The Banjo Player

My former employee Emma now sings with a band (or group), but her music will be far removed from the stately renditions of jazz favourites performed by the members of the Portobello Jazz Band I went to hear performing in a West London pub last night. I went with the brother (elder, bless him) who wanted to give the banjo player (a friend of many years standing-at-bars-pint-in-hand) some moral support. The brother also had business to transact with the banjo player's charming and gracious wife.

The band were in good form - the clarinettist had remembered to bring his teeth - the lack of which had caused difficulties at their previous gig - and our friend the banjo player looked sublimely happy as he strummed along with the music. The audience was also in excellent fettle and can be described in three parts: first the pub regulars who were mainly seated at tables at the far end of the pub, but who were pleased with the complimentary entertainment and applauded each session warmly; second came the band groupies (like the elder brother and myself) who braved the part of the bar closest to the band; and third came the "drunks".

The most notable of the "drunks" was an elegantly-turned-out lady, possibly in her late thirties but still with a handsome cleavage, who had obviously been in the pub for several hours. She was drinking vodka shots and suddenly became absurdly interested in the three of us (the brother, myself and the banjoist's wife) begging introductions and giving each of us a good look-over. To our relief the brother and I did not pass muster, but the charming and gracious wife of the banjo player (to her alarm) was found to be just the sort of companion that Ms Vodka Shots required for the rest of the evening.

Now I'm pretty sensible, and so is the charming and gracious wife of the banjo player. Within minutes we had each disappeared to our respective homes and beds. We left, needless to say, the elder brother to deal with Ms Vodka Shots. I shall endeavour to pen the sequel to this piece in due course.

Rats, Weasels and Baseball Hats

The general intention of this particular piece was to have a little rant about weasels - the little baseball-hat-wearing men who only seem ever to get out of their cars (usually rather aged but “done up” Citroen Saxos, small Peugeots or the like) in Halfords car park. Here they fix extravagant new spoilers, exhausts or wheel enhancers to their precious vehicles while not forgetting to not turn down the vehicle’s ample music system.

I was going moan about their overtaking techniques, the way they shoot through the village at about 70 mph when schoolchildren are making making their way to the bus stop (and when the ranter-in-chief is out collecting his morning papers). But I’ll spare you all that, gentle reader, for there are more important issues to deal with.

You see I’m “disenfranchised” and won’t be going to vote next month due to some domestic mal-administration, forgetfulness, or whatever. Anyway I therefore feel it time to break my silence on election issues as you, my readers, will have to get out and vote for me!

We appear to live in a world not dissimilar to Kenneth Grahame’s Wind in the Willows, and like Toad we have allowed the Great Hall to become over-run with Rats. The Rats are not much good at anything short of drinking our wine and spending our money (much of it on their own personal remuneration). I could go on like a Daily Telegraph or Spectator columnist about the inadequacies of their actions on Iraq (King Rat), Rover and Railtrack (Byers Rat), Immigration (Blunkett Rat), Pension Fund Raids (Brown Rat), etc., etc. I could mention Ruth Kelly, Peter Mandelson, Alastair Campbell, or the hairy one – Charles Clarke – and don’t get me going on the other women in the last Cabinet.

I think that giving the Rats another term of office would spell absolute disaster to the country. Everyone knows that there is global economic turbulence coming into view (otherwise, why call an election 15 months early when you already have a thumping majority). We don’t want more government by overpaid, overindulged MPs and bureaucrats. We do want a caring government, a socially-aware government, an astute and responsible government. The only way we’ll get it is by voting the present holders out. So vote Liberal, vote SNP, vote UKIP or Kilroy Silk, vote Tory, but don’t vote Rat. We need a parliament that has an in-built safety mechanism. The only way to get one is to get a coalition of some sort, and therefore gentle readers, please vote tactically.

The daughter (bless her) lives next door to a weasel. He owns three cars, a baseball hat, and lives off Income Support. He, like the millions of newly appointed bureaucrats in the Public Sector (as opposed to nurses, policemen, etc.), will be voting Rat. "Votez Non, et Votez Souvent" as they say in another place!

Salad Days

If, over the last thirty years or so, I had worked a little harder and ranted a little less then I might have stood a chance of a visit to the Rockpool restaurant in Sydney, Australia (as opposed to Sydney, anywhere else).

Now I had never heard of the Rockpool restaurant in Sydney before today when strangely a newspaper article caught my attention. “Strangely” because the subject of the article was Salads - not normally something I get excited about. Yet Neil Perry, the enterprising Australian chef, even made a Carrot Salad sound interesting (the main ingredient seemed to be raisins soused in Earl Grey tea - rather than carrots which appeared somewhere half-way down the list). The article also hardened my resolve (as they say) to find out exactly what a remoulade* is and so to add a new word to both my English and French vocabularies.

Thinking about salads must mean that Summer is approaching and true-to-April-form today included some vibrant sunshine and some rather drizzly rain. I’m never quite sure exactly when Spring stops and Summer starts. There doesn’t seem to be a particular day to mark the event (if there was it would undoubtedly snow, freeze over or similar), although our local French farmer and my Mother (bless her) both use exact dates in mid- to late-April to establish events: “Les vaches” will arrive in our kitchen field for their Summer grazing on a particular date determined months before; and the horse chestnut tree by my mother’s flat also has a predictable date in late-April for coming into flower – whatever the weather.

Anyway, back to salads. This Summer I am vowing to do two things: first I shall banish plastic bags of pre-prepared lettuce from the house (only fresh ingredients from now on); and secondly I shall teach myself to make a good mayonnaise – you know, the mustardy type that the French serve with a good Plateau de Fruits de Mer.

* A first cast of the dictionary informs me (uncannily) that a remoulade is a mayonnaise with bits in it (chopped capers, gherkins. hard-boiled egg, etc.). I’m not 100% convinced and so more research will be done. It does sound though that if my mayonnaise-making is unsuccessful then I can pass the offending mixture off as a humble remoulade and possibly vice versa.

Picking up Tips from the Royal Family

Our friends Christopher and Kathy came down from their home in Chiswick on Saturday to see how we country folk make do without red buses and “a tube station at the end of the street”. They were impressed by the cold wind, the bantams which forage in our garden, and the huge views from the top of the South Downs, although they were a little jumpy as we checked the panoramic southerly view from the members entrance to Goodwood racecourse (too close to the Mother-in-Law who resides somewhere the other side of a clearly visible Chichester). Christopher surprised us however while we watched the “Charles and Camilla” service at Windsor on TV by stating that he is extremely supportive of the Duke of Edinburgh – a terrific sponsor of the arts and sciences, blah, blah.

Neither the wife nor I can recall meeting anyone before with a good word to say about the Duke, although it is true that we haven’t yet consulted our friend Mr Angry (see passim) on the subject.

Anyway the “blessing” at St Georges Chapel got me thinking about my sister (bless her) who will be married for the second time in June. She is extremely fortunate in being able to pick up some hints and tips from Charles and Camilla’s church service.

Now it would be nice for her to get Timothy West to read Wordsworth’s Ode on Imitations of Immortality – his rendition was as near to perfection as anyone can get – but he would undoubtedly be expensive. So she had better use the money saved by not using Timothy West to get the wonderful contralto Ekaterina Semenchuk to sing the electrifying Russian Orthodox Liturgy setting of The Creed which provided for me by far the most memorable few minutes of a really very good service. I know that the sister would have to negotiate Ms Semenchuk’s fee with the Marinsky Theatre of St Petersberg, and that the Philharmonia Orchestra and Choir of St George’s Chapel don’t come cheap, but wow!

The new Archbishop of Canterbury might also be a useful adornment her service. His shaggy dog appearance makes him look so utterly kind and benevolent.

Another good idea concerns speeches at the reception afterwards. What a masterstroke of Charles to have his mother, Her Majesty the Queen, make the first speech! Maybe the sister should follow suit and have our mother say a few words.

Rumblings

I’ve commented on Cousin Tim and his cycling exploits before. He bravely cycled from London to Paris last year raising lots of money for the Royal British Legion and is planning to do so again in September. He has asked me to give some ranting space to the “the rudeness of many British motorists to cyclists”.

Now I’m a motorist and he is a cyclist! I’ve experienced the daily tedium of driving along the Kings Road/New Kings Road at rush hour and having cyclists bashing the roof of my (stationary) car because you are “*!*?!!!*** in the way”. I’ve lived in South London where councils spend literally millions of pounds to create cycle lanes which are then totally ignored by the cyclists who prefer to obstruct the wider vehicle lanes. I now live by the South Downs where cyclists – sometimes three-abreast – spoil some of the best “driving” roads in the country. So Tim cannot expect me to rant entirely to his tune.

But I have recently taken up cycling as well. I have been spotted tottering along the lanes of the three counties on two wheels - looking rather precarious as I endeavour not to get so close to the kerb that the road surface becomes so rough that I’m likely to lose balance. It is not an enjoyable experience however. Cars, lorries, double decker buses, caravanettes, tractors, more lorries, sodding horseboxes, and other cyclists seem to crowd around me, even on the minorest of minor roads. It’s as if some GPS system has informed the local radio stations of the Ranting Nappa’s whereabouts and people have come out specially to witness the spectacle and join in the fun. And, to add to my misery, mountainous hills seem to pop up where the car had hadn’t even noticed them.

The bike has now been moved to France where things are much better because the place is so much less crowded. The other weekend I took a ten mile circuit through the local villages and was scarcely bothered by vehicles (or bloody hills) at all. The few people who are out and about give me a cheerful “bonjour”, the passing motorists expect the roads to have eccentric cyclists wobbling along, and on hearing the massive rumbling of an approaching sugar beet lorry (or the like) I have ample opportunity to get out of the way. Much better. The French understand cyclists whereas England is so damn congested that every form of vehicular activity presents itself as a menace to someone.

Talking of rumblings, why has the General Election been called now and not in a year’s time? There must be a reason and that reason seems hauntingly ominous. What perils await us (apart from £1 or more for a litre of petrol, the collapse of the Stock Market, a few terrorist attacks, Manchester United actually winning something, more taxes, more horseboxes, more council tax, and (yes, Tim) more roadworks)?

Shedding a Tear

Cynical, old and gnarled I may be but I’m not so cynical, old and gnarled that I can’t shed a tear or two for the passing of the Pope. What is more I am proud to have shed a tear for the him, for suddenly, in the midst of our national preoccupation with football (and brawling Newcastle players) and pre-election fever (and brawling party politicians), comes an event that not only touches the heart but has a real depth of significance for literally millions of people.

Somehow anyone’s death comes as a surprise, even if one has spent weeks or months preparing for it. We all knew the Pope’s death was imminent, the obituary writers had plenty of warning, the press were able to post journalists in readiness, and yet the actual event still causes a sudden jolt. As long as a person lives we think of that person as a living entity – breathing, suffering maybe, but with active brain cells and the potential to communicate with us. But when a person dies there is an abrupt closure on their actions (in this world at any rate), and it is that finality that seems to draw a different emotion.

I am so pleased that last year (with the wife and elder brother) I got to visit Rome at last. Even if rugby was the prime reason for the visit I will always remember the weekend for St Peter’s Square - far ahead of England’s try scoring and the match. Being a humble tourist in the Vatican City gave one an awesome perspective of the sheer magnitude of the Catholic Church, and it is appropriate that John Paul II is now being lauded and celebrated for the undoubted achievements of his reign. Appropriate also to note that the Italians mark death with hand-clapping – I thought it was only the French who did that.

Ringing the Votes

The daughter has a new mobile phone, the wife has a new mobile phone, the daughter-in-law has a new mobile phone. No money has changed hands (it's all to do with the monthly contract) but the technology marches on impressively.

Being somewhat backward in these matters I spent a few minutes in the pub last night trying to figure out what the daughter’s new (and very small) handset can do. It has a digital camera with flash and video (moving picture) capability; it is a calculator and personal organiser; it has an MP3 player; it is a bluetooth phone which means that she can use an earphone thingy when driving and be totally hands-free and unencumbered by cables; it is an alarm clock; it has some sort of Internet capability and can probably double as an electric toothbrush. Translated into the real world of the Ranting Nappa it makes the following possessions obsolete: carphone kit, diary, digital camera, video camera, alarm clock, adding machine, address book and, of course, my BT telephone line (with broadband). Needless to say the Ranting Nappa has no truck with MP3 players, but it does make his beloved Psion Organiser (a 5 Series MX, no less) look positively prehistoric.

As I write a BBC News programme is imploring viewers to phone or text their views on the poor Pontiff’s (likely) demise, and one wonders what the next big thing in phone technology will be. Will you be able to vote by text message in the next-but-one general election? How long before transmitter masts are enhanced with large dishes to enable Sky Mobile TV on your phone? The Archers and Desert Island Discs? Satellite navigation? Obviously ski gizmos such as walkie-talkies, radio locators and GPS thingies – I can almost hear the older brother (bless him) groan - will be rendered useless. Watch your favourite film on your phone? The Green lobby enforcing legislation to make new phones dependent on solar power and be manufactured only from recyclable materials. The Home Secretary announcing that there will be no identity cards or passports in future but, instead, every man, woman and child will be issued with a “personalised” mobile phone activated by Optical Retina Identification.

Probably I’m behind the times (again) and all this has already happened.