Postcard from Portsmouth - sunshine on the sea

Blue sky! Blue sky! The Solent is at least 60% boat. As well as the ferries there is a constant steam of sailing boats leaving the marina, turning left and heading towards Cowes and presumably racing like buggery to get there first, snag the best anchorage and get a seat at the bar. That is what sailing is all about I understand.

Getting from where we are staying to Gunwharf Quay is a fifteen minute walk or a two minute swim, such is the strange geography of coastal towns. I think if I were a permanent resident, I would invest n a small dingy, or at least some wellies and a tide table.

Just time to grab a coffee at the excellent Brasserie Blanc, where yesterday because we had to wait five minutes for our coffee, we were given it for free! Tempted to repay their kindness by shooting cake bolt, but was still metabolising breakfast - the fried tinned tomato has its place, and that place is on toast next to bacon and fried egg doing something at the molecular level to the alcohol in my bloodstream while doing something at the macro level to make the world a better place.

Odd place Portsmouth. Maybe it's the proximity to the Isle of Wight. I came here expecting an industrial port crossed with a busy naval base and found a small and charming town. The Old Town has loads of character, mainly to be found in its cobbles and laughably optimistic sea defences, the ferry traffic makes the place feel busy and the sailboats add glamour.

But I still can't fathom the attraction of the Isle of Wight!

Postcard from Portsmouth - towers and Victory is ours!

The seafront at Portsmouth is dominated by the Spinnaker Tower, a pointy structure that you can go up, and up, and up, and look out over Portsmouth. This is great fun, as the's nothing like an observation deck to get people arguing about where exactly Cowes is on the Isle of Wight.

But the big attraction is the glass floor. One section of the floor is what one hopes is very thick, very strong plate glass. A popular pastime seems to be plonking your toddler on the glass floor and getting a photograph of them 100m above the ground before they look down and either get distressed or convey complete disinterest.

Slipping my shoes off (presumably they are worried about high heel damage) I take my turn and stand there, looking down. It is fairly impressive and does produce a little flip flop in the stomach. The glass is remarkably clear and the size of the floor means that you could be fooled into thinking you were standing on nothing atop a sheer drop, held suspended for a moment like Wile. E. Coyote in a Road Runner cartoon. Of course this is sheer fancy but when the darker parts of your imagination start conjuring up questions like 'would it just be a sudden CRACK! and plunge, or would there be a splintering and a desperate scramble for the edge before you lost a very quick tussle with gravity, meeting an undignified shoeless end as a very wide, but very thin, corpse.

A glass floor is no place to take on nausea unless you know you are going to win but it really is hypnotic to stand there, in your socks, dreaming of flight.

The Tower is part of the redevelopment of the seafront. It's great to visit and perhaps coolest of all is that they stamp your hand and your entry fee is good for access all day, so if it's cloudy in the morning you can come back later, or at sunset. Unfortunately the stamp on the back of the hand does not entitle you to free squash and biscuits, as it did in the school discos of youth.

But the highlight is the Historic Dockyards and, of course, H.M.S. Victory. It's amazing to think that something so small could have had such a pivotal role in shaping the fate of a nation. The organisers really do a good job of conveying the crowded conditions aboard ship by letting on hoards of tourists at once - when we were there there was a rugby team doing a tour. It's amazing to think that this is the actual ship, not a replica or mock up, that fought in the Battle of Trafalgar, truly an age of wooden ships and iron men, at least I presumed their heads were iron, judging from the number of times I nearly concussed myself on the low ceilings.

I can confirm that the is a plaque marking the place were Nelson fell and that next to it is a museum official presumably stationed there to frown with disapproval if anyone stretches themselves out on the deck for a photo opportunity. Disappointingly, the brass plaque is flush with the deck, meaning that one cannot do the 'I'm not surprised, I nearly fell over the damn thing myself' joke legitimately. It does not stop anyone though.

Prior to visiting Victory we toured H.M.S. Warrior, a Victorian sailing and steam warship that never fired a shot in anger. It was intended as a deterrent and it certainly scared the hell out of me. Huge and black, if one opened one's curtains in the morning to see that thing moored up in the bay, the was nothing to do but accept that you were now part of the British Empire and try and flog the sailors fruit at vastly inflated prices.

The Warrior had a crew complement of over 600 and was armed to the teeth with cannons and marines with guns and cutlasses. Today one can hold weddings on board and I am pleased to report that every firearm and blade, even the belaying pins, are securely locked down and cannot be used in a brawl, leaving only the traditional weapons of fists, bottles and cake.

What the Warrior had that the Victory did not was engines, meaning that it had stokers. Down here one seemed to find the only place on a warship more horrible than the gun deck. Iron men on an iron ship in this case I think. Another advantage on the Warrior was the guide, a tremendously enthusiastic bloke who could describe every knot and rivet and had a salty story and yarn for every yardarm. Always a pleasure to see an expert enthusing, what started off with a question ended up as a fascinating twenty minute impromptu tour of the aft of the ship to a crowd of about a dozen.

Finished off with a harbour tour. The Russians were in port, their battleship a rather more cold war shade of grey than the jaunty grey of the Royal Navy. The Russian ship bristled with weapons and was moored up next to the new Frigates commissioned by the RN. Sleek, stealth and with only one small gun showing, the RN ships somehow exuded a quiet menace, like a bloke so tough he doesn't have to prove it. Again, if you open your curtains and one of those is in the bay, it's time to dust off your best trousers and treaty signing pen and negotiate the sale of your mineral rights and fruit.

As evening fell, the car park for the Isle of Wight ferry was jammed! Just what is the attraction of the Isle of Wight? Is it the weather? Is it the people? Surely everyone queuing to make the crossing wasn't doing so to visit a loved one in clink? Maybe some sort of obscure law means that you can do something on the IoW that you can't do on the mainland, like eat unpasteurised cheese or stick turbot up your arse or something. Obviously now I am going to have to make the crossing one day, although early, as I have seen too many movies where the tourists miss the last ferry back to the mainland and end up on the wrong end of a Christopher Lee.

Postcard from Portsmouth - new roads, old town

Portsmouth. On the map, our hotel, in the Old Town and close to the Solent, looks easy to get to. Just get on the road, keep driving in a straight line and turn left before you ditch in the sea. In practice it's a little more difficult. This is because Portsmouth is the Town Of Many Roundabouts. This is, I presume, the result of Portsmouth's strategic importance and is a cunning plan in the event of invasion to get any enemy troops so hopelessly lost that they end up conquering the Isle of Wight.

We do successfully find the hotel and in truth the journey itself is quite charming, from motorway to city centre to, suddenly, driving over cobbles and feeling the pleasing burrrrrrrr in the pit of ones stomach that comes from driving in a heritage part of a town, and indeed from driving over cobbles.

The 'boutique hotel' is fantastic. It's located over a tea shop and seems to combine attention to detail with, let's face it, ready access to bacon rolls! Best of all is the view from the windows, only betted by the view from the bottom of the street, which is one step away from the water (and sometimes not even that, if the impressive flood gates dotted around the place are any guide). By the time we are unpacked, I am officially over-excited.

The street itself, though cobbled, features history in the shape of rails, down which no doubt cargo used to be transported after being unloaded. The nearby pub is called the 'Spice Island' and so one rather hopes that in days gone by sacks of exotic and wonderful smelling prices from the far corners of the world were unloaded here, the stevedores breathing deep of foreign fragrance and then sneezing heavily. Of course, it could be that this was the port for domestic traffic and the landlord decided that the 'Pig Iron Inn' was never going to capture the Gastropub crowd, but one likes to think the best.

My over excitement is due in part to the ferry traffic. The Isle of Wight ferry leaves from, apparently, the bottom of the street every two minutes or so. Ships the size of multi story car parks glide with balletic grace in and out of their port, performing the equivalent of a handbreak turn to do so. This is impressive enough, but I can see from the water that there is a tidal flow, and from the gulls and the chop that there is a fair old wind, so no mean feat to turn on a sixpence and steam home in style. I can also see from the shower of rain that it is time to watch all of this from inside the 'Spice Island' pub.

There is always joy to be found in spending an afternoon in the boozer, discussing lofty subjects, but there is a special joy when one has a view. In this case, the view over the Solent towards the Isle of Wight. One will be arguing the finer points of the role of beans in any pasty filling and suddenly the light will dim as another ferry glides by. As disconcerting as the IOW ferries are, this is as nothing compared to watching the Sea Cats that make the trip to and from France coming into port. These things are like skyscrapers set on end, on stilts.

And they do it all with such grace, as choppy as the sea is, it's incredibly soothing to watch the boats come and go, and the tide come and go, and the beers come and go.

And they glide past level with the balconies of the posh waterfront apartments. People sitting out in their robes trying to enjoy their coffee and Daily Mail find themselves being waved at by enthusiastic children and drunken stag parties. I think that if you had a flat here, you'd have to establish your policy on waving pretty early on, whether to wave back, or pretend that the group of drunken women twenty yards away from you at eye level all wearing plastic tiaras and flashing their tits are not there.

Postcard from Highgrove

As the Prince of Wales explains in the short video that you watch at the start of the tour of the gardens at Highgrove, one of his greatest pleasures is knowing that the garden is enjoyed by visitors. I'm entirely convinced, for a couple of reasons. The first is that as Prince of Wales, surely you are likely to get great pleasure by having panda and chips for breakfast, just because you can. Also, Highgrove is unsigned and difficult to find. To take a tour of the gardens, you send off for tickets and are sent a date, a time, and directions. A satnav will do you no good, instead, you navigate through the Cotswolds back roads in traditional fashion, with a map and keenly developed bickering skills until, at some seemingly random point, you pull off the road onto a drive.

It's here you think you've made a wrong turn, because you appear to be driving up a very ordinary drive. Thus it comes as something of a relief when you see the policeman. He is there to check your tickets, check your ID and presumably check that you are not a threat to national security, the monarchy, or the monarchy's flower beds.

Before your tour starts you are told that there is no recording at Highgrove. Anyone who has seen Alan Titmarsh's interview with HRH PoW probably wishes this rule had been applied sooner. No cameras or mobile 'phones are permitted. Given that Prince Harry had just that day graced the Internet with his crown jewels and that the ginger nutsack had, pardon the phrase, gone viral, we could understand the sensitivity. Then they explained that you were not even allowed to do sketches. This, I thought, was a little bit harsh.

The Prince explains in his video that he wanted to create a garden that feeds the soul and delights the eye. Certainly I felt my soul, and pockets, lighten as, for the first time in what seemed like a decade, I wandered around without a mobile, a camera or even a wallet (although you are encouraged to return to your car to retrieve the latter and then visit the shop at the end of the tour).

The garden at Highgrove is actually a number of differently themed gardens, separated by walls, or features of the landscape, or hedges. They are also the repository for many of the gifts that the PoW has been given over the years. Most of us, on receipt of a charmingly hideous ceramic knick-jack, would leave it on the doorstep of a charity shop like an unwanted baby in a Victorian novel, but the PoW does not have that option.

And he gets given a lot of crap. And it all goes in the garden.

And it's fascinating, cemented into walls, or paths, or garden structures are plaques or ornaments that he has been given. The is a fabulous 'wall of gifts' made up of carvings made by apprentice masons - it looks like a jigsaw church. And the are bronze busts of HRH in the garden. One might think that having bronze busts of yourself is a sign of egomania and it might be...if you kept them in the house. Busts of yourself in the house can only serve one useful purpose - somewhere to keep your hat. In a garden though, they are decorative and charming. Ironically, thanks to the attention of birds, they could actually use a hat.

The garden is a delight and the tour is clever, first teasingly showing you the private garden area right next to the house, through delightful and very effective iron gates, then taking you into it. After all the secrecy and security, once you are in the grounds you are essentially invited to wander around and touch as much as you want - just don't stray from the group or you will be shot and added to the compost heap.

There are delights and surprises for the eye and the walled garden, with fruit and herbs, feeds both the soul and the senses and, if my scrumping skills had been as well developed as they were in my youth, would have fed the stomach too.

I finished the tour with scented hands as a result of all my herb handling. This is a remarkable place and shows you what any gardener can do with some imagination, vast wealth and a dedicated gardening team. It is the quintessential English garden, down to the borrowing of ideas and of plants and artefacts from around the world to give the impression of being in another country, to the extent that the is a rather lovely Moorish garden near the house, complete with tinkly water feature.

And even if you do not like gardens, it's interesting to see, though not record, where all the gifts have gone and, if you have ever given HRH a gift, you may wish to go to check to see if it adorns a place of prominence, or a suitably shady nook.

For all the wealth and the privilege of the owner what comes through is a vision for an organic, sustainable garden (sustainable meaning in this case never throwing anything away and finding a use for everything) and incredible attention to detail, both from the garden's owner and the gardeners themselves, who toil away like elves in green polo shirts while the tours wander around them.

The guides are interesting too. Luckily, the Cotswolds has a fair proportion of posh ladies to draw on during the season when the garden is open to the public. If you do visit, my advice is to read up on your gardening facts, as they do love to tell tales of visitors who don't know a sheep from a shrub and in the true spirit of recycling the ignorance of today's group will form comic fodder for tomorrow.

As a garden, it's still a work in progress, although anyone who walks around the RHS show, especially the Spring show at Malvern, will see much that is familiar in style and planting. As a house Highgrove is interesting, on the one hand a three story substantial farmhouse, on the other hand not what you would expect as the residence of a future king (but just what you would expect if you were familiar with the Britannia) and as an experience, a fascinating opportunity to stroke the herbs of a member of the royal family.

Most impressive of all? We couldn't finish the cakes from the afternoon tea, which were promptly boxed up for us to take away. The urge to eBay was strong, the urge to finish them later with a cuppa stronger still.

Postcard from Edinburgh - Haggis and baggage

There's something about the last day of a holiday that makes one want to cram in the maximum level of enjoyment, especially if it relates to things that you can't get at home. That's why I fought and only narrowly won my battle with common decency at breakfast and did not return from the buffet with a plate simply piled high only with haggis.


And again, with the weight limit in mind, I didn't panic buy several tins of the stuff from the shop on the royal mile. I imagine that tourists from all over the world do and can just imagine what it must be like when some bloke from Tokyo serves that up as a treat for some honoured guests.

Back to the Pleasance, to see Sandi Toksvig. Ironically, we see the large Tim Vine in a tiny venue and the diminutive Sandi in a large venue. Sandi is, I think, on her way to becoming something of a Peter Ustanov, in that she has an admirable style as a raconteur, a dry wit, a surname that scores highly in Scrabble and judging by her waistline a fondness for biscuits. Dipped in lard.

Edinburgh fashion tip - ladies, if you are old enough to remember 'The Dukes of Hazzard' tee vee series, you are too old to wear Daisy Dukes.

Whatever the shortcomings of its venues, the Plesance Courtyard is an excellent place to spend some time. My advice would be to go to the courtyard but avoid the venues. The courtyard is the place to go to meet with friends, grab a drink, have a seat and become the proud owner of around 12,000 flyers. You are handed a flyer every 30 seconds. Like animal training, you must employ a firm 'no' and harden yourself to seeing hope die in the eyes of a young performer.

Next year am going to have my own flyers printed up and only take one of theirs if they take one of mine. Mine will be for a theatre piece where a psychotic nutter is driven insane by the constant badgering of those wishing to give him flyers and so goes to their shows, then tracks them down hand beats them to death with a bag heavy with accumulated flyers, or squeak toys, I haven't quite worked that out yet.

Alternatively, fuck it, one year I am going to allow myself enough time to engage in conversation and go to one show every day after auditioning the various flyerers and picking what looks like the best show, or the most attractive cast.

Of course the luxury project would be to only attend shows discovered by way of flyer, and the project to turn into a blog, to turn into a book, to turn into a show next year would be the flyer chain, where you go to a show via a flyer on the Royal Mile and every show you go to thereafter has to be as a result of a flyer you get at the venue of the previous show.


Given the sheer number of shows, they can't all be great, no matter how many stars the artist biros onto their poster, so 'Flying Fuck-that-was-bad' is the working title.

Postcard from Edinburgh - Views and Tattoos

The delight of the festival has been the book festival. The pop-up book shop is fantastic (to clarify, a pop-up book shop is a large marquee housing a temporary book shop, not a book shop that exclusively sells pop-up books, although wouldn't it be great if you had a pop-up pop-up book shop?). I could really have done some damage in here but thankfully had to consider the weight limit on luggage for the flight home and so confined myself to purchasing a paperback, and a hardback roughly the size and weight of a house brick about the history of the British Post Office (how could anyone resist a book that reproduces notice that gives instructions to postmen about keeping their firearms clean and ready at all times?). What was pleasing was that as well as the best sellers, thee was a whole aisle devoted to Scottish authors and Scottish publishers. Here was a wealth of Scottish literature, not all of it about smack.

From one cultural event to another with a trip to Hollyrood Palace to visit the Queen's Gallery, showing a small selection of the Queen's Collection. It's rather hard, looking at the collection, to gauge the tastes of the present Queen, as her acquisitions are based on complementing the pieces acquired by her predecessors.



Hence, there is a lot of stuff from the Victorian era, when even the most modest candle holder from Balmoral had to look at home in a room with tartan on the floor and stags' heads on the walls, so was six foot tall and marble.

There was a lot of stuff from India, where 'gift of' sounds so much better than 'looted by', and where the decorative taste appears to be: cover everything in precious stones, even the swords, although, in fairness, just the pommels, the blades were originally Persian and looked as though they had just been given a perfunctory wipe after last being extracted from somebody.

There was also, and let's be fair - some tat. Royal tat, but tat none the less in the form of Faberge eggs. One in particular was a platinum frame encrusted with diamonds held there only by their perfect cut. Inside was a broach. It must have cost a fortune, looked tacky as hell and was a long way from a 'Kinder'. The royal family have the largest collection of Faberge in the world, most of it acquired from the Bolsheviks after it was in turn pillaged from the murdered Russian royal family. No doubt acquired because it was too good to remain in the hands of murderers. Fair enough.

One stand out piece was a painting by Canaletto of the grand canal in Venice. Light seemed to flood from the painting and barges bobbed on the water. The whole thing was awash not just with canal water but with symbolism and hidden meaning. Like a Dan Brown book. But good.


Perhaps the most striking piece there was a crown. From Ecuador and about 1,000 years old it was a broad band of gold with a fan like the rising sun at the back. Simple and primal, there was no doubt that whoever wore this was top dog. Presented to Queen Victoria just because it was wise to keep a mighty monarch on side.


Out in the fresh air, just time for a scone roughly the size of a small car and then to the Plesance to see Tim Vine. Tim good, venue shite. It's one thing to crowd people into a small room with total disregard for dignity or fire safety laws, quite another to sell more tickets than you actually have unobstructed view.

No such problems that evening at the Tattoo, which was exceptional. The bloke in front was getting a bit over-excited and sprang up and down from his seat to photograph the action. I can sort of understand, as if you have not seen the Tattoo before, you must be thinking 'the folks at home will never believe this!'. The Tattoo is so good that it remains the only show in town that you don't have to be a little bit drunk to get maximum enjoyment out of. Pipes, drums, huge aggressive men in kilts. This is Scotland, especially when they project the St Andrew's cross onto Edinburgh Castle.


By the time the fireworks go off the crowd are in such a state that they are not sure if the pyrotechnics mark the end of the show or the opening salvo in the battle for independence but if the latter, they are for Scotland, and freedom!

An early night tonight - home before midnight, meaning time enough for a trip to the bar and a scotch to aid restful sleep.

Postcard from Edinburgh- Popping up and musicals

I'm in Edinburgh, at the festival, and so start the day with the traditional five meat breakfast: sausage, bacon, black pudding, haggis and whatever rendered fat they fry the eggs in. This sets one up for the day and is a site specific diet, just as when one is abroad one starts the day with fruit, cheese, some sort of ham or simply a fortifying glass of something cheeky depending on the circumstances.

Wandering the city we happen across the book festival in Charlotte Square gardens. This is a collection of marquees, tents and, thanks to the recent weather, the sort of duck boards used in the trenches. There are signs on occasional patches of planking that read 'hidden puddle'. The book festival is sponsored by the Guardian and features a pop-up bookshop. This means that the city is currently officially the middle-class epicentre of the planet.


The focus appears to be on children's literature. This may well be due to the success of 'The Hunger Games', possibly in itself riding the coat tails of the success of the Twishite saga. With the latter, Hollywood put pouting teens on the screen and the kids rushed to the book shop to find out what happened next. With The Hunger Games Hollywood put a smudge of dirt on a teen and the same thing happened. The teen fiction market has never been short of dystopian series (big shout out to all you John Christopher fans) and so they have fired up the printing presses with new covers for existing series and printed up a shitload of stickers reading 'If you liked the Hunger Games you'll love this'. I thought it was a stretch when I saw one on 'Jamie's Italy' but full marks for trying.

Apparently, sales in adult fiction are falling, while sales in children's fiction remain strong, despite the lure of the Playstation. Two things possibly explain this, the first is that soppy adults are buying Twilight books and not so soppy adults realise that writers of children's fiction have to be good because their audience are easily distracted and so are giving them a go, or adults are buying more non-fiction as more easily accessible non-fiction comes onto the market and is tied in with television programmes.


Bucking the trend is adult erotic fiction. I've not read 'Fifty Shades of Grey' and so don't have an opinion on it. Well, not an informed one anyway. By reputation, Fisty Shades of Shite is supposed to be appalling, but it is also a huge success and as a result publishers are dusting off their erotica and printing up those marketing stickers. So for instance, don't be surprised to see 'If you loved Fifty Pages of Bilge, you'll love this', adorning the front cover of another smutty novel with a picture of a high heel on the front cover or, if the publisher is showing imagination, the 'Woman's Realm', or a bar of chocolate.

At the pop-up bar in George Street I ask for a pint of Innes and Gunn. I am told that they only serve it in halves, 'because it is so strong'. I am told this by, and I mean no offence, a weasly undernourished English bar-man who would be better suited to selling cups of squash with the rest of his Brownie troop. As I said, no offence to the Brownies. I considered ordering two halves but as this may have been beyond his abilities, to serve as well as to carry, I comforted myself with the thought of him trying that shit on a thirsty Festival goer later in the evening.

As it was, a half was probably a sound tactical bladder management move as it was off to see 'Appointment with the Wicker Man' at the temple of shagpile, The Assembly Hall. Now, to be fair, I thought that this was going to be a straightforward, twisted, musical version of the famous book and film. Unfortunately not, it was a comedy based on an am-dram company putting on a musical production ofThe Wicker Man, with hysterical results. Quite. It may well work as a tee vee special but all in all it was a bit of a Lucas moment, when somebody takes something beloved and special and shits on it. And the thing is, a musical version of The Wicker Man would be great. I think even the great Sir Christopher Lee has described the film in such terms and you can have a sinister musical, after all, 'The Sound of Music' had Nazis, 'The Wizard of Oz' had flying monkeys and 'Mama Mia' had Colin Firth singing.

Edinburgh fashion tip - gentlemen, wear a kilt. This is an international festival and attracts all types from all corners of the world. But it's held in the capital city of Scotland and this is just about the only chance that anyone not from Scotland is going to get to wear their kilt on an everyday basis. Gentlemen who wish to make a 'statement', you can keep your Vans, your tats, your piercings, your stupid little goatee beards, your fucking fucking cargo shorts, your pony tails, your vintage look and your Buddy Holly glasses because when a bloke with a kilt walks in to the room , all eyes are upon him for two reasons. The first is that he is automatically the best dressed person in the room, the other is that everyone is doing a lightening calculation about clan rivalries and wondering if anything is about to kick off over a 200 year old dispute over ownership of a sheep.

After a day of gorgeous weather, the rain gods have obviously been angered and normal climatic service has been resumed. At the book festival, while 'The Guardian' was giving away a fabric bag with every purchase, 'The Scotsman' which that morning had been giving away a 'I heart Edinburgh' fabric bag containing a sachet of coffee and some shortbread (breakfast!) switched to giving away rain ponchos and instantly became the most popular paper in the city centre. Rain ponchos were much in evidence this afternoon, like some dignified, acceptable grown up version of the punk movement's beloved bin liner.

On to the rather corporate EICC to see Rhod Gilbert. Very funny, but at twenty quid for an hour not tremendously Fringy. However the audience loved him and for weary festival goers the comfy seats were much appreciated. The woman sitting next to me even took he shoes off during the show, not something one would recommend doing in a lot of the venues.

It being a Sunday night, the crowds have thinned somewhat. Dropped into 'Greyfriers Bobby' for a drink. This is a tourist pub, meaning it caters for Americans, meaning it is clean, has friendly bar-staff, has a tartan carpet, and you can find a place to sit. That and a bag of nuts was just what I needed.

Concluded at the BBC again, where a comedian was late, the show over-ran and one concluded that the BBC is saving money by hiring children as floor managers. Having said that, the girl who kept letting me in and out of the venue as I ran to the bar and toilet was very nice. I wonder if she wants to work for the BBC full time when she leaves school.

Postcard from Edinburgh - Fly and dry

The airport is, I have discovered, where couples of any age go to bicker and where parents take their kids to scold them. It's like Asda with cheap booze. So just like Asda then.

When cheap flights took the romance out of air travel by allowing the sort of people who wear football shirts when not playing football to fly, the airports tried to put back some glamour on the ground by turning the departure lounge into a retail emporium of delights, like a duty free Willy Wonka factory, but with more vodka and Toblerone.

Then 9/11 happened and now by the time people get airside they have been treated like a criminal, even if they are not one, at security - although in the interests of balance on-line check in means that a machine asks you if your bags have been left alone with a drug dealer or terrorist for any length of time instead of a real person asking this, so instead of being gripped with a mad urge to snap of the sort of sarcastic answer that sees you answering awkward questions in a small room lit with sickly fluorescents while your friends fly out to Malaga, you simply click 'whatever' to every prompt on the machine, paying about as much attention as you do to accepting the terms and conditions of an iTunes software upgrade and hey ho, you are good to fly and wondering if the booze trolley on the flight will be self service as well.

It's not.

The was glamour at the airport this morning though. TheTeam GB Paralympic team were milling about, obviously getting ready to fly off to their secret undersea volcano training base in preparation for conquering the world, or at least the medals table.

On the flight to Edinburgh, I don't think I have ever been in a more crowded aeroplane. We were packed in so tight that I thought they would have to relax restrictions and allow one of us to sit up front with the pilot, although being stuffed into an overhead locker was probably a better bet.

The flight itself was uneventful, apart from the overcrowding and everyone going through mobile 'phone withdrawal. You can also tell the exact point when you cross the Tweed in an aeroplane, that's when the turbulence starts.

Edinburgh though is a lovely airport to arrive into. It has that fierce national pride that inhabits all small countries, with large cheerful pictures of beautiful countryside or inspiring architecture and upbeat messages that translate into 'Welcome home!' if you are a returning native or just fancy yourself a wee bit Scottish and 'You Have Arrived At The Best Country On The Planet' for everyone else. There is a real 'Scotland - why would you want to be anywhere else?' sense to the place.


The taxi ride into the centre of town allows one to study the familiar landmarks, in particular the roadworks to lay down more new tram rails. They are still building the bloody thing. Either that or Time Team are here doing a special on a huge scale.

What was unfamiliar was the sunshine. All the tourists were sweating in their waterproofs, having not packed any dry-weather gear, while all the locals are wondering what the enormous ball of fire in the sky signified. Obviously not the end of recorded time and Doomsday, as one of the signs of that is predicted to be the tram line being finished. I'll tell you what sunshine in Edinburgh signifies, it signifies time to get something to eat and then start drinking, outside for a change.


There are hundreds of great places to eat in Edinburgh but fuck it, having found a decent pub last year that does good food the plan was to hole up there for the remainder of the stay.

But eventually, drawn out by the sun, it's time to wander.

Something of a surprise on George Street, the road is closed. In London roads have been closed recently of course to allow Olympic events, like the marathon, the cycling and the triathlon to take place, which have all resulted in road closures. But this is Edinburgh and so the only decent reason to close a road - apart from laying down some tram tracks - is to put down some artificial grass and erect a pop-up bar. Genius!


A pastoral scene with bar stools in George Street is not the only change for this year. The Assembly Rooms have been redecorated. This is entirely at odds with Fringe comedy, an art form associated with something sticky underfoot that smells of the ghost of binge drinking past. Instead Stewart Lee does his act in an elegant space smelling of new Axminster.

Stewart Lee's act is good, for over an hour he simultaneously performs and deconstructs his act. So, so much better than seeing his at the Strand, the comedy club that outlaws laughter.

Emerging into the sunlight with the feeling that we may just have seen the best show of the Fringe first, time for a beer before the next show. It's warm and people are walking round in their tee shirts.

Edinburgh fashion tip - one that fat men appear to have seized upon like a cheeseburger - if you are overweight and wear a character tee shirt, or a tee shirt with an amusing slogan on it, people will be too busy either chortling or thinking 'cock' to notice your shape and speed up their pace to get ahead of you in the queue at the chip shop.

From the Assembly Rooms to the Assembly Hall, Rainy Hall in particular. This is the sweatiest venue on the Fringe. They ought to be heading out fluffy towels, birch branches and Volvo key fobs as they take your ticket. Marcus Brigstocke is performing his new show 'The Brig Society'. Very good and surprisingly a lot of new material, considering the sheer volume, in both senses of the word, of ranting that he does on 'The Now Show'.


Finish off at the BBC pop-up village on Potterow and 'BBC Presents'. This show starts at eleven in the evening and it's fair to say that the real star here is the audience, a giddy mixture of sleep depravation, booze and BBC license fee payer belligerence and one can see the fresh young acts 'only doing a short spot' visibly pale as the audience fall quiet during their performance. Nothing strikes fear into the heart of a young man who aspires to fill a prized seat on a tee vee panel show quite like sleepy indifference.

Harry Harrison R.I.P.

I can’t believe that Harry Harrison has passed away.

If there was any justice, the untimely death of an author would result in a rush to buy his or her books and stories the same way that the untimely death of a singer results in an increase in sales of their music.

This would mean that the death of Harry Harrison would have at least one good effect, knocking ‘fifty shades of shite’ and its spawn off the top of the bestseller chart.

But the death of an author does not have the same effect because those that already know and love them have their books and so reread them instead of reading them for the first time. Because while Mr Harrison’s sad passing may not have a beneficial effect, his life certainly did, as even my feeble collection of his books can attest.

Harry Harrison wrote grand science fiction for boys. The Stainless Steel Rat books were rattling good yarns. They had space ships, they had ray guns, they had humour and subtle social satire lost on me, lying in my bunk in a caravan during the summer holidays, reading with the intensity that only a young boy can, devouring adventure. Maybe it’s just the pages getting yellow, or the glue getting brittle, but I like to think that that paperback actually has that caravan-in-the-summertime smell, like hot Tupperware and air so hot and still you have to fan it to breath.

Reading ‘The Stainless Steel Rat’ was more fun than going to the beach.

And Slippery Jim diGriz wasn’t just confined to the pages of a paperback, he was a comic book hero. 2000AD, my staple stapled reading, was home to the comic book adaptation. Because I got my 2000AD on a Saturday morning my back issues smell predominantly of bacon roll and grease rather than caravan and sun cream, but I still thrill at the spaceships, the ray guns and the hero who is a crook and more moral than any upright citizen.

Harry Harrison wrote dystopian visions. A trilogy of books: ‘Homeworld’, ‘Wheelworld’ and ‘Starworld’. Read decades ago for the first time and then re-read in a burst of literary gluttony a couple of years ago and seeing the books with adult eyes, the effect like seeing a painting restored. The social commentary, and not just any commentary, but my kind of commentary. Highlighting injustice and prejudice and seeing science fiction reading like an edge of the seat thriller, with ray guns!

‘Technicolor time machine’, ‘Bill the galactic hero’ and ‘Star smashers of the galaxy rangers’ are to me the literary equivalents of favourite movies, ones that you ration yourself watching, but from which random scenes pop into your head at the oddest moment - and from which scenes you recognise in other books, in movies, in comics or on television.

Any science fiction fan learns after the first ten or twelve times not to explain to their date that the scene where the hero does that thing, with the girl…that’s from (insert short story written in the 1970s here). Any science fiction fan knows that Hollywood screenwriters spend 10% of their time at a typewriter and the remainder playing Dr Frankenstein with bits of genre stories they think nobody else has read.

Mr Harrison was influential.

He influenced me, at least. Made me a more voracious reader, probably made me a better person, or a more tolerant one anyway.

Everyone will be suggesting the best Harry Harrison story, or their favourite, so let me be no exception and join the celebration. There’s a story from 1965 called ‘Mute Milton’ which, in my collection of ‘The best of Harry Harrison’ (I pity the editor who had to make the choice of what constituted that, back in the day when I bought this, when a paperback cost £1.50 band new in a proper shop when the NET book agreement was still in place, before you could just publish a 10,000 pager in kindle edition). Mr Harrison himself introduces it as ‘an angry story’.

I read it, I got angry, I was a better person by the time I finished reading it.

Harry Harrison, Rest In Peace.

The village hobby

Work. It should nourish the soul. Honest toil should result in a feeling of warm satisfaction and cold beer as success is celebrated in the traditional fashion at the end of a day when, thanks to your endeavours, the world is left a little bit better, with another shed erected, another suit exquisitely tailored or another poodle clipped into an amusing shape, than it was that morning.

Because there are people for whom their employment produces a sense of fulfilment. Sometimes they do something useful, like boat building or setting firework displays to music, sometimes what they appear to contribute to society is rather harder to define, but it gets them on the front of glossy magazines (although not always the ones that are just about glossy celebrities, one can imagine that even the most assured celebrity might wonder about their path in life if they are sharing the front page of a magazine with the story of a tragic teen who ate so much KFC they can only leave the house on a flatbed, through the wall). Getting paid for something that you actually enjoy doing is surely what everyone who has ever toiled aspires to.

Unfortunately, there's not a lot of money in sitting slumped in front of the telly flicking up and down the channels and wondering if the are any more wotsits left in the cupboard. Also, as a career choice, it looks poor on a CV if you want to progress to, for instance, flying a jet.

This is why people indulge in hobbies, because to stop yourself going mad with frustration at work, you can develop a socially accepted form of mania in your spare time. While many hobbies can be private and low-key, such as collecting antique prosthetic limbs, cutting locks of hair from the people in front of you on the bus without them knowing, or getting wasted on Lambrini in your front room while watching Mama Mia on DVD, again, on a Saturday night, other have a more public face.

And it doesn't get much more public than Morris Dancing. Lots of blokes running around in circles letting out the occasional whoop and thwacking sticks around, all the while jingling the bells attached to their ankles. Morris Dancing has for years attracted the professional classes. Bank managers, accountants, the more refined sort of sex pest, dentists and so on all feel the need to jump about while trying to convince people that they are upholding a folk generation that goes back centuries and are not simply a group of men with miserable home lives who cannot take up the traditional hobby of the unhappily married - angling - because of an irrational fear of tench.

The only hobby more public than Morris Dancing is, possibly, being in a pipe band. Every year the UN meets to try and have the bagpipe classified as a weapon and every year the Scots play the cultural card, that if anyone votes 'aye' they will stand outside their house and play 'Flower of Scotland' until the end of recorded time. The's a reason the bagpipe was used to lead men into battle. It bloody terrifies me and I know that it's essentially a device for reproducing the sound of music strained through a cat. If you were facing a Highland regiment of angry transvestites led by men with wailing demons under their arms, bricking it into the trees is an acceptable option.

Of course those days are long gone (south of the Tweed) and now you have recreational bagpipe playing (I know, but in a world where people get enemas for fun, I've stopped trying to make sense of this sort of thing) where presumably normal people gather together and try and make a sound not unlike a pig being sucked through a jet engine, for fun.

And in truth, confronted by the sheer enthusiasm of those that indulge in folk dancing and folk music, their obvious enjoyment is infectious. I mean, who can fail to adore a bloke with bells on his ankles, or a chap who has a waterproof made especially for his kilt? Weatherproofing for authentic celtic weather? Now that's attention to detail.

Olympic glory

The best way to explain a visit to the Olympic stadium in London is to compare it to a pilgrimage, and in particular the effect that seeing a cathedral and a crowd for the first time would have on a rural medieval mind.

It's that profound. Entering the Olympic park is exciting enough, as more and more people join a mass all travelling in the same direction, but getting up close to the Olympic stadium is something else. It's immense, the culmination of every stadium ever built, from a circle scratched in the dust to the Colosseum to Wembley, distilled, rolled into one and constructed on the scale of the gods. It's like Karnak with a running track.

And appropriately, it has it's myths. Like the transport system is crowded. Far from it, travel to and from the park was smooth and easy. And that the airport style security would take two hours. All I can say is that I wish security at Gatwick was that friendly and efficient. The troops were fantastic. No doubt about it, these guys seen close up have moved beyond the status of troops and are now officially Warriors, and are obviously enjoying the novelty of having kids wanting photographs with them rather than being shot at by angry bearded men.


The same goes for the police. Most police spent their time lending their helmets to small children to have their pictures taken in. The mounted police horses showed great patience as they were continuously patted and the police were presumably thinking that this was a lot, lot better than a year ago, when people were throwing things at them. Things that were on fire. Even the police snipers on the roof of the Holiday Inn were probably having a good time. I hope they were in a good mood anyway.

Inside the stadium, the atmosphere was such that one suspects that there is actually a noble gas called 'euphoria'. I was giddy to the point of nausea with excitement, the early start and the altitude that our seats were at (second to back row, meaning you don't miss a thing happening on the track or field, or indeed anywhere below cloud level).

The best way to describe the Olympic experience, seeing an Olympian in action? It's like watching your team go a goal up in the last minute of play in the final, it's like your favourite band hammering out the opening chords of your favourite song at the gig, it's being pushed into your seat as the airplane accelerates down the runway, it's pure, unadulterated exhilaration. With added cheering. And it's like that all the time.

The crowd's reaction to the athletes was incredible. As Mo Farah ran his 5000m qualifier, the crowd applauded as he passed and the sound circled the stadium like an audible Mexican wave, for twelve and a half laps of the track, building every time until on the last lap it was a constant cacophony of clapping, shouting, cheering and screaming. Mo qualified and I believe the correct sporting term is that the crowd went bananas.

There were also moments when the reaction of the crowd made one ridiculously proud to be British, like the athlete who pulled a muscle and limped home, helped across the finish line by 80,000 people cheering, or the woman competitor from Saudi Arabia, last in the race, first woman competitor from her country, and the reason the entire stadium erupted as she ran for home.

History was made. To be part of that, to be making that history is a privilege and the crowd knew it and embraced it and applauded, cheered and shouted it. It's no wonder that Brits have been using the word 'proud' unironically.

And when the crowd got behind the Team GB competitors, it lifted them, with Lynsey Sharp in the women's 800m doing the last 200m like a rocket, gifted wings by every raw hand and throat.

Team GB was also much in evidence on the front of every tee shirt and baseball cap and if anyone was in any doubt about who was supporting what team, the Union Flags worn as scarfs, capes or sarongs banished that doubt. Thank God that the Union Flag is such a design icon and looks fantastic on everything from socks to hats, imagine coming from a country that features some sort of fowl as your national emblem. We don't care how well you do in the games, there is no getting away from it that that your flag has a chicken on it.

And to put one argument to bed, rock music + athletics = fantastic! Anyone that has ever run with a running mix will appreciate that the right beats gets the heart pumping, and apparently it goes for the spectators too!

And of course, I had to visit the largest McDonalds in the world. It was...excellent. Oh god, the shame. I've not been to a maccy dees in twenty years but that cheeseburger tasted just the same as it always did (fries were a bit sweeter than I remember though), just as good as it always did, just as satisfying as it always did. Once through the door at the express lane a lovely young woman took our order on a hand held gadget and by the time we had paid it was ready. Out to the garden area, got a seat no problem. The place was heaving but super-slick and rather relaxed. It's also maybe reversed my prejudice about the golden arches that started with the McLibel trial and rolled on from there but now, maybe it's time to start wolfing down those big macs again. I still recall with affection the result of a big mac meal, with a greasy wrapper and that curious feeling of satisfaction and nausea that comes from inhaling 250% of your recommended daily allowance of fat, grease and clumsy slaughterhouse worker.

And the restaurant was great place to take a break, because the Olympic park was home to, what looked like, half of the population of the planet. The were people everywhere, including volunteers (happy to take your photograph) and folk with insulated backpacks peddling beverages - the beer comes in plastic bottles, how about that for a culture shock? No matter, I wanted to bribe one of them to follow me round all day like a mobile mini-bar. Maybe that's the way forward, not one bloke with beer and another with water, but one chap with overpriced beer, spirits and toblerone. And not just at the Olympics either, I think it could catch on in everyday life.

There is a lot to be impressed by when watching athletes that are doing things in front of you that you would normally associate with CGI, but one of the most impressive things is their focus. The pole vault, 5000m qualifying race and hammer throw are all happening simultaneously and each athlete is in a world of their own, oblivious to the incoming wildly thrown hammer or bloke falling to earth like an angel. It's this focus, I think, that makes an Olympian, the ability to separate yourself from the dross of everyday existence. It's probably this same quality that gets you up at five in the morning on a wet winter day to go on a training run.

The Olympic hype began the moment we secured the 2012 games and the build up has been on the hysterical side for months but nothing, nothing can actually prepare you for being in a place which, for a brief period, is arguably the most important place on the planet.

Just to prove the point, the only event that even came close in terms of human achievement this week happened on Mars.

Team GPB

The post box. Iconic, a masterpiece of design and the start of a journey for letters and cards and post-cards that bring joy when they eventually fall onto the welcome mat of their intended recipient. And red. Not just red but Red, post box red, heritage red, institution red.

Not any more, in a stroke of paint and absolute genius, the Post Office is painting one post box in the home town of each British Olympic champion gold. They look stunning, more stunning still is that such has been the success of Team GB that the Post Office are reportedly running low on gold paint.

Three things must immediately happen.

Somebody will have to be the first person to visit all the golden post boxes and post a letter in each one.

This will then be the Golden Post Box Challenge. Like Monroe bagging or acquiring STDs you can eke this activity out for years if you so wish but records could also be set in doing them all in the quickest time, by public transport. I can already see the need for at least three different guide books and also a book that you get stamped every time you post a letter from a GPB. Purists will wish to visit them in the Order in which medals were won.

Finally a celebrity, preferably a comedian such as Al Murray, needs to front a television series where he visits each GPB. The format will either be Al on a bicycle wearing a flying helmet and taking a sideways look at whatever town he's visiting, or Al on a tandem wearing a flying helmet with the Olympian in question on the back and hearing Their Story. The flying helmet is, however, crucial.

The art of advertising

There is a time and a place for subtlety, for instance when trying to introduce the topic of anal sex, or why you have so many books about Adolf Hitler, into conversation with somebody that you have recently met. The problem with subtlety is that it depends upon two immense variables; the communication skills of the person trying to get their message across, and the sensitivity of the audience. Too subtle and you can fail entirely to get your message across and, to take a completely random example, risk startling your date by turning up on her doorstep dressed as an SS officer and proffering a tin of lube.

Cigarettes have been for a long time the object of intentional repression, the latest act being to hide the offending fags behind screens in shops, the way that gentleman’s literature is now wrapped in discreet packaging. Obviously it was not enough to put them on a high shelf to deter their purchase by, presumably, schoolkids, dwarfs and those who smoked so much it stunted their growth. Presumably this hiding of fags like a guilty secret or sensible stockpiling of decent booze in a wardrobe prior to having one’s in-laws come for Christmas is designed to deter the impulse buyer of ciggies rather than, say, somebody who is driven by a chemical dependency to spunk almost a tenner on twenty hits to feed their addiction and satisfy their craving.

Prior to this, advertising of fags was heavily restricted in what the images could be associated with. For instance, it’s been a while since Marlboro were allowed to show images connecting their product with cowboys engaged in such healthy pursuits as rounding up cattle and shooting Mexicans. And the days of being able to brand a Formula 1 car with your livery are long gone, as are the days of having a cigarette lighter and ashtray as an optional extra in your Formula 1 car. That’s health and safety for you.

This meant that creative types in the advertising industry, who were normally to oaddled with coke and booze to really develop an affinity with fags, were producing ads so subtle that they resulted in billboards adorned with a giant picture of a gecko and the words ‘smoking kills’ in letters eight foot high.

The same has been happening with alcohol advertising for a while too, with rules about not being able to associate alcohol with success, sexual prowess or, by the look of things, anything other than ending the night face down on some cobbles sprawled in a puddle of what you sincerely hope is just spilled kebab.

Advertising is now so subtle that folk can be unaware that they are seeing an advert at all. Once upon a time you knew where you were; a pack shot and the words ‘buy me now’ followed by as many exclamation marks as was thought permissible within the laws of common decency was considered a cutting edge campaign. The emergence of social networking, with Youhootube, Twatter and, if you believe the stock price, Facebook as mankinds’ chief form of communication replaces the previously very popular pointing and mouthing ‘do you want a drink’ over loud music as the pinnacle or persuasion.

Viral ads, so called because they are so bloody irritating, abound, with huge companies very much attracted to the idea that their customers will actually spread their advertising for them. They are right, of course, as soon as the first person started wearing clothing with the maker’s label displayed on the outside, Big Business knew it had their customers working for them as mobile billboards. Slightly more subtle are the ads and e mails that only turn out to be adverts when somebody exposes them, or thinks for a moment about why a pretty girl would be so fucking excited about a new flavour of Marmite.

Which is why I thought the van pictured was so refreshing. The company supplies safety clothing. And what better way to communicate this than by having a pretty young woman dressed as Daisy Duke but, and this is important, with a high-viz vest and safety glasses. She looks ready to clock on at the steel mill.