tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-308699332024-03-07T22:45:38.206+00:00Green IdeasLife in an investment bank collides with reality and one hard-working, under-bonused staff member lifts his bleary eyes from the treadmill and looks around, seeking nourishment for the soul, ideas to feed the mind and distractions from the end of the world as we know it.Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.comBlogger300125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-61921317159838367952014-06-16T20:51:00.002+01:002014-06-17T15:20:37.619+01:00a fridge in the garageOn Saturday some old friends came round for supper and they brought a fridge.<br />
<br />
Not just an ordinary fridge (for this was no ordinary supper) but a 144-bottle capacity wine-fridge: 174cm high, about the same weight as a 2m x 1m section of glass flooring, and about as easy to lift out of the van.<br />
<br />
The destination was the corner of my garage - at the far end of about 100m of roughly-surfaced back alley, all without the aid of huskies<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03vuONydljTr-xbP0qhLwboKs1mRXwKOSrFOmlhx7qXmFkRftQZog5fjS7ach8dM2KgdEA5j4NlOzREA-cnXy-dnrzgiFG4hi8HZQ_EP77CFj18wfhAzpV7vKLSQ4WJaaGV-FFw/s1600/20140616_203910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03vuONydljTr-xbP0qhLwboKs1mRXwKOSrFOmlhx7qXmFkRftQZog5fjS7ach8dM2KgdEA5j4NlOzREA-cnXy-dnrzgiFG4hi8HZQ_EP77CFj18wfhAzpV7vKLSQ4WJaaGV-FFw/s1600/20140616_203910.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
Luckily my friends had thought ahead and they had brought with them a small dentist’s trolley - by which I mean a small trolley belonging to a dentist, rather than a regular trolley belonging to a small dentist. Although on reflection it was both. Whatever: neither the trolley nor the dentist were capable of moving the fridge without the help of three grown men and lot of cursing.<br />
<br />
So anyway : my friends and I, and Botogol junior, set to with enthusiasm and carefully manoeuvred the fridge along the alley, into the garage and shoved it snugly into the corner, whereupon we replaced the shelves, filled it with two dozen bottles of prosecco (and three of ancient port) and switched it on. The motor hummed into life and I with pleasure. It will be just perfect for my Condrieu. If only I hadn't drunk both bottles.<br />
<br />
Then, because it was only three o clock and dinner wasn’t nearly ready yet, my friends took their van home, Botogol Jnr disappeared to play a game of no-racquet squash, and <i>the very moment they had all left</i> I changed my mind about where I wanted the fridge. So, I switched it off again, removed all the bottles and the shelves, remounted the wall-bracket for the lawnmower, moved the wheelbarrow and my Squires three-piece luxury rake set, and commenced the task of shifting a two-ton fridge to the diagonally opposite corner of the garage, entirely on my own, watched by a relaxed and amused Mrs Botogol, enjoying a glass of warm prosecco.<br />
<br />
I grunted and heaved; heaved and grunted.<br />
<br />
“You look like an Easter Islander with brand new moai”, Mrs B observed, not unkindly, “..so why don’t you move it the way they moved theirs?”, and with that she sauntered, light-footed out of the garage.<br />
<br />
“Of course”, I thought to myself, “I’ll fetch the axe and chop down the ornamental eucalyptus tree and make some rollers”<br />
<br />
....<br />
<br />
“I just don’t think they could have done it like this”, I remarked to Mrs Botogol, an hour or so later, sweating in the furnace heat of a garage no longer shaded by beautiful eucalyptus, pondering the crushed and sorry remains of seven tree-trunk rollers. “This will never work. The garage smells nice though”<br />
<br />
“You fool, Alibert”, she said, pushing her shoulder firmly against the fridge, and rocking it gently from side to side “That wasn’t <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yvvES47OdmY" target="_blank">the way they did it</a>”<br />
<br />
<br />
Q: If an ersatz writer and one-time blogger chops down an imaginary tree as a joke for his blog, but there is no one out there to read it, is it still funny?<br />
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Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-87572363165226481802014-04-26T12:50:00.003+01:002014-04-26T12:50:35.964+01:00A tree in the forest<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="308" mozallowfullscreen="" msallowfullscreen="" oallowfullscreen="" src="https://www.flickr.com/photos/avdezign/8711567213/in/photolist-egP4qH-62ZJnP-634ZA3-6BP8ww-634Zpd-634YL3-634Z3b-62ZJ8K-62ZJAp-b7aXb-R4gFR-chPwcW-8ozSDn-8ozSgn-4PDU6z-4F5SEr-9cpvpy-5R8ebT-6LzN2s-5CKdsH-aRbdfK-4sokd1-prTRy-7EswRe-ioy32t-5p2HfM-7QncKh-5LDsUK-3PMywv-DX5J2-fqNHnX-8msMJ1-aEvGm-Gnvsc-hhcrKV-6JtyTT-4JMNk3-eVvFNj-2vPew-PvLjQ-65SEHa-641Ywh-4PXcNR-eSL5eL-edzeur-4PXcCa-6ibJT4-4PXcHk-4PXcFZ-a7mD7D/player/" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
If a one-time blogger makes a new post on his<br />almost-abandoned, near-forgetten, blog, does anyone notice?</div>
Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-15623239850344415382011-05-27T12:45:00.001+01:002011-05-27T12:53:06.429+01:00Men on bikes<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/vubui/64232223/" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Lan in Flight by Vu Bui, on Flickr"><img alt="Lan in Flight" height="320px" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/25/64232223_a04285567d.jpg" width="240px" /></a> Struggling up the nasty ascent out of Alfriston, there were three of us: Three middle-aged men travelling the South Downs Way on mountain bikes. <br />
<br />
Monty and I were a little ahead when Tweeter, bringing up the rear, was severely displeased to be overtaken by ancient, hunch-backed hiker in shorts and wife-beater vest yomping up the hillside at quite a startling pace. <br />
<br />
The grey-stubbled loony evidently stoppeth one in three for as he drew level with my hard-pedalling, hard-suffering friend he held him with his glittering eye and muttered succinctly "You know what your problem is? your saddle's too low, you need cleats on your shoes and you're in the wrong gear". <br />
<br />
"So, did he say anything to you two?" Tweeter asked when he related the strange ecounter to us a few minutes later, lying in the sunshine on the iron age fort at the top of the Down (just a few metres above the Long Man of Wilmington, had we but known it ) <br />
<br />
Monty and I exchanged glances "Well yes - he said we looked... <em>weary... </em>he said he <em>felt</em> ... weary". And just at that moment a shadow flashed across us and we looked up in the sky "A buzzard?" I asked "some bird that's bigger?"<br />
<br />
We were on the South Downs Way, some 80 undulating miles of it. Well, "undulating" is one way of looking at it. "back-breakingly steep" would be another way. But another way again would "astonishingly beautiful" <br />
<br />
Fifty miles of bridleway we covered on the first day, then B&B in a country pub where, oddly, we met a wedding party, then thirty more miles the next day until after the hair-raising descent into Eastbourne that concludes the path we cycled another 30 miles along the coast to Rye and home. 115 miles altogether, four punctures, five new inner-tubes, one hair-raising double brake failure and a trip home for one of us to fetch a replacement bike. <br />
<br />
And just one crash: myself, on day two, painfully and irritatingly: no blood to show for it! What's the point of falling off your mountain bike onto the hard flinty downs but having no heroic trickle of dried blood from elbow to wrist? Oil-stained calves alone don't make you a real biker.<br />
<br />
<br />
The sun went behind a cloud and, re-energised by the view, and our rest on the ramparts, we got back on our bikes and pedalled away; it wasn't long before we caught up with the old man again, he was barracking a hapless inner-city group of kids on Duke of Edinburgh who were carrying insufficient fresh water. <br />
<br />
We ignored him and pedalled on, like one, that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him treadBotogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-92155140239500073042011-05-26T12:15:00.000+01:002011-05-26T12:15:37.441+01:00Miscellaneous Diversions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://onework.ru/wp-content/uploads/art/Kandinsky,%20Wassily%20(1866-1944)/Kandinsky%20Several%20Circles,%201926,%20oil%20on%20canvas,%20Solomon%20R.%20G.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="http://onework.ru/wp-content/uploads/art/Kandinsky,%20Wassily%20(1866-1944)/Kandinsky%20Several%20Circles,%201926,%20oil%20on%20canvas,%20Solomon%20R.%20G.jpg" t8="true" width="313px" /></a></div><ul><li>Fans of Question Time might enjoy the regular <a href="http://cityunslicker.blogspot.com/2011/05/question-time-qualifying.html">QT competition</a> on the Capitalists @ Work blog: Each week diverse group of cyber-people with nothing better to do with their time compete to predict what questions will be asked by the audience. The new season started last week, so it's not too late to join in this week - there'll be post for your predictions on <a href="http://cityunslicker.blogspot.com/">front page</a> at some time today </li>
<li>five <a href="http://blog.greenideas.com/view/flipcard">cute</a> <a href="http://blog.greenideas.com/view/mosaic">new</a> <a href="http://blog.greenideas.com/view/sidebar">ways</a> <a href="http://blog.greenideas.com/view/timeslide">to</a> <a href="http://blog.greenideas.com/view/snapshot">view</a> Greenideas</li>
<li>when surfing the web from time to time I mark interesting pages -- you can see them right here on the sidebar here or on <a href="http://www.delicious.com/botogol">delicious</a> (where there is an RSS feed) </li>
<li>the picture.. well you can never have too much Kandinsky, can you</li>
</ul>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-12097598607280660332011-05-19T09:50:00.000+01:002011-05-19T09:50:31.348+01:00When reading habits take a hold<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/chiefbarkingturd/5344286107/" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Books by Hidinhumiliation, on Flickr"><img alt="Books" height="156px" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5083/5344286107_f37336f6c9_m.jpg" width="240px" /></a>I must be over the hill: while Seamus McCauley <a href="http://www.virtualeconomics.co.uk/2011/05/in-search-of-lost-nostalgia.html">has the ability to keep track <em>in his head</em></a> of which page he has reached in his current book. I find I have trouble keeping track of which <em>book</em> it even was. <br />
<br />
To be honest: marking-the-right-book is the real purpose of my Kandinsky postcard sticking out from behind the cover, because it never marks the right page (how can it when I have fallen alseep the previous evening, slumped <strike>drunk</strike> exhausted in my armchair, the book sliding to the floor ?)<br />
<br />
With nothing to mark my place, my page-finding strategy, each evening when I resume duty, is to locate where the book naturally falls open (I admit it: I am a creaser and spine breaker) and then turn back a few pages until I find something I can remember and then re-commence from there. <br />
<br />
Alas, this strategy is flawed and can prevent me from <em>ever</em> reaching the end of a dullish book - indeed I habitually go backwards as with half a book completed and enthusiasm waning, I turn eight-or-ten pages back hunting for the familiar before re-reading just six-or-seven pages forward and then falling asleep all over again. <br />
<br />
I must possess at least a dozen books where I have read chapters 1-7 quite quickly, then most of chapter 8 five times before abandoning the book when re-encountering chapter 7 a second time from the opposite direction.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I should get a Kindle. <br />
<br />
But I worry that the systematic, ungamable organisation of a Kindle might shame me out of ever abandoning a book again: Do I want waste my life plodding through all those dreadful chapters 9 to 15? <br />
<br />
<div id="w9174468fede28f70ee68fd1988d050fc"></div><script charset="UTF-8" src="http://www.librarything.com/widget_get.php?userid=botogol&theID=w9174468fede28f70ee68fd1988d050fc" type="text/javascript">
</script><noscript></noscript>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-47445765578103081202011-05-17T21:23:00.001+01:002011-05-17T21:34:32.526+01:00The Garden Designer<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We've had our garden designed</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/-sel-/192168642/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="off the wall by Herr Saush, on Flickr"><img alt="off the wall" height="212" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/70/192168642_4d8c0d1d88.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off the Wall, by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/-sel-/">Herr Saush</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Well, you are lucky", said Emma (the garden designer) "because the <i>structure </i>of your garden is actually good! It's just the, um, plants that we'll work on".</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I asked Emma what she meant by <i>structure. </i>It means we already have a sunken sitting area; and brick walls.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I asked what was so wrong with the plants then? And Emma took out some photographs she had taken in our garden in March and spread them out, gingerly, on the kitchen table. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I noticed that the picture was taken from a folder labelled '</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>befores</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">'. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In her photographs our plants looked strangely random, and mainly brown. I glanced outside the window; she hadn't been enirely unfair. Mrs Botogol and I studied the pictures gravely, trying not to feel defensive. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then Emma dived into a folder labelled '</span></span><i style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">afters</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">' and then alongside her monochromatic snaps of of our drab beds she laid some photographs of gardens. Gardens of beauty and elegance; Flower-beds of exquisite colour and texture; Desirable havens of scent and pleasure, of sunshine and warmth. Mrs Botogol sighed approvingly, while I looked desperately from one side of the table to the other with a gowing realisation that I had been out-manoeuvred, this </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Emma was good, she was very, very good and this was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VKFtRedJxTw">set-up</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And like Steve Martin before me I had no alternative. I hands-upped to overwhelming force, agreed with everything, and made just two demands to salve my self respect: I'd decided we'd keep the coloured paint on the walls at least, and as part of the general clearing out the overgrown Bay Tree on the patio had to go.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It turns out that <i>white </i>walls are an intrinsic and important feature of Emma's design: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">white walls, removal of manky old pieces of trellis to be replaced with vine eyes and wire.. and a selection of plants that would give our beds some <i>structure</i>. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Yes, you mean brick walls and somewhere to sit?" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Don't be silly, dear", said Mrs Botogol, and Emma explained that with <i>plants </i>structure doesn't refer to seating areas: it means using fewer colours and, especially, repetition. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"So did you get a job lot or something, then?", said Mr Botogol Snr when he came round for lunch two weeks later.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">- "Yes, Dad, something like that, do you like them?" </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">- "Well, could it do with more variety?" </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I resisted the urge to smack him round the back of head and muttered instead about structure, and patterns and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>repitition</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3c3c3c; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">.. "Well, I expect so, son", he said, when I had finished, "Yes in fact I am sure you are right", and he surveyed the garden carefully. "Indeed", he said, "it's lovely ... but while they were doing all that - couldn't you have got them to cut down that giant Bay tree?"</span>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-70577003224458020432011-02-11T08:30:00.001+00:002011-02-11T08:30:01.325+00:00Different WorldsIf a fourteen year old wants to join a rugby club in England he has to register with the RFU There is a form and, being fourteen, he will likely be given the form to fill in himself [when they are seven, their Dad does it]<br />
<br />
After the routine of name, address, phone number, date-of-birth, what would you guess is the first thing the RFU want to know?<br />
<br />
Did you guess: <i>Have you played rugby before</i>?<br />
<br />
Nope, it's : <i>Ethnic Origin (Please tick where appropriate)</i><br />
<br />
These are the options, there are - I am not kidding - sixteen of them <sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">1</span></sup><br />
<ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">White: British</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">White: Irish</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">White: Other</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Chinese</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mixed: White & Black Caribbean</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mixed: White & Black African</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mixed: White & Asian</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mixed: Other</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Asian and Asian British: Indian</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Asian and Asian British: Pakistan</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Asian and Asian British: Bangladesh</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Asian and Asian British: Other</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Black or Black British: Caribbean</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Black or Black British: Africa</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Black or Black British: Other</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Other Ethnic Group</span></li>
</ul><br />
After evening training last week, one of our new joiners stared at the form, completely baffled.<br />
<br />
"What should I put ?" he asked me<br />
"Oh, don't worry about it", I said, "tick whichever you think fits you best"<br />
He thought about it<br />
"I think White-Other... I <i>was </i>born here"<br />
<br />
Slightly surprised, I glanced over my shoulder at him, that wasn't the option I had expected to hear, but he was pretty muddy.....I checked the name he had written on his form: <i>Ahmed Mahmood.</i><br />
<br />
"Is that OK?"<br />
"Sure".<br />
<br />
Somewhere in the RFU there must be teams of earnest data analysts giving colourful powerpoint to blazered alickadoos, analysing micro trends in the ethnic groups by which they divide their world. Their world comprises sixteen precise and bizarre categories. The the world occupied by a fourteen year rugby players in West London is a different world.<br />
<br />
==========================<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">1 - and no option for 'don't want to say'</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">2 - (obviously no, it wasn't that actual name no)</span>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-57642450271613775842011-02-08T08:29:00.004+00:002011-02-08T08:29:00.073+00:00Man DownWe have a house, we have a very old house in the country......and the drains are blocked.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lab2112/584978332/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" title="Are there really alligators in the sewers of NYC? [172/365] by Lab2112, on Flickr"><img alt="Are there really alligators in the sewers of NYC? [172/365]" height="500" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1307/584978332_944720fc8d.jpg" width="260" /></a><br />
This week, I have been mostly in our garden watching the excavation of a deep trench by two cheerful men from Dyno-Rod fortified only with Earl Grey tea laced with organic fruit sugar. ("tastes like washing up liquid")<br />
<br />
Dyno-Rod. <a href="http://www.dyno.com/">Dyno-Rod</a> Dyno-Rod. Does the name conjure up for you a national squad of trained and uniformed drain-busters, gradually working their way up the Dyno-ranks? Dear Reader, if you think that then you, are as mistaken as I was: it's a <a href="http://www.theukfranchisedirectory.net/page/dyno-rod/004157.php">franchise</a>. You order Dyno-Rod, you get a couple of blokes from Bexhill who paid £40,000 for a bright red van. And why not?<br />
<br />
First off, they prised up the ancient manhole cover on the terrace ("yeah, it is gull-poo, yeah, sorry about that"), and then with the clang of cast iron still ringing in our ears the three of us gathered to looked gravely down into the inspection pit. Professionals to the core all mention of the unpleasant contents within was politely eschewed, as two expert pairs of eyes, and one amateur, carefully sized up the direction of the foul drain.<br />
<br />
It ran down the slope directly toward the only obstacle on my lawn: my carefully-level 12 foot trampoline... of course it did.<br />
<br />
The trampoline had to be shifted. The three of us grabbed the sides and on Dyno-Rod's smooth count we heaved, manfully. The contraption rose from its moorings and we grinned triumphantly to each other, brute force triumphs over nature..<br />
<br />
"OK, let's move it ... which way?"<br />
"Up the slope! let's go, 1..2...3... keep going.. keep going.. bit further..bit further.. <b>MIND THE MANHOLE</b>!"Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-53187777363649971752011-02-05T19:00:00.001+00:002011-02-07T17:56:11.969+00:00Gull DownA marital dilemma..<br />
<br />
An infrequent evening alone, <i>sans </i>children <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/aerokev/4910135134/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Photo 232/365 - Vanquished by Aerokev, on Flickr"><img alt="Photo 232/365 - Vanquished" height="266" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4121/4910135134_fa7d7f5d78.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Pic - Aerokev</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>a consequent table-for-two at the <a href="http://www.thegeorgeinrye.com/foodanddrink/">poshest restaurant</a> in town, our at-home pre-dinner bottle of Cotes du Rhone quite nicely half empty<br />
Mrs Botogol and I were on the point of leaving, just minutes from our rendez-vous with gastronomy, when the phone rang<br />
<br />
"It's <i>Gull Rescue</i>, Mr Botogol, we can come out to you after all. We're on our way - with you in five"<br />
<br />
"It was <i>Gull Rescue</i>, dear", I explained, "they can come out after all. They are on their way now"<br />
"But Alibert, our table is booked for... three minutes' time"<br />
"I know. Hmm.. there's only one solution", I said, "<i>One </i>of us must walk down to the George, claim our table, and then settle down to wait in the wing-backed leather chair in the lounge by the roaring fire, with an apple bellini .... while the <i>other </i>stays at home and helps chase an injured gull round the garden in the mud and rain"<br />
<a href="http://www.thegeorgeinrye.com/foodanddrink/"></a><br />
<br />
I looked at Mrs Botogol, and Mrs Botogol looked at me.. a marital dilemma..<br />
"I think", said she, pausing elaborately, "you'll want to take one for the blog"<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">-*-</div><br />
"Well there you go", said the man from Hastings Gull Rescue, as we approached the angry, cornered bird, down by the compost heap, under the trampoline "that's one of your Scandinavian gulls".<br />
I wondered how he could tell<br />
"They are completely different!" he told me, astonished; it was something to do with the head. "Now then, don't worry, they can't hurt you, just get a bit closer... move veeerrrryyyy slowly.. don't worry..... FOR GOD'S SAKE KEEP AWAY FROM ITS BEAK"<br />
<br />
We caught it quite quickly, and likely saved its life: the town foxes don't miss a gull with a broken wing on a February night. I thanked the brave catcher "I won't shake your hand, if you don't mind - never a good idea to loosen my grip" and Hastings Gull Rescue disappeared into the night, a £20 donation the richer.<br />
<br />
I surveyed the gull-poo all over our paving stones.. a job for the morning I reckoned, and hurried off down the High Street to rescue Mrs Botogol. I found her quite content, well into her second bellini.Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-31298125311734628872011-01-31T22:04:00.002+00:002011-01-31T22:05:50.886+00:00Street LifeHas anyone noticed the astonishing resemblence between London's Shard and Mordor's mighty Barad Dȗr? <br />
<br />
One is a fearsome monolith, a display of power and strength forged by deceit and ruthlessness, designed to dominate the wastelands around it for a thousand years. The other is a fictional creation of JRR Tolkein<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/8/8e/Mordor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/8/8e/Mordor.jpg" width="333" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Shard</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2011/1/26/1296063622691/Shard-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2011/1/26/1296063622691/Shard-007.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barad Dur</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-46834094047759593812011-01-26T08:01:00.000+00:002011-01-26T08:01:03.869+00:00Musical interludeTwo songs I've been a humming to myself<br />
<br />
This is the sort of band I'd like to play in... as if I had any musical talent at all.<br />
And the story song brings a tear to the eye...<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="youtube-player" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Vy-cTRr0TvM" title="YouTube video player" type="text/html" width="640"></iframe><br />
<br />
<a href="http://musicfog.com/home/2011/1/16/new-country-rehab-cameo.html">Cameo</a> by the cool and harmonious <i>New Country Rehab</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">-- # --</div><br />
Meanwhile, you'll need a heart of stone not to smile at :<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="youtube-player" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-yZMnEBGMR0" title="YouTube video player" type="text/html" width="640"></iframe><br />
<br />
<a href="http://draft.blogger.com/%3Ciframe%20title=%22YouTube%20video%20player%22%20class=%22youtube-player%22%20type=%22text/html%22%20width=%22640%22%20height=%22390%22%20src=%22http://www.youtube.com/embed/-yZMnEBGMR0%22%20frameborder=%220%22%20allowFullScreen%3E%3C/iframe%3E">Another Like You</a> by the geeky <i>Hayes Carll</i> with the implausibly sexy <i>Bonnie Whitmore</i>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-68429115088841120372011-01-24T20:36:00.001+00:002011-01-24T20:37:11.273+00:00Dancing to the wrong beat<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/gin_soak/2226507263/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="everybody dance now... by gin soak, on Flickr"><img alt="everybody dance now..." height="221" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2386/2226507263_ece7012534_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">photo: Gin Soak</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The building in which I work has a large and impressive foyer: marble-floored and marble-walled, a triple-height ceiling and a display of subtly expensive flowers that wouldn't look out of place at a Royal Wedding.<br />
<br />
Guarding the electronic gates are stationed three or four blank-faced security guards. Grey suited, ear-plugged and miked up, they stare impassively, but not disinterestedly, at the comings and goings of staff and visitors.<br />
<br />
Each morning as we approach the barriers we are required to hold out our photo-ID for inspection before swiping, the guards' brief glance a precaution against cards borrowed.. or stolen.<br />
<br />
Blank-faced and impassive all, that is, save one guard who finds a pleasure in his job that escapes the others. He's worked for the bank for about two months but still he grins and he beams. Each tiredly-proffered card is acknowledged with a point, a confidential smile, sometimes even a wink. A heavy bag draws a sigh of commiseration and a helpful hand through the barrier; nervous and uncertain interviewees are greeted and directed reassuringly. While his colleagues stand, still and unmoving against the wall, he paces back and forth, and dances from side to side, spinning on polished heels as flow of desk-bound executives parts around him. Twice I have seen a little skip of enthusiasm. He's a genuine character, familiar to all of us, a fixture who always draws a smile.<br />
<br />
But in our sober and serious, politically besieged investment bank he doesn't hit quite the right note; doesn't speak with the right voice. I don't expect he will last very much longer.Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-72472490669989405692010-10-29T00:37:00.000+01:002010-10-29T00:37:23.064+01:00We went to Tate Modern<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">... </span></span>to see the porcelain sunflower seeds. We found them<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTT9BsOijEN9kWayliASLzKR11s7gWr8dOHGgt7YhhurLjatfUItV6vEbMELjBiiPBR7ONXMXyKLGJg7VT3ASqvcAywcua9Ehs49MdLO24vrgodT2QSL1jTyPgw-Qkvtw1Atq2/s1600/IMAG0036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTT9BsOijEN9kWayliASLzKR11s7gWr8dOHGgt7YhhurLjatfUItV6vEbMELjBiiPBR7ONXMXyKLGJg7VT3ASqvcAywcua9Ehs49MdLO24vrgodT2QSL1jTyPgw-Qkvtw1Atq2/s320/IMAG0036.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-68645192998773645592010-10-25T22:24:00.001+01:002010-10-25T22:26:57.673+01:00At the hospital...Mrs Botogol was in her dressing gown whereas I still had my outdoor shoes on, so it was I who took our youngest on a late-night dash to the hospital (no, don't worry, he's fine).<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lauramary/105312327/" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="The Death Zone - Longer and Lower. Frenchay hospital, Bristol by Laura Mary, on Flickr"><img alt="The Death Zone - Longer and Lower. Frenchay hospital, Bristol" height="240" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/34/105312327_b767b5507a.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;">Picture - <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lauramary/">Laura Mary</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
"And why shouldn't it be <i>me</i>?", I thought to myself, as we retraced our route half-a-mile after a hurried wrong turn in Isleworth, "I am perfectly capable….. dammit has the entire hospital actually moved or something?"<br />
<br />
When I eventually found the West Middlesex (where it always has been, less than a mile away) I had no hesitation parking in the drop off zone, and sweeping confidently in through the doors of A&E.<br />
<br />
Then, facing the barrage of questions from the triage nurse I began to realise it was quite a long time since I'd had responsibility for any crisis of a medical nature<br />
<br />
"Does he have any long-term medical conditions" <br />
- "Um, well, not that I can think of" <br />
"I beg your pardon?" <br />
-"No. No he doesn't" <br />
A sharp look <br />
"Does he have any <i>allergies</i>?" <br />
- "Um, I don't think so - um, hang on - do you have any allergies, son?" <br />
-"no" <br />
- "no, he doesn't have any allergies" <br />
"Is he taking any medication at all at the moment" <br />
- "um, not so far as I….. Hang on…hey! are you taking any pills or anything?" <br />
- "no" <br />
- "no, he isn't" <br />
"Are all his vaccinations up to date" <br />
<br />
I stared defiantly into the eyes of the hostile nurse.<br />
- "Ok...I am going to say… 'yes' " <br />
She stared right back at me.. and eventually she made a small, disbelieving tick on her form.<br />
"Has he…" <br />
- "Right, now stop messing us about: I want a CBC, a Chem-7, an ECG and a Tox-screen, and start him on a general antibiotics for any infection"<br />
<br />
It's entirely possible I watch too much American hospital drama.<br />
<br />
They were very professional: they explained gently that such tests are not possible on the NHS outside of working hours and then they led us into a small and babyish play area in paediatrics to wait for the doctor, and meanwhile would I mind moving my car, please, no don't worry there's four people ahead of you so <i>plenty </i>of time before doctor will get here.<br />
<br />
The wait wasn't much fun. I had brought no small change for coffee machine, I had forgotten to bring my old-man reading glasses and all the other families in the unit spoke Polish or Hindi so there wasn't much conversation.<br />
<br />
After an hour or so young Botogol's colour had returned, and he was feeling a lot better, which must have been what the nurses were waiting for, because as soon it was absolutely clear that he had completely recovered and was ready to go home a sceptical doctor arrived "So, what is the matter with you then young man?"Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-71630170091861318702010-09-19T22:32:00.001+01:002010-09-20T08:29:15.548+01:00Protesting the Pope - LondonAlong with thousands of others I turned out on Saturday to march against the State Visit granted the Pope.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVKHFCvGfaTWHb7e9RZGISqrZHHpJrsSRhzsgeCziRfEtr-lqsQ__g6IiajEHud1N2i6sDr56CV4OkgQJHnPAnl_f1bz6kxe5HBcMGkIcRhT2zn8ppD92E18TeAPXcAEKHMhW/s1600/IMG_6881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVKHFCvGfaTWHb7e9RZGISqrZHHpJrsSRhzsgeCziRfEtr-lqsQ__g6IiajEHud1N2i6sDr56CV4OkgQJHnPAnl_f1bz6kxe5HBcMGkIcRhT2zn8ppD92E18TeAPXcAEKHMhW/s640/IMG_6881.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Here are some of the slogans and signs<br />
<br />
<embed flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&hl=en_US&feat=flashalbum&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fbotogol%2Falbumid%2F5518675057150101041%3Falt%3Drss%26kind%3Dphoto%26hl%3Den_US" height="400" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="600"></embed><br />
<br />
As a woman marched down Piccadilly with a brave banner <i>Raped at 6, Awaiting Justice at 28</i> two Catholics stood on the pavement with yellow and white papal flag, and cried 'shame'. To cheers, a marcher snatched their banner and galumphed away with it until another, incensed, forced him to give it up - and then she ran over, and handed it back.<br />
<br />
It was a very British demo.<br />
<br />
The procession stretched the length of Piccadilly. When the head of the march reached Downing Street, the tail was still in Trafalgar Square.<br />
<br />
There were <a href="http://www.google.co.uk/search?sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8&q=protest+pope+march#q=protest+pope+march&hl=en&prmd=ivn&source=univ&tbs=nws:1&tbo=u&ei=4H2WTI6EHY7KjAeq1bzWBQ&sa=X&oi=news_group&ct=title&resnum=1&ved=0CCYQqAIwAA&fp=f5e115eac40b99f5">more than 10,000</a> marchers protesting the Pope - the largest demo ever, against any modern Pope, anywhere<br />
<br />
I was so proud.Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-56546471245527192832010-09-17T12:35:00.001+01:002010-09-17T16:52:07.745+01:00Protesting the Pope - Strawberry HillOne of the Policemen opened a gap in the barrier and joined the side of the Angels<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnuW6pwAzPLw9ynTgnl8XItHwREfhr2K3rSBTXHmB0DYc16iLZvQm959gn42DxJCeNCjrpPQek1YORVjI_bIwtkU2phyphenhyphenN8dfXyAAw214kTLTRPfW6aadX-rKDh4IfARqYElOQ/s1600/IMG_6865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEnuW6pwAzPLw9ynTgnl8XItHwREfhr2K3rSBTXHmB0DYc16iLZvQm959gn42DxJCeNCjrpPQek1YORVjI_bIwtkU2phyphenhyphenN8dfXyAAw214kTLTRPfW6aadX-rKDh4IfARqYElOQ/s640/IMG_6865.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Protesting Angels</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div><div>The angels didn't speak much but they had a minder who was chatting with some cross-waving Irish ladies, patiently waiting to see their spiritual leader. "No, we aren't here to perform", he explained, smiling, "Actually we're from Gaydar, - we're here to protest"</div><div>"<i>Gaydar</i>?", they hadn't heard of it, "so you mean.... you are all gay?"</div><div>"Yes, exactly"</div><div>"Well, now I don't have anything against gay people, but really I don't think they should <i>flaunt </i>it"</div><div>There was a pause, and I asked the woman if she thought perhaps Pope was flaunting, at all, in his popemobile and white outfit, parading all around London, and she looked at me, astonished</div><div>"The Pope's not gay!"</div><div><br />
</div><div>Meanwhile the policeman was having a better time with the whole rapport and communication thing. Establishing that the angels were local he imagined that maybe they were part of the Richmond LBGT network? They were. "Oh, well you'll know one of the PCSOs at our nick then, he's quite involved there", and gave a name. They knew him.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Times have changed.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Considering it is a State visit that cost £20m to police it was a pretty small affair. Around 100 policemen watched 75 demonstrators and perhaps 300 supporters who lined the narrow pavements together and mixed good naturedly.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_C9xHUMVy6SkTZp90_rEmhLUvW70kfas_Q6mvRxmoS2QggUmEZILMBolvgIBqfvKUXcD-VhCrxIDut6hRnkJ_aQJU8JfRYhkyKg-yCpgGh3VfMjyH_vbWRi9MkSY31CjOjC8/s1600/IMG_6867.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_C9xHUMVy6SkTZp90_rEmhLUvW70kfas_Q6mvRxmoS2QggUmEZILMBolvgIBqfvKUXcD-VhCrxIDut6hRnkJ_aQJU8JfRYhkyKg-yCpgGh3VfMjyH_vbWRi9MkSY31CjOjC8/s640/IMG_6867.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Journalists patrolled up and down talking to protesters. Most of them chose to interview Nina, a photogenic and articulate young woman carrying an umbrella decorated with colourful condoms. She spoke eloquently about a woman's right to control her own fertility, and protect her own health. The mingling policeman asked her for her surname, which she declined to give. No one interviewed the catholics. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The sun shone and we waited; after a while a postman cycled up the road to wild cheers from the school children lining the side. Behind the protesters stood Peter Tatchell, thin and old looking now, in a sober suit "Look, it's that bloke from Channel 4", said a young protester.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFhQ4mJFM_axxpbMoM4h6WLhjjbjY1yv9A4BO8NRWq7MFWgv-nqmUxVcq8QkYzP2b_Aw3aSsgbPp1tIoF0f_jNkmJFNg0T_8Ci72IXzt8dHvfwjOwHU7J7Af00fHWyqPreVCS/s1600/IMG_6872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbFhQ4mJFM_axxpbMoM4h6WLhjjbjY1yv9A4BO8NRWq7MFWgv-nqmUxVcq8QkYzP2b_Aw3aSsgbPp1tIoF0f_jNkmJFNg0T_8Ci72IXzt8dHvfwjOwHU7J7Af00fHWyqPreVCS/s640/IMG_6872.JPG" width="424" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>The policemen shifted their weight, walked up and down, and explained that no, they didn't know when the Pope was due to arrive. The crowd basked in the sunshine. One top of St Mary's University, some armed police were visible with binoculars. A helicopter hovered.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And then the Pope arrived: invisible in a Jaguar behind dark glass windows, preceded by outriders and security his car came from the opposite direction from expected and dived directly behind the gates, not even passing the bulk of his school-age supporters, who were expecting him from the other direction. Blink and you'd have missed him.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The demonstrators built up a half-hearted chant of 'resign, resign' the catholics waved flags and whooped, and then it was all over; the crowd dispersed, I went for a bacon sandwich at the cafe and chatted with an earnest priest. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Tomorrow: the march</div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj69EyAr5ok2jn_LZacPA_vTSHIy-CIKrNgjK4G9jrbw5kDfGCnLOVFQcZ-aBJWk1a4voOQtyfSb5fnSm2IdOz05sLM9GmJ59wuO751QPWPbjvqbRw5vv_tr1Gn5lyXFrrrHjes/s1600/IMG_6875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj69EyAr5ok2jn_LZacPA_vTSHIy-CIKrNgjK4G9jrbw5kDfGCnLOVFQcZ-aBJWk1a4voOQtyfSb5fnSm2IdOz05sLM9GmJ59wuO751QPWPbjvqbRw5vv_tr1Gn5lyXFrrrHjes/s400/IMG_6875.JPG" width="379" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do your recognise this man? <br />
In the wake of the G20 all the police officers present were clearly identifiable: with their warrant numbers on their shoulders and and in many casesalso their names on their chests. Except this one. <br />
The red shoulder tags signify an Inspector.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-41265832387253207902010-09-06T22:19:00.001+01:002010-09-06T22:27:00.761+01:00Goin Giggin ~ Daughters ~ Caitlin RoseStanding outside Farringdon Station waiting for middle-daughter I took a moment to OCD our tickets a tenth time and now, of course, I notice what I hadn't noticed the previous nine times: <b>Strictly Over 18</b>. Hmm, middle daughter is just sixteen - Panic!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/efsb/4588561347/in/photostream/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4010/4588561347_061fdbf2cd.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><i>Caitlin Rose - photo </i><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/efsb/4588561347/in/photostream/"><i>efsb</i></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I consider our predicament: I can imagine the only thing more embarrassing for MD than being thrown out of a pub for being under-age, is being thrown out of a pub for being under age <i>accompanied by her Dad</i>. But surely all teenagers pass for can eighteen nowadays? Especially if not self-conscious, I think, and I determine I will not warn her... and simply hope for the best,<br />
<br />
"Hi Dad, so, where is this place we're going to?" <br />
"It's called the Slaughtered Lamb" <br />
"so, is it a pub?" <br />
"Well, it's sort of, kind of a pub thing, yes, I suppose it is" <br />
"Well, I hope it's not over 18 only!" <br />
"Just look inconspicuous." <br />
"Inconspicuous?" <br />
"hmm, no - look <i>grown up </i>and, um, inconspicuous"<br />
<br />
We were headed to see <a href="http://thecaitlinrose.com/">Caitlin Rose</a>, an exciting alt. country singer from Nashville, so new she is unknown to wikipedia, barely out of her teens herself, and currently on tour in the UK. She played last week in Clerkenwell the kind of show that I sometimes imagine travelling 3000 miles to hear in Austin, TX<sup>1</sup><br />
<br />
Sigh, I am not cool, we arrived at exactly the wrong time for a gig: too early for the main act (an hour and a half to wait!) but too late to secure one of the leather sofas directly in front of the stage (curses) . Unwilling to stand up we lounged on an uncomfortable bench behind a pillar and waited until the friends and family of the (quite dreadful) first support act got up and left; and then craftily nabbed the empty seats.<br />
<br />
When the support<sup>2</sup> was finished, a group of fresh faced kids invaded the stage to get it ready for Caitlin and her band. Then, to our astonishment, they picked up their guitars and stood ready at the mics. It <i>was </i>Caitlin's band: lead guitar Jeremy Fetzer, in particular looking like he had just obtained 11 A* at GCSE, and feeling excited about wearing his own clothes in the sixth form. He turned out to be a smooth guitarist, but he didn't like to sing, and shifted uneasily if a mic came too close.<br />
<br />
Caitlin Rose, on the other hand was assured and effortless. Her voice and delivery reminded me of Iris Dement, she handled the crowd with aplomb, only momentarily disconcerted by losing her special pick. Caitlin is heralded as <i>alt</i>. Country, but to me her songs are slap-bang in the country tradition: funny, heartfelt, simple in lyric and telling story.<br />
<br />
Now, I wouldn't say Caitlin Rose was obscure exactly, its just that precious few in the Uk have heard of her, and to tell the truth I had heard her only once on Bob Harris country, and just before she came on MD shamed me by asking for my favourite Caitlin Rose track and - when I was forced to prevaricate, astonished me by naming three of hers. She had done her research. (And a week later is still listening: a teenage country music fan in London. Thus do parents influence the lives of their daughters.<br />
<br />
At the gig, MD and everyone else in the audience were able to recognise and welcome the highlight songs <i>Learnin to Ride</i>, <i>Own Side</i>, <i>Things Change</i> and a sing-a-long <i>Answer in one of these Bottles</i>. Only I was mouthing the words.<br />
<br />
Here's a song she did earlier<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZeW-iFvn8nE?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZeW-iFvn8nE?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
On her recordings Caitlin's voice is mellowed and softened, and the arrangements sometimes slightly lush. At the Slaughtered Lamb her songs benefited from the stripped down band (lead, bass, pedal steel) and unrestrained vocals, emotion allowed to bleed in to the melody. "Are you having a good time?" she asked, at one point, "because you're all very quiet" "We're English" came the apologetic response, and to make up for our poise of apparent indifference we clapped, dutifully, all the way through to the <i>Gorilla Man</i>.<br />
<br />
There were about 150 <a href="http://blogs.independent.co.uk/2010/09/03/caitlin-rose-slays-an-already-slaughtered-lamb/">or so</a> <a href="http://www.anikainlondon.com/2010/09/02/review-caitlin-rose-at-slamb/">people</a> <a href="http://thedailygrowl.co.uk/2010/09/03/caitlin-rose-the-slaughtered-lamb-1-september-2010/">there</a> I suppose, a small gig, but her support is is growing. Her UK tour includes a dozen dates, and where she is top of the bill she is selling them out.<br />
<br />
She comes from Nashville (of course she does) and I wondered what it takes to get the breaks in that competitive town, to get listened to in the first place. How do aspiring young singer-songwriters get noticed? Is it luck, or is talent so plain that even the dimmest A&R can recognise it when he browses myspace? Or is it something else? Cynically I googled, and whaddyknow? her father is mainstream country singer, and her <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liz_Rose">mother</a> an award winning co-writer for Taylor Swift. Contacts, then. Thus do people achieve lift off in a competitive world, and thus do parents influence the lives of their daughters.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
--------------------------------------<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have a plan, myself and two mates. Well perhaps more of a whim: a six week journey through the southern states every night listening to country music bands playing live. Moving from town to town, from bar to bar we'd hear the old and broken, the new and hopeful, the tired and the bittersweet artists that I imagine are the country music scene, travellin' light, hittin' the road, staying in motels with screen-doors slammin', always going where luck and the music took us, a journey partly spontaneous, partly planned. Oh yes, and one of the friends used to work for the BBC, so surely we could meet famous bands and interview them in the comfortof five-star hotel rooms, recording sycophantic interviews and, each morning, making a video diary in which we mocked, in a very British way, the unsophisticated acts we'd seen the night before. I'll write blog and book, my exBBC mucker a podcast and hour-long reflective programme for channel four and my other friend, a sober lawyer, would drive the RV and keep us out of trouble. And write poems. (Yes, I am practicing my pitch). It will be called The Judge the Journalist and Jerk, in search of real Country, it would start in the Smokey mountains and end at the Grand Ole Opry for CMA Awards. Would you like to sponsor us? Just £100 will buy a Budweiser a day for one person for the whole trip. Our just giving page will open soon.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The first support was bearded Eyore from the Isle of Wight ("You are the most amazing people - you have actually come to watch a support band! Oh, my guitar player isn't here, sorry, he's at a funeral"). He wailed, dismally, for half an hour, then left. The second support band (and some might say two support bands is one support band too many) were the </span><a href="http://www.myspace.com/thelostbrothersmusic"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Lost Brothers</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> a pair of earnest young Irishmen, one sweating in pork pie hat and overcoat, who sang tightly worded simple songs in close Everley Brothers harmony, in between murmuring at the audience as if they were the Shy Brothers (get some patter, boys)</span>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-10725565488453189682010-07-04T11:11:00.002+01:002010-07-04T11:17:00.922+01:00Warm welcomes<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Leaving a very pleasant evening drinks party at some friends in Molember Road, a <a href="http://maps.google.co.uk/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=molember+road&sll=51.392351,-0.349932&sspn=0.041935,0.077162&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Molember+Rd,+East+Molesey+KT8,+United+Kingdom&z=16">small cul-de-sac</a> in East Molesey, Mrs Botogol and I were nonplussed to find that an angry <i>note </i>had been placed on our car windscreen.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_grOb9O6EyQY/TDBWhszh2BI/AAAAAAAAA54/9s6IqvxChls/s1600/molember013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_grOb9O6EyQY/TDBWhszh2BI/AAAAAAAAA54/9s6IqvxChls/s400/molember013.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Isn't that friendly? I love the way that the anonymous writer acknowledges that the owners of the car will be there by invitation to visit a resident of the road, and therefore not trespassing... under the heading 'Trespass'. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">We stood in the road and read the note and looked around at the smart houses. Presumably in one of the darkened windows above us an angry resident was stood behind a curtain watching us. I waved.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">When we got home I googled the Molember Road Residents Association. They are a shadowy lot, with no web page, and have troubled google's index robots only once: in a dispute about a proposal to build a mobile phone mast. What's that? No, no, they weren't campaigning against the phone mast: they were trying to <i><a href="http://maps.google.co.uk/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=molember+road&sll=51.392351,-0.349932&sspn=0.041935,0.077162&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Molember+Rd,+East+Molesey+KT8,+United+Kingdom&z=16">build one</a></i> in the next road along.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">So there you have it. The Molember Road Residents Association. Key activities</span></span><br />
<br />
<ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">harassing each other's visitors</span></span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">despoiling other people's roads</span></span></li>
</ul><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">In this day and age I think it's a shame them not having a website, where prospective residents or visitors to Molember Road could learn about them, so I have helpfully <a href="http://sites.google.com/site/molember/">created one</a> .</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-65215269598403052062010-06-28T22:13:00.001+01:002010-06-28T22:17:30.565+01:00Last Sunday MorningCrossing the footbridge over Teddington Lock two Sundays ago something was odd - some sort of a flurry on the narrow walkway ahead. I could see three figures : a man looking down at the river, and next to him two women waving and yelling. Beyond them an overturned cycle. On the opposite bank, a siren sounded.<br />
<br />
We dismounted to push our own bikes and a man came running off the bridge; on his way past he caught his arm nastily on my handlebar, but he didn't stop<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mualphachi/4163836198/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Teddington Lock by Maxwell Hamilton, on Flickr"><img alt="Teddington Lock" height="480" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2500/4163836198_6c26cbcf6e_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;">Pic - Maxwell Hamilton</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But the yellowy-green early morning light, the warm sunshine settling on the river, the Thames boats, the fishermen on the bank, a heron knee deep in the limpid river edge created such a dissonance it was hard to understand that something sinister was going on.<br />
<br />
The first hurdle in dealing with a crisis is <i>recognising that there is a crisis</i>: the aeroplane is on fire; the man with the knife is going to stab you; the pain in your chest is a heart attack; the light is fading and the temperature is dropping and your companion cannot ski down the mountain. The heroes, the survivors, are not always the strongest and fittest - sometimes they are merely those who recognise the danger.<br />
<br />
My friend and I were intrigued but not worried and grinned at the strange cries from the two excitable women on the bridge, until we could hear them properly. "Help us!" they were yelling, but clearly they were in no danger "help us! We need Help". Nothing made sense.<br />
<br />
There was a man in the water .<br />
<br />
The Necker cube flipped and the strange scene resolved itself.<br />
<br />
A man was in the river. White haired, fully dressed, he clung silently to the floating pontoon to which a handful of boats are moored. At first sight easy to help, but look: a chained and heavily barb-wired gate guarded the pontoon preventing access. Only 50 metres from the bridge he was nevertheless beyond help from the bank while, 200 metres downstream, two fishermen in a boat sat with their backs to us, oblivious to the women trying to attract their attention. With a jerk I realised that if the man lost his grip then someone was going to have to go into the water and swim to reach him.<br />
<br />
I can swim - but I am not the sort of swimmer who should strike out into the Thames and attempt a rescue. But what if no one at the riverside was that kind of swimmer? One thing was clear: if I was going to go in the water then a leap from the bridge wasn't the best way to start and I nervously eyed up the river bank working out the best route.<br />
<br />
And then almost as quickly as the danger had come, it disappeared: the fisherman heard and heeded the wild women's callings and with a burst of outboard motor were quickly alongside the floating pontoon, they leapt out and pulled the man safely from the water on to the deck. A policeman arrived on the bridge - a numpty who charged down to the pontoon to stand, uselessly, on the wrong side the barbed wire. The Teddington lifeboat was summoned…. and we continued on or way.<br />
<br />
Later that afternoon I reflected that I entirely lack any journalistic aptitude: I could have interviewed the bystanders - did he jump or did he fall? How long was he in the water? I could have taken the name and the photographs of the alert women on the bridge and the lifesaving fisherman and written it all up for the Ricky&Twicky. <br />
<br />
At least I have got a blog to tell the tale.Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-15051948529525735812010-06-17T22:44:00.005+01:002010-06-18T09:57:38.416+01:00A Week in May<i>Twickenham, May 2010 </i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mualphachi/3902048034/in/set-72157623448816140" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3456/3902048034_a6fd8e93f7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Church St, Twickenham by </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mualphachi/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Maxwell Hamilton</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The last two weekends of May were dominated by rugby at the stadium: a weekend of Sevens, the Premiership Final and England v Barbarians combined to jam up the town for four whole days: an insouciant breach of the covenant of trust that the RFU owes its neighbours. Exacerbating the annoyance: on the last afternoon unfamiliar and uncertain traffic police were drafted in from North London and proved cluelessly bereft of common sense: despite the street being completely clear five mins after the kick off they refused to open the road; I phoned <i>Control </i>there and then and told them I was hemmed in by numpties. "There's no need to be rude to me Sir' said the closest numpty, mildly, "and I'm definitely not letting you through now." <br />
<br />
The crowds reached 80,000 and some friends of ours who live on the main drag made thousands selling homemade cakes to the crowds from their front garden.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
*****<br />
<br />
</div>Across the road from us lives Alice. She and her husband bought her house just before the war, new from the builder, for about £300. Just a short time later her husband volunteered, went off to fight and, missing in action, he never came home. She waited through four years of war and then another four years of peace before, losing hope, she declared him dead and she told me that because of the delay she never got the letter from the King that other war-widows received.<br />
<br />
Alice never wanted to live on the Middlesex side of the river, but that was what they could afford and there she has stayed, alone but certainly not friendless, for seventy-two years. She is deaf and sleepless and now that the weather is warm and windows are open at night, her radio - talk, not music - wakes me up in small, still hours between 1 and 3; Sometimes it's loud enough for me to even make out the words.<br />
<br />
I asked her about the rugby crowds and did they bother her? She said I shouldn't complain, sixty years ago the stadium held 100,000, and anyway it is all much better policed nowadays<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
*****<br />
<br />
</div>Every Sunday morning my mates and I go cycling. The bright warm early morning Sundays in May are the perfect-weather highlight of our year and those weeks we go further. On the last Sunday in May we rode a sweeping circle, never more than ten miles from home, taking in two grand country houses (Syon and Osterley) several miles of the Grand Union Canal and the River Brent, as well as the London Air Parks in Hanworth where a Zeppelin landed in 1936, and the old Feltham Marshalling yards where steam trains once met and were divided and restacked.<br />
<br />
A puncture and a canal-path diversion for a broken bridge delayed us and we were out for two hours; half a mile from home my friend Karl peeled off sprinting for the local church where his bell, and seven impatient bell ringers awaited him (when he got there they had gone). His church are running a £14,000pa deficit (the vicar says on her blog) despite making lots of money out of the rugby crowds - car parking. The last two weekends in May - with four games! - were especially profitable.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
*****<br />
<br />
</div>Our entrepreneurial friends on the road to the stadium had a fiftieth birthday and we were invited for drinks and smoked salmon with sour cream on blini (when I was young smoked salmon came on crustless triangles of buttered brown bread, when did that change?) . At the party was a slightly-well-known Twickenham based actor who is currently appearing in the West End. Tall, blond and striking, she dominated the small back room and the assembled company; Mrs Botogol and I affected not to recognise her, but other guests were fawning and politely praised her work; she beamed. I dropped the name of an even more famous Twickenham-based actor - whom we know from school, and was rewarded by a momentary frown across her peach-perfect brow. I am a git.<br />
<br />
Fetching another canapé from the kitchen I introduced myself to our hosts' next door neighbour, who was hovering shyly near the red wine. He told me he had lived in his house, alone, for almost sixty years. I asked him if Twickenham had changed in all that time. "Not a bit", he said, happily, "Not a bit". I wondered if he knew Alice, who has lived no more than two hundred metres away from him, for all that time.<br />
They've never met.Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-49495723453757387392010-06-17T22:11:00.000+01:002010-06-17T22:11:20.303+01:00Thirty-Two SongsMy thirty two songs are in the home strait - just five to go. Coming up from tomorrow:<br />
<br />
Day 28 ~ A song that makes you feel guilty<br />
Day 29 ~ A song from your childhood<br />
Day 30 ~ Your favourite song at this time last year<br />
Day 31 ~ A song you inherited from your parents<br />
Day 32 ~ A song you'd like to pass on to your children<br />
<br />
For these -and all the previous songs - see my other blog - <a href="http://32-songs.greenideas.com/">thirty-two songs</a>.Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-52106942278551133172010-05-22T13:38:00.001+01:002010-05-22T13:38:59.852+01:00A weekend awayCymer in South Wales was for a hundred years a mining village, a history that is kept alive in the only remaining pub: the Refreshment Rooms, a building that was originally a railway station (one of three stations in the village, all long since closed)<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.qype.co.uk/place/800874-Refreshment-Rooms-Port-Talbot/photos/970838" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="http://cdnassets0.qypecdn.net/uploads/photos/0097/0838/02refresh_gallery.jpg?36884" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo <a href="http://www.qype.co.uk/people/Jane_Elizabeth/photos">Jane Elizabeth</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>A wide, shallow pub one bar leads off another which leads off another and in each room are scores of photographs recalling the former life: black faced miners in cramped passages stare bleakly back at the camera. A painfully young Prince of Wales opens the apprenticeship and training centre. The Cymer Rugby Club smile grimly out of 1952. There are photographs of new lifts, machinery, cranes, towers being opened, and of collieries being closed. In the room with the pool table a vast large-scale map of the area shows the seams of coal, and the mines they sank to dig them, collieries that closed, one by one, from 1970 to 1996 as the seams were gradually, eventually exhausted.<br />
<br />
It was Saturday evening and the pub's restaurant were getting ready for a busy service. In the lounge bar, at the table next to us five ladies of a certain age enjoyed a pre-dinner drink while they studied the menus. They were dressed smartly and their combined perfume gently suffused their corner of room. They didn't speak to each other much - perhaps the evening was still young, perhaps our presence was inhibiting. I wondered where their husbands were. The barmaid took their order: the popular choice was a steak, well-done, not cheap at £14.50. "No, no peas with it" said one, firmly, affronted at the suggestion.<br />
<br />
The other side of us sat a family : parents, daughter-plus-boyfriend, younger sister, granny. The boyfriend was making an effort: sitting up straight, hair and green t-shirt both well clean, Earring, yes, but a discreet one. Bracelets, yes, both wrists, but not too many; Necklaces? Yes, three, but including a crucifix so not too menacing. He sipped his beer and listened carefully laughing in the right places. I concluded that the pair hadn't been going out very long. The barmaid took their order, the popular choice was a steak, well done 'does it come with french fries ?' <br />
<br />
In the next bar a group of men watched Leinster v Munster on S4C. with the commentary in English. They were drinking cold Guiness and lager.<br />
<br />
And then there was us - three egregious English Mountain Bikers with wild stories of how fast we had descended White's Level* and hitching up our trouser-legs to compare cuts and bruises. For where there were once mines and freight railways in the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/southwest/sites/afanvalley/">Afan Valley</a>, there is now the Afan Forest Mountain bike centre, with 100km of purpose built, hair-raising single-track bike trails which draw mountain bikers from all over the country, alien lycra-clad beings in the valley communities. The barmaid came and took our order: The popular choice was three more pints of bitter.<br />
<br />
We cycled 70 miles in three days, back-breaking climbs and tingling descents. In the evenings we cooked for ourselves and at lunchtimes we had vast and welcome portions of carbohydrate based meals at the Afan Mountain Bike centre. I punctured twice and broke a valve once We got soaked to the skin and covered from head to toe in mud. We had an excellent time.<br />
<br />
We were there from Friday to Sunday and between us we probably spent £500 in Cymer. I wonder if that is enough to keep the village afloat.<br />
<br />
*not quite <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVDihYWS1-U&feature=related">this fast</a>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-70094864556128861782010-05-11T23:32:00.001+01:002010-05-12T06:33:42.948+01:00Ups and DownsWell I, for one, welcome our new ConDem overlords.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/donshall/3887592044/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2645/3887592044_d6af807dd0_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture by Origamidon</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
But I <b>am </b>grumpy about finding myself older than the Prime Minister. Too soon, too soon.<br />
<br />
(Did the Tories give away too much?)Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-46151880613218712862010-05-07T23:01:00.000+01:002010-05-07T23:01:47.636+01:0032 Songs - So farA reminder, my 32 songs are being asembled here <a href="http://32-songs.greenideas.com/">http://32-songs.greenideas.com/</a><br />
<br />
The Story so far<br />
<a href="http://32-songs.greenideas.com/2010/05/day-01-your-favourite-song-graceland.html"> ~ 1 ~ Favourite Song</a><br />
<a href="http://32-songs.greenideas.com/2010/05/day-02-your-least-favourite-song.html">~ 2 ~ Least Favourite Song</a><br />
<a href="http://32-songs.greenideas.com/2010/05/day-03-song-that-makes-you-happy.html">~ 3 ~ A song that makes you happy</a>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30869933.post-45885696202971213772010-05-06T16:59:00.002+01:002010-05-06T17:06:15.211+01:00What really bugs me about the #ukelectionThree things really bug me about the election<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2010/5/6/1273151603313/sitonfence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2010/5/6/1273151603313/sitonfence.jpg" width="240" wt="true" /></a><strong></strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>1 - The ballot is not secret:</strong> </div><ul><li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">each ballot paper is numbered. </li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">the returning officer carefully records your elector number against the ballot paper number. </li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">anyone who imagines that the ballots papers are not later retrieved, and reconciled to the electoral roll is living in a dreamworld</li>
</ul><div><strong>2 - Party activists outside polling stations impersonate officials in order to collect the identities of the gullible.</strong></div><ul><li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Here is a video of a conservative activist quite shamelessly doing just that <a href="http://bit.ly/dpJIcf">http://bit.ly/dpJIcf</a></li>
<li>One time I voted there was a policeman in attendance and I involved him in the matter - he was <em>completely uninterested</em>. What was he there for?</li>
</ul><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>3- Postal vote fraud</strong></div><br />
This is the postal vote fraud election<br />
<ul><li>BBC Story 1 - <a href="http://bit.ly/9DJxxt">http://bit.ly/9DJxxt</a> </li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Newsnight story <a href="http://bit.ly/a9pP3Z">http://bit.ly/a9pP3Z</a></li>
<li>See fraud being tweeted in real time <a href="http://bit.ly/dwp0Kw">http://bit.ly/dwp0Kw</a></li>
</ul>Botogolhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17024057489361848870noreply@blogger.com1