Picture perfect

Packed water, Kendal mint cake, iPod and AK47 and went up to town for a ‘day out’. Pollution flavoured rain lashed the streets bringing a touch of New Orleans to the centre of town but did not dampen the spirits of the performers at the Balanese Festival in Trafalgar Square, just their dresses and henna tattoos, resulting in women in transparent dresses with full body runny mascara prancing to the sound of a damp drumbeat. Very foreign.

Luckily my pursuits for that day were of the indoor variety, a visit to the National gallery and the National Portrait Gallery.

The café in the first has the saucier waitresses, but the café in the latter has the better view.

As for the art, a few things worth note. The first is astonishment that anything so vibrant can survive over such a long period. Outstanding pictures were many but special mention has to be made of ‘whistlejacket’ by Stubbs. Truly astonishing picture of a racehorse, painted full-size and with an expression that seems to say ‘what are you doing putting that mustard on your finger like that?’.

Into the NPG and splurged on an audio tour. Excellent and great fun. Top moment had to be looking at portrait of Baden Powell while a recording of the great man himself played and he explained the meaning of ‘dib dib dib’ and ‘dob dob dob’. Interesting, to see a picture of a man and hear him speaking across the years.

Great double portrait of Kingers and Martin Amis, apparently painted after Kingers’ initial refusal. Considering that there are other portraits of him suspect this had more to do with him being a cantankerous old git than any real belief in nature of portraits or sitting for them.

Wandering the halls and looking at the portraits of the famous, the infamous and the worthy one was struck by the sense of how quickly, at the arse end of the 20th century, the nature of worth had changes. The faces in the portraits were literally those of people who had changed the world and then, at the end, you come to the modern bit and there’s a picture of some actor who, okay, may have been good in a cameo in a Harry Potter movie but hardly invented radium.

In short - Tudors = tights, Elizabethans = ruffs, Victorians = beards and 6:30 = my hitting La Perla for a few mohitos.

Rain or shine

Two things sit over the South East at the moment. The first is the spectre of drought. Apparently water companies are worried about the level of water in reservoirs and aquifers and ‘stand pipes in the street’ have been mentioned. These comments, backed up by strokey-beard type announcements about this being the driest winter since the last time and so on were designed to put the wind up consumers in the same way that a fox might put the wind up chickens. What has happened is that the chickens have told the fox to go f**k itself. The chickens have pointed out that rather than the problems with water being caused by a ‘drought’ which nobody can remember happening, might it not be caused by the kazillions of gallons of water being pissed away through leaks that go unfixed while the fat cat executives use the money for pay for fund feasts of venison off of gold and platinum plates. Rumours of the mass importation of little Dutch boys to plug said leaks are unsubstantiated.

What is substantial is the second thing sitting over the South East, which is a fucking huge belt of cloud. It’s been what is technically described as ‘pissing down’ for the last week or so, to the extent that I was drawing off water from my butt in case of what I believe I have termed ‘butt-burst’. Checking the thing yesterday I was an inch away from the top lip. That’s a lot of water. Looking out at the waterlogged garden, drooping trees, torrential gutters and filling butts, it was rather hard to take the drought seriously.

Until the drought order kicked in. This bans all ‘non essential’ use of water. I was under the panicked impression that this was everything short of drinking the stuff and that the population would be reduced to using wet-wipes for personal hygiene but apparently it’s all about not being able to have ornamental fountains working during the summer. Not an obvious choice, but there you go.

First class

Call me a snob, but there’s something about travelling first class. What I think it is, more than the free tea, coffee and snacks, more than the wide seats (wide enough to comfortably seat the widest of businessman arses) and more even than the slight, artificial sense of superiority - is that you don’t have to sit with the proles.

Or stand, or crouch or, my favourite, be pushed up against. My commuter train is not that far removed from the cattle truck in ‘Shindler’s List’ where they had to spray the top of the carriage with water to stop all the folks fainting, you know, before they carted them off to an extermination camp. Rather, one forks out a shocking amount for a season ticket and for that you get a service more or less identical to that in some third world country, but without the people sitting on the roof of the carriage. Having said that, I believe that may be what a ‘peak saver’ fare is.

But the other day I was travelling on the firms’ ticket and so it was first class. Benchmark of travel is the loo and this one was bigger than my office. The only thing it lacked was some type in there trying to spray you with scent and relieve you of your small change.

Truly, class still exists in Merrie England. If I had travelled the usual cattle class I would have swayed to the buffet and had my usual breakfast order of stella and crisps thrown at me by a surly troll. As it was, I had a bacon bap (greasy but acceptable) and so much tea I could have actually have floated to my destination, all served in proper china (instead of a paper cup that is designed to transfer the heat of the beverage to your hand in an instant, so scalding you and leaving the tea tepid) by some sort of waiter type who had obviously got a qualification in mincing.

Result, I arrived refreshed and smug at my destination.

Return journey, much the same, with the added bonus of seeing somebody arrested for fare-dodging as we pulled into London. Point of information: police officers do not like it when you shout ‘CS gas the fucker!’ as a form of encouragement. Tut.

SGC Index

The stress and worry of trying to gauge whether your street is on the way up or down and whether your neighbourhood is gentrified or chavvish has been effectively removed with the approaching football world cup. This means that once again transit vans, car-vans and cars piloted by the sort of person who considers themselves an intellectual if all their tats are spelled correctly are flying the cross of St George.

It used to be that if your high street had more than three empty shops or boarded up windows, it was time to think about moving and that if your Wimpy was replaced by a Starburger, you should be seriously worried about property prices in the area or, god forbid, if your high street was home to one of those KFC franchises where the K stands for Kansas you were truly fucked.

Now you can tell at a glance the demographic make up of your street simply by counting the number of St George's Crosses being flown from cars. Looking out the window it's not too bad but I was travelling through a neighbouring district recently and it was like a semaphore convention. Eerily, it's the same area that always shines the most brightly at Christmas what with all the neon Santas and everything.

My protracted wrangle with the council about my erection of a flagpole on the grounds means I shall not be flying my standard, let alone my special and I shall certainly not be flying the SGC. It's the St Andrew's cross or nothing and I can't see one for sale anywhere.

Gadding

Off to the RHS Spring Show - it was like Glastonbury for plants. Predominant smell - old people, boiled sweets and honeysuckle.

The place was amazing. One could wax lyrical about the show gardens and how a field had been transformed into garden after garden of delights, some that were modern and some that were traditional and one - the ‘sanctuary garden’

that looked for all the world as if it had been there forever. Then there were the flower displays. The last time I saw colours like that I was medicated up to my eyeballs as a result of a bout of flu. Amazing. Then again there are the flower arranging displays.

This in itself is surely worth a mention. Flower arranging, I am sure, attracts the same sort of highly-strung people that enter show-dogs into Crufts or children into beauty pageants. What you do is make an incredible effort with something that is, at the end of the day, outside your control. Then you lave it to be savaged by the judges. The judges leave cards with comments, mostly along the lines of ‘good effort but you ran off with my husband you bitch so no medal for you.’

What made the show though, better than the gardens, better than the flowers, better even than the stalls where you could get loads of plants far cheaper than the shops, were the people.

There were three types. Those oo tarked on a praper cantry accent and those who were so posh they talked only on vowels, i.e. ah, eeh eye you?

But they all dressed the same way, as if they had just escaped from the potting shed after a hard winter. These were people who cared a lot more about whether their borders and lawn co-ordinated than whether their jacket and trousers did and these were also people who (presumably) looked in the mirror and thought their hair was acceptable like that.

There was no telling if somebody was there to buy something for their window box or if they were shopping for a new moat.

Then there were the charioteers. I’ve never seen so many of those mobility scooter things. It was like formula one on valium. People weaving around, beeping their wee horns and behaving as if they were in the chariot racing scene from Ben Hur. As the afternoon wore on two things happened, the scooters became more and more laden with plants until it was a regular sight to see what appeared to be a mobile hedge bearing down on you and the drivers became more and more loaded on Pimms . It was life and limb time, I can tell you.

As well as plants there was the food tent. I managed to find a kind gentleman selling beer and wandered around - outstanding product had to be the butcher selling a noisette of lamb with a slice of black pudding at its centre. Outstanding!

Finally, a mention about the young lady done up like a statue to sell patios. I wandered along and saw her, thought to myself ‘a little too real I think’ and then realised she was a real person (the wind ruffled her ‘stone’ toga). She was perfect though, standing there as people examined her - then she opened her eyes. Jesus! It was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. On some level it connected with every story about graveyard horror and possessed statues I’ve ever read and my spinal cord nearly jumped through the top of my skull with fear. Luckily she then turned round and shared a joke with some colleagues and the sight of a laughing statue somewhat thawed my marrow, but only just. Wanted to get a good photograph but it felt somehow intrusive. Anyway, disturbing image is burned onto my memory, especially around about lights-out time!

Hot! Hot! Hot!

The thunderstorms have failed to materialise and it's glorious. This, of course, means that I have no excuses and will have to get out the push-along mower and give the Small Garden its beauty cut. No problem, nothing is more pleasing to a man than conquering the wilderness (grass four inches and above) and transforming it into a striped heaven. I may not know how to solve many of the knotty issues plaguing today's society (actually I do, but that sort of thing gets your blog on an MI5 watch-list) but by god I can mow. And I will directly after I've had this tea!

Outside edge

Off to the local cricket club last night to see the nephews do their cricket practice. Having spent the winter jumping up and down on the footie touchline in freezing conditions with the wind direct from the Urals and my extremities losing feeling, it was bloody good to be able to watch the little imps scurry off to bat, bowl and catch while I retired to the pavilion for what can only be described as beer.

the place was awash with parents, a lot of whom seemed to have twigged that they could, with clear conscience, stop here on their way home from work 'to pick up their children' via several pints of liquid refreshment, while at the same time flirting with any hot nanny who may be there.

It was, one has to say, very satisfying to sit there watching the shadows from the sight-screen lengthen on the grounds while schlurping at a pint or four of Strong Continental Lager. Ah, the sound of leather on willow, the small of linseed oil and the occasional tantrum of somebody clean-bowled. Looks like I will be taking an active interest for the rest of the summer...wonder if I can open an account at the bar.

Never mind the baker of candlestick maker

There's something special about a visit to the butcher in the Village, which means you start to enjoy your meat before you even show it to the grill.

To begin with, there's the display, with animal shaped things hanging up. You go in, explain what you want and a trustworthy looking bloke in a gore stained apron and official moustache carefully selects an animal shape, puts it on a huge wooden knife marked table and, using a variety of blades, axes, hammers and knives, turns a half of a cow./pig/whatever into the cut of choice. once presented with your package you are told how much it costs and you take it to the cashier. She is either a sweet old lady who is old enough to have sailed on the Titanic, or a dwarf, I'm not sure which. Anyhoo you shout the price to her (on the sound assumption that all old ladies are deaf) and then hand over the cash before leaving with your half dozen rashers.

In the back room there is sounds of chopping and you do occasionally wonder what it is you're not being allowed to see.

All in all, a lot better than picking something up from the supermarket that's cellophane wrapped with a picture of a pig on the front.

The sun also rises

It's sunny and it's and insect bonanza out there at the moment. This seemed the perfect time then to load a dozen bags of garden rubbish into the car and head off to the recycling centre.

Driving a mobile compost heap is no fun. The smell is something else even with the windows down and there's always the worry something is going to ooze when you least expect it.

Good job the recycling centre is just down the road. Or at least it used to be. Pulling up I noted that the gates were the only thing left! Luckily a man in a flourescent vest was idly standing around and pointed to where the new recycling centre was. Appropriately it was mostly the old one that had been reused and simply transplanted.

There's a skip for everything and the one for garden waste already looked like a experimental RHS garden.

Hurled my clippings and cuttings into the skip and am looking forward to spending the rest of the summer cleaning escaped clippings out of the boot. I took a Christmas tree home in it a few years ago and I'm STILL finding needles but, to be fair, the car is still pine fresh as a result.

The rain it raineth all day long

Not in the office this week and so, of course, it's bucketing it down. Not to worry I have many indoor pursuits planned ('The Day the Earth Stood Still' is on later!).

Of course, rain means it's time to inspect the water level in my 'Butty and Shanks rain-master 8000' water butt. When I installed it I was was optimistic of getting an inch or two. Given recent weather conditions, I'm now worried I didn't fit an overflow for it.

Maybe it's the male love of gadgets but I'm obsessed with the thing. I am now wondering how I can fit some sort of water gauge to it to see the level of water inside.

Obviously one can do this in seconds by tapping the side of the barrel - 'thum' means full, tap further up until it does 'thim' and that means it's empty at that level.

Or...I could get myself a web-cam, connect it to a weatherproofed OSB lead and run it to the house...meaning I could check it whenever and wherever I wanted.

Wonder how many hits 'butt-cam' would get?

Planting out

Mould, the 3rd assistant undergardener is currently laid on a board, groaning gently and awaiting the arrival of the vet. Informal opinion around the household is that his back is 'fucked' after pulling what appears to be a reasonably sized quarry-load of stones, rubble and assorted rubble from the formally disused section of the Small Garden.

This proved to be rather a large undertaking, requiring as it did the clearing of the most vicious plant cover this side of Da Nang (Ivy) and the managed disposal of wildlife (shooing away of Gilbert the garden frog, tossing of snails onto rocks to form avian smorgsboard and treatment of spiders as follows - those smaller than a fifty pee piece, flicked away, those larger, brushed away with suitable implement, those larger still - run away screaming and hope they have vanished by the time tea is drunk).

Rocks then had to be unearthed and placed in some area where they would not form a danger to life and limb.

This only leaves a load of digging to be done to level the area before some thing the present Lady of the House informs me is called 'decking' is put in.

At the end of the day, fortified with a bucket of Chateau Plonk, I surveyed the rocks. there is enough there to form a base for sure and they can be usefully recycled. the largest one though is something else. Obviously a paving slab the damn thing has been weathered to the extent that, when placed upright it looks like a headstone. All it needs is a name and a date and I could upgrade the sensation of having it so near the house from 'eerie' to 'spooky'.

There is though, a possible use. Seeing the staff nearly getting choked with Ivy and menaced by spiders reminds one of ones own mortality and I decided once more to run the notion of internment in the Small Garden past the LOTH once more. The reception it got was so chilly I could have kept bacon on it for a week.

Not because, as I would hope, my passing will be marked by a display of Armenian Grief and the LOTH will, as a mater of course, throw herself onto my pyre but rather because having somebody buried in the back garden, even intentionally, would 'devalue' the property.

Excuse me? I rather think that my permanent presence would only enhance the place. I also like the idea of having a vine planted in close proximity for reasons that are now getting a bit macabre now I come to commit them to blog.

Still, it's either that or a viking funeral and it's bloody difficult to get a longboat these days.

Finally - I have approved extra bacon and use of the horse liniment and expect Mould to be up and about in no time, though he will have to suppress urges to gallop through surf.

Lions 1, Monkeys 0

Narnia on DVD last night. For clarification, the 2005 Disney film version. The lion was way better than the monkey. Whole film was very dark and just about carried off the book. Problem was that BBC recently did WWII London a lot better for 'Doctor Who' and Lord of the Rings still sets the standard for battles. Overall though, some great, great touches and the wardrobe itself was fabulous - if I was going to have a dimensional Gate in my house, consutructed from the wood of a tree from another world, I'd have it fashioned as a wardrobe too, obvious - so much more practical than one of those Stargate things and 'the lion, the witch and the chair' just doesn't sound right.

King Kong on DVD

That's three hours of my life I'll never get back.

The monkey was no way big wnough. The 1935 original had way more charm and the 1975 remake was way more exciting. Best bit was going to the island. Also liked that the natives were degenerate but apart from that, so-so. Good to see Billy Eliot playing a rough seaman - this meant that I could shout 'tap dance your way out of that one' every so often.

Yes, yes, I know it was ballet.

Things that make England the Greatest Country in the World No. 2

The Full English Breakfast! Behold!

Makes you proud eh. Note how the yellow of the egg gleams against a perfect white like a sunset in a Turner painting. Note also how the chips form a buttress between the mushrooms and the pork products. This is food feng shui and I must have got the alignment bang on because I felt a lot lot better after eating it.

Let's be clear about one thing

It is right and true and fair and just that HP sauce should come in a glass bottle. I read earlier in the week that squeezable sauce bottles were thought of by a child. Okay, this is great, I love it that children now have portion control over how much ketchup is splurged over their plates. Having seen children use the squeezable bottles though, the portion they think is acceptable is 'lots'. So what's the point.

Even worse, surely the plastic bottles are not as recycleable as glass ones. Even if you wash it out and use it as, oh I don't know, a sauce bottle again.

I have decided only to buy glass sauce bottles from now on. Not only does it mean that sauce is now delivered the splat, but battering the crap out of the thing in order to motivate the condiment is great for developing upper body strength.

What makes England the Greatest Country In the World No. 1

Off to the Gym and it's peeing down with rain and, playing amid the drizzle is a couple of dozen elderly bowls players. They wear full length white coverall macs that look, for all the world, like white burkas. It's like a photographic negative of a scene in Bagdad. Obviously, it takes a lot more than a downpour to put these people off.

There are just so many reasons this is great. Wanted to stop and take a picture but didn't have camera. Don't suppose anybody will believe me now but I swear they were there, like wraiths. Wraiths playing bowls.

Certainly it's the time to do it. The rain has refreshed everything, releasing the scents of the plants and giving everything that clean, just laundered smell. And because it's coming on to summer it's warm healthy rain, rather than the wintery stuff that you just know is actually 30% pigeon.

Kermit was right

It's not easy being green. Mounting my Buggins and Laird patent velocycle with pnumatic gears, quick change tyres and bonnet resistant frame, I wobbled my stately way to the library to return my copy of Who's Who after amending my entry to change the entry 'clubs' from 'Pentonville' to 'Whites'. Aboard my stately steeed, I am quite the militant, mounting pavements and not adverse to a time-saving short cut across the rooftops a la James Bond but, you know, with more peddling.

Wishing only that I had invested in a gel saddle but glad at least that the larger of my two buttocks provided some protection from the pot holes and kerb jumping jars and bunny hops, I arrived at the library and, after returning my book, showed my reader's card and entered the restricted section to borrow a book of erotic woodcuts.

I had secured my bike using my trusty scally proof lock but, because it looked like rain, tethered it in the covered entrance way of the library rather than my usual spot. Exiting, the rain had just started and my bike was surrounded by teenagers. No problem, unlocked it and, after all, sullen hoodie wearing scum have to hang out somewhere. As I saddled up, trying to breath shallowly but still not able to block out the smell of acne cream, sweat and cheap leisurewear, I could not help hearing their conversation, about who attended what school. One charmer was smoking and managed to swear in the five words he uttered. Oh dear - how insecure must somebody be to fag up and swear in order to look like an adult. in my experience, being an adult is less about smoking and swearing and a lot more about having to do dull stuff and getting paid enough to drink heavily and buy Nintendo games. If he eants to be an adult, he should get a cardigan and bitch about his mortgage.

Once free of the cloud of smoke, profanity and barely surpressed sexual longing, I paddled home. Paddled being the operative word, the heavens opened. It was like trying to cycle up Dolgellau Falls. Note to self, fit a rear mud-guard and get a helmet with a visor.

It was around this time that it was driven home in no uncertain terms that my shoes were canvas. They were actually squelching as I peddled!

Normally, I would have flown into a fury at whatever Norse rain-god had arranged this particular humiliation but, since I've got my water butt in - I was simply thinking 'great - another few inches of shed-roof flavoured H2O for the garden'. Indeed, I checked on my return and there is a steady trickle going into the butt. Also pleased to see some leaves have made their way into the butt so with luck I'll have what is basically 120 litres of fetid soup by the end of the wet week!

(Not easy being) Green (Pt 1) and Pleasant Land

Mulch, the 2nd assistant undergardener, has strained his nethers again, meaning that I have to take over mowing duties on the Little Lawn. Despite my tender love and attention last year, the lawn had not been mowed since October and the grass had moved past 'rough', through 'meadow' and was ambitiously growing to 'Japanese soldier who does not know the war is over has taken refuge there' proportions.

I started the clean up process and while there were no Oriental warriors, there was a predigious amount of fox shit. The little buggers have gotten too cheeky since hunting was banned and, by the look of it, are on some sort of high-fibre/Mexican food diet.

That done, it was time to cut the thing.

In a fit of environemntalism and thinking I could get some sort of Kyoto discount, I purchased a manual mower a few years ago. I think I had some sort of turn of the century image of myself stripped to the waist, rippling muscles bronzed by outdoor work and tugging on a stone jar of cider. Rosie optional.

The reality is that one sets the mower at maximum height, mows about a foot and then has to clear the blades and roller and do the whole thing again. Wishing I had a scyth and idly wondering if stubble burning worked with longer grass, I continued.

First cut down and after much raking, went to medium cut. this was much the same. lots of grunting and sweating and, frankly, praying for rain.

It did eventually arrive, meaning I did not have the time to do the 'beauty pass'. That's the pass over the lawn that turns it from looking like Morning Hair to regimented rows of grass, doing what it's bloody well told and more importantly, providing a backdrop for croquet and gin, but mostly gin.

The garden is looking great, mostly thanks to the attentions of the Lady of the House, who has a green thumb and dirty fingernails as a result of her digging, potting and pottering. My contribution was picking the breed of daffodil to grow - Winston Churchills. They look amazing and are proof if it were ever needed that one simply cannot go wrong in any situation thinking 'what would Winston do?'

Git Wizard - I'll give you a challenge!

Git Wizard David Bland is currently spending a week suspended in a bowl of water, into which I assume he is relieving himself and so, after a week, I suspect the bowl will be less H2O and more P2O. At the end of it he will attempt to hold his breath for seven minutes.

Interesting then to read the comments from the body that represents Free Divers, you know, the people who do this for real - they point out that it's quite possible to hold your breath for fifteen minutes if you breath pure oxygen for ten minutes before.

With this in mind I intend to instruct cook to prepare all of my meals in my trusty ex-service frying pan. That's right, if you can't fry it, I'm not eating it. This means I will have to cut out, for instance, fruit, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

Pictured - aftermath of breakfast!

Vote vote vote!

Election fever has gripped the nation leaving voters sweaty, blotchy and with a bad taste in their mouth.

In the run up to yesterday’s local council elections (may the fourth be with you indeed) Macnabbs towers was visited by two canvassers, one for the yellow bird party (whom I actually knew, she used to run the local comic shop) and one for the vile blue tory swine party. This last I gave ‘feedback’ to, if feedback can be described as a ten minute rant about the feckless goons that constitute their parliamentary party.

On polling day itself political busybodies were at their most animated. As I stood at the front gate, polling card in hand and about to stroll off down the street to indulge in a bit of light electoring, some lib dem activist strolled up the bloody front path and asked me if I had voted yet.

Replying that I was about to, he gave either a nod of satisfaction or a spasm and hurried off to annoy somebody else.

It wasn’t intimidation on the scale practiced by our European or African friends, but I have to tell you the sight of a grow (or rather, shrunken) pensioner coming towards me wearing a tee shirt and a sports jacket filled me with dread. I thought for one dreadful moment he was going to offer me a lift to the polls which conjured forth images of sharing some sort of municipal minibus with the sort of people who don’t like to walk, wash or control their bladder. Spending a few hours in the back of a black maria all those years ago was enough for me, thank you so very much.

Voted and came home. On telly, BBC was gearing up for an all night vote counting marathon. Obviously the entire BBC budget for the year has been split between the Dr Who special effects team and the news special effects team, as the map of this glorious nation lit up red, blue, yellow and god knows what colour for the loony councils.

As I type, the results are in and the PM is re-shuffling the cabinet. One hopes that he is a keen viewer of that dreadful ‘apprentice’ programme and, pointing a finger over the desk, screams ‘you’re fired’ at various Ministers. This is unlikely.

Finally, on the subject of the PM, voting and so on - news clip of the day was the charming Mrs PM replying to a tory councillor who had cheekily asked ‘can I count on your vote’ - ‘fat chance’. Lovely! I don’t have a problem with her being completely devoid of charm and grace, or being seemingly incapable of having a decent photograph taken of her, I don’t even have a problem with the genetic modifications that have left her constructed mainly of teeth and hair but really, does she have to be so fucking charmless?