God save us from Sir Bernard (or is it “Lord”) Matthews - the turkey man. What the hell does he mean by marketing a product as “Turkey Ham”! Hundreds of thousands of pounds are being spent on TV advertisements to brainwash the new Tesco-generation of Britons into believing that such a substance exists and is good for you served like some sort of cheese on toast accompaniment.
Let’s put aside the New Labour Manifesto for a few moments and reflect, with a little help from the Shorter OED. Yes, “ham” is usually but not absolutely the product of the pig family. Yes, it refers to the meat on the upper thigh or “hough”, and technically it can come from other slaughtered animals. But a turkey? Doesn’t the poor fowl suffer enough at Christmas that it now has to have it’s legs chopped off to provide year-round sustenance to the starving customers of our supermarkets. Rant…rant…
And another thing.
The Atkins diet is not for me. I came down to the kitchen this morning and was very polite to the sister-in-law who was holding forth on a variety of topics. Now, I’m not my best as a conversationalist in the early morning, and certainly not before I’ve had a couple of mugs of strong coffee. Under Atkins I would have to give up coffee (and tea). Now I seriously believe I could survive a few weeks without alcohol (it’s happened before, even if a few people remember that month without much pleasure). But a month without coffee – no damned way. I would certainly be banned from collecting the newspaper from the village shop in the mornings (insufferable rudeness). The wife would move out (who could blame her). I’ll have to find another way to shed that stone. The cat is on something called the Hill formula diet and looks much better for it. Maybe I'll join her.
And another thing.
Seeing that tomorrow is the first day of another month I must make some real resolutions for February. "Ranting Nappa" followers will be kept abreast on progress on the following:
No gambling - especially on The National Lottery.
Regular bike rides.
Bread-free days.
Read something worthwhile.
Write a new businessplan (having been chastised for my last comments on the subject).
Smarten up.
Be polite to all members of my family.
Ho hum!
Monday, January 31, 2005
Sunday, January 30, 2005
All the fault of the “Trampette”, or was it the Wassail?
Ten to nine on a Sunday morning is not a sensible time to buy croissants from the village store – if you missed out on the eight am Holy Communion service. Yes, the vicar swept into the shop exuding righteousness and in flowing robes, and of course he gave me that knowing look – where were you, unbeliever?
The trampette* had got the weekend off to an enjoyable but bad start. “What are you doing, this evening?” she chirruped down the phone on Friday evening. “Why not a drink in the local pub?”
Inevitably I woke on Saturday morning with a sore head. But worse was to come. The sister duly arrived with her intended for the appointed wine tasting (six bottles to test out in readiness for her forthcoming nuptials). When I asked (it was late teatime) if they wanted a cuppa or a drink her intended looked crestfallen on hearing the news that we had no “ale” in the house, only lagers of one sort or another. Being the polite host I led him down to the village where we sampled (in order) pints of Palmers, Ballard’s Wassail, and then in the second pub he drank IPA and I had a London Pride.
Accordingly we were in fine spirits for the wine tasting. We made a fair amount of noise, voiced lots of opinions and, of course, I fell fast asleep at the dinner table. Oh, the disgrace of it all.
I’m hoping that February will be a better month for my resolutions. I’ve bought a bike. I’ve got a copy of the Atkins 14 Day Diet. I haven’t got too many social occasions in the diary. Yes, I’ll lose a stone – and go to church.
* The daughter (like her father) is extremely fashion-conscious, but (like her father) she tends to dress down in the workplace. I suppose that she is entitled to do this because as soon as she arrives at work she has to change from her normal clothes into whatever people who work in operating theatres wear. As a result she tends to arrive at her hospital looking a little less than a million dollars, and for that reason has been given the somewhat dubious nickname of “trampette”.
I might add that I find that it is my duty as a country bookseller to wear scruffy, food-stained pullovers, creaseless trousers and dirty shoes. It is part of a carefully nurtured image (even though I don’t get to meet with my customers any more, and don’t get given any more of a nickname than “Nappa”).
The trampette* had got the weekend off to an enjoyable but bad start. “What are you doing, this evening?” she chirruped down the phone on Friday evening. “Why not a drink in the local pub?”
Inevitably I woke on Saturday morning with a sore head. But worse was to come. The sister duly arrived with her intended for the appointed wine tasting (six bottles to test out in readiness for her forthcoming nuptials). When I asked (it was late teatime) if they wanted a cuppa or a drink her intended looked crestfallen on hearing the news that we had no “ale” in the house, only lagers of one sort or another. Being the polite host I led him down to the village where we sampled (in order) pints of Palmers, Ballard’s Wassail, and then in the second pub he drank IPA and I had a London Pride.
Accordingly we were in fine spirits for the wine tasting. We made a fair amount of noise, voiced lots of opinions and, of course, I fell fast asleep at the dinner table. Oh, the disgrace of it all.
I’m hoping that February will be a better month for my resolutions. I’ve bought a bike. I’ve got a copy of the Atkins 14 Day Diet. I haven’t got too many social occasions in the diary. Yes, I’ll lose a stone – and go to church.
* The daughter (like her father) is extremely fashion-conscious, but (like her father) she tends to dress down in the workplace. I suppose that she is entitled to do this because as soon as she arrives at work she has to change from her normal clothes into whatever people who work in operating theatres wear. As a result she tends to arrive at her hospital looking a little less than a million dollars, and for that reason has been given the somewhat dubious nickname of “trampette”.
I might add that I find that it is my duty as a country bookseller to wear scruffy, food-stained pullovers, creaseless trousers and dirty shoes. It is part of a carefully nurtured image (even though I don’t get to meet with my customers any more, and don’t get given any more of a nickname than “Nappa”).
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Winners (and Losers)
This week has been mostly about winning, and not just because Chelsea beat Manchester United in the Carling Cup. Good news has been flowing in thick and fast:
The younger brother has had his feet “done” – something that requires the National Health Service and carpenters tools (yes, planes, chisels, drills), but the result of which pleases his neighbours (and the wife) enormously.
The cat has made a miraculous recovery having been virtually given up for a “goner”. Rather similar to the younger brother she had had “claw problems” which had not been properly dealt with.
The sister-in-law has had her teeth fixed, or at least some of them.
The sister is planning a visit at the weekend bringing no less than six bottles of wine and fizz for my professional scrutiny. This is in view of her forthcoming nuptials. May my judgment be unclouded!
Cousin Tim is returning to Northern France in April, this time without his bike (see passim) and this gives an excuse for a trip to Montreuil (have to visit the new Wine Society premises anyway).
I have terminated my long-standing relationship with Weybridge Automobiles whereby every four weeks or so I deliver my vehicle for another five hundred pounds- worth of essential servicing and repairs.
I have succeeded (with a little help from the accountants, the wife and some rather expensive motor cycle couriers) in getting both personal and corporate tax papers filed minutes before their deadlines and consequent fines.
We’ve managed to sign up with a sensible medical practice in Petersfield (I’ve yet to hear back about the “sample” I gave to their Gloria), and they at least are taking interest in the wife and my respective blood pressures.
I discover that I have accumulated (over 58 years) some 678 air miles – enough for a return trip (on my own) to Amsterdam.
I also have enough American Express points for the wife to come to Amsterdam too, but on another airline.
But most importantly I have discovered the secret of succeeding in business. However little there may be in the bank, however illogical your business plan may be, you will always succeed if you have an absolute, positive belief in the future of your business (are you listening, Kevin?). In other words, get on with it and be damned.
The younger brother has had his feet “done” – something that requires the National Health Service and carpenters tools (yes, planes, chisels, drills), but the result of which pleases his neighbours (and the wife) enormously.
The cat has made a miraculous recovery having been virtually given up for a “goner”. Rather similar to the younger brother she had had “claw problems” which had not been properly dealt with.
The sister-in-law has had her teeth fixed, or at least some of them.
The sister is planning a visit at the weekend bringing no less than six bottles of wine and fizz for my professional scrutiny. This is in view of her forthcoming nuptials. May my judgment be unclouded!
Cousin Tim is returning to Northern France in April, this time without his bike (see passim) and this gives an excuse for a trip to Montreuil (have to visit the new Wine Society premises anyway).
I have terminated my long-standing relationship with Weybridge Automobiles whereby every four weeks or so I deliver my vehicle for another five hundred pounds- worth of essential servicing and repairs.
I have succeeded (with a little help from the accountants, the wife and some rather expensive motor cycle couriers) in getting both personal and corporate tax papers filed minutes before their deadlines and consequent fines.
We’ve managed to sign up with a sensible medical practice in Petersfield (I’ve yet to hear back about the “sample” I gave to their Gloria), and they at least are taking interest in the wife and my respective blood pressures.
I discover that I have accumulated (over 58 years) some 678 air miles – enough for a return trip (on my own) to Amsterdam.
I also have enough American Express points for the wife to come to Amsterdam too, but on another airline.
But most importantly I have discovered the secret of succeeding in business. However little there may be in the bank, however illogical your business plan may be, you will always succeed if you have an absolute, positive belief in the future of your business (are you listening, Kevin?). In other words, get on with it and be damned.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Restaurant Review
Easier said than done to write interestingly about restaurants. The likes of Fay Maschler and AA Gill seem to do it effortlessly – often blending their comments on food, service, companions, décor, etc with essays on vaguely related subjects (Wagner, houseplants, prep schools, other diners, etc.).
The wife and I recently did ourselves proud at our local “star” restaurant (Michelin rosette, lots of good reviews – even in the national press, superb food, faultless service). There you are, a complete review in brackets, three adjectives and not a verb to be seen, except that I haven’t told you what we ate or even the name of the restaurant.
The Sunday Telegraph has a rather good restaurant reviewer called Lucy Bannell. In a recent piece (about a different restaurant) she described her companion as someone who goes in for competitive ordering (he likes to “win” each course). The wife and I seemed to have caught on to this game and for the past week we have been reminiscing about the meal and trying to recall the most memorable dishes. I think that I won on starters (honeyed roast suckling pig versus her scallops with cauliflower puree). The main courses however were more hotly contested: she rated her lamb as “brilliant”, whilst my hare cooked two ways (little fillet strips and in a pie) with root vegetables was absolutely terrific. I thought I was especially brave ordering the hare as my previous encounter with one of the blighters had cost me £200 for repairs to my car’s radiator grille, and I’m not hugely fond of eating rabbit. Next time I run a hare down, at least I’ll have a go at cooking it. Puddings were not contested as I had a selection of English cheeses and a glass of port. Extraordinary, really, how good English cheeses can be if they are well chosen and well served.
As for our fellow diners, I never noticed them. I didn’t pay much attention to the décor either. I think in future I’ll keep to ranting – rather than saying nice things about local eateries. I haven't even got round to giving the restaurant's name and address, and nor will I. It's quite difficult enough to get a table as it is.
The wife and I recently did ourselves proud at our local “star” restaurant (Michelin rosette, lots of good reviews – even in the national press, superb food, faultless service). There you are, a complete review in brackets, three adjectives and not a verb to be seen, except that I haven’t told you what we ate or even the name of the restaurant.
The Sunday Telegraph has a rather good restaurant reviewer called Lucy Bannell. In a recent piece (about a different restaurant) she described her companion as someone who goes in for competitive ordering (he likes to “win” each course). The wife and I seemed to have caught on to this game and for the past week we have been reminiscing about the meal and trying to recall the most memorable dishes. I think that I won on starters (honeyed roast suckling pig versus her scallops with cauliflower puree). The main courses however were more hotly contested: she rated her lamb as “brilliant”, whilst my hare cooked two ways (little fillet strips and in a pie) with root vegetables was absolutely terrific. I thought I was especially brave ordering the hare as my previous encounter with one of the blighters had cost me £200 for repairs to my car’s radiator grille, and I’m not hugely fond of eating rabbit. Next time I run a hare down, at least I’ll have a go at cooking it. Puddings were not contested as I had a selection of English cheeses and a glass of port. Extraordinary, really, how good English cheeses can be if they are well chosen and well served.
As for our fellow diners, I never noticed them. I didn’t pay much attention to the décor either. I think in future I’ll keep to ranting – rather than saying nice things about local eateries. I haven't even got round to giving the restaurant's name and address, and nor will I. It's quite difficult enough to get a table as it is.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Highs and Hiyas
Hi there! It’s all the fault of email. I walk down to the village stores in the morning replying to the “Good Mornings” of passers-by with “Hi” or “Hi there” or, worse, “Hiya”. I find this rather distasteful but don’t seem able to stop myself. Having learnt how to send emails and text messages I seem to be stuck with this form of greeting. Long live those email correspondents who avoid the awful “Hi” and start off “Good Morning” or “Dear Ranting Nappa”. Having taught myself to say “Hi”, I’m just too old to change back.
One of the “highs” of 2005 so far was a long walk yesterday in the winter sunshine. I clambered up to the nearby South Downs Way and tramped for a mile or so looking down on my village below, whilst all the time being propelled forward by strong winds. Coming back down again was a different matter, slipping and sliding on a muddy path, negotiating fallen-down trees and blocked footpaths, and very nearly getting lost. But the end result was a feeling of achievement and general well-being rewarded by a couple of pints of London Pride in the local pub.
My 2005 resolutions are meeting with mixed success and failure. I’ve already had to apologise to the sister-in-law for my rudeness, and my quest for “new” has been stymied somewhat by my rediscovering Guy Crouchbank and his world in Men at Arms. I’d forgotten what a skilful writer Evelyn Waugh was and look forward to reuniting with Apthorpe (the thunderbox), Ritchie-Hook et al. over the coming weeks as I plough my way through the entire Sword of Honour trilogy … again. Next week, however, we are trying a different restaurant, and I have tested out a different gin (Heidricks – the cleverly marketed posh brand that you are meant to drink with cucumber instead of lemon). It’s not bad, but I’ll keep to the Gordons myself.
A final word of congratulation is for the cat. On Friday and throughout Saturday we feared the worse as the frail and elderly beast remained resolutely curled up in her basket, forsaking food, and looking as if she was passing gently into another world. Slowly she would make her one journey of the day to the gravel by my Jeep which serves as her traditional latrine, and early last evening she crept slowly through to the living room. Alerted by a paw being held off the ground, the wife discovered that a claw had inverted like an in-growing toenail and had more or less drilled completely through. An emergency call to the vet (who had to be wrested away from his Saturday supper and lottery results on TV), some work with clippers and antibiotics and, hey-ho, we have an active (though elderly) cat once more – although the wife had to fork out £79. Reminds me of Pam Ayres and her chicken.
One of the “highs” of 2005 so far was a long walk yesterday in the winter sunshine. I clambered up to the nearby South Downs Way and tramped for a mile or so looking down on my village below, whilst all the time being propelled forward by strong winds. Coming back down again was a different matter, slipping and sliding on a muddy path, negotiating fallen-down trees and blocked footpaths, and very nearly getting lost. But the end result was a feeling of achievement and general well-being rewarded by a couple of pints of London Pride in the local pub.
My 2005 resolutions are meeting with mixed success and failure. I’ve already had to apologise to the sister-in-law for my rudeness, and my quest for “new” has been stymied somewhat by my rediscovering Guy Crouchbank and his world in Men at Arms. I’d forgotten what a skilful writer Evelyn Waugh was and look forward to reuniting with Apthorpe (the thunderbox), Ritchie-Hook et al. over the coming weeks as I plough my way through the entire Sword of Honour trilogy … again. Next week, however, we are trying a different restaurant, and I have tested out a different gin (Heidricks – the cleverly marketed posh brand that you are meant to drink with cucumber instead of lemon). It’s not bad, but I’ll keep to the Gordons myself.
A final word of congratulation is for the cat. On Friday and throughout Saturday we feared the worse as the frail and elderly beast remained resolutely curled up in her basket, forsaking food, and looking as if she was passing gently into another world. Slowly she would make her one journey of the day to the gravel by my Jeep which serves as her traditional latrine, and early last evening she crept slowly through to the living room. Alerted by a paw being held off the ground, the wife discovered that a claw had inverted like an in-growing toenail and had more or less drilled completely through. An emergency call to the vet (who had to be wrested away from his Saturday supper and lottery results on TV), some work with clippers and antibiotics and, hey-ho, we have an active (though elderly) cat once more – although the wife had to fork out £79. Reminds me of Pam Ayres and her chicken.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
New Years Resolutions
Learn new English words. I’ve already added “fascicle” to my vocabulary (thank you Donald Knuth and The Art of Computer Programming, Volume IV (Addison-Wesley 2005 if all goes to plan, available from at least one good online bookshop).
Learn new French words. It’s difficult to follow the meaning when a chap is explaining (in French) just how his wife got ill, the precise medical symptoms, how she died, and the arrangements for the funeral. All this whilst he is in floods of tears. It would be easier if I knew the French for pancreas, tumour, etc. I might even resurrect my only half-written book – a French/English Dictionary of Fish (pocket-size so you can take it to a restaurant with you).
Play more golf. Not difficult after 2004.
Love my fellow man (and woman). Very important, this resolution, and not just in case I need to borrow money.
Be more adventurous. Meaning not just trying out new restaurants, new pubs, new thriller writers, new ways of selling books; but eating more challenging food in those new restaurants, testing out new beers in the new pubs, becoming a thriller writer myself, and maybe throwing in the towel so far as books are concerned and selling seafood over the Internet instead.
Lose some weight. I must look good for the Sister’s Wedding (why capital letters, it makes it look like a film title?).
Improve my punctuation skills. You never know, but one day the redoubtable Mrs Chip might find this blog, and she doesn’t hold back when it comes to sloppy punctuation (as her partner will verify).
See more of my relations. At least improve my “keeping in touch” with my parent, my aunt, my cousins and brothers (thank heavens for some plurals), the sister and the sister-in-law.
See more of my friends. Yes even the American ones, the Manchester United supporter ones, the Ayatollahs of this world, the Welsh, and many of my old work colleagues.
The important one – Cherish my little family.
Ooh! This is a soppy Nappa, not a ranting one. Happy New Year!
Learn new French words. It’s difficult to follow the meaning when a chap is explaining (in French) just how his wife got ill, the precise medical symptoms, how she died, and the arrangements for the funeral. All this whilst he is in floods of tears. It would be easier if I knew the French for pancreas, tumour, etc. I might even resurrect my only half-written book – a French/English Dictionary of Fish (pocket-size so you can take it to a restaurant with you).
Play more golf. Not difficult after 2004.
Love my fellow man (and woman). Very important, this resolution, and not just in case I need to borrow money.
Be more adventurous. Meaning not just trying out new restaurants, new pubs, new thriller writers, new ways of selling books; but eating more challenging food in those new restaurants, testing out new beers in the new pubs, becoming a thriller writer myself, and maybe throwing in the towel so far as books are concerned and selling seafood over the Internet instead.
Lose some weight. I must look good for the Sister’s Wedding (why capital letters, it makes it look like a film title?).
Improve my punctuation skills. You never know, but one day the redoubtable Mrs Chip might find this blog, and she doesn’t hold back when it comes to sloppy punctuation (as her partner will verify).
See more of my relations. At least improve my “keeping in touch” with my parent, my aunt, my cousins and brothers (thank heavens for some plurals), the sister and the sister-in-law.
See more of my friends. Yes even the American ones, the Manchester United supporter ones, the Ayatollahs of this world, the Welsh, and many of my old work colleagues.
The important one – Cherish my little family.
Ooh! This is a soppy Nappa, not a ranting one. Happy New Year!
Monday, January 03, 2005
Too Much Dying
The “Tsunami” thing is just too big to fully comprehend. Like the twoWorld Wars the vastness of the catalogue of death defies rational understanding. The wife and I “font part du décès” as they say in France of just one person. Our close neighbour Nicole died (or rather was “switched off”) on 27th December aged 62. She had collapsed earlier in the month while sitting at a table in her home preparing Christmas decorations. Sadly her death could have been averted had she consulted a doctor earlier in the year when she had suffered sudden pains, but she had stubbornly refused medical help. Needless to say that when she collapsed in December it was far, far too late.
The wife and I decided to take the British line and go only to the local village church “obsèques” and leave the viewing of the deceased prior, and the “incinération” at Abbeville afterwards, to the family. Poor old Constant, Nicole’s “companion” for the past 24 years managed bravely, but he is absolutely distraught and it will be several months before he is back on his bike again wearing his gaudy “Velo Club de Dominois” shorts and shirt and a big grin. Rather worryingly he suggested yesterday that I enrol as the second member (Dominois is a very small village) of this illustrious organization.
Back to the “obsèques”, we were interested to see what sort of send-off the French give their departed. We had been warned that very few people would attend but in the event the little church was pretty much crowded. Two ladies and a man (none wearing clerical robes) officiated saying prayers, announcing hymns (in French) and keeping control of the complex sound system. The service was very moving and without incident although one of the two lady clerics very nearly caught fire from one of the candles surrounding Nicole’s coffin. The entire congregation later filed past the head of the coffin each member making a sign of the cross with a strange implement whilst on the coffin a small salver of incense smoked away.
I had secretly hoped for a round of applause as the coffin was wheeled out of the church (remember the spontaneous outburst of clapping as Princess Diana’s coffin passed the French Embassy) but this was not the case. Nonetheless a suitable send-off for a friendly lady and I’m only pleased that we stayed on in France a few more days in order to attend.
Strange though that the twenty four hour period of Nicole’s sad demise saw more people killed in Asia than in any corresponding period in any World War, and possibly more lives lost in a single day than at any other time in history*. Another tragedy, and one the magnitude of which is impossible to fully absorb and comprehend.
*A comment like that sets one thinking and a couple of days in August 1945 probably have the Tsunami beat for sheer human loss. Reading a little about Hiroshima and Nagasaki makes the heart pound. Those events were man-caused, not nature-caused and, it is said, the bombs were unnecessary. The Japanese were already exploring avenues for surrender and the utter awfulness of the devastation might easily have been avoided. Oh, hell. Maybe the world would be a better place with a little less of the USA.
The wife and I decided to take the British line and go only to the local village church “obsèques” and leave the viewing of the deceased prior, and the “incinération” at Abbeville afterwards, to the family. Poor old Constant, Nicole’s “companion” for the past 24 years managed bravely, but he is absolutely distraught and it will be several months before he is back on his bike again wearing his gaudy “Velo Club de Dominois” shorts and shirt and a big grin. Rather worryingly he suggested yesterday that I enrol as the second member (Dominois is a very small village) of this illustrious organization.
Back to the “obsèques”, we were interested to see what sort of send-off the French give their departed. We had been warned that very few people would attend but in the event the little church was pretty much crowded. Two ladies and a man (none wearing clerical robes) officiated saying prayers, announcing hymns (in French) and keeping control of the complex sound system. The service was very moving and without incident although one of the two lady clerics very nearly caught fire from one of the candles surrounding Nicole’s coffin. The entire congregation later filed past the head of the coffin each member making a sign of the cross with a strange implement whilst on the coffin a small salver of incense smoked away.
I had secretly hoped for a round of applause as the coffin was wheeled out of the church (remember the spontaneous outburst of clapping as Princess Diana’s coffin passed the French Embassy) but this was not the case. Nonetheless a suitable send-off for a friendly lady and I’m only pleased that we stayed on in France a few more days in order to attend.
Strange though that the twenty four hour period of Nicole’s sad demise saw more people killed in Asia than in any corresponding period in any World War, and possibly more lives lost in a single day than at any other time in history*. Another tragedy, and one the magnitude of which is impossible to fully absorb and comprehend.
*A comment like that sets one thinking and a couple of days in August 1945 probably have the Tsunami beat for sheer human loss. Reading a little about Hiroshima and Nagasaki makes the heart pound. Those events were man-caused, not nature-caused and, it is said, the bombs were unnecessary. The Japanese were already exploring avenues for surrender and the utter awfulness of the devastation might easily have been avoided. Oh, hell. Maybe the world would be a better place with a little less of the USA.
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