A lot of people have criticised this blog from time to time. Some have been rude, some have accused me of coldness and lack of empathy with commenters. I want to tell you now that there have been times when I wanted to pack it all in.
There was the time when I discovered that young Miss Weasel couldn't get a boyfriend. You know, I used to send her Valentines Cards. She only ever got the one, from me. And then there was the moment when young Master Weasel, in spite of his speech impediment, was able to recite the entire works of Shakespeare (for Children in Need) whilst standing on his one remaining leg. Reading with his one good eye. Sorry for mentioning this, and it was not my plan to parade my family life in front of you, but you need to understand.
I have decided that you must, must see the Weasel without his mask, and maybe then, (sniff), you will love me a bit more.
I came from a broken home and sometimes all we had to live on was lard. We were poor but we were also miserable. I grew up unable to make friends or interact socially, but with a biting ambition to one day get my revenge back on the world that treated me so appallingly.
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Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and
wish'd to see thee ever cross-garter'd ..thy smiles become thee well
First, create a basket of spun caramelised sugar. Place in it the braised hearts of five Ortolans and top with a sauce made up of two parts butterscotch Angel Delight and one part chopped fennel. Spray with liquid nitrogen and serve on a bed of raddichio.
Nonsense. But believable nonsense. Today we get the news that El Bulli, "The World's Finest Restaurant" is to close permanently, due to it making huge losses. That is because, if there was a better exemplar of the "Emporer's New Clothes" I have never heard of it. And that goes for the Fat Duck at Bray, too - a place that is so preposterous and anachronistic, that it serves seafood contaminated with shit and wine at £150 a bottle that can be bought off the shelf for fifteen quid.
Rich people will eat anything if it costs enough. Now, the Weasel is not untutored in the culinary arts. He has eaten at Michelin starred restaurants around the world and, apart from the occasional disaster, can and does cook. But the demise of El Bulli is surely a sign that no amount of trout egg tempura or "tagliatelli" of shaved foie gras is going to revolutionise gastronomy. Indeed, it has tried to send it back three hundred years, to the days when only the rich could afford sugar. So, El Bulli, you will not be missed, goodbye, good riddance, and fuck off.
I have a very disorganised method when it comes to blog posts, but I am aware that quite a few people visit the blog on a regular basis, which is quite astonishing. As an experiment, I would like to know what people like about it, or not. I do this because it is clear that I am no longer just ranting to myself and also that the interaction between me and my readers is very stimulating. It would be good to get a wider readership, since that in itself has a positive impact to a point. Anyway, if you have the time and the inclination, please do the little survey on the left.
The person with the most creative advice wins a copy of my long out-of-print best selling book "Picking up Girls Made Easy"
While you are doing the survey, here is some music to put you in the mood..
No, not that, my name for a made up drink. We have run out of gin. So I took a look at the drinks shelf and decided to invent a cocktail.
It's a Build.
Put lots of ice in a highball glass.
Add equal measures of
Tequila
Midori
Triple Sec
Squeeze in some lemon juice or lime and top up with soda. Stir.
It's devastating.
And now I invite you to play, Central Casting. You have to imagine you have been given the task of casting actors in your favourite movie or book or play. Easy! I will start.
Night of the Demon (1957)
As you know, my favourite movie ever.
Holden: Dana Andrews was perfect, and apparently drunk most of the time of the shoot. Niall MacGinnis: just was the evil Karswell, based upon a sort of Aleister Crowley type. My choices, for the remake (heaven forbid) would be: Holden: George Clooney, Karswell: Michael Gambon is a bit too old, but he would have been perfect, so we need a Michael Gambon type. Any suggestions? I would go for Roger Allam. Joanna Harrington: Kelly Adams. Mrs Karswell, Penelope Keith.
The Aubrey/Maturin books. I have read them all and at the moment I a re-reading them. The movie was ok, but my choice for Jack would be Daniel Craig or probably better, George Clooney again, with Stephen being played by Robert Carlyle.
Casablanca, which ties on first place with NotD, is virtually impossible. There are reasons why there has never been a remake, but if pushed, Billy Bob Thornton and Alicia Silverstone.
First, a big thank you for the encouragement. And thanks to Iain Dale who gave the blog a plug this week, despite me not getting on his Christmas Card list anytime soon.
Moment of the Week: Probably a theme rather than a moment, that theme being the rift between how people want us to see them and how they really are. Nominees in this category include Gordon Brown and Alastair Campbell, for suddenly "doing" emotion.(I wonder why?), Tom Harris for advising bloggers to "Allow commenters to have their say" whilst ruthlessly moderating stuff merely because he doesn't like it, and ex Police Commander Ali Dizaei, who finally ran out of Race Cards to play.
Blog post of the week goes to The Universality of Cheese, whose piece about Scotland's relationship with the landed gentry gets us into the kind of thinking territory that could make Scotland a truly radical proposition as an emerging independent nation. I don't necessarily agree with what Mark says, but you have to sometimes think the unthinkable.
Best Heartwarming (literally) story for me is the case of Davender Kumar Ghai, aged 71, has won the right, in the British court of appeal, to be cremated in this country according to the ordinances of his religion and culture, after a long battle with beaurocracy. HERE
The only sad thing about this is my sneaking suspicion that Political Correctness had something to do with it, rather than a flat admission that we have a right to be disposed of as we wish, born out of an understanding that we have the right to self-determination and liberty.
There is rarely a day goes by when I don't think of our soldiers in various parts of the world, men and women who are prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. I don't like war, but then again, neither to most soldiers. We should always remember them and support them as human beings, even if their political masters behave like war criminals. I have accordingly added a web site to the blog, http://www.the-daily-politics.com/ no, not that one, which is an arm of Olive Net, the military network.
Daft personal bit: I have taken up smoking a pipe. I am not a smoker, as such, but I wanted to try it. Not a good idea for someone with an addictive personality. Toodle Pip.
In about 1988, when Young Weasel was a toddler, we would listen to "Man in a Jar" together, from the SAHB album, "The Impossible Dream" YW loved it. Neither of us got to see Alex and the band live, but what footage there is shows how much energy and sheer spine-tingling excitement he generated. My other favourites were "Action Strasse" and "Faith Healer" and "The Tomahawk Kid". There is no getting away from the wealth of references to German Expressionism and the Commedia dell'arte. The songs were performed, not played. Alex was the Brechtian buccaneer, the master of ceremonies, Zal Cleminson the enigmatic clown, the zany of sorrow. The driving rhythm section ensured that they wouldn't stray too far from the script, delivering all you could want from a purely musical perspective.
Here's Vambo. The video and sound quality is not the best, but it was a long time ago.
When I first heard Safe as Milk I realised there was indeed a parallel universe out there and that Captain Beefheart was Master of it. He wasn't the first person to work his band like the tyrannical conductor of a concert orchestra but that is what he did, taking a great deal of care over the parts and introducing weird instruments such as a theremin. The album featured a young Ry Cooder and regulars of the Magic Band with the unlikely but real names of Alexis Clair Snouffer and Herb Bermann. Trout Mask Replica, considered to be his Magnum Opus, is pretty much impervious to aural reception in any meaningful sense, but released as much artistic energy as the entire punk phenomenon, and is thus accorded mythic status.
Here is a great video. There is about a minute of waffle from two guys, one of whom looks as though he belongs in a Beatles trib band, playing Paul, but go forward about a minute and you get this wonderful rendition of...
Greece was the first foreign country I ever visited, in 1967, and I got horribly sunburnt. I was also the first time I ever knowingly saw someone who appeared to be a homosexual. (Oh, for fuck's sake, it's an off the cuff remark. Don't write me a thesis, I have heard them all before)
Now I don't do the Economy, because, believe me, Weasel Plc has enough problems without me worrying about anybody else's, particularly the land of moussaka and ouzo and places called Ammonia Square that live up to their name.
But on the sly, I have been watching the financial meltdown of Greece, and the reactions of uber euros, Germany and France, who until recently said there would be no bail out for a country that has public spendinged itself into shit creek without either a paddle or a life jacket, but an extra helping of shit. Until now.
Jose Manuel Barroso, the European Commission President, said that Greece would receive support in return for and aligned to progress on sweeping austerity cuts.(Telegraph)
Well. Bugger me. No way Jose! I may be dim on fiscal fol de rols but this sounds like something that can only undermine the Euro, and cause people like me, who never wanted to be in the EU in the first place, to subsidise yet another failed economy. But if it was just me, you could laugh this off, but I am not an economist, so here's one now:
Gregg Gibbs, a strategist at Royal Bank of Scotland, said that “while a support package for Greece may remove the immediate risk of rapid contagion, it transfers more risk to the core, and will have permanently damaged the credibility of the euro as a better reserve currency than the dollar. It will infect the European Central Bank's monetary policy and generate stress between EU countries.” he said.(Telegraph)
Here is a plate of Moussaka. Grease is the Word. Like Lasagne, but worse.
I am grateful to Steve Shepherd, who has emailed about Chantel Mcgregor, a British singer and guitarist, for this clip. Here she is doing "Stormy Monday" - it's a track I associate with Eva Cassidy. Now, a lot of very musically literate people read this blog so I shall get shot down in flames for this, but I prefer Chantel's to the Eva Cassidy version. Chantel McGregor has a lightness of delivery and a blend of vulnerability and attack that makes me believe the song.
Stormy Monday has been covered lots, and also by early Jethro Tull - Chantel does a version of "A New Day Yesterday" which is really rather good. (Glenn, if you are reading this, tell us what you think!) I really warmed to her though, on hearing "Had to Cry Today" off the Blind Faith album, which is one of my Desert Island Discs (The sound quality is not so good). So, somebody took a punt and emailed me with a bit of promo. Believe me, I know how soul destroying that can be to do the rounds and I am happy to help promote people I like.
If you read nothing else today, read The Times Leader. It includes this, in a piece which is a damning indictment of the way Labour and Brown lean on their people. I wonder if it includes its leading bloggers?
From before he became Prime Minister, Mr Brown’s critics have alleged that he is incapable of tolerating dissent. He has command of a political machine that he is not afraid to use to ensure that doubters are silenced. The manner of his coronation as Labour leader is the defining case in point. Mr Brown’s acolytes sought to close down all argument and replace it with a sense of victimhood and entitlement.
11th September, 2001. Some astonishing new helicopter shots have been published, showing the devastation of the Twin Towers. (I cannot post these for some reason - maybe they are digitally protected) They can be viewed here:
This picture, though, tells as much of a story. Maybe his story went something like this:
Frank Burford said goodbye to his quiet, sad wife with her tired eyes and her way of clutching at her watch, picked up his briefcase - it only carried his lunch and reading glasses - and walked quickly to the subway. He always liked the smell of the subway and liked being "suburban" and liked the smell of hot dogs and taxis. Frank had tried living in the trees some years ago and he came back with a dislike for trees and Agent Orange and the intermittent fury of war and the smell of old clothes that needed washing. A fresh shirt; Brooks Bros and because he was of an age, button down Oxford. He was still wearing the summer ones with the short sleeves. He was aching inside because of last night's row with Sally and he knew it was his fault.
Frank's day was going to be a bit more interesting, for he was meeting an old friend in the Marriott, on the South West Corner of the World Trade Center. The friend never made it. As he sat down with a coffee he heard a boom. Nothing much happened for a few seconds and then people got up from their tables and wondered if they should call for the check and thought better of it and started to leave. Frank looked around and almost absent-mindedly thought, "Bomb". By the time he had reached the exit, the alarms were sounding. Debris was falling and he wondered if it would be safer inside. Maybe there had been a major gas explosion. Frank decided to move and walked West. After about half a block he turned around and looked up at the North Tower and saw the flames shooting out of it. Someone told him a plane had hit and Frank thought it was maybe someone in a light aircraft or a small jet, but he knew that the guy must have been lost or something and that the Air Traffic controllers would not have let a plane fly so close.
He stopped and tried to phone Sally on his cell. He couldn't get through. He tried again and nothing. Just then somebody shouted "Oh my god!" and Frank looked up and saw what looked like a figure falling from the Tower. He didn't know what to do. His friend Ed should have been at the Marriott. Should he try and find Ed? Should he try and get through to Sally again? People just seemed to be milling around, not really sure what to do. Frank decided to get a coffee and find a restroom and find a phone. And then the South Tower was hit and it looked as though the cops were trying to clear the street so he entered a cafe and watched the world outside, inside the cafe, courtesy of WNYW. Somehow, it was easier and natural to watch it on TV and he was used to it. When he emerged again it was clear he was not going to get out of the area anytime soon, and so like others he stood and watched, as the South Tower began to collapse.
Frank got a ride home in a car from a stranger that day and when he got home he asked Sally to put his shirt in the washing machine - but she could put the jacket and the pants in the trash.
My "Hypocrite of the Week" award goes to Labour MP Tom Harris whose latest blog post carries some advice to would-political bloggers. I especially enjoyed his piece of wisdom at number five:
5. Allow commenters to have their say. By all means moderate the abusive ones, but blogging isn’t one-way – a dialogue with readers is the life blood of a good blog. But conduct that dialogue on your own terms.
Notice the caveat? "But conduct that dialogue on your own terms" - meaning, bin anything you disagree with, especially if it shows you up to be a tit, and not quite as bright as you like to think you are. See my post HERE
Of the loony tribal left, Tom's blog is easily the best, but even Tom has plenty of "no go" areas. Among them is any negative mention of fellow MPs or Peers, particularly if they are Mohammad Sarwar and his not so savoury family, or Michael Martin, the ridiculed and tribal former Speaker.
Tom dear, it aint free speech unless people can disagree with you. Being nice about Labour is not free speech and it is not free speech when whole swathes of dialogue are missed out because they don't fit your world view. That is not the meaning of "Allow commenters to have their say".
What's new in the undie world? That's what I want to know. Apparently there is a new survey out that shows that men are not altogether keen on seeing ladies in red underwear, and overwhelmingly prefer black. For once, I seem to be with the majority then.
I live about 500 yards from the East Coast main railway line. (stalkers take note). One of my hobbies is watching the trains go by. Due, presumably, to the comings and going of the franchises, companies have difficulty keeping up with the change of livery. Often, the paint job seems to consist of the ex-franchisees name blanked out, but of late, I have noticed a new corporate identity that looks remarkably like the Tesco Value brand.
If anybody has any pictures of this phenomena, please get in touch. Anonymity assured, or hat-tip, according to ego.
THEN fashioned for him the folk of Geats firm on the earth a funeral-pile, and hung it with helmets and harness of war and breastplates bright, as the boon he asked; and they laid amid it the mighty chieftain, heroes mourning their master dear. Then on the hill that hugest of balefires the warriors wakened. Wood-smoke rose black over blaze, and blent was the roar of flame with weeping (the wind was still), till the fire had broken the frame of bones, hot at the heart. In heavy mood their misery moaned they, their master's death. (Beowulf)
Davender Kumar Ghai, aged 71, has won the right, in the British court of appeal, to be cremated in this country according to the ordinances of his religion and culture, after a long battle with beaurocracy. HERE
Bloody foreigners, bringing their weird new customs to England.
One of the pleasures of blogging is tapping the wealth of other peoples' pleasures. And so it is that I was put in mind of this chap, who by the way is going to be playing Glasgow in May. I never heard this song before yesterday and it kills me. As a short person, living with an even shorter person, (so, ok, I never worked for Billy Smart, but I am not tall and my hands are little) I just cannot help giggling, because not only is it true, it reveals what some people secretly think. How long though, before the song can no longer be performed?
Randy Newman - Short People. Hat tip to..well, he knows who he is!!!!
Sit back, relax, click the player and I shall tell you a story. A story of a young weasel who knew jack shit but who was trying to make his way in the world. It was Mrs Carbutt's semi-derelict student crash pad on Lindum Hill. Think Withnail, but shittier and not in Camden, but Lincoln. The Weasel was 17 years old. Mrs Carbutt hated students. I can understand why now, but then it was a mystery. We had to feed the gas meter with shillings, but then discovered we could rig the two bar electric fire up to a light socket and make toast that way. I shared a flat with someone who probably despised me, and was certainly a lot cooler and a lot more successful with girls, but we somehow managed. He strangled himself to death years later after having become enamoured of some kind of erotic fetish, and left a family behind. He is remembered by his friends even to this day, which is all you can ask of any friend. I used to get drunk in the Adam & Eve and then throw up by a lampost. In that way, I was able to squander my grant in the first few weeks of term, and then live on cornflakes and other peoples' tea and sympathy.
Then one day, I got an interview for Art College in Croydon.
The trouble is, I had no alarm clock. I had to catch a train at about six in the morning, so decided, as you do, to stay up all night to make sure. And so it was that the young teen set off, with his portfolio, to an new adventure. All night long I kept myself awake to the radio and this song played a couple of times during that long night. The song is not about Jesus (as Judee Sill would say to an audience) it was about a bandit and a heartbreaker.
Of those times, in many ways so rich and yet so uncomfortable, this song haunted me forever. Judee Sill is dead and gone. She had an unhappy and short life, not loved much and so confused about it all, but she left us a body of work that should be remembered and enjoyed.
Judee Sill - Jesus was a Crossmaker - produced by Graham Nash.
for more:
What can I say about The Wind in the Willows that has not already been said? Well, I shall give it a try.
What follows is an impression, my impression of Kenneth Grahame’s masterwork, based upon my optimism that those who have already read it, will enjoy my review, and those who have not will be tempted.
THE Mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the Badger. He seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about the place. But whenever the Mole mentioned his wish to the Water Rat he always found himself put off. `It's all right,' the Rat would say. `Badger'll turn up some day or other -- he's always turning up -- and then I'll introduce you. The best of fellows! But you must not only take him as you find him, but when you find him.'
`Couldn't you ask him here dinner or something?' said the Mole.
`He wouldn't come,' replied the Rat simply. `Badger hates Society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.'
`Well, then, supposing we go and call on him?' suggested the Mole.
`O, I'm sure he wouldn't like that at all,' said the Rat, quite alarmed. `He's so very shy, he'd be sure to be offended. I've never even ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though I know him so well. Besides, we can't. It's quite out of the question, because he lives in the very middle of the Wild Wood.'
`Well, supposing he does,' said the Mole. `You told me the Wild Wood was all right, you know.'
`O, I know, I know, so it is,' replied the Rat evasively. `But I think we won't go there just now. Not just yet. It's a long way, and he wouldn't be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he'll be coming along some day, if you'll wait quietly.'
The Mole had to be content with this. But the Badger never came along, and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey Badger, who lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the Wild Wood.
I have often been fascinated by someone to the point of distraction, just like Mole and his curiosity about Badger. And so I was drawn to Mole and the teasing way in which Ratty tells him that, `Badger hates Society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.' - because it turns out to be not entirely true. It is just a sort of lazy surmise that has done the rounds. The truth about Badger is far more compelling and delightful. It becomes later an encouragement to seek out people and form your own impression. That said, WitW is never preachy, and despite it being about small furry animals, never strays into sentiment. The story itself is a page turner; this chapter among many, leads Mole to go of into the Wild Wood on a journey fraught with danger, to the point of death by exhaustion, and it is this which resonates with contemporary events and must have struck a chord with those who read this chapter in the light of Scott’s doomed journey to the Antarctic, five years later.
Of course, the whole thing is animals with human characteristics, but this very thing enables you to imagine the world of the Wild Wood, the world of nature unbound, and the daily struggle for life and survival that all creatures on this earth must undergo. Perhaps the chapter that most exemplifies this is the “Piper at the Gates of Dawn” – yes, famously borrowed for a Pink Floyd Album title; a chapter redolent and rich with pagan imagery and the thin veil between that which is temporal and that world which we cannot see, but for some reason, we need to believe in.
