Two Zero One One

The new year is going to be difficult for me. I have spent the latter half of 2010 with irritating but not as yet life-threatening health things. So next year I am booked for a hernia operation. People don't talk about hernias very much, but I would welcome your support.

I still have unresolved matters with the Child Support Agency, depite my youngest being 24 years old. This is entirely due to their incompetance, which on a scale of incompetance is like asking an infinate number of monkeys to write the entire works of Shakespeare; I am sure they will get there in the end, but before then, they will continue to send me badly written, mis-addressed meaningless drivel, with menaces.
Our household income has risen, in theory above the level of inflation, but that's not happened, has it? What has happened is that everything we need, just to stand still, has gone up far more. Thank God we don't use credit cards. I dare say many who have are going to find some unpleasant mail drop through their doors in the new year.

Personally, there will be a time of change. The chances of Mrs Weasel and me moving and leaving Scotland altogether are higher than 50%. More on that if we do.

As for the national picture, I think it would not be far from the mark if I said I was disappointed. Disappointed that the General Election has changed very little. I am angry. Angry that the working classes have shouldered the burden of Gordon Brown's profligacy and that the Government refuses to make radical adjustments to the budget. It is all very well for students to claim that higher education is a right, but they are not paying for it are they? We are giving billions of pounds in foreign aid which is being squandered. Convenient then that the procedures for accounting it are less transparent than Anne Widdecome's knickers.

What concerns me most is our witch hunt culture, and the predilection of many to be instantly and deeply shocked and offended at the slightest deviation from the norm. I have never, in my 57 years, been so conscious of such a proscriptive and yet such a decadent society. People have not yet come to terms with the communications revolution. They cannot suppress it, and so they react to it like frightened children, screaming until they are sick and moaning that their rights have been infringed. I don't believe in human rights because rights have to be granted by somebody and I do not acknowledge that kind of lordship over my life save that of the Lord my God.

People who latch on to the buzz words of the day illustrate the poverty of imagination and cotagion of selfishness. I don't care what minority you are from, accept that you are part of society and move on, and seek acceptance and get it, but don't go acting the martyr. You are after all, a minority and you are such because there is a majority, like me, who if any nod to democracy is accepted, should also accept that we call the shots. Anything else is the tyranny of the weak over the many.

I don't think Halal meat should be sold in supermarkets. The practice is barbaric and is only allowed to appease Muslims. And on that note, there will be rivers of blood. Appeasement never has and never will work. Unless the pernicious evil that is Islamic extremism is confronted, you and I will neither be reading or writing blogs in years to come and neither will be have the priviledge of being a minority, for, they will cease to exist.

Person of the year award goes to Gillian Duffy, who singlehandedly showed the world what everyone in the loop already knew.

May your New Year be a healthy and solvent one. WW

Murder suspect was ambivalent about Marmite

That'll be him then, bang to rights. Weirdo.

Early recollections of London Town

I am not sure when I started living in London. It was years ago, but that is not the reason I am not sure. I am not sure because I did not really "move" to London, I assimilated it. As a young lad from nowhere, Lincolnshire to be vague, London in the 1960s was large. All I can recall is that I went at every opportunity, trains or lifts, and usually managed to stay over with someone. Every spare penny I had went on trips to London and every moment thereafter was spent savouring the experience. The difference between where I lived as a boy and the Capital is not easy to imagine if you are much under 40. Now, every high street is the same, you can buy anything online and culture has become a sort of homogenised raft of everything and nothing and is no longer savoured like a treat should be savoured. Soho bristled with low-life and specialist shops (later). Mayfair had little, tucked away places like Shepherd Market and Chelsea had chic.Those were my early haunts and this coloured my view of what London is. I filled my days up with visits to museums and long sessions at specialist shops in Soho (later).

It is fair to say that the rebuilt British Museum is remarkable, but since then you have had the London Eye and the Dome. Not really in the same league is it? Harrods was an institution and so was Carnaby Street; both became grotesque parodies of themselves. In the Sixties, London aroma consisted of cigarette smoke, Patchouli and diesel and sick. Now it smells of Coffee and diesel and sick. I cannot believe how many coffee shops there are in Modern London and also how many of them dare to sell stale muffins. I rather imagined there was some kind of law about selling stale muffins, dating back to the Great Fire, but apparently, these days they flout it.

Nothing much opens before ten in the morning - believe me, I know - getting off the Caledonian Sleeper before eight means you wander around for two hours, like a vagrant, because there is nowhere to go and nothing to do but drink coffee and pee and repeat the cycle. Life in London, always seems to me to begin at night. Sitting in the back of a cab, watching the light show, en-route to a restaurant or a show or a bar or all three; everything seems to be awake with anticipation.

Jules Holland said something recently that made me sit up with a jolt because what he described is something I do too:

I love the atmosphere of London, I like seeing it in old films. I don’t really care what the plot is, or who’s in it, as long as I can watch the background.

Watching Night of the Demon or The Servant or The Blue Lamp or Victim (Dirk Bogarde seemed to be in them all) you can see what Jules is getting at.

I lived in Courtfield Gardens for a spell and used to climb up on the roof of the building at night to watch the City as it sparkled and spun its magic web and later, on the Thames in a barge, where the gentle ebb and flow of the river cradled me to sleep and woke me, murmuring promises.

A lot of song writers have been distinctly more pessimistic, such as Ralph McTell, Gerry Rafferty Iain Anderson and Richard Thompson. Bowie was as usual, just whimsical about it.

To get a feel of the London that is only imagined or glimpsed in the back-projection of the old black and white films, you need to go back a bit further, and even then the Gershwin song suggests that what you make of London is about who you are with at the time.

To whom it may concern, the specialist shop I visited in Soho sold magic tricks. The rent was cheap for those who sold conjuring tricks and you jolly well made sure you pressed the right door bell on the tawdry looking multiple occupancy building in Brewer Street or you were greeted by "the maid" and asked for details of your requirements. Magicians will know of Harry Stanley and his Unique dealership. Magic indeed.

My name is Legion for we are many

Naming your demons is a beginning but it is not an end. I am a realist. I know and mostly understand my demons, but I am indolent when it comes to dealing with them.

And so it is with black crime in the UK. At first the police were reluctant to release statistics of serious crimes committed by blacks and indeed, thirteen years under Labour has ensured they these figures were suppressed. Recent data was only made available in the middle of this year, and even then, Freedom of Information Act requests were needed to get it out of them, which show that a vastly disproportionate number of blacks commit serious crime.

To say there is a conspiracy about the true extent of black criminality in the UK is an understatement. The Police are complicit, the academic establishment are complicit, the press are complicit and, until recently, so was the Government.

This is what a "leading academic" had to say:

Richard Garside, of the Centre for Crime and Justice Studies at King's College London, said: 'Given Britain's long history of racism and imperialism it should not greatly surprise us that black and minority ethnic groups are disproportionately members of social classes that have tended to experience greater victimisation and to be the subject of police attention.
'Just because the police treat black men as more criminal than white men, it does not mean that they are.' 

This is somebody who has actually been licenced to teach people and it is utter bollocks. Ascribing serious crime, such as rape and murder, to British Imperialism is a triumph of cognitive dissonance, and calls this nutter's professional credentials into question. (How fast do you think he would be removed if he had been shouting the truth from the rooftops?)

Until we learn that society must name its demons and confront reality, we shall live in a fools paradise and continue to blandly assert that white straight males are responsible for all the problems in the world and continue to target little old disabled ladies in order to make the flimsy lie a little bit more credible.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/crime/7856787/Violent-inner-city-crime-the-figures-and-a-question-of-race.html

My perfect study

G B Shaw's Study

These days we all seem to have a study. I mean the kind of study where Miss Scarlett did it with the candlestick - that kind of study. Mine is the antithesis of my ideal; it is messy, unwelcoming and full of junk, including most of my workshop. The latter is a necessity, since anything left in a shed would have rusted away and the cable eaten by rats. As I sit writing this, in front of me, on the desk is:

A calculator
A pile of empty cds
A pile of music cds
A ball of string
A box set of Fred Astaire movies
A coffee cup
An OS map of Skegness
A packet of Postcards
A Magnusson metal tape measure
Bits of assorted paper

Dont even ask about everything else in the room. It's a nightmare.
This is not the kind of study I was led to believe in by the Enid Blyton Famous Five stories: A yew Windsor chair, a Georgian Partners desk, shelves of books - mostly leather bound, a smell of oldness and a pipe rack and half an ounce of Planter's Pride in a weird-smelling pouch that resembled a codpiece. Perhaps, a candlestick telephone with Sloane 234 written on the base. A Remington typewriter. Perhaps a Gestetner duplicator that would cause death by inhalation had it worked. On the wall would be a map of the world, with a lot of pink bits. An aspidistra would sit disconsolately in a jardiniere.

No. This place in which I sit is not a study at all, it is a collection of accusations.

Do you want to live in a Christian Country?

The matter of the Christian Faith seems topical. Peter Oborne, writing in The Telegraph has this:

All governments have paid lip service to religion. The difference is that David Cameron’s really means it. Not all of its members, perhaps – Nick Clegg, for example, is an avowed atheist. But enough to make a difference. In fact, as the Coalition reaches its first Christmas, it is possible to reach a provisional judgment that David Cameron’s Government has adopted a religious and profoundly moral social and economic agenda.

I am flabbergasted! I really begin to think I reside in a parallel universe. As a Christian I feel uneasy about the mingling of faith and politics or indeed, faith and the organisation of society. In the Daily Mail there is a report that the National Secular Society wants to ban Christian Assemblies in schools because it infringes the human rights of atheists.

As a nation we are confused. 50% of people believe this is a Christian country. What do they think they mean? That 50% of this nation believes that Jesus Christ is God incarnate and saves souls, or, that we all go a bit fluffy and generous around this time of year?

A ComRes poll of 1,000 adults, conducted for Christian Concern, found that 72% of adults thought Christians should be able to refuse to act against their beliefs without being penalised by their employers.(Telegraph) But this is a red herring. This is a libertarian issue, not a faith issue.

When it comes down to it, everyone has tuppence to say about it but in reality there is now no longer a consensus. There is only one thing I am convinced of and that is that basic morality and humanity should not be mediated by governments or equalities officers. Morality begins at home.

The Church has lost its way. They are adrift in a slack tide of social stagnation, and instead of being a beacon of hope it is dim as a Toc H lamp. It may publicly, for example, pronounce that homosexuality is a sin, but it secretly condones it, preferring the Don't Ask, Don't Tell route that throws up  situations like the case of Canon Jeffrey John who was denied his Bishopric (cue smutty innuendo) because he is openly gay and in a same-sex partnership. This state of affairs cannot but undermine the logic of the Christian message as presented to newcomers. The Church's current claim to having some sort of monopoly of spiritual and moral direction, especially as regards the young, is tenuous. I am minded to agree with the National Secular Society.

Of course, there is nothing to replace it with, but relativistic drivel about equality and pan-everythingism.
Now let us come to the thorny issue of being a practicing Christian in society. Nobody said it was going to be easy, indeed the Bible promises persecution, Some bring persecution upon themselves, but others merely require that they live their faith by carrying a Bible or wearing a small cross.

Neither of these things have caused Supermarket checkouts to close because the Christian did not believe in selling strong drink. It does not involve wearing a hood or being submissive to men and nor does it involve calling for the death of anybody. And yet, that "faith" which disrupts or diminishes the daily life of many is now apparently a Grade One listed faith and is placed above all others. And I wonder if prospective Muslim adopters are asked their views on homosexuality or women's rights? I think we know the answer to that.

And this is at the behest of those stern moralists, the liberal nihilist left. Ironic isn't it?

You are there and then you are not.

When Nicolae Ceauşescu and his wife Elena were led into a courtyard to be shot by their own soldiery they were dazed and confused. This was a man who, hitherto had cultivated a strong personality cult. There are stories of him wearing a brand new suit every day and being presented with drugged deer to shoot whilst out "hunting". These men are surrounded by sycophants because they have their opponents "taken care of".

The Romanian leader's last thoughts were probably ones of astonishment: how could these people who loved him as a father, who lauded and honoured him as he walked abroad, how could these people have changed their minds?

It was a time of fantastic change. 1989 was also the year the Wall came down. Vaclav Havel ceased to become a fugitive and became instead the President of the Czech Republic. A truly heroic man, Mikhail Gorbachev had effectively set Eastern Europe free.

Not even Putin can put the genii back in that bottle, but he is certainly trying. Vladimir Putin installed a puppet President and has effectively turned Russia into a refuge for bandits. He is often depicted, shirtless, doing macho off-road things. He is big friends with Silvio Berlusconi, a sort of Putin lite. He is fabulously powerful, and yet, it only takes one bullet. Remember that, Vlad. What goes around comes around.

The Spice of Life

Let us get one thing straight shall we? Henry I did not die of a "surfeit" of lampreys. Neither are they a kind of fish. King Henry's symptoms were described by a contemporary writer as "convulsions" and a "high fever" - typical symptoms of food poisoning. (Lampreys are highly tolerant of polluted water). Henry was advised by his doctor not to eat them, for the sake of his health. One day he just had to have lampreys (as you do) and that was that. Here is a Medieval Recipe that probably did for him - Lampreys in Blood Sauce (courtesy of http://www.godecookery.com )

Take a quyk lamprey, And lete him blode at the nauell, And lete him blode in an earthen potte; And scalde him with hey, and wassh him clene, and put him [on a spitte;] and sette the vessell with the blode vnder the lamprey while he rosteth, And kepe the licoure that droppeth oute of him; And then take oynons, and myce hem small, And put hem yn a vessell with wyne or water, And let hem parboyle right well; And then take awey the water, and put hem in a faire vessell; And then take pouder of Canell and wyne, And drawe hem thorgh a streynour, and cast [hit to] the oynons, and set ouer the fire, and lete hem boyle; And cast a litull vinegre and parcely there-to, and a litul peper; And then take the blode and the dropping of the lamprey, and cast thereto [& lete buille to-gedrys till it be a litell thykke, & cast thereto] pouder ginger, vynegre, salt, and a litull saffron; And whan the lamprey is rosted ynowe, ley him in a faire chargeour, And caste all the sauce apon him, And so serue him forth.

And so it is unlikely that you will die from a surfeit of Christmas Turkey, provided you have not eaten the red, frozen bits.

The Venerable Bede, spent his life as a monk in Jarrow and died in 735 AD. We know this latter fact because he is the one who invented the "AD" bit, thus timing our years from the approximate date of the birth of Jesus. He understood that the Earth was not flat and that the Moon affected the tides. He had few worldly treasures but on his death bequeathed his precious stash of peppercorns.

The most expensive spices in the world are Saffron, Vanilla and Cardomom.

Before real men were allowed to be discovered wearing cosmetic fragrances, lest they be accused of being a pansy, Old Spice was considered acceptable and possibly desirable. The original recipe for Old Spice contained orange, lemon, spices, clary sage, aldehydes, cinnamon, carnation, geranium, jasmine, heliotrope, pimento berry, vanilla, musk, cedar wood, frankincense, benzoin, tonka bean, ambergris. It was formulated in 1937 and dads used to smell of it. It's a classic, but not one you probably got in your Christmas Stocking.

Mel C was always, and still is my favourite Spice Girl.

Guest Post

For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life. (The Bible. John Chapter Three, verse 16)

Musical Connections

A track that will always make it into my top hundred (out of thousands, so it does mean something) is State of Independence by Donna Summer. I can't tell you what I like about it. Listening to it is like placing a Jaffa Cake in your mouth upside down. If you have ever done this, you will understand what I mean. It is the sort of cosmic experience that only me and Emily Dickinson ever felt normal with.

This brings us to record number two. I was going to post this last night. Really. Richard, a regular commenter on the blog mentioned YES. Well Richard, I am a big Yes fan, right from album number one - I see you is probably the best song on the eponymous and was covered by CSN I believe. Anyhow, this is Roundabout. It is over eight minutes long, but that's prog for you.


The next one is connected to that one. The producer hit on a sound. He practiced it with ABC and it was fully honed to perfection by the time he got hold of Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Without him, Frankie would have remained, leather clad and sweaty and and boringly gay, in the closet. This is The Look of Love by ABC


Martin Fry of ABC sang "Thunderball" on a collection of James Bond songs, put together by Bond musicmeister David Arnold.

Incredibly, Donna Summer never sang a title track on a Bond Movie, so here the connections come adrift.

So, what are the connections? Answers on a post card, which given the present state of the Royal Mail will arrive too late for me to have to worry about. Or you can use the comments section.

And Finally, a Bond song that never was. Info please if you think yur ard enough. The Weasel could not resist adding a bit at the beginning.

Tommy Sheridan - Gwilty

I wonder how he feels now that he is in the same club as Jonathan Aitken and Jeffrey Archer?

It's one thing to go adrift in the trouser area, but something wholly other to lie about it in court and trouser the damages. This thoroughly vile man publicly declared he was on a crusade to end the forces of capitalism. Seems to me all he was really doing was getting his rocks off. Now he blames Rupert Murdoch. Yet another notch down for the political classes when you and I thought they had hit rock bottom.

Yet another crazed leftie who thinks its ok to lie if you are "right". That'll be him with Tony Blair and Gordon Brown and most of the rest of the bastards, then.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/politics/scotland/8222644/Tommy-Sheridans-tale-ranks-among-most-extraordinary-political-scandals.html

WW's Christmas HippieFest

It is at this time of the year that we think about God, The Universe and Melanie Safka. Remember Melanie? She took to the stage at Woodstock an unknown and left a star. She still plays live gigs and has a huge following, despite being covered by such dubious bands as the Wurzels.


Sage-like words from Jonathan Livingston Seagull, a copy of which adorned the bookshelf of every girl I ever wanted in 1972, and a few rather fey young men:

You will begin to touch heaven, Jonathan, in the moment that you touch perfect speed. And that isn’t flying a thousand miles an hour, or a million, or flying at the speed of light. Because any number is a limit, and perfection doesn’t have limits. Perfect speed, my son, is being there.”
“To fly as fast as thought, to anywhere that is,” he said,”you must begin by knowing that you have already arrived…”

Yes, erm Glasshopper.

I have a PhD in Jethro Tull. I demanded that Mrs Weasel, who already has a PhD in something a bit more useful, at least get GCSE Tull before she hitched up with me. After all, what else would there be to talk about for the next fifty years?
This is a track from the Jethro Tull Album that is my all-time favourite. It's the second Tull album; they had money, a good producer and plenty of energy and Ian Anderson was by that time assuming the character of that tatterdemalion who eventually became Aqualung.
Stand Up eventually went to the top of the British and American album charts, at a time when their rivals for the top five included the Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix and Blind Faith.

I will leave you with more hippie wisdom, this time from the immortal Danny the Dealer in Withnail:

If you're hanging on to a rising balloon, you're presented with a difficult decision — let go before it's too late or hang on and keep getting higher, posing the question: how long can you keep a grip on the rope? They're selling hippie wigs in Woolworth's, man. The greatest decade in the history of mankind is over. And as Presuming Ed here has so consistently pointed out, we have failed to paint it black.

Peace and Love. Peace And Love.

London Underground Strike

Here's a little snippet of Christmas Cheer. Drivers for the London Underground are planning to go on strike on Boxing Day. The reason? They want triple time for working. Triple time! That would take their pay from £165 to £495. Behind this move is the enigmatic Bob Crowe. Every generation throws up a Bob Crowe. If ever there was an egoist on the make it was Crowe. They are all the same, apart from the ones who are genuine agents of Russia. Crowe supports vandalism and is a foul mouthed yob. Of course, in being such an egregious shit he appeals to the olchocracy; the dimwits who will follow anybody who can string a few bits of fighting talk together. Crowe has an ideological opposition to Capitalism. He cannot be reasoned with because he is not concerned with simple issues of workers pay and conditions, he wants to overthrow the Government.

In the end, he will fail, just as the Arthur Scargills, Jack Joneses, Red Robbos and Derek Hattons of this world have failed. But in doing so Crowe will have set back industry and industrial relations to a new low. Capitalism may be flawed, but at its heart is democracy - people choose which services and products they use and nobody can force them to do otherwise. Bob Crowe is doing very nicely on his £125,000 a year salary and generous benefits package. In ten years he will be selling timeshares in Marbella with the rest of the hucksters.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell - Proud to Serve

In case you do have to ask, I am talking about the recent legislation, signed off by the American President, abolishing the rather anachronistic policy on homosexuals serving in the military. Barak Obama's speech is reported HERE.

I am not sure dissent can be heard. Real, rational dissent, that is. Sure, the BBC can always dredge up some rednecks who want to hang faggots but that is not dissent, that is hatred and homophobia. (It does however suit the BBC liberal agenda perfectly) But I have some reasons for being cautious here. The problem with a liberal nihilist worldview is that liberality does not ultimately favour scapegoats, it merely replaces one scapegoat with another. It also moves the boundaries of what is acceptable and decent to the point where obscenity and decadence and extremism are "celebrated" and dissent is censured, by the police on occasion. All that does is create a new breed of pariah.  Its internal logic was bound though to come adrift. We allow Muslims to say the most hateful and outrageous things, in particular, that gays should be stoned to death, and yet we allow them to remain free and in this country. The Pyramid of Liberal Hegemony is riddled with such contradictions and one group fights another for a place at the top of the pile. Lurking underneath the bruised rhetoric of the minority, there is always a vein of vanity and self-promotion.

Multiculturalism, as an example of liberal doctrine, failed. It did not create community cohesion, it fragmented it. It behoves those who now benefit from this new American legislation to understand that their role now is not to be divisive, but to coalesce as one strong fighting force now that in theory they are freed from discrimination and acrimony.

Let me move on to a related issue in the news. I say related because it relates to my view of privacy about sexuality. What anybody does in private should remain private. Full Stop. There has been the very sad case of someone who was by all accounts a brilliant and committed patriot, a senior member of the Secret Services. The unusual circumstances of his death led the red tops to speculate on the reasons for the death. I write of course about the man in the holdall. According to the Guardian (usually a stronghold of the liberal left)

Senior detectives believe the mystery death of the spy Gareth Williams will be solved by getting an insight into his private life after they revealed he had visited bondage websites and a drag club and had £15,000-worth of unworn designer womenswear in his wardrobe.
Williams's decomposed body was discovered in a padlocked holdall in his flat, less than a mile from MI6 headquarters in London where he was a senior analyst.

You see, to me this is all wrong. This man's private life should be of no interest to anyone and should not be spread over the media. Somewhere there are grieving friends and family who may or may not have known about his private life, but have been subjected to the most prurient and revolting smears about someone they loved. He served his country. May he rest in peace.

Guest Poster - Mick: Serendipity

SERENDIPITY

Have you got it? I have, and it's great. Works most of the time but not reliable. When I was about 14 Edmund Blundon's ' Undertones of war' leapt from the shelves of a part of the library I used as a short cut to the science fiction/ thriller corner. Not the sort of book that a 14 year old would choose without some prompting, but I had to read it. Set me up for reading all those other first world war books and understanding the mud and filth.

Jack Kerouac came to me about the same time through 'Mad' magazine (remember Alfred E.?). They had done a beatnik satire and his name had come up. 'On the road' passed me by but I got hold of 'Lonesome Traveller' a much better read. Again a great introduction to some great books. Raymond Chandler's 'Little Sister' fell off the bookshelf at a girl friend’s house and has led me through Dashiell Hammett, Lawrence Block, James Ellroy, Walter Moseley, James Lee Burke, Donald Westlake, Ed McBain and all those other hard boiled American heroes. I can't remember how I found Simenon but European detective books edge themselves forward as I peruse the shelves. I was reading Sjowall and Wahloo in the 1970's, Van der Wettering not long after. I've never read any Dickens. Not that I don't want to, but the old serendipity doesn't steer me in that direction.

At times it's like Richard Dreyfuss in 'Close encounters' you get a little clue and you just have to get where it's leading no matter what. I worked with Barry whose white, moonlike face was a picture when he found that someone else had the serendip. We'd both found the same obscure books and didn't know why.

My son had a doctor's appointment and while he was in seeing the qwack his book was on top of his coat. 'No country for old men'. I was a chapter and a half in by the time he came out and have now read most of Cormac McCarthy's output. They're not all great but the worst is better than a lot of stuff out there.

It works with restaurants too. Strolling the dim streets of Krakow a little yellow doorway pulled me in for a delicious meal that cost most of a fiver including drinks and I don't know why that doorway was more appealing that the one across the road.

Christmas is a great time. I can go out without a list or a clue and come back with an armful of gifts. Nothing too expensive, but novel and funny and hopefully appreciated. It pisses madam off as she gets 14 presents and has only bought me 3. And one of those doesn't fit.

Maybe it's just luck, but it seems to work when you don't think about it.

Now where's that lottery ticket?

WW Adds: Thank you Mick. My favourite trick is to see a road and think "I wonder what's down there". A few months back I was in York Railway station, discussing with my sister a person we knew who I had not seen for over 25 years, and bumped into her there and then. I think it sort of freaked us all. None of us live anywhere near York.

Are Judges getting too big for their wigs?

Guest Poster, Brian, thinks so, and what he wants for Christmas

Is an end to judicial activism. There is no need in our democracy for judges to battle Parliament on behalf of the disenfranchised and make law on their behalf. We don’t need the equivalent of Judge Richard Goldstone in England. To all the former student Marxists who now sit bewigged on the Bench, I say “Oi, Parliament is the highest court in the land, M’Learned Mush and your job is to interpret Common Law and Statute and apply it to each case. Not create more areas of human rights work for your fellow Benchers. The golden rule you must apply is “What is the exact meaning of the text of the Act of Parliament?” If you are unable to honestly answer that because of imprecise drafting, don’t try to be smart, I propose that you must instead submit a written Certificate of Clarification to Parliament which sets out the point of law requiring explanation. It is rightly Parliament’s responsibility to resolve matters that it has created. By a simple resolution of the elected members; legal clarifications could take the place of Early Day Motions; imperfect sections of Acts could be clarified with the minimum of delay. This measure would help to restore the legitimacy of Parliament and the Judicature in the eyes of we citizens on whose behalf they act.

WW adds a caveat in small, difficult to read type: The above piece is an opnion by the author and does not necessarily reflect the position of the blog owner. Therefore, please address comments/writs and spleen to the writer, Brian. 

WW adds: Having said that, I tend to agree. It cannot be right that scumbags from the various shitholes of the world, who commit serious crimes, be allowed to stay here because some prat in a wig is concerned about his uman rights. On the other hand, taking away the independence of the judiciary is one step nearer to a police state. I don't know the answer to this one. Do you?

Hands Across the Sea

Aach, I won't bore you with weather stuff. Sufficient to say that it involved young Miss Weasel flying to Bristol, then being diverted to Manchester, then landing, then taking off again and trying once more for Bristol. Not to mention a pre-dawn drive of terror from Weasel Hall in the limo. I mention the limo because it appears I have been trying to drive it without coolant/antifreeze. Took it down to the garage and they put four litres of pink stuff in it. Either there is a leak or I have been idling the engine one too many times.

I am going to make it easy on myself: get one of those kids' steering wheels, the ones with the little horn and a suction pad, and sit on the sofa, occasionally ejaculating, "wanker", "arsehole" and "thank you, not". Parp, parp.

Excuse me, I realise I am writing this without a drink.






That's better: a g&t for Mrs Weasel and a glass of Theakston's Old Peculier for me because, not only am I old....

It's the Winter Solstice. My usual MO is to dance naked around the garden. Of late I have gone off the idea. It is not a good idea to take something that is very small to start with and render it microscopic due to a reduction in temperature. This year, I shall go out, have a fag, and bark at the moon.


So, Hands Across the Sea. There are quite a few Americans who read the blog. Not all of them come here looking for a certain brand of skimpy beachwear that sounds remarkably similar to Wrinkled Weasel, or has the logo WW. (How they have room for a logo baffles me). I have picked more cloth from between my feet than you get on one of these outfits but I promise to walk into town wearing one if Gordon Brown ever gets back into government.

Hands Across the Sea. It is not often one finds a blog that actually shines as an example of creativity and entertainment, whilst at the same time ploughing an individual furrow. Somewhere in that continent, that continent of dreams and ambition and sentimentality, tempered by that special kind of stickiness you get from Krispy Kreme and Taco Bell, there is an author called Shannon Woolfe, who has graciously allowed me to reprint one of her stories. Not only that, Wolfy, for it was she, is going to do a piece just for this blog. Wow. Actually. My stiff upper lip almost trembled with pleasure, for the story has an intriguing rythm and cadence like an ocean tide.

So below this post, is Shannon's first contribution to the blog. Sit comfortably and enjoy a wonderful short story. Thank you.

Shannon Woolfe - Guest Post

I Killed My Landlord -  by Shannon Woolfe

My first apartment in Greensboro was in a lovely old mill house on Tate Street. It was divided into three apartments, one tremendous apartment on the ground floor and two upstairs. Mine was upstairs, and on the right side of the house. It was roomy and flooded with light in the afternoons. It had two things I most most required in a dwelling back then, it was close to campus and it had an enormous bathtub.

I shared the place with a big girl named Beth. She was an Actress. She sang show tunes in the morning, and well, I hated her for that. She thought I was a floozy and I suspected she wanted me to sleep with her. We didn't see eye to eye on the bills or food, but we did agree on one thing; our landlord was a pervert.

Mr. Waddell was the spitting image of Burl Ives. The house had been his mother's house, in fact, he had lived in the house with her til she died, poor old thing. He had a heart condition, and often, he would show up at our door, unannounced, huffing and puffing after climbing the two flights of stairs attached to the back of the house. He'd let himself in to our kitchen and shout, "Is anyone here?" and I'd be in various states of studying or undress or what-have-you and I'd shout back, "Mr. Waddell! Please get out of here!" He let himself in one evening when I was in the bath. There I was, all alone, soaking in bubbles, the Rolling Stones blasting out of my stereo and here comes old Waddell. I didn't hear him standing in my kitchen, so he came down the hall and opened the bathroom door! I screamed. He slammed the door and ran for the kitchen. I threw on a towel and ran after him dripping wet. "Mr. Waddell! We're putting a chain on the door tomorrow! Get out of here!"

It was the eighties and I was a kid. I didn't think to call the police or even my family. Next day, my boyfriend helped Beth and I install a chain on the door. Two days later, Waddell showed up and tried to get in. I heard the door open and the chain ratchet and then the door softly banging open and shut, open and shut. Waddell stuck his face in the two-inch crack of the door, like Santa Claus in The Shining, "Miss Wolfy! This is an outrage! This is my property. I need to be able to access all of these apartments at all times!"

"Mr. Waddell, we will call you if something needs to be fixed. You have no business coming in here. Please leave now."

"But my mother . . . "

"Your mother has nothing to do with this, hmmm, or does she?"

He shut the door and I heard him standing in the hall breathing. Finally, he went down the stairs and I saw him get in his truck and drive away.

Beth was a terrible student. She failed half of her classes in the two semesters we lived together. The weird thing was that she was very conservative and seemingly responsible. She rarely drank. She stayed home on Friday nights, yet she couldn't keep her grade average up. Me? I smoked. I drank. I came home at all hours, but I maintained a B average, and every once in a while I got an A . . . in Animal Behavior classes, those were a cinch for me.

That spring, Beth quit school and left town. I was left to find a new roommate.

Mr. Waddell started coming around again when Beth moved out. He'd show up every other day, open the door, fight the chain, and then holler in at me, "Have you found a new roommate Miss Wolfy? Will you be able to pay the rent?"

"Not yet Mr. Waddell. Please go away now. And the rent's not due for another week!"

I met a girl on the street, out in front of Hong Kong House, which was not just any old Chinese restaurant. It was our Public House. Only a block from my apartment, Hong Kong House provided me with lunch, dinner, and all my social needs. It was a place to network. It was a hippie joint extraordinaire. And the wall out front with the myrtle tree growing up through the middle of it, was an equally important gathering place. So I met my potential roommate Chandra on the wall. She had just come to town. She was thinking about going to school in the fall, but she wasn't sure. She had been following the Dead for a couple of years. She was a mountain girl and came with only the backpack that sat at her feet. But she said she had money, she needed a room.

Chandra moved in the next day. And not surprisingly, she moved out three days later. Gone like a circus, someone on the street told me she'd found a ride to Berkeley. "Shit, now what am I going to do? Rent is due and I've got no damn roommate!" It took me about an hour to figure it out. I called home, like any good college kid does and they wired me extra scratch for the month. But that wasn't going to go over well next month, and besides, I was due to graduate soon, and that meant the golden fountain would go dry for good.

I put word out on the street that I needed a cheaper apartment and it didn't take more than a few hours to get news of a place that was half the price of Waddell's House of Fun. The new place was across the tracks, in a questionable neighborhood, but I didn't care, I was ready for a life free of roommates and Waddell.

Lease? Yeah, I had signed a lease with Waddell, and it didn't run out for another year, but I found two girls to move in on the day I moved out and I handed them the lease and said, "Call Waddell, tell 'im you two live here now. Keep the chain on the door, pay your rent, and it'll all be cool." I thought it helped that they were cute southern girls too. Waddell would like them. They would probably let him in the door occasionally and bake cookies for him, just like dear old Ma used to do.

8 months later, in the dead of winter, I'm futzing around with a kerosene heater in my rundown apartment on the wrong side of the tracks, only a few steps away from God's Miracle House of Deliverance and a good mile from campus, when there's a knock on the door. I open the door, keeping the chain in place, cause, yes, I was going to have a chain on every door from then on, and there's a Greensboro policeman standing outside my door. I'm going to tell you this now, and I will expand on this thought in a future story, but back then, the Greensboro Police were a thing to be feared. They wore all black uniforms, not navy blue, and they were dangerous. If you want to start reading up on them, read about the KKK shootings back in '83 in downtown Greensboro. That will begin to give you an idea of why we were afraid of those guys. And in the neighborhood I was living in, it was just standard that when something went wrong, you called your neighbors for help, not the police.

"Are you Miss Wolfy?" He had his right hand on his gun holster and he held a manila envelope in his left. I thought if I am Miss Wolfy do I get the envelope or a slug in the face?

"Yes, yes, I'm Miss Wolfy." I left the chain on the door. The cop pushed the envelope at me through the crook of the door.

"This is a summons. Read it and appear in court on the dates stated." He turned and went down the stairs and got in his black cruiser. My nosy old neighbor across the street stood in her front yard holding a rake. She looked up at my window and I knew what she was thinking, "I knew that girl was no good."

It was a summons from Waddell's lawyer. They were suing me for breaking the lease. They were taking me to court to recover one year's rent . . . $4,800. I nearly passed out. What the fuck was I going to do? I couldn't call my grandmother. And then it hit me. I would call my bulldog, my father. My father loves nothing more than a fight. He'll fight anybody and he doesn't always win, but I was pretty sure he would tear Waddell to pieces. I had no idea how swift a job it would be.

I called the elder Wolfy and felt the hair growing on the back of his hands while I told him the story, "So you found sublettors and he's still suing you? Are the girls still there, they didn't walk out too, did they?"

"No, I walked by the other day, and they waved to me from the porch. And I even told them he was a pervert and how to handle that so they wouldn't leave."

"Pervert? He's a pervert? Whatdoyoumeanhezapervert!?!"

"He used to let himself in the apartment."

"And?"

"He would come at all hours, afternoon, nights, and come in without knocking. He let himself in once when I was in the bathtub!"

"WAT?!"

"Yeah, but . . ."

"Did he see you in the tub?"

"I told you he was pervert."

Next thing I get is a phone call from Waddell, "Young lady! You're a liar!" And then he hung up. Seems my bulldog of a father filed a counter suit with Guilford County accusing Mr. Waddell of Sexual Harassment. Waddell went down to the court house to pick up papers and they gave him the summons right there in the hallway and he blew a gasket. He had to be removed by police escort from the premises. And then, he was in such a state they had to call an ambulance and take him to the ER. That night I went down to The Night Shade Cafe, a seedy little bar beneath The Hong Kong House and I danced barefooted to the beat of Steady Rollin' Bob Margolin. I was outta my mind happy, there were few times that the old Bulldog came through and this was one of them.

But the story doesn't end there . . .

We were due in court just a few weeks later. Waddell was going to say I skipped on the lease and my Bulldog father was going to stand next to me and accuse Waddell of being a pervert. But we never got to court.

Waddell died of a coronary two weeks before the joust was to go down.

I killed my landlord, yes, I did.

Cable Ties

As I write it looks as if Vince Cable has been hoist on his own flex. Time to think about reviving his old band Vince Cable and the Hotwires, because I don't see him lasting for much longer. Hours I would say. The revelations in today's Telegraph and his boast that he could bring down the Coalition seem to have been eclipsed by his incredibly crass pronouncement about being at war with Rupert Murdoch. Guido Fawkes points out that the Telegraph did not include this juicy morsel in their piece earlier because the Telegraph very much wants to see Murdoch cut off at the Billabong. That line of the story was broken by the BBC's Robert Peston. Meanwhile, the UK Business Secretary appears to have had a jumbuck in his own Tucker Bag. At war with Ruper Murdoch? As someone wryly observed, Vince Cable will be home for Christmas.

UPDATE: Cable is Saved. He will stay in post, but with diminished responsibility. I blame myself for assuming that Cameron had a backbone. I never learn.

Onward and Upward must be the cry

It's a quote from Wainwright I think, about Scafell Pike. It has always appealed to me, that line.

Stung by the premature announcements of the end of blogging, generally because Iain Dale has packed it in, I got to thinking about the longevity of the medium. Dale seems to prefer Twitter and, let's be honest, he is no intellectual, he's a chatterer. Whereas I reserve judgement about my cognitive credentials, I know that I am not a chatterer. Chattering was made for Twitter and Facebook. I do neither. I am a thinker and reflector. I always wanted to do posts which were a bit less ephemeral; at least posts which people can refer to in the future, ones that don't just evince a knee-jerk rant on the issues of the day.
If anything has changed with the departure of high level bloggers such as Iain Dale and Tom Harris, it is that they have moved on to a medium that suits their intellects.
Roger Scruton, that cerebral right-of-centre academic, really did not get the blog. He made some fascinating attempts and now appears to have given up.

But it is not all about considered monographs on the influence of Dante in the Work of T.S Eliot. To survive the blog needs new blood and energy and really, variety. This is why I have invited some of my regular readers to submit items. They are going to be published over the next week or two and range from recipes to ideas to anecdotes. This blog always has been a scattershot blog and it is not going to change.

So here, below, are the first and second contributions to be published. The first is from regular commenter and friend, Jim Baxter, who likes to hide his literary light under a bushel. It's time to come out of the bushel, Jim. The second is from a recent addition to the comments section, although I gather he has read the blog for some time: Brian. His first one is a recipe and I thought it best to publish it asap since it will give you time to get the ingredients. Thanks to both. They are published as is without editing by me, so please address your comments/writs to the author. I feel privileged that people have done this and hope it will encourage others to submit articles.

Guest Post - Jim Baxter - Hotel Chelsea, Manhattan

THE HOTEL CHELSEA

The news that Manhattan’s Hotel  Chelsea is to change hands for the first time in almost 70 years brings deep unease to those of us who like to believe that there are living pockets of creative, resilient anarchy in the world's great cities.

I visited the Chelsea only once and only for a few minutes. I wanted to see its humane staircase, there, if needed, for many a last exit. That  would be about  enough for me. In there I would absorb  in minutes what was for me a lifetime's dose of ionising anarchy.

Having looked up at all that overwrought iron  I‘d seen enough. But I wanted one more thing - a little souvenir  for a Burroughs-loving friend of mine. I approached the small front desk. In front of me a large man was in discussions with the much smaller man behind the desk.

'You will not speak to my wife like that'.

'She was upsetting people. She was very loud'.

'You will NOT speak to my wife like that. Do you understand me?'.

'She was upsetting people. I had to say something to her'.

'You will not speak to my wife like that'.

Eventually the man moved away, no happier. Now I spoke to the man behind the desk, whose thoughts were not with me.

'Good morning. I wonder if I could have one of your business cards'.

'A BUSINESS card? Jeez, I can't cope with the stress. You wanna make my life more difficult?'

'OK, how about two business cards?'

I got my cards from there, in more ways than one I felt. I just wasn’t Chelsea enough even to begin to inspire them to  what they could really do. Not even close.

The developing story of any hateful developers can be followed here:

http://www.legends.typepad.com/

Brian's Caribbean Christmas Trifle Recipe

McVities Ginger Cake

Ginger Biscuits

Dark Rum

Tin of Mangos

Two Bananas

One each Orange and Lime 1 pint jellies

1 pint Custard

300g Mascarpone Cheese

300ml Whipping Cream

Caster Sugar two heaped tablespoonfuls

3-4 tablespoons Desiccated Coconut

3 pieces of Stem Ginger cut into matchsticks

Note: read all the instructions and assemble the ingredients before starting. If you’re planning on having this on Christmas Day, make the jellies on 23 December.

Make the jellies and allow them to set as per instructions. I use old plastic ice cream containers for convenience. Chop the set jellies into half inch cubes.

Cut the ginger cake into half inch cubes and layer the bottom of a trifle bowl. Use ginger biscuits broken into quarters to fill up any gaps. Sprinkle four capfuls of dark rum over the cake and biscuit mix.

Drain the mangos, saving the juice or syrup for drizzling over the ginger cake and biscuits.  Chop the bananas. Spread out mangos and bananas onto the ginger cake and biscuits. Layer the chopped jellies over the fruit. Cover bowl with clingfilm and put somewhere cold.

Make the custard as per instructions or use ready made. Save proper egg custard for bread and butter pudding.

Try this option: I put the desiccated coconut into the pint of milk for the custard and gently bring up to a boil before straining out the coconut, briefly rinsing under a cold tap and allowing it to dry. It adds a moreish coconut taste to the custard, as you would expect.

When the custard has cooled to room temperature pour it over the jelly layer. Allow to set

Gently toast the desiccated coconut until lightly brown and set aside. Chop the stem ginger into matchsticks.

With a whisk or electric beater, whip the mascarpone and whipping cream together. Add a capful or two of dark rum and two heaped tablespoonfuls of caster sugar.

Spread the cream out over the set custard and decorate with a fork. Sprinkle over the toasted coconut and chopped ginger. Bung in the fridge or somewhere cold for an hour before serving.

Eat.

Captain Beefheart 1941-2010

There is a story about Don Van Vliet: he was a door to door salesman before music allowed him to give full reign to his undoubted creativity. One day he found himself at the door of Hunter S Thompson. Brandishing a vacuum cleaner he said: "Sir, this sucks!"

The Magic Band was born cool. With a guitar and bassist called Alex St.Clair Snouffer and the incredible Ry Cooder (who was 20 at the time) on slide, something was going to take place. In 1967, in Great Britain, the lovable Mop Tops were doing Sergeant Pepper. Captain Beefheart was recording his first and for me his best album, Safe As Milk. People like me thought that fish and chips was a treat and that Shirley Abicair and Lottie Hass were babes. Lady entertainers in 1967 wore ball gowns whilst playing a zither. Russ Conway was the star guest on the Billy Cotton Band Show and appeared in a dinner suit. Straight? People wore white knickers, and not ironically either.

In the context of the times Captain Beefheart was avant garde. Sure, Safe as Milk has Blues and Jazz riffs but the Captain was too eclectic to sit on one sound for long.

Being in the band was no holiday: the parts were worked over and over and he was a hard taskmaster. Cooder got the Safe As Milk gig because the regular guitarist had a nervouse breakdown.

Beefheart and those guys fought like cat and dog all the time, never did much of anything else 

said Cooder in an interview. Later albums, particularly Trout Mask Replica, were complex and atonal with lots of odd time signatures. Often, these pieces were almost abstract expressions. TMR is a kind of vinyl Jackson Pollock but not an album I can really appreciate. Frank Zappa produced Trout Mask Replica and of course, the Captain guests on Zappa's Hot Rats.

Beefheart was never going to go mainstream. Beefheart is there because Mark E Smith's The Fall is there, or Dali's Car (incidentally DC lifted the name from a Beefheart track) or Public Image Limited is there. They are not exactly AOR but they cannot be discounted as mere eccentricities. Anybody who listens to his work cannot fail to find something resonating within.

Don Van Vliet aka Captain Beefheart died of complications from Multiple Sclerosis yesterday.

Also from Safe As Milk, here is Abba Zaba

The changing nature of blogging

Mike Rouse is the technical man behind many top level political blogs. Today he muses on the changing nature of blogging.

Mike writes:

In the past few weeks alone we’ve said goodbye to Iain Dale, Tom Harris and Tory Bear from the UK political blogging scene. As somebody who runs a business in this area I would be lying if I said this trend wasn’t worrying.
Is it merely a change of figures and plenty of new blood coming forward? Is it because of the change of government? No. Individual circumstances are behind all of the decisions and each with its own motivational factors and opportunities too.

You can read the whole article by following the link.

Anyway, here is my reply:

Blogging is changing I think. There is evidence that the first generation of major bloggers are going on to something else, but that also gives people like me an opportunity to do something I have wanted to do for years: write longer more considered posts that stand a chance of some kind of longevity. Twitter suits chatterers. I am not a chatterer I am a thinker and for too long the chatterers have led the pack and now they have a medium, Twitter, which is tailor made.
Iain Dale never saw blogging as discourse but I do. It is a fact that people we think of as intellectuals, such as Roger Scruton or politicians like Tony Wright MP either could not relate to the ephemeral nature of it or just never attempted it.
As for Guido, he is rather in a class of his own and appears impervious to influence. Other political bloggers get less interesting as they become more influential because they find themselves wedded to the establishment or wishing they were. Consequently they have too many people not to piss off and to some extent lose their edge. Political aspiration is the death of political blogging. cf Tom Harris. Ditto commercial interests. cf Iain Dale. I do not aspire to do anything other than get more out of the platform and see how far I can improve what I do.
There will be a new generation of bloggers but it will change its nature for sure.

Peep Show Review

Peep Show has been transmitted on Channel Four since 2003. I have just finished watching the entire canon. It became compulsive, though I am one of these people without a TV, so I never got into any water-fountain chat about it at the time. I am not even sure if anyone else has watched it, but never mind, here goes. I won't go into explanations about what it is and who the characters are; either you have seen it and know or have not seen it and don't care.
Is is like anything else?
Well, since the show revolves around a double act, but is also an ensemble piece, yes it is. The idea of two woefully aspirational people living together is as old as Tom and Jerry, or Laurel and Hardy or Morecambe and Wise or Blackadder and Baldrick or Withnail and I. It is a tried and tested formula. As for Blackadder, PS is nearer to this kind of comedy. You take a premise and test it to comic destruction. Nothing new there either, then. (Technically it uses a voice over internal monologue and a character POV camera. Once you get used to it, and you get used to it very quickly, it becomes invisible as a device.)
Why is it good?
In any piece of drama or prose, you have to care about the characters. Even if its the bad guy, you need to want him to get his just desserts. If it is the good guy, you want him to win the girl. Here is the twist; Mark and Jeremy are not good guys or bad guys, they are just blokes with bloke ambitions and bloke hobbies. The comedy is comedy of frustrated aspiration. They are in perpetual pursuit of women and it never works out. They either eschew jobs and careers - and get them, or pursue them desperately and get sacked. Women they don't fancy go after them and women they do fancy are unobtainable. There is also a lot of very vulgar humour, usually about wanking and oral sex and there is a lot of swearing. There is a farcical element and lots of props. Doors shatter, there is puke, poo and wee. An episode where Mark was ill ended with him sitting in a doorless loo being watched by several people. He had the squirts and people were remarking on the terrible smell. You have to have seen it. Embarrasment is a key feature of every show. There is a lot more and I have only scratched the surface. Peep Show is good because it fires on all cylinders for most of the time. There is a strength to the central relationship as strong as any double act.
A word about the cast.
Another strength of the show is the entire cast and the way they weave in and out of the plot. These people have a life outwith the show it seems, metacharacters you might say. Often they are talked about a lot, but do not appear. Big Suze was talked about for several episodes before you got to see her. Dobby is a sometime girlfriend/colleague of Mark, played by Isy Suttie, who also had a recent outing in Whites. Typical of the ensemble, Dobby is an eccentric, nay, Zany who is no one-dimensional stereotype, but who is clever at her job, droll and likeable. She is another who falls into the category of obscure object of desire.
But there is one character who cannot be missed. He has for me transcended the series and actually exists! Super Hans. He is the deux ex machina, and a mobile drug cabinet. In answer to the question, "Are you tripping?" he replies: "The shit I'm seeing, I fucking well hope so! You couldn't get me any glue, could you? Take the edge off"
Drama and comedy occasionally gives birth to a metacharacter. Gene Hunt is one. Richard Blaine is one. There is Del Boy, Edmund Blackadder, A raft of Python characters, Danny the Hippie is another and in some ways like Super Hans, who is most certainly one. Here he is in a short clip, doing a typically Super Hans thing:

Peep Show.

Why do I like it? I like it because it takes aspects of the bloke condition and makes fun of us. We know there is truth in it and we know we act like dicks, and we have the honesty to admit it and we can sit back and laugh at Mark and Jeremy and in doing so, ourselves.

Wild Wood Update

My other blog From the Wild Wood, has at last been updated. It is about one of my Chickens.
http://fromthewildwood.blogspot.com/2010/12/mrs-gladys-slingsby-beloved-matriarch.html

Farewell, then, Harrier

(PA)

Britain's Harrier jump jets have taken off on what is billed as their "final flight" before the axe of Government spending cuts falls on them.
The 16-strong fleet of distinctive aircraft soared into the grey skies above RAF Cottesmore in the East Midlands on a farewell journey due to take them over several other RAF bases.
Weather permitting, they are scheduled to fly over the local town centres of Stamford and Oakham as well as Lincoln Cathedral before landing back at RAF Cottesmore later.

I had an interesting encounter with a Harrier Pilot. He was in charge of Harrier training at Yeovilton. He demonstrated what he was able to do to a poor pilot who was taking the simulator for a spin. (this was an actual Harrier cockpit on giant hydraulic stilts). He basically pulled a few switches on his control panel and gave the guy in the cockpit multiple systems failures. And to his credit, the guy managed to land the plane. My instructor friend had not been so unfortunate. He ejected from his Harrier and got a face full of canopy glass because his visor was up at the time. I'm not sure what a Harrier cost in those days but I expect he had some explaining to do. It's a shame to see another iconic aircraft bite the dust, but considering the original design was conceived fifty years ago, I guess they must move on.

Santa cancels due to wrong kind of snow

Everybody knows the RAC Control Centre on the M6. Impressive? It was designed to be. BDP, the Architects, were briefed:

• provide office and training facilities to house worlds most advanced rescue communication system
• visibly emphasise RAC Rescue control is on hand 24 hours a day

Of course, most of it is given over to people trying to sell you insurance, (RAC was bought out by AVIVA) but that does not matter. It looks the business. The reality is that this sort of operation is mostly run by underpaid, very stupid people. I did a temp job at the AA many years ago and the people who were processing the data were barely literate and could not tell the difference between Kennington and Kensington. One operator next to me had three goes at that one and gave up, imputting the wrong one. Could have been crucial, and of course the next time the poor unfortunate resident of Kennington called, he would no doubt have been informed that the address he gave was incorrect and therfore outwith his recovery plan.

But this is not about the RAC, who I know are capable of fixing a Mondeo, but not a windscreen wiper on a Lancia Fulviasport.

This is about the dire experience of the non-delivery of the post, Amazon, Marks and Spencer and the rest.

I will put it bluntly; they have given up. My order for wine from M&S is now 9 days beyond the delivery by date. My Amazon orders were delivered to Gourock, for delivery by the Royal Mail 8 days ago. Christmas presents to my nearest and dearest are in a pile, 94 miles away and have been for over a bloody week. My wine is in Droitwich.

All over the UK, underpaid very stupid people are not bright enough to cope with three days of bad weather. Utterly dependent on "systems" they are now serially fucked. Their systems did not allow for weather. Their systems do not allow for the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Consequently they have no idea where my parcels are. And really, they don't care.

Hotel - Mayfair or Old Kent Road?

I have just finished watching a documentary about the Savoy Hotel. Those of you who have been on Mars may have missed that it has been closed for three years for a major, and I mean major, refurb.The alterations overran somewhat and went £100 over budget. The documentary, is, like its subject, restrained and refined. There are no bigh hissy fits on camera and no wannabe butlers in tears. The staff look as if they are used to being professional and dedicated. The hotel itself has become once again the luxury and opulence that says Savoy. There are of course one or two naff additions such as the fake masterpieces painted especially, but you can put that down to the fact that it is owned by an Arab. There is a lot more gold leaf everywhere too.

But would I stay there? To be honest, no. It is not the expense. Plenty of London Hotels either match or exceed Savoy prices. I think it is the fact that you would have to dress up just to go through the front door. Everybody around you is in some kind of uniform doing some kind of bizarre cameo act. You dare not go to the "personal" bar in case you accidentally spend 30 quid on a small gin and tonic. I don't do breakfast with strangers so I would need one of their personal butlers to serve me in the room. I short, you would not get out for less than a grand a night. And what of the experience? Well you can experience the Savoy merely by having a cocktail in the American Bar. That should be enough.

No, the Savoy would not be my first choice. Perhaps the Goring or the Connaught or the Cadogan, but not the Savoy. The Cadogan would be my choice. You can take a two night break, including breakfast, for £500, if you want economy and a good write up on Trip Advisor.

The thing is, I am not sure I would appreciate it. I find hotels in general a bit depressing and they give me a feeling of being bundled around like a commodity. I hate being a public spectacle, I am phobic about mini-bars and distrust the idea of being held captive to the system; dare you ask for a chip butty at midnight? Would you feel uncomfortable that the doorman earns more than you do, has better shirts and wipes his bottom with tenners so don't palm him less than a twenty? For opening a door? If you want coffee, do you really need to wait fifteen minutes and then watch some flunky go through an elaborate dance to serve it? I am not even sure I would be able to poo.
And call me an unreconstructed liberal, but being pandered to makes me feel uncomfortable and I have no plans to drive a limo into their swimming pool either. I just don't need that level of re-assurance that I am important.

Space - where we were supposed to be lost in

Hover Cars. They are a symbol of what the future should have been and not what it is. I used to be a huge fan of Lost in Space - "Danger, Will Robinson" squawked Robbie the Robot.
My Saab is just as annoying as Robbie in issuing danger warnings, and the little dwarf lady who resides in the automated checkout at Tesco, ditto, so I suppose there has been some progress.

Anyway, connections: Will Robinson was played by Billy Mumy. Billy Mumy must have taken a lot of drugs because he later formed a musical unit called Barnes and Barnes and sang about Fish Heads:

Based on the Escargot plate

Here is a real hover car.

Iain Dale calls it a day

Just found this out. I have to say something. After all Iain Dale is one of the reasons I started blogging. Until a year or two ago, Iain Dale's Diary was a must read. The rot set in long before he diversified into Total Politics and Biteback Publishing. The rot set in when he wanted to become an MP. As Tom Harris found out, unless you are a slavering toady, Central Office looks without sympathy at your witterings. It may have been a factor in Iain's failure to become the chosen candidate.

I had been reading Dale for at least as long as this blog has been running, and commenting almost on a daily basis. I occasionally got into the Daley Dozen and did a guest post on the blog. It boosted my blog considerably.

Sadly, and for at least 18 months, the blog has meandered downhill. Too many arses to lick is the usual real reason that high profile bloggers give up; they simply don't have anyone they dare slag off. His eye was certainly off the ball for most of that time and the posts had a depressing tendency to focus on the arcane machinery of Tory apparatus. When he did do something interesting or controversial it was the wrong thing. What finished it for me was his extraordinary support for Phil Woolas, to the extent that Dale publicly pledged £100 to the Woolas appeal fund. I have not commented on the blog since, and only visited it a couple of times. It was a long time coming, because the blog was by that time a puff platform for Iain Dale plc.

The strength of the Iain Dale blog was the man's evident humanity and normalness. He reacted to events as many of us did and was able to put his finger on the pulse of silent Britain and give a fair diagnosis. This facility went out long ago, victim to his other commitments, his TV appearances, his radio show, etc.

The end was nigh long ago. Iain Dale has got what he wanted. He is a member of the establishment. Iain Dale's Diary, in any meaningful sense is dead. Long live Guido.