a light dinner preparation

I am just in the process of making a chicken curry following a recipe I found in the hairy bikers cookbook my sister Anne gave me.So far it looks very promising.Later I shall make a channa masala, cucumber and onion raita, sag aloo (coz I got loads of sag and am not short of an aloo or two), boiled rice (basmati of course) and something made from courgettes and aubergines ( that's zucchini and egg plants for the uninitiated or berenjena y no tengo idea ).The chicken curry has been prepared and will cook slowly for a further hour.All this grub will, of course, be washed down with wine and no it won't be served in a poncey fashion. I don't do presentation.If my guests want that they will have to venture to the modern Tate gallery where I am sure they will find something that will appeal to their visual senses

There comes a time in one's life when one has to take stock and make the kind of decision most of us would rather not do if only because it reflects one unending truth about life i.e. as we get older, we become slower, weaker and less agile.I say this because I recently completed a task which, in hindsight ,I should probably have left alone given all the above plus the fact that I didn't have at my disposal the kind equipment that would have rendered the task quite straightforward.By that I mean a mobile platform and a motorized pole cutter to compliment my existing hedge cutters.

The task in question involved the heavy trimming of a massively overgrown Leylandii hedge which was all of 15 ft high by 10 ft deep across the top.The width of the hedge was not an issue but the greenhouse which butted against it was.Such hedges at the very least should be trimmed once a year but Mr. W, its owner, decided to let it grow for two years which meant that the branches standing proudly were very much thicker than normal and in some cases, at least 1 inch in diameter.

When I first looked at the hedge my mind was still at the 30-year-old stage and I saw it as a challenge for it is quite normal for a superannuated old git to think he can do things he used to do, that is until he is faced with cold hard realities.Old father time is never kind on one's basic faculties so much so when I finally finished cutting the bloody thing I quickly came to the conclusion that my body was no longer the lithe machine I expected it to be. By that time I was trying to work out what words to use to MR W which might be a politer version of "from now on you can stick your hedge up your arse" Then again I like him so I maintained a stoical silence only betrayed by the thinnest of smiles 

A regular extending ladder was never going be enough, especially with that farking glasshouse in the way so I bought some stabilizers which I attached to it thus transforming it into a de facto very tall step ladder.Fine, except the stabilizer plus ladder was extremely fiddly to assemble and time-consuming to use.The words "boludo ,me cago en la puta que lo pario" and whatever English variants I could think of ,gushed out of my mouth with complete alacrity.

As time went on I came to the conclusion that such a ladder was never going to be enough.Fine around the greenhouse provided I took my time and was extra careful, but the rest of the hedge was going to need something a lot more robust i.e. a 12 high double width scaffold tower,(about half the height of this http://www.laddersandscaffoldtowers.co.uk/…/Industrial-Scaf…).

I thought assembling it would be a piece of piss and that I could complete the whole job in a day.WRONG! .I asked the delivery bloke if it was quite straightforward.He gave me a rueful look, took a deep breath of air and proceeded to explain what to do, ending with a "once you have done it once it's normally quite simple but I would rather you gave me a ring if you find yourself struggling with it because there is a knack to getting the higher level on top of the other" 

Nice chap I thought, but my the 30-year-old brain was having none of that.I was going to get that contraption assembled on my own no matter what.Fortunately, I had a step ladder to help me on my endeavours although it still meant raising the side sections to at least head height. Then I placed the 9 foot long boards, two one level and the remaining two on the other By the time I finished my 62-year-old body kicked in and I was totally fooked.No more work for me that day, I decided.

Next day I roped Nelly in to give us a hand.She was proper good she was, raking all the cuttings, disposing of them and helping me drag the tower along and around the hedge as and when required.For cutting purposes, I used a regular hedge cutter, a long handled hedge cutter, a pair of loppers and a long handled lopper. All told we spent a good 5-6 hours, at the end of which the end result looked pretty good.Then the dismantling.Fuck it, I thought, I'll do that tomorrow.
That didn't take too long but it was almost as arduous as assembling it due to the weight and my paranoid fear of dropping a section somewhere unwanted such as a greenhouse.At the end of it all I gave a deep sigh of relief and vowed not to do it again

What happened to soap

There was a time when not so long ago bars of soap were common place, those 4 inch white ,pink or yellow slabs that sat beside ones taps in the bathroom , albeit sometimes rather messily .They were used to wash our body parts , including hair . They were even, at times, used to wash our dogs in the bath with, that is before shampoo appeared on the scene.Wonderful stuff shampoo , basically its just detergent or washing up liquid with scent added and given a particular generic name ie shampoo.At first there was just one type but them some bright spark decided to make it gender specific so we had his and hers shampoo.Then they decided that dandruff was a problem so they created a particular variety which did sod all to get rid of dandruff but they didn't tell the public that.

One day another bright spark decided to add certain ingredients such as jojoba and aloe vera on the premise they are some kind of natural healthcare product which would do wonders for peoples hair .Most people had no idea what jojoba was but it just sounded right so sales shot up.

Likewise whilst they knew aloe vera as that succulent indoor plant that sits on a window sill, they had been sufficiently primed about "its incredible health giving properties"so again sales shot up.It just goes to show if you tell a lie often enough and in the right way you can easily deceive the gullible . 

But why stop there? Lets add some mango, banana and avocado in the mix too, surely all natural products which would improve our hair tenfold.Now I have an ongoing question .Who is responsible for this crap? Could it be the Body Shop? For it is they who first pioneered the idea of chucking organic crap found in jungles and deserts into cosmetics and which might tie us back to our hunter gatherer roots.It was brilliant strategy which worked wonders for their business model.The founders(Rodicks) became very successful and when they finally realised the concept was running out of steam they sold the business off

Now the shampoo industry is not known for missing a opportunity or, as they call it , a market so they decided to diversify further with intention of finally seeing the end of good old honest soap. First we had hand washes in plastic containers , then shower gels to wash ones body ,but not the hair for that was still the preserve of honey flavoured ,aloe vera and henna infused shampoos. 

Then some wag decided to create face wash because faces are different to bodies, you see.They have mouths, noses and eyes therefore require very specific types of , err , detergents.One thing under no circumstances should a man use face wash for his hands otherwise hewill incur the wrath of 'er indoors.Face washes are VERY specific and you must NOT use it to wash your private parts either.

Finally there is another body wash I once experienced, a gritty variety. Its almost as though someone decided to tip a load of sand into it ,the idea being that it would act like a sort of liquid sandpaper and presumably rid our bodies of all the nasty detritus accumulated over a day.Beats a loofah I guess.I used it once on my hair without realising what it was. Never again as it finally rammed home the whole idiocy the shampoo liquid soap industry is.

Life was so much simple when humble soap and plain cheap as chips shampoo was all we needed to keep ourselves clean.
Mind you soap has made a bit a comeback because some clever clogs decided to create a sort of retro variety which is cut off a board and sold in sections rather like cheese once was.Either that or sold in rustic looking balls and things that look vaguely edible. Niche concepts do work which is why Lush is also successful .You pay a premium mind which is why I avoid it another is because their retail outlets stink to high heaven,like the very worst over applied aftershave.

Once again i have been conned by a smiling young lady .Well not exactly conned as she works for the RSPCA ,trying to raise funds and one could see from her delivery that she had been on some sort of course designed to persuade the softheaded .The smile was so obviously manufactured and was accompanied by very contracted pupils, which are the true message conveyors, but i was sort of beguiled .Her smile has cost me £120 for the year but i have to believe its a good cause and the fact i like cats and dogs ,rather speaks for itself .Still her manufactured smile bothered me and like the greasy salesman from the used car garage, she delivered her patter with relentless conviction.Because her delivery was so obviously manufactured I wanted to get rid of her but at the same time the same smile had me trapped so I went along with her objective, besides I like pets.Nell never seems to be around when i need her and that smile was doing my head in
I felt inclined to take the mickey but she was a Swede and i do have sympathy for foreign nationals trying to earn a buck in this country., so instead, I told her about the Normans because we live in Normandy lane.Was she interested ?I doubt it. She has an English beau so I suggested she ask him who they were ,like descended from Vikings i.e. fellow Swedes.Beau, though, is a business analyst so small historical facts are hardly likely to be of interest to him.Then I showed her are our garden but her reactions was, shall we say, rather brief i.e. "yes very nice".

I can just sense my dear wife doing her nut but this Swede had RSPCA printed on her in big letters plus she had a card and the resulting paperwork is obviously genuine , so no fear of a con but i feel conned nonetheless.Why??? Maybe its because I like to make my own choices without feeling pressured in anyway.I like to feel the power is with me and I have not been coerced .These charities are clever because they play on your conscience and give you no opportunity to give things another thought .Time is not on your side ,you decide there and then and smiling Swede knows how to play the game to a T.
I decided to take things to the more inane and away from the business end . Why, I asked her, did she die her hair auburn if she is a natural blonde.?It made no sense.I mean Swede = blonde, right? Or am i stereotyping?
Anyway i found it difficult to indulge in small talk other than 'are you living here because the beer is a lot cheaper?' "No my boyfriend is English", was her curt reply.She does curt very well and always with that smile.Small talk wasnt exactly brill on my side either.She asked politely ,as one would expect from a disinterested salesperson-"what are you doing this weekend?"
'Err ,working all day tomorrow and sunday my wife and I will decide.No we are not going to any rip roaring club and will probably sit in our garden supping a few vinos. Are you really that interested or am i being neurotically defensive?' Maybe I should have said we would be going to a transvestites annual jamboree where Nell and I would be switching roles, but somehow I didnt feel she would be shocked .

Her smile was like a weapon designed to beguile but her eyes wore a steady determination which seemed to run counter to her smile.

There comes a time in ones life when one has to take stock and make the kind of decision most of us would rather not do, if only because it reflects one unending truth about life i.e. we get older , slower, less agile and less assured about ones capabilities,I say this because I recently completed a task which in hindsight I should probably have left alone given all the above and that I didn't have the kind equipment that would have rendered the task quite straightforward .By that, I mean a mobile platform and a motorized pole cutter to compliment my existing hedge cutters.

The task in question involved the heavy trimming of a massively overgrown Leylandii hedge which was all of 15 ft high by 10 ft wide across the top.The length itself was not an issue but the greenhouse which butted against it was.Such hedges at the very least should be trimmed once year but Mr W, its owner, decided to let it grow for two which meant that the branches standing proudly at the top which needed cutting, were, in several cases, at least 1 inch in diameter.

When I first looked at the hedge my mind was still at the 30-year-old stage and I saw it as a challenge.When I finally finished cutting the bloody thing I quickly came to the conclusion that my body was no longer at that stage of my life.By that time, I was trying to work out what words to use to MR W which might be a politer version of "from now on you can stick your hedge up your arse "

A regular extending ladder was never going be enough especially with that ferking glasshouse in the way so I bought some stabilisers which I attached to it thus transforming it into a de facto very tall step ladder.Fine, except the stabiliser plus ladder, was extremely fiddly and time-consuming to use.The words "boludo, me cago en la puta que lo pario" and whatever English variants I could think of, gushed out of my mouth with complete alacrity.

As time went on I came to the decision that such a ladder was never going to be enough.Fine around the greenhouse provided I took my time and was extra careful, but the rest of the hedge was going to need something a lot more robust i.e. a 12 high double width scaffold tower,(about half the height of thishttp://www.laddersandscaffoldtowers.co.uk/acatalog/Industrial-Scaffold-Towers.html).

I thought assembling it would be a piece of piss and that I could complete the whole job last Friday.WRONG! .I asked the delivery bloke if it was quite straightforward.He gave me a rueful look, took a breath of air and proceeded to explain what to do ending with a "once you have done it once just normally quite simple but I would rather you gave me a ring if you find yourself struggling with it because there is a knack to getting the higher level on top of each other" 

'Nice chap' I thought, but the 30-year-old brain was having none of that.I was going to get that contraption assembled on my own no matter what.Fortunately, I had a step ladder to help me on my endeavours although it still meant raising the side sections to head height but at least.Then the 9 foot long boards, all four of them and as I went so the side poles slotted in.By the time i finished my 62 year old body kicked in and I was totally fooked.No more work for me that day, I decided.

Next day, I roped Nelly in to give us a hand.She were proper good she were, raking all the cuttings, disposing of them and helping me drag the tower along and around the hedge as and when required.For cutting purposes, I used a regular hedge cutter, a long handled hedge cutter, a pair of loppers and a long-handled lopper. All told we spent a good 5-6 hours, at the end of which the end result looked pretty good.Then the dismantling.'Fuck it', I thought, 'I'll do that tomorrow'.That didn't take too long, but it was almost as arduous as assembling it due to the weight and my paranoid fear of dropping a section somewhere unwanted such as a greenhouse.

I have decided to name this day as JC day in honour of the great messiah who will one day return .I say that because the BBC have in fact not sacked him , instead they will not be offering him another contract to present Top Gear.

This means they have left the door ajar for him to return in some other guise which means his followers can salivate in anticipation or beat their bishops if they happen to be male.

Its in light of that, that I have decided that all JC followers should celebrate the great man's life and his deeds by having a meal at a Mexican restaurant ,that is if you can find one . Better still go to Mexico for there are plenty there.
I thought this one would be a good way of honouring him, his co presenters and one of Top Gears most infamous programme .The one in which they likened certain makes of cars to the national character of the particular nations they are made in .Not that they were stereotyping in anyway but it appears that the one made and designed in Mexico ,ie Mastretta MXT , is in their view very like your average Mexican ie “lazy feckless flatulent and likely to fall asleep staring at a cactus”. Excuse me a minute -hahahaha , There i laughed .Hard work but i did manage it

Apparently they cant do food either because its “all like sick with cheese on it”.Now those two comments cant exactly be attributed to JC himself but as all three presenters are in it together , they might as well be , besides he chuckled noticeably as they “discussed” the merits of a car which looks very much like a Lotus Elize but only does about 0-60 in 5 seconds , which is obviously very lazy ,feckless and flatulent.

As an added extra I would change the number plate to one that reads ElAlamo1836 because I cant think of another that might wind Mexicans up.They won that battle but ultimately lost the whole of Texas .
Upon arrival you will disparagingly ask Manuel for a table .I say Manuel because as an avid Top Gear fan you will have decided that all Spanish speaking men are called that .Once seated you will look at the menu and decide that refried beans would be the perfect embodiment of Mexican cuisine .

It is known to them as frijoles refritos , but you wont waste any time in speaking to the natives in their native tongue . Instead you will firmly demand “refried sick with cheese Manuel, and we want it pronto ,capiche?” Manuel has been here before because he has had dealing with many an arrogant gringo so he just pretends not to feel insulted .Instead he makes sure that refried sick is gobbed on repeatedly before serving the dish, which also turns out to be luke warm.

As a committed JC fan and supporter your moment arrives ,the one you have been waiting so you then indulge in a barrage of verbal abuse lasting not less than 20 minutes - ”I asked for hot sick not lukewarm ,you lazy cnut.I wanted sick hot you hear , hot !”

Dont forget to froth at the mouth, stand on your feet, wave arms around in unrelenting fury at the end of which you may deliver a well aimed punch at the scoundrels lip.”Do you know who I am , have you any idea.I am the immeasurably great JC?”. Another punch may be delivered as your colleagues cheer in unison.Its the only thing the natives understand ,you know.

The patron will obviously ask you top leave but dont be too despondent because a petition will be
raised using Change.org into which 1000 people will sign demanding a full apology from the patron, the Mexican government and any Dago that takes your fancy .A years supply of hot sick should be delivered to your doorstep as well.

I hope no ones thinks I am being ironic, heaven forbid.

By the way frijoles refritos are very nice, can be bought at Sainsburys (or other stores) together with other Mexican delights such as guacamole ,enchiladas, burritos and tortillas .Should you be brave enough you could always attempt making a Mole Poblano which is Mexico's national dish.
None of it looks anything like sick with cheese on

must be losing my fear of spiders .as i walked through the front door I felt this fluttering feeling just above and to the right of my right eye. I thought it might be a daddy long legs .It wasn’t ,it was a Boris the size of a something nasty .It didnt bite me which is just as well, but i didnt throw a fit either

So because you have been a taxi driver for the past ten years and know the streets of London like the back of your hand, you think you are something special? You can fuck off ten times over. Do you know who is special? I am because not only have I locked myself in a cabinet but I have also counselled countless queens(gay blokes) and i am an award winning broadcaster of loads of shite on Facebook albeit in print, so there! Realise you are inferior to me .Bet your wife doesnt even have a title as in Duchess or Lady.Was she given a CBE by her royal highness ? Thought not.
When I tell you how to do your job, its in the sure knowledge that it is because of my work experiences mowing lawns ,weeding ,pruning and planting roses.For that reason I know loads more than you do.,plus unlike you i am not a peasant with a nasty accent for I was schooled at St Johns .Bet you didn't go to Cambridge either.Only special people get to do that ,so just do as you are told

I really do not understand why you are complain about the "tradesman's" ,i.e. roofer,quote ? You say he is expensive ,maybe he is but he comes highly recommended and from what i have been told , does very good job because he takes pride in his work. It is on that basis that he values himself and his work. Of course you do not have to hire him as I didnt because I could not afford his prices .Difference here is that you are a very wealthy woman with 3 houses ,all for personal use ,at least four posh cars all of which you keep parked in full view of the passing public ostensibly because you like showing off , so you can easily afford his services but choose not to .Obviously you prefer spending money on prestige possessions rather than on something as vital as a roof.
Can i please ask you to stop complaining about said roofer.He like you likes to be well rewarded but unlike you ,does not complain

M first ever blog albeit in the form of a letter I sent to my best mate

M first ever blog albeit in the form of a letter I sent to my best mate

Dear Julianus

Well I have almost run out of superlatives that would adequately describe our latest Rhytm festival experience. Lets say its has gone up several notches from last year's offering.The weather was brilliant for which I suppose we must thank Zeus , Mahindra, Krishna or whichevcr deity is in charge of meteorological matters .Apart from a brief period on saturday morning ,the sun shone on us throughout each day.

Must make a mention of the fellow revellers who behaved impeccably- no wretching everywhere, no pissing or crashing on someones tent. In fact everyone was remarkably civil, all except me of course . Both my snoring and penchant for pissing in the middle of the night outside our tent ,this time on Christine's rear offside tyre , brought a chorus of disapproval. One bloke bawled out “Can someone turn that snorry bloke off .Its not fair!!”.He woke me the inconsiderate sod. Anyway these were minor matters as on the whole the atmsophere was excellent.

One of my favourite passtimes there was people watching- both young and old.The kids as always are a delight as they run around kicking footballs ,chucking frisbies etc but the old timers are also quite interesting.There was a prepondence of lard buckets this year which helped make me feel quite at ease.I guess the logistics and the relative smallness of the event make it a viable attraction for the more horizontally challenged amongst us. They were able to waddle along quite happily guzzling their lager and chips free in the knowledge that no one would shout “you fat bastard!”.Another group that caught my eye were the superannuated hippies from the seventies , some even sporting long greying hair, beads ,rings ,leather waistcoats and lurid shirts.One particular character sidled up to the bar ordered his pint of grog and proceeded to chat up the young waitress. When I say chat it was more of an incomprehensible blurb but she seemed quite taken. Maybe the idea of being rogered by “old craggy face” kind of appealed to her. Rather oedipal I thought but charming none the less.

Must tell you of an experience I had re the porta loos. Saturday morning saw me making my first use of them. They'd just been cleaned out and I thought “perfect”, so I ventured into one sat down and let my bowel movement take place. It was one of those pleasant ones when you know the end result will be firm but will ease out with minimum effort and nestle at the bottom of the bowl. “Mmm” ,I thought, “not bad” Anyway upon completion I went to pull the lever and the brown 'un wouldnt move. Three ,four times I tried ,each time with more vigour and still it wouldnt budge. “Fuuuuck!!” Shall i leave it and hope no one notices ? No I am too much of a gent, so I got a piece of toilet paper and gently eased the offending turd down. Task done except somehow in the tooing and froing movement I managed to get some lumps of excrement on both my t shirt and trousers.”Bugger, gotta clean that off, but, how, there is no water?? I know, I'll use spit” Spit spit, rub ,rub, got most of it off but the very evident brown stains would not shift. Now I have a choice tuck the t shirt in and display the stains on my trousers which are on the arse side ,or leave the tshirt untucked. I opt for the latter and scurry off back to our tent . First thing Nelly asks me is “ have you shit your self ?” The perceptive bitch!!”Nahh someone spilled some curry on me” I blurbed. Must have worked because she did not press me further.

Now to the music but before I start a special mention must be made for Jim Driver who organised this event.This guy in my view is the cojones de perro. Last year he made a loss but it didnt deter him having another go. He just upped the stakes, got some better bands , a decent programme and “Robert is your father's sibling”Bearing in mind this place can only accommodate 5 k ,his spending budget was always going to be very restricted so he aimed for passed their sell by dates, on the fringes or never heard of acts. The one thing he insists on is THEY MUST BE ABLE TO PLAY and he'll have no truck with useless ,here today gone tomorrow indie bands with attitude.With this in mind this is what we received or at least these were the bands I personally watched.

Friday

The Yardbirds . Only three surviving original members but they were tight and played with a lot of composure - R&B ,psychedelia and some of their well known hits

Hothouse Flowers – good oirish band whose efforts were slightly marred by the singers idiotic belief that he is some kind of sex God. He chucked his jacket down and proceeded to shake his body around obviously hoping the girls in the audience would chuck their soiled panties at him- sad git.

The Levellers- Now why the fuck have I never seen this band before??? They were just plain awesome. Been around for about 20 years as well.

Saturday

Joe Bonamassa . The day kicked in for me watching this dude from the good ole US of A playing shit kicking blues the likes I hadnt heard since Steve Ray Vaughn. This guy is an axeman supremo, go watch him ,buy his records he is that good.

Dr John- different kind of blues ,a much more laid back Misissipi confection. We know all about him and he didnt disappoint.

Seth Lakeman- a modern day English folky I feel sure we'll hear more of

Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel. Arrogant cnut, never did like him and he quite obviously resents the fact he never rose to become a big time Charlie. Doesnt stop boasting about how many women he's laid. As I say a prize cnut. Neverthteless I will admit through gritted teeth that he can play some good stuff.

Prince Buster – now I should have stayed and watched this dude , instead for some assinine reason I went in search of Tony Mcphee (ex Groundhogs axeman from the seventies)Should have stayed where i was as he was shit . On top of that he was late, about an hour late so I watched Ian Mathews( remember him? He made a hit single called Woodstock) instead . He was competent but I'm not one for crusty folk club atmospheres - all very earnest and solemn . Barnsley hippie pipes in “have you seen Terry Reid?” Who?? I smiled at him and kept quiet for fear of appearing ignorant. Then Long haired friend of Jesus appears from nowhere as he would , the guy is a dead ringer for the Messiah and I stand there wondering whether I ought shit myself or not.Then I remembered I had done that already and a repeat performance defnitely wasnt in order. "Jesus" had the most amazingly luxuriant long hair reaching down to his arse a ,neatly trimmed beard and steely blue eyes, his clothes were loose fitting, the kind one would associate with the Ist century AD. He stands there for a minute or so and as soon as I look away he glides off. Yup maybe I should've shit myself.I later consider that self defecation is probaly quite common at these events and, what, with the shere logistical nightmare that is maintaining sound cleanliness and hygene, decide those brown stains I commonly saw around me were probably good evidence of bowel movenents gone crazy , portaloo ineptitude or a poor ass wiping action.

Sunday shit last day

(I am wearing a clean shirt and trousers this day and decide to spend it at the main stage area guzzling beer)

The Blockheads - minus the late Ian Dury.I quietely admonish the lead singer because of his fowl mouth “ there are kids running around you moron! ”Have to forgive him, though, as he is plainly off his head and besides the band is shit kicking good.

Alabama 3- another massive highlight, this band plays a weird sort of elctro techno southern country western rock type stuff. They appear on stage clad in white suits and stetsons and one of their main men talks in a kind of southern drawl which emanates from a southern state I've never heard of . Thats because he and they are from London .He looks bit like spiv with a lecherous grin which he squarely aims at the young ladies . I can well imagine him sitting in a train behind a group of women ,grinning ,eyes bulging and with a length of spittle dangling from the side of his mouth. Dirty man. Good singer though. Then there is the fat bloke. Yes him standing in one corner clutching a beer can in one hand and a tab in the other . Again the same grin, but whats he doing there? Then it becomes obvious he is the “provider” as the band members slide over to him for a line or a qualude or even a tab. Every band needs a grinning fat bloke on the side I decide.

John Mayall

Well there is nothing i can say about him that you dont know already except I think you should tell the bloke who saw him and thought he was crap to get his ears syringed. Mayall is a consumate professional who doesnt do bad shows. It doesnt happen. One of the characteristics of this blues genius is his ability to unearth brilliant guitarists. On this occasion Buddy Worthington filled the role that others such as Clapton and Page did with so much aplomb. Who is Buddy you might ask? Well he hails from Fort Knox and he is serious lardy.Must weigh about 30 stone I'd guess. Mind you his guitar playing is sublime and ,whilst shaking his booty may not be welcome, he can certainly nestle his guitar on his considerable girth and play like the rest of us can only......well I can do a passable air guitar imitation but thats about it

Anyway it was a very pleasant weekend on the whole and one which I would certainly wish to repeat next year, they are already taking bookings now with a discount. I wanted to relay my experiences so that you might feel a little envious given your penchant for doing the same re the WC. I am also going to watch Alabama 3 in Brighton and Manu Chau in Brixton just so that you know that we in the SE enjoy an enormous choice of bands which you guys can only dream about in Cornwall. Is the envy gnawing away??

Thursday 1pm and another one of my infamous contretemps , this time with a very thorny pyracantha bush a client of mine wanted tidying. “There are some dead bits sticking up , could you please remove them?” 'Certainly Madam, you may be slightly eccentric but fear not for I will set about the task with whatever aplomb I can muster'
Anyone one who is familiar with pyracanthas will know that it is one of the most thorny bushes one can buy.They are very pretty in the autumn when they are covered with red berries which ,in turn, attract birds,which is all to the good .They are also most suitable for growing against walls and fences provided one keeps them trimmed ,but if they get out of hand they can be a nightmare to deal with.

Anyway I digress. As I trimmed happily away I became quickly aware that I was being repeatedly stabbed by numerous thorns ,measuring between ½ to an 1 inch in length wearing gloves which were not much better than the washing up variety.I should have stopped and gone in search of a more rugged pair but being a man fully fitted with testicles, I decided to proceed stoically.What made matters worse was my own obduracy because despite the fact she had only asked me to trim the twigs that were clearly evident, I could see they were attached to much thicker branches worming their way into the bowels of the bush. Now man + testosterone+ stoicism + obduracy +arrant stupidity+ linear thinking meant that in my mind there was a goal to achieve which went beyond “trim a few dead twigs” for I was determined to removed every sign dead growth I could find and there was clearly far more than I had anticipated .

Someone had previously done some pruning but left the branches in there. Apparently my predecessor had spotted a rat scurrying around and did a runner.Did he suspect Ebola or even bubonic plague? Anyway my testosterone levels were such that was not going to let such triflings deflect me from the task in hand .This was my Alamein moment after all, and I felt like a Desert Rat in all but name.
Now a normal bush is quite easy to tackle , you just cut the branches wherever you wish and pull .There may be some entanglement which might mean a little more surgery, but nothing much to concern one .Pyracanthas are different because they are uber entangled ,a fact made worse by those fucking thorns I mentioned.The only way to tackle it was in a piecemeal fashion which meant a slow, laborious job removing bits of branch and twigs whilst being continuously stabbed on my hand and the top of my head which now resembled a crossword puzzle.Client stepped outside and looked rather concerned but – 'fear not Madam for I am nearly there', my eyes were bulging ,my breathing was rather heavy whilst a length of spittle dangled from the side of my mouth ,but my tenaciousness remained undimmed .
Normally after finishing such a task I feel sense of satisfaction.This was no different except I also a noticed nagging pain coming from a knuckle on my right hand which would not subside so I when i returned home I googled “stabbing pain, thorn in knuckle” etc and as is often the case the results I got included a number of the panic stations variety - “Go to AE, you might need an operation, have you had tetanus jab ,my son ended up in hospital for 3 days, poor lamb”
Anyway I phoned 111 which is the replacement for NHS Direct and spoke to a clinician who asked me several routine questions like “have you got a temperature ,is your hand very swollen,can you move your fingers” No to the first two and yes but not the index finger coz it hurties .She then suggested I keep my hand clean and take some ibuprofen. She obviously thought there was nothing to be alarmed about but the fact remains that as well as the aforementioned testosterone I am also a bit of a worry guts and fairly typical man flu victim to boot.
Nellie has kissed it better but as the pain is still very evident ,I should ,perhaps,put in practice that famous Arsenal football chant of the 70s :
“When you are feeling grotty just stick your finger up your botty.
When you are feeling glum just stick your finger up your bum”

Went to a beer festival in Worthing today. Was greeted by a considerable array of cast conditioned ales with names I had never heard of .Tried some rye ale and a banana flavoured one called Bananalicious.No i didn't feel sick .Nell settled for a cross between apple and pear cider called unsurprisingly pyder.Too sweet for me mind.
The event took place in a deconsecrated church which has been turned into an events hall.Our good lord peered down from his cross above casting his vote of approval on the goings on down below. Most of the attendees fitted in with what Nell called "the bearded folky demographic" although the band that was present played trad jazz.
Quite a few salad dodgers and gym phobes there, in fact I suspect the closest they have been to a barbell is a regular pint glass filled to the brim.Well done lads .
Liked the proliferation of pony tails especially from the more follically challenged .Nothing raises the spirit more than the sight of man refusing to accept his folic status by growing the remains of his hair and tying it into a pony tail.There is hope for me yet

Dear Worthing Raiders
Thank you for losing last saturday , only this time against those other tyros from Cornwall -Launceston . Defeat after defeat I can live with , but when you spring the odd victory as you did the previous saturday , it does nothing for my peace of mind as it has me feeling optimistic that you might one day become a decent side.The problem I have with that is that it will compel me to go and watch you on a regular basis, which could prove very expensive .With that in mind I say stay rubbish for ever more whilst continuing to reflect the ever present sporting mediocrity in Sussex.
Before you say “Brighton and Hove Albion” please let me remind you they are currently doing a very good impression of a football side desperate to be relegated, which means they are “doing shite”.
You already tricked me once when you went and won the National league 2 South back in the 2012/2013 season and thus gained promotion to the National League 1.I then began to think that hope would spring eternal and that one day you might well become a prominent club in the very highest league in the country ,namely the Aviva premiership ,where Wasps, Tigers, Sharks and Quins reside.How naive I was , because that was never your intention, a fact made evident by your disastrous showing the following season when you ended propping the league after losing virtually every game .
By that time I had gotten beyond disappointment ,despair and ,even, resignation.I began to accept that your true role in life is to be eternal losers but that you would do so graciously , benignly and at all times displaying that most marvelous of English traits - the Corinthian spirit .Thats the one where the result of the match does not matter provided you put on a good show for the masses and behave impeccably.I believe you display those traits admirably , so much so you show yourselves to be the true moral victors .Well done and please have another pint of grog!

As most people know we the English, invented the world's most prominent sports.We then gave them to the colonials and people who speak odd languages out there so their respective natives could beat whatever English representatives could be cobbled up to play them. Quite often the defeats were resounding but we never minded because we knew their determination to put one over our boys, was the biggest compliment they could pay us.One should also bear in mind that certain colonies and I speak of the Antipodes in the main , are cultural deserts so giving them those sports at which they could excel, filled a very evident gap.Now and again and just to remind them who their real masters are , we give them a sound thrashing. Nevertheless the win /lose ratio favours them ,which is fine provided they know their place .We are ,after all ,the master people, having once owned a quarter of the world and, in the process, spread Anglo saxon civilisation.

Now on a more parochial level I feel that you ,Worthing Raiders, best exemplify that spirit .We all know everyone wants to beat you because they think you are either a bunch of southern jessies or posh gits from the south east, but you dont care because you know right is on your side as you maintain that stiff upper lip so characteristic of the well brought up ex-public school types.

Having accepted your impending doom .ie continuing relegation until there is nowhere else to fall, I look forward to the day when you will be playing the likes of Barnes Green, Pulborough and Angmering .I mention Angmering because they , of course, have no team at all, being as it is your club that is situated in that village..You could of course pretend to be playing them, in which case you might actually win a match -15 players against 15 ghosts. I have a mate who,in thought if not in deed, plays tight head prop for them . H e is over 70 ,never played before in his life but having been an arm chair critic of some considerable repute , could probably pass a few handy tips on how to push and shove.He is a chirpy fellow from Bermondsey , SAAARF East London who ,rather than grunt as he crouches, sets and engages, chirps like a sparrow as any self respecting cockney geezer would .I have seen him doing this in his very garden, so be warned because that thought may well one day become a reality.It is a deliberate ruse designed to to unsettle the opposition and make them feel utterly bemused . It could work but I wont take any bets.
I have it on good authority that one day he plans to breaks into a Morris dance, so be warned because that could be as threatening as any haka is .

People the length and breadth of Facebook must have been wondering what happened to me last week given that I had seemingly been neglecting my duties re posting my usual quota of drivel .Fear not for for the 21 st century Bard is back with a bang .What happened was the result of a contretemp between my left foot and the RJ11 cable that connects my modem to the main telephone socket on the wall.
You see, it was half time during the match between England the all Blacks so I thought I would add my usual penny's worth on FB when I suddenly became aware the second half was about to start so I arose abruptly from my leather clad swivel chair made and designed by the famous Sergei Yodblov the ex ballet dancer from Belorussia and now designer of a range of goods for domestic use.
Just to digress somewhat,I should add that poor old Sergei felt inclined to change his career because his father Andrei ,who at that time was the Charges d'Affairs at the Soviet embassy in Ulan Bator, disapproved of his dancing activities because he felt he might be tempted to become a player of the pink oboe. Sergei is not one to go against his father wishes so he changed his career and now designs furniture ,clothing toiletries and ,even, toilet paper.
Anyway back to my little incident.I became instantly aware that something was not right when I yanked my left foot abruptly as I arose and the arising had the effect of pulling said cable away from its connection on the wall socket whilst sending the modem clattering along the floor .Need less to say all connection was lost , both phone and broadband so in an apploplectic rage I phoned TalkTalks technical dept .The exercise wasnt a complete waste of time but it might as well have been because I got through to someone working in a call centre in Manila who despite the fact I had told him what had happened ,insisted on putting me through a completely pointless process whereby I made different connections to different wall sockets(we have four all told) using two different phones (we have two).Nothing different there so he told he would get the engineers to check the connections outside in wherever land and that sopneopne would phone me the next day for a progress report .
Next day came and the progress report was “all connections outside are fine tson he fault must be in your home.” ( 'I already told you that, you muppet') “as the fault was clearly yours ,there will be £50 charge and the engineer will not come until friday ( 'thats 6 days away, thanks for the shitty service' ) 
Friday morning arrived (“he will be there between 7-9 am”) and engineer arrived at 9.30 .He then spent all of 5 minutes changing a cable, drinking a cup of tea and telling me that if I had been with BT, it would have cost me £150 thus further cementing my belief that privitisation has been collosal rip off.What really irked me is the fact Muppet from Manila put me though a pointless process when all he need have done was to suggest I check the RJ11cable for any breakages and then I could have bought one the very next day at Currys for all of £9.Maybe I should have done that anyway but at the time had no idea what the cable was called .
Rant over

food preparation and a good munch

Today I had a rib eyed steak with steamed veg to which I added a chorizo jus .What is chorizo jus, you might ask.Well by now you should know that chorzo is a spanish spicy dried sausage ,although the blessed Argies do a version which is neither spicy or dry. Jus is just a poncey word i picked up from watching too many Masterchef progs and I just fancied impressing you lot with my savour faire sophistication so I thought i'd throw it at you. Anyway what I did was chop me chorizo , added it to melted butter , cooked it for a wee while then added it to my already steamed veg. Luvly jubly

Now the steak is the part that matters most.I grilled it for 2 minutes on each side at a high heat having first rubbed some oil and a wee bit of salt.I use the word wee not because nature calls, but because 1/16th of me is sweaty sock,ie jock .
After the grilling session I stacked me steak and veg in a not entirely decorous fashion on a plate mindful the Michel Roux was not watching over my shoulder ready to exclaim"that is not very elegant".I might add ,neither was the way i ate it .

I must admit i am a bit of a sucker for love films.No not those excruciatingly maudlin, bring the sick bucket piles of excrement found in the likes  of a Mills and Boon book , but a simple tale which one can either relate to or no,t but which seems nonetheless quite  plausible.
I have recently been watching Tv programme going  by the name of True Love which is basically is series of short stories with love being the overriding emotion.Each story ,of course, was different but what made them particularly interesting was the fact the actors were given a plot but no script to follow,in other words they had to ad lib their way through; the end result being the dialogues were  of short term duration and, as such, probably more realistic.The experience of acting in that situation must have been very challenging, albeit in a different manner .

Now to the story which, in light of a certain recent event , was quite poignant.It involved a young female teacher at a school whose class consisted, in the main, of 16 year olds, both male and female.She seemed ,by all accounts, a likeable person fully committed to her work and trying to do the best for her pupils. Her private life was inconsequential, her only human contacts seemed to be her mother  and a married man with a sports car who seemed to treat her as his bit on the side .She was, in fact, his mistress and although she wanted more in terms of attention and affection, he was only interested in sexual favours.Ultimately it proved to be a very unsatisfactory arrangement for her.
It was during one of her classes that she caught the attention one of her pupils ,a pert self possessed young lady who seemed to take some interest in her.The teacher at first felt rather uncomfortable as she was not used to the attention she was getting not least from a teenager who happened to be a pupil as well.Moral questions must have leapt into her mind as well as questions about her own sexuality.Child abuse a la Saville  was not an issue because the girls was of age was the instigator and , ultimately,the seducer.  Naturallement the relationship became consummated although that was  merely hinted at with the holding of hands eye contact followed by the sight of rolling waves.How touching
Now I guess all this activity  would not have escaped the attentions of someone connected to one of  the two protagonists , in this case the young girls closest school friend who one day asked her if she was "carrying on" with their teacher.She denied it of course but her   friend did not believe her and then went on to her betray her by spreading her suspicions to the rest of the class room.What followed i found quite disturbing if only because I thought the youth of today would be more liberal than was the case .Its at those kind of moment that I feel like jumping into to the story to make it more palatable and more in tune with my own  mores.Not that I am a lesbian of course but I am social libertarian with a strong live and let live attitude.Intolerance does not sit well with me but unfortunately intolerant ,judgemental and bigoted was precisely the manner  her classroom reacted.Made me feel quite angry in fact.I wanted to shout "how dare you "and did at the tv as I squirmed with increasing discomfort.
What followed was the whole classroom ganged up against said teacher calling her lesbian in a  persistently  aggressive voice, driving her out of  both the  classroom and the school in tears.Meanwhile her young lover was spared the abuse bar from her own so called  friend who called the dalliance "disgusting".Fortunately she knew where her heart lay and, being of strong mind, followed her lover out of the school gates to face the future, hopefully, together.
Moral? Well I know some will say the teacher should not have entered such a dalliance in the same way a doctor should not with a patient, but I say love conquers all.For me the real judgement lies on a bigoted,  homophobic attitude that has no place in the modern world .Its a sad aspect of a patriarchal society and judeo christianity  in particular, which has continued with  its corrosive effects over the centuries.Fortunately as we become more liberal and secular we can challenge all the preconceptions that are so damaging and which over the centuries have driven thousands to live secret lives for fear oif being reviled or worse.End of!

Project Normandy Lane

Its been 9 months since Helen and i moved int our new abode situated in a pleasant village on the south coast of England.Have to say neither she nor i have regretted the move as it is so peaceful and verdant here looking out into the garden listening not to the sound of traffic but the endless chirping from feathered wildlife.August our cat amuses as he watches them hop around intent on catching one but failing miserably.Bless him, he is getting on rather.
We took the decision to move in the summer of 2009, july to be precise, when just by chance i suggested we take a little drive round a village that had previously caught our attention. Normandy lane was our first port of call a small row of bungalows which Helen swears isnt an estate, not even a small one.Sitting in the middle of a row sat number 24 which had a for sale board on it .afetr making an appointmemnt with the agents we sauntered back to it and undertook our very first viewing, one of several as it happens.Helen became enthralled, not so much with the house which was quirky, but I think the area itself.She just loved it.Undfortunately the timing was all wromng because depsite us hurriedly putting our hopse on the market hoping for a miracle sale, it was not to be .No 24 was sold two months later,The disappointment we felt was marked but i kind of knew in the back of my mind that eventually we would end up on that street .
we undertook several other viewings over hte ensuing months in different areas but none really gra=bbed us quite like normandy lane.Eventually we decided we would wait for a firm offer for our house before getting excitred again.
Now this part for my money is the worst part of moving home.the phone call from ones agent telling us that Mr Mrs so and so wanted to view our own home .Spic and span we rushed like blue arsed flies trying to get everything just so to impress knowing all the time that something was not quite right.Nothing was neutral for one thing except maybe the bathroom.We liked vivid colours then, yellow and peach and my own bedroom had been colourwashed a kind of orange and the woodwork was darkish pink .So very bohemian.On top of that one of our neighbours had turned their back yard into a junk yard which was very visible, in fact one viewer remarked on it.We did get some interest but the wrong kind ie the prospective buyers did not have an offer on their property.afetr a while one just gest kind of cynical about the whole thing as the months rolled by.
Come february and Gerard  and his Mrs turn up to view Eton rd.By this time we had grown rather resigned but they did make an offer which was rather disappointing to say the least being that it amounted top a 10% drop on our price.Nevertheless I decided to have another look around Normandy lane to see if by any chance a suitable property could be found .as luck would have it there was and whats more it was at the same price as Eton rd .Magnifico! I went back to Gerard and told him that the house was his if he could up his offer, which he did although not by much as was having difficulty raising a mortgage to cover the total. Anyway to cut a long story short

a beginning with Queso ye

well i got to start somewhere havent I? so as its late and i am tired I thought I would start with the phrase queso ye. Meaningless isn't it ? well yes if you are English or German or speak any other language apart from Spanish it is an even though you might do so it still does not rank high in the making any sense stakes.In other words -no tiene sentido!
Now you might look at the first word , presuming of course that Castillian is a language you are familiar , and think cheese and of course you would be right, but the second one consisting of one syllable, ie- ye, well you might think the word has been misspelt.Instead yo would seem the correct term.It means I of course.Then again why would you say queso yo? It means cheese I.Not good Spanish and its translation is not good  English, whichever way you look at it.So what could it mean- queso ye .Its an anagram  of a well worn phrase ie que se yo , meaning "how do I know"
Now I am of to bed to collect my thoughts and dream of further enlightening blogs