite all the horrors along the way.
Not to be taken on holiday...
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Mark Schoen recommended it to me with the comment he had to get up in the middle of the night to finish reading it, and that quality seems to me the triumph of the book. I haven't read many books I've had a physical connection with. Kazuo Ishiguro's "Never Let Me Go" had me checking for my internal organs every few pages, but that's about it.
This book, where the protagonists have to keep moving along the road, for no obvious reason, despite all the horrors along the way, is written in such a way that, for me and Mark at least, you have to keep on reading, for no obvious reason, despite all the horrors along the way.
Not to be taken on holiday...
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Monday, 4 October 2010
Being Warm and Dry
Having had bad dreams for the last week, as a direct result of reading Cormac Maccarthy's The Road, I may be more than usually appreciative of the basic things in life just now.
And yesterday, after we walked Bobby up the Wrekin in a storm, it was particularly nice to get back indoors - shower; central heating; coffee; cake; golf, football and the Arc on the telly. And nothing to do with sporting endorphins, just the simple pleasures of life. (Which is all we'll have left once David Cameron's - or as I prefer to think of him, Draco Malfoy - henchman has finished speaking).
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And yesterday, after we walked Bobby up the Wrekin in a storm, it was particularly nice to get back indoors - shower; central heating; coffee; cake; golf, football and the Arc on the telly. And nothing to do with sporting endorphins, just the simple pleasures of life. (Which is all we'll have left once David Cameron's - or as I prefer to think of him, Draco Malfoy - henchman has finished speaking).
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Sunday, 3 October 2010
Liking food you've always hated
I was a pretty fussy eater as a kid. And I say kid, but until I was in my twenties the only veg I would eat were raw carrots and sweetcorn. And chips obviously. Anne has since managed to put me on at least nodding terms with most of the green-based foodstuffs - just as well if we're going veggie for year.
There are still quite a lot of things I profess to dislike though, and won't eat. Brussel Sprouts, offal, greens, fried eggs, that sort of thing - all associated with some childhood horror no doubt.
However, I am finding myself increasingly warming to certain foods I've always maintained I detest. Either my palate is changing, or see how I'm growing.
Two in particular over the last couple of years:
Beetroot - roasted and served in salads (with goats cheese and red cabbage last night).
Black pudding - (particularly with seared scallops) but last night with roast chicken and a sweet wine sauce.
What food do you find yourself liking you never thought you would?
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There are still quite a lot of things I profess to dislike though, and won't eat. Brussel Sprouts, offal, greens, fried eggs, that sort of thing - all associated with some childhood horror no doubt.
However, I am finding myself increasingly warming to certain foods I've always maintained I detest. Either my palate is changing, or see how I'm growing.
Two in particular over the last couple of years:
Beetroot - roasted and served in salads (with goats cheese and red cabbage last night).
Black pudding - (particularly with seared scallops) but last night with roast chicken and a sweet wine sauce.
What food do you find yourself liking you never thought you would?
.
Saturday, 2 October 2010
Migratory Birds
Another posting occasioned by the rhythms of life.
Geese always remind me of that poster you often find in corporate life. It's one of that series of motivational arse-wipe posters, which is supposed to throw open the windows onto a newer, brighter, business vista, but manages instead to remind you of the soul-sucking pointlessness of your working life.
If I remember rightly its message is that you can achieve more through teamwork, (though my guess is that the geese fly like that to avoid flying into the pooh of the ones in front). Its appearance on any wall near you should be taken as an indication of impending redundancy.
Anyway, walking for the paper this morning, four skein of geese flew over, around forty birds in each one, in formation, honking away, in what I like to think of as celebration for a flight well made. Which is far more uplifting than an HR fuckwit with a bunch of posters and some blu-tack.
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Geese always remind me of that poster you often find in corporate life. It's one of that series of motivational arse-wipe posters, which is supposed to throw open the windows onto a newer, brighter, business vista, but manages instead to remind you of the soul-sucking pointlessness of your working life.
If I remember rightly its message is that you can achieve more through teamwork, (though my guess is that the geese fly like that to avoid flying into the pooh of the ones in front). Its appearance on any wall near you should be taken as an indication of impending redundancy.
Anyway, walking for the paper this morning, four skein of geese flew over, around forty birds in each one, in formation, honking away, in what I like to think of as celebration for a flight well made. Which is far more uplifting than an HR fuckwit with a bunch of posters and some blu-tack.
.
Friday, 1 October 2010
Small independent shops
At the top of our street in Tooting there was a shop called "Jane's Trains" - which sold model trains. I can safely say the whole time we lived there I never saw anyone in the shop at all - including the owner. But there it stayed, year after year, for 12 years, presumably making money by mail order and on-line.
(Tooting of course also had a fantastic array of ethnic shops, including a Chinese apothecary which was great for window shopping, but which my acupuncturist assured me was a money laundering operation). Much more fun than the soul-sucking, identikit shopping malls of consumer England.
Shifnal's been doing well lately in the small shop stakes. The Deli has moved to bigger premises - now more than two customers can stand in the shop without having to play Twister to get their lunchtime baguette.
And we have a "specialist" shop opening down Church Street - moving into the Poodle Parlour that has also moved to bigger premises. It's called Lone Knight and specialises in clothing and accessories for all discerning mediaeval nobleman.
So, now, not only do I get to say hallo to my beloved shop mannequin each morning on my way for the paper, but I also get to nod good morning to a full suit of armour, and I don't suppose many people can say that...
(Tooting of course also had a fantastic array of ethnic shops, including a Chinese apothecary which was great for window shopping, but which my acupuncturist assured me was a money laundering operation). Much more fun than the soul-sucking, identikit shopping malls of consumer England.
Shifnal's been doing well lately in the small shop stakes. The Deli has moved to bigger premises - now more than two customers can stand in the shop without having to play Twister to get their lunchtime baguette.
And we have a "specialist" shop opening down Church Street - moving into the Poodle Parlour that has also moved to bigger premises. It's called Lone Knight and specialises in clothing and accessories for all discerning mediaeval nobleman.
So, now, not only do I get to say hallo to my beloved shop mannequin each morning on my way for the paper, but I also get to nod good morning to a full suit of armour, and I don't suppose many people can say that...
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