Things this posting is not dealing with today: Have you done your Christmas shopping yet? No. Posted any cards? No. Feeling Christmassy yet? Hardly. Even I, as someone with the sketchiest of Christian backgrounds, knows that this is Advent - Christmas follows that. Cold enough for you? It's nearly the beginning of winter, what else would it be.
OK, I'm being a touch grumpy, but here we are at the fag end of the year and frankly it's all looking a bit shit. The knobheads in charge have given billions in taxpayers' money to lunatic bankers and then had the gall to come back to the taxpayers and tell us we've got to stump up more. This morning Blair, whose smile gets scarier every time you see it, admitted that all along he was hell bent on invading Iraq, WMDs or no WMDs. (Don't know what they are? Well find out, this is important stuff we're dealing with here - for a change). So, what have we got? Well, we've got a Parliament consisting of politicians whose behaviour only the most benevolent - or deluded - person would fail to judge as criminal. It might seem petty to bang on about MPs' expenses when arguably there are more serious problems in the world, but if our politicians don't know how to behave when governing themselves, how can we expect them to follow basic decencies when deciding how the country should be governed.
Never mind, you may say. Not only are we at the fag end of the year, we are also at the fag end of this sorry misbegotten Government. In only a few months we can all troop off to the polls and kick out the existing bunch of bludgers and vote in. . .oh yes, another bunch of bludgers. Does anything you see in any of the parties, or any of the prospective candidates you might already know of, give you any hope? Apparently Ernest Hemingway said: "Optimism can keep a fool from accepting failure". Could desperate optimism be blinding us to the reality of the situation now? I know this is all deeply negative stuff, but failing to acknowledge we're in a hole does not stop us being in a hole. I believe at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings people have to say: "My name is Blah Blah and I am an alcoholic." Well maybe our country needs to say: "We are Great Britain and we've spunked it all away."
Of course, I could be wrong in taking such a negative stance. I hope so, because having a bunch of grubby bastards in charge should not blind us to a) the beauty of the universe and b) that time is whizzing by. But wouldn't it be even better if there wasn't a bunch of preening arseholes in charge? I don't know what the answer is. I think I'd better take the dog for a walk - it might cheer me up. But before I go, just remember this, they haven't even called the election yet. Ahead of us we've got weeks of wannabes spewing nonsense to try to win our votes. Do you remember May, 1997? D-Ream (I think) . . .Things Can Only Get Better. Well now all we can do is pray they don't get worse. I'm off, where's the dog?
Sunday 13 December 2009
Saturday 12 December 2009
All dressed up and somewhere to go
The somewhere - it being that time of year - was my work Christmas party, which I had at various states of the tide looked forward to attending, railed against and even decided I'd skip despite paying up in advance for the event and accommodation. Anyway, we pitched up at the Saunton Sands Hotel, found our room had stunning views down the beach and out to sea, then spruced up and descended for drinks, dinner and dancing. So it was fun to have fun with colleagues in a setting that was out of the workplace and it was good to be able to point out to my long-suffering wife the various people I work with and tell her about at the end of my working day. My ever-loving and I did the jigging around thing in an increasingly sweaty mass of people only to be very slightly put off by noticing that both our GPs were also jigging around. Many staff from Bideford Health Centre were there, which I suppose would have been very handy if anyone keeled over with a heart attack at any time. As it turned out, after a certain amount of sweatiness we decided enough was enough and sloped off to bed.
What is it about alcohol that ensures you get a rubbish night's sleep? Whatever it is I woke up shortly before 5am. We'd left the curtains open so I looked out of the window at the sweep of Bideford Bay with Hartland Point lighthouse and the lights of the communities that line the bay and the estuary. Above us were the stars shining hard and bright - a cold night outside - and a waning moon almost resting on its back. Getting back into bed I mulled over the previous evening and realised that while I enjoyed the company of my colleagues - after all, I spend more of my waking hours with them than I do with anybody else - what had made the evening for me was being with my wife, and if there had been no one else there other than her, that would have been enough. So what, some might say, well, I suppose the answer to that is simply that it never hurts to be reminded of the people who are important to you. It is easy to take people for granted, but life is far too short to do that. With that thought sinking in, I lay in bed looking out at the stars wheeling across the sky. (Yes, I do know that the stars don't move - as such - and that their motion is, in fact, the impression given by the earth's rotation and travel on its orbit).
What is it about alcohol that ensures you get a rubbish night's sleep? Whatever it is I woke up shortly before 5am. We'd left the curtains open so I looked out of the window at the sweep of Bideford Bay with Hartland Point lighthouse and the lights of the communities that line the bay and the estuary. Above us were the stars shining hard and bright - a cold night outside - and a waning moon almost resting on its back. Getting back into bed I mulled over the previous evening and realised that while I enjoyed the company of my colleagues - after all, I spend more of my waking hours with them than I do with anybody else - what had made the evening for me was being with my wife, and if there had been no one else there other than her, that would have been enough. So what, some might say, well, I suppose the answer to that is simply that it never hurts to be reminded of the people who are important to you. It is easy to take people for granted, but life is far too short to do that. With that thought sinking in, I lay in bed looking out at the stars wheeling across the sky. (Yes, I do know that the stars don't move - as such - and that their motion is, in fact, the impression given by the earth's rotation and travel on its orbit).
Sunday 29 November 2009
Beer today, gone tomorrow
I've only ever been to St Austell twice and on both occasions I went with friend and former colleague Jason and on both occasions we got drunk. If you're sensing a link you're right, we both like beer and the two occasions, separated by about eight years, involved the Celtic Beer Festival which is held at St Austell Brewery. I'm not sure where the Celtic bit comes into all this. Obviously Cornwall is a Celtic nation and there were a number of beers from the Celtic zone (and some from way out of that zone). As one of my grandparents was a Scot I qualify to go and felt very much at home in a large room full of sweaty drunk people at this Saturday's festival.
The festival has grown in popularity since we last went and we had to queue to get in, but the wait was worth it. Beer festivals are slightly odd, to my mind, in that they often end up like trips to a pub with no seating. Where they score over pubs is that there is a sense of a meeting of minds (livers?) in that people have come along to have a good time and try out new beers. There is not really the potential for posing, although there were some splendidly attired Roman legionaries who cut quite a dash, especially when standing next to punters in ordinary attire in the queue for the toilets. The Celtic Beer Festival has live music, which was pretty loud, and I spotted a number of more mature (maturer than me, shall we say) festival-goers who looked a bit glum at the aural assault. I suspect they were there more for the beer side of things rather than the festival element. However, they stuck manfully to the task of drinking beer.
There were also a considerable number of women at the festival and they stuck womanfully to the task of getting lashed right up. One asked me what beers I would recommend having no doubt been fooled by my beard into thinking that I actually had some in-depth knowledge. I just vaguely pointed at a few behind the bar and said it was all a matter of pot luck. Among the beers I did know was Brewdog's Punk IPA, which I had a pint of only to find when I went for a refill that it had all gone, a good indication of the esteem in which this powerful brew should be held. Nowadays we are all told to drink sensibly (not whirling round like a mental case juggling hand grenades) and this applies particularly to Punk IPA, it's 6% ABV. Even so it was far from being the strongest beer on offer, which might explain why even as we were arriving I saw one woman cannoning off walls as she attempted to leave.
Because the room was packed and the music was loud, meaningful conversation was difficult, which was a shame because I met quite a few colleagues from the place where I used to work and was keen to catch up with them. I began to think it was a bit rude to continually grab hold of their shoulders so I could bellow into their ear and even though they did this to me I could not always tell exactly what they were saying. Consequently I hope when I took the easy option of just saying "Yes" and giving a bit of a Gallic shrug every now and again I wasn't just agreeing with them that someone else in the group had become a "dreadful bore" or was a bit of a prat. In the end, I suspect that none of it mattered as we all seemed to discover that in some way we were "related through the drink".
The only fly in the ointment was the tool - not part of our group - who insisted on carrying a tray of drinks high over his head as he made his way from the bar to the table where he was sitting, which was near where we were standing. I've seen Greek waiters (other nationalities' waiters, too, I'm sure) who carry vast trays with many orders on them in exactly this way. The significant difference is that the waiters have not been filling themselves up with beer for hour after hour and they are not attempting to manoeuvre their way through a hall packed with the aforementioned sweaty drunk people. The waiters are also proficient at what they do. For our friend the tool, who affected some sort of quiff, I think, the inevitable happened and the glasses (fortunately made of plastic) of beer on his tray slid and he dropped the lot, creating some sort of beer waterfall right next to where we stood. He looked about him rather grumpily, I thought, as if it were anyone else's fault rather than the result of his own pride and ineptitude. But I suppose if that's the worst I can find to say about the trip to the festival, I haven't got much to complain about, but then that's beer for you - it gives you perspective. Thank you St Austell, shall we do it again in another eight years?
The festival has grown in popularity since we last went and we had to queue to get in, but the wait was worth it. Beer festivals are slightly odd, to my mind, in that they often end up like trips to a pub with no seating. Where they score over pubs is that there is a sense of a meeting of minds (livers?) in that people have come along to have a good time and try out new beers. There is not really the potential for posing, although there were some splendidly attired Roman legionaries who cut quite a dash, especially when standing next to punters in ordinary attire in the queue for the toilets. The Celtic Beer Festival has live music, which was pretty loud, and I spotted a number of more mature (maturer than me, shall we say) festival-goers who looked a bit glum at the aural assault. I suspect they were there more for the beer side of things rather than the festival element. However, they stuck manfully to the task of drinking beer.
There were also a considerable number of women at the festival and they stuck womanfully to the task of getting lashed right up. One asked me what beers I would recommend having no doubt been fooled by my beard into thinking that I actually had some in-depth knowledge. I just vaguely pointed at a few behind the bar and said it was all a matter of pot luck. Among the beers I did know was Brewdog's Punk IPA, which I had a pint of only to find when I went for a refill that it had all gone, a good indication of the esteem in which this powerful brew should be held. Nowadays we are all told to drink sensibly (not whirling round like a mental case juggling hand grenades) and this applies particularly to Punk IPA, it's 6% ABV. Even so it was far from being the strongest beer on offer, which might explain why even as we were arriving I saw one woman cannoning off walls as she attempted to leave.
Because the room was packed and the music was loud, meaningful conversation was difficult, which was a shame because I met quite a few colleagues from the place where I used to work and was keen to catch up with them. I began to think it was a bit rude to continually grab hold of their shoulders so I could bellow into their ear and even though they did this to me I could not always tell exactly what they were saying. Consequently I hope when I took the easy option of just saying "Yes" and giving a bit of a Gallic shrug every now and again I wasn't just agreeing with them that someone else in the group had become a "dreadful bore" or was a bit of a prat. In the end, I suspect that none of it mattered as we all seemed to discover that in some way we were "related through the drink".
The only fly in the ointment was the tool - not part of our group - who insisted on carrying a tray of drinks high over his head as he made his way from the bar to the table where he was sitting, which was near where we were standing. I've seen Greek waiters (other nationalities' waiters, too, I'm sure) who carry vast trays with many orders on them in exactly this way. The significant difference is that the waiters have not been filling themselves up with beer for hour after hour and they are not attempting to manoeuvre their way through a hall packed with the aforementioned sweaty drunk people. The waiters are also proficient at what they do. For our friend the tool, who affected some sort of quiff, I think, the inevitable happened and the glasses (fortunately made of plastic) of beer on his tray slid and he dropped the lot, creating some sort of beer waterfall right next to where we stood. He looked about him rather grumpily, I thought, as if it were anyone else's fault rather than the result of his own pride and ineptitude. But I suppose if that's the worst I can find to say about the trip to the festival, I haven't got much to complain about, but then that's beer for you - it gives you perspective. Thank you St Austell, shall we do it again in another eight years?
Thursday 26 November 2009
Come come now, we're all grown ups here, aren't we?
Much sniggering in the hood because poor old Ilfracombe, my favourite place to live but where I don't actually live, has found itself the focus of unwanted attention by paying marketing specialists many thousands of pounds to be told "Put a funny squiggle over the initial letter of the name of your town". While that is, in itself, somewhat laughable what is even funnier is that so many people have decided the funny little squiggle resembles nothing more than a single, solitary sperm. Now, personally, I'm not so sure it does look like a sperm - a rather overweight sperm, I would suggest - but even so it's gained the town national attention far beyond what the marketing specialists could reasonably have predicted. Good thing or bad thing, only time will tell, but in the meantime it's given every smart arse (me included) the chance to make their little jism jokes. Personally, I think the squiggle looks more like a dog turd, but maybe the bottom has dropped out of the naughty fido joke market. I don't know, but what really amazes me is the self-serving claptrap that accompanies these marketing initiatives. Seriously, you wouldn't believe that people outside of a mental hospital could spout such nonsense and then get paid big bucks for it. Yea verily, you couldn't make it up.
Wednesday 25 November 2009
I lack celerity get me out of her
I miss Katie Price/Jordan in I'm a (fill the rest in yourself). She's not my idea of the ideal woman, in fact, she looks slightly scary and she talks like David Beckham, but give her her due, when the Great British Public voted for her to eat minced bat testicles washed down with kangaroo love juice she lapped it up - well, sort of. And she did it with some humour and not a little bravery. All this just goes to show you the power of the vote. Of course, the wheels fell off that one slightly when, after six or seven successive meals of wombat snot and the like, KP/J said she was off. And who can blame her?
But what is really intriguing to my mind about all this, is how keen the public can be to exercise their vote. Given something they're interested in, they vote early, and, seeing as they're allowed to, I'm willing to bet they vote often. ITV don't release voting figures so KP/J's ordeals may have been settled by the whim of little more than the collective might of a village the size of Little Torrington. But even so, I still feel my main point stands, which is that give people something to vote on in which they are interested and they will vote. After all, the voting on I'm a etc etc takes place in a short space of time, day after day.
All of which brings me to the subject of elections. How often do you have an election? Are your elections strong and vigorous? Are they firm enough to give you pleasure? Sorry, I'm drifting off towards some sort of knob joke, which is not the idea, at all. The thing is that in a few months our wonderful country will have a general election and the turn out will - and I'd love to be proved wrong - be woefully small. For people living in a supposedly advanced democracy we really don't seem to give a toss on the outcome of the process to choose our leaders. And I fear that is because people just aren't interested enough. "They're all the same," goes the weary refrain. Such cynicism is understandable, especially as most of the parties seem to make policies up as they go along in order to garner favourable coverage.
In the constituency where I live I am saddened to say I am considering not voting. This is a shaming admission because I know of the sacrifices made in this country for the vote and the sacrifices that people in some countries would gladly make if only they could vote to choose their leaders. But my question is: will my vote make the slightest difference? The candidates where I live are likely to be a self-aggrandising twerp, a literally hopeless makeweight, a flip-flopping fool and assorted nutters and bed-wetters from the variety of parties that might well pop out of the woodwork for the election. Where will it all end? I've not sorted this problem out yet, but I intend to.
But what is really intriguing to my mind about all this, is how keen the public can be to exercise their vote. Given something they're interested in, they vote early, and, seeing as they're allowed to, I'm willing to bet they vote often. ITV don't release voting figures so KP/J's ordeals may have been settled by the whim of little more than the collective might of a village the size of Little Torrington. But even so, I still feel my main point stands, which is that give people something to vote on in which they are interested and they will vote. After all, the voting on I'm a etc etc takes place in a short space of time, day after day.
All of which brings me to the subject of elections. How often do you have an election? Are your elections strong and vigorous? Are they firm enough to give you pleasure? Sorry, I'm drifting off towards some sort of knob joke, which is not the idea, at all. The thing is that in a few months our wonderful country will have a general election and the turn out will - and I'd love to be proved wrong - be woefully small. For people living in a supposedly advanced democracy we really don't seem to give a toss on the outcome of the process to choose our leaders. And I fear that is because people just aren't interested enough. "They're all the same," goes the weary refrain. Such cynicism is understandable, especially as most of the parties seem to make policies up as they go along in order to garner favourable coverage.
In the constituency where I live I am saddened to say I am considering not voting. This is a shaming admission because I know of the sacrifices made in this country for the vote and the sacrifices that people in some countries would gladly make if only they could vote to choose their leaders. But my question is: will my vote make the slightest difference? The candidates where I live are likely to be a self-aggrandising twerp, a literally hopeless makeweight, a flip-flopping fool and assorted nutters and bed-wetters from the variety of parties that might well pop out of the woodwork for the election. Where will it all end? I've not sorted this problem out yet, but I intend to.
Monday 16 November 2009
As I was going to St Ives, I met a man with. . .no money for Ilfracombe
Consternation in Ilfragloom as the North Devon town most likely to be featured in a posh paper's colour supplement once again misses out on big dosh. Ilfracombe had put in a pretty convincing case, I would think, for getting around £1 million of Government-backed readies only to find it was a case of thanks, but no thanks. Oh woe is them, they are rending their garments, wailing and gnashing their teeth and generally throwing their toys out of the pram. But I suspect what really narks them in Ilfracombe is that instead, a ton of money is going to St Ives - the Cornish one, not the one in what used to be Huntingdonshire.
Trying to view this dispassionately, although I don't see why I should, in life there are always winners and losers and so in the case of Ilfracombe v St Ives the possibility that the North Devon side would come off worst cannot be avoided. However, Ilfracombe is the place in North Devon I might choose to live were I ever to move from the place I already live in North Devon, which is nowhere near Ilfracombe, but arguably just as shabby. I have considerable affection for the place, I think its setting surpasses many, many places in the whole of the South West and it has its own distinctive character. In short, I want it to do well. I bear no malice towards St Ives, but I can't help feeling that nature, history, arty-farty types and holidaymakers with a considerable amount of bunce have already endowed the town with enough to keep it going.
Anyway, as some saddoes are fond of quoting "When the going gets tough, the tough get going". So maybe the time has come for Ilfracombe to act tough and say "We never wanted your money in any case. We'll manage on our own." Because to be frank who wants to be known as a town propped up by a succession of Government hand-outs? Ilfracombe hasn't necessarily had money rained down on it by the powers that be, but it is forever putting the case that it could do with a little help to see it through bad times because it is a little bit down on its luck. So come on Ilfracombians (I don't think that's exactly what they're called) now is the time to grow a pair, work out the best way of making the most of what you've got and saying of Government charity "Thanks awfully, but why not give it to a real basket case."
Trying to view this dispassionately, although I don't see why I should, in life there are always winners and losers and so in the case of Ilfracombe v St Ives the possibility that the North Devon side would come off worst cannot be avoided. However, Ilfracombe is the place in North Devon I might choose to live were I ever to move from the place I already live in North Devon, which is nowhere near Ilfracombe, but arguably just as shabby. I have considerable affection for the place, I think its setting surpasses many, many places in the whole of the South West and it has its own distinctive character. In short, I want it to do well. I bear no malice towards St Ives, but I can't help feeling that nature, history, arty-farty types and holidaymakers with a considerable amount of bunce have already endowed the town with enough to keep it going.
Anyway, as some saddoes are fond of quoting "When the going gets tough, the tough get going". So maybe the time has come for Ilfracombe to act tough and say "We never wanted your money in any case. We'll manage on our own." Because to be frank who wants to be known as a town propped up by a succession of Government hand-outs? Ilfracombe hasn't necessarily had money rained down on it by the powers that be, but it is forever putting the case that it could do with a little help to see it through bad times because it is a little bit down on its luck. So come on Ilfracombians (I don't think that's exactly what they're called) now is the time to grow a pair, work out the best way of making the most of what you've got and saying of Government charity "Thanks awfully, but why not give it to a real basket case."
Friday 13 November 2009
I’ll never forget old wotsisname
Does dullness slump its way into every corner of your life? Is it all a bit too grey? Are you fed up to the back teeth? (No, I don’t know why it's back teeth). Are you, as I am, nursing a micro-hangover, which is just taking the edge off your keen enjoyment of existence?
If so, I’ve got a great wheeze – well, I think it’s great – and it’s all down to a bloke I used to know who died umpteen years ago. I can’t be bothered to look it up, hence the umpteen. This wheeze is based on the thing that some Christians do called What Would Jesus Do? Now, no disrespect intended to such Christians, but I have unashamedly hijacked the principle for my own purposes and the result is: What Would Buck Do? I have read that some people have also come up with What Would Obama Do? but such a lofty approach is not what I’m aiming at.
What Would Buck Do? considers the approach to life of former Barnstaple councillor, printer and general irritant Buck Taylor. I was fortunate enough, and I do consider it good fortune, to have known Buck for a fair few years and it’s only in light of today’s rather dreary approach to life that I realise what a truly mischievous old bugger he was. Who else would have come up with the idea of celebrating Luxembourg Day so we could get round the rather strict licensing laws that were in force in North Devon in those days? This even involved making an application (successfully) to magistrates for an extension to a pub licence. He and I also kicked around the idea of a campaign of writing bogus letters to newspapers so we could get snigger-inducing references in them. We never went ahead with it, but even just considering the idea cheered us up.
WWBD? aims to achieve a general level of personal satisfaction by minor acts of foolishness that will often only please me. Let the naughtiness begin. In fact, I already did one thing this morning which resulted in a sub-Viz-ian reference to a solitary vice appearing on a website. Tee hee! Fnaar fnaar! It might be a bit sad, but I suspect that Buck would find it quite jolly.
If so, I’ve got a great wheeze – well, I think it’s great – and it’s all down to a bloke I used to know who died umpteen years ago. I can’t be bothered to look it up, hence the umpteen. This wheeze is based on the thing that some Christians do called What Would Jesus Do? Now, no disrespect intended to such Christians, but I have unashamedly hijacked the principle for my own purposes and the result is: What Would Buck Do? I have read that some people have also come up with What Would Obama Do? but such a lofty approach is not what I’m aiming at.
What Would Buck Do? considers the approach to life of former Barnstaple councillor, printer and general irritant Buck Taylor. I was fortunate enough, and I do consider it good fortune, to have known Buck for a fair few years and it’s only in light of today’s rather dreary approach to life that I realise what a truly mischievous old bugger he was. Who else would have come up with the idea of celebrating Luxembourg Day so we could get round the rather strict licensing laws that were in force in North Devon in those days? This even involved making an application (successfully) to magistrates for an extension to a pub licence. He and I also kicked around the idea of a campaign of writing bogus letters to newspapers so we could get snigger-inducing references in them. We never went ahead with it, but even just considering the idea cheered us up.
WWBD? aims to achieve a general level of personal satisfaction by minor acts of foolishness that will often only please me. Let the naughtiness begin. In fact, I already did one thing this morning which resulted in a sub-Viz-ian reference to a solitary vice appearing on a website. Tee hee! Fnaar fnaar! It might be a bit sad, but I suspect that Buck would find it quite jolly.
Wednesday 11 November 2009
They have designs on you
Mrs Thatcher’s market forces, Adam Smith’s invisible hand – in other words the public gets what the public wants by exercising choice. That, in a rather highfalutin nutshell, is how we get so many tattoo parlours in North Devon. Put simply, some people want tattoos and therefore there have to be places where they can submit to the needle. If you doubt the power of that demand look around you. It is possible to get tattoos in all three of the biggest towns in North Devon and I think it’s true to say that those who wish to undergo such a permanent transformation have a choice of operators in those towns. And it’s not just towns. . .
The village of Northam boasts one tattoo parlour (are they always parlours? It does sound a bit questionable) but, to the best of my knowledge, no longer has a butcher or a fishmonger. Also Northam no longer has the presence of one of the High Street banks. It’s a strange state of affairs to my mind. I accept I am looking at this from the point of view of someone who doesn’t want a tattoo, therefore the presence of such establishments is of little relevance to me, but I presume tattooed people eat and use banks.
Of course, the demise of butchers, fishmongers, bakers and other such shops is due, in no little way, to the onward march of supermarkets. You might even say that the retreat of banks from villages such as Northam is down to the change in the banking market, which has seen supermarkets offer banking services (what would Captain Mainwaring think?). Indeed that has even set me wondering if, as supermarkets increase the range of goods and services they offer, they might move into the tattooing market. We might even end up bemoaning the loss of Ye Olde Village Tattoo Shop.
The village of Northam boasts one tattoo parlour (are they always parlours? It does sound a bit questionable) but, to the best of my knowledge, no longer has a butcher or a fishmonger. Also Northam no longer has the presence of one of the High Street banks. It’s a strange state of affairs to my mind. I accept I am looking at this from the point of view of someone who doesn’t want a tattoo, therefore the presence of such establishments is of little relevance to me, but I presume tattooed people eat and use banks.
Of course, the demise of butchers, fishmongers, bakers and other such shops is due, in no little way, to the onward march of supermarkets. You might even say that the retreat of banks from villages such as Northam is down to the change in the banking market, which has seen supermarkets offer banking services (what would Captain Mainwaring think?). Indeed that has even set me wondering if, as supermarkets increase the range of goods and services they offer, they might move into the tattooing market. We might even end up bemoaning the loss of Ye Olde Village Tattoo Shop.
Monday 9 November 2009
This pheasant is totally plucked
If there is a motorist in North Devon who has never hit a pheasant while driving I’d like to know whether they ever actually take to the road more than once in a blue moon. Poor old pheasants, bred to be gunned down or doomed to be run over. I don’t suppose they have a view on the preferred option – I’d guess that if they could articulate their wishes they may opt for poncing around and looking quite ornamental on top of gateposts and so on until they just keeled over.
Be that as it may, I fear that was not to be the end for a hen pheasant I encountered yesterday. I was making my way along the narrow lanes near Lovacott and Horwood at a sedate pace - I am always conscious of the propensity for people who know such roads to treat them as their personal racetrack – when said hen pheasant popped out of the hedge.
I believe the Highway Code says you shouldn’t swerve to avoid such encounters if it will endanger other road users, but to be honest it all happened so quickly there was little I could do in any case. I heard a bump, but when I looked in my rear-view mirror I couldn’t see anything and when I got out of the car to look there were no grisly remains to be seen so I told my fellow passengers that “it must have just been a glancing blow” and the bird had hopped back into the hedge, probably having had a bit of a shock. Not very convincing, I know, but the best I could come up with, particularly for one passenger who claimed our close encounter of the bird kind had cast a pall over the whole day. I didn’t like to suggest it had been considerably worse for the pheasant’s Sunday.
On reflection, I don’t often see pheasant corpses on the road – especially when compared to animals such as badgers and foxes - so maybe my “glancing blow” theory was correct. Anyway, Mrs Pheasant, sorry if I spoiled your Sunday.
Be that as it may, I fear that was not to be the end for a hen pheasant I encountered yesterday. I was making my way along the narrow lanes near Lovacott and Horwood at a sedate pace - I am always conscious of the propensity for people who know such roads to treat them as their personal racetrack – when said hen pheasant popped out of the hedge.
I believe the Highway Code says you shouldn’t swerve to avoid such encounters if it will endanger other road users, but to be honest it all happened so quickly there was little I could do in any case. I heard a bump, but when I looked in my rear-view mirror I couldn’t see anything and when I got out of the car to look there were no grisly remains to be seen so I told my fellow passengers that “it must have just been a glancing blow” and the bird had hopped back into the hedge, probably having had a bit of a shock. Not very convincing, I know, but the best I could come up with, particularly for one passenger who claimed our close encounter of the bird kind had cast a pall over the whole day. I didn’t like to suggest it had been considerably worse for the pheasant’s Sunday.
On reflection, I don’t often see pheasant corpses on the road – especially when compared to animals such as badgers and foxes - so maybe my “glancing blow” theory was correct. Anyway, Mrs Pheasant, sorry if I spoiled your Sunday.
Sunday 8 November 2009
You naughty little vicar
I am pretty cheesed off with a member of the clergy. For ages, I've been trying to get this said person, who lived next to me, to do something about the sodding great tree in one corner of his garden, which has begun to spread in front of my house. My last communication on this was with his wife, who assured me that "Oh yes, we'll get something done about that." It now emerges that the something done about the situation was to move away. Within three days of her promising action, they had buggered off.
I've always said this vicar looked shifty, he always seemed to be sloping around as if he had got something else on his mind rather than the Wrath of God. When he was conducting the wedding of a friend of one of my daughters, he coughed, sending a gobbet of sputum on to the floor of the church just in front of the happy couple. The vicar dealt with this by treading on the offending mucus. Yuck, dirty boy!
I could write tons on religion, religious faith, belief, God, gods, the unknown and so on, but just harking back to the shifty vicar, he has made me wonder how many members of the clergy really believe in God. I suppose what I mean is do they believe in God the way I think they ought to believe in God, which is not necessarily to say that I believe in God - I've got much more wishy-washy beliefs than that. Ultimately my feelings on religion are that it's fine if you can keep it to yourself and it doesn't make you want to go around converting people at gun or sword-point or with a huge pyre in the background to encourage them to sign up. But I also wonder how religions can have much validity if everyone considers their set of beliefs to be THE one to follow. I don't want to get too comparative, but if every faith says "Yes, we're the ones" doesn't that mean all the others aren't the ones, which means they can't all be right and might even mean that none of them are right.
Anyway, back to the shifty vicar and his, in my view, equally shifty wife, I'm sure as a signed up man of God he shouldn't go around dissembling and pissing off the neighbours. Isn't that in the Ten Commandments? And if it isn't, shouldn't it be?
Of course, if before leaving the shifty vicar set in motion whatever needed to be done to deal with the tree, then to some extent I take back what I've said. But I still think that thing about not pissing off your neighbours ought to be in the Ten Commandments.
I've always said this vicar looked shifty, he always seemed to be sloping around as if he had got something else on his mind rather than the Wrath of God. When he was conducting the wedding of a friend of one of my daughters, he coughed, sending a gobbet of sputum on to the floor of the church just in front of the happy couple. The vicar dealt with this by treading on the offending mucus. Yuck, dirty boy!
I could write tons on religion, religious faith, belief, God, gods, the unknown and so on, but just harking back to the shifty vicar, he has made me wonder how many members of the clergy really believe in God. I suppose what I mean is do they believe in God the way I think they ought to believe in God, which is not necessarily to say that I believe in God - I've got much more wishy-washy beliefs than that. Ultimately my feelings on religion are that it's fine if you can keep it to yourself and it doesn't make you want to go around converting people at gun or sword-point or with a huge pyre in the background to encourage them to sign up. But I also wonder how religions can have much validity if everyone considers their set of beliefs to be THE one to follow. I don't want to get too comparative, but if every faith says "Yes, we're the ones" doesn't that mean all the others aren't the ones, which means they can't all be right and might even mean that none of them are right.
Anyway, back to the shifty vicar and his, in my view, equally shifty wife, I'm sure as a signed up man of God he shouldn't go around dissembling and pissing off the neighbours. Isn't that in the Ten Commandments? And if it isn't, shouldn't it be?
Of course, if before leaving the shifty vicar set in motion whatever needed to be done to deal with the tree, then to some extent I take back what I've said. But I still think that thing about not pissing off your neighbours ought to be in the Ten Commandments.
Saturday 7 November 2009
Ambition knows no bounds
It looks possible that smiling goon Tony Blair will not be widely supported in his plan to become EU president. Fortunately in North Devon we have a more than adequate alternative in the form of political dynamo Rodney Cann. Regular readers of any newspaper in the area will have seen his face looming out of the pages at them for stories about dog poop, public toilets, refuse collection, but mainly, I would submit, about Rodney himself. After being dropped by local Conservatives as their candidate for county council elections, but still managing to win a seat by standing as an independent, Rodders flicked a further v-sign at his former political colleagues by announcing his intention to stand as an independent candidate at the next General Election.
Rodney, you plonker, (sorry, it's irresistible) you need to raise your sights even higher. Forget the political backwater of Westminster and go for the big one. Arise Rodney Cann, President of the EU. Supporters of the Blair have proclaimed him as ideal because of his "motorcade quality" or some such. In other words he looks the part and would make heads turn. Well North Devon's very own R Cann Esq, (Cann he do it, yes he Cann) would make them positively swivel.
Local Conservatives have accused Rodders, didn't the late North Devon councillor Charlie Disney refer to him as "the boy Rodney"?, of trying to destroy their "best-ever chance" of getting a Conservative MP again for North Devon. Well, fancy that. One might be tempted to think that Hell hath no fury like a Rodders scorned, although I suspect he rather views himself as a Mr Smith Goes To Washington-style candidate a la James Stewart. If the Tories had an ounce of sense, they'd be round to Cann Towers like a shot promising to buy him a one-way ticket to Brussels so that he would be at the heart of Fortress Europe ready to mount his assault on the presidency.
I shall watch the pages of the North Devon Journal over the next few weeks to see if Rod (I wonder if he would mind being called Rod) follows my suggestion. Apparently one of the most likely presidential candidates, apart from Blair, is a keen writer of Haikus. Well, that's a good idea, too, Rod. Write an epic poem, say, something like Hyperion by Keats and away you go.
Anyway, I tire of this. I've met very few politicians, certainly those from parties in power, who didn't think they were doing a wonderful job, while I viewed them as complete tossers. I realise I may be overly critical, but I do wonder whether a bunch of poets sitting around trying to exercise power might be better than the bunch we have now. Wasn't it Shelley who said poets were "the unacknowledged legislators of the world"?
Rodney, you plonker, (sorry, it's irresistible) you need to raise your sights even higher. Forget the political backwater of Westminster and go for the big one. Arise Rodney Cann, President of the EU. Supporters of the Blair have proclaimed him as ideal because of his "motorcade quality" or some such. In other words he looks the part and would make heads turn. Well North Devon's very own R Cann Esq, (Cann he do it, yes he Cann) would make them positively swivel.
Local Conservatives have accused Rodders, didn't the late North Devon councillor Charlie Disney refer to him as "the boy Rodney"?, of trying to destroy their "best-ever chance" of getting a Conservative MP again for North Devon. Well, fancy that. One might be tempted to think that Hell hath no fury like a Rodders scorned, although I suspect he rather views himself as a Mr Smith Goes To Washington-style candidate a la James Stewart. If the Tories had an ounce of sense, they'd be round to Cann Towers like a shot promising to buy him a one-way ticket to Brussels so that he would be at the heart of Fortress Europe ready to mount his assault on the presidency.
I shall watch the pages of the North Devon Journal over the next few weeks to see if Rod (I wonder if he would mind being called Rod) follows my suggestion. Apparently one of the most likely presidential candidates, apart from Blair, is a keen writer of Haikus. Well, that's a good idea, too, Rod. Write an epic poem, say, something like Hyperion by Keats and away you go.
Anyway, I tire of this. I've met very few politicians, certainly those from parties in power, who didn't think they were doing a wonderful job, while I viewed them as complete tossers. I realise I may be overly critical, but I do wonder whether a bunch of poets sitting around trying to exercise power might be better than the bunch we have now. Wasn't it Shelley who said poets were "the unacknowledged legislators of the world"?
Friday 6 November 2009
iPod, uPod, podOff
Almost everyone in the world - well, North Devon - has an iPod and frankly it gets on my nerves. I don't have an iPod, but, confession time, I do have an MP3 player (why are they called MP3s?) Anyway, the reason for my irritation with iPods and MP3s, and, more specifically, their owners is the way they cut the users off from the rest of the world. Fans of iPods may well say that's one of the main benefits and I do understand that sometimes, when everyone and everything outside your own personal bubble is just too much, a bit of thrash metal, hard house, Glenn Miller or even Stravinsky can be just the thing. But what a sodding nuisance it is when you need to communicate with these people or when you want to reverse your car without getting all their nasty blood over your rear bumper. With the tiny little earphones shoved firmly in their ears, they seem to be completely oblivious to what's going on around them and then look all affronted when you either have to bellow at them to get their attention or get out of the car to gently wave them out of the way. I'm not sure if that bit is in the Highway Code, if not, maybe it could include a bit where you're allowed to use a cattle prod on recalcitrant pedestrians. Yes, I know, pedestrians were here first, but sometimes they just don't help themselves. Oh God, I'm getting more like Victor Meldrew by the minute. Sadly, I do believe it.
Thursday 5 November 2009
Odd-shaped balls and that. . .
I went to a rugby match the other night. Rugby, the game which it is humorously suggested is played by men with odd-shaped balls, is something of a no-go area for me. I don't know much about it, I don't know the rules and I don't understand why sometimes they do one thing and sometimes they do another. Also, and this is a big, and somewhat prejudiced also, I don't much like some (a lot?) of the people who follow rugby. They do seem to be either a bit Hooray Henry-ish or knuckle-draggers who revel in their ability to do revolting things while drinking. However, I went to this match because it was a charity event organised by a colleague and I felt it was the least I could do to support it. And I have to admit I was glad I went. It was well-supported, raised a lot of money for the chosen charity, the Chris King Memorial Fund, and the rain held-off. The Hooray Henrys and knuckle draggers were there, but possibly not as offensive as I expected them to be from my lofty position of not going to rugby matches. Is this a victory for a more open-minded approach?
There has been a lot said following the death of Test umpire Dave Shepherd and there's nothing much that I can add. My contact with him followed on from being a former customer of the family post office in Instow where I used to get newspapers. Years after that link ceased to be, if I ever saw Dave and his brother, Bill, out and about they would always stop to chat. Nice blokes, and my condolences go out to Dave's family and friends.
By the way, I'm not a regular watcher of EastEnders, but is there anyone else who finds it confusing to see Gavin's dad, Michael, from Gavin and Stacey, suddenly converted to East End baddie Archie? Somehow it doesn't seem right.
There has been a lot said following the death of Test umpire Dave Shepherd and there's nothing much that I can add. My contact with him followed on from being a former customer of the family post office in Instow where I used to get newspapers. Years after that link ceased to be, if I ever saw Dave and his brother, Bill, out and about they would always stop to chat. Nice blokes, and my condolences go out to Dave's family and friends.
By the way, I'm not a regular watcher of EastEnders, but is there anyone else who finds it confusing to see Gavin's dad, Michael, from Gavin and Stacey, suddenly converted to East End baddie Archie? Somehow it doesn't seem right.
Friday 23 October 2009
The wheels on the bus go round and round
I used to work with someone who declared that the only people who travelled by bus were women and poor people. Hmm, I use the bus and I sort of understand what he was getting at, but, and it is a point my former colleague would struggle to get round, I am neither a woman nor poor. I feel that the reasons you see women and people with less money (I don't think we can just label them as poor) could be more complex than their gender or their economic status. Possibly the biggest reason could be simply that a lot of people are totally opposed to public transport, particularly buses. On hearing that I sometimes use the bus, there are people at work who give me quite a pitying look and declare they would never use the bus (what, not even if the alternative was never to travel anywhere?). Those people are probably also the same people who are wedded/welded to their cars. If they can't drive somewhere and park outside their destination, then they won't go there. So back to "women and poor people" - is it because in a one-car household "the man" has the car. I acknowledge that I use our car more than my long-suffering wife, so guilty as charged. And running a car is expensive and in an area like North Devon where wages are low, many people would struggle to keep a car on the road. And in North Devon, where we have no rail transport - except to take you out of the area - buses are the only option.
Friday 16 October 2009
I'm back, I'm back as a matter of fact, I'm back (with a point of view to put)
Or something along those lines. Actually, the first part of that is Gary Glitter so probably best not to quote too freely from him, given his illegal predilections. Anyway, for some unknown reason, I stopped blogging, and now, for some equally unknown reason, I decided to do some more.
I suspect part of it is to do with a story currently doing the rounds in North Devon about a piercing parlour that has opened up in Barnstaple. This is an issue that has got some people very hot under the collar arguing for an against. The other reason to re-enter the blogosphere (silly word) is another blog I read by a journalist called Keith Topping. He urges everyone in Britain to exercise their right of free speech (for so long as we still have it).
So, back to piercing. The argument going on among commentators on the North Devon Journal website seemed to split into two camps. Most of the anti-piercing people seemed to think 'the pierced' were weirdoes who were unemployed and who would never get a job. Meanwhile, the pro-piercers seemed to take the - not unreasonable - view that it was their choice to do to their bodies whatever they liked. They also pointed out that piercing and other body modifications were increasingly fashionable, and that many of them had a range of responsible jobs. Where their approach tended to fail slightly was when they suggested that those opposed to them should shut the f*ck up. Erm, wasn't all this about freedom of choice and so on?
On the basis that I've got an opinion (they are, after all, like arseholes - we all have one) I just wanted to give my two penn'orth and whether anyone is interested or not I really don't care - it's my blog. As far as I can see on this, if you want to have metal bits sticking out of your head, neck, back or genitals (if you so choose), or have lumps cut out of your flesh, or get branded, well. . .that's up to you. Whatever turns you on, baby, if indeed it does turn you on. Having said that, I do find the impression created by some piercings to be, quite frankly, rather threatening. Little metal horns poking out of someone's forehead are somewhat redolent of classic depictions of the devil - literally, the horned one.
The pierced persuasion argue that people should have an open mind about their appearance. Let's face it, if you were about to get jiggy with a man or a woman wearing a very sober business suit who, when they were in their birthday suit, suddenly revealed some spectacular genital piercing what effect would that have on your frame of mind? Would you suddenly decide you'd gone off the whole idea? Or would you go 'right on, let's do the wild thing'? Personally speaking I certainly wouldn't say 'Let's call the whole thing off'. But then on the quiet I am very broad-minded.
The question that crops up with being open-minded is that presumably that extends to people who want to use their right to be small-minded. Or does it? Am I clever enough to have stumbled on the classic liberal dilemma while whittering on about piercing? Obviously, the answer to that is YES, but isn't it all about that 'I disagree with what you say, but would defend to the death your right to say it'. I'm not sure who said that (Voltaire, maybe?) but surely he would have extended that to piercing. I dunno. However, I am sure on one thing, no piercing for me, thank you.
Oh, by the way, the man in the red Renault Megane estate who was living in a lay-by on the A39 has gone. Who knows where? Maybe with the changing of the seasons he moves on.
I suspect part of it is to do with a story currently doing the rounds in North Devon about a piercing parlour that has opened up in Barnstaple. This is an issue that has got some people very hot under the collar arguing for an against. The other reason to re-enter the blogosphere (silly word) is another blog I read by a journalist called Keith Topping. He urges everyone in Britain to exercise their right of free speech (for so long as we still have it).
So, back to piercing. The argument going on among commentators on the North Devon Journal website seemed to split into two camps. Most of the anti-piercing people seemed to think 'the pierced' were weirdoes who were unemployed and who would never get a job. Meanwhile, the pro-piercers seemed to take the - not unreasonable - view that it was their choice to do to their bodies whatever they liked. They also pointed out that piercing and other body modifications were increasingly fashionable, and that many of them had a range of responsible jobs. Where their approach tended to fail slightly was when they suggested that those opposed to them should shut the f*ck up. Erm, wasn't all this about freedom of choice and so on?
On the basis that I've got an opinion (they are, after all, like arseholes - we all have one) I just wanted to give my two penn'orth and whether anyone is interested or not I really don't care - it's my blog. As far as I can see on this, if you want to have metal bits sticking out of your head, neck, back or genitals (if you so choose), or have lumps cut out of your flesh, or get branded, well. . .that's up to you. Whatever turns you on, baby, if indeed it does turn you on. Having said that, I do find the impression created by some piercings to be, quite frankly, rather threatening. Little metal horns poking out of someone's forehead are somewhat redolent of classic depictions of the devil - literally, the horned one.
The pierced persuasion argue that people should have an open mind about their appearance. Let's face it, if you were about to get jiggy with a man or a woman wearing a very sober business suit who, when they were in their birthday suit, suddenly revealed some spectacular genital piercing what effect would that have on your frame of mind? Would you suddenly decide you'd gone off the whole idea? Or would you go 'right on, let's do the wild thing'? Personally speaking I certainly wouldn't say 'Let's call the whole thing off'. But then on the quiet I am very broad-minded.
The question that crops up with being open-minded is that presumably that extends to people who want to use their right to be small-minded. Or does it? Am I clever enough to have stumbled on the classic liberal dilemma while whittering on about piercing? Obviously, the answer to that is YES, but isn't it all about that 'I disagree with what you say, but would defend to the death your right to say it'. I'm not sure who said that (Voltaire, maybe?) but surely he would have extended that to piercing. I dunno. However, I am sure on one thing, no piercing for me, thank you.
Oh, by the way, the man in the red Renault Megane estate who was living in a lay-by on the A39 has gone. Who knows where? Maybe with the changing of the seasons he moves on.
Friday 28 August 2009
It's all different, but the same
Crash landing, and I'm back. Three weeks in Greece and then a fortnight in the UK feeling utterly shell shocked and everything is as if it had never been. Except it has, I know what I know - a bit like Donald Rumsfeld and his known knowns and known unknowns etc - and now I'm wondering if it is entirely wise to carry on in one vein or just throw everything up in the air and try something utterly different. Who knows? I've had a little drinky and I'm feeling pretty philosophical, but does any of that make any difference. Probably not, but then again, maybe everything. Anyway, I'm yawning and the dog needs to go out. I'll ponder it while walking.
Wednesday 22 July 2009
Welcome to North Devon. Is that snow on your boots?
The holiday season in North Devon is well and truly under way. Already the roads are more congested and the beaches are busier. This despite the frankly disappointing weather. I was at Westward Ho! walking the dog late this afternoon. The tide was well up so we walked along one side of the Pebbleridge and back over the golf course. Just as we got near the Northam Burrows visitors' centre we encountered a small group of what I think could have been Russians or maybe Poles. It was the area where my fellow dog owners disgrace themselves by failing to clear up after their pets. The truth is these people can drive close to this building, let their dog out, which then craps everywhere, before driving off again with dog shoved in the back of the car.
And so it was I met a little group of Eastern European tourists who were obviously having a nice time. One rather corpulent gent in a tight white T-shirt sat on a hummock while one of his female companions used her camera to capture the scene for posterity. It would be some while before I chose that spot as the most picturesque place in North Devon for holiday snaps. Yet despite this, the group were all happy, they were having a nice time. What did it matter what I, as a local, thought of their choice of location? Maybe whatever locality they were used to was an absolute dump, fully of rusty cars, dog excrement and buildings with concrete cancer.
That's the thing with tourism. It is frequently touted as the most important element in the North Devon economy, which is something I have trouble agreeing with. It ought to be cream on our cake, not the cake itself. Well, that's what I think. However, the fact remains that many people gain considerable enjoyment from coming to our beautiful coast and countryside, and who are we to deny them? In Victoria Park in Bideford is a bench with a memorial plaque dedicated to a couple from Reading and more recently of Bideford, who spent "many happy hours" in the park.
I always find it quite moving. Here was a couple for whom the simple pleasure of sitting in the park - who knows maybe with a Hockings ice cream - was enough. And so I welcome our Russian/Polish/Latvian/Lithuanian/who knows visitors. For, whether they know it or not, life is short and we should all take our pleasures where we can. The simple pleasures of the park may be all we have time for, so do not delay. Putting off today for what we might get tomorrow could simply be a recipe for achieving nothing at all. And that would be very sad.
And so it was I met a little group of Eastern European tourists who were obviously having a nice time. One rather corpulent gent in a tight white T-shirt sat on a hummock while one of his female companions used her camera to capture the scene for posterity. It would be some while before I chose that spot as the most picturesque place in North Devon for holiday snaps. Yet despite this, the group were all happy, they were having a nice time. What did it matter what I, as a local, thought of their choice of location? Maybe whatever locality they were used to was an absolute dump, fully of rusty cars, dog excrement and buildings with concrete cancer.
That's the thing with tourism. It is frequently touted as the most important element in the North Devon economy, which is something I have trouble agreeing with. It ought to be cream on our cake, not the cake itself. Well, that's what I think. However, the fact remains that many people gain considerable enjoyment from coming to our beautiful coast and countryside, and who are we to deny them? In Victoria Park in Bideford is a bench with a memorial plaque dedicated to a couple from Reading and more recently of Bideford, who spent "many happy hours" in the park.
I always find it quite moving. Here was a couple for whom the simple pleasure of sitting in the park - who knows maybe with a Hockings ice cream - was enough. And so I welcome our Russian/Polish/Latvian/Lithuanian/who knows visitors. For, whether they know it or not, life is short and we should all take our pleasures where we can. The simple pleasures of the park may be all we have time for, so do not delay. Putting off today for what we might get tomorrow could simply be a recipe for achieving nothing at all. And that would be very sad.
Tuesday 21 July 2009
A neutral birthday to you
Today would have been my dad's 83rd birthday had he not died in March. Can you wish a happy birthday to the deceased? Probably not, but what you can do is have happy memories, which I do. They are the ones I focus on. So on my dad's birthday I think of happy gatherings in my parents' garden on hot July days with family and friends. Had he lived it is unlikely we would have had what you would conventionally describe as a happy gathering. My dad's illness would have progressed and he might well have struggled to participate in any meaningful way. While that thought makes me sad, I have already acknowledged that he has passed out of what had become for him a 'vale of tears'. It certainly had become that for his family as we watched him suffer.
The last words he said to me - a few days before he died - were from his hospital bed. He said: "I don't want to see you in this place again". I have clung on to those words and tried to extract every last bit of comfort from them that I can. My take on those words is that they were said with the last scraps he could muster of his deprecating Yorkshire sense of humour. He knew his death was near, he knew the faltering remains of his life were bound to be unhappy and that those near him suffered to see him so poorly and he hated - oh, he really hated - being in hospital. And so he said: "I don't want to see you in this place again". And that was the last I saw of him and although I think it was for the best, there is still a tiny piece of me that wonders if I should have been with him at the end. So if I should have been, Dad, I'm sorry I wasn't, but I think of you a lot, and I miss and love you. In the end, all we have is love.
And all the above is why this posting is called A neutral birthday to you. It can't make it to being really happy and it shouldn't be sad, so it comes out level. Swings and roundabouts, yin and yang, up and down, in and out, on and off. Just somewhere in the middle.
The last words he said to me - a few days before he died - were from his hospital bed. He said: "I don't want to see you in this place again". I have clung on to those words and tried to extract every last bit of comfort from them that I can. My take on those words is that they were said with the last scraps he could muster of his deprecating Yorkshire sense of humour. He knew his death was near, he knew the faltering remains of his life were bound to be unhappy and that those near him suffered to see him so poorly and he hated - oh, he really hated - being in hospital. And so he said: "I don't want to see you in this place again". And that was the last I saw of him and although I think it was for the best, there is still a tiny piece of me that wonders if I should have been with him at the end. So if I should have been, Dad, I'm sorry I wasn't, but I think of you a lot, and I miss and love you. In the end, all we have is love.
And all the above is why this posting is called A neutral birthday to you. It can't make it to being really happy and it shouldn't be sad, so it comes out level. Swings and roundabouts, yin and yang, up and down, in and out, on and off. Just somewhere in the middle.
Monday 20 July 2009
Ah! The joyful sound of Ye Olde Samba Drums
I was in Barnstaple at the weekend for a lightning raid on three shops. It was a case of buy, buy, buy and then bye, bye, bye. While there I saw, from a distance, the start of the parade for the Pilton Festival. All Green Man, real ale and, well, samba drums. Why? It's not that I am utterly opposed to samba drums, but these days in North Devon few public events seem complete without them blowing whistles, banging their sodding drums and gurning at each other. I realise this makes me sound curmudgeonly, but I would be willing to wager that similar events in, say, Brazil rarely attract the presence of some geezer in stripy trousers, a lurid waistcoat and unmentionable hat who is hacking away at a fiddle while occasionally going on about escaping the hangman's noose, or his sweet love drowning in a pool.
Would an event such as Chulmleigh Fair suffer for the lack of samba drums? I don't honestly know if Chulmleigh is a hotbed of samba drumming, but I suspect that the man with the fiddle singing songs of rural rogering fits in better - all Thomas Hardy, super strength lager and unwanted pregnancies. How much more traditional could you be?
Would an event such as Chulmleigh Fair suffer for the lack of samba drums? I don't honestly know if Chulmleigh is a hotbed of samba drumming, but I suspect that the man with the fiddle singing songs of rural rogering fits in better - all Thomas Hardy, super strength lager and unwanted pregnancies. How much more traditional could you be?
Saturday 18 July 2009
Me, Lance and Hitler
As a child I was ready to read all the books there were and expected to read every book in print. Soon it became apparent that such a feat was beyond me, and, indeed, beyond anyone. However, that doesn't stop me worrying sometimes about the books I want to read, will I have time, are they the best ones to read, should I just not bother?
Consequently, on a recent visit to my local library I borrowed Lance Armstrong's two volumes of autobiography and then fretted about whether I would read them in time before going on holiday. The answer to that is that once started there was little doubt I'd finish the two books. I am fascinated by the Tour de France and, besides owning a bicycle, I have something else in common with Lance - we have both recovered from testicular cancer. Undoubtedly, my journey back from an illness that can very readily claim your life, was a lot easier than Lance's. Cancer had a much stronger grip on him than it did me before treatment began. Nevertheless, cancer is a word one never wants associated with one's life.
Many years ago I read Alexander Solzhenitsyn's Cancer Ward in which he states that "once the crab has you in its claws it never lets you go" or something like that. Well, the crab had me - and Lance - in its claws and let both of us go. For me it was a relatively straightforward operation that put me on the road to recovery, for Lance it was a combination of surgery and chemotherapy, which took its toll. Despite this he has gone on to be a multiple winner of the Tour de France - something which seems to annoy the French no end.
Anyway, next month I celebrate my silver wedding anniversary which means that next spring I celebrate the silver anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer. It's been a quarter of a century that has flashed by, but I'm still here. So that's me, Lance, and - allegedly - Hitler who are, according to comedian Robin Williams, "uniballers". Two out of three ain't bad.
Consequently, on a recent visit to my local library I borrowed Lance Armstrong's two volumes of autobiography and then fretted about whether I would read them in time before going on holiday. The answer to that is that once started there was little doubt I'd finish the two books. I am fascinated by the Tour de France and, besides owning a bicycle, I have something else in common with Lance - we have both recovered from testicular cancer. Undoubtedly, my journey back from an illness that can very readily claim your life, was a lot easier than Lance's. Cancer had a much stronger grip on him than it did me before treatment began. Nevertheless, cancer is a word one never wants associated with one's life.
Many years ago I read Alexander Solzhenitsyn's Cancer Ward in which he states that "once the crab has you in its claws it never lets you go" or something like that. Well, the crab had me - and Lance - in its claws and let both of us go. For me it was a relatively straightforward operation that put me on the road to recovery, for Lance it was a combination of surgery and chemotherapy, which took its toll. Despite this he has gone on to be a multiple winner of the Tour de France - something which seems to annoy the French no end.
Anyway, next month I celebrate my silver wedding anniversary which means that next spring I celebrate the silver anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer. It's been a quarter of a century that has flashed by, but I'm still here. So that's me, Lance, and - allegedly - Hitler who are, according to comedian Robin Williams, "uniballers". Two out of three ain't bad.
Thursday 16 July 2009
Spiralling out of control in the rain
It's raining. It's gushing out of the sky to the point where you can't really be sure it's summer. But in North Devon at least we can say this is something we are not totally unfamiliar with. Ever since I have lived here, I have been forced to acknowledge the routine presence of rain in my life. Not long after I came to North Devon I muttered some comment about 'Sunny Devon' to a long-term resident as the rain poured down. 'Ha ha', he said. 'Now you know why North Devon is such a good dairy farming area'. Well that's all right then.
I like the sogginess and the greenness and the sponginess of living in a place where it rains so much. But having said that I also like the hot dryness of places in the summer, which is why I am heading to Greece soon. Only for a few weeks, but I hope it will give me some respite from the drenching that the elements are subjecting us to at the moment.
And while I wait to go on holiday - to a place that is many, many miles from North Devon - I am going slightly bonkers. At work I keep uttering the mantra 'I can't go on'. The truth is that I can go on, but only just. I haven't had a break from work - apart from at the time of my dad's death - since last autumn. I want to kick back, read poems, maybe even write poems, and stare at a point on the horizon. I want to hear the cicadas and worship the blue sky and the blue sea. Smell the pines and hear happiness in a foreign tongue.
I'm losing it here in North Devon and I need release. But how much will I miss here while I am there?
I like the sogginess and the greenness and the sponginess of living in a place where it rains so much. But having said that I also like the hot dryness of places in the summer, which is why I am heading to Greece soon. Only for a few weeks, but I hope it will give me some respite from the drenching that the elements are subjecting us to at the moment.
And while I wait to go on holiday - to a place that is many, many miles from North Devon - I am going slightly bonkers. At work I keep uttering the mantra 'I can't go on'. The truth is that I can go on, but only just. I haven't had a break from work - apart from at the time of my dad's death - since last autumn. I want to kick back, read poems, maybe even write poems, and stare at a point on the horizon. I want to hear the cicadas and worship the blue sky and the blue sea. Smell the pines and hear happiness in a foreign tongue.
I'm losing it here in North Devon and I need release. But how much will I miss here while I am there?
Wednesday 15 July 2009
Having trouble getting things moving in North Devon
OK, I am a man married to a woman. I have helped in the conception and birth of some more females, now all young women. I sprang - many years ago - from the loins of a woman and I have one sibling, a sister. Also I know lots of women and work with women, in fact, the part of the office I work in is just me and six women. So what I am trying to say is that I have heard them talking. My wife, my daughters, my mum, my sister, my colleagues and female friends all like to talk to each other and I like to listen (no honestly, I do, I love listening to women talking, it's so much more revealing and embracing than men's uni-directional conversation).
So, very slowly, what I am getting round to saying is that not once, never, ever, have I heard the women I know talk about constipation. And the reason I mention this, is that ridiculous TV advert in which a group of women in a cafe/bar engage in conversation about how one of them is constipated. To use her words - more or less - 'It's all hard and foul' - I think that's what she said. Now I know this is only an advert and is the result of someone coming up with an idea to advertise a product - in this case, something called 'stool softener' - but dear God this is rooted in some hideous fantasy world in which poor little women grapple with utterly ridiculous problems.
Adverts in the same vein offer shower gel suitable for 'intimate use', unguents for making women less hairy and medication capable of dealing instantly with diarrhoea. This latter product is aimed specifically at women and shows a woman bounding out of the house, only to rush back in because the proverbial flock of starlings is about to emerge from her backside. However, she pops a couple of pills and within minutes is in the cinema with her girly friend chucking popcorn down her throat like there's no tomorrow and no gastro-intestinal problems either.
I'm not going to go off on some sort of feminist rant, although I suspect if I were a woman I would find men more than a little risible. However, it is a bit of a call for women (and, I suppose, men) to stand up and say: 'We're not going to put up with this crud any more'. It would be hard to conceive of more ridiculous scenarios than most adverts. Little boys wanting to take a dump in their friend's toilets because they smell better is but one example. From the sitting room, where the TV is on, I can hear an advert where a talking meerkat is advertising a comparison website. . . . I mean, where will it all end?
So get a grip people, watch the adverts by all means, but then, very politely, just say NO.
So, very slowly, what I am getting round to saying is that not once, never, ever, have I heard the women I know talk about constipation. And the reason I mention this, is that ridiculous TV advert in which a group of women in a cafe/bar engage in conversation about how one of them is constipated. To use her words - more or less - 'It's all hard and foul' - I think that's what she said. Now I know this is only an advert and is the result of someone coming up with an idea to advertise a product - in this case, something called 'stool softener' - but dear God this is rooted in some hideous fantasy world in which poor little women grapple with utterly ridiculous problems.
Adverts in the same vein offer shower gel suitable for 'intimate use', unguents for making women less hairy and medication capable of dealing instantly with diarrhoea. This latter product is aimed specifically at women and shows a woman bounding out of the house, only to rush back in because the proverbial flock of starlings is about to emerge from her backside. However, she pops a couple of pills and within minutes is in the cinema with her girly friend chucking popcorn down her throat like there's no tomorrow and no gastro-intestinal problems either.
I'm not going to go off on some sort of feminist rant, although I suspect if I were a woman I would find men more than a little risible. However, it is a bit of a call for women (and, I suppose, men) to stand up and say: 'We're not going to put up with this crud any more'. It would be hard to conceive of more ridiculous scenarios than most adverts. Little boys wanting to take a dump in their friend's toilets because they smell better is but one example. From the sitting room, where the TV is on, I can hear an advert where a talking meerkat is advertising a comparison website. . . . I mean, where will it all end?
So get a grip people, watch the adverts by all means, but then, very politely, just say NO.
Sunday 12 July 2009
On the border
I've said before that I rarely leave North Devon, but this weekend I not only left North Devon, I also left the country - well, I went to Cornwall. Significant other and I went to visit friends who live in a village on the Tamar. Now, the Tamar is, as most of us know, the border between Devon and Cornwall and - in view of Cornwall styling itself as a separate nation - is therefore a national boundary. Crossing the Tamar some way south of Holsworthy does feel to me as if I am entering another country. The sign proclaiming you have entered Cornwall also has a few words in Cornish, which, I hope, say something along the lines of welcome.
Sadly it wasn't long before we were crossing back into Devon because a road accident not far from Launceston sent us heading towards Tavistock. Having reached there, in increasingly rainy conditions, we had to ping back towards Callington, which entailed a further crossing of the Tamar, this time into Cornwall, which thankfully proved to be the last time that day we would make that crossing.
Finally we made it to our friends' house where a friendship dating back to the early 1990s was gently revived. We don't see each other very often and work and family commitments on both sides make it difficult to meet up, but when we do meet I am glad we all made the effort. Never undervalue friendship. The highlight of the weekend for me was getting to know our friends' two young sons, aged four and almost two. Lively sparky little boys, who treated us with initial caution but soon assumed that if we were OK with their mum and dad then we'd do for them.
The aim had been to get out into the lovely countryside near their village to walk and talk, but the rain poured and eventually we had to concede that we would not be crossing the threshold. Even the two young boys, who were getting a bit edgy at the lack of outdoor entertainment, decided that having once stepped outside, they were quite happy to stay indoors just this once. A tentative suggestion of going to the pub was discarded as not being worth the effort.
This morning was much brighter and we had a short walk round their village and along a path beside the Tamar. Following that we headed to Morwellham for a pub lunch and more strolling about, this time enjoying the sunshine. It's years since we've been to Morwellham - our own children were little - and it has changed from being a straightforward tourist attraction to a "world heritage site" due to its links with the mining industry and Britain's industrial past. To be honest, I'm not sure how that will work out. We ended up watching a man making small animals from offcuts from trees. For one of our friends' sons he made a hedgehog. I don't think that was to do with mining, but was intended to highlight the wildlife trails around the site. Anyway, it was pleasant in the hot sunshine.
I think one test of friendship is being able to do unremarkable things and find them enjoyable because of the people you are with. I think this weekend passed that test. One of the friends we visited and I have in common the fact that we both lost our fathers this year. His father, although not a young man, died unexpectedly and it is taking him time to come to terms with it. For me, my father's death had been on the cards for months following a diagnosis of cancer several years ago. I miss him still, but know that his passing was part of the natural order of things. But, in a way, what is slightly odd about this realisation is that we don't take it to heart more completely. The fact is that as mortals we are all bound to die. In some ways that should liberate us rather than frighten us. Even so, I don't want to go yet. I've got things to do.
Sadly it wasn't long before we were crossing back into Devon because a road accident not far from Launceston sent us heading towards Tavistock. Having reached there, in increasingly rainy conditions, we had to ping back towards Callington, which entailed a further crossing of the Tamar, this time into Cornwall, which thankfully proved to be the last time that day we would make that crossing.
Finally we made it to our friends' house where a friendship dating back to the early 1990s was gently revived. We don't see each other very often and work and family commitments on both sides make it difficult to meet up, but when we do meet I am glad we all made the effort. Never undervalue friendship. The highlight of the weekend for me was getting to know our friends' two young sons, aged four and almost two. Lively sparky little boys, who treated us with initial caution but soon assumed that if we were OK with their mum and dad then we'd do for them.
The aim had been to get out into the lovely countryside near their village to walk and talk, but the rain poured and eventually we had to concede that we would not be crossing the threshold. Even the two young boys, who were getting a bit edgy at the lack of outdoor entertainment, decided that having once stepped outside, they were quite happy to stay indoors just this once. A tentative suggestion of going to the pub was discarded as not being worth the effort.
This morning was much brighter and we had a short walk round their village and along a path beside the Tamar. Following that we headed to Morwellham for a pub lunch and more strolling about, this time enjoying the sunshine. It's years since we've been to Morwellham - our own children were little - and it has changed from being a straightforward tourist attraction to a "world heritage site" due to its links with the mining industry and Britain's industrial past. To be honest, I'm not sure how that will work out. We ended up watching a man making small animals from offcuts from trees. For one of our friends' sons he made a hedgehog. I don't think that was to do with mining, but was intended to highlight the wildlife trails around the site. Anyway, it was pleasant in the hot sunshine.
I think one test of friendship is being able to do unremarkable things and find them enjoyable because of the people you are with. I think this weekend passed that test. One of the friends we visited and I have in common the fact that we both lost our fathers this year. His father, although not a young man, died unexpectedly and it is taking him time to come to terms with it. For me, my father's death had been on the cards for months following a diagnosis of cancer several years ago. I miss him still, but know that his passing was part of the natural order of things. But, in a way, what is slightly odd about this realisation is that we don't take it to heart more completely. The fact is that as mortals we are all bound to die. In some ways that should liberate us rather than frighten us. Even so, I don't want to go yet. I've got things to do.
Friday 10 July 2009
What's in a name? Well, sometimes it's everything.
I have mentioned the man who I think lives in a Renault estate on the "Atlantic Highway" between Bideford and Barnstaple. Well, I said it was a Laguna, but now I am fairly confident in saying it is, in fact, a Megane. I know, I know, it's only a small point, but I like to get these things right, I suspect it ties in with the work I do.
Have some fun on the A361
It interests me that I travel most days on what is officially known as the Atlantic Highway - the A39. What amuses me about this is that no matter how many times I drive along this particular stretch of road, it is always just the bit of road between Bideford and Barnstaple. Why, in the UK, don't we do the romance of roads? One of my favourite songs is Route 66. I don't care who sings it - Christ, even me singing it can sound good (to my ears) - but where are such songs in a British context?
Get your kicks on route 66, have some fun on the A361, know you're alive on the old M5, head for heaven on the A377 - all right you get the idea. The roads are there, but we don't celebrate them in song. But your Americans, well, you can't stop them. They're singing about roads, Ventura Boulevard, Broadway etc, or they're singing about places, Chicago, New York, San Francisco. Why don't we have such songs in our country?
I think that even in North Devon there is scope for a bit of song-writing to do with geography. Don't go telling me that some of the places in North Devon might not actually be up to much. I've never been to Galveston, but Glen Campbell bangs out a song about said place and we all swallow it hook, line and sinker. For all I know, the place could be a complete toilet. I think there is great scope in North Devon for a bit of creativity with songs. So what if Ilfracombe rhymes with doom, Appledore with bore, Combe Martin with fartin'. The scope is endless, if only we apply the right approach.
I might have to come back to this, in much the same way that I will one day do my posting on women and constipation. It's a great big world of blogging opportunities out there. If you want to find out more, sign up and follow my blog. You might enjoy it.
Get your kicks on route 66, have some fun on the A361, know you're alive on the old M5, head for heaven on the A377 - all right you get the idea. The roads are there, but we don't celebrate them in song. But your Americans, well, you can't stop them. They're singing about roads, Ventura Boulevard, Broadway etc, or they're singing about places, Chicago, New York, San Francisco. Why don't we have such songs in our country?
I think that even in North Devon there is scope for a bit of song-writing to do with geography. Don't go telling me that some of the places in North Devon might not actually be up to much. I've never been to Galveston, but Glen Campbell bangs out a song about said place and we all swallow it hook, line and sinker. For all I know, the place could be a complete toilet. I think there is great scope in North Devon for a bit of creativity with songs. So what if Ilfracombe rhymes with doom, Appledore with bore, Combe Martin with fartin'. The scope is endless, if only we apply the right approach.
I might have to come back to this, in much the same way that I will one day do my posting on women and constipation. It's a great big world of blogging opportunities out there. If you want to find out more, sign up and follow my blog. You might enjoy it.
Thursday 9 July 2009
Travel broadens the behind
I cycled to work this morning and then, this evening, I cycled back. I've been talking about doing this for two years - almost to the day. It's a distance of ten or eleven miles one way, but I always found a reason for not doing it. Now I have, and, despite the pain in my nether regions (Lord, don't I go on about my nether regions) I am feeling pretty proud of myself. People at work were surprisingly impressed. All I did was cycle along the Tarka Trail one way in the morning and then reverse the process in the evening.
Along the way I passed a field with mares and their foals. They were beautiful. I also heard oystercatchers. They were beautiful. In fact, the whole experience was beautiful. Apart from the pain in the nether regions. If only I had known I would enjoy the experience of cycling to work so much, I would have done it a lot sooner. In a way that harks back to what I was saying a few days ago about wanting memories not regrets. In good conditions, which will undoubtedly not apply all the time, the ride along the Tarka Trail is a brilliant way to start/finish your working day. Now I know that I will repeat it, but what put me off discovering it in the first place was a general feeling of fear (almost) that the whole thing would be so arduous and unpleasant that I would hate it.
Anyway, by all accounts, of the various ways to achieve enlightenment, experience is the toughest. So my enlightened state to do with riding to work has been achieved at the expense of realising that I have missed out on something I would have enjoyed, if only I had got on with it sooner.
I had intended to write about women and constipation, but yet again I have gone on about something else. Maybe the women and constipation posting will be soon. Also just a small point, but I understand that Molly Sugden actually spelt her name Mollie. However, her pussy was pussy and not pussie. Also the bloke who played Private Sponge in Dad's Army has died.
Along the way I passed a field with mares and their foals. They were beautiful. I also heard oystercatchers. They were beautiful. In fact, the whole experience was beautiful. Apart from the pain in the nether regions. If only I had known I would enjoy the experience of cycling to work so much, I would have done it a lot sooner. In a way that harks back to what I was saying a few days ago about wanting memories not regrets. In good conditions, which will undoubtedly not apply all the time, the ride along the Tarka Trail is a brilliant way to start/finish your working day. Now I know that I will repeat it, but what put me off discovering it in the first place was a general feeling of fear (almost) that the whole thing would be so arduous and unpleasant that I would hate it.
Anyway, by all accounts, of the various ways to achieve enlightenment, experience is the toughest. So my enlightened state to do with riding to work has been achieved at the expense of realising that I have missed out on something I would have enjoyed, if only I had got on with it sooner.
I had intended to write about women and constipation, but yet again I have gone on about something else. Maybe the women and constipation posting will be soon. Also just a small point, but I understand that Molly Sugden actually spelt her name Mollie. However, her pussy was pussy and not pussie. Also the bloke who played Private Sponge in Dad's Army has died.
Wednesday 8 July 2009
Do they treat it with oinkment?
Cases of swine flu have been reported in North Devon and in some quarters there seems to be an air of panic. People are demanding to know where the confirmed cases are so they can avoid those areas. I am willing to accept that I can be complacent, but I'm not sure what good it would do to lock yourself away in isolation. I suppose if you had absolutely no contact with anyone else - ever - then it might just stop you getting infectious diseases etc but you'd probably die of boredom. As it is, the chances are you could have contact with a person with swine flu and never realise. It seems that many people who contract swine flu are ill and then recover. Those who die often have a pre-existing condition. The thing is it will either kill you, or it won't kill you. Or you might not get it at all. And that is pretty well the story of your entire existence.
We assess risk according to our preferences. Deaths from car crashes are, as we know, not uncommon in this country. But how often do you get in a car and, before the vehicle has even moved off, start worrying that you are going to die? I hope the answer is never, because if you did start worrying like that your life would not really be worth living. And yet in North Devon I can take you to numerous places where people have died in their cars. Very often they are easy to spot because mourners continue to place flowers at the scene. Despite these sombre warnings, we continue to drive our cars because we want to/need to, and some people do it in a worse way than others.
What are all those people who race to overtake on the North Devon Link Road trying to achieve. Are they so important, and their task so vital, that they must drive to the limits of other people's willingness to make way for them. Often you catch up with them at the next roundabout where they are forced to wait before continuing on their headlong transit along the link road.
So, anyway, swine flu is a risk, but one to be kept in perspective. Hundreds of people across the UK die each year from the flu which comes round annually and, by and large, that death toll passes us by unremarked upon. Having said all that, I still really hate it when people sitting behind me on the bus or in the supermarket queue cough over me.
And if you think the title of this post is flippant then bear in mind I was going to try to weave in the gag about flu which goes something like: Doctor to patient: 'Have you flu?'. Patient to doctor: 'No, I came by bike'. Yes, hysterical, I know.
We assess risk according to our preferences. Deaths from car crashes are, as we know, not uncommon in this country. But how often do you get in a car and, before the vehicle has even moved off, start worrying that you are going to die? I hope the answer is never, because if you did start worrying like that your life would not really be worth living. And yet in North Devon I can take you to numerous places where people have died in their cars. Very often they are easy to spot because mourners continue to place flowers at the scene. Despite these sombre warnings, we continue to drive our cars because we want to/need to, and some people do it in a worse way than others.
What are all those people who race to overtake on the North Devon Link Road trying to achieve. Are they so important, and their task so vital, that they must drive to the limits of other people's willingness to make way for them. Often you catch up with them at the next roundabout where they are forced to wait before continuing on their headlong transit along the link road.
So, anyway, swine flu is a risk, but one to be kept in perspective. Hundreds of people across the UK die each year from the flu which comes round annually and, by and large, that death toll passes us by unremarked upon. Having said all that, I still really hate it when people sitting behind me on the bus or in the supermarket queue cough over me.
And if you think the title of this post is flippant then bear in mind I was going to try to weave in the gag about flu which goes something like: Doctor to patient: 'Have you flu?'. Patient to doctor: 'No, I came by bike'. Yes, hysterical, I know.
Sunday 5 July 2009
You only sing when you're flying
When I started writing this blog it was with the vague idea of commenting on whatever was going on in North Devon that made the pages of my local paper, the North Devon Journal, eg the Facebook campaign to abolish Ilfracombe's Victorian Week or whether Bideford Town Council should say prayers before each meeting. Maybe I was thinking I would become North Devon's Montaigne, but anyway as Robert Burns said "the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley" - apologies for any mistakes in the quote. So today while I was on the beach with my dog my attention was taken by a skylark, which has nothing to do with bickerings in local government.
I heard the skylark before I saw it. In fact, seeing a skylark can be a tricky business because while it is belting out its song it will be so high up in the sky it will be just a tiny dot. Once I spotted my skylark I stayed watching it. This is something I like to do almost as a form of tribute to the skylark. They exert massive effort in staying in one spot in the sky and singing their hearts out and I feel the least I can do is watch the entire performance until the bird flutters back to earth. I suspect my dog thinks this is a slightly weird thing to do. One minute I am striding along Westward Ho! beach throwing a ball for her, the next I am standing with my head tipped back at an awkward angle, keeping an eye on something she has so far shown no interest in. I am sure skylarks have a reason for doing what they do, it's probably all about sex, but I'd like to think they also do it for the pure joy of it.
Talking of doing things because you enjoy them, while I was out cycling yesterday I saw numerous joggers, none of whom looked particularly joyful. In fact, one, a senior council official, looked utterly knackered. I know I have complained about pains in the rear end while I have been cycling, but jogging is torture, pure and simple. Tried it once, couldn't walk properly for a fortnight. Didn't take much to persuade me I should avoid it, thank goodness skylarks aren't so easily dissuaded from making an effort.
I heard the skylark before I saw it. In fact, seeing a skylark can be a tricky business because while it is belting out its song it will be so high up in the sky it will be just a tiny dot. Once I spotted my skylark I stayed watching it. This is something I like to do almost as a form of tribute to the skylark. They exert massive effort in staying in one spot in the sky and singing their hearts out and I feel the least I can do is watch the entire performance until the bird flutters back to earth. I suspect my dog thinks this is a slightly weird thing to do. One minute I am striding along Westward Ho! beach throwing a ball for her, the next I am standing with my head tipped back at an awkward angle, keeping an eye on something she has so far shown no interest in. I am sure skylarks have a reason for doing what they do, it's probably all about sex, but I'd like to think they also do it for the pure joy of it.
Talking of doing things because you enjoy them, while I was out cycling yesterday I saw numerous joggers, none of whom looked particularly joyful. In fact, one, a senior council official, looked utterly knackered. I know I have complained about pains in the rear end while I have been cycling, but jogging is torture, pure and simple. Tried it once, couldn't walk properly for a fortnight. Didn't take much to persuade me I should avoid it, thank goodness skylarks aren't so easily dissuaded from making an effort.
Saturday 4 July 2009
I've joined the Dead End Kids
The no-nonsense state primary school I went to many years ago in Kent was staffed by teachers for whom delivering occasional corporal punishment was part of the way things were. For we pupils it was just part of life at school and, generally speaking, we knew the rules. Rule one: don't misbehave; rule two: if you do misbehave, don't get caught; rule three: if you do get caught put up with the punishment. I don't know that it did us any harm, although I'm not sure it did us any good, either, it was just the way of the world. Anyway, one of the teachers would warn that if we continued to transgress we would end up as a "Dead End Kid". This was not a reflection on our career prospects, but an accurate prophesy of the walloping he'd give your backside with a big gym slipper (plimsolls or what in North Devon I have learned to call daps). In fact, in North Devon it might be more accurate to say he'd give you a dap with a dap.
Anyway, I haven't been walloped, but my backside is sore because I've been out cycling the Tarka Trail again. Bideford to Fremington Quay and back again all in one go. Now I know many people are not remotely bothered by such distances, but for me, towards the end I was struggling to remember when I had substituted my supposedly comfy saddle for a piece of rough-hewn timber. I find walking and cycling to be activities that allow me to mull things over, but as I neared the end of my ride the only thing I could focus on was my tender nether regions. However, all this was worth it when, not far from Westleigh Cross, a stoat emerged from the tall grass at the side of the Tarka Trail. I think my relatively silent approach took it by surprise. It popped out, skittered around in a tight circle and disappeared back into the grass. Brilliant, in fact so brilliant, I might even be tempted back out on the bike again this weekend. Will I never learn?
Anyway, I haven't been walloped, but my backside is sore because I've been out cycling the Tarka Trail again. Bideford to Fremington Quay and back again all in one go. Now I know many people are not remotely bothered by such distances, but for me, towards the end I was struggling to remember when I had substituted my supposedly comfy saddle for a piece of rough-hewn timber. I find walking and cycling to be activities that allow me to mull things over, but as I neared the end of my ride the only thing I could focus on was my tender nether regions. However, all this was worth it when, not far from Westleigh Cross, a stoat emerged from the tall grass at the side of the Tarka Trail. I think my relatively silent approach took it by surprise. It popped out, skittered around in a tight circle and disappeared back into the grass. Brilliant, in fact so brilliant, I might even be tempted back out on the bike again this weekend. Will I never learn?
Friday 3 July 2009
I met my old lover, the other day
Actually, it wasn't my old lover - it was a building I had once worked in. In fact, I worked in this building for two decades and then we moved to somewhere new. The old building lay empty for a while, before becoming a restaurant, which is how I ended up in it again. I think there is a line in Don Henley's song Boys of Summer which goes something like "don't look back, you can never look back". But sometimes you can't help a backward glance, and, a bit like meeting someone you were once close to, you think "Wow you weren't like that when we were together". So it was that I, and the group of colleagues I was with, spent a large proportion of our time in this building discussing changes that had been made. We shouldn't have been too surprised, it is now a restaurant, after all.
But buildings are powerful repositories of memory and none of us could help but look at what had happened to the place where we spent so many of our waking hours. We laughed and reminisced and it was difficult not to recall the people we had worked with who were no longer with us, either because they had moved on, or because they had been "called to glory", as the Salvation Army has it. Our reason for being there at all was because two valued colleagues had been made redundant and no doubt they will form part of the roll call of people we remember with affection.
The truth is that as things stand anyone, at any time, could find themselves out of work and maybe the best they can hope for is to be remembered with affection. I've been to a few leaving do's recently for people who have chosen to leave and for people who have been made redundant and the gap they leave behind takes some time to fill. I suspect that, for me, the impact of their departure has been made greater because of the loss of my dad earlier this year. No doubt, I will get over it.
As for old lovers, is it possible to make a comparison with a restaurant in the middle of Barnstaple? Probably not, although one of my old lovers (and we are talking about a very long time ago) became a lesbian and is that so different to the transition from office to restaurant? Anyway, the title for this posting came from a Paul Simon song called Still crazy after all these years, which somehow seems appropriate. I still feel slightly at odds with the rest of the world, but at least I'm more at peace with it.
But buildings are powerful repositories of memory and none of us could help but look at what had happened to the place where we spent so many of our waking hours. We laughed and reminisced and it was difficult not to recall the people we had worked with who were no longer with us, either because they had moved on, or because they had been "called to glory", as the Salvation Army has it. Our reason for being there at all was because two valued colleagues had been made redundant and no doubt they will form part of the roll call of people we remember with affection.
The truth is that as things stand anyone, at any time, could find themselves out of work and maybe the best they can hope for is to be remembered with affection. I've been to a few leaving do's recently for people who have chosen to leave and for people who have been made redundant and the gap they leave behind takes some time to fill. I suspect that, for me, the impact of their departure has been made greater because of the loss of my dad earlier this year. No doubt, I will get over it.
As for old lovers, is it possible to make a comparison with a restaurant in the middle of Barnstaple? Probably not, although one of my old lovers (and we are talking about a very long time ago) became a lesbian and is that so different to the transition from office to restaurant? Anyway, the title for this posting came from a Paul Simon song called Still crazy after all these years, which somehow seems appropriate. I still feel slightly at odds with the rest of the world, but at least I'm more at peace with it.
Wednesday 1 July 2009
Mrs Slocombe's pussy is stuffed
Blimey, first Michael Jackson, then Molly Sugden. Who will be next? I was just on my way back from the beach when they announced Molly Sugden's death on the radio. The brief obituary referred to roles in The Liver Birds and, as Mrs Slocombe, in Are You Being Served? It was in that character that she exploited the British love of double entendre with endless references to her 'pussy'. The extract on the radio had Mrs Slocombe saying that something had been so frightening her 'pussy's hairs stood on end'. Ha ha! I'm not sure I even found that particularly funny when I was a teenager watching that sort of stuff on telly. Even so, pussy is a great word, as is beaver, and for a comedy fruit moment you can't beat plums.
I wonder if Molly Sugden ever came to North Devon. I could see her having done a show at the old Victoria Pavilion in Ilfracombe. I suspect not, she would be more of a Torquay sort of person. So, Molly Sugden, may you and your pussy rest in pieces.
By the way, the man in the red Renault Laguna estate is continuing his non-mobile lifestyle in one of the lay-bys on the A39. He had his windows down when I went past this afternoon, but he still must have been baking.
I wonder if Molly Sugden ever came to North Devon. I could see her having done a show at the old Victoria Pavilion in Ilfracombe. I suspect not, she would be more of a Torquay sort of person. So, Molly Sugden, may you and your pussy rest in pieces.
By the way, the man in the red Renault Laguna estate is continuing his non-mobile lifestyle in one of the lay-bys on the A39. He had his windows down when I went past this afternoon, but he still must have been baking.
Tuesday 30 June 2009
Hey, let's get naked
I was first on the beach this morning at about 5.30am. No other footprints in the sand, which had been washed flat by the tide. The beach was mine and my dog's. She didn't seem that impressed, but this morning was special, clear views from Hartland Point to Baggy. A container vessel lumbered its way the landward side of Lundy. All this under a sky laden with lilac, purple and pink clouds and the occasional patch of clear blue. What's that line in one of the songs on Quadrophenia by The Who? 'A beach is a place where a man feel/ He's the only soul in the world who's real.' That was me, but, obviously, not my dog.
So we walked along the beach and then headed down to the water's edge. The sea was whisper quiet and as I approached I decided a paddle was in order. Shoes and socks off, and carry on walking towards the water. It was then I formed the idea of going for a swim. Strip off and run headlong into the sea. Nobody was around, who would know? Skinny-dipping is the best way to swim, although not something you can do easily all the time. To swim in crystal clear sea (not round here, then) with the hot sun beating down (definitely not round here) is an almost transcendental experience. To appreciate the difference swimming without any clothing makes, try taking a bath in your underwear. Trust me on this. Anyway there I was, shoes and socks off gearing up for a daring dip when the first ripples of the sea washed around my ankles. God's teeth, it was cold. The dog ran in, but I decided a cup of coffee was in order.
So we walked along the beach and then headed down to the water's edge. The sea was whisper quiet and as I approached I decided a paddle was in order. Shoes and socks off, and carry on walking towards the water. It was then I formed the idea of going for a swim. Strip off and run headlong into the sea. Nobody was around, who would know? Skinny-dipping is the best way to swim, although not something you can do easily all the time. To swim in crystal clear sea (not round here, then) with the hot sun beating down (definitely not round here) is an almost transcendental experience. To appreciate the difference swimming without any clothing makes, try taking a bath in your underwear. Trust me on this. Anyway there I was, shoes and socks off gearing up for a daring dip when the first ripples of the sea washed around my ankles. God's teeth, it was cold. The dog ran in, but I decided a cup of coffee was in order.
Monday 29 June 2009
Life on the road
I used to have to drive all over North Devon for work, but now I don't. Instead I drive just one particular stretch of road most days and, as a consequence, I've got to know it pretty well. I travel along part of the A39 between Bideford and Barnstaple and it is very familiar to me, which is how I noticed the man in the red Renault Laguna estate. Most days, in the lay-bys closest to the Barnstaple end of the Torridge Bridge (on both sides of the road) you will see him. There seems to be no rhyme nor reason to which lay-by he chooses, but it is rare for him not to be there. I think he could be living in his car.
I told my significant other about this and she suggested that as we were driving along the A39 at the time we should see if he was parked up and take a look. He was there, in the lay-by on the Bideford-bound side of the road, but he was facing towards Barnstaple - maybe he wanted the sun. We stopped our car opposite his and looked at him, and he looked at us. If we were not going to initiate a conversation there didn't seem much more we could do, so we carried on with our journey. I noticed that the rear window of his car was missing and the back door was dented.
So for the time being the man in the red Renault Laguna estate remains something of a mystery. I suppose I might just be intolerably nosy, but why people do things fascinates me, and I can't begin to understand why a person would spend so much time sitting in their car in one of two lay-bys. I first noticed him about a month ago and it has become impossible for me not to glance up at the lay-bys as I drive by. Nine times out of ten (an entirely unscientific assertion) I would say he was there. But why?
I told my significant other about this and she suggested that as we were driving along the A39 at the time we should see if he was parked up and take a look. He was there, in the lay-by on the Bideford-bound side of the road, but he was facing towards Barnstaple - maybe he wanted the sun. We stopped our car opposite his and looked at him, and he looked at us. If we were not going to initiate a conversation there didn't seem much more we could do, so we carried on with our journey. I noticed that the rear window of his car was missing and the back door was dented.
So for the time being the man in the red Renault Laguna estate remains something of a mystery. I suppose I might just be intolerably nosy, but why people do things fascinates me, and I can't begin to understand why a person would spend so much time sitting in their car in one of two lay-bys. I first noticed him about a month ago and it has become impossible for me not to glance up at the lay-bys as I drive by. Nine times out of ten (an entirely unscientific assertion) I would say he was there. But why?
Sunday 28 June 2009
Him? Oh he's The Boss
I was watching Bruce Springsteen - The Boss to many of his fans - at Glastonbury on Saturday. I wasn't one of the hordes actually at Worthy Farm, I hardly ever leave North Devon, but sat at home in front of the telly I got a pretty good view of the best that Bruce and the E Street Band had to offer. I thought it was great, but then I do like Bruce, and immediately suffered a pang of regret. The regret stemmed from knowing that Springsteen is to appear in Hyde Park today and I could have gone.
Yes, I know I said I hardly ever leave North Devon, but I was all set to make an exception in this instance and venture to London. I find our great capital alternately terrifying and fascinating and in order to have seen Bruce at Hyde Park I would have placed myself in the level-headed care of my big sister, who lives in London and is still looking out for me after all these years. However, work intervened and so I passed on the chance and that left me wondering about something that has been on my mind since the spring when my dad died - it's the whole question of regret.
Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention. Yes, someone got there first to say that, but my point is should we allow ourselves to run the risk of regretting what we have not done. As I said, since my dad died (after a long illness and at a good age) I have been thinking that ultimately what we ought to look for in life are memories, not regrets. Following on from that I also think that sometimes none of it matters, we are, after all, merely mortal. But that is perhaps allowing the nihilist side of my nature to show through.
This all came to me this morning as I trundled along the Tarka Trail on my bike, where my chief regret was tender nether regions due to not riding often enough. Eventually, I decided that life is too short and I should get on with a) enjoying having seen the Glastonbury performance, b) taking in the beautiful sights and sounds of the Tarka Trail, and c) cycling more often so I don't end up with a funny walk.
Yes, I know I said I hardly ever leave North Devon, but I was all set to make an exception in this instance and venture to London. I find our great capital alternately terrifying and fascinating and in order to have seen Bruce at Hyde Park I would have placed myself in the level-headed care of my big sister, who lives in London and is still looking out for me after all these years. However, work intervened and so I passed on the chance and that left me wondering about something that has been on my mind since the spring when my dad died - it's the whole question of regret.
Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention. Yes, someone got there first to say that, but my point is should we allow ourselves to run the risk of regretting what we have not done. As I said, since my dad died (after a long illness and at a good age) I have been thinking that ultimately what we ought to look for in life are memories, not regrets. Following on from that I also think that sometimes none of it matters, we are, after all, merely mortal. But that is perhaps allowing the nihilist side of my nature to show through.
This all came to me this morning as I trundled along the Tarka Trail on my bike, where my chief regret was tender nether regions due to not riding often enough. Eventually, I decided that life is too short and I should get on with a) enjoying having seen the Glastonbury performance, b) taking in the beautiful sights and sounds of the Tarka Trail, and c) cycling more often so I don't end up with a funny walk.
Saturday 27 June 2009
Pop...and he's gone
Michael Jackson is dead and here in North Devon I didn't think there was that much of a connection with a story that resounds around the world. But then of course I remembered that the Peter Pan of Pop is alleged to have once attended the Queen's Theatre, Barnstaple, for some sort of awards ceremony. Did he, didn't he? I don't really care. I'd like to think he did, although I have my doubts.
And then the Jackson clan - give or take Michael and one or two others - found themselves deposited in Appledore looking for a house. For much of the time they looked rather shell-shocked and left North Devon without having purchased their dream property. A sad day for North Devon's estate agents, but can you really imagine the Jacksons propping up the bar of, say, The Beaver necking pints of real ale and trying to work out the intricacies of cribbage or euchre.
So RIP Michael Jackson. I'll freely confess that I have never been a great fan of his music, although early stuff from 'Off the Wall' takes me instantly back to blundering around on the dance floor of the students' union of what was then Sheffield Poly. In this hugely connected world in which we live, Sheffield, for me, is linked to my having been in North Devon now for close to 30 years. I only came here as a stepping stone...anyway, moving on.
And then the Jackson clan - give or take Michael and one or two others - found themselves deposited in Appledore looking for a house. For much of the time they looked rather shell-shocked and left North Devon without having purchased their dream property. A sad day for North Devon's estate agents, but can you really imagine the Jacksons propping up the bar of, say, The Beaver necking pints of real ale and trying to work out the intricacies of cribbage or euchre.
So RIP Michael Jackson. I'll freely confess that I have never been a great fan of his music, although early stuff from 'Off the Wall' takes me instantly back to blundering around on the dance floor of the students' union of what was then Sheffield Poly. In this hugely connected world in which we live, Sheffield, for me, is linked to my having been in North Devon now for close to 30 years. I only came here as a stepping stone...anyway, moving on.
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