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.

Miss. P's Violent Education

Aside from the customary and indeed, frequent discussions of wedding-related matters (it's only seven weeks away), P and I continue in our programme of advanced 'getting-to-know-you-as-we'll-soon-be-life-parters.'

For me, this intails ingesting a lot of information about bags, shoes and accessories. I, of course, do her a disservice here as she does have a Masters in Political Science from LSE and a brain the size of a planet. She's about as far from a frock-obsessed air-kissers as Prince Naseem is a cautious driver. But then she does rather like bags and shoes and girlie things.

As a man, I'm a far simpler proposition. My profile to the right of here pretty-much covers it all. My taste in clothes runs to the classic -- which means I buy a single pair of Northampton-made English shoes (brogues, half-brogues and Oxfords), and all I do is re-sole them every year for the next 20. However, I do have a penchant for jazzing-up my outfits with stripey shirt -- especially those from Mr. Smith of Nottingham. But like my affection for food (covered some months ago here), my taste is fairly simple.

[I must add at this point, that P has just this minute brought me a plate of pan-fried aubergines -- yum.]

But I digress.

In recent weeks P's getting-to-know me has been about film and televisual entertainment. Sometimes this has proved to be a test for my beloved's delicate sensibilities.

With the wonders on-demand TV, I am indulging in re-sitting the entire six series of Cold Feet -- something that P completely missed first time around. ..Something to do with having a full and active social life, and being sans TV I belive. This, we agree, is fine programming and something for which we Brits have to be rightly proud of. Jimmy Nesbitt is an all-round top fella and even his Yellow Pages commericals are entertaining.

But on a more sinister note and with the football season over and nearly a month until the World Cup, the poor woman has had to sit with me as I run through my annual viewing of 'Godfathers I & II' and general first-class C/bloke features. Last night's Goodfellas I think, might have been a test too far. While she enjoyed the film overall and appreciated Scorsese's craft, the violence of it made her occasionally wince and the machismo was too much. Fridays for girlfriends and Saturdays for wives. I ask you..

Once Upon A Time In America, Scarface, Taxi Driver and Mean Streets may have to wait a while and be metred-out in more palatable doses over time.

So to re-dress the balance, tonight Matthew, I think it's Amelie or Chocolat.

E-uch! Rooney or no Rooney. Roll-on 10 June and the Paraguay game.

Aaaagggghhh!

Just one of those days, but dammit, I'm being tried.

London traffic is impossible. The city is basically a car park in the bits of road that are serviceable. Everywhere else it's under constant construction.

At work there's always an enticing 'rabbit hole' to bolt down, or some eejit being, well, an eejit.

Our wedding is progressing, but slowly. Painfully so.

And then there's the house and its attendant garden. I know the garden needs hacking, but I know nothing about plants and shrubs and have no idea where to start.

Finally, there's Emmie who needs attention and activity (me too).

Oh, and with Emms comes the green, and it's my self-appointed civic job to remove litter as we go. And each day, it's like painting the Forth Bridge.

Is cloning still illegal?

Weddings: Other People's

My cousin Maurice got hitched yesterday to his now wife Jo.

They were incredibly lucky with the perfect sunny, warm Spring weather. The set-up was perfect too with a lovely pub for a pre-nuptial sharpener just across the road from the old church in the idyllic village of Cookham Dean where they live.

The reception was at the phenomonal Inn On The Green and delivered what in my humble was the best wedding food I've ever had. It started with scallops, followed by impeccable suckling pig and finnished with tart tatin. Superb.

The speeches were great too, and the Best Man recounted a long forgotten, but wonderfully entertaining story of an unhappy 12-year-old Maurice's letter home from 'the back streets of Toulouse.' This is a classic tale of early-teenage angst and deserves to be published here at some point.

Anyway, here's a photo of the happy couple and one of us -- another happy couple with all this to look forward to in only a few short weeks.

Us


Them

The Final Countdown

S***! The wedding is only 10 weeks away!!

I think we're in good shape against the 'big picture,' but there's still so much yet to do. And all of it detail -- and details aren't my strong point.

And all these wee details come at a price too, of course.

OK, we're in good shape financially, but still there will be the inevitable surprises.

That's why I'm now looking around at what we might have to hoc, barter and sell. And after a somewhat gruesome feature in a recent weekend supplement, there's apparently a roaring trade in body parts.

So please feel free to browse my eBay pages at:
http://www.ebay.co.uk/clives_liver_kidney_bigtoes_indexfingers_earlobe

But I jest. It's really not so dire. Afterall, I was just named Employee Of The Week at my supplementary evening job at the Bayswater Road branch of McDonalds.

And with this on the CV, the sky's the limit and I'm hopeful that I'll interview well next week for Mr. Patel's coverted paper round.

Home Alone

I'm home alone this evening and in a bit of a fix food-wise.

Usually, this doesn't present a problem as I'm rather self-sufficient and will typically sort myself out with a pretty simple but relatively healthy (baked-beans-based) meal and settle into re-running series 1 of Spooks on on-demand TV.

I could go for the easy and obvious beans option, or be more adventurous and look deeply into the big well-stocked, if unfortunately-named continental silver fridge (think: Red Dwarf), and rustle-up something exotic.

The only problem is that I've just been given an Easter egg and am sorely tempted to indulge in a marathon, self-indulgent, teeth-fizzling sugar frenzy.

Clearly, I'm missing adult company and conversation (take note Miss P).

To make a point I could go 'hog wild' on the Cadbury's, get a serious rush going, tear-up the house and blame it all on the dog..

Two Wheels Good?

Someone in my ear-shot recently remarked upon a growing menace to London's public health, using the term to categorise this blight as 'London's Vermin.'

No, this isn't the Capital's beleaguered pigeons. Nasty, diseased little buggers they are, they aren't too smart and just don't know any better.

The gentleman in question was referring to cyclists.

Since 7/7 and the advent of CC cyclists are appearing from everywhere.

Don't get me wrong. I applaud this move to two wheeled transport. It's efficient, it's healthy and it's practically free. I used to cycle everywhere when I lived in Amsterdam.

But there's a critical difference. Amsterdam is a city designed and regulated to encourage the cyclist over and above all other forms of transports -- apart from the city's clanging, but excellent trams.

London's streets, as they are, just aren't equipped for cyclists. There's too much traffic outside the Congestion Zone and not enough road provision from cycle lanes.

With this in mind, I'm sympathetic to London's valiant cyclists. Really, I am. But being a put-upon minority is no reason for stupidity and arrogance.

London's cycling fraternity -- to a man, woman and the occasionally unwashed 'May Day Maniac' -- hit the road with a complete disregard for The Highway Code and consideration for other road users or pedestrians.

They fail to recognise (or stop at) traffic lights; don't stop at pedestrian crossings; they go the wrong way down one-way streets; many have iPod headphones in their ears; and most seem oblivious to the legitimate manoeuvres of other road users.. The list of daily offenses goes on. Oh, and of course, they get in the way of buses and taxis thereby slowing down the already crawling traffic.

Much of this is annoying to the majority, plain stupid and (durr) very dangerous.

So what can be done?

Well, the ever-increasing Congestion Zone is a lot clearer of traffic so cyclists should head into it.

But if Mayor Ken is so keen to encourage more engine-free two-wheelers onto the streets, he should invest in more cycle lanes. Equally, he should actively encourage acknowledgement of the rules-of-the-road and re-institute the Cycling Proficiency Test of my childhood (you get a nice badge too).

Finally, and most importantly, cyclists must acknowledge and act upon their own responsibility as road users and be considerate of all of us with whom they co-exist in this overcrowded city. Either that or plan ahead for hospital visits -- or worse.

And I Only Have Three Friends..

Well I just can't count, clearly.

'My lot' overwhelemed our house-warming party last night with folk flocking to N16 from all over the capital, and RJB and PJ from coming as far a-field as Holland.

Between 6:00pm and midnight we had about 35 people through the Stamford door -- not at all bad. Not least that with a lot of diary conflicts on Pip's side, the high proportion of guests were ostensibly my friends.

We're agreed that Alex and Katie are always going to be the couple that keep us up just that little bit later than we should and the people with whom we share that one or two glasses more than we really need. They then are the cause of our slightly sore heads..

A very big and sincere that you from both of us to all that made the effort to join us in celebrating our mega-mortgages.

C&P

Homes And Garden (Other People's..)

This is Claire and Alex's newly remodelled living room. Their whole house has been refitted, and has taken nearly five months. OK -- the job was late and way over budget, but heck, if this pic is anything to go by, it's well worth it.

Top work Atkinsons and congrats on your completely 'new home.'

Environmental Fascism

Dear Resident,

I am writing to let you know that from 27 February 2006, it will be compulsory for all households to separate their waste for recycling.

...Blah, blah, blah. Two more pages of condescending politico-blather from Comrade Jessica Crowe (any relation to arsehole Bob?), Deptuty Mayor and Cabinet Member for Environment, Hackney Council

Not only is this riddled with gramatical errors, it's patronising, authoritarian and frankly annoying.

I'm generally a well-balanced and reasonable man, and not one to construct a persecution complex of endless directed-at-me conspiracy theories.

All right, a lilly gilded, and I will admit to slight Meldrew tendencies.

But one thing that continues to really get my goat is Hackney Council. Not only am I paying two sets of monthly council taxes in an obscenely high band to one of the most expensive councils in the UK, but I seem to get precious little in return.

It's been a few months since my last rant about street cleaning and rubbish removal, and of course, nothing's changed. There are still enough discarded and rusting fridges, washing machines, PCs and TVs to make Albert Steptoe salivate with glee.

What are the council doing to remove this blight for our streets? Absolutely bloody nothing, of course.

I know because I call them often enough to remind them that our little part of N16 is fast resembling a neglected and underprivileged trailer park in the Deep South. I'm then politely reminded that 'Travellers' have rights too and this is a multi-racial, culturally diverse and all-round Eden of enlightened co-existence.

OK. I'm fine with this -- in principal. I canvassed for Kinnock between the wars don't you know. But, dammit, let's get the street cleaned.

But no. That's too simple. Simplicity doesn't provide enough opportunities for politically infirm career eejits to form committees, quangos and focus groups and have long pompous, self-serving meetings.

So instead of cleaning and clearing the streets, Hackney is gung-ho for recycling. Again, I'm broadly in support of this worth initiative. But -- surprise, surprise -- there's a gaping disconnect between concept and practical application.

Hackney now insist that we all adhere to a regimen of using colour-coded plastic bins for our recycled waste. Green, blue and brown for bottles and cans, paper and garden cuttings.

Again, great. Colour-codes are perfect for my Pooh Bear-sized male brain. Signpost something clearly enough, and I'll get there in the end..

The only problem is that these delightful municipal containers are amassed outside everyone’s front doors and littering the streets.

Simply, a lot of people just don't have the room to house these things, so instead keep them outside their homes to further serve the community as ready bins for anything that the idle passer-by chooses to lob in -- bottles (broken), beer cans, fast food packaging, spittle, vomit.. The list goes on.

Solution: More big recycling centres and more frequent emptying of said. This would not only ensure that we dutiful citizens comply with the junta's latest insane directive, but also means that our streets are clear, tidy and free of obstacles.

This is a photo from the recycling section of Hackney's own Web site -- I'm guessing that it's intended to make these dumb receptacles seem somehow desirable..?



I think you get the point.

I'll Be Mostly..

..Sitting with my feet up :-)

The Difference Between Country And The Blues

Country
Man drives his pick-up truck home from working double shift in a hot and smelly factory. He finds his small battered house empty with only the dog on the mat and a note from his woman that she's left him and taken all their belongings.
Sad. That's country.

Blues
Man finds his pick-up truck gone after working double shift at a hot and smelly factory. He walks 10 miles home in the cold pouring rain only to find his small, shabbly house empty with a note to from his woman to tell him that she's taken all their belongings, his truck *and* his dog.
Tragic. That's the blues

Sympathy For The Devil

The old addage that the Devil has all the best tunes rings true.

After spending a couple of hours listening to and selecting wedding-related Church music -- solo arias, choiral pieces, entry and exit organ ditties -- I'm a bit jaded and in need of some (sic) secular noise pollution.

It's not just me with jangled nerves, but Emms, while soothed by the arias (good dog), became rather agitated by the organ stuff for entry and exit of church. A lot of this is in the high range and therefore somewhat bothersome to a doggie's sensitive ears.

So now I'm working my way through some early Zep and all's well at 'Stamford.' (I've been allowed to name the house after a football ground, btw). I'm soothed by the heavy bluesy music and so too is the pooch.

Strangely, it was dull, overcast and drizzly while we reviewed the church music, but now the sun's come out and it's a lovely early Spring evening.

It's true. The Devil really does have all the good tunes, and his exultation can seemingly effect climate change too.

Now if I can just figure out how to play 'Stairway To Heaven' backwards through iTunes..

We're Gonna Be On Telly

I've just received a call from my estate agents who have passed-on a request from Sony to film a 'lifestyle' TV commercial at my empty and still un-sold batchelor flat.

The lovely Japanese people and their dharling Soho Square meejah luvvies are prepared to pay me £800 for a day's shoot, and the same amount for each day they need the place.

Let's hope it takes and week and that Messrs Spielberg, Scorsese and Coppola are watching.

BTW -- If you're in the market for a new city pad, or just want to inject a bit of pazazz into Mr. Kipling's cakes or Wall's Ice Cream, just call my people and we can 'do' breakfast.

Here's are a few pics of the old place to whet your appetite..

When Is A Hand-Man Not A Handy Man?

Answer: When he's a rock star in waiting.

Our mate Rusty who does the occasional job for us around the house -- most recently -- erecting the garden fence this week is doing something a lot less mundane tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Matthew, Rusty will be playing keys for Razorlight at The Royal Albert Hall. The thing is that Rusty is only playing on one song as The Razors are a four-piece guitar-led band. But he is playing on probably their best known track, Something Else -- *the* real crowd pleaser and probably their encore.

In addition to his 'moonlighting' in the Premier League, Rusty is also a key member of The Doctors Of Love -- gigging at a venue near you.

I'm not sure what all this means to us. Will his cost go through the roof or do we simply lose a damn good, (relatively) punctual and all-round nice guy to have around to Led Zeppelin-levels of excess?

Frankly, I'm dusting-off the old Gibson and re-learning the five or six chords I know.

Rusty -- take me with you..

Columbia Road Market

This is Columbia Road flower market in the East End. With Spring almost here and our garden a priority, this is where we'll be most Sunday mornings for a few months to come. As you can see, it's quite a bustling place and a cornucopia of all things flora -- all at a knock-down price.

Arbiters Of Idiocy

Idiotic journalists and their idiot editors sometimes strike deep..

This from last Sunday's Observer magazine.

The Rules: The Internet
Rule 5. If the most interesting thing you've done today is walk the dog, don't blog

Defiant. Moi?

My Favourite Things (These Are A few Of..)

Ekch. Julie Andrews? No. Just a bloke-like, Nick Hornby thing..

In descending order of randomness, and actual importance, 20 - 1:

1. Gretsche semi-acoustic guitar, vintage 1958. it's a beauty
2. iPod -- but then I do want to up-grade to mega-gig when it inevitably comes
3. Mini Cooper S -- so bloody cool and a daily joy
4. Early morning walks with Emms -- man, dog and getting sorted for the day ahead
5. Yeats' collected works
6. The Godfathers I & II -- God bless you Mr. C
7. Eames chair and foot stool -- on a promise..
8. The fact of having a garden, and soon having it "Homes and Garden"
9. That Mr. & Mrs. Chagall got jiggy in a Russian village and made Marc
10. Joe Strummer, and all his works
11. B&O telly -- the puppy's..
12. Coca cola chews -- an addiction
13. Blue Wave speakers (silver)
14. Sir Paul Smith of Nottingham
16. London -- the best city in the world and only imaginable place to live
16. RB & PJ -- 'spect
17=. My Dad -- my constant and amazing inspiration
17=. The Atkinsons -- all of four of 'em
19. Emmie, my lovely, wonderful, brilliant, fantastic dog (she talks too ;-)
20. Pippa my darling wife-to-be -- and the single person/thing I would happily trade all the above for..

William, It Was Really Nothing

Well not nothing really. Only the best *proper* no-nonsense pub in north London.

Why Are Men Stupid?

I know this is a question that women all over the world have a million answers to, but one I've ony recently come to ask -- of myself, of colleagues and sometimes friends.

I know why I'm stupid. I'll spare the armchair psychoanalytics, but I am -- from time to time -- stupid. Sometimes phenominally so. But it's now clear to me that stupidity among my gender is rife. It's everywhere.

Is it ego or testosterone (plus a multitude of other socio-policical-economic inputs), or a heady combination of the two+? Add alcohol, and -- God forbid -- you have a molitov cocktail..

In the workplace -- and indeed, anywhere where they are among the generally more mature, capable, intelligent, balanced, practical (etc.) women -- men's stupidity is only made more obvious.

I'm not saying that women are not without their faults, but any faults laid at the female of the species pale by comparion to the generally ****witted male.

Men are inconsistent, spineless, deceitful, spiteful and vain. This is their inherant stupidity. They are singluar -- which only serves to leave them exposed. Women -- sensible creatures that they are -- seek companionship, consensus, and find strength in solidarity and team. Men just lie and bollox it all up.

I've made a pledge not to name names here (apart from Pippa and Emmie in the main, and then only discretely and in a positive manner), and I won't break that. But sweet Jesus, I'm tested.

Men are stupid. Period. Fact. End-of. That's probably why -- if we're all honest as a gender -- we only ever have two or three close mates. It's just too hard work to deal with complete ****s with any frequency, expect loyalty and trust and consider them friends.

Home Improvement, After A Fashion

I wish I'd taken 'before' pictures as well as these 'after' shots of our little front well. Imagine it a filty, nasty cess pit -- and look at it now. All rather zen.



Unfortunately, the same can't be said of the indoors (especially the floors) or its inhabitant's current humour..

Cow, Dog. Dog, Cow..?

Natural camouflage is very important in north London

All-Day English

No, this is not an uninformed rant about immigration or anything so unpleasant. It's about good old, honest to goodness grub..

I admit it -- I do like the good things in life.

I consider myself a man of taste and am equipped with a smattering of education and an innate appreciation for quality in art, literature and design. I wouldn't say bon viveur, as it implies studied, insouant and almost greedily conspicuous consumption. No, my enjoyment of life is far more modest -- which I guess, is informed by what I like.

In matters of food, I'm well read and have a good grounding in world cuisine. My appetite can run to the exotic. I adore oysters for example. Indeed, a passion for oysters is something Pippa and I share. And one of my fondest recollections of our time together is hunkered-down for a couple of hours sampling the extensive menu of crustacea at New York's Grand Central Station. Actually, we're naming the tables at our wedding reception after varieties of oysters we've consumed and our top table will be 'Rock' -- which given my other major obsession, is appropriate ;-)

But by the same token, my taste is very basic. My ultimate 'comfort food' for example, is baked beans on toast -- all be it dolled-up with grated cheese and lashings of Lea & Perrins and ground black pepper.

But my greatest gastronomic delight is the plain old English breakfast. Not the one of Little Chefs and a million miles of road-side cafs and foul motorway service stations. Nor that of the urban 'greasy spoon' with tepid weak milky tea its ubiquitous accompaniment. No, I love my brekkie to consist of proper freshly-sourced bacon, sausage, tomato and mushroom cooked gently under a grill and drained of excess fat. This is what we have at home -- not often I hasten to add -- but every now and then as a wonderful treat and when richly deserved after trial, toil or triumph.

But with the all day English at the Londesborough just around the corner (and its sibling, The Talbot in the nearby de Beauvoir), there's no reason to stink-up our little kitchen in the morning. And the slight indulgence is made more a treat with the addition of a bloody mary or pint. This is where we go every fortnight or so -- either to lazily read the papers or just get out of the house and chat away from Ems.

So if you're ever in our bit of north London feeling a bit peckish and hanker for simple brilliance I heartily recommend this oasis. It's where I've just been, can't you tell..?

Passing Muster

Last night a very nice man from Battersea Dogs Home popped-by to check on how well Emmie is settling with us.

I'm please to report that she/we passed with flying colours. Clearly, the on-the-job training programme is paying-off and the three walkies a day are maintaining fine fettle.

But catostrophic events of Sunday might have also contributed to our good report.

On Sunday morning the dog *and* our whole house stank.

Cold as it was outside, all the windows were open; joss sticks lit like a hippy commune; and scented candles enough to warrent an evening of amour with the accompanying tones of Mr. B. White esq.

Another fact of life is that all dogs -- and especially springers -- love to roll in foul-smelling waste, excrement and carrion.

And true to her breed and more unpleasant instinct, our darling pooch happened upon the Holy Grail of foulness in the park and enjoyed a damn good roll in it too. I'm not sure what it was -- fox poo, decaying fauna, fox poo mixed with dead or mad cow, who knows -- but it really was noxious.

This was far too gross a substance to be dealt with by a customary wipe-off with a damp towel -- though I did try, but it only served to make matters worse and the smell more intense.

Nope -- it was into the bath and a shampoo and set for doggie dear. But lacking proper canine soap, I used a few applications of Pippa's expensive Bond Street stuff (heck, I use it too, so what's the harm?).

Suffice it to say, the results have been a triumph on three fronts. Emmie's coat is lovely and soft, shiny with great body [because she's worth it]. She was a little forlorn after the indignity of the bath, and therefore extremely biddable and very well behaved all day -- and since, I might add. Finally, her (sic) condition really impressed the inspector, so we may all continue in our peaceful cohabitation.

Our Humble Little Church

Impressive isn't it?

Rebuilt by Wren after the great fire, the tower is the inspiration to the traditional tiered wedding cake. It's also where we're getting hitched this summer.

Up Yours!

To all those oh so vocal critics..
It's a 'double' for us. And that'll do nicely, thanks.

Been Offline Awhile, Been Busy

'Life' gets in the way sometimes. So it's been with me and my posts.

So much going on; so much to do; and such little time. I'm not complaining, but things have been very hectic and upon reflection, hectic has been great.

Family, friends and a lot of work have all -- in their own way -- eaten-up my time for refection and random observation in the last week.

Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't play it any different. But we've been so full up with activity, I've had not time to think.

Ar work, Pippa and I have had our own individual trials of late, but sharing burdens has only served to provide one another with wise and balanced counsel, but also brought us even closer.

I'd begun to think that having a partner in 'roughly' the same field as me was a pain. We bring our work home each day, and heck, sometimes it's really tedious listening to one's own day-to-day experience played-back by one's co-habitee and partner -- especially when you're trying to switch off.

But this week, I had a fairly simple work problem -- one normally sorted very easily. But with so much riding on success and with so much else to do, I couldn't think straight and was really losing it.

I'll spare the details, but suffice it to say, Pip sorted me out. She claims only to have led me to my own natural and obvious solution to the problem -- an elegant one too, I might add.

But there's something about the woman with whom you're soon-to-be betrothed giving a look that says, "I'm not offering-up my life to a spineless wimp -- sort it out and fast," that galvinises clarity of thought and girds action.

She too, as noted, has had a tough time of late in the office, and I can only hope that my contribution has been equally as helpful.

Just Fast-Forward Through Today

Nothing today. Feeling terrible. Low. Ill. Kind-of non-specific, but not good.

At home. Burning-up the duvet. Now wet and smelly, it will have to be disposed-of, of course. Which is a shame as the bed's just been changed and the sheets are all bought new from Habitat this weekend..

Will try chicken soup and hope that an Eeling Comedy will provide cheer this avo.

Bird Flu From A Dog..?

Doggies are wonderful creatures. They give us companionship, they're faithful and *sometimes* obedient.

But we tend to forget one important thing about our beloved pets -- that they're animals, and not Disney characters.

It matters not how domesticated we make them, arrest their natural development keeping them in puppy-dom for the whole of their lives and address them as we would -- ikle, wickle -- babies.

No, your common-or-garden pooch is a beast. Regardless of breed, from poodle to pointer and retriever to rottweiler, the domestic dog is a killer -- and pretty adept at it too.

It's instinct. They're hunters at heart and only a short leap in genetic development from wolf or hyena.

Unfortunately, this very killer instinct might just have brought a plague upon all of us in the House of S.

I'll explain..

On Saturday Emmie and I went on our extra-long, extra-special weekend constitutional in Clissold Park. It was a lovely, sunny and warm morning. All was very well with the world and apart from a foggy head (a consequence of a rather riotous dinner party with Ade, Immie, Mark and Lady P.), we were, as the Welsh put it 'in God's pocket.'

On these walks Emmie likes to exercise her natural inclination to chase certain of the park's other inhabitants, notably its squirrels and pigeons. This is fine and rather amusing. She never catches them, and the squirrels drive her mad by taunting from upon high the silly excitable spaniel below.

But on this day, Emmie's instincts and reactions were sharp. Half-way through our journey, she literally caught a big old crow on the hop. The grounded, grubbing crow was too slow in its escape, and the quick-witted mutt had it in her vice-like grasp. She wouldn't let go and the foul bird was quickly a goner.

Alright. I must admit to a high degree of pleasure in MY DOG, the savage and valiant destroyer of vermin. I also found the scanalised response to this most natural of incidents by a local same-sex female couple very amusing.

But I am a wee bit concerned too.

The general feelings of achy, sore, drowsy, snottiness with which I'm currently afflicted might be residual evidence of Friday's indulgence or a benign strain of the common cold.

..But surely, it could also be the over-hyped and (maybe) over here Bird Flu. Am I Britain's first victim of this virulent pox and therefore soon-to-be cause celeb?

I hope not, but I do know that I'm off to Boots for Nurofen and Lemsip and might have to take to my bed for a few days..

Really Hacked-Off With Microsoft

I know I'm not alone, but I'm less than pleased with MS -- specifically, Explorer.

I've just spent ages scribbling words of wisdom (well, I was pleased with my efforts) for this blog, only to run spell-check and have the pop-up blocked. A refresh and 'back' in Explorer only served to delete this morning's efforts outright.

It would seem that another of those un-requested random MS upgrade added this unhelpful, and unnecessary little tool. ..Unnecessary as I have made my own personal provision to deal with the nasty blight of pop-ups..

Lesson learned. Create content in another format. Spell-check and review. Cut-and-paste into blog template and publish.

Everyone please buy an Apple or go Linux.

Humpf..

Knights Of The Road

Basic courtesies make the world go 'round.

I know I'm an old fuddy-duddy, but politeness costs nothing and makes for a more functional and happy society. Whether that's standing in line for or getting on a bus or tube; giving-up a seat for an older more infirm person or pregnant woman on said bus or tube; greeting people with a 'good morning' upon entering the office; or just being pleasant when buying a paper in the morning. You'll find that a courtesy is repaid right back to you.

It just feels good and gets things done.

Courtesy is especially important on the road. But it would seem that The Highway Code has gone out of the modern game -- especially in London.

It's really simple, all you Mad Max's out there on the Capital's streets. Signal before you maneuver, not as you do it or after the fact; acknowledge other drivers with a signal of thanks if they give way to you; get in the correct lane and don't lane-jump; and don't EVER maneuver on a cross junction.

Something happens to people when they get behind the wheel of two tons of machinery. They turn into pathologically aggressive and dangerous loons.

Everyone -- just chill. Take it easy. Follow the rules, and we'll all -- safely -- get to where we need to get to.

Don't follow the rules and fail to apply these basic courtesies and you'll really, really piss me off.

Barça, In Your Box

“They can say they are a great team. They can say they play very good football, they can say they have some of the best players in the world. You can agree or not. To say we are a long ball team is because they don’t see us play many times and especially because they don’t see other English teams play. I can tell you, we play very short!”
JM

More Wedding List-Related Musing

Of course, one of the great wedding-related joys we have yet to tackle is that other list. Not of attendees, but of gifts. Wey hey!

We've checked-out a few Web sites and made a single, if aborted, exploratory expedition to Tottenham Court Road.

This was cut short as my pathological aversion to shopping on Saturday afternoon's flared spectacularly and caused us to retire to a public house for libation and succor.

But looking around our drafty little home -- I'm constantly reminded there's so much to do and so many things we need.

The wedding is the ideal catalyst to bring improvement and luxury to our humble lives. After all, that's the point of it -- to help the newly-wedded couple set-up their first home together. The fact that we have Eames chairs, a Le Corbusier chaise lounge and B&O TV is neither here nor there. We need *more* tasteful luxury items, and I simply cannot function at this desk for much longer unless I can park my behind on another chair specifically designed for the purpose by the aforementioned Mr. Charles Eames.

So folks, after careful and diligent research, lengthy consideration and hours of Googling -- our list will be at Heals (http://www.heals.co.uk). Don't worry, Heals carries quite a lot of less-expensive items, though they may not appear on our list ;-)

This revelation has made me revise my contribution to the invitation list, and instead of sending my sack-load of invites by standard post, I shall be Fed-Ex-ing to ensure accurate and timely delivery.

The List: Pre-Wedded, Erm, Bliss..?

Weddings are a delight. The most important day of one's life.

They can be a minefield too.

A lot of planning goes into your average, and indeed, not-so-average wedding.

But don't get me wrong. A lot of wedding planning is easy. Once one recognises that there is a hitherto unknown 'cottage industry' that is The Wedding -- one of get-rich-quick suppliers who put mark-ups on *everything* (think invitations, favour boxes (eh?), food, drink, clothing, flowers, DJs, choirs etc.,) -- it's easy. Fix on a budget, and stick to it.

Then, as a couple you must decide on a location, find a church, suitable venue etc., and of course, stick to the budget. Everything, kinda, falls into place after that. The whole thing runs to a formula. Further, decide on the service (hymns, reading and so forth), menu, wine list, select a dress/morning suit/button-holes, best man/ushers, bride's maids, Stag and Hen excursions and so forth -- and always remember to stick to the budget.

The real difficulty is The List -- the list of invitees, that is.

For two people who come together after living some part of their respective lives as social animals and consequently amassing friends along the way, drawing the list and then editing it (and editing it, and editing it..) to fit to said budget is an unfathomably arduous and onerous task.

Another critical issue is precedent. That one or both have been invited to and/or attended other people's hitchings in the past is another fact of life and consequence of being on the planet long enough to pick-up an acquaintance or two along the way. A very important, and oft overlooked consideration here to recognise is that there is no statute of limitations to wedding invitations. A wedding invitation once issued and accepted is never erased in the minds of its givers -- even if said nuptials occurred two decades ago and the couple in question have long-since divorced or died. One is simply expected to repay the favour without question, and, of course, without regard to the ever diminishing budget. (Did I mention the importance of fiscal prudence?)

In this highly charged environment of manners, noses are quickly un-jointed.

I have little truck for this nonsense and prefer, in the main, to avoid confrontation. So in the interest of a peaceful life, I've decided to invite 750 of my closet friends and dear relatives to our most important day. Sod the budget.

Unfortunately, though, I am afraid that the Royal Mail's gargantuan ineptitude as it is, means that some 741 of those invitations, in all likelihood, will fail to reach their intended destinations.

Well that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Sir Charles Of The North

Butter wouldn't melt, would it?
But I promise you, behind that innocent exterior is one heap of mischief..

We Are Harvey Nicholls

Not quite there, but nearly..

Today, we went to Pippa's flat to clear out and transfer some odds and sods and a LOT of clothes.

When we moved in December, I was the one that relocated *everything*, while Pippa moved piecemeal -- a few things at a time. This seemed to be a sensible approach as we're still finding our way with the house, and frankly, between us, have too many things. Equally, there's yet a lot of work to do on the place -- so we are rather dusty most of the time.

But this morning's haul of a few 'essential' (additional) items has made the second bedroom, or 'boudoir' look like the stockroom of Harvey Nicholls. There's a painful, but necessary, cull ahead I fear..

During my time with the lovely Miss. P, I've learned a few important and useful things that contribute to well-balanced cohabitation. That women have quite specific clothing and designer preferences (this came as a revelation); that said clothing doesn't come cheap; and that choice is critical -- so quantity (as well a quality) is a must. I've learned too that I will never ever, ever, ever go wrong with a gift bought at the DvF boutique off Westbourne Grove, and that carefully chosen carbon-based baubles are indeed, a girl's best friend.

To make room for the contents of a month of London Fashion Weeks I've had to move my collection of stripy shirts -- not insignificant, in itself -- into to my own, now heaving wardrobe. Humpf. I must cull now too.

However, we did relocate a large pile of cookbooks -- something we've been without since moving (apart from the Nigel Slater Christmas gift). My own extensive *unused* collection of tomes by Jamie, Nigella, Rick et al are still packed in boxes under the stairs. As noted, we've work yet to do on the house and lack shelving. And as a non-cook these things were only ever kitchen ornamentation and never served as practical culinary guides. But, Pippa loves to cook, and is damn good at it too. She now has another avenue of choice, and one I applaud, nay, heartily encourage.

I can live with Harvey Nicks upstairs. Heck, I've got Pont de la Tour, The Ivy and Claridges downstairs.

My Name Is Joe

Yalla, Yalla indeed.

Filthy Old Sod

I've just heard The amazing Mr. M (the 'special one' to us mere mortals) talk on the radio about the state of the pitch at Stamford Bridge -- which is I must say, shocking. Jose said that the pitch is fine, and indeed, a lot better than many other Premiership grounds at this time of year and point in the season. He cited Everton, Sunderland, Man U and Middlesborough as having worse playing surfaces. That will of course, explain the Mighty Blue's drubbing on Teeside last weekend. Nothing to do with idleness or arrogance, then..

The point of the comment was in response to jibes from Barcelona that the playing surface in SW6 is -- if not unplayable, then far from scratch. Which, of course, is reasonable -- what with to-be-expected 'gamesmanship' ahead of the first leg of a major Champion's League fixture, and the painfully obvious fact that, well, it. [The 'official' reason is something to do with the stands being too high and not allowing the sun to properly shine on the hallowed turf.]

Jose, just let it be. Barca, mindful of defeat in last year's tie, are whinging ahead of another momentous defeat. Let them have their moan and excuse set-up. Say nothing and delight in the prospect of bringing the Champion's League title home to make the 'treble' a reality. I am.

Emmie Dear

Meet Emmie the excitable one.

Emmie loves running like a loon, getting wet and dirty, eating *anything* and sleeping.

I want a dog's life! 

For The love Of..

So tomorrow's St. Valentine's Day. Probably the worst example of a 'Hallmark Holiday' known to man. Well, after all, it's main target is us men.

If we men don't observe this coporately-imposed romantic occasion, then we're 'for it' -- or so we've all been programmed to believe.

So who was St. Valentine? 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?

No, this particular saint is important -- important enough to make some real money from. And that's just it. It's the fact that a global greetings card corporation -- in addition to all the other adjunct businesses chocolate, flower, ladies' apparel sellers, restaurants et al -- have decreed that I must think and act and *spend* romantically that really bugs me.

I like to consider myself as caring and conisderate of my beloved as the next man -- oftentimes more so. I'm always trying to be giving and spontanious.

But I just don't need a made-up, once a year 'holiday' to demonstrate my affection. Frankly, I find it offensive that Hallmark and friends seek to exploit our relationships to make a buck.

So this year I'm going on strike. I'm not buying a gift of chocolates or smellies. I'm not buying flowers. I'm not arranging a romantic dinner. I'm just not going to acknowledge it.

..D'j-ya right. Nice thought you deluded little revolutionary. Anyone know if Interflora deliver 24 hours?

Sometimes, there's nothing better than a fresh 'doorstep' sarnie.. 

Ahhh...

Ach, I'm not alone in loving Fridays, I know..

It's the end of a long week (for most of us), but coming home to 'my girls' - Pippa and Emmie - is a true delight.

Tonight Pippa cooked-up a chicken-based Moroccan dish (I wish I could recall its name). I don't know much about Moroccan cuisine, but prior to our life together, Pip had quite a passionate relationship with Marakesh. [*with* not *in* I might add.] She does something similar with lamb - which I prefer, btw. We spent the evening downstairs in the dining room talking, 'dumping' and exorcising the week that was. Just being together.

Before that, Emmie and I ran on the Green. Well, Emmie ran and I threw sticks. Such a happy, well adjusted and devoted dog.

At this late-ish hour with the low, soothing sound of early- mid Pink Floyd (Atom Heart Mother) as aural company in this rickety old house - our very happy home - with Emmie asleep behind my desk on 'the cow' and Pip asleep upstairs, I am truly at peace and I know what it means to love and be loved.

To think this simple domestic scenario was nigh-on impossible for me to conceive of a year ago is alien now. We have all come so far in only a year. For us to be together now and for the rest of our lives is such a blissful and comforting thought. I adore them with all my heart and am so committed to making them happy in every way I can - Pippa more of course ;-)

Life's A Gas

As a consequence of requiring heat, light and the facility to wash, I maintain commerical relationships with a number of utilities -- just like everyone.

And to manage the meagre funds at my disposal, I have a number of financial arrangements with a well-known UK high street lending bank.

The utilities and the financial services institutions are specialists -- hence my engagement of them to serve my specific needs.

But like those stories that appear from time to time in the tabloids of sheep that think they're dogs, British Gas keep sending me polite letters informing me of my mounting credit. Eh?

A series of increasingly fraught phone calls apprising said utility's call centre zombies of my meter readings and requesting that the ever-increasing deposit be returned to my bank -- surely the best repository for money -- is met with incomprehension.

One by one, re-animated dead Geordie after dead Geordie fails to fathom the reasoning behind my plea to have my money to reside in a bank -- where it 1. may earn interest, and 2. where I can access and spend it if I so wish.

My assertion that I don't plan any major, heavy-duty welding jobs requiring ready access to a massive supply of gas falls on deaf ears.

Simply, I just don't need to be £XXX in credit for gas. But I could use the cash in my current account.

George Romero -- get out of Gateshead!

Dog Trials and Doggie Tribulations

What is it about the denizens of N16 their nonsensical comfort in living amongst their own, home-grown squalor?

Like most Londoners, I have tended to pay little attention to the world around me, my attention fixed instead to the clock -- the next deadline, meeting, bus, tube and taxi.

Until Emmie, the 7-year old Springer Spaniel, came into our lives, I simple hadn't noticed the amount of rubbish on the capital's streets. Now my attention is firmly fixed to the pavement -- watchful of poochie -- awash with general litter; bin bags deposited some five or six days ahead of council collection; and the casually discarded bones from the plethora of 'finger-lickin' fried chicken vendors in the neighbourhood.

I'm not entirely sure what my two monthly payments to Hackney Council - amounting to £350 per month - contribute to, but it's clearly not efficient litter collection schemes, neighbourhood pride education programmes or public information campaigns to promote the correct use of municipal refuse collection points -- bins to you and me..

But then, it's not government - national or local's - responsibility is it? We're all accountable. And this rather broken and fragmented society can only begin to repair as basic courtesies return.

I for one, notice litter bins now, and I use them.

Emmie, though remains grateful to the many Stokie residents' willful abandonment of trash and the council's woeful refuse collection. Her walks are infinitely stimulating and oftentimes the source of a deep-fried feast.

She too has no regard for civic cleanliness, but then she is a dog -- and I have poo bags aplenty.