neem_numb

Rita

2012-01-20T10:17:00.001Z

Tomorrow is going to be strange.

In the morning it Rita's funeral and in the evening it's Maz's
birthday which is going to be a very strange dichotomy.

Rita was my Gran's sister who,
never having kids of her own, seemed to act as a back-up Nan to every
generation of the Schwarz Clan. Every surface of her homely kitchen was
covered in family photos of kids that all knew her as Auntie Rita. Her
cottage up on the hill above Holywell was always warm and welcoming and
though quite old fashioned she did have the wicked sense of humour that
seems to be prevalent in the Family. She was an avid Golfer until her
health failed and I always thought it was sweet that she never gave up
on me picking up the clubs more seriously.

When I was growing up My Gran's two sisters, Rita and Hilda, and
Brother Philip never had kids of their own and so became our extra
grandparents. Christmas was always a chance for the whole family to get
together and swap bad jokes with each other.

Philip owned a combined Jewellers and toyshop. An odd combination I
know, but we always got interesting gifts from him. He was always
kidding around with the kids pretending to be gruff and uncaring but
secretly I think he loved the attention. He always had odd sayings like
"Those that ask can't have and those that don't ask don't want."

Hilda was married to Bill and made the most amazing birthday cakes. I
always remember her as a Miss Twiggywinkle person, bustling and happy
always cooking and creating we had massive parties at her house where
she'd do enormous banquets always followed off with at least three
puddings. She had the sweetest tooth I think I've ever known on a
person and it made her cakes sinful. Her husband Bill was always very
quiet and softly spoken but I always remember him with a big grin on
his face. I remember he was a maths tutor and served in the Navy in the
Second World War on HMS Enterprise. I have a picture of his ship on my
wall at home.

My Gran, Marie, raised three kids on her own, with of course the help
of the rest of the family. She and my sister seemed to have a really
special bond but she was the most moral person I know. She always knew
what was right but didn't beat you over the head with it. She was a
very special person and her Catholic faith was a source of strength
that sadly I can't emanate.

Rita was the last of that generation. A whole swathe of my family who
have always, ALWAYS been there for as long as I can remember exist now
only in my memories.

Heaven!

2011-12-12T15:08:00.000Z

Dans la Farm.

2011-09-25T11:04:00.008+01:00

I'm back up at the farm at the moment and our lives take on a very pleasant rhythm and routine of their own. Our friends are away, diving and walking, separately rather than simultaneously, so they've asked Em and I to look after their growing menagerie of animals for the weekend.

It works out quite well as I'm an earlier riser and Em can actually sleep past eight without Catholic style guilt forcing her up in case she 'wastes' the day. I can't get past 8:10 without an internal voice that sounds like a stereotypical Jewish mother. "You should be up by now. Are you ill, would you like me to call your friends in case they've got the sniffles? I can make some soup if you're not well? Why else wouldn't you be up?"

This goes on until I begrudgingly shuffle out of the warm duvet and into the cold cruel world with Jewish Mom's final words echoing in my ears,"and put on a sweater!"

(I should point out my actual Mum is completely different to the Jewish Mom voice!)

First job is to feed the three cats, otherwise they wouldn't let you get anything else done. By the time I've made it to the front door they are usually waiting for me. I know their real names of course but I find it hard not to think of them as Ackbar, Bateman and Pavarotti (See previous posts).

I have to fill and place the three bowls of cat chow simultaneously or the cats will start pushing and shoving each other for first dibs on the tender morsels within. I usual place a bowl for Ackbar slightly away from the younger, more rambunctious cats for which she always gives me a look that says;

"A quiet table away from the kitchen? Thank you Maitre D! If I had a wallet I'd leave a tip," before ploughing into the food.

Next up is letting the hens out. This has become a bit more tricky of late as our hosts have adopted another few birds some of which aren't accepted by the rest of the hens. The original six were battery hens and are that dun colour shape we know from egg boxes. At least they became that colour once their feathers grew through and they stopped being the cowed pathetic creatures that came form the farm.

I understand the pressures and the need for a good egg supply but if you experienced the tortuous conditions these animals had to go through you'd pay an extra 10p for free range eggs as well.

However two of the new batch of chickens are more show chickens with a much darker colouring and a comb that flops over the head like an eighties new wave fringe. Unfortunately these haven't really been embraced by the rest of the chickens.

I don't know how you'd say "You ain't from 'round here, are ya boy?!" in chicken speak but the poor creatures did get quite picked on when they were part of the main group. They were forced out of the feeding troughs and would get attacked at regular intervals.

The term hen-pecked has a very substantial source you know.

So an annex at the other end of the farm was built, almost like a quiet retirement village for the two new animals away from the raucous Hen party at the other end. I can almost imagine them together in their quiet little roost.

"Well Phyllis, isn't it lovely and quiet away from those clucking fools?"

"Yes Mabel its nice to have a bit of our own space, ooh pass the tea won't you?"

So once I've let both sets of chickens out, cleared up any damp sawdust and stored the precious eggs I have to grab the empty porridge bowls and head back to the kitchen to make some more.

The porridge is a very simple affair just oats and dessicated worms added to hot water and left to cool but all the hens go crazy for it. It's as if they'd found some way of putting crack in breakfast cereal. As I head back out the cats have usually finished their breakfast and two of them disappear to wherever cats go when you're not watching them. Not Bateman though. From this point she will follow me around the farm wherever I go, not from curiosity you understand as that can be fatal for cats, but to make sure I'm doing everything right and to help out if the horses attack me. Help the horses or me I'm not sure.

As I go into the Hens area you can hear their anticipation over their morning dose of crack, I mean porridge, two will start pecking at my boot, mistaking footwear for cereal in their frenzy, another two will start dashing around my feet and another will have already hopped the fence into the field behind and will now be frantically trying to scramble back so she too can have some food.

Bateman will be sitting slightly behind me watching in quiet amusement.

"My humans don't make this much fuss."

"Mmmm," I say, trying to find a place to lay the first bowl which won't involve me loosing a few fingers to over eager beaks. In the end I adopt the tactic of running in one direction for a bit with the hens chasing after me like they're running a carpet bagger out of town, and then I stop suddenly and place the bowl behind me whilst the hens are still being propelled forward by their own momentum.

Once one bowl is down I can saunter over to the area by the gate and as the hens form a scrum around the first bowl, I can put the second one down in relative peace just by the waiting cat.

"See Bateman? I've got this covered."

"Hmmm," she replies, not convinced.

Next up feeding the sheep. The fields surrounding the farm have a number of horses and sheep in them.

I've never really got horses. I can't really say why, My wife has a theory that nothing that powerful should have a brain the size of a walnut. Most of the domestic animals we have kept as a species were at one time used for something. Cats for mousing, Dogs for hunting and Horses for transport. All have been replaced but yet we keep them on for their affection and our tendency to anthropomorphise them. As soon as we can get an egg out of a machine I imagine Hens will fall into that same category too.

"The horses aren't ours you know," Interjects Bateman," they're just renting the space."

The four sheep are the most recent acquisitions and they are very very dumb animals, but they're pretty harmless and unlike the horses not big enough to be dangerous. Bateman barely pays them a glance as I fill their trough and they mill around repelled by me but attracted to the feed.

We move on towards the chicken retirement annex with their bowl of crack porridge in hand. I might mock the hens reaction to it but the combination of good food and stress free living around here creates some fabulously golden yolked eggs.

The path from the sheep takes in the soon to be occupied pig sty and past the two bee hives.

Bateman stops.

"Those are the bees. I don't think you're qualified to look after them. Besides which you're not dressed up like Neil Armstrong."

I look at her.

"How do you know about astronauts?"

She smiles an unsettling superior smirk and begins to preen her coat.

"My humans do occasionally watch some very educational TV," She replies whilst licked her back leg.

From there it's a short journey back to the front door. Bateman stops outside.

"You did a tolerable job, you can come again," and without another word, she pads off to torment whatever unfortunate small animal she can find.

Then and only then do I take my boots off sit down, have a cup of coffee and feel the world come alive.

Dave's retirement cake.

2011-08-20T10:41:00.000+01:00

My wife is a cakey genius!

Part 1 of Poncy Baking and You : The Garlic and Rosemary loaf.

2011-07-30T10:32:00.000+01:00

Atlantic Drift.

2011-07-28T11:51:00.003+01:00

Why is that that even if I know a deadline is looming I‘ll just ignore it until it’s snuck up on me, jumped on my back and started beating me around the head with its shoe whilst screaming down my ear?

I don’t even work better under pressure, I WORK under pressure sure, but that only because the alternative is giving up on the ridiculous dream of ever being a writer and burying myself in spilt cheesy Doritos crumbs whilst I vegetate on the couch watching yet another tedious US drama* purely from having nothing else to do.

I just need to organise my free time a bit better and spend more time writing reading and playing the flute and less time on the XBOX/internet/yawning through detritus brought over on the Atlantic drift.

(Please note The Wire, Mad Men, Justified, HIMYM and Burn Notice, amongst others, do not constitute tedious US drama being imaginative, superbly written and filmed with the kind of care and attention usually only given to new born babies. Basically if it involved some form of contrived elite crime fighting team, hired for their looks rather than acting ability, whose cases rarely last longer than an hour minus time for advert breaks it’s not going to be worthwhile watching. You may enjoy it, you may even like it but it won’t be good for you in the long run. It’s Junk Food TV.)

Lightsaber chopsticks baby!

2011-07-22T21:40:00.000+01:00

I can't belive my little sister is THIRTY!

2011-07-19T16:34:00.000+01:00

Had a stunning weekend down south with Jane and Wez. We drove straight
from Wrexham on the Thursday pausing only to buy a ridiculously priced
burger from a chain I'd never heard of but seemed to be copying the
Burger King style to the point that I'm sure lawyers should be
involved. Sorry to go a bit 'Daily mail' but why do we put up with this
indigestible overpriced crap at our motorway service stations? When you
have to be trapped in a car with my digestive system for the next
number of hours it's hardly fun.

Anyways we arrived at Bluewater shopping centre a mere four hours after
setting off. The complex itself is set into a crater in the Kent clay
and looks for all the world like an alien spacecraft settled into a
hole its bored in the earth, allowing, rather graciously for alien
overlords, ample parking. I celebrated the conclusion of our journey by
not crashing into the car that veered right in front of us. Perhaps he
was blinded by the dazzling lights crisscrossing the surface spelling
out weird alien names like John Lewis and TGI Friday.

We met everyone in the restaurant for Wez's birthday obviously too late
for the meal but in time enough to feel a part of the celebration.
After catching up we headed back into Gravesend.

Friday was a day of blissful nothing. We walked to the shop for beer
and then spent the day reading and watching dvds/tv. After the
hecticness of the last couple of weeks it was, frankly, awesome.

Saturday we drove to Wez's parents got our glad rags on and headed to
the 02. We had decided to posh it up and were wearing suits and evening
dresses and I have to say catching a bus through some of the less
touristy areas of London was intriguing to say the least. Every major
city has areas where the poverty is obvious but for me seeing that area
in New York or Paris is almost a shield from the reality of it. It's
foreign so it doesn't really count. But when you can see it in your own
country it sort of brings it home.

Now if you're of a certain age you'll remember the White elephant that
the Millennium Dome was on its construction and first few years of
being. Now, however, it seems to be the most popular evening location
for dining out at least by the hordes of people queuing for the chain
restaurants and bars. Ours however was a different sort of night being
Jane's 30th.

We were lead by the door manager out of the bustling crowds and into a
sparsely populated dimly lit lounge with dark wallpaper, massive
chandeliers and tastefully discrete jazz. It was how you'd imagine the
most exclusive of bordellos to be. The cocktails were varied and
delicious, although pretty expensive and uber-strong.

After we'd all assembled and I'd switched from pricey delicious
cocktails to pricey delicious beers, the twenty two of us headed
upstairs in a cow skin covered lift to our private dining room. The
food when it arrived was delicious including one of the best steaks
I've ever had in the UK. But the food however good, played second
fiddle to the bonhomie and atmosphere from the wide assortment of
friends and family that filled the room.

It was lovely to see all these people come to send Jane's thirtieth off
with a bang and it reminds me of how well she's settled down there. She
has friends and family that love and adore her and I couldn't wish for
anything more for my sister.

On a selfish note its always great to see the boys from Wez's stag do,
we all bonded on that day/night and its just great to catch up with
good friends.

One final point about the meal. It was without a doubt one of the
nicest three courses I've ever had but its the first time I've been at
a table and been presented with a bill that runs into four figures.
Quite a culture shock I have to say.

However when we presented ourself at the bus to go home the driver
asked if we'd been to a wedding and we explained it was Janes b'day.
Contary to everything you may have heard about grumpy bus drivers or
London transport in general he smiled widely and waved us onto the bus
for no fee! Awesome!

Sunday we all felt remarkably fine which was fortuitous as the Horan-
Healy clan were gathering for one of Paula and Joan's legendary
barbeques. Sadly no one had thought to mention this to the weather
which then felt duty bound to bucket with rain for the next few hours.
Paula and Joan, of course, had a backup plan which involved some
serious catering-standard George Foreman grills and the food was served
deliciously and on time.

All in all I think we counted over forty people there to wish Wez and
Jane happy birthday and I've met the family enough times now that I
feel comfortable with everyone. I'll freely admit its a little
unnerving at first but that's only my own apprehension nothing to do
with how warmly myself and the rest of the Welsh lot are greeted. The
beer helps of course.

Monday we rose late and recovered through careful application of bacon
butties and coffee and all too soon we were waving goodbye to everyone
and heading back north.

Roll on our next southerly visit for the August costume BBQ!

Cornwall 2011 day 3

2011-07-10T12:16:00.002+01:00

I was woken at just gone midnight by a nightclub a few building across for ours and the thumping dush-dush noise kept me awake until one when it subsided into the random drunken shouts of revelers finding their way home. I think last time when I got so irate at the cricketers arms it was because I knew that when I went home I'd have the exact same thing to content with and this was after all meant to be a holiday. So once I'd dropped off I slept until the seagulls decided to start their own party with the dawn. Bloody things are just vermin plain and simple of and gave my sister in law whiplash (Long story).

Once I decided to rise I found it was another gorgeous morning, which is becoming a habit for Cornwall but one I remain very happy with. We had an excellent breakfast whilst the couple on the table behind had an intense but very quiet domestic about his mother. (Side note: is it still called a domestic if you have it in a hotel?) The argument reminded me of a theory I've heard many many times. It goes something along the lines of 'It doesn't matter where you go on holiday Llandudno or Borneo you will still be there. You're not a different person when you go on holiday you'll still be the same grumpy/happy personal you always are, you'll just be on holiday."

Anyway we packed up and headed out through what I thought were the narrowest roads you could find on mainland Britain... I was soon to learn my elementary mistake as we headed for the most southwesterly point of the UK.

In every way that the Eden Project succeeds in being educational without being money grabbing, Lands End fails. It is by some margin one of the most over commercialised tourist traps I've ever encountered.

The Good:
A short list but the views are spectacular,the cliffs poised as if they were divers frozen in time before plunging into the oceans. There is a artist's galley that has some stunning works in it and the pasty I had was rather tasty.

The Bad:
Overcrowded with the kind of people who wear t-shirts saying "The drinks are on me as I'll be on you later." screaming kids being dragged to see something they don't understand by parents who feel they should be going to these kind of educational places but not knowing why. The Landsend brand is available on everything from sweatshirts to jewellery to fudge but not one piece of tat shows the real beauty of the place.

The Ugly:
Those bloody seagulls followed us from Fowey I swear!! I'm sure I saw one with a tattoo saying 'Big Steve'.

Luckily Landsend-land is on the south coast path (yes that again) so we walked a fair ways along it away from the unwashed masses and it felt like a holiday again.

It was Ems turn to drive so we pointed the prow towards Zennor and found that in the same way that major arteries lead to blood vessels lead to capillaries the further south you go the smaller the lanes become until you reach the tip of the country and you can barely squeeze one car through!

Luckily it was only a few miles to the next resting spot The Guarnards Head named for the spit of land that juts out in the ocean. its a beautiful spot, really quiet and serene. Quite pricey but this was after all a holiday.

We took a wander down to the coast past near inaccessible houses to the end of the world or so it seemed the sunlight streamed down casting glittering reflections on a royal blue sea. This was the Cornwall we had come for. it felt like we were the only people for miles around in the baking afternoon of an endless summers day. We meandered back to the pub which featured four excellent ales including the by now ubiquitous tribute and had a rather masterchef style meal of delicious PLATES OF FOOD which were nevertheless a touch small.

The room was also on the small side but very comfy and with a sea view to die for. even the cupboard converted to an en suite couldn't ruin it, especially as there were books in every nook and cranny of this superbly literary pub.

We settled in for a night of reading and alcohol with a song in our hearts. Its the only pub we've stayed in so far that doesn't seem to have a telly anywhere. WOOT!

2011-07-03T13:53:00.001+01:00

The day again dawned bright and clear. I wandered out with a coffee to the pubs beer garden to write for a bit with the blue sheen of the Atlantic in the middle distance. Quite an inspiring view I have to say. When we went in to see about breakfast we discovered we were the only residents that night which says something for the popularity of the pub seeing how the bar was chock full of people last night. Em noticed a symbol etched into the stone entryway floor. It was a circle with a cross through it which apparently is the symbol showing that pilgrims were more than welcome here.

If Kent is the garden of England (which it well can lay claim to be) then Cornwall has to be its nursery. I lost count of the number of signs I saw for Gardens, nursery's even herberys on our road. Everywhere is lunch and green and it give great pleasure to the eye to see all this lovely countryside.

Well, not all of it is quite so lovely.

We loaded up the car and headed south along windy twisty roads until we passed through an unpleasant little village called Bugle. The architecture has nothing to recommend it and the gardens were less than lovely but if I'm honest it was probably the millions of tonnes of spoil from the china clay mines pilled up in man-made muddy mountains that really spoilt the view. The industry has wrecked the countryside here but kept people in jobs by gouging out great craters of the countryside. In one such crater someone had the brilliant idea of creating a garden the like of which had never been seen before. The Eden project is a series of enormous geodesic domes which, along with the surrounding external gardens one of the widest collection of plants in the world all whilst being super-eco conscious. Its like looking into the future where the ecologists have risen up and burnt Jeremy Clarkson at the stake. Well, they'd probably mulch him down to compost over the alliums on the nursery slopes but you get the general idea.

Em being a keen amature botanist was in what I can only describe as a state of constant over-enthusiasm, bouncing from one plant to the next with such unmeasured glee it was simply a joy to be with her. Now I like plants. I like them lightly steamed, deep fried or otherwise. But Em's obvious excitement was nothing if not infectious. You walk around the sides of this deep bowl through meadowfield plants and industrial style crops to the bottom where you can go into one of their temperature controlled domes housing tropical or Mediterranean plants. Their focus on ecology is everywhere and their hope and optimism for a more ecologically conscious future is inspiring.

After five hours on our feet we were ready for a sit down and a cuppa/pinta something so we headed to our stopping point for the night Fowey (pronouced FOY). The car parks are clearly indicated on the edges of the town and once you head inland you find out why. The narrow turning streets are barely wide enough for three people to pass abreast, god help any cars that are foolish enough to trundle through these back streets. In fact you can tell the locals who drive as they effortlessly whip through the tortuous alleys whilst Toroids creep forward at a pace a snail would scoff at. Also the locals have more scratches on their cars.

We wandered the pleasant streets for a while seeing the boats sail through the harbour with enough breeze just to use sails. Watching a small boat catch a breeze and zip forward through the waves is a thrilling sight even to a complete land lubber like myself. We stopped at our pub located on the waterfront, where I believe we were promised a sea view. Well, if you crane your neck out of the window , avoid the roosting seagulls you can make out the barest sliver of deep blue so I suppose technically they're correct.

We headed out onto the pubs verenda which hangs over the bay and watched the comings and goings of this small town. The table behind us was occupied with the worst sort of English upper class twat stereotype. Making fun of the people their were moored next to who happened to be french so would 'stink of garlic' but would be 'bound to have a decent bit of plonk'.

You hear twaddle like that and you just feel sorry for everyone. from the person the lazy stereotyping is aimed at to the stereotype who clearly hasn't pulled his head out of his own arse long enough to experience the wonder and riches that other cultures can offer. How ever sorry I may feel for him he's still a twat though.

Finding the company a little off putting we headed along the bay and wound up in a tiny bar/bistro with a bunch of bohemian eccentrics drinking Budvar and eating tapas from fifties formic tables whilst listening to David Bowie and John Coltrane. And I'm ashamed to say I thought 'This is exactly the experience that the little englander is making himself miss out on.' Czech beer, Spanish food and American music in the Cornish sea air. Now that's a truly pan cultural experience!

Cornwall 2011 day 1

2011-07-02T17:21:00.006+01:00

day 1

The day dawned sunny and clear which I am sure was a mistake as Em and I were embarking on Bimble 2 Son of bimble! We loaded the car up, said goodbye to the cat and started to drive due south. Once we'd apologised to the neighbours for ploughing up their flower bed with the car we decided to use the roads instead. We scudded through the sunny Welsh countryside with the temperature creeping up as the mileometer ticked over. Soon we were crossing the border into Eng-ger-land, that dark and fabled place full of mythical beasts and other pop factor idol rejects.

We turned south and met with my Uncle peter for lunch in his place in Bristol. Full of homemade bread and delicious pork pies we headed back out just in time for the weather to turn dark and wet but against all prior experience and the laws of God and man it stayed at what I can only describe as oven-interior levels.

We headed through Devon and then onto Cornwall where our first nights stay was located which is a 13th century inn that had previously been a chapel and many other things. I could be wrong but I think they might have decorated it since then. The upstairs bedrooms are light and airy and feel a couple of years old at most. However the downstairs two rooms are slate floored with nooks and alcoves for drinkers a distinct lack of jukeboxes and alcopops. Beer snob heaven in fact.

We took a walk out to the coastal path that loops around Cornwall and heads down along most of the south coast. I'm thinking about trying to walk the whole distance someday but I think that might be a daydream like walking up Everest or watersking behind two tame killer whales. i.e. fun to think about but the logistics would be a nightmare.

The road past the pub heads to a vicarage and teamrooms and stops dead. That's it. There's no through road, it ends appropriately enough just before the rolling countryside plunges about two hundred foot directly into the sea. The cliffs and sand are satanic,... sorry volcanic, black but apparently only few miles further towards the tip they turn a lovely golden yellow and are therefore more popular.

I found them very striking and incredibly visually arresting. I obviously wasn't the only one as this was where Hawkers hut was located. It's the smallest property in national trust hands and is essential a series of small steps down what would be a nigh-on sheer cliff. when you've dropped a handful of feet the steps level out into a small area and there's a small hut made of a driftwood that you can sit in in all weather and gaze out to see. The original priestly resident of the vicarage I mentioned was a poet and a friend of Coleridges and every day after attending to his vicarly duties he'd walk from the church to the edge of the cliff and sit in the hut he'd made and write poetry. Oh and smoke opium. I'm pretty sure the smoking of opium was important in the whole writing poetry side of things.

By now the pangs of hunger for Em and the my thirst demon had kicked in so we wandered over the gorgeous meadows and little country lane back to our pub. The guidebook states that with no jukebox conversation is the main form of entertainment in the pub and damn were they right! We chatted to one guy about his dog and how the cafe on top of Snowdon had been tastefully changed from the portocabin he remembered another guy at the bar chimed in about how Bugle is the armpit of Cornwall and should be avoided at all cost, and then we chatted for a couple of hours to a mother from Sheffield who was on holiday with her university student daughter about all the stuff they've seen while they've been down here.

A simple meal of bread and olives, fish/scampi and chips and cheese platter/brownie followed washed down with a few pints of excellent St Austell Ale, their 'Tribute' being my personal favourite. after a few more hours and random conversations we descended into the arms of Morpheus to see what spectacular sights he would bid us hold. (I think there might have been some residual opium left in that hut!

Its the end of the world, as we knew it.

2011-06-30T12:43:00.000+01:00

Mid Wales Shows

2011-05-25T11:00:00.001+01:00

Went to a small holders show on Saturday at the Royal Welsh showground'
s in Bwyth Wells All though the word Small shouldn't come into it, it
was a huge collection of stalls and displays and a much larger
audience. It's strange that we sometimes need reminding that Wales is a
very rural country with a large proportion of its ground given over to
agriculture. The endless green fields I drive past on my commute
everyday aren't just there to look tranquil and pretty but they at the
heart of what appears to be a thriving industry.

There were thousands of exhibitors showing everything from gas turbine
driven post holers (Very handy in event of Vampire attack BTW) to
speciality cheese makers. One of the cheesemakers have a product
called Chedderella which is a mozzarella/cheddar hybrid, the taste of
which was so distinctive it split our party into the "So vile its
putrid" camp comprising of Em, Caz and Rob P. and the "Mmmmm Delicious
camp", featuring, urm, just Me.

Sadly although there were brewers at the show there was no 'Beer tent'
so we bought a couple of bottles from a few select brewers , after
sampling all their wares of course. We then had a beer break every hour
or so where we shared a bottle between the four of us whilst having a
five minute sit down. Gosh darn civilised I have to say.

The livestock exhibitions were really interesting, there were turkeys
that looked so hideous they seemed to be unused characters from the
Dark Crystal, rabbits the size of Dobermans, and llamas. Now I love a
llama but I did hear a couple of heavily accented farmers referring to
them using the Ll sound which really made me chuckle.

After we'd sampled the delights of the fair, and the Parry's had
decided on the type of pigs and sheep they wanted for their small
holding we headed to the glittering metropolis that is Llandrindod
Wells. The hotel was cheap and Fawlty Towers old school but the sheets
were clean the rooms were large and quiet and everything worked so I
can have no complaints at all.

The bathroom window had a beautiful view of the surrounding hills and
greenery which was unsettled slightly by the way the toilet basin faced
out upon it. So whilst you were in a situation that demands the utmost
privacy you were all the time facing all the mountains and valleys of
the region. Slightly disconcerting to say the least.

We headed out to a pub I'd found in the good beer guide (Undoubtedly
one of my best purchases) and whilst the beer and atmosphere were
superb and convivial the menu lacked a certain something. I suppose
we'd been spoilt by the wide variety of produce this greenest of lands
can offer and frozen Scampi and Oven Chips just wasn't going to cut
it.

We walked out into the pouring rain (there's a reason why Wales is so
green) and after a brief saunter we decided upon the Indian restaurant
that Caroline had spotted on our way in. To say to was delicious is to
do it a disservice. It was one of the very best Indian meals I have
ever had and being that I've eaten in Brick Lane in London and the
Curry Mile in both Birmingham and Manchester that's high praise
indeed.

Not quite ready to face the hotel yet we stopped at a bar and had a
pint in a underground bar. That is to say, a bar below the surface
level of the street rather than an illegal boozer. Although it did feel
a bit shady being the four of us outnumbered the regulars and bar
staff. We talked music for an hour or two and then headed to bed
Saturday well and truly done.

The breakfast next morning was chaotically organised by the staff but
highly pleasant and we headed back to North Wales in the sunshine.

Who shot the cat?

2011-04-11T10:33:00.000+01:00

A great weekend.

2011-04-10T09:51:00.005+01:00

So, I started playing the flute again this weekend. I was a bit nervous about it as I hadn't really played properly since I was sixteen but I was reminded by a close friend this week that we have very little to fear but fear itself (And spiders of course). But if we actually put ourselves in situations that we are not entirely comfortable with we can find out a lot about ourselves that we didn't know.

It was actually a very positive experience, I'd forgotten far less than I thought and it all came flooding back! Maz chose some really great pieces to get started with and once Em's up and about I think I might give them a quick practice.

Anyway its a good excuse as any to reprint a story I wrote about starting to play the flute which I wrote a good number of years ago. I haven't altered or edited anything in it as its a good reflection of what I was writing at the time. But looking back on it now I see where the cracks and creaks are and wince a touch. but thats what growth it about I suppose.

Origins of a flautist

As most male endeavours have been over the span of human history, I started playing the flute to impress girls, sort of. Well one girl in particular, lets call her F.

F. was everything to me as most school yard first crushes are. Even though I knew little of the ways of love I knew that it must be that feeling she gave me every time she smiled. What else could this exquisite burning in my chest be?

She was in the year above me and my sun rose and set with her coming and goings. In the multiplex of my mind I saw every time I had past her in the corridor and in slow motion got to replay that one sweet time I queued behind her in the canteen, close enough to smell the coconut shampoo she used, whilst she giggled in front of me with her friends.

I should point out I didn't spend my time running from one side of the school to another just to catch a glimpse of her like some kind of hormonally charged stalker. There were other considerations in my school life at the time including football, sweet shops and bunking off.

When I saw her it was a rare treat I savoured rather than trying to gorge myself on an excess of her.

I listened to a lot of music even then, my friends and I would always be discussing albums and bands swapping copied tapes back and forth like we're meant to believe the kids today are swapping STD's. Eventually talk came around to starting our own band and I was given the task of both buying and learning the bass.

I rushed home sure that Mum and Dad, both being musical, would be overjoyed that I was going to become a famous rock star. To say they were under whelmed would be an understatement. I think they were afraid one of two things would happen;
I would buy a bass, get bored and leave it to gather dust in a corner, or I would play it so much and at such a volume that the structure of our house would age prematurely and bring the roof down on our heads.

A compromise was sought in that if I could play a non-offensive (non-guitar) instrument for a year they would think about buying a bass. Unhappy but unable to afford the bass myself I agreed to their terms. After some internal parental debate they presented me with a flute.

I was shocked. I couldn't even conceive of an instrument less bass like. Instead of striding the world like a rock behemoth, making the foundations of the world itself tremble, I would be playing a poncy version of a recorder, sideways, with my cheeks all bunched up and my lower lip sticking out like some kind of wanton child.

However, knowing my parents well enough that once a decision was reached, however stupid or ill advised, that would be the course of action that would be taken I kept to our bargain.

So I took the metal stick and started taking the regulation lessons in school as was stipulated in my contract with the parental unit. Imagine my surprise when I attended the first band practice, was directed to a seat in the flute section and F. sat down right next to me.

My panicking heart didn't even have time to recover from the sheer nearness of her before she turned to me smiled and said "Hi, you new?"

The burdensome flute changed in that instant to a key unlocking that which I truly most desired, contact with F.

Less than 2 months later, my friends abandoned the idea of forming a band and I had no need to stay in the band, as my bass playing skills or lack thereof were no longer required. But I kept at the flute so I could stay in the band and stay near to F.

Twice a week at lunch for 6 years I played the flute and had fun with F. My near obsession for her mellowed into something deeper more tangible and more adult. We became really good friends and apart from the odd half joking half serious valentines card my ardour was happily quenched.

A succession of boyfriends came and went but I was always there before during and after. I got to share so much more with her than I ever could have done as a potential suitor.

When she left school, a year ahead of me I simply stopped going to band. I started avoiding the confused music teacher, to whom I gave no warning of my musical defection, cleaned out my flute and placed it at the back of my wardrobe.

There it staid, wrapped in its red faux-velvet lining, until another group of friends decided to form a band and this time I already knew the instrument I was going to play.

There. That wasn't so bad was it? *shiver*

Anyway so friday we had dinner as payment for a very enjoyable flute lesson feature a one two whammy of Cottage pie and Cheesecake. We introduced Maz to the world of Dirty Word Scrabble. Extra points are awarded for the rude words. (In one game we still discuss Em got Quim on a triple word score!)

Saturday I biked up to Llandernog and back which was really rewarding/knackering but I'm not so bad today, it'll be tomorrow when the aches really come! We had a housekeeping day and went for a two hour wander around town finding all these really lovely od streets and quiet spots in town. The sun was just fabulously warming. And we finished off the day with the first barbeque of the season back at Rob and carolines helping them finish off some homemade burgers! Yay!

When the sun shines the world feels like a different place. I love how green this part of the country is and I wouldn't change it for the world but its nice to get some proper sun now and again.

2011-04-04T16:16:00.001+01:00

So, a cat then.

Having been a dog person most of my life it may come as a surprise
that Em and I adopted a cat on Friday. Even more of a surprise if you
know Em's allergic to most things with hair (She assures me this has
nothing to do with her initial attraction to me and my shaven pate.)

We were told that adult cats (he's five) very rarely get adopted as
there's always a glut of unwanted pets and everyone wants the kittens.
Which I find really sad. I don't intend on ghost writing a blog in the
name of my cat or making every post about him but I think he's worthy
of a mention here.

An actual cats' blog would be quite dull I'd imagine.

April 4th;

Slept.

Got up, ate some biscuits and played with my humans for a while to keep
them happy.

Slept.

Planned global domination through the cunning use of catnip.

Slept.

Batted a cloth mouse around for a bit and pretended it was pleading for
its life. I showed no mercy.

Slept.

April 5th

etc etc etc

He's meant to leap out of his cage when he first arrives and find a
hiding place in a small room and not move for a day or so. The books
say not to force him to do anything too soon but rather to let him get
comfortable with the new environment.

Instead of the timid feline we were expecting this guy was straight out
and prowling his territory within seconds. Ballsy as you like coming
over to Em and I for a fuss and to leave us with clumps of fine white
hair.

He's quite a big lad as you can see above and having had the snip he's
leaving hairs rather than scent to mark his territory. I've hoovered
about five times this weekend already.

The only downside so far (aside from the extra hoovering) is that he's
mewling in the night as he's possibly bored or just uncertain of his
new routine. We can't let him in the bedroom as I don't think there's
an Anti-histamine strong enough for Em to actually sleep in the same
space as the cat.

The books say to make sure he's got everything he needs before you go
to bed and then ignore his meowing until the morning. Having finally
moved into a house that's quiet at night I seem to have invited my own
disturbance in with me. Hopefully this behaviour will change once he
realises;

a) We're not going anywhere.

b) However much noise he makes we won't be getting up

c) He'll be able to go out of the house in a week or so.

I've also realised that petting is not the same as playing and that I
actually need to play with the cat to make sure he's not getting bored.
The lovely cats on the farm I've mentioned before have 10 acres to run
around and play on. Our cat has a small bungalow full of other peoples
stuff. It's just not the same amount of stimulation.

So tonight my shopping list includes toys, catnip, a scratching post,
kitty litter and a scooper. The less said about the last couple of
items the better.

The family seemed to like him as he's quite a placid cat (when its not
4AM) and quite frankly gorgeous.

As soon as I can stop him from mewling we'll be best friends (Or I'll
get better earplugs.)

And the name?

Well its a combination of things, The 'Hero' of my favourite book "The
Dreamquest of Unknown Kaddath" By H.P.Lovecraft (Which is available as
a free download from the Gutenberg project Google 'em , you'll be glad
you did) is called Carter and he is very friendly with the cats in that
strange world. Also 'Get Carter' is one of my favourite films and I can
now quote it every time he leaves the room.

But most I think because it suits him very well.

I shall not to mention him too much here unless he does something
spectacular. Like win the Nobel prize for Physics or something. In
which case I might get a mention on HIS blog.

Carter the cat. (Actual size.)

2011-04-01T20:08:00.000+01:00

Firdays!

2011-04-01T09:49:00.001+01:00

Bikes hurt when you cycle for a couple of miles uphill. Just so you
know.

Moved back into our house last weekend and celebrated by making my
first batch of beer for a while. its a standard Bitter brew but I'm
going to try and couple of bottle conditioning styles using the basic
brew as the template. (And also brew up the rest of it for the Not-The
Royal Wedding)

We're having our official housewarming on the day of the wedding not
through any anti-royalist republican feeling. I actually thing the
Royals give good value for money (Duchy royal biscuit anyone?)and wish
William and whatsherface all the best but I don't need eight hours of
the bloody thing. If you're reading this blog then you're more than
welcome to join us, bring something to drink and something to throw on
the Barbeque. Plastic crowns and sceptres will be confiscated at the
door.

Been reading the Johnathon Barnbrook Bible which is all about Graphic
design and art. For an art book its surprisingly accessible and it make
you think about how fonts are used and how the shape of the letters
used subconsciously works on you.

Doing a mothering Sunday dinner for both respective mothers at the old
homestead this weekend. Be a chance to flex my culinary muscles. Only
ever done one roast before so I'm looking forward to the challenge. I
might do a chicken roasted on a tray of veg and mini sausages or I
might do a nice rump of beef with some Yorkshires. Mmmmmm How long is
it till lunch?

Farm Holiday 2011!

2011-03-23T09:54:00.000Z

Staying at our friends farm this week and last, which has been a breath
of clean fresh air. The cats are still lovely and crazy by turns
although they seem to have warmed to both Em and I even more so than
last time. I think two weeks of constant feeding has softened Bateman
to the point where she doesn't actively despise me. Ackbar is very
affectionate when she gets to know you to the point she's actually a
little aggressive about it. she'll jump up and you'll pet her whilst
you're watching TV or whatever and she gradually climb up on you until
she's nose to nose with you all the time purring as if to say "PAY ME
ATTENTION!". It's really sweet.

I have actually decided on a nickname for the other supersweet cat. her
nightly serenades to us behind a closed door have earnt her the moniker
Pavarotti, not that she is overweight in any way but the singers most
famous recording "Nessun Dorma" is Italian for "None shall sleep". (I
told you my nicknames were cruel!) Actually just a few reassuring words
and she quietens down fine.

We're having a very relaxing time of it but we had Phil Amanda Jack and
Hugh visit us a couple of times on this trip. It was fabulous to see
them and to see how happy the two boys are and how similar they are in
personality and temperament to Phil and I, or at least how we were when
we were their age.

They came up to the farm and had great fun running around on the lawn
and up and down the drive. Also it turns out that Bateman, who's at
best indifferent to adults LOVES kids. She had a great time chasing
around with them! Just goes to show never judge a psycho by its black,
white and orange fur.

We went on the steam train in Porthmadog with them as well which was
good fun. I had a little moment when Jack was sitting next to me and
Phil and I tried to switch places and Jack said "I want to sit next to
Uncle Rob!". Awwwwwwwwww. (Maybe its the American accent that's just
too cute for words!)

Anyway all is well and I pick up my bike tonight so I'm very much
looking forward to getting some proper biking done. It would be a
travesty to live this close to the mountains and not do some proper
biking.

You don't get fog like this in Rhyl!

2011-03-17T08:26:00.000Z

do you?

Sons and Lovers

2011-03-09T10:00:00.001Z

Just finished reading 'Sons and lovers' by D.H. Lawrence. I'm working
my way through a book on 'how to read a novel' and this is the second
of the two required texts. The first one "Waverley" by Walter Scott I
rather enjoyed even if it was a touch on the slow side. Sons and
lovers, thought beautifully written had a totally different effect. The
first part of the novel follows the Morel family as the straight laced
mother deals with the disappointment of marring a miner who is
incapable of loving her as she deserves they had four kids and Paul the
youngest is the focus of the second half of the book as he is torn
between two women, the ethereal and saintly Miriam and the earthly
Clara. Clara has already been married and is separated but not divorced
from her husband who lurks like an evil shadow around their
relationship. As his mothers health fails he doubts his own choices and
reunites Clara with her husband and leaves Miriam.

I don't know if studying without benefit of a teacher is skewing my
view but I did spend the second half of the book internally shouting
"OH, GET OVER YOURSELF!" at the main character. He doesn't know what he
wants, he can't find a girl that has all the qualities of his mother
and he spends a lot of time comparing the two girls to aspects of his
mother. He can find the intellectual Sustenance with Miriam and the
earthly desire with Clara but cannot combine the two in one person he
can settle down with.

He is sometime wilfully cruel in the way he strings along the women,
instead of manning up, finishing with them and seeking his fortune and
love further a field.

The writing is beautiful and descriptive passages that leave you
breathless especially of the natural world surrounding the village
which Paul spends a lot of time in.

The book doesn't so much conclude as just end after his mother falling
ill and passing on Paul is plunged into even more despair and ennui and
comes to no resolve or resolution.

Pretty bleak stuff.

The next book though is Mansfield Park one I haven't read by Jane
Austen (Whom I adore) so I'm hoping for a bit more

"Why, Mr Darcy! Won't you take a turn around the gazebo? " and a bit
less

" Ain't 't grim oop North!".

moving

2011-03-07T11:46:00.001Z

Moved into a new house on a quiet estate, in a quiet town. It's some
kind of heaven. Victoria Road was convenient for the Rhyl Town
centre

its true. But it was more convenient for the string of deadbeats and

wasters on the way to and from the corner shop to throw used papers

crisp packets and on one memorable occasion a full open yoghurt into
our

front yard. Perhaps he wanted strawberry but all they had was
raspberry.

This is to say nothing of the car vandalism, noise from the club/pub

over the road and angry men, in angry cars with angry exhausts. Our

neighbour went from being a sweet old lady who we never heard a peep

from to an aging tom with an abusive boyfriend to a single mother
whose

idea of housework would have made Stig of the dump blush. Oh and a

tendency to drag unsuspecting men back to her lair and play 'I want it

that way' By the Backstreet Boys on loop whilst ritually slaughtering
a

pig. At least from the noises coming through the wall that's what it

sounded like.

On the one occasion , 3AM on a Tuesday morning, I went around to ask
her

to turn it down she answered the door in jeans and a bra. That was

enough to scare me off. I've lived as a student, watched open heart

surgery in an operating room and nothing has turned my stomach as much

as that cheap denim and poor quality cotton framing a deeply unlovely

person. Luckily she showed the same care and consideration to her

neighbours as she did her rent check and so was forcibly evicted by
the

police. And on that day we had a party.

The new house has had problems too although up to now the biggest
thing

has been that the orange food waste bin has decided to roam the world

freed of its earthly burden. Or in English its disappeared. The
Council

are sending another one around.

However something has happened to spoil this elysian paradise. The

central heating packed in yesterday and I have zero experience of an

actual proper central heating system. My Mums house had the novelty of
a

warm air system where as far as I could see a team of asthmatic
badgers

would wheeze tepid air around the flues. It was kind of a homeopathic

heating system, air that had once been warm was diluted and passed

around a space that was too large and it had all the warming ability
of

clustering around a picture of a fire clipped from a magazine.

I poked the clock a few times, relit the pilot light on the boiler and

then, aware that my manly credentials were taking a downwards
direction

declared it 'broken' and 'We should get a man in.'

There are things I can do and things I can't and frankly if it doesn't

have a GUI then I'm screwed.

Chaos defrost!

2011-02-10T18:10:00.000Z

08022011793.jpg

2011-02-10T14:44:00.000Z

Wales v England 6 nations.

2011-02-06T14:55:00.000Z

updaty

2010-11-06T07:55:00.003Z

Hey.

Well in the intervening time since I last wrote we've been to scotland (Gorgeous as always) had a couple of mad parties (still can't get all the nailpolish off) and I've done a load of writing.

None of which sadly you'll see on here as I'm a) wirintg for the two d and d games I'm currently running b)going to make an attempt to sell some of the fiction which means its can't have been published anywhere else.

It took me years to come up with a solution for writing which works with my poor brain. First of all I need at last a minor idea. I then create a .txt file and type the idea out. As the idea gets added to or I splice on a different non-functioning previous idea I gradually build up the structure this can be as simple as;

GARY AND ROBBIE GO TO PUB.
CONVERSATION ABOUT GIRLFRIENDS.

"Listen I know you're a friend and everything mate but I've no idea why Katie stays with you. When was the last time you took her out?"

Gary looked deep into his pint, as if the answer lay at the bottom somewhere.
"The supermarket doesn't count right?" he eventually replied.

Robbie snorted in desrision.
"No, it doesn't"

GARY GOES HOME AND FINDS KATIES DUMPED ALL HIS STUFF ON THE PAVEMENT INCLUDING THE DOG.
GARY HAS TO STAY WITH ROBBIE.
KATIE AT HER MUMS HOUSE.

So what this means is I can just jump in and start writing at any point. The structure stays in capitals and is the last thing I delete before its finished so any major structiural change, Making Robbie a girl for example.

I've got about a hundred started projects saved somewhere and if I'd used this method before I think I would have finished most of them.

Its a learning process I suppose.

"

Drunk and unafraid.

2010-10-30T22:52:00.000+01:00

The selling of art.

2010-09-04T09:22:00.002+01:00

If you talk about your artwork as 'product' you are dead to me.

When I say artwork I mean any artistic endeavour, be it banging sticks on bits of rusted metal, daubing yourself in paint and then rolling on a hemp canvas, writing sickeningly sweet love poetry for a girl that will never read it and would mock you if she did or making sculpture out of elephant poo.(I've only done two out of those four things. Elephants are quite rare in rural Wales.)

The second you refer to the results of your labours as 'product' you can have no relevance or value to me. Your every word is an insidious lie that I will have to scrub out of my memory once we part. I have nothing in common with you. I can have nothing in common with you. Your sheer presence on this planet is an affront to civilised society and I will rescind my 'no Suicide' clause especially for you. I'll even buy you the plane ticket to Switzerland.

Art, and music in particular is about forming an emotional connection with something that feels so valuable and personal to you that you will exchange cash money to possess it. It becomes a part of you and who you are. If I hadn't heard Screamager by Therapy? when I was fifteen I would be a different person now. Possibly a happier person with more hair but a different person nonetheless. I am the sum of all my genes and experiences and music has played a huge part in who I am today.

I write terrible derivative sci-fi that I hope one day a publisher, in a fit of syphilitic madness, will publish. But that's not the reason I write. I write because I feel I have to as if these stories are crowding my subconscious and won't go away until I'll transcribed them. I write because I HAVE to.

If I was writing with the sole intention of selling my work it wouldn't be coming from my heart I wouldn't believe in what I've created. It would no longer be 'art' it would become 'product'.

And that's why, Dappy from N-Dubz, you are destined to be a broken man. Haunted by the dreams of what you could have created if only you'd listened to your heart.

(Of course by broken man, I meant spiritually unfulfilled whilst lounging on a throne of platinum, surrounded by gorgeous girls whose name's you can't remember, in a hillside pool party in LA. Bastard. Can I sell out now please?)

day off woot!

2010-08-31T10:22:00.005+01:00

Had a great day yesterday doing some geocaching with Will, Sarah and Llion. One of the containers was the shape of a skull as shown in picture. Its great when people do these little unexpected things to make the whole experience more fun.

The Sunshine over here has been unbroken for a day now which I'm sure is some kind of record for August. Recently at least. It was a warm clear day and perfect for walking through the woods above Abergele as you'd catch some sun and then shade all the way through the paths that wend there way around Gwrych castle. There were more tourist around but that's what happens on a bank holiday. Whoever is in charge of the castle had put more walls and metal hatches up barring access to certain places I could walk freely in last time I was there. Its a sobering reminder that it is kind of trespass.

What's fasincatating about the site is that as it's not an authentic castle (Only a couple of hundred years old) it's not owned by Cadw/English heritage so its been sort of left to decay and now looks more authentically broken down than some of the actual castles around here!

I'm off to Conwy today for lunch and they have a magnificent castle there that has been superbly kept and maintained as a ruin but it feels much more sterile than the broken down ramshackle look of Gwyrch. At Gwyrch you feel like there are still tales and stories seeping out of the stones. In Conwy the paths are so well trodden you feel like everything has already been discovered and the castle is just a shell.

Or maybe its just me!

So we geocached all around that area which was great fun. We went from the hills down the the beach which made the walk back to the car a bit longer than we'd have liked I think!

Not much else has been going on. I got a double distinction for my two part payroll course, which was nice. Going on to do the advanced stage this year which starts in two weeks, it'll probably be a bit more challenging than this year but it'll be a great thing to pop on the CV.

Right off to visit my old workmates in Conwy. They say you can never go back, but maybe you can, as long as you're bringing chocolates.

Here be Tangents!

2010-08-21T09:04:00.010+01:00

Its been an odd week. in the space of 3 days we went from 'no-ones looked at our house in months' to 'We've sold our house and are buying a gorgeous place in Denbigh' to'The goits have pulled out and now we're back where we started'.

It was a funny old time. To have your dreams pulled out from under you like that was very cruel. but at least it was at the start of the process and not as has just happened to our friends, one week before completion.

I'm ready to move now please. Theres nothing wrong with this house its cosy and big enough for us . but we both know that we can't take it any further. Em has told me on more thn one occasion its a house and not a home. I disagree but that's because I've always had her here with me so my home is with her where-ever she may be (bleugh! sorry I'm feel a bit soppy today).

Anyways we're back where we started with a house no-one wants and unable to move without the capital invested in it. We could retn this place out and buy the nice place in denbigh. We do actually have enough money to do that but with the proposed ublic sector worker cuts one of us may loose our job and then we would be scrwed.

BTW why is it that the private sector fuck-up the economy and the public sector takes the hit for it? Just thinking outloud. Oh, and why has no one pointed out the millions if not billions spent fighting a fake war in the middle east might have had a small contributory factor to our economic decline? Or do I not understand economics to get why no one else has made the correlation.?

Woo hoo! Rambly soapbox morning! Anyway back to houses. We're fine where we are but occasionaly it gets to me that I'm still in Rhyl. I know Denbigh is hardly the paragon of quiet living, but it is a metric tonne better than Rhyl. I found out last night that someone got beaten up for being Gay in Rhyl not 2 weeks ago. It makes me very sad and not a little angry to think that kind of thing is going on. I keep thinking we're evolving as a species and then some backwards fucktard does something like that.

Tangent again. Sorry about that.

Anyways we've got a very quiet weekend planned just going out for a meal tonight with some of ems friends, and thats about it. so I'm going to spend some time writing and reading, and not buying the new lara croft game. It's £10 and I will be able to affrod it next friday with the money I specifically put aside for books and Cds and other ephemera. £5 a week for my fun fund seems to be the right way to do things. Espically as I'm spending over £40 a week on fuel at the moment.

Anyways, we will move eventually, but I had made so many plans that crashed to dust the second they pulled out of the house buying.

Dreams on hold but not dead. Never dead.

End of a long day.

2010-08-14T20:31:00.000+01:00

Day off win!

2010-08-09T14:11:00.000+01:00

Because sometimes I forget I live in a country where castles are still alive.

2010-08-09T13:29:00.000+01:00

Sat down sitting.

2010-08-08T07:29:00.007+01:00

Spent the last four days house sitting for friends in a super-rural location where there's about eight people in a mile radius from the house. It's a quiet that you can rarely find on these crowded shores. It's deeply peaceful here.

Of course in the dead of winter when it's dark all the time I might feel different. But now in August it's beyond lovely.

The nice people here have cats and chickens (Not kept together obviously) and its the first time I've spent any extended time with a pride of cats and they're great. The personalities really start to come out after extended time together.

There's one cat I've nicknamed 'Bateman' because you know beneath that poised exterior he's actually a Grade A Psychopath. The next one I call Ackbar as everything I do she treats like "IT'S A TRAP!". There's no nickname for the third one as its just the most affectionate lovely creature and all my nicknames are slightly cruel.

Em might be a little smitten with a kitten. A little, but her heart lies with the hens. They've got six in a coop out the back and they're all rescue hens. So far they're laying between four and five eggs a day which I'm sure is more than the recommended daily intake! I think they're going to have to start selling them just to keep up with the volume.

One of the good things about saying here is that its shown me I can quite happily commute from here to Wrexham, it's knocked about ten miles and ten minutes off the journey. Admittedly some of the route is single track lanes hedged on both sides which might be fun in the dark but as my route at the moment is a boring stretch of motorway I think it could be a step in the right direction.

Had a crazily quiet Friday. The boss has been away Thursday and Friday this week so I worked my arse off on Thursday and by lunchtime Friday I'd run out of stuff to do. This doesn't often happen in payroll. One of the things I love about it is there's always stuff to do. If I'm not busy I'm bored.

I'm sure there's stuff I could have done but I haven't been there long enough to predict what those things could be.

So I had a very boring Friday afternoon which actually took longer than if I'd been busy, but as was pointed out to me the other week, I actually enjoy my job which I supposes says something psychological about me.

Eds BBQ last night was aces as ever good to catch up with some lovely people that I only see once a year. The costumes were in full affect as well which is great to see. Its a nice tradition which I love keeping up.

In other news this is a deeply amusing Jeremy Clarkson beatbox video which I heartily recommend.

CLARKSON

Huzzah!

2010-08-03T15:55:00.001+01:00

There are lots of reasons to write but my main one is to come up with an idea that makes you go 'Holy F**k! Where did that come from?!' you could be just doing the dishes or a spreadsheet at work whilst idly considering a plot or character or device and out of nowhere this idea just appears fully formed as if its always been there. Philip K Dick, of 'Bladerunner' fame said ideas were sent via an information rich pink laser beam directly to his brain.

Although he was on a jaw dropping amount of drugs at the time it does sometimes feel like that. As if someone has serupticiously implanted a box fresh idea in your head. I know its the interplay between the concious/unconcious parts of your brain part of me want to belive Mr Dick.

Anyways, a new idea to add to project Y that turns a run-of-the-mill story into a staggering achievment of human endeavour. Not quite but you get the idea.

The Flying Crane

2010-08-01T11:44:00.000+01:00

RESCUE CHICKENS TO THE... urm..., RESCUE?

2010-07-31T10:24:00.006+01:00

Ahhhhh.... Breakfast today was a fresh baked loaf from 'Taylor's Family Bakery' (Hand-made, none of this bread making machine business) fresh layed eggs from our friends rescue chickens (that should definitely be a TV movie "Rescue Chickens save Easter!") and a steaming pot of fresh coffee.

Ahhh coffee.

Not that I mean to go on about coffee but it really is my drug of choice these days. Many people would consider that to be beer or whisky but I drink beer once or twice a week and whisky once or twice a month. Its true I have a good whisky collection but the bottle I'm four good drams away from finishing I started in September. In my experience alcoholics rarely have a good collection for longer than a week or two (depending on if they use mixers or not).

I gave up smoking properly( apart from the odd cigar) just before or exactly on my first date with Em. This was back in the near pre-history when you could still smoke in pubs and dinosaurs roamed the earth. I got through a 10 pack of Marlborough lights whilst having a the most insane fabulous conversation with someone whose opinion and tastes I would come to adore and love over the following weeks, months, years. The fact that she put up with me smoking for the the first date kinda says to me that she felt something too.

Anyway I digress, as I do when I'm talking about my most favourite person. The smoke that I filled the air with was rich Virginian tobacco which probably smelt foul to anyone else but to me it was okay.

I was running today and nearly every person I passed was sucking on one of these cheap-ass half-tobacco half-sawdust brands that smell like Satan singeing his armpit hair. Seriously. If you can't afford to smoke proper cigarettes then you can't afford to smoke.

Anyway rambling over. Weekend Ho!

Week

2010-07-30T08:52:00.001+01:00

Its been an odd week. Having sent my first submission for professional publication on Tuesday in what can only be described as, 'somewhat of a flap,' I was hit by a strange lethargy which changed into an irrational anger towards everything and everyone.

I can only think that I used up all my normal emotional energy early on this week and the sense of relief that came when I finally sent the submission email was so palpable it proved how much i'd wound myself up!

Had a lazy night last night with Em and Llion watching 'Sherlock' which was uniformly excellent. Its modern but still Holmesian. And they havent shyed away from the fact he could be a massive cock-waft which is refreshing!

Pizza tonight and a birthday party tomorrow has the makings of a good weekend. Got to start the next story tonight or tomorrow morning I think. I'm in the rare position of having 4 or 5 to choose from. I might just flirt with 2 or 3 of them and see which one catches my eye.

I'm excited about writing again which is, frankly, thrilling.

Clocks a ticking......

2010-07-26T17:28:00.008+01:00

Some things have a timing and a symmetry all of their own. It's enough to make an atheist like myself sit up and take notice.

My current job, which was a massive step in the right direction came about because of a chance remark by someone. I looked into the job saw it was perfect and found I had two days to fill out the application and get it off. All done in a rush.

My previous job also came about because of a chance conversation with a friend but less of a pressing timescale in that I had three days to get my application form in rather than two.

So driving back from Jake Jane and Wez's excellent barbecue last weekend, I started having short story Ideas, yes plural. I had three distinct and separate ideas in the space of three hours.

This. Never. Happens.

So when I got home I started writing seriously for the first time in months. And I loved it. I was exactly where I wanted to be doing exactly what I wanted. When I could get into the PC to write two nights last week I got a little cranky.

So having had the day off today I decided to spend the majority of it finishing off the first rough draft of a short story set in the Warhammer 40K world. They can be a touch trite but they do some excellent SF books, I'd point you in the direction of anything by Dan Abnett.

ANYWAY so having finished the first (very) rough draft this morning I'd thought I'd work on it over the next couple of weeks whilst getting the first drafts of the other stories together.

However after doing teh shopping and all the other bits I wanted to get done today I checked the Warhammer submission guidelines just to see if I was in the right ball park with what I'd got.

I found out they have a very small submission window, eight weeks in total. Which ends on Friday! Yes, this goddamn Friday!

So I now have a choice. I either do nothing and wait for next years submission window (opening late may usually) or rush to get a submission in this year. They need a summary Synopsis and a thousand words. As I've got about 10000 this won't be a problem but should I wait to polish it or get it as good as I can and send it by Friday?

I think looking back at my previous experience with this sort of thing it has to be yes. Maybe I'm just a 'shine under pressure kind of guy'?

Anyway If I don't hear anything in eight weeks then I failed. but I've still got at least two other stories to work on and polish for next year!

17072010445.jpg

2010-07-17T15:51:00.000+01:00

~Music has the right to children.~

2010-07-04T08:57:00.014+01:00

Another disturbed sleep last night. The rugby club across the road regularly have bands on at the weekend and I can't blame them for it. They're very good at sticking to the licencing laws and I know how ever bad the music is, it'll be over by eleven on a school night and one AM on Friday or Saturday. Its a lot like halls in university that way. But when I'm knackered before those times on a weekend then going to bed really isn't an option. I've got earplugs and bottles of whisky aplenty (just kidding about that last one) but it can be very difficult to sleep when there's noise coming from across the road, especially when they open the fire doors for ventilation and the sound pours out like a audio fog, snakes across the road and hits our bedroom.

Anyone that knows me will tell you how easy going and relaxed I am generally. Unless I don't get a solid six/seven hours sleep, in which case I become something 'other'. Not exactly on a Bruce Banner/Hulk scale but similar.

"You're making me tired. You wouldn't like me when I'm tired."

Lets just call this alternate personality Less Than Pleasant Rob (LTPRob for short). If I've ever been mean or nasty to you, it wasn't me it was LTPRob. Whereas I might just let things go or not rise to jibes etc. LTPRob will get angry, annoyed and shouty then possibly fall asleep on you.

This was, seriously, one of my reasons for not joining the army. No, Really. I know they do the sleep deprivation thing and the waking you up at all hours to do a ten mile march etc.

The first time the Sargent came in to try and wake us at 3AM to do the assault course LTPRob would have beaten him to death with his own very shiny shoes and crawled back into bed. The MP's would have arrived to see a battered and bruised corpse and me, snoring peacefully, covered in his blood. (There was also the whole being a woolly leftist pacifist reason, but the sleeping thing is funnier.)

Anyways last night was not a band, and it wasn't karaoke. It occupied the no mans land in between those two acceptable and unacceptable forms of live music (I'm a musical snob.) This was a single male singer and a ipod full of tunes for him to sing over. He was pretty bad. It was clearly one of those situations where someone's tried their hand at Karaoke and through either inherent deafness or myopia he thinks,

"Hey! I'm awesome at this, I should make money from my 'talent'." thus showing complete disdain or ignorance of the crowds general apathy towards his musical ability. We'll probably see him on the next edition of Britain's got Talent. Well, you might see him. I'm a snob remember?

And yes, he went on till 1AM but I have a new solution, I made a play list of my favourite chill out music and some kick ass in-ear head phones. The Boards of Canada bleeped me off to sleep with their particular brand of odd mellow music.

It was once described to me as 'The first time you listen it's all bleeps and laid back beats. The second time you listen to it the bleeps start to make sense and the third time you can hear the depth and tone from each sound making it a audio landscape to lose yourself in.' The person describing it was an Art Student so I think we'll forgive her the flowery prose.

However those of you that don't know it I thoroughly recommend checking it out. My quote for the cover would be.

Drowns out even the most inept wannabe pub singers. - Rob Taylor, Professional Sleeper.

Is it possible to have too many CDs?

2010-06-13T16:55:00.000+01:00

Just because of her...

2010-06-04T21:09:00.000+01:00

The 2010 Bimble : Thursday

2010-05-31T09:02:00.004+01:00

Miles :237
Start: Crowcombe, Somerset
End: Hay-on-wye

I woke early in the Somerset morning light and found an outside spot with a view of the surrounding valleys to update the blog. Whilst sitting there the sweetest little dog with the face of a Jack Russel the body of a Spaniel and the tail of a Pommerainian came up to say hello.

I later found out that this is the Pub dog, Toby, who they adopted whilst they were living in spain. I did ask her if the language barrier was a problem for him. She said no but when the farmer who owns the next door field switches his Sheep for Cows Toby gets very confused for a couple of days and barks and growls at them for being too big and not wooly.

We had breakfast in a room they also use as a tea shoppe (sic) during the week and it was so pink and frilly I felt like I was gaining weight just looking at it.

After a good breakfast we wished goodbye to the Carew Arms and Toby that sweet stray spanish hound. We headed out through the countryside to Dunster castle which inexplicably is closed only one day a week. And that day happens to be Thursday. However the town it is attched to was open and that was lovely. A stone built turn of the century market type town all whitewash and black beams.

From there we headed into Exmoor forest which was wild and rugged almost untamed and other adjectives from the romantic novelists reptore. It was very differnt to the genteel hills and swells of the south Downs but equally impressive. The road twisted around the valleys and summits as if it was trying to free itself from gravitys grasp. Em described this near rollercoaster experience as 'chicanery'.

After following our trail of breadcrumbs out of the forest we headed to Cheddar Gorge which is a road cut right through the rock itself. The bottom is a tourist trap but you can drive through the gorge for free which is waht I'd reccomend you do instead of forking over a tener to sit on a bus next to some Austrailians and be driven up there.

Although there was a shop at the bottom called Cheddar Gorge Cheese, which are three words I love in any order. Cheddar. Gorge. Cheese. There is no way in which rearranging those words doesn't please me.

As we left the valley there were a fleet of sheep on the road all going in the same direction as us al on the left hand side of the road like they were commuting to work. Have we caused some kind of brutal natural selection? Only those sheep with good lane disipline survive?

Moving on, we drove into Bath which is at the bottom of another valley with green slopes on allsides studded with indivual house looking out into the valey. They use a particular sandstone here with a rich yellow colour that makes every building seem matched.

We walked through the madness of the town proper, decided against the two hour wait to see the roman baths and instead heading up to the relative calm of the circle and the royal cresent. From their we walked onto the botonical gardens which I'd never seen before.

A great collection of plants that Em seemed to be very excited about although whilst resting on a bench we did se two baby squirrels playfighting with each other. It was like those old cartoons of Chip and Dale fighting over a nut and just as funny although involving fewer uses of Frying pans and other acme products.

From the calm of Baths gardens to Bristol in rush hour traffic was quite a culture adjustment but we did well and were able to take in the Clifton Suspension Bridge which is a stunning bridge which you can drive over or under. It just seems to appear out if the rock and span the gorge sticking two fingers up at physics as it does so

We met my Relatives for a good catch up and much needed bite to eat and drove back into Wales (woo!) for our final stop at Hay-on-Wye.

It was quite a long journey in the near dark but it was nice to see Welsh words on roadsigns again. Although I had to notice when we were driving the windy roads in Kent the corner signs would be enourmous for even a small bend;

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Whereas back in wales the same corner would merit a;

>MEH>

I'm sure theres a rational explanation but it did tickle me at the time.

We stopped at the old Black Lion Inn which was very comfortable but Hay itself surprised me. Its a really really small town. I mean really small. but it has over 20 different bookshops! It was a fun town and a good place to bring this bimble to an end.

Eight hundred and ninety four miles over six days seems like a lot but it was a great trip and a great experience. We are already discussing Bimble Two : Son of Bimble which we think will take us down the leg of Cornwall with the aim of getting Em to Her spiritual home, The Eden Project which was just that little bit too far away for this trip.

The 2010 Bimble : Wedneday

2010-05-30T08:08:00.002+01:00

Miles :141
Start: Tangley, Hampshire
End: Crowcombe, Somerset

Its One AM. You've just been woken up by something but you can't quite work out what. There's a strange noise that, as you shrug off the tendrils of sleep, you realise IS THE MAN NEXT DOOR STILL LISTENING TO THE GODAMNED RADIO AT ONE IN THE MORNING!!!!!

I banged on the wall and he turned it down, not off and I spent the next two hours furious that in a pub we'd selected to be off the beaten track and quiet as possible we were getting noise pollution! I'm quite grumpy when I don't get enough sleep, as you can probably tell. Luckily Em only woke up to hear me banging on the wall, harrumphed in a manner that probably meant 'Oh God he's at it again.' rolled over and went back to sleep.

Anyway I eventually got back off to sleep at about three and that meant we were late getting up and Mr Radio next door had gone to work.

We had an excellent breakfast and headed now for Newbury for a quick look around. Newbury's not that new and seems to be quite a dull market town.

We headed over to a small hamlet called Kintbury where I have some relations who welcomed us with open arms and flowing coffee pots. We talked politics and they suggested we took this certain road out of the village. With a glint in his eye the husband said 'watch out for the cows'.

After waving goodbye took this road after eating our own body weight in macaroons and it turns out there's a common just outside the village where cows roam free. They are kept in this area by cattle grids but four roads run right through the centre of this pasture! It was lucky he had warned us as one cow made a suicidal dash across the road in front of us followed by the rest of the herd.

It was a toss up whether to plow on though. On the one hand a seriously damaged car could be an issue but on the other hand, free steaks for a week!

As we took the gorgeous road East we were passed by some cars and drivers that were clearly there to race on the most beautiful track ever. I can see why they'd be attracted to it, there are sweeping curves and sharp bends, rises and reveals of the valley below. However if they were only taking their own lives in their hands that would be one thing but they are risking every other road user as well.

We drove down the road and passed Stonehenge after being told not to bother stopping as the prices to walk around it were exorbitant. I can say it appears quite hengy and popular, but it's also smaller than I thought but not as small as Spinal Tap make out.

We turned south off the main road and had to follow a smelly tractor down single lane roads for about ten miles with the impatient queue building behind us. Being on a bimble it wasn't a problem for us and Em seemed to be quite enjoying its road clearing properties.

We said goodbye to the smelly tractor and stopped randomly at Shellbourne for essential supplies and found ourselves in a country town from the 60's. It was very impressive, yellow sandstone a quiet village atmosphere several pubs and a definite life to it. I would love to go back and stay for a night or two as it felt idyllic. You can tell I'm running out of positive adjectives to describe all the stuff we've seen. If this goes on much longer I'll end up calling something Avuncular. Anyways Shellborne was simply gorgeous.

From there we headed to the Cerne Abbas Giant which is the chalk man etched onto a hill which turns out is either a two thousand year old god or a mockery of Oliver Cromwell from the sixteen hundreds. Still its pretty impressive though to saw nothing of his enormous...Club.

We headed back north then and saw an array of visible light on the Dorset hills whilst on the A37 Dorchester to Yeovill Road. Now visible light is one of my favourite things its that glow that you sometime see on distant hills. Its simply beautiful, so to see this across all the range was spectacular.

Our tranquil revere was broken in Taunton at rush hour. It seems to have way over ts quota for roundabouts and as we found out later is second only to Milton Keynes itself for roundabout hell.

After our sat nav, nicked named 'Fiona' for reasons lost in the mists of time, tried to direct us up what was clearly an overgrown footpath we managed to reach the Carew Arms in Crowcombe. From the outside it looks like a ramshackle old building but the BnB rooms are modern and clean the bar is proper old fashioned with stags head and things on the walls and a skittles alley! They also serve some great beers and fantastic curries on a Wed night which is when we stopped. Bonus!

The most important thing though is that we as two strangers in the bar got into two great conversations with two separate groups of locals who were more than friendly. It really made us feel welcome and wanted which after a long day of traveling is exactly what you need in a pub. Which is where we heard about the landowners who own the pub and most of the surrounding buildings, which they paint a particular colour."If it's falling apart and painted blue it belongs to the Carews."

A few more pints of the Excellent Exmoor Ale and much putting the world to rights with people I didn't know from Adam an hour ago and it was time for bed.

New job:I can think of worse places to have lunch!

2010-05-27T21:48:00.000+01:00

The 2010 Bimble : Tuesday

2010-05-23T12:49:00.002+01:00

Miles :121
Start: Brighton
End: Tangley, Hampshire

I woke up early and took a walk out of our BnB towards the beach. Even though it was seriously cheap and cheerful we had a sea view. Sort of. It was down the length of a street with a car park on one side and the back of posh hotel on the other. Not exactly picturesque but a sea view nonetheless. I had a short stroll to the ruins of the west pier which was virtually destroyed by fire a couple of years back. Now its just a skeleton of rusted ironwork jutting out the ocean. I've no idea if it could be repaired but I really don't think it would be worth doing. They should either demolish it outright or declare it a seagull sanctuary (like THEY need protecting).

Back to the BnB and we parked up the car and we were away before you needed a parking permit to stay there. We drove along the sea road watching the genteel Brighton giving way to the more industrialised west. Boat yards and spoil depots replaced hotels and apartment blocks. We turned into the land and saw across a green valley something called Lacing College Chapel. This thing was immense, jutting out of the green hillside like an errant ivory tooth. Most impressive.

Having skipped the breakfast at the hotel we stopped off and had a Sunlit fruit breakfast of orange juice, bananas and grapes. I'd love to say it was organically grown but it was actually tescos as we stopped to avoid a traffic jam. Still sunlit and still fruity though.

We headed into the South Downs national park (proposed). I propose you give it to them as its beautiful and if anything needs saving its our greenspaces. The drive up the hill and along the A272 was really special a rolling dipping highway through some lovely villages.

One of which was Midhurst, which we stopped at for essential supplies where we saw a ruined castle/country house called Cowdry which was apparently destroyed by action in the civil war. As we had no fixed timetable we took a walk along the raised marsh bed towards it. The ragged walls are still there, the roof is centuries gone but the jagged front standing proud against the level marshland was pretty impressive and a great random bimble find.

We drove onto Jane Austens House at Chawley. Now I actually like Austen, we had an extract from one of her books read out at our wedding, so seeing where she wrote all of her works was great and they certainly captured the period well. HOWEVER there was a sense that they were trying to beatify her into Saint Jane of Austen. It seems that for many people she represents a certain attitude and a certain lifestyle, almost 'Austen style' and in her they put their own fears and hopes. Whereas she was a decent writer she certainly wasn't a saint.

From there we needed a cuppa and butty so we headed to Winchester. I have to say it's rather like Chester but with added Win.

A very civil place a bit like Bath but without the pretensions. We found a little tea shop off the high street that did twenty different types of tea. Em had a High tea and I had low tea. Low tea is the same thing just with a toasted cheese sandwich rather than scones with jam and cream.

From there we walked up to the gate museum and Great hall where they claim to have 'THE' round table. Em was nearly apoplectic.

"There isn't a 'THE' round table and there never was! Is the meaning of the word MYTH lost on you people? It's a table that's round and nothing else!"

However they more than made up for their grammatical error with a lovely garden off to the side with all sorts of herbal and eating plants in! It also had a bench where I could have quite happily spent a couple of hours reading a novel. Unfortunately that wasn't an option so we went on to our stop of the night.

We had a very clear plan of not booking accommodation more than 24 hours ahead and so far I have to say its worked rather well. This pub, called the cricketers arms looks like a Small country cottage and has a chalet style accommodation block behind it made out of local timber. This chalet looks a touch like a upmarket motel but the rooms are lovely and decked out (Geddit?) all on wood.

We had a couple of pints of the Bowman ales Swift One (some cricket pun I think) and a wonderful meal. Then sat by the enormous fireplace with a cheery fire and listened to the locals chat about nothing in particular.

We headed to bed and fell into a sound sleep in spite of the room next to ours listening to Radio four quite loud.

The 2010 Bimble : Monday

2010-05-22T09:25:00.001+01:00

Miles :142
Start: Gravesend
End: Brighton

We got up with Jane and Wez and wished them well on their way to work. Its to their credit that they didn't shout obscenities at us as they headed out to their jobs.

Then after a round of showers and toast we headed out into the bright blue dawn of the A2. Driving through the Kent countryside I can't help but be amazed at how lush and verdant it is. We passed acre after acre of beautiful green fields which were highlighted by the occasional yellow of a rape seed field.

We arrived at Canterbury in the glorious sunshine and left in the pouring rain. I can't think of anything we did to make the weather angry but it rained nonetheless. In between we had seen the glorious cathedral, at which even an avowed Agnostic such as myself can't help but be impressed. Em and I had an argument/discussion about whether a painting was of Charles the First or Charles the Second. Em won out, of course, but was good enough to point out it was commissioned by Charles the second so we were both right (No we weren't really)

We stopped off to have some lunch in a cafe on a side street and then through the pedestrianised streets we were watching fudge being made in a shop window and were invited in. It seemed like the lad doing it was having tremendous fun and really enjoyed the process. It wasn't cheap but it was the best fudge I've had for a long time.

We left Canterbury on the B2068 which you can't help but notice is quite a bit Roman, in that its straight as a die in some sections with the occasional sweeping bend. Em joked that it was every Friday the Roman road builders would get smashed at lunchtime and go off tangent a bit hence the term' gone on a bender'. Not sure about that one myself....

You can help but be reminded of history around here, passing through 'Norman Bay', 'Hastings' and of course my personal favourite 'Battle'. Its as if the towns themselves are trying to tell you of the men who fought and died there in wars long passed into the history books.

As we hit the South coast proper the satellite navigation had a bit of a tizzy and ended up sending us down narrower and narrower roads until I was afraid La Todo Poderosa wasn't going to fit! It didn't seem to bother the locals who came barrelling through the gaps threading the eye of the needle with their vans. Although without that route adjustment we wouldn't have seen a Street called 'Denbigh road' deep in the East Sussex Countryside.

Windmills of both descriptions are everywhere in that area. The old beautiful and useless, and the new very useful and the allegedly ugly new ones. Personally I like them, I think in a hundred years they're be an iconic reminder of our species becoming more environmentally aware. But then again I don't have one ruining my once pristine view.

Driving through this very flat land Rye is on a hill in the middle of the marshland, It towers out of the landscape like some fantasy castle with serfs huts surrounding it. Its an absolutely beautiful spot that I hope to go back to one day.

Hop houses are also everywhere around here as most of the hops used in the UK is grown in this area. There are tales of the soporific nature of the hops making people walking among them just nod of as they stroll around. I'd love to give that a go!

We drove into Brighton past a lorry that had gone on its side. Em and I decided that the driver had been so stunned at the incredible view that he simply turned too fast and toppled over! The South downs are simply gorgeous. They don't have the rugged beauty of the Snowdonian peaks but seem almost to have been manicured over the years to create an incredible series of slopes and ranges into the sea. Almost like a giant Bonsai sculpture. I don't know what they do with the ugly hills down here. Possibly just flatten them out and use the rubble to improve the gradient on some other not quite up to par peaks.

We checked into our BnB which was a real throw back to the seventies. The last time I saw half this furniture was in an episode of Rising Damp. I have to say it was clean and it was very cheap which are two of my favourite things in a hotel room.

We picked up Craig from his place in Newhaven, about ten miles down the coast and went out for an All-You-Can-Eat Thai/Chinese/Vietnamese meal. It was more like a More-Than-You-Should-Eat Thai/Chinese/Vietnamese meal but was bloody lovely all the same.

It was good to catch up with Craig who moved down here nearly Ten years ago now, and its great to see how settled he seems to be.

We headed back to the BnB and took a walk down to and along Brighton's East Pier which was nice but a bit like an upmarket Llandudno pier!

Then back to the hotel and some much needed rest.

The 2010 Bimble : Sunday

2010-05-22T09:16:00.001+01:00

Miles :7
Start: Gravesend
End: Gravesend

Had an excellent chill out morning with Jane and Wez with breakfast butties and episodes of How I met your Mother. Then we went to Jake and Lauras house to meet the latest addition to their family, Daisy their daughter. She's absolutely lovely and has a really good temperament even I didn't scare her too much.

I'm very afraid when people hand me their kids to hold. I haven't really had much experience with Kids, I mean, I used to be one but I don't think that counts in the grand scheme of things. I don't understand when they start crying, it make me think that its me making them uncomfortable which makes me uncomfortable which makes them more uncomfortable etc etc etc

Laura and Jake are great though, you'd think they've been doing this years. When I mentioned this to them Jake indicated to me that it already felt like it had been forever but he wouldn't change a thing!

We talked for nigh on twelve hours and had a great laugh. They always much us feel so welcome so included that its always a joy coming this far south.

After much pizza and beer we headed back to the house ready for the next day and the start of the bimble proper.

The 2010 Bimble : Saturday

2010-05-16T09:15:00.005+01:00

Miles :246
Start: Rhyl
End: Gravesend

The night before we set out on our bimble (Dictionary definition : A long meandering journey with no fixed point of destination,) was my leaving do from the council. Probably not the most ideal preparation for a long journey. I don't imagine Scott of the Antarctic decided to nip out the night before traveling south for twelve pints and a curry. Nevertheless it was important to me to say goodbye to a placed and people I've very much enjoyed working for and with.

They very sweetly bought me two tasting glasses and a lovely bottle of my favourite type of whiskey (Anything from the Isle of Islay, this one was a Caol Ila out of interest.) So we went out for a couple of pints which was good fun. I flatter myself that they'll miss me just as much as I'll miss them but I don't think so!

I remember vividly leaving a previous job with Denbighshire and as I left the pub my assembled ex-work colleagues gave me a resounding round of applause much to the amusement of the other patrons! That was a great moment for me.

Anyways leaving the council this time I've already written about in a lot of detail so I'll move on.

We picked up a few things in town before leaving. Rhyl on a Saturday morning has a special funk of its own. Everyone seems to be hurrying about as if they have somewhere vital to be. Mainly, I think, anywhere that isn't Rhyl. Even the buskers are of a lower quality than you've come to expect in other large towns. One of them mumbles over every word as if hes embarrassed to be caught singing in public. Which is strange as he's there everyday, you'd think he'd have learnt the words by now. The other has a better voice but was singing, in all seriousness, Achy Breaky Heart.

Generally I have a positive outlook an life and I think mankind is evolving in the right direction but I only have to hear that song to lose all hope and feel nothing but pity and dispair for mankind. When there's soooooooo much good music, important music, soulful meaningful music out there to sing and you choose a shit novelty song from the early nineties, you've got to question your entire value system.

I am very much anti-death penalty but I am in favour of planned music re-education camps. Where you go in loving JLS and Cheryl Cole and re-emerge as a productive member of society appreciating Led Zepplin and Joni Mitchell.

Oh, a caveat to that earlier statement. If you don't enjoy the music of Al Green you have no soul and should be shot like a rabid dog.

So with our provisions laid in we pointed La Poderosa(My car) south and set out.

This Bimble has been a delibrate attempt on my part to relax more on holiday. We've got a dinner appointment in Brighton on Monday evening and the next thing I have to do is on the following Saturday. Normally I have a schedule and a good idea of what we have to do and where we have to go but this time I'm leaving that all up to fate. We're just going to see where we wake up meander around for the day, find a BnB with a pub nearby and stay there.

It might backfire spectacularly but if worst comes to worst we can get home from anywhere on the south coast in about eight hours. And its not lke we don't have family around here.

Its that special time of year when the rape seed has blossomed and the fields on the way down were that special yellow of the rape oil plant which makes that pasture look like it has captured raw sunlight and is now emitting it out. It's a beautiful colour giving the rolling hills a depth and texture that they don't usually possess with their ordinary crops. The contrast between the deep green of a fallow field and that raw golden sunlight is most pleasing to my horticulturally blind eye.

I think I associate that view with the start of summer proper so when I see those fields of gold (Thanks Sting) I know that summers here. Woot!

Also due to my impassioned indifference to Football/Soccer/Nancyball, call it what you will, travelling on FA Cup final day is no biggie so the roads were virtually empty which made for a very pleasant journey.

We made excellent time and were welcomed to Kent by Jane and Wez who have very kindly put us up for the weekend. The rest of the evening was spent variously watching TV, eating and talking and laughing throughout all of the above.

My leaving Do : Fabulous!!!

2010-05-15T08:11:00.000+01:00

Running to stand still

2010-05-14T08:09:00.001+01:00

There are certain moments in my life I wish I could freezeframe forever. The wrap party in Cardiff, my final Final in Liverpool, waking up in the golden light in Paris with her still lying in my arms .
I think what Im trying to say is those moments are fond memories that i will treasure forever but I had to move on to really appricate them. However hard it feels at that time its a necessary part of moving on.
I am sad to leave good people and a couple of good friends but I know its important that I do.
So goodbye Conwy, I'll never forget you.

Quandarium

2010-05-13T17:12:00.004+01:00

I've got a new job and it starts next week.

I'm really excited about it as its a pemanent job doing something I enjoy.

But I'm going to have to leave the place where I'm currently at. Somewhere I'm very happy. Somewhere I have good friends and a position I like.

I know its the right thing to do, but why does it feel so wrong?

Electoral Disfunction

2010-05-08T08:36:00.003+01:00

Stayed up until 2 watching the election coverage. Long enough to realise that the seemingly ridiculous exit polls were pretty much spot on. The Lib Dems, whom I've voted for since I was 19 were going to gain an increase in the percentage of people voting but thanks to the historical vagaries of our system actually loose seats.

The coverage was interesting, I thought Channel Four did a good job of keeping the comedy working whilst waiting for actual results. The BBC were stuck with blokes around a table and couldn't cut to 'Come dine with me' or Charlie Brooker being sneering and yet somehow likeable.

And now we have a hung parliament, which can only be broken by the Lib dems making a pact with one of two devils. I can't believe that they are thinking of collaborating with the Conservatives. A Con-Dem-Nation (Not one of mine I'm afraid) wouldn't last but Cameron might use it to oust Brown, stumble on for a few months and then call another election. My only hope is that in the mean-time he pushes through electoral reform, although it has been pointed out to me that if it does go through the Lib Dems will get a more proportional representation in the house but so will the BNP.

It depresses me that nearly nine hundred thousand people in the UK feel so disillusioned that they'd vote for Nazis. Because that's who they are. You can dress it up any way you want. Keep hiding your policies behind a flag we should all be proud of but you are still adhering to National Socialist principles.

I should respect any mans right to believe what he wishes, I even have friends that are Torys, but the BNP make me irrationally angry. I find it hard to believe that in my tiny constituency (35000 voters)there are 827 people that actually put an X next to the BNP.

They should be rounded up and shot.

And its that kind of thinking that caused this mess in the first place.

Prep work!

2010-04-25T09:44:00.000+01:00

Day Off, or, 'Sod the Housework.'

2010-04-25T09:33:00.000+01:00

Day Off.

2010-04-23T20:16:00.000+01:00

Day Off: Part Two or 'Sod the housework.'

2010-04-23T20:06:00.000+01:00

Happy stag do David!

2010-04-10T20:07:00.000+01:00

2010-04-06T20:05:00.000+01:00

Our days are numbered, but our friends are limitless.
Come on then motherfucker,
it'll be a cold day in hell,
when you'll take us now.

I pity the (rhubarb) fool!

2010-04-03T20:41:00.000+01:00

Don't ever doubt my commitment to Sparklemotion!

2010-03-19T19:50:00.000Z

...And next I'll teach you how to ante up...

2010-03-15T10:36:00.000Z

The Hugh-gonaught in all his glory!

2010-03-15T10:35:00.000Z

Moving day

2010-02-13T11:20:00.000Z

2010-02-09T18:12:00.000Z

Boards of canada playing in KFC.

06022010008.jpg

2010-02-06T19:12:00.000Z

That's why they're Mushrooms! Thats why they're Mushrooms!

2010-01-30T07:44:00.004Z

Went to my first Super League game last night. And I have to say the experience was highly varied. First of all when we got to the sell out ground at Wrexham (10,300 -ish)it was clear the stewards hadn't really thought things through. We had assigned seats but a lot of fans had unrestricted tickets and the stewards had told them they could sit anywhere. Without pointing out that they might be asked to move by people with assigned seating. Chaos inevitably ensued but it wasn't at the viciousness that one might expected.

Second the seats we took, were somehow in what I believe is termed 'The away end'. Rugby has no separation of rival fans and the selling of alcohol is encouraged. Now there are many reasons why I don't follow football but in amongst the main ones is the rivalry and intimidation that goes on. At every Rugby Union match I've been to theres been singing and chanting but I have never ever felt in the least intimidated and never, ever heard the opposition fans singing "Get into them - Fuck them up!"

The individual Leeds fans I spoke to were very friendly but there were clusters of them , clots one might say, that were at the very least thug-ish that I would cross entire counties to avoid. It was only at the end of the game as I was filling out, I craned to look at the area the Baboons had inhabited and I realised that sat three rows in front of them were three little girls in Welsh hats with their Ma and Pa. They must have heard all the swearing and abuse and blatant Xenophobia that those Idiots were saying and I think they've got a very different perspective on sport and probably men as well. As Hunter always used to say 'He who makes a beast of himself spares himself the pain of being a man.' or, translated from ponce 'If you go with the mob you don't have to think for yourself'.

They had their songs and chants one of which was "Who are ya? Who are ya? You've got no History, You've got no history!" I felt like shouting back "Of course we haven't you numptys, we've only been going a year!" However the fact I'm typing this from my front room and not a hospital bed shows that I was able to restrain myself.

Although by far my favourite chant was "That's why we're champions, That's why we're champions!" after every try. They were indeed champions last year but they were emphasising odd syllables so it came out

That's why we're Cham - p - O - nes which sounded for all the world like the french for Mushrooms! I imagine this was unintentional unless leeds have some kind of nickname I'm unaware of.

The game itself when it started was like a paired down game of Union and that's not an insult. Its a game that can be understood fairly quickly and enjoyed straight away. Union is a game that grows on you slowly and until you get the subtleties and complexities of the whole game then it is baffling and confusing.

I can understand why die-hard League fans can't understand why you'd want to play rugby like a foxtrot. "Slow slow quick quick slow" rather than an all out mad rush but for me (Ponce mode) its the difference between a glass of coke and a single malt. One is meant to be guzzled consumed straight away before the fizz goes. The other is meant to be savoured, allowed to mature.(/Ponce mode)

I think its this difference that means I will always be a union man, Although I may well go back for the occasional crusaders game. The game itself was enjoyable and there was always something happening, but I will very much be in the home end next time I go.

(The result? Well we lost by four tries in the end but for two thirds of the match we held the Mushrooms to a draw which is an achievement by anyone's standards!)

28012010001.jpg

2010-01-28T12:30:00.000Z

2010-01-24T08:47:00.000Z

After a cracking nights sleep, Belgian beer will do that to you, we headed out about nine for some much needed breakfast. We dropped into the first place we saw where the greek guy took one look at us and said

"Four full English?"

Now what I should have said is "Four hungry Welsh actually" but I'm not that quick.

A superb meal was forthcoming rich in the essential greases you require to replenish stocks after a night out.

We caught the tube, Caroline remebering not to put her travel pass next to a fridge magnet thus invalidating the magnetic strip this time, and headed for the Natural History museum.

We took the tour around the dinosaurs and saw a few other bits and pieces before hitting the shop.

From there its a short walk to the science museum which was much less crowded. They had some superb exhibits on but its hard to appricate the scale of both musuems. It would take weeks to glance at evrything they have on display let alone in Archive.

We wandered up the street then past Harrods and the estate agents advertising apartments for 25 million, and caught the tube to the area known as 'the city of London'.

Here was me thinking I was taking an entire holiday in the City of London. What a fool I am!

The streets were totally deserted. I can imagine with all the banks around that on a normal weekday evrything is heaving but we found essential nowhere open including the pub we'd wanted to go to for ages called 'The Old Doctor Butlers Head' which serves some great beer apparantly and its tested by people pouring some on a wooden bench and then sitting on it in leather trousers. (And people say the British aren't kinky enough!)

From there we came back to the hotel via the old mans pub on the corner which was nice. It felt like the kind of boozer you see in eastenders but don't think exsist in London anymore.

A guy walked in with a suitcase which he opned and starte selling meat to all the regulars. Now in Liverpoll we were forever chasing out Scallys selling clothes, dvds or whatever had just fallen out of the back of a van, but Meat?

I don't know about you but when we talk about sourcing our produce I don't want to have to say, "Some bloke in the Cumberland Arms'.

Em and I had a quick break for a cuppa back at the Hotel, cause we're old. The klift in the hotel had this great bored northern womans voice,

Floor 2. Brass bands and depression.

It was like having Holly from Red Dwarf in charge of the lift!

From there we tubed it to meetRob and Caroline at Piccadily Circus, a cheap Time Square. Anheaded to a pub called 'The Old Coffee Shop' where they serve the beers they brew on the premises.

I call them 'beers' but they were more just watered down toilet water. Not very good I'm afraid. So we moved on do De Hems which was a pub Al had recommended and was anopther Belgian pub. The beer was uniformly excellent and thank to a very friendly member of staff we got to try their cherry and strawberry draft beers! Yummy! Don' think I could have a whole pint of it though!

We headed to a chinese that Rob and Caroline had picked out through the sex shop streets of soho and had an excellent banquet to round off a great day in the city!
Bored northern lift.
The barman in de hems giving us cherry and strawberry beer.

Caroline moving the lazy susan as im poring the tea.

2010-01-23T08:40:00.000Z

It was an early morning start for us today, well about 9.58 when we had to catch our (not so) early train down to London. The journey was swift and realtively uneventful thanks to all the work they've done on the west coast mainline service. two and a half hours to London from our little provincial backwater is superb by anyones reckoning.

We dropped the stuff off at l'hotel and headed to Westminster.

Westminster tube station is awe inspiring. they left evrything on show all the pipework and ducts all the massive slabs of concrete that are usually discretely hidden and left on full view almost showing off in its starkness. And I Love it! It reminded me of the pomidu center in Paris.

Anyway we met my friend Al there and headed to Parliment where he works as an Parlimentry outreach person. He used to be one of the team that transcribed the offical record of ever word that was said whilst Parilment was in session. If you've ever watched a debate in the house of commons you'll know what an ardous task that must have been.

So now he works with groups talking about parliment and how parilment works for them.

We went through a series of checkpoints and Em got frisked AGAIN. Every airport we've ever been to she get searched. She seems to be a frisking magnet we laugh and joke about it but occasionally I have to fight off the urge to shout 'Get your hands off my WIFE!'

From there we walked into St Stepehens Hall I think which is the only place in the Parilmentry grounds that you are allowed to take photographs. After that my camera stayed in my pocket and what a pity it was too. We walked through the opulent rooms surrounding the houses of lords all gift and ermine and plush red velvet and then through the houses of commons where I stood next to the dispatches box, right by Gordon Browns seat . It was an awesome tour and Al is very funny and well versed in the History of Parliment. It was quite an experience.

One thing that surprised me was the balance they have to strike. Theres a masive statue of Oliver Cromwell outside which is fair enough but inside its all Kings and Queens! I don't think Mr Cromwell would have been happy about that but being a Puritan I can't imagine there was much that would make him happy. And even if there was he'd probaby feel guilty about it.

After leaving Al we headed north to towards Covent Garden. We stopped briefly for a swift pint in the Duke of Wellington (Excellent Ale friendly locals) and spent some time looking at the shops in Covent Garden proper.

After that it was back to the hotel for a swift brushup and then back out for the night that nearly never was.

It must be everyones nightmare to reserve a table in your favourite resturant and for them to have no record of that reservation when you get there. Espically when you know you're from the sticks and want your city friends to get the impression that you're at least cultured in some ways!

In fairness to the staff at Belgos they found us a table fairly quickly and sat us with the minimum of fuss. I was expecting gestures and frumps and frowns but I forgot this is a Belgian resturant not French.

We met with Jane, Wez and Simon for beers and chats and had, what I belive Bertie Wooster would have described as a spiffing time.

The mussles were, as ever superb and the Beers with names such as Satan Gold, Judas etc were uniformly excellent. Except for a monstrousity of a beer called Something Something Duchess. It tasted how I imagine Fergie from Black Eyed Peas tastes. Sweaty, salty and which a air of Vinegar. Yeuch! Reading that back it is possible that the beer had gone off but I didn't want to appear stupid and ignorant AGAIN!

Having said our goodbyes with the prospect of seeing everyone in a fortnight for l'Rugby we walked back to the hotel in the rain.

2010-01-22T23:23:00.000Z

2010-01-22T16:43:00.001Z

2010-01-22T16:37:00.000Z

Fake xmas is a go!

2009-12-31T11:42:00.003Z

Jane and Wez braved the snow the ice and terrible terrible british rail sandwiches to join the Welsh side of the family for fake xmas and new year.

Fake xmas is a Taylor famliy tradition that we like to uphold. We have xmas with our new families variously in Georgia, Kent and Rhyl and then at some point we all head for St Asaph for festive cheer, turkey and a tradtional game of Mah Jong.

This year was no exception with a lovely piece of turkey, three different stuffings, leeks and all the trimmings! We played a few gamres of UNO where I got the rules mixed up and then MAh jong with plenty of beer/wine/nog.

Today is New years eve where we're meeting all our friends and family for more drinks. I think JAnuary should be delcared as 'detox month!'

2009-12-27T17:22:00.000Z

vickys pint.

2009-12-25T16:39:00.000Z

Xmas time... Mistletoe and something or other.

2009-12-24T19:09:00.002Z

Yay!

Broken up for xmas which is a joy as there now a whole 4 days between me and the next time I have to wear a tie! Woo!

In other news Rage against the Machine are the xmas number one single instead of Xfactors what's face singing 'The Zzzzzzzzz.....' Thank God. When did Karaoke become the cultural lodestone that we're all meant to worship?

Sorry, not making much sense at the moment. the brain hasn't been clear for days and I've got a temper shorter than an essex girls christmas skirt at the moment. Not the best way to be writing really . If I tried writing anything at the moment it would just end up being a whole page with the single word

KNOBJOCKEY!

Repeated all the way down it.

I have done a butt load of research for writing and structure but without actually getting much written. It would be worth getting something on the page but it would need totally tearing down and starting again once I felt better.

Had the works do last week which was ace seeing everyone out of the office and meeting up with some friends that have moved on to bigger and better things.

Xmas day tomorrow! Woot! Its my favourite time to see the family and friends. And nog of course! Lets not forget the Nog!

Cheers!

Llandudno in the morning.

2009-12-19T08:16:00.000Z

'Ghost Em' in cinemas this Jan.

2009-12-11T23:25:00.000Z

what was that about red sky in the morning?

2009-12-08T09:02:00.000Z

Grabbing onto memories

2009-11-25T19:39:00.004Z

A long time ago, what seems like many lifetimes ago there was a club in Rhyl. It was the only place that didn't play the usual chart tunes and bland antiseptic dance music. The carpets were sticky and the beer was quite frankly horrible but the people and the music made it fabulous. It was friendly in a town where friendly didn't count for anything.

The legends around the doorman were that he'd been one of Ali's sparring partners when he come over to the UK for one fight or another. He was certainly old enough but he was built solid and had a shock of white hair, mustaches and a pipe firmly and continuously clamped between his teeth. He very rarely said anything but it was always worth listening when he did. It always amused me this dichotomy of this gentleman in full black tie and dinner jacket surround by scruffy grunge kids moping around the dance floor.

What The Bistro, for that was its name, represented to me was something more than a club, it was the environment where I thought I fitted. Everyone in there was a misfit of one sort or another so I felt right at home. I'd been to dance clubs before but I rapidly found I had nothing in common with most of the people in there, who were there to get drunk, get dancing and get laid or any combination of those three. I've always been a bit strange but that didn't sound like a good time to me and if I was going to have to listen to obscenely loud music I felt it should at least be something I'd like to hear at home.

The bistro played rock grunge, indie, alternative basically anything that you wouldn't hear at a regular club, I remember they had to ban 'smell like teen spirit' because the moshing ** was making the chandelier below swing precariously.

(** moshing:- jumping up and down and into each other with careless abandon trying not to fall over. Surprisingly fun. murder on the ankles though!)

In a way every indie club I went to after that was a echo of The Bistro be it London, Liverpool or Atlanta, that smell of sticky carpets and indie kids always gave me a certain thrill.

And it closed sometime after I left for parts unknown and there was no where for any of us to be anymore.

Theres a reunion planned and I'm in two mind whether to go or not. One part of me wants to drink foul lager and bounce around like a fool for an evening like I used to. The other half of me wants to let the memories stay as they are. We'll have to see when the night comes if I'm still a teenager at heart or pessimistic old sod.

Boston Park.

2009-11-22T09:11:00.007Z

There's a park in the middle of Harvard University which is surrounded on all sides by coffee shops and book sellers. The park itself has benches and a layer of cigarette butts so deep in places walking through the fag ends and discarded filters is like wading through tar soaked snow. I don't think they've been collected since the time John Adams was there. I swear I saw a little clay pipe at the bottom of one pile.

We stopped for a coffee and a sit down having walked through most of upper Boston on our way here.

In the park under a tree was a guy who couldn't have been more than twenty, on his own, singing and playing guitar. Normally buskers will play something instantly recognisable and catchy to get peoples attention. I think that's why they're so reviled, they only play what they think you'd like to hear so they play the most inoffensive dreck and by not offending anyone they usually alienate everyone.

I didn't identify this tune at first but it wasn't unpleasant, so I sat, sipping my coffee, listening to his strumming. It was only after I got past his strong Bostonian accent that I realised what he was singing this beautiful song that he had written about how painful his breakup with a particular girl was. He was singing a personal song about how he himself felt. I could see him pause occasionally and take a small stub of pencil and mark up a legal pad he had next to him.

I don't think it would have mattered if there had been ten people in that park or a thousand. He wasn't there to entertain others. He would still have been singing that song on his own in an attic if he had to. Because he HAD to sing it. Because it was the only way he could process the emotions he was dealing with. And that what I love about good art. Good artists will do what they do not for the pleasure of others or for praise, adoration and cash but because if they had no fans, no crowds, no public, they'd still be doing it anyway.

Somehow I don't think Damien Hirst or Tracy Emin would still be artists if they'd had no success. They'd be turning out copies of quaint Landscapes so fast it would make your head spin.

Real art is passion. Real art is a gnawing desperate need to vent these feelings by singing, writing, painting, or whatever before those very emotions burn you out from the inside.

andy is happy

2009-11-14T15:04:00.001Z

my wife is very talented

2009-11-11T07:30:00.000Z

I like driving in my car...

2009-10-31T08:34:00.002Z

...except when I can't.

After a moderately hard day at work the only thing I wanted to do was sink into the couch and lose myself in the rather excellent Ravenor collection of novels by Dan Abnett. (Available at all good book shops and also some rather dubious ones.) Or maybe watch some of the superb True Blood, Generation Kill or Dollhouse TV shows which are finally airing on terrestrial channels. But no, the shopping had to be done and I was just the man to do it. Or rather I was the only man that was going to do it. I reckoned to get to the shops, buy the essentials, get back, put them away and be on the couch with a book and something single and malty would take about half an hour. Not a large amount of time from my evening off.

So upon entering my car which has sat in the car park without complaint since Saturday, I tried starting it only to hear the noise that all car owners dread. That crunchy, whiny sound non-starting engine sounds that translates from car-speak to English as "This is going to be expensive". So after a couple more attempts (I'm nothing if not persistent) I did what every bloke with no mechanical expertise at all does. Called my breakdown service.

Unfortunately I'd forgot that as a cost-saving measure I'd neglected to tick the box that says HOME START. Ah. The lady was most apologetic and explained that I'd need to be further than a quarter mile away from my house in order to get the breakdown service that I was paying for. For them to come out as things stood would cost a squillion quid before they could even look at the problem. I politely declined the offer and instead decided to jump start the car from our second motor hoping to at least have enough power to get it to the Motor shop where I presumed they would have a battery tester and a new battery to sell me. It was then I discovered EXACTLY what they mean by 'Power' Steering. With no power to the car and it being about the same size and weight as your average Sherman tank, manoeuvring my car was no mean feat. I was certainly glad I didn't have to push it much further than 10 meters or so to the waiting maw of the donor car.

One quick jump later and we were away to our local brand of our national chain of car type stores (Not named here for possible legal implications). I approached the Helpdesk and to my relief it was manned by a gentleman in the prime of his middle ages rather than a scrawny YTS geek who's all neck and no nouse. This gentleman oozed calm experience from every pore. I explained the situation and he nodded sagely.

"It certainly sounds like the battery is failing we'll just test it first. Albert?"

Albert appeared from behind the desk the epitome of adolescent ineptitude with the spots and greasy smell to match. My heart sank as he lollopped his way over to my waiting car and after prodding ineffectually under the bonnet proclaimed that "The machine says you'll need a new battery."

I selected my battery and he started the installation procedure getting as far as removing the old battery and connecting the negative terminal before saying "Urm..."

"Urm...?" I said, the model of politeness.

"Urm.. I've never seen this type of connection before."

He was right, on carefully checking the old battery it appeared a specialised widget has been attached to the positive terminal which the shop did not stock. He struggled with the widget on the old battery for a minute or two before pronouncing it 'hopeless' and it was decided to refit the old battery, jump start the car again and drive it to my local garage for them to ponder over it in the morning.

It was at this point that Albert broke the negative terminal.

He was tightening the clamp and obviously went one twist too far. The whole thing broke away in his hands leaving me with a non-functional non-fitting battery and a functional non-fitting one.

Having dismissed Albert I redialled my breakdown service trying to keep the note of irony out of my voice as I explained I was now further than a quarter mile away from my house and so would like someone to come and look at the car.

It was an hour later that the Breakdown service arrived and as he emerged from his van I breathed a sigh of relief.

The Breakdown man had a beard you could trust. This was a beard that explained in calming dulcet tones that it had seen it all before, nothing could ever ruffle, surprise or vex this man or his beard. In a flash he had the widget removed from the broken battery and attached to the shiny new one and my car was running as fine as ever before.

A nod a wink and he was away to his next job leaving only a working car and a credit card receipt as proof he had ever been there.

So much for a night off, hunh?

Nick Griffin Haiku

2009-10-31T08:26:00.002Z

Nick Griffin smiles like Eagle,
But has black heart of snake.
Much like mythological namesake

Why would I want to live anywhere else?

2009-10-07T18:40:00.000+01:00

Geocaching with friends.

2009-09-26T15:49:00.000+01:00

chocolate heaven.

2009-09-19T19:52:00.000+01:00

'za?

2009-09-19T17:38:00.000+01:00

thats how WE roll

2009-09-19T17:33:00.000+01:00

awwww

2009-09-19T15:31:00.000+01:00

the 'parry' half

2009-09-19T14:16:00.000+01:00

Goodbyes and Hellos

2009-09-13T08:14:00.003+01:00

The weekend before last (29th August) WE headed down to the beautiful town of Hungerford for my Uncle Wilfs funeral.

When I was growing up he'd already retired and he was a regular visitor to see his sister (my Gran) and the assorted great nieces and nephews they'd accumulated up here in wales.

I remember his relaxed attitude and friendliness and the video camera that he'd permanently have attached to his hand. I can't actually think of him without the enormous black machine resting on his shoulder. This was of course before mini DV cams and palmcorders this thing was about the size of a moderately well equipped ford fiesta. But, I have to say, we have a record of what we were all like at that point in our lives. Although I could have done without having to recite "Cecil is a caterpillar" every time the family now get together.

However we headed down on the Friday night and spent the weekend with Wilfreds daughter Judy and her husband Chris who are two of the most lovely welcoming friendly people I think I've ever met. The funeral itself was a full church service but the wake was great. Everyone talking and laughing, remembering Wilf and then meeting the next generation, my nephews and nieces. Or nephews once removed or something like that.

The picture about two or three entries below titled "You'll never see what I believe till its sunny in England" is of the fields at the back of Chris and Judys house which leads down the picturesque canal above which leads to the beautiful village centre. It really is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been and ALL the people I met on the walk looked me straight in the eye and said 'Good Morning' instead of the studied obliviousness that I'm used to in Rhyl. It was an eye opening change.

beating the bounds 2009

2009-09-06T14:56:00.000+01:00

You'll never see what I believe till it's sunny in England...

2009-08-29T08:39:00.000+01:00

Dublin Saturday

2009-08-23T15:57:00.000+01:00

A late start today, which is no surprise considering the mayhem and fun we had last night.

We walked out about 9:30 into the burning bright sunlight of a dublin summers day. I swear this city doesn't know how to cope with anything other than dismal grey rain. Its beatuiful in the sunshine though. We walked for a bit grabbing a coffee from a random bakery and headed to a church where they exhibit the mummies held in the crypt.

Bizarre I know. It gets bizzarer. So the crypt keeper turns up and hes an odd blend of Irish-showman and RADA reject. His emphasis is totally off and he speaks like every word he says is total revalation to his audience.

I suppose he has to make sure the tourists for whom English is a second third or fourth language don't miss every point. His description of being hung drawn and quartered will stay will me for a long time though.

Everywhere in the crypt there are clear signs saying "These are sacred remains. Please do not take photos" however at the 'climax' of the tour you are given the oppourtunity to touch the mummified remains of an eight hundred year old corpse.

This dicotamy surprised me.

You're not allowed to take a photo which is generally a non-invasive proceedure, but you are allowed to stroke the hand of an actual corpse beacause it's considered lucky?

Are we still in the eighteenth century? because it bloody feels like it sometimes.

ANYWAY... we moved on from the dry crpyts into the still burning sunshine and walked across to the Jamesons factory wherefor 13.50 you too can be harded like cattle around the various brewing distilling and maturing processes that go into making, what is at best, a reasonable whiskey. Note for all you pedants out there, Scottish whisky is spelt without the e, Irish Whiskey is spelt with the e and Welsh Whisky is best avoided.

By this time, having skipped breakfast, it was a quarter past lunch so we headed to one of the only Brew-pubs in Dublin, The Porterhouse. I've been to their sister pub in Covent Garden in London but this was my chance to see the original.

It would have been rude not to sample their homebrew beers with lunch so we all got a different pint and tried them all out with our ample lunch orders.

Fod and beer are expensive in Dublin but only because the pound has fallen heavily against the Euro recently. So you'd expect to pay about 5 quid a pint and 10-15 Euros for a meal. Which is by no means outrageous for a weekend break but if you were here for a singificant time I think it could become prohibitily expensive.

From there we walked through town to McDaid's which was both a morgue and a Chapel before becoming a pub. It was nice but nothing special considering its unusal heritage althought the loos were up three flights of narrow winding stairs and they did have the cricket on.

We walked on after the obligatory pint of the black stuff to St Stephens green which was swarming with people and not the haven from the busy madness of Dublin that the guidebooks had promised. We didn't stay for long.

We walked back to the hotel via the Stags head which we had scouted the previous night and found an extra room at the back which technically would count as the snug. Very comfy and good good beer. Back at the Hotel we had our customary siesta and then headed out into temple bar on a saturday night on a summers eve.

The place was rammed. We had heard that it would be busy but not on this scale. The pubs were literally oveflowing with loud rawcous people when we were mpore in the mood for pints and chat.

We headed away from temple bar and found ourselves in a pub called the long stone which had an enmous sheltered outdoor area (almost empty) and a massive oaken fireplace carved in the shape of a bearded viking type God. V.Good.

Then we headed to what is probably my new favourite pub in Dublin, Mulligans.

It has low ceilings, locals and what is the best pint of guiness I've ever had.

Through carefulll and dilligent tasting we four of us , no strangers to sampling the alchol have come to this conclusion. The guinness DOES taste different in Dublin, but not in all the pubs. Let me explain; In the UK I find guinness has a metallic aftertaste buried deep amgonst the base notes that it simply does not have in most of the pubs over here. McDaids, mentioned above, serves a very UK style pint whereas Mulligans serves something so smooth and creamy and rich its almost a differnt drink.

So I solidly recommend trying many diffent pubs in Ireland , You'll be spolit for choice, before discovering whether you don't really enjoy guinness in Dublin.

In mulligans behind the bar, just down from their Irish Whiskey shelf was a collection of round metal containers which were about an inch and a half across. It turns out this was snuff. Well, we HAD to buy some, i've never seen snuff for sale behind a bar in my life so we had to try some.

Cue much hilarity as the four of us spill some on the table trying to get the darn thing open and take a little pinch each and shove it up one nostill like Kerry Katona at a christening.

Its like inhale vics vapour rub and tickles the inside of our nostils all the way up. When Caroline let out and enourmous sneeze the barmans face was a picture.

From tehir we moved on Finding 'davey Byrnes' too poncy and 'Kehoes' rammed to the rafters we went into 'The Hairy Lemon' (No, I haven't get a clue) And had a reasonable pint before heading home. All in all a very statisfctory day.

Dublin Friday:

2009-08-23T15:45:00.000+01:00

How do you know you're on a boat to Ireland? Because there's two nuns talking to a man with a pint of stout.

That's not a joke, two tables away from us on the not-so-gently rocking superferry from Holyhead to Dublin (christened the Vomit Rocket) the man and the two Brides of Christ were having what can only be described as an indepth heated discussion. Whether it was about saving the mans immortal soul or if Ireland can retain the Six Nations Grand slam they won last year with the front three they've got, only God knows but it is a sign that you're approaching the country where they take most things a little less seriously than the rest of us and some things a hell of a lot more seriously.

We were up early for the ferry, as were the rest of the passengers surrounding us. It was weird, like all the waiting around you'd associate with a domestic/international flight without the cathartic moment of release that is take off and landing. It was all a bit sedate until we hit the middle of the channel and the boat did its best bucking bronco impression.

We 'landed' on time and then it was only a suspiciously cheerful border guard and a half hour train journey to the centre of town.

The train station at Dun Loarie (CHK) is like train stations used to be in mainland Britain. Dirty, overcrowded and confusing. Why would they need signs up showing people which service is departing from which platform? If you don't know you're probably scum, sorry, a tourist.

However it has to be said I've yet to meet a genuine Dub all the bar staff so far seem to be from estonia. So EVERYONE is a tourist.

Anyways once checked into our blessedly quiet hotel we ventured out towards the guinness museum type thing. A walk broken up rather pleasantly by soup and a sandwich lunch and our first pint of the black stuff.

I know that the Guinness, scientifically speaking is no different to that which you can order in Holyhead or Hoxton but for some reason, probably psycological, to me it tastes a lot better. Much richer and yet much more easily drinkable.

Refreshed and well fed we headed up to the Guinness Store House to find it a teeming hotbed of twatty touroids all intent on capturing a geniue piece of 'Oriland for themselves. Of the five automatic tickets booths one was working. I say was because, in a move that will shock no-one, I managed to break the only remaining working one; "But I would like the four already broken machines to be taken into account, your honour!"

Deciding digression was the better part of valour , we merrily disappeared not before stopping at the tat shop to get some much needed Guinness branded supplies.

We stopped at the Brazen Head, allegedly the oldest pub in Ireland for a second pint and found it not quite as heavenly as the first. But I was prepared to forgive this as the third was quite admerable.

Then it was the slow walk back through the tourists to the hotel for a quick hour nap before heading back out to one of my favourite Irish pubs even if it is a tourist trap. The Oliver St. John Gogarty. Crazy name, crazy place! Well not really, the guinness is good the people are warm and friendly. We were greeted from the stage " Ah, the Welsh! The celts that couldn't swim!"
They were playing the traditional Irish Music hich is great when you are actually here surrounded by the music and the noise and such, but back home on CD it just doesn't feel the same.

Suitabtly refreshed we headed out to The Stags Head (Exsiquite Victorian Features) and The Long Hall (Not so long as they'd have you belive. The Hanover in Liverpool is a long bar this is more a medium bar. These felt more for the locals than the tourist places we'd been previously.

I have noticed a different dynamic when theres a group of four rather than two. When I came here before we couldn't go more than a pint without getting into a conversation with somebody. With the four of us we seem a more contained unit and so the craic has been fun but not on the same scale as last time. Admittedly last time my liver was five years younger, we stayed out till 2 in the morning, I had hair and ladies would swoon at five hundred paces at my friend (Good looking Bass player whos also a crackingly nice guy. Damn him. :) )

After that we stopped for a late night snack (About 10pm) Em got a burger and I had a fallaffal which was delicious I think! Then it wasa time to roll into the hotel for a well earned rest.

Caroline makes friends with the locals.

2009-08-21T10:01:00.000+01:00