Act Local

We're getting active; involved; grass roots.

Right on, brother.

Yesterday evening, P attended a Hackney planning open house and was the only non-NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) in attendance. Amid a mass of ill-informed, knee-jerk busy-bodies, she was the only reasonable, sensible, level-headed home-improver there.

The reason: we want to extend, and extend big stylee. Upwards, which means mansard roof extension.

So the scheming, conniving "Gordon Brown will make a great interim Prime Minister ahead of David Milliband" lobbyist that she is, managed to work her slick brand of spin on the council's head planning officer.

..Though we also think he was just pleased to speak to someone not berating him for national government housing policy (something he has no control over), refuse collection (again, beyond his p-l-a-n-n-i-n-g remit), or the lousy weather (God's department, I believe..).

At issue is the fact that the council has held an unoffical moratorium on granting permission for mansard extensions in our neck of the woods for about two years. Only now is outlining a clear policy. This is good for us as we now know what will and will not meet with planning -- an important consideration if you're going to pitch-up a wad of cash for an architect only to go nowhere..

But not to be out-done, I'm getting in on the act too and must cancel my attendance at lunch with friends tomorrow in favour of the totally mega 'Composting In The Park', which, as the Hackney junta put it, promises to be "A great day out in Clissold Park."

Hey, I really, really want to win a wormery.

..Spectrum is Green

Quite A Record

This from the BBC's Web site about tonight's penultimate Premiership game. Impressive statistics however you cut it..

Chelsea clinched their second successive Premiership title with a 3-0 win in this equivalent fixture last season. This time around they must relinquish that crown to their visitors Manchester United, in a dress rehearsal for the FA Cup final. Jose Mourinho will be hoping to retain his undefeated League record at Stamford Bridge. The Blues are unbeaten in 61 home League games - 55 in the tutorage of the current incumbent. Indeed the Portuguese chief has masterminded a combined total of 93 home League matches without defeat - last losing on 23 February 2002 when FC Porto were beaten 2-1 by Beira Mar.

Although they're ending the season second best to (sic) ManUre, Chelsea are on a longer current unbeaten League run than United of 12 matches, they've lost fewer Premiership games (three to United's four) and conceded fewer goals (23 to 26). Victory will close the unassailable gap between them to four points.

Mourinho's only defeat to United was 1-0 in last season's trip to Old Trafford which ended their 40-game unbeaten Premiership sequence. They've since thrashed them in last season's corresponding fixture, and shared two goals in a classic game of two halves at the Theatre of Dreams in November. The Londoners have lost one of the last eight League clashes at the Bridge, winning the last three.

Sir Alex Ferguson's side are chasing a first point and a first goal in four visits to the west Londoners.

Carefree

Hell Hound On My Tail

All those years of watching late night horrors and listening to 'The Devil's music' has caught-up on me.

Regardless of the rain, this morning, Ems and I extended our walk to take-in Abney Park Cemetary -- something we habitually do nowadays (see earlier entry).

Maybe it was the fact that I was soaked and cold, maybe I'm just over sensitive this weekend with bad weather and even worse football.

Whatever. Early-on into the cemetary, I was overtaken by heavy goose-bumps, a strong feeling of static electricity and the sense that there was someone/something at my back. It was most uncomfortable and like a wuss, I high-tailed it outta there.

Pooch, though, didn't seem overly perturbed. But then, they do say that dogs have a keener sense to these things than we. She probably spends all her waking hours 'seeing dead people' and to her, Abney Park is always like some sort of Piccadilly Circus for the departed.

Anyway, next weekend, I'm insisting that P comes along to hold my hand.


...Boo!

Or Maybe Not..

That dream thing might have been about next season, or the one after that.. Who knows? Anyway, ManUre have it and well done to them. A concession. With Drogba, Robben and Cole 'resting', it's on to Wembley (and next season) for us.

Carefree

I Had A Dream Jo(se)

I dreamt numbers. I dreamt football. I had a dream.

And maybe all’s not lost..

The past fortnight has been a horrid, torrid time for CFC of edging nearer and dropping further in the Premiership.

Champion’s League dramas not withstanding, it’s been a rollercoaster domestic season. Indeed, in a way, it’s nice that Europe’s behind us.

[Let’s get one thing straight Jose – if you don’t score goals, you don’t win. Liverpool scored, we didn’t. They deserve to be in Athens. End of. And why wasn’t Drogba – the season’s highest goal-scorer up for a penalty in favour of Robben (no game for seven weeks) or the second-string Geremi? Finally, management requires an equal measure of gravitas and humility to counter confidence and self belief. Outbursts of this week are 'Special Needs' not 'Special One', bud..]

But anyway, last night I dreamt and the portents are good. In my vision ManUre lose to Man City tomorrow and we beat Arsenal on Sunday. Moreover, I had a strong sense that we go on to beat ManUre at the Bridge next week to nudge ahead at the top by a point.

The portent didn’t reveal anything about our respective final games – Everton (us) and West Ham (them). Nor did it give me a glimpse of the Wembley result either. My radar is clearly quite near-term and needs fine-tuning.

Now all I need tonight is a sense of the winner of the 3:15 at Epsom and Saturday’s lottery numbers.

Gang Of Four

Domesticity overtakes us at a lightening pace. Our two-person, one dog collective will be added to by year's end.

The wonderful, talented P is with child and carrying little [TBC] Joe (boy) or Rowan (girl) S. I'm told that there's yet some negotiation on the naming, but I tend get my way in the end.

Mum's doing well and hasn't been subject to too many prenatal nasties. Dad's enjoying peace and quiet while he can -- a relative concept when you live with a springer..

Anyway, there's no smoking or drinking chez nous -- well, both the former and latter for Pippa -- not me ;-).

Mothercare. People Movers. And oceans of vomit to come. Yeah.

Picture: Twee, moi?

Carefree

Beavis

Have you ever put a padded bubble-wrap envelope through a shredder?

It's brilliant!

You couldn't Make This Up..

This is the headline from a Datamonitor study into the leading players in a specific pharmaceutical market.

Penetration Sought In Erectile Dysfunction Market

Also, closing the gap on Pfizer's blockbuster Viagra in this, ehem, growing market, is a Korean firm appropriately named Dong-A PharmTech Co.

Precious.

The Future Is Unwritten .. Well 'Till Thursday

I've never been to a film premiere before so I'm very excited about Thursday night.

OK. It's not exactly a world premiere -- that was at Sundance late last year -- but it is an advanced showing ahead of its 18 May UK release.

The film is "The Future Is Unwritten", Julian Temple's bio-pic of Joe Strummer.

I do, without equivocation, rate the erstwhile John Graham (Woody) Mellor as my absolute hero.

But then we must always remember that heroes are human and therefore fallible.

For instance, I was left with a rather sour taste after devouring Chris Salewicz' brilliant (official) biography "Redemption Song" recently. The reportage was accurate, detailed, personal and importantly, sanctioned. Moreover it was honest.

No one's perfect and Joe was nowhere near perfect. He was real. He was complex. And what's the point in fawning sycophancy?

I'm not going to re-write history or serve as a muso/pop-soc/socio-political critic. There's plenty of words about Joe out there and Wikipedia's profile is as good a place as any to start.

That said, I am hoping that the film will be a wee bit more 'enjoyable' than the book. [I know, enjoyable's the wrong word ..Satisfying? Direct? Telling?]. Either way, surely the medium of film is more visually and aurally appropriate to understanding and appreciating the man and his work? His was a musical art afterall, with a bit of film acting and scoring thrown-in for good measure..

Oh, even though in his later years Mr. Strummer preferred The Groucho to The Elgin, forget about Leicester Square as the venue. The advanced screening's part of the East End Film Festival and is at the Rio in Dalson -- just down the road from us.

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore (Or Ever)

And now a joke (of sorts) made up today by Charlie, my four-and-a-half-year-old godson.

Q: Why do chefs plough the fields?

A: Because they don't like cooking.

Surrealist? Absurdist?

Hey, it didn't do Spike Milligan any harm and according to Saturday's Guardian magazine, he coined that oh so amusing joke below.

Smells Like..

It hasn't rained in London since some way before Easter. That's over four weeks. But this morning we've just had a very light spinkling which causes one of the best smells in the world -- light rain on dusty streets. It really is a sign of summer. Kind-of like new mown grass.

Stop Me If You've Heard his One Before

I know it's old, but it is considered -- through scientific study -- to be the funniest joke ever..


Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy whips out his phone and calls the emergency services.

He gasps, "My friend is dead! What can I do?"

The operator says, "Calm down. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead."

There is silence, then a shot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says, "OK, now what?"

Too much Pressure

So we bottled it. With ManUre dropping two points to a feisty Middlesbrough on Saturday, all we had to do was dispatch Newcastle at St. James' yesterday afternoon. After a convincing four-one away against the Hammers last week, one would have thought we were back to scoring ways.

Well, we aren't (back to scoring) and we didn't (beat Newcastle). We didn't trouble their goal and we didn't compete in midfield. In fact the Geordies pretty-much ran the show for 94 minutes and actually came close on a couple of occasions. We can complain about dodgy reffing decisions and disallowed penalties, but hey, play to the whistle and quit moaning.

So, onto the next ones -- a double-header this week and next against Liverpool for a place in the Champions League Final. Oh, and we host Bolton on Saturday -- never an easy fixture, especially when they're playing for a UEFA place next season.

Grrr.

Finally, to the FA Cup.

The new Wembley has a capacity of 90,000.

Chelsea FC currently has 27,267 season ticket holders, (22,606 non-hospitality/4661 hospitality). It also has nearly 70,000 members.

Chelsea (and ManUre) will receive a total of 25,000 tickets from the FA -- aka Fekkin Ar**holes -- for the Cup Final.

This means that 50,000 tickets will go to partisans and 40,000 will go to sponsors and an odd assortment of footballing trainspotters, geeks and weirdos.

Some 23,000 tickets will go to other clubs and grass roots and other football organisations. Erm, OK. Why would a groundsman from, say, Colchester or a ticketer from Oldham get dibbs?

And a stack -- 17,000 -- have been allocated to to some f***wit outfit called Club Wembley -- an affiliation of eejits who'd prefer to pitch-up a wad of cash for a guaranteed decade of crap like England Ladies XI v Luxembourg Ladies XI and Robbie Williams.

Vitriol misplaced? Au contraire. If you Google for tickets, there are thousands available -- even though they haven't yet been released -- and all for upwards of £1,500 each. So our assorted spotters and freaks are making hay while we true supporters either pay though the nose or watch on telly..

Isn't this season stressful enough?

I wish I'd followed my father and become a Villa supporter. I wouldn't have to worry about any of this stuff..

Carefree

Highway To Hell

Caution with that Internet browser thingie -- especially when using a work laptop at home.

I've been online for 11 years now and so know what I'm doing in the wibbly-webby world. Well, I like to think I do. But occasionally even the most experienced of us surfers take a wrong turn.

The Wi-Fi connection to the iMac at home is practically non-existent and Steve Jobs' pretty little pooter is a good year past its best. It's time for us to upgrade and following the lead of RJB and PJ we're going Gates. (Frankly, PJ should should know about this stuff -- it is his job as a tech analyst after all). In the meantime I use my work laptop at home over the weekend.

Anyhow, left to my own devices for a couple of hours last weekend, I was browsing for rock and roll info and memorabilia. I thought that I'd visit the site of a rather famous Australian heavy rock outfit and see if there are any good looking Donnington t-shirts and cheap CDs out there. Note: 'DC's catalogue isn't available on iTunes.

But instead of using the handy Google toolbar I usually use to navigate, I typed something like ACDC.com directly into the address bar and pressed return.

Eeks. Thunderstruck. But for all the wrong reasons.

Instead of Angus Young and gang, there's ladies and men and ladies and ladies all sans clothes and in poses.. You get the drift..

(I don't know the actual URL [really!] and I'm too scared to go look now).

I know I was there a matter of moments, but now I've got nasty cookies and I'm certain that IT will send me a stern memo about correct use of corporate equipment.

So memo to self: Use Google. And you don't need any more heavy 12 bar blues-based rock music.

Dogged Ambition

While I've miserably failed over the years to quit an unpleasant nicotine addiction, I did manage to stop chewing my nails well over a decade ago. And I've successfully resisted gnawing my digits since.

But with the current football madness of CFC -- scrapping every game to keep ManUre in sight in the Prem, a double-header against our nemesis of recent seasons (scaarase gits) in the Champions League semis and the prospect of battling The Red Dung again in the FA Cup Final -- my fingers (and nerves) are raw.

Great to see SWP coming good and just waiting for Joe Cole to find his touch again. There's yet much hope and still all to play for.

But it would be nice if Ronaldo could catch a cold, or something..

Carefree

Gunning For Trouble

After nearly a month of work-type madness, things are more under control and there a wee bit more time. So back to this..

With the wonderful Spring weather and longer evenings -- it's long walkies in Clissold Park for me and my furry friend. And if we stop by The Shakespeare en route home to whet our whistles, hey, we've earned it.

Old Emms is a biddable pooch and very friendly -- especially to picnickers and groups of young women lounging on the grass.

Top tip to young single men -- get yourself a cute dog, or borrow one at least. It really engenders coos of interest from said young women -- which of course, is lost on me as I have the delightful P.

Anyway, back to the park..

More so than ever before, we dog owners are under general scrutiny for how well we manage our beasts. Dog ownership is all about consideration and responsibility.

Aside: with the exception of work suits, every pocket I have is crammed full of poo bags.

But today, some breeds are now seen as urban status symbols -- doggie bling as I put it. This is a problem. Canine bling is exclusively centred on the most unpredictable and dangerous of breeds -- pit bulls, rotweillers, chow chows, American staffs etc., -- dogs bred expressly for hunting and fighting. These aren't pets or companions, they're lethal weapons. Moreover, the folks that own them are invariably unsuited to the task of dog ownership. Think modern-day Bill Sykes and Bullseye (shudder).


The papers are full of horror stories about savaged toddlers, bystanders and other, more malign pets. Ipso facto -- there's an understandable degree of public alarm about these monsters being abroad, and a keen interest in their control. So all over the park are signs reminding folk about responsible animal husbandry and expressing the rule that 'dangerous breeds' must be carefully controlled and on the leash.

We (Ems and I) wholly approve. If these breeds are 'banned' as the BBC keeps saying, then why are there so many of them -- not just in London but across the country? Why are they still bred and why aren't they confiscated and destroyed?

Surely, we should bring back The Dog Licence as a means to control ownership and engender responsibility?

The dog licence was abolished in 1987 after which a series of consultations led to the dog control measures contained in the Environmental Protection Act 1990 and to the Dangerous Dogs Act 1991. In Opposition Labour gave a commitment to introduce a dog registration scheme, a course of action rejected by the former Government.

Mr. Cameron. Here's a nice and easy policy for you. Everyone will support you and heck man, you need one!

Not convinced?

OK. The other evening she and I quietly, happily getting on with our constitutional, causing no harm to anyone. We pass three young-uns in hoodies and caps askew. They have a young pit bull type straining on a heavy chain and as we pass a conversation (of sorts) is exchanged.

Hoodie 1 (addressing 'Killer', 'Tyson', 'IceCube' or whatever the unfortunate hound is named). "Ah, Geez. It's not fair, innit. Vat one's free an you ain't."

Hoodie 2 (regarding Ems asks his crew). "What kinda dog is dat anyway?"

Hoodie 3. "It's a gun dog, innit."

Hoodie 2. "Wicked. I gotta get me one of vose."

Hoodie 1. "But if it's a real gun dog, why don't it look very hard?"

We didn't dawdle long enough to find out what kind of game these likely lads had in mind for retrieval, or indeed, removal..

(Meet Me At The) Cemetary Gates

Beyond the usual urban crap, our patch of North London holds many fascinations, not least Abney Park Cemetary.

This eerie Victorian cemetery is a gem amid the hustle and bustle of the city.


Not only is it a place of gothic tranquility, it's expressly a place for non-conformists. As an aging punk, this appeals to me greatly.

It's one of only two key places for the burial of non-conformists in the capital and offers a fascinating insight into the history of London's dissenting families. Which I guess, explains why the leftie loony lefter-overs of the 80's set-up shop on Saturdays to peddle Socialist Worker to passers-by..



The ornamental ironwork, along an Egyptian theme, over the Church Street entrance came from the entrance to Abney House, named after Lady Mary Abney, who retired here in the early 1700s with her daughters and their tutor and chaplain, Dr. Issac Watts -- a well-known dissenter, who lived in the area for many years and was famous as a composer of hymns and sermons.

The heiroglyphs over the lodges read, 'The Gates of the Abode of the Mortal Part of Man.' Also in Abney Park, are wonderful Celtic crosses, austere Welsh Slate memorials to members of the London Welsh community, and a vast statue to Isaac Watts. There is also War Memorial commemorating local people who fell in the two World Wars. A smaller Civilian War-Memorial was raised in memory of local people who died as a result of enemy air bombardment during World War II.



The cemetery's chapel, in a fine gothic style, was part of the original installation of Abney Park. The imposing spire retains much of its original cladding, but today the chapel is a sad shell, home to a population of pigeons and used as a setting for horror films.

The fortunate result of neglect was to allow the cemetery to develop into an 'urban forest.' OK, now in disrepair but a conservation area, at its zenith, the cemetery eclipsed the Royal Park at Kew, with 2,500 different species.



Disappointing: Emms didn't dig up any bones.
Question: Where's Jim?

We Need To Talk About ...Emmie

Recognising that London is an increasingly hazardous Gotham and Gomorrah (see previous post), the city's councils keep its parks locked through the hours of darkness in an effort to keep safe its citizenry from bush-lurking n'er do wells.

This makes absolute sense and is the right thing to do. The only problem is that pooch and I can't get into the Green first thing in the morning for our daily eye-opener. Well, she can squeeze through the tightly bound multi-locked gate, but I can't. So we instead scratch around and attend to pees and poos on a piece of waste ground adjacent to the out-of-reach mini park.

Naturally, this isn't very exciting for either of us, but we make do. Though Emmie has taken to pawing at the park fence and yelping pleas for access. And clearly, as the mornings have got lighter and she's been able to case the railings, think, sniff, plot, pee and plan, a change has come over her.

This morning with my back turned the pooch shimmied through a gap in the fence and with spike-topped wrought iron fence between us, ran off into the Green and refused to acknowledge my whistle to heel.

It's 6:20 a.m., so 'calling' a dog must be done very quietly and with due regard for slumbering neighbours. Only, the more she ignored me -- occasionally gazing my way in distain, with clock ticking and my bath and coffee chilling at home -- the more she wound me up. (Ever tried shouting in a whisper? Grrr.)

Anyway, some 20 minutes pass and I'm about ready to join London's gang-banging teens and commit evil, evil deeds when dog saunters out, sans care in world and looking very pleased with herself.

Ever seem The Omen? ..The knowing look of malevolence in the eyes of the outwardly innocent face of the boy Damien..? That's the dog today. She knows what she's doing and she's enjoying being bad.

She's changed. I'm afraid to go home alone now and am uncertain as what I'll find.

My old pet -- riddled as she was of late with middle-class doggie angst (it's true, really) -- has undergone a transformation and is now host to an unwelcome messenger of Satan. A demon from Hell. Will she start projectile vomiting? Am I to find, though fur, the words 'help me' etched on her skin as I tickle her tummy? Will she begin levitation? Will she start resembling Linda Blair?

It's off to church with us this weekend and an overdue bath for the disobedient dog -- this time with a wee sprinkling of holy water just to be on the safe side.

London's Burning

What with London's teenagers slaughtering one another on a daily basis and rival football fans hurtling us back to the 70s and 80s -- mindless, random violence is rife and everywhere in the city today.

You can't walk down any of the capital's streets without having to negotiate around a large yellow police sign appealing for witnesses to assaults, muggings, burglaries and murder. Yes -- murder. I kid you not. There's a sign on Lisson Grove -- around the corner from the office and where I park my car -- asking for information about a murder committed on a mid-week afternoon a couple of weeks ago.

On Wednesday in Hammersmith a gang of 13-year-olds stabbed a 16 year-old lad to death just to take his dog.

When pit bulls and staffs are status symbols -- canine bling if you like -- it's time to skedaddle to the shires and leave Sodom to rot.

Bloodbath

My mornings this week are beginning to resemble scenes from slasher moves. Blood and gore everywhere. Well, mainly on the lower, hairy area of my face.

The thing is that I've bought a fancy new razor -- the kind of thing that glows in the dark (erm, handy) is battery-operated, buzzes like an electric and has six or seven multi-swivel blades.

All this pseudo-technology is designed to be "The Best A Man Can Get" and give us chaps a rash-free, nick-less, smooth and even shave.

..Does it bollocks.

Damn. The thing is lethal and would be better employed as a weapon in a Tarantino flick.

It matters not how much or how little foam I apply or how carefully I scrape. I'm getting shredded. Every morning.

This means that I spend the first couple of hours each day with bloody scraps of TP all over my mug and am actually carrying a few scabs. I look like I've been tarred and feathered and we're rapidly running out of Andrex.

Sod Beckham, the metro-macho ads and the flannel. I'm growing a beard.

Correspondence

An email exchange between two chaps about the important things in life -- seeking consensus and common ground in a spirit of equanimity..

Though things won't be so equitable on Sunday, 11 March in the sixth round of the F.A. Cup..

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Tottenham
Sent: 26 February 2007 11:12
To: Chelsea blogger
Subject: RE: :-)


Morning mate.

Fair f***s to your lot yesterday. That bunch of South London diddicoys/cuckoos needed beating (stroppy babies imbued with too much arrogance all round, in my bitter and twisted opinion) and it's just a shame Terry got the kicking instead. I've only seen the still photo on the Beeb's site - that's bad enough. Good job his looks aren't a worry, eh? ;-). As far as the ruck goes, expect about 25-50K fine each I reckon.

Keane's 'Off' yesterday made it all the sweeter in a bizarre way. Probably had to go, but v unfortunate. MoTD made for very happy viewing last night. And whilst Robbie serves his ban, we'll trot wee Defoe out to partner the footballing genius which Berbatov is fast becoming. Not bad at all, and next three league games are all v winnable.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Chelsea Blogger
Sent: 26 February 2007 11:05
To: Tottenham
Subject: :-)

Everyone's happy.

You return to winning ways -- 3 wins in a week. Though Keane's an odd one -- two goals and a red card.

We win in Cardiff against a lively bunch of young gooners (but remember we hit to woodwork twice too).

Both DD goals fair and on-side. (28 for the season -- can he make it 40?)

JT is truly made of steel. (Felt sick at the time thinking 'that's spinal..')

20 minutes of extra time -- well, it felt like it anyway.

Then a big old ruck (ehem -- handbags, ladies) and it ended with three reds, seven yellows and more to come in FA enquiry.

Jolly japes.

Carefree

Blue Is, Of Course, The Colour

I love this line from the 1972 squad song. It's soooo untrue :-)

Come to the Shed and we'll welcome you

Anyway, probably the best ever footie song done as a team sing-song.
("In the cup for Tottingham," I ask you..)

Sing along everyone.

Carefree



Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.

Here at the Bridge, whether rain or fine
We can shine all the time
Home or away, come and see us play
You're welcome any day

Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name

Come to the Shed and we'll welcome you
Wear your blue and see us through
Sing loud and clear until the game is done
Sing Chelsea everyone

Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.

Blue is the colour, football is the game
We're all together and winning is our aim
So cheer us on through the sun and rain
'Cause Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.

For The Love Of... (Redux07)

Reheating last year's post..

Today's St. Valentine's Day -- probably the worst example of a 'Hallmark Holiday' known to man.

So who was St. Valentine anyway?

He was a mysterious early catholic martyr -- and a relatively minor one at that. There were two, possibly three St. Valentines, btw.

Oh, how relevant. Anyone for St. Ida of Boulogne? St. Methodius? Or that perennial crowd-pleaser, St. Tarcisius -- the persecuted 12-year-old acolyte mangled by the Romans in the third century?

Right then. I'll get all romantic..

Brilliant.

Saw This And Thought Of ..Me

I spied this aspirational bon mot on a greeting card.

"My ambition in life is to someday be the person my dog thinks I am."- Emily Maughan

Erm..

Upon reflection, only a bloke would write about the misery of flu. How self-indulgent. 'Man flu,' I ask you..

But then that's the point of all this, innit? Self-indulgence ;-)

Anyway, an amusing cockney aside.

Overheard a geezer in The Shed yesterday afternoon remarking upon the glory of Drogba's first place kick.

"Solicitor's Letter." quoth Blue philosopher.

Translation. "Tell 'em we mean business."

Carefree.

Outbreak UK

Influenza of one kind or another charaterised this week.

The dreaded Bird Flu arrived on these shores proper with a devastating outbreak at the Bernard Matthews turkey farm in Suffolk. Mass slaughter, incineration, DEFRA investigations, questions in The House and much fear and loathing.

Closer to home I've been stricken with a nasty bout of flu of the human kind. This is no weak-tea 'man flu' of mere runny nose and sneezing either. No, it's been truly miserable. A very high temerature with all the usual symptoms -- writ large -- but also with three full days of complete and utter delerium.

Yeah man. Sounds great being totally out of it.

But no. It's been like living through an extended freak-out trip induced by a nasty cocktail of dodgy recreationals. Have a look at thattuneinmyhead. The sheer trippiness of the whole thing is characterised by the fact that Jimi Hendrix's Highway Chile ran on a loop in my head for the first 24 hours. Migrane central and completely insane in the membrane.

I'm sick of Kleenex, Lemsip, Actifed, Strepsils, Vicks, Neurofen and frequent very hot baths. I'm a confirmed OTC junkie and now must find a 12-step programme to address my unwilling addiction to expectorants.

Anyhow, I'm improving now and my employer kindly couriered my laptop to me at home today so I can do something a bit more productive than hucking loogies.

As the charming Mr Matthews might say, "Bootiful."

Bad To The Bone

This is a marvellous leader in today's Scotsman.

Like most people, I believe human children are evil and should be reared in pens. Some people say children start off innocent but are corrupted by the BBC. However, new research shows badness is in the DNA and that some kids would be unpleasant no matter where or how they were brought up.

We need to talk about Kevin, indeed..

This is grim news indeed. Until we can modify ourselves genetically - oh, roll on, glorious day! - it's virtually impossible to nip the nasty nippers in the bud, thus leading to calls for all children to be treated harshly, just to be on the safe side.

Video Nice-ty

With P out and about this week I've had a few evenings to myself.

This is an optimal opportunity to indulge cinematic entertainment at home. And the fact that P doesn't share my blood-lust, it means that I can watch gory gems like The Hills Have Eyes or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

One of my favourites is the 2002 small-budget UK thriller starring Sean Pertwee Dog Soldiers. Basic premise from IMDb etc., is thus:

The film is about a group of British soldiers on routine patrol in Scotland who come across what seems to be a group of man-eating beasts that turn out to be werewolves. The squad seeks refuge in a rickety farmhouse, where a plucky zoologist reveals the horrifying truth about the beasts, which patrol the surrounding wilderness. They do their best to fight off the constant attack by the flesh eating beasts and only one survive. Dog Soldiers is a triumph of invention over slick special effects, and puts to shame some of Hollywood's more recent efforts.

Anyway, it's an excellent brooding example of its genre and has a brilliant scene where a hungry farm dog mistakes Wurzel Gummidge Jnr's guts (they are hanging out of his ripped stomach) for a string of sausages -- so bites, grabs and tries to run off with them.



To my mind this is brilliant, if slightly sick theatre.

Suffice it to say P wasn't so impressed when she saw it and now has banned all horror flicks. (I might exaggerate slightly..)

So anyway, left to my own devices, this week's entertainment was another and very similar Pertwee -- small group lost-in the wilderness terrorised and picked-off one-by-one by shadow-lurking-nasty -- vehicle, titled Wilderness.

This is the blurb from Yahoo! Movies which is quite accurate.

What do you get when you put a group of violent prisoners, including a couple of drug dealers, an armed robber, a serial sex offender and a murderer, on a supposedly uninhabited island with an unknown hunter and pack of killer dogs? Answer: the coolest, most brutal and terrifying British horror film since 28 Days Later...Or as Time Out describes: A bloody slice of survival horror in which ‘Scum’ meets ‘Dog Soldiers’, with a side order of ‘Lord of the Flies’.



Choice. OK, a degree of hyperbole, but still a cut above most and an entertaining Thursday evening.

Anyway, I hear that Hollywood has got in on the act and is planning a sequel release next year, Dog Soldiers: Fresh Blood.

While the fact of Americans messing around with British classics fills me with mortal dread -- anyone see last year's remakes of The Wicker Man?!!! -- I'll reserve judgement..

Again, here's IMDb's blurb.

A small U.S. Unit are immediately sent in to discover what has happened to the missing British unit. They quickly find the British unit's demolished base camp and the apparent only survivor -- but there are no signs of any dead bodies. What has happened to the rest of these men? Now the Unit hear a distant gun-battle. The American troops race across the moonlit forest to rescue the original British Squad who are trapped in the remote farmhouse. However, a second pack of savage werewolves are in pursuit. The new pack is in fact the surviving members of the SAS team now transformed into werewolves, but they have retained trace memories of their commando training. The new werewolves are faster, deadlier and smarter then the original Highland werewolves. These are true Dog Soldiers - and they are hungry for fresh meat.

The premise for a return is masterful. But I always worry when it's Americans to the rescue.

Anyway, P's home tonight so it'll be some sort of inane chick flick. Sob..

New Blog On The Block

Check out a true exercise in tedium ;-)

http://tuneinmyhead.blogspot.com/

Three Swallows...

...Don't make a summer -- or so a appropriation of the old saying goes.

I found this post today on the BBC's football comment page ref CFC's recent -- ehem -- run of form. It's approprite.

"Good wins against the might of Macc, Forest and Wycombe...lets not get carried away here boys."

There are two games this week -- against Blackburn and Charlton. Let's postpone celebrations of a return to true championship form until we've tackled Premiership opposition.

Oh, come on you Spurs on Sunday..!

Too Much Pressure

The main problem with living in an old house is that things tend to go wrong. They break, fuse, leak and flood -- and quite frequently.

And when these things go awry, they tend to be quite major and therefore quite expensive to fix.

Before Christmas we lost hot water so I called-out a plumber who sorted the water pressure problem (I was convinced that the low pressure was the issue and the engineer seemed to agree). He did this very quickly and easily I might add. You just turn an external knob and to release/increase pressure. A 30 second fix and a job well done and all for a mere £75 call-out! All done, or so I thought..

But no. As soon as the chap departed I tried running a bath -- and still no hot water, just an infrequently tepid flow, or at best, luke-warm. And that's how it's been since -- mainly due to the fact that we're both back at work proper with little time to wait for hours at home for a plumber. Also, it's an expensive cash-only exchange and January is a very long month between paycheques, so we're bit short of the necessary.

Now P and I are very adaptable sorts and quickly adjusted to boiling water on the stove to compensate for our cool bath. But this isn't sustainable, especially in the midst of a decidedly cold snap and with the prospect of having guests stay for a couple of nights. P are happy to share bathwater in the morning, but it won't stretch to four. Yuk for the last one in.

So again I call the engineer who promises to come over as early as possible to negate mid-week office-time disruption. Anyway, said chap arrives at nearly noon (supposed to be 8:30am!!) and does a more thorough job.

Water and heating restored and a fully-serviced boiler and only £250 cash this time. (yum, baked beans til pay-day). Surely now we're sorted. All running well. Hot tap water and toasty radiators. Well, for two days, anyway.

I arrived home last night to find that the boiler had switched itself off and wasn't sparking.

Quick diagnostic and consult the manual.

A-ha -- low water pressure again. I know how to fix that. Turn knob. Watch needle move up on the dial. Promising, but still nothing. Erm..

Refer again to manual. A-ha -- flick ignition switch. Eureka. It sparks into life. Houston, we have lift-off.

..And lift-off is what the needle did. With the system running and with the newly topped-up water in the system the needle just kept rising and rising and rising resting just beyond the red 'danger' marker. But only just beyond.

So all's running well. Kinda. Problem is that there's now too much pressure in the system which is causing dirty brown hot water to escape the pipes and run down the wall of the bathroom below. Not exactly a torrent, but enough to be alarming.

Anyway, I wiped it all up and have left the system on to run-down the pressure a bit -- which seems to be working. Fingers crossed. Actually, thanks to the space-heating lightbulb PJ and RJB insist on having in place when they stay the batroom walls are now drying nicely. (Thanks guys.)

So now our respective flats are moving rapidly toward sale we're off this afternoon to beg and plead with the bank for a re-mortgage and an infusion of funds to get this old house sorted once and for all.

I fear there will be much sobbing and pleading.

But we're used to being cold and damp, so how can a bit more flowing water hurt if we get the wonga..?

The Jackson Four

You read that right. We're The Jackson Four.

Not The Jackson Five. We bear no relation to the Gary, Illinois-originated Motown family of famously bizarre identity crises.

No, we're The Jackson Four. Well we were and for one night only. ..And just as well.

PJ and RJB (The Norfolk Dumpling) stayed with us for a couple of nights this week between house hunting in Hampshire and heading-off to Boston, Mass. So on Tuesday night we arranged dinner at The Prince -- a fine gastro-type boozer just up the road -- but had to eat early to accommodate its music pub quiz at 9pm.

Pub. Music. Quiz. Brilliant combination and PJ was like a kid at Christmas at the prospect.

You know the drill. Tables of friends, colleagues or loose acquaintances in musically-themed imaginatively-named teams -- "The Trucks Don't Work", "Devon 17" and so on. And as PJ is a 'Jackson' and there were four of us, so then we were named. Imaginitive and musically-themed.

In the recokning we did OK, but not great coming ninth from a field of 12. But then, many of the folk do do this every week. They train and revise The Encyclopaedia of British Hit Singles and other such muso minutiae constantly.

Who in their right mind would possibly know what the current #1 in the singles charts is? (I haven't known who's #1 since the mid- 80s!) Who cares who played lead guitar for Chicago, what a Beyonce album cover looks like or the surnames of the brothers in Oasis? (Oh, I do know that one..) Anyway, I wouldn't recognise a Sugarbabes intro if it knocked on my door and tried to sell me a mop head.

Clearly there are gaps in the collective muscial knowledge and tastes of this ramshakled line-up. We need to rethink the strategy, broaden out and get a new team together and a new name. RJB and PJ are out -- they live abroad anyway. We need folk from Stokie.

So it's definitely me (punk, post-punk, indie and rock), P (good with ABBA, easy listening and fromage in general), Alex (Smiths, Morrissey, Smiths, Madchester and indie), Katie, Vince (rockabilly) and Katie. Maybe Mark and Lady P can join in too or be super-subs..?

And the name? 'iPod, Therefore I Am.'

Never Say Never...

Never thought I'd be cheering an Arsenal victory or a Terry Henry goal, but a 93rd minute beautie keeps (a currently woeful) CFC within six points and striking distance of 'manure.'

Gooner. Gooner. Gooner.

Designer Living 25 Floors Up

Another day, another sunless room. This time at my laptop in the underground 'workspace' bunker beavering against a copy deadline for a feature in a major UK daily newspaper next week. After ten hours of this I'm pooped and soon to beat a retreat to my marvellous room and forgo the final afternoon session ahead of the compulsory big end-of-event-party tonight (buses depart to return to the hotel at 2am… ugh, welcome to Spain).

So about the room...

It's soooo Euro-designer-chic -- straight outta the pages of Wallpaper magazine and palatial in size.

More to the point it has a load of top toys -- a B&O wall-mounted plasma, DVD player, iPod connection to surround-sound wharfdales and Nespresso coffee machine. All mod cons for the early 21st century as well as the standard (well, for five star biz-lux anyway) secure Wi-Fi and/or Ethernet broadband connection. The bed is huge and very comfy and the bathroom is great too. But I'm a bloke and only perform my ablutions long enough to get wet and come out clean.

Of course, compared to our own miniscule, dingy and freezing bathing facilities at home -- to which I return to tomorrow -- I really should be taking advantage of such luxury while I can.

…Which reminds me. I need to put that special space-heating light bulb in place ahead of PJ and RJB's visit next week.

PPT In Paradise

I'm in a wonderful city -- Barcelona. I'm in a beautuful hotel -- Arts. And my eyes are decidely sore. Not from the overwhelming splendour of Gaudi or Camp Nou, but from three days of 'death by Powerpoint.'

I'm spending a week in the jewel of the Spain's hip, cultural and fashionable crown and all I get to see is slide decks in a darkened room devoid of natural light.

..But hey, it beats working -- which it what it (kinda) is afterall.

We're having a week-long European Leadership Forum of planning and strategy meetings. And actually, it's hard, hard work.

But this afternoon was free' and I did get to leave the hotel compound, get some fresh warm(ish) Med air and see something of this remarkable place and signed-up for the Gaudi tour.

Anyway, the sun is shining and as a northern European it's 'shirt-sleeve order' for me (I can't understand why the locals are wrapped-up in overcoats and scarves.

Ho hum -- another evening of Catalan cusine and more variations on the fermented Tempranillo grape. It's a hard life, n'est pas?

And with a storm brewing over Old Blightly, I might have to find reason to stay-on a bit longer. There are many...

How Apt ;-)

Looking this morning at my annual budget and seriously thinking about appointing a PR agency I 'Googled' for the PRCA -- the UK's Public Relations Consultancy Association.

While I know a lot of PRs in London, I'd like to have some 'independent' advice about which firms have particularly strong business services credentials.

So my Google throws-up two options -- one mundane and one, erm, totally insipired.

Numer one: the initially sought London-based 'bunny' org.
Number two: the Professional Rodeo Cowboy's Association.

Is someone having a laugh..?

Surely they are one and the same.

Brilliant.

Yee-haw!

Go North Cash-ley Cole

Secret meetings, bungs, slapped wrists and general underhanded behaviour. Is it all worth it in the end? Hell no.

'Cash'-ley Cole must be returned to North London.

We NEVER drop games to sloppy own-goals. NEVER with eight minutes to play and NEVER at home when we're 2-1 up. Well we did today and it hurts.

I don't mind slipping up to a brilliant opposing attack. But not unopposed and willful stupidity in front of our (sic) own goal.

Ouch.

The defence just doesn't hold without JT.

..Must train the dog to bite the nasty blingy man should we ever see him in the Highbury area.

Silent Night ...And Day

And for Christmas we'll mostly be having ....silence.

After three weeks in the company of my father Emmie has lost her voice. She just doesn't bark. At all.

This erstwhile noisy boisterous pooch is utterly quiet and as a consequence behaved.

At the start of December I spent a week away in the U.S. for work and P had a few work-related overnights too, so we shipped 'tonnes of fun' up north to stay with grandad in the country. We were reunited briefly in Chipping Campden for my birthday weekend and again now at Chez Grandee for Christmas. She returns with us smoke-ward tomorrow.

Anyway, after bearing Emm's woofs for about a week, he could stand the incessant yapping no more and went out and bought a collar to cure the critter of her, ehem, opinion. The fiendish device squirts water at her chin with every tiny whimper -- which, it would seem, is a tad unpleasant. And after only a few soggy days the liver and white one 'got it' and speaks no more.

Pavlovian bliss.

We are now in a more advanced stage of dog training. Not to eat all of nephew Charie's toys or to steal hams, joints and rashers from the kitchen work-top..

Christmas Turkeys

This year's Christmas Turkey is surely the TV schedules. Re-runs, re-hashes and re-fried sitcoms, (un)reality piffle and movies that went straight to rental four years ago.

What crap.




I'm going to have to actually speak to people this year.

Humbug.

All Safely Gathered In..

This is the happy state of my work email :-)

Fancy Web Site Sucks Donkeys

So as noted below, with a wee bit of time on my hands I'm using this quiet time to plan my life. OK, there's proper work-type '07 planning that I could do, but it's afternoon on 21st December for, ehem, Christsakes.

Equally, I'm not that organised and am only planning ahead for the next five or six hours...

Miss P knocked-off work for the year at lunchtime today to buy gifts in the West End (silly girl) this afternoon. Also she's staying in town to get squiffy on poo (the expensive kind too, I'll wager) with a couple of her best friends this evening.

This leaves me home alone and therefore in need of cultural edification.

Of course, I completed all of my shopping weeks ago -- online and ostensibly from a very well-established and reliable outlet with a Brazilian river theme. I'm now reliably informed by said site that everything I ordered has been sourced, wrapped and delivered to where we're spending Christmas this year -- not our home or work -- so no heavy-lifting or cluttered Mini on the 24th.

Please note -- this is a good Web site delivering a very satisfying Web service. Sadly though, even today with the Webby world hitting university entry age, many sites still fail to do what they're supposed to.

So, with the prospect of an evening to myself, access to the Web and a bit of time this avo I thought it a splendid idea to visit my cableco's VOD Web site and see what kind of 'exlosive werewolves battle mutant robot assasins from outta space' flick might be available for my televisual entertainment tonight.

(Note too, this level of forward planning is rather sensible as scrolling through all 700 available titles in real-time on my TV at home takes about an hour to complete. What a waste of quality video nasty time.)

But my plan falls at the first fence. Problem is that this cutting edge entertainment site is sooo hip and nooo meedja, its complete reliance on Flash renders it impossble to navigate -- this is before it stalls for a few minutes before crashing out of Explorer... every time.

How cool. How hip. How blood annoying.

Sod the filum. I'm going to the Shakespeare for a pint or two instead..

You ain't Seen Me, Right..?

OK. Now there's a little more time I can return to Blog-land.

In August I was too bored to blog. Through November til now, I've been simply too busy. It doesn't help that the Wi-Fi connection to the Mac at home is severly dodgy and I really don't want to schlep my notebook home every evening..

Last weekend I hit to big four-o and celebrated with a host of dear friends, family and pooches. Again, go to my pal Norfolk Dumpling for more on this happy event..

Anyway, the year is winding down and the city's emptying. The comute is nearly bearable …nearly.

2006 was a rollercoaster. We moved house. We activated two flat sales. We got married and I changed jobs.

So what of 2007? More balance and time with those that matter. Less drama and fewer financial shenanigans. Over the next 12 months I'll mostly be focusing on settling-into early middle-age, improving our home and planning for additions to the family.

..Speaking of which, check out Baby Atkinson -- due in June.

Silly London Houses

We're nearly there selling my flat. Exhange today, complete tomorrow.

..Well, that's if both sets of solicitors can actually drag themselves away from the golf course, pull their fingers out and actually do something with a modicum of the commerical urgency by which most of us operate professionally.

This development though ushers the unravelling a financial arrangement of monumental complexity. A vertitable house of cards.

We will have some capital released. We will re-mortgage and thus remove the incredibly painful bridge. We will have a single mortgage on a single property. Simple really. But for the last 10 months we've carried two mortgages and the bridge. Ouch!

But before we can do this we need to have our house valued. The bank lends against the value of the brick put up as collateral, not what you earn and/or can afford. And of course, it would be wrong for it to lend today against its December 2005 price.

So we invite all the (ehem) reputable local estage agents over to value our shabby little home. And what's uttlerly amazing is how, by their assessment, the house has shot up in value over the past 10 months. Over 25 percent!

I know it's all about supply and demand and everyone wants to live in Stokie and there just aren't enough available places. But even so -- this is crazy.

So, does this mean that we're rich?

Hell no. The equity on the flat will disappear and we'll have a bigger (single) mortgage. Though on paper at least, the sizeable difference between the mortgage loan and the salable value is, in effect, profit.

But that's not for blowing on a lifestyle of the rich and famous and we're a long way from taking early retirement.

No, the dosh is for ploughing into the next move as the deposit on an even bigger debt.

The crying shame though is that we're among an increasingly small number of Brits able to be on 'the ladder' at all -- however slippy and steep it is.

The Demonic 73 Taunts Me

Every morning -- EVERY MORNING -- as I approach Albion Road a practically empty 73 speeds by.

The bus stop is only around the corner, but even if I run, I'll never catch it.

It matters not if I leave 5 or 10 minutes early. The pesky bus speeds by just as I approach.

It knows. It senses my contempt and grudging need. It waits. It times its acceleration. It taunts me.

It hates me as much as I hate it.

At least now we both know where we stand.

..Well, I'm standing anyway -- every day in the same place waiting for the invariably overcrowded next one.

What's A Few Fleas Between Friends..?

..Well quite a bit it would seem.

Ems is scratching. It can only mean one thing -- fleas.

Nastly little critters fleas, but I thought all the scratching was rather entertaining and she did seem to enjoy it with contented accompanying groans. Heck, I like to scratch too and thought little of it.

And that's the thing -- we felt nothing and haven't suffered any bites.

Ems' dire condition was brought to our attention by Lana & Jon who were supposed to be looking after her last weekend while we were away.

So, we pitch-up home on Sunday afternoon only to find Ems already in the house -- in addition to assorted flea sprays, disinfectants and potions.

They claim that she worried their kitten who took-off and hid up a tree all weekend, but I know differently..

Fearful that they would never see little Moustache (yes, that really is the poor cat's name) again, they shunted Ems out to our mutual dog-walker's care asap to head-off infection in the House of Dudding.

Well, we're due to cook them lunch this Sunday.

Let's just see if they demand a vet's declaration of clean-bill-of-health before crossing the threashold.

Bring out your dead, indeed..

A Woman Of Infinite Taste

My little editor tells me that this is 'Post 69,' which sounds like an ultra-hip, skinny-legged guitar band from Dalston..

Anyway, I digress.

..Just been checking-out Chooch's latest reporage of dirty deedes done desert-ward and am a little crest-fallen at the abscence of whining about the injustices heaped upon La Terry Henry. However, I did link to this insightful comment from the intriguingly 'anonymous Mirri x'.

-------

Anonymous said...
Who is Clive?

"This means that I can honestly and without equivocation say that my (albeit trousered) arse is featured in a porno flick.

Yeah baby!"

His blog is brilliant!
Mirri x

And Again, Cheeky..

Give this man a knighthood!

Reasons To Be Chilled Part 1

"Drive, she said." Well, she didn't, I did, but she appreciated the lift.

After four weeks, yesterday evening I cracked -- somewhere between King's Cross and Upper Street.

Ken, mate. Your 'bendy buses' suck and the #73 is, frankly, an indignation.

Like a well-intentioned quitting smoker faced with either a heap of stress or out drinking beer with smoking friends, this morning I was running late and in a tizz. (I HATE being late).

In this black mood the prospect of the 73 was too much to bear, so I thought 'sod it' and reached for the car keys. It'll only be this once I promised myself. No real harm..

I muscled-into the work car park on a ruse and all was well. Ah. Sated.

Moreover, the return journey was a breeze. A clogged Euston underpass was a luxury by comparison and door-to-door only took 30 minutes.

I know that this isn't terribly public or environmentally-spirited, but heck, it's all about me.

I leave at 5:00p.m. and arrive home at 5:30p.m., drag dog 'round park and am back online work-wise for an hour or so at 6:00p.m. Bliss..

Also, I found out today that all I have to do is book my parking space a day in advance, so guess who's booked everyday through the end of this millennium?

My Arse In A Porno

Really, it is!

I've just popped out of the office to get some cash and a bite and while idling with a cigarette at Marylebone Station's main gate (the office is across the road from the terminus) I saw something really unusual.

Amid the general flow of people coming in and out of the station and nearby office-types picking up lunch and laundry I noted a woman being greeted by a man.

Nothing unusual in that. It's a station after all and a perfectly natural place for people to meet and greet.

But this 'greeting' was very staged and was clearly a scene for a porn film.

I'll explain..

Our gallant gentleman waiting for his lady is a sleazy trendy-type - with teased hair, jaunty hipsters and what my old Amsterdam mate Jay would call 'porno shades.' Let's call him Chad.

Chad's holding a photo, sort-of a model's portfolio shot. But sans clothes and in provocative pose, he's clearly here to meet a very particular kind of model to perform a rather specialised, ehem, 'assignment.'

The woman's not striking, but long-limbed and slim, kinda slutty-looking in cheap high street fashions and with a bad ratty dye-job. Let's call her Mitzy.

OK, nothing too unusual here, I hear you cry. It's just old CSS being disparaging about the appearance of the chavvy populace again.

Au contraire, au contraire..

What's really different is that our gigolo Chad is holding a digital video recorder and films Mitzy as she walks (in an exaggerated hip-swinging manner) toward him and greets him with hug a kiss on each cheek.

He then gestures to a parked Merc and feigns waved introduction to another fella waiting, this time an oily business-type of indeterminate middle-eastern origin. Let's call this chappie Tony.

And as Mitzy turns to wave at Tony in this bizarre scene, Chad pans his camera the length of our heroine's body, lingering particularly long on her bust and rear.

They then walk together to Tony and the car.

I'll admit, I'm intrigued so light another smoke and see what happens.

Instead of driving off, Chad and Mitzy get out of the car and set-up to do it all over again. Take 2, if you like..

So the scene is re-shot, but mid-way through, I think that there's been too much idling and excitement for one lunchtime and head back to work.

But as I walk back across the front of the station, Chad and Mitzy are walking behind me toward Tony and the car. The camera's still rolling.

So if this take is the one they use, then my rear is clearly in shot.

This means that I can honestly and without equivocation say that my (albeit trousered) arse is featured in a porno flick.

Yeah baby!

A Funny Thing Happened On The Tube Today..

Well actually it didn't.

Nothing ever amusing happens on the tube. The tube is inhuman and shit.

The end.

Caught By The Fuzz

No not me.

I'll explain..

Butterfield Green -- as its name suggests -- is a delightful spot in this north London neighbourhood undergoing fairly rapid economic and its attendant social change.

Stokie is the 'nappy valley' of the north -- counterpoint, say, to Clapham in the south. The two and three-storey victorian properties are increasingly being returned from flats to houses and it's where career-minded coupled-up folk of a northern persuasion migrate to from N1 for more space and to breed.

It has the sometimes chic, sometimes funky Church Street at its centre. It has a number of good and excellent gastropubs and restaurants in the vicinity. It has authentic toy shops and designer boutiques. In many ways a middle class area on the 'up.'

But it also has a legacy -- that of enclaves of ethnic communities, equal-opportunities poverty cutting across nationality and origin and a lot of social housing. This is Hackney, after all.

But somehow the haves and have-nots and those in-between seem to co-exist pretty well. I think a lot of that is to do with the community-mindedness of the various cultural groups here and also to hands-off, low-key approach of the police who usually do their rounds on mountain bikes.

So back to the green..

The green is where Ems and I spend a lot of time. It's handier in the morning and evening than the much bigger Clissold Park.

We share it with all types. Other dog walkers, mums and dads with prams, buggies and kiddies. And of course, drunks, druggies and the human flotsam damaged by the aforementioned vices and mental illness.

Ems loves it because she can run and sniff and chase squirrels. Also, city people don't really understand wild-(and no-so)-life too well so think they're doing their 'bit' by leaving all manner of leftover delicacies scattered liberally to support foxes, pigeons, badgers, squirrels and -- ehem -- greedy springers.

So this evening we do our usual thing, Ems and I. We hit the green. OK, the area might be some kind of 'can't we all just get along' social shangri-la poster child for New Labour.. most of the time. But this is London so I always scope the place for lurkers and n'ere-do-wells -- which is especially important as it's usually dark at this time of the year when we're there.

Tonight in addition to mums and cyclists there are three guys -- one 'Swampy'-type and two chavs -- just sitting on a bench and in clear view. My in-built metropolitan radar clocks them, assesses the threat-level and deems them low risk. So we continue. Ems, nose-down sniffing, me head-down paying actively no attention.

Then out of nowhere four policemen appear and apprehend our companions. Questioning, 'direct' language and body searches. Heck, drama.

Ems gets interested and she gets excited. Stuff's happening and she wants to be part of the action. She sidles-up and sniffs a lot which only makes the police officers even keener to continue with their line of questioning and body searchng. She starts barking and the police really start getting interested in our dopers. Then she starts wagging her tail -- a lot -- as well as sniffing and barking. She's caught hold of a really interesting smell and is greatly intrigued.

The police are now taking her name and address and have her in their sights as a key witness.

Frankly, I'm thinking witness protection.

Anyway, the 'frighteners' duly applied and names and pack-drill done with, the police depart and our 'neighbours' are left to their idlng and shooting daggers in our direction.

Ems is only a dog and thinks everyone's her friend and these chaps are really good fun, so she wanders back over, barks, wags and lies on her back for a tummy tickle.

This overture of friendliness from her is not well received and she's roundly told to 'gercha' if she knows what's good for her.

I know what's good for me so I'm moving out to the country and she's going to Battersea.

Snitch.

(Don't Let Me Be) Misunderstood

Interestingly, a post of a couple of weeks ago where I waxed (almost, sic.) lyrical about the new job has done the rounds at the 'old firm' and has been interpreted as some kind of 'screw you' parting shot. Which, if the truth were told, is patently untrue.

Much of that post -- to my mind at least -- was an acknowledgement of my now having the kind of role that better suits me and an admission of my agency-life shortcomings. Well, at least that's how it was intended.

OK, there was a nod to the occasional shenannigan and disquiet at some -- notably uncatalogued -- instances, but that happens everywhere and hey, life's too short.

A few sailent points:
1. I see no point in 'sticking the knife in' here on this humble blog. If there were things to say, then I would have said them at the right time. Ref: life being short
2. I moved for a lot of very good reasons, and not an inconsiderable number of monthly and annual noughts
3. And if I hated the place so much, why then would I now give them a brief for good business and potentially good £££s?

All-in-all I'm rather touched that folk are actually reading all this. I thought it was merely a channel of communication with my ex-pat mates Norfolk Dumpling and The Gooner Of Ill-Repute.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe 'they' hate me. Afterall, I've still not received my severance cheque from the old firm after many assurances that it's 'in the post.' (Oh, it's OK. It's only the mortgage..)

Ambiguity's bad. Mmm-kay? Misinterpretation's worse. Mmm-kay? And, ehem, 'frick' is the worst word you can say.. ;-)

Convenience Food

Discovery. The new firm has a canteen.

OK, it's not a cure for the common cold, but it floats my boat. I've never worked for a company that has a staff canteen before.

And it's not some sort of throwback to school dinners either -- which is good as we don't want Jamie-Bloody-Oliver going all indignant mockey on us. The food, while basic (think fish and chips, steak & kidney pie etc.), is good. There's a salad bar too.

The important thing though, is that it's cheap. Dirt cheap. Much cheaper than the ubiquitous M&S sarnie that fuels Britain's workers.

Moreover, it does breakfast too. Cereal, toast, cooked, coffee, juice.

I won't do it every day, but a full English is a rather satisfying end-of-the-working-week treat

Who Let The Drogs Out?

Two seasons of underperformance and missed opportunities. Now Didier can't stop scoring. And the world's best striker can't get a look in.

What a terrible state of affairs ;-)

All The Ugly People

It's a conspiracy and it's deepening.

Not content with the proletarian commuting masses being royal pains in the arse -- twice daily weaving randomly without consideration for where they tread, now something more sinister is afoot. They're all -- to a man, woman and child -- getting uglier too.

These foul creatures look unkempt, dishevelled, either mal- or over-nourished and not a one is the slightest bit pleasing to the gaze.

Some seem genuinely suicidal -- such is the clear misery of this woeful existance.

Maybe though it's mere consequence of the diurnal grind of the commute.

I can now better understand why one or two of the more sad extreme cases routinely throw themselves on the tracks. Better that than boarding the over-heated and over-crowded god-awful Northern Line from Camden to Embankment, or wherever.

They have the look of Bruegel about them. All twisted limbs and mishapen features. It's a horror, I tell you. Not quite a Bosch-like nightmare vision of hell yet, but it surely can only be weeks away until my compainions on the daily journey morph once and for all into extras from a George Romero film..

The Victorians had it right. Gather up the whole sorry lot of 'em and lock them away in Bedlam. Encourage paying punters to gawp and their desolation and in doing so feel gratitude that they have cars.

Penury

Moving jobs is all very well, but employers only pay in arrears -- weekly, fortnightly or monthly. Mine always pay monthly.

And this unfortunate fact means that with a two-week break in payment cycles and little if anything forthcoming from the new employers until the end of October, I'm (we're) utterly, utterly broke.

No really. It's bad and not the self-serving whinging of the professional middle-class aghast at the injustice of having to go a few weeks without the essentials like Dom Perignon or smoke salmon butties.

This month ahead we're really going to struggle to make mortgage and utility payments and P is the main 'bread-winner' who'll have to make the sizeable out-goings alone.

I know it's only temporary and things will be more than alright in a month's time when I'm properly back on track and the 'big picture is indeed, very rosey. We're motoring-ahead with the flat sale and all will be more than right soon-enough. Equally, we're both very much aware of how lucky we are in relative terms, but it doesn't diminish just how helpless I feel at the moment.

So in the short-term, if timing's everything, then mine's lousy, and pedantry doesn't keep the gas supplied..

Worthy Of Celebration..?

OneWebDay (erm..), The Ryder Cup and it's Friday (even better -- afternoon, so nearly time to knock-off).

OK, it's still raining outside, but there's enough here to justify and pint or two in the Shakespeare this evening.



..Now, we've just got to beat Fulham away tomorrow for real cause for happiness. And their drubbing at home to Wycombe this week augers well..

Thank you Tim B-L. Thank you Woosie (-ish). Thank you, of course, Special One.

Brownium Motion Redux

Sorry to moan, but another Meldrew Moment from old London town.

So it rained a bit overnight and first thing this morning. I can see that this is a somewhat catastrophic event after the glorious sunshine of the week. But damn, everyone seems so down-cast.

Actually, down-cast is indeed the position of everyone's heads.

NO ONE looked up from the floor or pavement all the way here. From my front door all the way to the office all Londoner's eyes were cast downward.



Now with some nine milion people living here and a further six or seven commuting-in each day, there's a lot of folk clogging the place. And if none of these people are looking where they're going...

No Jags, Two Dogs

OK, so I can't drive to work because there aren't enough parking spaces at the mo'.

This is a wee challenge for me as I'm long used to the (relative) comfort of the calm, air-conditioned cocoon of my car. I know that London is overburdened with noxious polluting four-wheeled vehicles, but the bus/tube combination -- something that's standard daily practice for most Londoners -- is rather new to me.

It's really not so bad and the journey is quite painless and, indeed, rather pleasant. I'm armed with Travelcard, iPod and a good (sic) book -- a tracy Emin auto-biography. But I've forgotten how random and Brownium Motion-like the Capital's commuters are, bouncing oblivious into one another.

Q: Should there be a pedestrian efficiency test as there was for cyclists when I was a nipper?

So nowadays the nippy little Mini is relegated to the weekend run to Homebase, B&Q, IKEA and weekends away. That's as it (economically-speaking) really should be, I guess.

But heck, it's hot in the city right now as we're undergoing a late September heatwave.

So tonight I pitch-up at home kinda hot and bothered.

My greeting this evening though was even more vocal than usual. Emmie's deep and annoyingly incessant 'woof' is multiplied by little Bela, our friends Jon & Lana's bundle of canine joy.

These two 'terrors' only egg one another on and encourage each other into increasing naughtiness. And, of course, I'm home alone and sans support from the wonderful P -- who has convinently redoubled her weekday social life.

And to add insult to injury, I now want to know is which one of these furry critters has chewed my shiney new Oyster Card..?

New Dog, Old Tricks

Well, I'm now into day four of the new job.

All rather impressive. A grand title and quite generous package for large NYSE-listed company that provides research and consulting services to the global healthcare industry.

While it's a big and complex company undergoing an exciting period of change and redirection, it's also very grown-up in terms of its people and processes.

It's so refreshing to be among a myriad of folk dedicated to their own particular specialism pulling together to a common end. So much better than trying to be all things to all people as was previously the case (I'm no finance whizz, nor am I a people manager). Moreover, it's just great to be able to get on with my own specialism in synch with peers within complementary disciplines.

I know it's still only early days and we're each in besotted 'honeymoon' period. I know too that things will get tough from time to time and there will be inevitable politics and personality issues to contend with. But I'm very happy to be in the right place for me and far, far away from the frankly petty, spiteful and stupid school-yard behaviour of some at the old firm.

Ugh, A Good One Though..

Well after nearly 11 years, Immie and Ade finally tied the knot yesterday.

Not surprisingly, given the couple's reputation as 'party animals', the do was a boozy affair and Pippa and I are feeling rather weary today. The fact of a long journey back from Teeside too is a contributory factor.

So again, I post about a wedding, but this one is important -- not just the fact that they are wonderful people and dear friends to us both -- but for the fact that Immie thought Pippa and I would make a good match and made a lot of effort to introduce us to one another a few years ago.

The service was lovely with Immie sobbing through her vows (ah). And the event was made even more touching by Pippa's sister Penny's rendition of Ave Maria -- something she also performed for us in July. Additionally, one of Ade's best friends Jason died in a boating accident in the Channel a few weeks ago, so the occasion was marked by further irony and reflection, but not in a maudlin way, but with dignity and reverance. I must also mention that Mark's best man speech as excellent.

Of course, as we always seem to travel sans camera, there are no photos to share here, but I'm sure other folk will send around theirs over the next couple of days.

And finally the happy couple are 'copying' us again in their honeymoon tour of Italy.

So cheers again to a thoroughly lovely couple, without whom Pippa and I wouldn't be together.

Weddings: Ours, At Last

After months of detailed planning, hardly anything was left to chance and the event went off brilliantly well -- at both the magnificent St. Bride's, Fleet Street and Dartmouth House.

We returned from our honeymoon tour of Italy late last week to take receipt of the wedding photos (online and password-protected I'm afraid), which are a delightful reminder of a day that disappeared all too quickly in a blur.

Suffice it to say that Pippa and I were overwhelmed by the efforts made by our friends and families and generally overjoyed with everything.

But now over three weeks have passed, so I’ll err to the fresher reportage of my old mate and excellent deliverer of the John Cooper Clarke reading -- the irrepressible nortfolkdumpling. Link to the right and scroll to 11th July posts.

There are pics here too -- thankfully.

Been Away Awhile

Just now returned from the wedding and honeymoon in Italy after a rather protracted abscence.

For obvious reasons I didn't travel with a laptop, so didn't maintain an on-going update here. But I do have a few hastily scribbled notes -- some of which are a wee bit illegible on account of the Pinot Grigio. But heck, I was on holiday.

Suffice it to say, there is much to write about and pictures to post over the coming days (sic).

Also, I'm about to embark upon an epic adventure in battle with the foul and wasteful Thames Water (TW), which insists on randomly digging-up the pavement outside our house and whose aging pipes I blame completely for our rising damp.

Oh, btw: Stop the press. Italy is very hot in the summer. Its cities are also very ancient -- so much more than ours. But surprise surprise, Italy's water system runs very efficiently and its verdant fields are throughly irrigated. And there's noticable abscence of its utility cos digging-up its roads every few metres.

I know Italy's football league is utterly corrupt, as is its government -- but then so's ours. ..And the food's generally better.

There are lessons here and vitriol aplenty...

Thieving Little..

Well after six months we've finally become victims of north London crime.

In the dead of last night our three topiaries and lovely Columbia Road planters were half-hinched from outside our front window / light well. (They had grown and filled-out a lot since this photo from my March entry).



Some four foot high and full of earth these beauties would have been rather heavy and awkward to maneuver -- which suggests malice aforethought. The heist would have required detailed and careful planning and the involvement of more than one n'er-do-well and a sizeable get-away vehicle.

Mine and Emmie's walks will now extend beyond the park. We will become an eagle-eyed 'dynamic duo' patrolling the neighbouring streets in search of our planting and in defense of all good law-abiding amateur horticulturalists everywhere.

So, garden robbers of N16 -- you've been warned..

Who's Behind The Wheel?

Everyone's having a 'pop' at our so-called chavs flying the Cross Of St. George flags from their cars and white vans.



Personally, I have no problem with people showing their excitement for the World Cup and publicly demonstrating their support of our albeit depleted team. OK, it's a bit silly, but then this silly competition does make even the most sober of us a little wobbly. It'll all be over in a few weeks and all will return to normal.

It's their look out if they want waste their burger money by needlessly guzzling petrol (the flags cause drag and therefore drink more petrol, sort-of like driving along the motorway with the windows open).

What gets me is the idiots that clog the roads day-in and day-out, football or no. Who are these menaces to society?

It's the: I'm So Proud Of The Fact That I'm A Parent And Aren't I Clever To Have Managed To Have Procreated? Don't You Just Envy Me For My Bundle Of Joy? I'm So Smug In My 4x4 With Sorted Professional Hubby And Happy Suburban Nuclear Family. Oh, Please Drive Carefully As Babba Is Soooo Precious To Us, And Forgive Me For Not Paying Attention To The Road, Traffic Signals, Other Road Users Or Pedestrians Because I'm Yabbering Baby Boo-Boo-Talk To Babba In The Car Seat On The Backseat...'



Let the bloody kid drive the damn car. It'll probably do a better job than you, you prat!

It's Coming..

World Cup fever is truly here.

The last week of anticipation and countdown has been almost unbearable.

Yesterday's opening ceremony gave the world the bizarre spectacle of hundreds of German chaps in lederhosen seemingly fornicating with large bells. And who ever said that our Teutonic friends lack humour. Fantastic!

The weird ritual of mass man-on-metal copulation clearly did the trick for the host nation's team -- which won an amazing opening drama against Costa Rica.



And today, at 2pm our campaign begins in earnest against Paraguay.

While I'm fearful that we probably won't win and will be summarily expelled from the competiton on penalties in the Quarter or Semi Finals, I, like the many millions of my countrymen and women can still dream of glory.

I was born in the year that England last (and first) won the World Cup, and 40 years on, maybe there's a mathematical symmetry at play..?

We do, of course, have probably the strongest national team assembled since '66, and even without the recovering Rooney, the well balanced squad is almost to a man at-peak-performance (with the obvious exception of Campbell).

Unusually for a Saturday, I've been up since 5:00am -- like a kid at Christmas -- and I know it has nothing to do with work or wedding stress. I literally can't wait.

To co-opt the now famous song -- I still believe.

Evensong

Naturally, we're trying hard to make it to St.Bride's as often as possible -- usually a couple of time a month. It is afterall the place where we'll soon be married. But it is a truly lovely place and something we both feel strongly connected to. It's so nice to be on the electoral roll there and to be part of the parish's open and welcoming community.

Not only is St. Bride's a wonderful example of Wren's genius, but it's a spectacular building of quiet and peace.

But worthy of note is that the choir is amazing and Evensong is when they really shine. Afterall, this service is really all about them and their songs of praise. The musical selection at Evensong is always challenging and a real test of their ability and importantly, they never fail to delight.

As the 6:30pm on a Sunday slot is rarely well attended it's like having a private concert. And with outstanding acoustics and the idyllic setting one cannot help but feel very privilidged.

OK, they come at a price, but are so incredibly talented, their contribution to our own little service will be phenomonal.

Weddings: Other People's 2.0

We're just back from a lovely wedding in the Bedfordshire countryside -- made more glorious by the fact of it also being a truly sweltering day.

It was a great opportunity to not only review our own checklist of things that really really really need sorting, but to be reminded of what all this stress and expense is actually all about.

Thank you very much Frances and James for inviting us to your splendid nuptials and giving us a lovely day. But moreover, by providing us with a timely reminder of why we're doing the same in only four weeks.

It all makes perfect sense.

Karma Police

I'm not superstitious, but there's something going on.

Last night, instead of behaving and doing her usual pee and sniff around the garden, Ems bolted for freedom over the fence and into the neighbour's garden.

Now this isn't a unique occurrence as she is an inquisitive dog by nature and our fencing remains atrocious. But I have trained her (or at least I thought I had), to only go out long enough to empty her bladder and return directly to the house before bedtime.

Simply, it's just not cool to be calling -- as quietly as possible -- after a willful dog at 11:00pm. A combination of needing to train her and my anger meant that she got a relatively light smack on the bum and a telling-off.

But this morning we awoke to a house sans electricity.

Bad karma or just unfortunate coincidence?

A nice man from London Electricity came round very quickly and the lekkie was very soon restored.

All well so far and reparations made with dog with long walk in an empty park on this lovely first day of true summer morning.

But just now, while selecting Razorlight on the iPod my beloved framed original A1 B&W signed print of The Clash by Bob Gruin fell off the wall. The strong wire hanger snapped. Also, I notice that the frame and picture have buckled due to the dampness of the wall behind.



Joe clearly disapproves of the Razors and my lapse in effective animal husbandry.

And my karma is clearly in a dire state.

I'm heartily sorry Mr. S and will remain under complete control for the rest of the weekend.

About Blinkin' Time Too

One of the things about keeping a blog is maintaining a frequency of posts.

Well that's been practically impossible for the last few weeks with one thing and another..

Anyway, enough of that. Let's keep this thing going.

Why have I been 'offline' for nearly three weeks? Well, we're four weeks away from the wedding, and you wouldn't believe the shenanigans that goes with that. (OK, you might). Also, work for us both has been very busy and frankly, we're both knackered and find ourselves standing together at logger-heads with the rest of the world about this or that -- or that's how it seems.

How selfish of us to think of this one day in our lives to be soley about us and us alone.

Enough dammit. There's always a few minutes in most days to compose a word or two. It might not change the world or indeed, how our lives play out, but at least I'll have an outlet to vent.

Clive's World Order is back, and back with bile a-plenty.

Gloves off.