Gone Rambling

Those who have accompanied me to cricket matches at Lords know that I invariably purchase a scorecard and diligently start the day recording every wicket taken, the score at the end of each over, etc, etc. This usually lasts for the first half hour of play after which I have either simply lost interest, dozed off, or (normally) fallen victim to an alcohol-fuelled stupor.

So it has been with 'The Ranting Nappa' blog - left unattended (like my golf clubs) for the best part of a year.

It could be said that time changes everything. I don't seem to feel like ranting like a Victor Meldrew any more. I've mellowed and, with old age, I've started to ramble.

So I've decided to buy a new scorecard and to try again! Thus, starting with a bookselling adventure at a party political conference, I've reinvented myself as:

http://www.ramblingnappa.blogspot.com

Driving Me Bonkers

Motoring through suburban Surrey a few days ago there was a resounding crash as something solid bounced off the roof of the car. “Quickly” I said to the wifely passenger, “have a look at the map. Is there a golf course around here? I’m sure that was a golf ball. Maybe we can sue?”

In the event a later inspection of the car revealed no visible damage and I let the matter pass. But yesterday the same thing happened again – twice. In the morning as I was driving to work my attention to Desert Island Discs on Radio 4 (Quentin Blake and, yes, I was running late) was interrupted by a similar, explosive “Bang” on the roof of the car. Later in the day, on the way back home, “Thud” again. To my surprise there were no golfers around on either of these occasions, and, again no visible damage.

The explanation is, of course that it is autumn and conkers are coming off the trees like large hailstones. As I take my morning stroll to collect the newspaper I trip and slide on the things. The wife, for reasons unknown, is collecting them in a bowl in the kitchen. Maybe Pheasant Braised in Conkers is a projected supper dish, or she is going to souse them to make Conker Gin?”

On the subject of conkers Breakfast TV yesterday also featured England’s rather eccentric and ancient conker-fighting champion. The secret of a championship-winning conker, he said, is to ensure that your conker has “passed whole through a pig”.

Graveyards Again – and Feng Shui

I was startled to read about the rumpus over a new graveyard in the East Midlands. The authorities are insisting that all graves point towards Mecca – to satisfy the projected 15% Muslim occupancy. There’s nothing wrong with that I reckoned, until the article informed me that this would offend Christians who like to be buried with their feet pointing East (in anticipation of the second coming of Christ). Now this came as a surprise to me as I didn’t think it mattered in which direction a grave pointed. I grabbed the compass from the wife’s car (yes, she does need directional assistance from time to time) and hurried to the village churchyard. Lo and behold, all the occupants had their feet pointing due East. I learn something new every day.

Talking about directional assistance, business was slow at the end of last week, so much so in fact that I started to think about moving the office furniture around. The Chinese directional system of Feng Shui came to mind and a little quiet research showed me that my humble workplace fails on several counts:

I currently sit with my back to a window. Feng Shui stipulates that you should always sit with your back to a solid wall - to ensure that you have support in your life.

The office photocopier is situated at the office entrance. Feng Shui rules say that this is wrong – the heat generated causes bad vibes (chi) to people entering and leaving.

My desk has papers on it. Ouch! Feng Shui expects pristine, clean work areas.

I need a proper “wealth area” where I keep my paying-in book and PDQ machine. It would probably be a good idea to stick some coins on the PDQ machine to attract more custom.

I also need a water fountain, a fishtank, a Dragon and a three-legged Toad God. Oh heck - one thing at a time, please. I’ll move my desk first. With any luck I won’t need the three-legged Toad God until after Christmas.

The Ryder Cup - Postscript

The hex of the Ranting Nappa virtually did for Tiger Woods (see previous post 22 September)in the Ryder Cup, but what a contest, what an epic of sporting theatre!

Having spent most of the weekend "glued" to the TV I reckoned that I watched some of the best golf shots and sequences of televised play that I have ever seen (and I've seen a lot). Hearty congratulations to the European team, and to the Irish hosts.

There was several defining moments (mostly featuring Darren Clarke) but for me it was on Saturday afternoon when Paul McGinley missed a putt on the fifteenth green to keep his (and Padraig Harrington's) match against Woods and Furyk alive. The TV cameras briefly caught look of utter despair on the spectators faces, some holding their heads in anguish. That instant showed just how expressive the Irish can be, and I'm sure that two pints of Guinness later their woes were all forgotten.

Apologies to Lucy Legg, the Rev. Morris et al.

In this day and age it seems that every corner of England suffers from vandalism of one kind or another. The causes are diverse and range from youthful exuberance to drink and drugs, from sheer wickedness to totally benevolent and well-intentioned malfeasance.

The local churchyard has examples a-plenty. There are the children who realise that the grassy hillocks and graves offer ideal stunt-biking opportunities. The kids mean no real harm and do little or no damage. There are hikers who leave their picnic lunch litter, but there are plenty of do-gooders to clean that up. There are the drunks and idlers.

The older parishioners however are rather more dangerous. Mindful of government edicts and with the full support of the church authorities, they are currently enjoying the redevelopment opportunities offered by the legislation that stipulates that every public place must offer proper facilities for the disabled.

A church is a public place and car parking facilities in the village are limited, so the worthy parishioners are loathe to have the parking area outside the church reduced by the designation of a disabled parking bay. Much better they reason to provide proper parking facilities within the church grounds. All you have to do is remove a few gravestones, enlarge a gateway and then tarmac over the interred remains of (to name a few) … Lucy Legg (1872), Sally Legg (1865), Charles Hipkin (1871), another Charles Hipkin (1867), Isabella Bennett (1871), James Wiggins (1879), M.A.W. (1879), Harriet Greatree (1881), Christianson (1937), John Brightwell (1887), Arthur Pink (1949), Harry Pink (1940).

And there you have it - utter desecration of a section of a churchyard to provide disabled parking for three cars, and while we are about it a new unloading bay for hearses (which require a decent turning circle after all), and surely this space will come in useful for church festivities (car boot sales?), maybe some executive parking bays for church wardens, room for a barbecue pit, and maybe we can put in parking ticket machines for non-disabled users of this new facility. Pshaw! My sincere apologies to Lucy and her neighbours for not putting up more of a fight on their behalves.

Ryder Cup – Another Blog

Here we go again. As I write the contest is just starting out and I have a sneaky feeling that Tiger Woods is going to win everything. Over the past few days I have particularly enjoyed the BBC blog at http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/rydercup/. It’s a great way to fully utilise the journalistic power that the BBC fields at events like this – even if they do go on a bit about the parking arrangements.

Pelf, Dzo, Chemineas and Brethren Germane

Well I’ve lived all these years and still find words and objects to completely baffle me. The Telegraph’s “Codewords” feature irritated me last week by introducing me to the word PELF which the more educated of my readers will recognise as being a word used to describe ill-gotten wealth. The same newspaper angered me further with a Scrabble competition in which the word DZO was used (yes, it’s a cross between a cow and a yak).

A visit to the sister’s fine new house in East Sussex yesterday was notable not only for a very pleasant family lunch, but also for the handsome pair of pewter candlesticks on the table each inscribed “SS COSMA ET DAMIANUS 1687”. I struggled with thoughts of ships (the candlesticks were broad-of-base so the SS Cosma might have ploughed the oceans but unlikely as “SS” as in steamships were not around in the late seventeenth century). It was only when I got home that I learned of the Brother Saints Cosma and Damianus, both physicians of Arab origin who were martyred towards the end of the third century. A church was built in their honour in Rome by Pope Felix and a rather odd miracle took place on the premises when a nightwatchmen with a cancerous leg woke up to find that the poisoned limb had been replaced overnight with that of a recently demised Ethiopian. Cosma and Damianus were brethren germane, meaning brothers by the same mother and father, which differentiates them from other “brother saints” who were brothers in monkhood rather than by parentage. As well as being physicians they healed and cured beasts and practiced leechcraft. Anyway I woffle too much.

The sister and the new brother-in-law boast a fine collection of barbecue equipment on their patio. Amongst the gleaming equipment stood one of those terracotta stove things that hitherto I had only spotted in garden centres. They are called chemineas and might derive from North Africa or Spain. I always thought that they were an alternative form of barbecue – perfect for roasted monkfish or boney bits of chicken. Wrong again! Chemineas (as everyone apart from me knows) are wood-burning patio heaters - a good alternative to the gas-fired contraptions which radiate heat from above.

Kopparberg and Glogg (and Michael Ballack)

To Lords again on Saturday. The wife takes weather forecasts very seriously and assured me that there was no chance of any cricket being played. The older brother and I however braved the elements and actually got to see over seventy overs bowled and a convincing victory for Pakistan, albeit one that ended in near darkness.

Accompanying us was our friend the Loughton lawyer and after the match we set off to try and lift our spirits on licenced premises. After an airshot at the handsome Landmark Hotel on the Marylebone Road (no draught beer - even for ready money) we struck gold at The Harcourt Arms - London's Swedish pub. Obviously the Vikings invaded Southwold years ago and came away with happy memories. The main beer served at the Harcourt Arms is Adnams, and, fittingly for a Swedish pub, the barmaid who served us was wonderfully pleasing-on-the-eye. Here we were able to watch the closing moments of the England-Andorra European Cup qualifier on a plasma screen more usually used to show Scandinavian ice hockey matches (as well as keeping an eye on the barmaid). In addition to Adnams they serve Kopparberg here which is a mixed fruit cider guaranteed to anaesthetise you against all life's ills, and in winter you can get a Swedish mulled wine called glogg. It's a great pub.

Stupidly, as I supped my beer, I mentioned that my next blog might praise the Bavarian legal system. I had been impressed to read that Michael Ballack (of Chelsea and Germany) had been fined by a Munich court for failing to declare at customs the Fendi handbag which he had purchased as a gift for his footballer's wife/girl friend in Dubai. He had paid about £1,200 for the bag, and the fine levied by the German court ended up in the region of £65,000 - a high price, but one that might serve to remind Herr Ballack to declare his foreign purchases in future.

Abruptly the Loughton lawyer stopped ogling the barmaid and sprang to life, a glint in his eye as he saw an opportunity to defend the English legal system against a Ranting Nappa attack. "Let the punishment fit the crime!" I pleaded. "Why should Alan Sugar's Rolls Royce be charged the same £40 parking fine as the wife's small hatchback?". I even tried bringing Papua New Guinea law into the fray, but all to no avail. The Loughton lawyer had the bit between his teeth and, Rumpole-like, he wasn't going to let me off the hook. Remorselessly he chewed into every plea I could come up with. I think I'll keep off legal argument for a while.