I never thought I'd agree with a single thing that the spite-ridden old Lord Tebbit said, but it seems I'm wrong:
"I don't think that the Conservative party should be the party which makes Labour policies work. I think we should leave the Labour party to try and do that..."
For all my misgivings about Labour (and let's face it, they make a long list) , overall I'd still rather have their policies than Cameron's (obviously this is speculative, I mean do we actually really know what any of them are yet?) and rather have them try and implement than the Tory twats.
relevant quote can be found here, just over 1 minute in - warning viewers with a sensitivity to Tory bile and swarm should probably not click
There's something about preparing food that seems to disagree with my back. I'm sure it must be a posture thing; I try looking down my nose at the veg with my shoulders firmly back, but it barely helps.
That combined with lifting of gazebos and such like two weekends running, has left me with a sore back.
In fact last Friday I gave in and sourced some of those air activated adhesive heat pads (ooh they're magic!) from a pharmacy and made it through the afternoon in the office through a combination of a lovely warmth penetrating my deep muscle and some anti-inflammatory gel. I fear this is a milestone in the ageing process and I am but months away from ralgex and exhaling as I sit down.
Another weekend of entertaining took it's own toll and as I reached down to lock the garage door this morning the aches and pains made themselves truly known.
Which might explain the dawning realisation as I left work this evening, that whilst I distinctly remember placing my gym bag by my front door last night, I can't really recall putting it in the boot of my car. This would tend to add up to suggest that the bag is lost somewhere between my front door and the garage. My usual habit is to put the gym bag down beside the garage, get the car out and then stow it in the boot.
I have horrible feeling that this morning that routine mutated slightly into: put bag down beside garage, get car out, close garage door, bend to reach the bottom lock, pull back, wince in pain, lose concentration, hobble to car, get in (no doubt exhaling as more poor limbs came to rest) and drive off without gym bag.
Sure enough the bag is nowhere to be found, not in the car, not in the house, not by the garage.
Cursing my own stupidity and vacillating between toting up the cost and inconvenience of my loss, and trying to persuade myself that there's nothing to gain from getting upset about something I can't change, I take a walk around the neighbourhood and the wasteland in particular hoping I might at least be able to salvage some discarded remains of someone's thievery.
No joy though. I head home.
A few minutes later there is a ring at the doorbell and my neighbour enquires if I happened to leave a gym bag by my garage.
Whilst walking the dog she'd seen it lying by the garage and when it was still there ten minutes later and there was no answer at my house, she took it in.
Returned safely I'm so relieved. At least now my attempts at exercise will only be governed by muscle strains, not a lack of attire.
After various messages left on each other’s voicemails, P and I eventually managed to catch up with each other last night.
Would I be in if he, R and their three kids popped in tomorrow afternoon.
Heck it would be lovely; so after the car is serviced this morning, I rush to the supermarket to stock up and spend the rest of the morning preparing a veggie feast (chopping is a bit of a constant theme).
Since P and R left the city for the wilds of the Lancashire Yorkshire border, I’ve seen them too infrequently and sitting in the garden, watching the kids play swing ball and invent games with the left over flags from last week, it’s great to catch up with them.
Following a trip down to East Anglia for a meeting today, I make it back in time for a Book Group planned tour of the Anthony Burgess Foundation house (following on from our reading of A Clockwork Orange last time). Unfortunately, an incident with a boiler has left the house with water damage that they are trying to put right and so our visit is postponed.
In keeping with our stated endeavours to read a broader range of books, this week we discuss The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which could barely be more of a contrast to the previous selection.
It’s been a long time since I read this book and whilst it may not be great literature I’m charmed once again by the simple flow of the writing and the wit extracted from the utter absurdity of everyday life.
It has of course suffered from endless physics students repeating passages to each other verbatim, but to allow that image to obscure the merit of Adam’s writing is a mistake. His gentle and wry view of the world around us was with us for too short a time. Hitchhiker’s may not change your life, but it will while away many an evening very pleasantly.
Part of the deep intellectual conversation at the five o’clock club last night, was predictably enough about Eurovision.
The lovely Jude also had a party and let’s just say that she and C took the dressing up for the airline themed occasion fairly seriously. Hello mama!
In many ways Eurovision is just an excuse for grown-ups, be they participants or spectators, to run wild in the dressing up trunk.
It disappointed us slightly therefore that the winning entry was a rather dour power ballad from Serbia, performed by a stout, cropped haired woman backed by female backing singers who made Charlie’s Angels look like women with a curling tong phobia.
Several theories circulated at our party, including that a new hole in the ozone had opened up due to the amount of hairspray used on but one of the backing chanteuse, to a worry that their hairstylist started on the backing group and ran out of time by the point they reached the front woman.
T declared it a dyke victory, whereas P counter-claimed that it was in fact a victory for anyone who had suffered a pudding bowl haircut as a child.
A free copy of The Times on the train last night, offered up first the insight that with the big screens in gay pubs the country over, this annual event was akin to the gay world’s FA Cup and then the observation regarding the bloc voting scandal that we should rise above it all as we probably “don’t want to win a contest in which even Serbian hairdressers[…] have a vote”.
After a morning in the office, I'm on the train south for another Greenbelt Mgmt Grp meeting, preceded by what is fast becoming a tradition: the 5 o'clock drinking club.
Not just one Jude but two, a Paul, a Steve and an evil Harv.
Lovely.
Bonus of bonuses, after a productive meeting, there's even 20 minutes spare for me catch a post meeting drink with the rest of the crowd before getting that late train home to Manchester.
A deliberate choice to leave the laptop at home, meant that the work undertaken on the trip down and back was for once limited to the small amount of paperwork I took with me. This ploy achieved the desired result and gentle snoozing as the world rushed by helped me catch up on energy levels after a busy few days.
Still exhausted after the party, in many ways I could do without a gig tonight and my gig buddy Staurt feels likewise.
Duke Special is however the perfect end to a hectic weekend. He is one of those performers that has the rare talent to transport you from you earthly concerns and carry you away on soaring waves of beauty.
Truly beautiful.
And to cap it all off, they perform the last song in the middle of the audience and then as we're leaving we find ourselves in the absolutely perfect spot for a bonus number performed in a doorway on one of the exit routes.
The band, Stuart, myself and two other lucky punters - now that's what I call an intimate gig!
Despite staying up to an ungodly hour last night to make a start on the clearing up (helped in the first part by the wonderful S&K- true friends stay behind after the party and help!), there is still piles of work to do today.
Gazebos dismantled and stored, barbecues scrubbed and cleaned, lights unstrung and put away, bowl after bowl of washing up, bottles in the recycling bin and so on and so on.
I keep finding passports and flags in the most unusual places.
Gazebos up – check Boards and cardboard strategically placed in garden to try and protect the grass – check Picnic bench washed down – check Fairy lights strung inside and out, off every available point – check Meat marinated – check Wooden skewers soaked and chicken and paneer kebabs made up - check Salad dressed, coleslaw etc in bowls – check Rolls sliced – check Chutney and ketchups deployed – check Onions and mushrooms prepared for frying – check Glasses, plates, napkins and cutlery out on table – check Cool box filled with ice on drinks trolley – check House tidied – hmmm it’ll do Bunting comprised of the flags of 24 finalists hung inside and out - check Playlist prepared on iPod – check TV positioned for optimised viewing – check Chocolate fountain (newly arrived birthday present!) running – check Strawberries, blackberries and marshmallows ready for dunking – check Shedloads of pakora and samosas commissioned from favourite niece and en route – check Barbecues lit – check Alcohol and mixer supplies purchased - check Cocktail shaker, jigger, umbrellas, twirly sticks, neon straws, sliced fruit etc out – check Pims mixed – check Rum Punch mixed – check Sweepstake prizes purchased - check Passports prepared for each country as basis of sweepstake – check National flags and national airline insignias prepared for waving – check Thirty plus friends arriving – check European love-child of Christopher Biggins and Sue Pollard in the wings warming up - check
Cabin doors to manual – check
“Welcome to Eurovision Airlines – we hope you enjoy the ride!”.
According to Sir Patrick Moore (astronomer to the stars?), woman are to blame for falling standards of quality on the TV.
"I used to watch Doctor Who and Star Trek, but they went PC - making women commanders, that kind of thing. I stopped watching."
Well who can blame him? Women as commanders - what a preposterous notion!
Apparently he stated "I would like to see two independent wavelengths - one controlled by women, and one for us, controlled by men."
Hmmm very telling, that use of the word ‘us’.
Sorry Sir P, but 51% of ‘us’ are women (shocking I know, but what can I say?).
Any idea who we should blame for falling standards of reality grasping amongst the knighthood?
But in the spirit of education of this icon of British TV should the clueless one happen this way - Sir P, 'aliens' are the things that may possibly be found at the other end of your telescope's gaze, whereas that creature standing behind you rolling her eyes? Not actually a different species.
"A group of firefighters were mobbed by women who thought they were part of the act when they arrived to tackle a blaze during a strip show."
It appears that the mistaking of emergency personnel for strippers works both ways.
Though to be fair, I'm not sure one can really be said to be impersonating a police officer if you have the word Stripper emblazoned on the back of your stab vest.
After the sobering news on Friday, a gentle weekend was just the ticket.
In preparation for next weekend a new barbecue and gazebo were purchased and in the case of the former assembled.
It being a trolley type arrangement, with untold number of parts, it required a good bit of assembly, but my spatial awareness and ability to read technica1 drawings is not bad, so usually flat packs hold no major fear for me.
That said, can I just question whether it’s entirely necessary to give instructions like “fix bar D to cross plate E, using bolts Q, nuts R and washers S”, when the pack of nuts, bolts and washers uses a completely different nomenclature? Accordingly, I had to keep flick back and forward in the instruction booklet to the cross reference table that informed you that bolt Q was also known as M6o35 and nut R M5o45. Trust me by step 77, this becomes very annoying.
Still, five paper cuts later (I’m joking), and one trip back to the shop to exchange two parts that came damaged/broken, the barbecue was assembled and very fine it looks too.
Best of all, though I didn’t realise it when I purchased it (I was concentrating on spec and sale prices!), it’s part of the Anthony Worell Thompson range and therefore, come Saturday, we can enjoy the sport of getting the barbecue going by burning the cardboard packaging, complete with smug twat grinning TV chef image.
Saturday evening was spent eating salad in the garden at S&K’s and having a fine evening of catching up (so long since I last saw them ;-) ). It may be a sign of the fact that all three of us were drinking, but the principle point of entertainment for the latter part of the evening, was arranging a poor resting Millie dog with a bottle of lager under her paw, to look like she was passed out ‘tired and emotional’. You probably had to be there…
Monday was spent tidying garden and house (the former hampered a little by showers), some Greenbelt work and then a curry with friends.
As we walked in a party of three were leaving and after a few seconds of eye contact with the woman, I realised it was L who used to come to the literature evening class I went to, many, many moons ago.
There are signs that you haven’t seen someone for ages, when they say “and this is my two and half year old son”.
She also commented that it was me that had first introduced her to the Punjab many years back. Now that doesn’t sound likely does it…?
Pressures on time meant that my re-reading of Anthony Burgess' classic is rather rushed.
Which doesn't give this masterpiece the justice it deserves.
Frequently it makes difficult reading, but it's hard to think of a novel that better examines and demonstrates the power of language to reflect and in turn shape a sub-culture.
Mind you on repeat reading, I'm struck by quite how much of Russell Brand's stage act/vocabulary is borrowed from these pages. Phrases like "vidi my droogies" were always obvious enough direct lifts, but phrases like high-faluting and the like appear to be similar hat tips.
That said, whilst lack of time did leave me skim reading the final chapters, I'm fairly sure that Burgess isn't the origin of phrases like 'dinkle' and 'ball sack'. But you never know.
