And at 4 o'clock on Saturday afternoon the clouds parted and the sun shone. How better to celebrate than a couple of cold beers and a burger cooked on the barbie? Catching up with old friends we'd not seen for an age (I remember the days when I'd see these mates a couple of times a week - usually in a pub).
I'm a lightweight these days, blaming our toddler for the lack of big nights out, so we were home in time to catch Elbow at Glastonbury showing on BBC3. Guy Garvey looks such an unlikely rock star. He's the sort of bloke you expect to see ahead of you at the queue in the bakers. Maybe the everyman bit is part of his appeal.
My highlight from the show was Mirrorball - I used to play this one constantly during my wife's pregnancy and during the early days following our daughter's arrival. It still makes me grin and sigh - euphoria and melancholia at the same time.
And for a few minutes I sort of wished I was there in Glastonbury, sharing these emotions with the rest of the festival goers. Then I saw Garvey's boots and trousers - slathered in thick, dung coloured mud (or perhaps mud coloured dung). If not even the stars can avoid getting smothered in mud what hope the plebs? No. I am too attached to civilisation to spend a weekend peeing in a hole in ground whilst walking around in lakes of cow feces.
Monday, 27 June 2011
Saturday, 25 June 2011
Come on, Tim!
Tennis crowds are not known for their senses of humour - they are the quintessential 'prawn sandwich' brigade. But they do seem to have hit upon a formula to annoy the dour Andy Murray (ever seen a professional sportsman - a person whose rather smashing job entails him travelling the world to play tennis - look less happy? Me neither).
Apparently when he's playing, some wags from the crowd yell 'Come on Tim!'
Yep, it's lame. Not especially funny or clever either. But it winds up Murray, so I heartily endorse it.
Apparently when he's playing, some wags from the crowd yell 'Come on Tim!'
Yep, it's lame. Not especially funny or clever either. But it winds up Murray, so I heartily endorse it.
If you're tired of London...
So we ditched the little 'un with my folks and took a trip up to London for a little retail therapy. It's been a couple of years since we've visited the West End and in that intervening time the place seems to have gotten noisier, busier and grubbier. I used to like the bustle, the visceral feel of the place. But now, it seemed to me an unhealthy place; stricken by coagulated traffic and claustrophobic crowds.
For lunch we popped into one of the Leon restaurants (at the north end Carnaby Street). I read through one of their recipe books whilst on holiday and was looking forward to trying out some of their food. It runs pretty much like any fast food / sandwich place - you elbow your way to the front of the queue, trying to choose what you want before you get to the counter else the person behind you will dart ahead of you. Once there, bark the order, repeat it at least once and cough up the cash. We ate inside, managing to snag the last table before the lunch time rush began in earnest. Given the lack of space, they've managed to make it feel comfortable - unlike the migraine inducing ambiance of McD's and its ilk. The food was pretty good, too. I went for the meatballs (the pork jambalaya I had seen on their online menu a mere rumour in the actual shop) whilst Mrs went for chili chicken. Both came with slaw and brown rice. Despite that, the meals were really tasty and filling. And the cup of fresh lemonade was wonderfully tart. However, I would have to question the prices - I know it's London, I know it was tasty food - but six quid for a few chunks of chicken / handful of meatball plus a couple of spoons of rice and slaw seems a couple of pounds too much. But perhaps I am just a penny pinching yokel these days, rather than the cosmopolitan man-of-the-world I perhaps think I am.
On the way back to the tube station we saw Gilbert & George. They were dressed in tweed, natch, and deep in conversation as the walked along. Of course, they may have been enacting an art happening entitled Gilbert & George - walking in tweed. If so, I expect I'll get invoiced soon for visiting this outdoors art gallery.
For lunch we popped into one of the Leon restaurants (at the north end Carnaby Street). I read through one of their recipe books whilst on holiday and was looking forward to trying out some of their food. It runs pretty much like any fast food / sandwich place - you elbow your way to the front of the queue, trying to choose what you want before you get to the counter else the person behind you will dart ahead of you. Once there, bark the order, repeat it at least once and cough up the cash. We ate inside, managing to snag the last table before the lunch time rush began in earnest. Given the lack of space, they've managed to make it feel comfortable - unlike the migraine inducing ambiance of McD's and its ilk. The food was pretty good, too. I went for the meatballs (the pork jambalaya I had seen on their online menu a mere rumour in the actual shop) whilst Mrs went for chili chicken. Both came with slaw and brown rice. Despite that, the meals were really tasty and filling. And the cup of fresh lemonade was wonderfully tart. However, I would have to question the prices - I know it's London, I know it was tasty food - but six quid for a few chunks of chicken / handful of meatball plus a couple of spoons of rice and slaw seems a couple of pounds too much. But perhaps I am just a penny pinching yokel these days, rather than the cosmopolitan man-of-the-world I perhaps think I am.
On the way back to the tube station we saw Gilbert & George. They were dressed in tweed, natch, and deep in conversation as the walked along. Of course, they may have been enacting an art happening entitled Gilbert & George - walking in tweed. If so, I expect I'll get invoiced soon for visiting this outdoors art gallery.
Thursday, 23 June 2011
Feeling my age
Like most people, I manage to avoid the whole 'getting older' thing by keeping a hypothetical age fixed in my mind. So, I am in my late 20s, early 30s. In my head. And I am happy to stay in denial for much of the time.
Of course, sometimes external events or news can badly disrupt this little fantasy. Like birthdays - mine happened last Friday. Nothing like a birthday to bring your mortality crashing home. But today I was idly scanning the sports news and came across a couple of stories that ruined by equilibrium.
Chelsea have appointed Andre Villa-Boas as their new manager. He is 33.
And it is 25 years since the infamous Hand of God / England v Argentina world cup match. That's 25 years. Quarter of a century. Whilst I don't remember the game that well - I do know that watched it and that I had a drunken conversation with a mate about it when we were at a club a few nights later. Drinking and clubbing 25 years ago? So that would make me...Well, let's just say that makes me feel my age.
Of course, sometimes external events or news can badly disrupt this little fantasy. Like birthdays - mine happened last Friday. Nothing like a birthday to bring your mortality crashing home. But today I was idly scanning the sports news and came across a couple of stories that ruined by equilibrium.
Chelsea have appointed Andre Villa-Boas as their new manager. He is 33.
And it is 25 years since the infamous Hand of God / England v Argentina world cup match. That's 25 years. Quarter of a century. Whilst I don't remember the game that well - I do know that watched it and that I had a drunken conversation with a mate about it when we were at a club a few nights later. Drinking and clubbing 25 years ago? So that would make me...Well, let's just say that makes me feel my age.
Monday, 20 June 2011
Anyone for tennis?
It's the first day of this year's Wimbledon, which for me always signifies the start of the short, sweet English summer; a fleeting season that seems like an all too brief holiday romance - an escape from the melancholy of autumn, the cold grandeur of winter and the naive hopes of spring.
Of course it's also the start of two weeks in which heavily muscled athletes belt felt covered balls at one another.
Of course it's also the start of two weeks in which heavily muscled athletes belt felt covered balls at one another.
Staycation
Just back from a week's holiday in Dorset. Staying in the UK makes you a hostage to the weather and a couple of days were pretty much written off by the rain (in fact there were such Biblical amounts of the stuff on the Sunday that I was going to begin collecting pairs of animals). Of course the big news during the previous few days had been that much of England was caught in a draught - oh, the irony!
Still, generally a nice time was had by all - although sitting in a holiday cottage with a bored toddler is not conducive to a relaxing break!
The day we got there we went to the annual village fete - a few beers, hot dogs, wandering past stalls selling WI cakes and jams, a dancing competition and woodlice racing. All this held in the village's Big House (presumably owned by the squire of the manor). Also of note is Weymouth, which has a rather lovely sweeping beach and the Phoenix bakers that sells the best chocolate brownies.
On one of the days we went to Lyme Regis, one of those places where steep roads lead down into a small harbour town. Driving here is a test for the brakes (down hill) and engine (up hill); rather more trying for the hearts of the pedestrians - must be a bit of concern given the huge number of grey haired retirees who seem to gravitate to the town.
It's got a nice, but small, sandy beach flanked by stretches of sea front covered with cobble sized stones. The sandy beach is bisected by a brick tunnel stretching down to the sea. A small sign at its source warns that this tunnel transports drainage water to the sea - and therefore swimming, paddling and generally playing near its mouth is to be discouraged. Only in England could a perfectly nice beach be deliberately sabotaged with a pipe carrying filthy water.
Still, generally a nice time was had by all - although sitting in a holiday cottage with a bored toddler is not conducive to a relaxing break!
The day we got there we went to the annual village fete - a few beers, hot dogs, wandering past stalls selling WI cakes and jams, a dancing competition and woodlice racing. All this held in the village's Big House (presumably owned by the squire of the manor). Also of note is Weymouth, which has a rather lovely sweeping beach and the Phoenix bakers that sells the best chocolate brownies.
On one of the days we went to Lyme Regis, one of those places where steep roads lead down into a small harbour town. Driving here is a test for the brakes (down hill) and engine (up hill); rather more trying for the hearts of the pedestrians - must be a bit of concern given the huge number of grey haired retirees who seem to gravitate to the town.
It's got a nice, but small, sandy beach flanked by stretches of sea front covered with cobble sized stones. The sandy beach is bisected by a brick tunnel stretching down to the sea. A small sign at its source warns that this tunnel transports drainage water to the sea - and therefore swimming, paddling and generally playing near its mouth is to be discouraged. Only in England could a perfectly nice beach be deliberately sabotaged with a pipe carrying filthy water.
Friday, 10 June 2011
Road Dogs
Just finished reading Elmore Leonard's Road Dogs (a sequel to the previous Out of Sight, which itself was made into a smart little movie starring George Clooney & Jennifer Lopez. As amazing as it sounds La Lopez is pretty decent in it and there is a real chemistry be tween her and Clooney).
Been years since I've picked up a Leonard novel and had almost forgotten quite how good they could be and what a thrilling writer he is. The novel's protagonist, Jack Foley, is released from a 30 year jail sentence thanks to some smart maneuvering by his new lawyer, whose services are paid for by his jail buddy (or Road Dog), Cundo Rey. Once out he has to choose between a return to his previous life (bank robbery) or a relatively straight life as he seeks to put together the stake money that will allow him to start again in Costa Rico. Whilst he makes this decision he has to contend with his cell mate's treacherous wife, Dawn (who runs a nice sideline as a psychic specialising in fleecing rich widows), Cundo's white supremacist body guard, a revenge fuelled FBI agent and the collection of youthful gangsters he hires to shadow Foley. It's breathless stuff and the plotting razor sharp whilst the dialogue is juicy and satisfying as a good steak.
A critic once wrote that the work's of another crime writer, Carl Hiaason, were 'better than literature.' Personally, I'd include Elmore Leonard within that description, too.
Thursday, 9 June 2011
Ikea - we know what you want.
Searching for an errant dummy the other day and was looking under the toddler's wardrobe. Whilst I lay prone on the floor I noticed that the wardrobe's legs were swollen, as though the furniture had gout. On closer inspection they were sort of crumbling and needed replacing. So they were duly replaced by stout metal legs - no chance of furniture gout in these puppies. I was somewhat philosophical; the wardrobe was from Ikea and whilst quite smart looking it was pretty inexpensive. So, you know, you get what you pay for.
But it got me to thinking about Ikea, specifically the layout of their shops. They provide a very disconcerting shopping experience - you're forced around the store in a particular order and shown their furniture and accessories in a series of tableau in which you are given visions of how Ikea's wares would fit in 'so well' into your own home. Only after you've been been through this theme-park-ride of a shop are you allowed to actually get you hands onto the stuff you want to buy. And having seen how charming that picture of the 'driftwood on tropical beach' looks in a living room or office space, you just pick one up from the dozens in the warehouse without thinking. It's clever, in an insidious, Mooney sort of way. Knowing all this does help shield you from the worst of the hard sales technique.
As does a little tip that I read. There are no obvious shortcuts - you have to follow a set path as though you were on rails (again, rather like that theme perk ride). But, if you were to look behind you, you would see the little cut-throughs that the staff presumably use. Again I find this somewhat creepy, as though just behind you lurks a parallel Ikea.
But it got me to thinking about Ikea, specifically the layout of their shops. They provide a very disconcerting shopping experience - you're forced around the store in a particular order and shown their furniture and accessories in a series of tableau in which you are given visions of how Ikea's wares would fit in 'so well' into your own home. Only after you've been been through this theme-park-ride of a shop are you allowed to actually get you hands onto the stuff you want to buy. And having seen how charming that picture of the 'driftwood on tropical beach' looks in a living room or office space, you just pick one up from the dozens in the warehouse without thinking. It's clever, in an insidious, Mooney sort of way. Knowing all this does help shield you from the worst of the hard sales technique.
As does a little tip that I read. There are no obvious shortcuts - you have to follow a set path as though you were on rails (again, rather like that theme perk ride). But, if you were to look behind you, you would see the little cut-throughs that the staff presumably use. Again I find this somewhat creepy, as though just behind you lurks a parallel Ikea.
Monday, 6 June 2011
Town & Country
Walked into Lea Valley Park on Saturday and spent a few hours wandering across meadows and along tow paths, watching canal boats, fishermen and the odd heron or two.
We live just a few minutes walk away so tend to visit quite often. I am a bit of a townie and I can walk through town all day and not be spoken to by a soul. Yet, you have only to cross a train line into the park and suddenly people say 'hello' and stop to chat. Very disconcerting for an urbanite like me.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
This & That
I'm a big fan of American TV shows (West Wing, Dexter, Sopranos, Battlestar et al) and enjoy digging into a good DVD box set. Currently catching up with Deadwood and we've just finished watching season 2. A lot is made of the language which is, well, very salty - but maybe what isn't remarked upon quite so much is how complex, rich and satisfying the scripts are. Added to this are some fantastic performances - not least Ian McShane who's Al Swearengen is the dark heart of the show. Al is monstrous, conniving, brutal and cunning. But he's also pragmatic, proud, thoughtful and blackly comic. This is the sort of role actors must dream about and McShane has grasped it with both hands.
Richard Matheson's I am Legend has been on my 'to read' list for years but only recently got around to it. It's easy to see why Stephen King lauds it, for it provides a blueprint for his career - taking a genre staple and applying it to a modern setting. So here, Matheson updates the vampire story of myth and sets it in 1950s America. A scenario such as this has been played out in novels and movies countless times since then, so it's difficult to feel how truly radical this would have been on publication. However, what still stands are themes of loneliness, alienation and obsession. Also, there is a lovely twist in the finale, as the protagonist Robert Neville (last man on earth and dedicated vampire slayer) realises that he is now the creature of myth - a lone monster who attacks his prey whilst they sleep.
I had never read any W Somerset Maughan. For some reason I thought he wrote stories about a bucolic England set between the wars - with hindsight I realise that I must have confused him with HE Bates. Anyway. I picked up a copy of Collected Short Stories (volume 3) and these centre upon a man named Ashenden who is enlisted by the military to serve as a spy during the Great War. Ashenden is by profession a writer - a novelist and playwright- whose understanding of human nature is seen as vital to the role of spy. Many of the stories are set amongst hotels and bars in mainland Europe (particularly neutral Switzerland) and Ashenden encounters a series of vivid characters - ex-pats, titled Europeans and aristocrats - all of whom are agents of at least one government. And whilst these charcaters dine, play bridge and drink with one another they attempt to gain some piece of information, impart some morsel of bogus news or get their opponent to venture across a national border, where they will be captured and shot. It's not obvioulsy exciting stuff, but the stories accumulate to chilling effect .
After many years driving to work, I spent a few months travelling in by train and tube. To pass the time I filled the ipod with podcats and have of late discovered Frank Skinner's show on Absolute radio. To my mind, he's funnier and more engaging here than on tv and less one dimensional than his stand up material might lead you to believe.
Richard Matheson's I am Legend has been on my 'to read' list for years but only recently got around to it. It's easy to see why Stephen King lauds it, for it provides a blueprint for his career - taking a genre staple and applying it to a modern setting. So here, Matheson updates the vampire story of myth and sets it in 1950s America. A scenario such as this has been played out in novels and movies countless times since then, so it's difficult to feel how truly radical this would have been on publication. However, what still stands are themes of loneliness, alienation and obsession. Also, there is a lovely twist in the finale, as the protagonist Robert Neville (last man on earth and dedicated vampire slayer) realises that he is now the creature of myth - a lone monster who attacks his prey whilst they sleep.
I had never read any W Somerset Maughan. For some reason I thought he wrote stories about a bucolic England set between the wars - with hindsight I realise that I must have confused him with HE Bates. Anyway. I picked up a copy of Collected Short Stories (volume 3) and these centre upon a man named Ashenden who is enlisted by the military to serve as a spy during the Great War. Ashenden is by profession a writer - a novelist and playwright- whose understanding of human nature is seen as vital to the role of spy. Many of the stories are set amongst hotels and bars in mainland Europe (particularly neutral Switzerland) and Ashenden encounters a series of vivid characters - ex-pats, titled Europeans and aristocrats - all of whom are agents of at least one government. And whilst these charcaters dine, play bridge and drink with one another they attempt to gain some piece of information, impart some morsel of bogus news or get their opponent to venture across a national border, where they will be captured and shot. It's not obvioulsy exciting stuff, but the stories accumulate to chilling effect .
After many years driving to work, I spent a few months travelling in by train and tube. To pass the time I filled the ipod with podcats and have of late discovered Frank Skinner's show on Absolute radio. To my mind, he's funnier and more engaging here than on tv and less one dimensional than his stand up material might lead you to believe.
Thursday, 2 June 2011
Not winning the Olympics
If I want to witness any of the events in the flesh I am now left with a just a couple of options:
A) Spend several tens of thousands of pounds on the 'Prestige' tickets. Of course, first I need to acquire several tens of thousand of pounds that I would be willing to spend so that I could watch a bunch of people running / jumping / cycling etc really fast / high / whatever - all stuff I could watch on TV for nothing.
B) Become any good at an event and therefore force myself into the Olympic team. I can't run / jump / throw heavy stuff so I am ruled out of Track & Field. Cycling / rowing look like hard work. I'm not a strong swimmer either, so I reckon that shooting and archery are about the only things left.
So that's now my plan. Become good at shooting or archery and join the British Olympic team. I realise that's a long shot but you know what? I reckon my odds of competing in the Olympics are better than the odds of scoring tickets to watch them.
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