Well I never! A few weeks ago I expressed surprise that Sir Edward Elgar was a keen golfer, as well as a cyclist. Now The Daily Telegraph correspondence column informs me that he was also an avid follower of Wolverhampton Wanderers Football Club too, and, of course, he used his bike to make the 40-mile trip from Malvern for home matches.
One way or another I’ve taken in a bit too much sport in recent weeks. Spectating at the Open Golf plus playing a few holes myself, followed by a portion of the riveting First Test against the Australians at Lords, finds me almost overdosing on the stuff. I managed at least to pay no attention whatsoever to glorious Goodwood.
Indeed, when we woke last Sunday to torrential rain, the wife and I forsook the closing overs of the Test Match to join our old friend the Ayatollah celebrating his wife’s sixtieth birthday on Romney Marsh (where they live). Sadly we missed cousin Timothy’s egg and anchovy sandwiches at a rain-sodden Lords (a treat we’d usually travel miles for) but the Ayatollah and his wife have had a difficult year with hospital visits for both of them (including a “double” in Tenerife when they were simultaneously admitted to hospital for different emergency treatment halfway through their holiday). Their party was a grand occasion and the wife and I were able to catch up on the exploits of our respective godchildren as well as taking in copious quantities of food (and watching those few final overs of the England second innings on TV).
The week that followed has been just as exhausting. The son is moving house – in stages. This has entailed our giving him board and lodging temporarily while his wife and children are billeted on friends. Like a moth to light, this drew the daughter from Portsmouth and, after the other night, I’m surprised that the village is prepared to continue putting up with my family’s discordant, late night singing.
So it’s off to France later today for a few days “away from it all”. I reckon that I need it although it is well over a month since we last visited the French estate and I dare say that it will be overrun with weeds, rodents and exciting new forms of insect life!
Friday, July 29, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
A Few Words on Blogging
Having mowed the lawn this evening I was sweating like a good’un and, accordingly, retired to a pre-supper Radox bath. Zzzzzz! Radio 4 was broadcasting a David Dimbleby Any Questions programme and on the panel was a certain Lynne Featherstone MP who is (as you well know) the Liberal Democrat spokesperson on Home Affairs. I would have happily continued with my zzzzz’ing but Dimbleby introduced her as a great “blogger”. And she is. Have a look at http://www.lynnefeatherstone.org/blog.htm and you get an insight into how a politician turns blogging into a minor art form. Lynne also has a comprehensive website to cover the more mundane aspects of being an aspiring Liberal Democrat MP at http://www.lynnefeatherstone.org/. Heaven forbid that www.rantingnappa.org ever tries to get its wheels off the ground.
But while blogs should be open diaries – letting the world know how you feel about just about anything – can also be dangerous. Take the example of an erstwhile work colleague, Chris H, for several years head of publicity at Secker & Warburg. Chris went to the USA and got a decent job as reviews editor with a celebrated online bookseller in Seattle, who we might call for the sake of cautiousness amazing.com. However Chris also became a blogger par excellence (you can see his work at http://www.kirklea.blogspot.com/) but one day he overstepped himself and said something disparaging about his employers. He was fired. And his blog suggests that his experience is but one of many and links indirectly to a cautionary BBC news report on http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/technology/4115073.stm.
Anyway I’m getting tired of all these links. I’m now ready to say some very rude things about my employers and, with any luck, will end up firing myself.
But while blogs should be open diaries – letting the world know how you feel about just about anything – can also be dangerous. Take the example of an erstwhile work colleague, Chris H, for several years head of publicity at Secker & Warburg. Chris went to the USA and got a decent job as reviews editor with a celebrated online bookseller in Seattle, who we might call for the sake of cautiousness amazing.com. However Chris also became a blogger par excellence (you can see his work at http://www.kirklea.blogspot.com/) but one day he overstepped himself and said something disparaging about his employers. He was fired. And his blog suggests that his experience is but one of many and links indirectly to a cautionary BBC news report on http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/technology/4115073.stm.
Anyway I’m getting tired of all these links. I’m now ready to say some very rude things about my employers and, with any luck, will end up firing myself.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Discontinuous Blogging
It’s been a while since my last posting. The last week has been spent on golf courses - mostly hauling my overweight bulk around St Andrews and watching golf as it should be played in the 134th Open Championship, but on three occasions actually swinging clubs myself on lesser courses.
The journey to Scotland in the ancient Jeep added the word “discontinuous” to my vocabulary and I now use it all the time. You’ll find the word on a road sign on the M8 between Edinburgh and Glasgow where motorists are advised of a “discontinuous hard shoulder”. It sounds like a golfing injury of the sort that might afflict the likes of Fred Couples or Jose Maria Olazabal but checking on Google I find dozens of references to discontinuous hard shoulders on Britain’s major roads.
The elder brother provided a good example of discontinuous postcard writing. Having had a good day of golf and wine with the two Jims and myself he retired to his room in the monastic student hall of residence where we were staying at St Andrews to write a postcard for an elderly American friend. He aimed to describe the adulation being bestowed on Jack Nicklaus who was making his last appearance as a competitor at an Open Championship. Sadly the elder brother fell asleep half way through a particularly convoluted sentence and at breakfast the next morning he had to admit that he could find no logical conclusion to the sentence. This has all the hallmarks of a great New Statesman competition and maybe we should try to copyright the idea: “provide a conclusion (in not more than 100 words) to the sentence in progress. Winners will receive a bottle of Famous Grouse…” etc., etc.
Arriving home from the golf I found that the “bantam that the fox killed” (see passim), had resurrected herself in a discontinuous sort of way. Apparently the fox had killed a similar fowl and ours had been hiding herself away for a couple of weeks sitting on an egg or something. The wife is keen to purchase an “Omlet” or “Egglu” fox-proof chicken coop so that we can start to rear our own (and have fresh eggs).
Discontinuity has also been affecting the wife’s goldfish. The pond in our garden is a contained space and there has been much celebration of the quantity of newborn fish spotted recently and respectively by the wife, the cat and the local heron. The trouble is that every time she checks the number of fish in the pond (small and large) she comes up with a different total, sometimes very much less and then, later, very much more. All too complicated, but might there be commercial possibilities here? I must start working on an outline business plan for Ranting Goldfish Hatcheries, PLC.
The journey to Scotland in the ancient Jeep added the word “discontinuous” to my vocabulary and I now use it all the time. You’ll find the word on a road sign on the M8 between Edinburgh and Glasgow where motorists are advised of a “discontinuous hard shoulder”. It sounds like a golfing injury of the sort that might afflict the likes of Fred Couples or Jose Maria Olazabal but checking on Google I find dozens of references to discontinuous hard shoulders on Britain’s major roads.
The elder brother provided a good example of discontinuous postcard writing. Having had a good day of golf and wine with the two Jims and myself he retired to his room in the monastic student hall of residence where we were staying at St Andrews to write a postcard for an elderly American friend. He aimed to describe the adulation being bestowed on Jack Nicklaus who was making his last appearance as a competitor at an Open Championship. Sadly the elder brother fell asleep half way through a particularly convoluted sentence and at breakfast the next morning he had to admit that he could find no logical conclusion to the sentence. This has all the hallmarks of a great New Statesman competition and maybe we should try to copyright the idea: “provide a conclusion (in not more than 100 words) to the sentence in progress. Winners will receive a bottle of Famous Grouse…” etc., etc.
Arriving home from the golf I found that the “bantam that the fox killed” (see passim), had resurrected herself in a discontinuous sort of way. Apparently the fox had killed a similar fowl and ours had been hiding herself away for a couple of weeks sitting on an egg or something. The wife is keen to purchase an “Omlet” or “Egglu” fox-proof chicken coop so that we can start to rear our own (and have fresh eggs).
Discontinuity has also been affecting the wife’s goldfish. The pond in our garden is a contained space and there has been much celebration of the quantity of newborn fish spotted recently and respectively by the wife, the cat and the local heron. The trouble is that every time she checks the number of fish in the pond (small and large) she comes up with a different total, sometimes very much less and then, later, very much more. All too complicated, but might there be commercial possibilities here? I must start working on an outline business plan for Ranting Goldfish Hatcheries, PLC.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Tomato Bombs and Ed McBain
The elder brother, American Jim 1 and I head North tomorrow for the 134th Open Championship at St Andrews and so this might be my last chance to “blog” for a few days (I doubt that Internet Café culture has moved north of Edinburgh yet).
American Jim 2 has been in Scotland for a few days already and is reported to have experienced difficulties with his back drinking whisky in the Outer Isles; but we hear that he is about to leave Dornoch (being driven by new-found friends) and is safely on his journey to St Andrews. We hope to rendezvous there on Wednesday.
Yesterday was an action-packed but disappointing day at Lords (from the cricket point-of-view). However I relished the company of my Welsh friend who entertained me wonderfully with anecdotes, sushi and a mysterious fizzy rosé. It was also good to use the London Underground again so quickly after the horrors of last week (well done, Bakerloo and Jubilee lines – a great service for a Sunday).
You see, my Welsh friend and I share a birthday (nearly) and next Sunday he’ll be giving a party in North London while I’ll be sitting at the eighteenth green at St Andrews. Now my Welsh friend gives good parties and he has promised “Tomato Bombs” which sound absolutely marvellous. “Take small cherry tomatoes and insert (clean) hypodermic syringe loaded with vodka and Tabasco sauce; fill and chill” – see what I mean, stupendous! I report this as a warning to Tiger Woods and Marteen Lefeber who will doubtless be chasing Retief Goosen for the Claret Jug: it had better be good or I’ll be bemoaning the fact that I missed the tomato bombs in NW5 until the end of time.
And so to Salvatore Lombini who died last week. He was latterly known as Evan Hunter and he wrote most of his novels under the nom-de-plume of Ed McBain. His obituary in the Telegraph made marvellous reading - his only vices were “cigarettes, women and Claridges”. You have to start every novel with a corpse. The fact that for many decades he would work eight hours a day to produce a regular ten pages of tautly written prose, and he finished with a canon of over 100 novels, to say nothing of screenplays and other writing. A splendid man. I intend to re-visit my faded collection of “Last Precinct” paperbacks in Penguin Crime green.
American Jim 2 has been in Scotland for a few days already and is reported to have experienced difficulties with his back drinking whisky in the Outer Isles; but we hear that he is about to leave Dornoch (being driven by new-found friends) and is safely on his journey to St Andrews. We hope to rendezvous there on Wednesday.
Yesterday was an action-packed but disappointing day at Lords (from the cricket point-of-view). However I relished the company of my Welsh friend who entertained me wonderfully with anecdotes, sushi and a mysterious fizzy rosé. It was also good to use the London Underground again so quickly after the horrors of last week (well done, Bakerloo and Jubilee lines – a great service for a Sunday).
You see, my Welsh friend and I share a birthday (nearly) and next Sunday he’ll be giving a party in North London while I’ll be sitting at the eighteenth green at St Andrews. Now my Welsh friend gives good parties and he has promised “Tomato Bombs” which sound absolutely marvellous. “Take small cherry tomatoes and insert (clean) hypodermic syringe loaded with vodka and Tabasco sauce; fill and chill” – see what I mean, stupendous! I report this as a warning to Tiger Woods and Marteen Lefeber who will doubtless be chasing Retief Goosen for the Claret Jug: it had better be good or I’ll be bemoaning the fact that I missed the tomato bombs in NW5 until the end of time.
And so to Salvatore Lombini who died last week. He was latterly known as Evan Hunter and he wrote most of his novels under the nom-de-plume of Ed McBain. His obituary in the Telegraph made marvellous reading - his only vices were “cigarettes, women and Claridges”. You have to start every novel with a corpse. The fact that for many decades he would work eight hours a day to produce a regular ten pages of tautly written prose, and he finished with a canon of over 100 novels, to say nothing of screenplays and other writing. A splendid man. I intend to re-visit my faded collection of “Last Precinct” paperbacks in Penguin Crime green.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Resilience
The tube and bus horrors in Central London have been a fair while coming, but it was somehow inevitable that something like this would happen. Thank heavens that family and friends appear not to have been involved, and huge sympathy for those who were.
I can only say that, so far, everyone is reacting as one would hope: there does seem a willingness to show resilience and to get the transport system (and with it the whole of London) back in working order as soon as possible; at the same time there does seem to be an absolute determination to seek out those responsible for the bombings; and the Prime Minister did exactly the right thing in pointing out that this sort of action is abhorrent to the huge majority of Muslims (indeed the Aldgate area houses one of the biggest Muslim communities in London).
At the time of the 7/11 tragedy, Ms. Joanne Moore famously wrote that it was a good time to release bad news. Certainly there is a counter-effect in that the press has temporarily stopped trying to build barriers between Blair and Chirac, London and Paris, England and France. Maybe the G8 summit will be the better for it.
On another front altogether, I have also had to show resilience. My absence from home (yes, watching cricket) last weekend meant that I missed an impromptu barbecue on Saturday. The daughter’s boyfriend covered himself with glory by cooking “wonderful, delicious, never-better” steaks on my gas-powered range. I was left with lots of “you know barbecues can be absolutely delicious in the right hands” comments, and the washing up. Time indeed to recover my reputation as chief-barbecue-operator.
Waitrose (bless them) came to my rescue with an odd tray in their fresh fish department – “Marinated Swordfish Steaks – Ideal for Barbecues”. I informed the wife that I was going to barbecue swordfish and she yelped in horror. But I persisted (paying a fair sum for the privilege) and, to our surprise, the result was absolutely delicious - served with new potatoes and mangetout and accompanied by a bottle of very palatable Chateau Bel Air Perponcher Rosé which we had discovered in the new Wine Society shop at Montreuil. Well done the noble swordfish! What next – peppered shark or ostrich neck marinated in calvados?
I can only say that, so far, everyone is reacting as one would hope: there does seem a willingness to show resilience and to get the transport system (and with it the whole of London) back in working order as soon as possible; at the same time there does seem to be an absolute determination to seek out those responsible for the bombings; and the Prime Minister did exactly the right thing in pointing out that this sort of action is abhorrent to the huge majority of Muslims (indeed the Aldgate area houses one of the biggest Muslim communities in London).
At the time of the 7/11 tragedy, Ms. Joanne Moore famously wrote that it was a good time to release bad news. Certainly there is a counter-effect in that the press has temporarily stopped trying to build barriers between Blair and Chirac, London and Paris, England and France. Maybe the G8 summit will be the better for it.
On another front altogether, I have also had to show resilience. My absence from home (yes, watching cricket) last weekend meant that I missed an impromptu barbecue on Saturday. The daughter’s boyfriend covered himself with glory by cooking “wonderful, delicious, never-better” steaks on my gas-powered range. I was left with lots of “you know barbecues can be absolutely delicious in the right hands” comments, and the washing up. Time indeed to recover my reputation as chief-barbecue-operator.
Waitrose (bless them) came to my rescue with an odd tray in their fresh fish department – “Marinated Swordfish Steaks – Ideal for Barbecues”. I informed the wife that I was going to barbecue swordfish and she yelped in horror. But I persisted (paying a fair sum for the privilege) and, to our surprise, the result was absolutely delicious - served with new potatoes and mangetout and accompanied by a bottle of very palatable Chateau Bel Air Perponcher Rosé which we had discovered in the new Wine Society shop at Montreuil. Well done the noble swordfish! What next – peppered shark or ostrich neck marinated in calvados?
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Bitter Crisis and a Worrying Nine Iron
Being an Essex boy I was somewhat startled by the news of Greene King’s takeover of the Ridley brewery. Whilst Ridley’s bitter has the same effect on my internal workings as highly spiced Balti dishes, to others (particularly the younger brother) it is a carefully blended, high-octane fuel essential to the proper workings of mind, spirit and body. Will Sunday lunchtime ever be the same for them without eight pints of Ridleys acting as an appetiser before a plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?
My efforts to rediscover my golfing skills continue on the driving range. Oddly, yesterday, I was able to hit a respectable pensioner’s three iron (150 yards and pretty much straight), but attempts to chip the ball with a nine iron met with absolute disaster. The drawing board will be revisited today.
I suppose that the expected decision later this morning about London’s Olympic bid will rouse me to some ranting. Win and we’re in trouble with our European friends from France and Spain; lose and the G8 conference will stand a better chance of success. Win and we have to deliver a memorable Olympic Games; lose and we won’t risk getting ourselves into an overspending nightmare as budgets spin recklessly out of control. Perversely, I hope we win.
My efforts to rediscover my golfing skills continue on the driving range. Oddly, yesterday, I was able to hit a respectable pensioner’s three iron (150 yards and pretty much straight), but attempts to chip the ball with a nine iron met with absolute disaster. The drawing board will be revisited today.
I suppose that the expected decision later this morning about London’s Olympic bid will rouse me to some ranting. Win and we’re in trouble with our European friends from France and Spain; lose and the G8 conference will stand a better chance of success. Win and we have to deliver a memorable Olympic Games; lose and we won’t risk getting ourselves into an overspending nightmare as budgets spin recklessly out of control. Perversely, I hope we win.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
White Balls and Greens
I had intended to devote this blog to the orgasmic squealing and grunting that accompanies women's tennis nowadays but Taki, writing in the Spectator (Slob's Paradise, 2nd July) has done the job for me.
It was quite a weekend what with Live8, Lions rugby (ouch!), Wimbledon finals and the one day England versus Australia match at Lords. Having attended the terrific cricket match and (as always) done my liver no good on the Saturday, I spent a quieter Sunday mowing grass, keeping half an eye on the tennis on TV and catching up on the newspapers. In fact the only outing from home all day was to Petersfield where the wife needed to buy a particular Tomato & Chilli Jam from the Farmers Market which occupies the main square in the town once a month.
Now I like a good market and this one was clearly punching the local Tesco and Waitrose stores on the nose. The fruit and vegetables looked as if they came from a different planet with proper lettuces and some of the best strawberries I have ever eaten. Freshly picked flowers looked great without preservatives and cellophane wrappers. Stalls were selling a rich selection of English cheeses, a splendid range of English wines and, on stalls selling organic meats, sensible snacks like hog roast or locally reared roast beef in baps. Amongst our impulse purchases were a watercress quiche (delicious), freshly baked bread, and a splendid cheese peppered with sun-dried tomato and herbs. Mindful of the amount of booze I had already consumed in the past 48 hours I steered clear of the display of local beers, but my overall impression was that this was getting closer and closer to the marvellous French markets. All we need are some stalls selling live ducklings and piglets, and we are virtually there – all with our own home-grown produce. Wonderful!
Back on a sporting theme the Open Championship at St Andrews draws near and it will be the fourth consecutive St Andrews Open that I have attended. Nick Faldo (and his awful winner’s acceptance speech) in 1990, John Daly in 1995 when Constantino Rocca so nearly brought home the bacon for Europe, and Tiger Woods in 2000 all bring back great memories. I haven’t placed any bets as at 3 – 1 the odds are just too short on Tiger and I’m pretty certain that he’ll be up there on the leaderboard. But I have got my old set of clubs out of the cupboard and have taken the first tentative steps to try and remind myself how the game is played. In storm conditions I had an entire driving range to myself yesterday. This was quite fortunate as I seemed to belt balls in every direction apart from directly ahead. Oh well, I’ll try again today and see if I can straighten myself out a bit.
It was quite a weekend what with Live8, Lions rugby (ouch!), Wimbledon finals and the one day England versus Australia match at Lords. Having attended the terrific cricket match and (as always) done my liver no good on the Saturday, I spent a quieter Sunday mowing grass, keeping half an eye on the tennis on TV and catching up on the newspapers. In fact the only outing from home all day was to Petersfield where the wife needed to buy a particular Tomato & Chilli Jam from the Farmers Market which occupies the main square in the town once a month.
Now I like a good market and this one was clearly punching the local Tesco and Waitrose stores on the nose. The fruit and vegetables looked as if they came from a different planet with proper lettuces and some of the best strawberries I have ever eaten. Freshly picked flowers looked great without preservatives and cellophane wrappers. Stalls were selling a rich selection of English cheeses, a splendid range of English wines and, on stalls selling organic meats, sensible snacks like hog roast or locally reared roast beef in baps. Amongst our impulse purchases were a watercress quiche (delicious), freshly baked bread, and a splendid cheese peppered with sun-dried tomato and herbs. Mindful of the amount of booze I had already consumed in the past 48 hours I steered clear of the display of local beers, but my overall impression was that this was getting closer and closer to the marvellous French markets. All we need are some stalls selling live ducklings and piglets, and we are virtually there – all with our own home-grown produce. Wonderful!
Back on a sporting theme the Open Championship at St Andrews draws near and it will be the fourth consecutive St Andrews Open that I have attended. Nick Faldo (and his awful winner’s acceptance speech) in 1990, John Daly in 1995 when Constantino Rocca so nearly brought home the bacon for Europe, and Tiger Woods in 2000 all bring back great memories. I haven’t placed any bets as at 3 – 1 the odds are just too short on Tiger and I’m pretty certain that he’ll be up there on the leaderboard. But I have got my old set of clubs out of the cupboard and have taken the first tentative steps to try and remind myself how the game is played. In storm conditions I had an entire driving range to myself yesterday. This was quite fortunate as I seemed to belt balls in every direction apart from directly ahead. Oh well, I’ll try again today and see if I can straighten myself out a bit.
Friday, July 01, 2005
I must down to the seas again…
I have been a bit of a clot not to have made greater efforts to participate in all the Nelson celebrations. I certainly enjoyed myself on Tuesday evening reviewing three local pubs in the company of the cycling cousin and the older brother, but maybe I should have also taken the opportunity to review the Fleet in the company of a quarter of a million people at nearby Portsmouth.
All the noise about Trafalgar has had me searching around for my complete set of Patrick O’Brian Aubrey/Maturin novels. I’ve got the man Collingwood on the mind, you see. Not the cricketer, Paul Collingwood, who derives from Shotley Bridge, Durham, but Admiral Collingwood (Cuthbert to his friends) who derives from nearby Newcastle and who took over the effective running of the Royal Navy after the death of Nelson.
I know that I’ve come across him before under another name. He had a dog called “Bounce” and he died from overwork in 1812 while supervising the French blockade in the Mediterranean. But the O’Brian books are full of admirals and I cannot yet identify which one is based on the great man. And yet Collingwood’s entire life has remarkable parallels with the O’Brian books. He joined the Navy aged 11, commanded a frigate (The Badger), saw action against the Americans, in the West Indies, the Spanish Main, as well as Trafalgar and later the blockades of Brest and Toulon. Slightly out on the timing, but an awful lot of Jack Aubrey seems to be there.
Reverting to the other Collingwood, England expects…. tomorrow at Lords, and throughout the three further one day matches and the Test matches against Australia.
Tomorrow is also the second Lions Test against New Zealand. It’s going to be a bad day for the nerves, and for the liver. To London tonight in order to be up with the sparrow to get good seats at Lords and to find a TV screen on which to watch the rugby.
But wouldn't it be good if July could serve up some really pleasing sporting results, especially in cricket, rugby and golf?
All the noise about Trafalgar has had me searching around for my complete set of Patrick O’Brian Aubrey/Maturin novels. I’ve got the man Collingwood on the mind, you see. Not the cricketer, Paul Collingwood, who derives from Shotley Bridge, Durham, but Admiral Collingwood (Cuthbert to his friends) who derives from nearby Newcastle and who took over the effective running of the Royal Navy after the death of Nelson.
I know that I’ve come across him before under another name. He had a dog called “Bounce” and he died from overwork in 1812 while supervising the French blockade in the Mediterranean. But the O’Brian books are full of admirals and I cannot yet identify which one is based on the great man. And yet Collingwood’s entire life has remarkable parallels with the O’Brian books. He joined the Navy aged 11, commanded a frigate (The Badger), saw action against the Americans, in the West Indies, the Spanish Main, as well as Trafalgar and later the blockades of Brest and Toulon. Slightly out on the timing, but an awful lot of Jack Aubrey seems to be there.
Reverting to the other Collingwood, England expects…. tomorrow at Lords, and throughout the three further one day matches and the Test matches against Australia.
Tomorrow is also the second Lions Test against New Zealand. It’s going to be a bad day for the nerves, and for the liver. To London tonight in order to be up with the sparrow to get good seats at Lords and to find a TV screen on which to watch the rugby.
But wouldn't it be good if July could serve up some really pleasing sporting results, especially in cricket, rugby and golf?
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