It was sad to hear about the death of Vaclav Havel, the former Czech president, who oversaw the peaceful Velvet Revolution, after opposing the socialist stranglehold on his beloved country for so many years, and of course writing many fine plays and poems. At least he got to see his friend the Dalai Lama just one week before his departure from this life, and movement into another cycle of existence - if we follow the beliefs of his stubbornly cheerful Tibetan pal. I particularly liked Havel's comment about truth and love overcoming lies and hate, which I'm sure most people would support unless you are someone like North Korean boss Kim Jong-il, who just had a heart attack on a train - proving that he is no longer ill, but very much dead.
Let us hope North Korea will move towards a much more open and happy society, because its people have suffered far too long under so-called communist rule, which is actually no more than a brutal dictatorship. It seems unlikely that his son "the great successor" will travel around his residence on a child's scooter, in the joyous manner of Vaclav Havel. But if the Berlin wall can come down, who knows what can happen with North and South Korea ? Eventually, even the vast brutal regime of China will collapse, which has virtually destroyed the Dalai Lama's country of birth, and carried out so many vicious attacks on its own people - all things must pass.
We are promised a 'mini-heat wave' in these few days before Christmas, with temperatures in northern England soaring to the dizzying heights of 11 degrees Celsius ! This is good news for the many people struggling with their heating bills, but not so dandy for the likes of our young lad who is very much dreaming of a white Christmas, and the chance of careering down the Yorkshire Wolds on a plastic or wooden sledge.
As I have absolutely no disposable income I've entirely avoided the obscene shopping scrum that happens at this "special" time, but I must confess to being a little sad at not being able to wander the ancient streets of York (our nearest city) and absorb some of the free festive atmosphere. A vast amount of purchases are now made on the Internet or at the out-of-town shops, yet many folk are still drawn to pretty towns like York and Lincoln, which are increasingly no more than historical theme parks. Still, I cannot turn my back on the lovely town of my birth; thank God I wasn't born in somewhere like Rotherham ! The Chuckle Brothers will never agree with me, particularly with their brand spanking new, New York, football stadium, which they claim is a real district of Rotherham - minus the Empire State Building.
Thursday, 22 December 2011
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Shortest
We had quite a storm in our rural area of North Yorkshire, with several brief power cuts and lashings of heavy rain; fortunately, the electricity supply has been made much more robust in the last few years, which means the lights soon flicker back into life. We are still waiting for the white stuff that is blowing ever nearer, and huddling by the occasional fire of logs and coal.
It's not long to the big day, which for me is not the charlatan of Christmas, but the winter solstice very late on the 21st December - 11.39pm in the UK, with sunrise the next morning at 8.04. We can then look forward with hope from this darkest time of the year, through the painfully slow lengthening days, and onwards to the joyous bloom of spring and summer.
The tradition of Christianity, which appears to be little more than an absurd fairy tale, and the more recent descent into obscene materialism, has supplanted the true rhythms of Nature, and the more ancient traditions of 'advanced' nations like our beloved United Kingdom. I will do my best to observe what is happening in the natural world of this remote countryside location, rather than obsessing about one day of turkey and tinsel accompanied by a fairly meaningless speech from a polite old dear - Queen Elizabeth - not the more interesting first one.
I would be a fool to refuse the abundant offerings of food and alcohol; and my simple needs will be fulfilled by obtaining a cheap bottle of Kentucky bourbon from somewhere like Aldi. We are not visiting Lidl at the moment - our nearest shop, six miles away - because of an unfortunate recent incident regarding my partner and ten year-old son. The checkout chap refused to sell her a bottle of alcopop as he wrongly suspected it was a treat for our young lad. This is a nonsensical position for supermarkets to take, as families often shop together, preventing many inevitable child abductions that would occur if kids were left alone in the car park !
So, merry Christmas to Lidl, and all other organisations that would enforce rules contrary to common sense - may you forever be trapped in a snowstorm of your own misery. We'll go to Asda instead, which at least started out as a Yorkshire company.
It's not long to the big day, which for me is not the charlatan of Christmas, but the winter solstice very late on the 21st December - 11.39pm in the UK, with sunrise the next morning at 8.04. We can then look forward with hope from this darkest time of the year, through the painfully slow lengthening days, and onwards to the joyous bloom of spring and summer.
The tradition of Christianity, which appears to be little more than an absurd fairy tale, and the more recent descent into obscene materialism, has supplanted the true rhythms of Nature, and the more ancient traditions of 'advanced' nations like our beloved United Kingdom. I will do my best to observe what is happening in the natural world of this remote countryside location, rather than obsessing about one day of turkey and tinsel accompanied by a fairly meaningless speech from a polite old dear - Queen Elizabeth - not the more interesting first one.
I would be a fool to refuse the abundant offerings of food and alcohol; and my simple needs will be fulfilled by obtaining a cheap bottle of Kentucky bourbon from somewhere like Aldi. We are not visiting Lidl at the moment - our nearest shop, six miles away - because of an unfortunate recent incident regarding my partner and ten year-old son. The checkout chap refused to sell her a bottle of alcopop as he wrongly suspected it was a treat for our young lad. This is a nonsensical position for supermarkets to take, as families often shop together, preventing many inevitable child abductions that would occur if kids were left alone in the car park !
So, merry Christmas to Lidl, and all other organisations that would enforce rules contrary to common sense - may you forever be trapped in a snowstorm of your own misery. We'll go to Asda instead, which at least started out as a Yorkshire company.
Thursday, 8 December 2011
Film Night
We don't usually get much excitement in our tiny village in the middle of nowhere, but a leaflet has just come through the door advertising the first ever community cinema night to be held once a month at the pub - FREE ENTRY ! That at least will appeal to the spirit of any true Yorkshireman.
This month's offering is Shutter Island, directed by Martin Scorsese and starring Leonardo DiCaprio. I haven't seen it, but see from Amazon UK that it's number 8 in their horror chart ! As if these dark days and nights weren't already scary enough. The movie is a tale of: 'two U.S. marshals who are summoned to a remote and barren island off the coast of Massachusetts to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a murderess from the island’s fortress-like hospital for the criminally insane.'
It has a 15 certificate, so most village brats will have to stay home on their own, listening to the persistent howls of our many owls and the lonely barking of the demented fox. People will doubtless be encouraged by free entry - it costs an arm and a leg to get into the Vue cinema complex twenty miles away; though we do have an excellent independent picture house in the nearest market town - only six miles distant. The landlord will of course be hoping customers will drink plenty of beer, wines and spirits; and there is still perhaps some pleasure in gathering with other human strangers to watch a film, which could otherwise be quite easily obtained on DVD for home viewing.
Since our lovely village shop and post office closed, the pub is the hub of the community, apart from the small school and tiny church. It would be great if our public house considered having a shop as well, which quite a few places already have, along with mini-libraries etc. etc. Things can get pretty lonely in the many rural communities across North Yorkshire, so more and more of these events and services must be a good thing.
It is the very darkest time of year, though only a couple of weeks to the shortest day, when we begin the painfully long drag back to the light of spring and summer. Maybe, it would have been more magical to have the flicker of an old-fashioned projector to show our films, but at least some of the community will be gathering together to be terrified and amused - and that's just the effect of dealing with the peculiar neighbours.
This month's offering is Shutter Island, directed by Martin Scorsese and starring Leonardo DiCaprio. I haven't seen it, but see from Amazon UK that it's number 8 in their horror chart ! As if these dark days and nights weren't already scary enough. The movie is a tale of: 'two U.S. marshals who are summoned to a remote and barren island off the coast of Massachusetts to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a murderess from the island’s fortress-like hospital for the criminally insane.'
It has a 15 certificate, so most village brats will have to stay home on their own, listening to the persistent howls of our many owls and the lonely barking of the demented fox. People will doubtless be encouraged by free entry - it costs an arm and a leg to get into the Vue cinema complex twenty miles away; though we do have an excellent independent picture house in the nearest market town - only six miles distant. The landlord will of course be hoping customers will drink plenty of beer, wines and spirits; and there is still perhaps some pleasure in gathering with other human strangers to watch a film, which could otherwise be quite easily obtained on DVD for home viewing.
Since our lovely village shop and post office closed, the pub is the hub of the community, apart from the small school and tiny church. It would be great if our public house considered having a shop as well, which quite a few places already have, along with mini-libraries etc. etc. Things can get pretty lonely in the many rural communities across North Yorkshire, so more and more of these events and services must be a good thing.
It is the very darkest time of year, though only a couple of weeks to the shortest day, when we begin the painfully long drag back to the light of spring and summer. Maybe, it would have been more magical to have the flicker of an old-fashioned projector to show our films, but at least some of the community will be gathering together to be terrified and amused - and that's just the effect of dealing with the peculiar neighbours.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
No Snow
Icelandic Whooper swans long ago booked their winter package holiday to the relatively mild delights of Wheldrake Ings, near York in northern England (a few miles from here), and will not wish to see a repeat of the extreme weather that started in late 2010 - they might as well not have bothered to migrate south a year ago in their majestic V formation. At the end of last November we were already plunged into a harsh and snowy winter, so it's good news that the mostly mild autumn has continued with precious little rain, and only strong winds to worry about. Some parts of the UK are even experiencing drought conditions - it would be strange to see hosepipe bans in January !
We live in a rural location with no public transport to speak of, and the nearest shop, since our village post office closed a few years back, is six miles away. One of the main problems of persistent cold weather is the cost - most people in the countryside are still reliant on oil heating delivered by large tankers, which is becoming ever more expensive. Folk are also forced to use private cars to get about, and as everybody knows we are still a long way from finding a cheap and environmentally friendly alternative to petrol or diesel.
It's a shame that most of the sustainable energy schemes are profit-driven, because our community and many others could easily benefit from cheap or free wind and water power, but many of the plans put forward are rejected by locals as a blot on the landscape, which might elicit a very different response if we saw a lasting substantial reduction in power bills from genuinely co-operative proposals.
Unless our Lotto numbers come up this week we will not be able to afford to order any heating oil, which also provides hot water, as there is a minimum 500 litre delivery payable in advance. We'll have to struggle through the Christmas and New Year period, before begging some cash from relatives to half-fill the tank with this precious resource. We are still allowed to burn coal and logs in our remote location, but this is no more economical, and certainly no better for the environment.
A real fire is a real joy though, particularly if you have a glass of whisky in one hand and a good book in the other. Then it's possible to forget about cold fingers and toes, and ignore the deteriorating weather beyond your condensated windows and mouldy walls - the radiators might not be radiating, but the heart can still find warmth. And when it finally does snow, at least the kids will love their sledging and snowballing.
We live in a rural location with no public transport to speak of, and the nearest shop, since our village post office closed a few years back, is six miles away. One of the main problems of persistent cold weather is the cost - most people in the countryside are still reliant on oil heating delivered by large tankers, which is becoming ever more expensive. Folk are also forced to use private cars to get about, and as everybody knows we are still a long way from finding a cheap and environmentally friendly alternative to petrol or diesel.
It's a shame that most of the sustainable energy schemes are profit-driven, because our community and many others could easily benefit from cheap or free wind and water power, but many of the plans put forward are rejected by locals as a blot on the landscape, which might elicit a very different response if we saw a lasting substantial reduction in power bills from genuinely co-operative proposals.
Unless our Lotto numbers come up this week we will not be able to afford to order any heating oil, which also provides hot water, as there is a minimum 500 litre delivery payable in advance. We'll have to struggle through the Christmas and New Year period, before begging some cash from relatives to half-fill the tank with this precious resource. We are still allowed to burn coal and logs in our remote location, but this is no more economical, and certainly no better for the environment.
A real fire is a real joy though, particularly if you have a glass of whisky in one hand and a good book in the other. Then it's possible to forget about cold fingers and toes, and ignore the deteriorating weather beyond your condensated windows and mouldy walls - the radiators might not be radiating, but the heart can still find warmth. And when it finally does snow, at least the kids will love their sledging and snowballing.
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
The Railway Station
On Sunday evening I went to meet my daughter at York station coming back from her Children in Need weekend in London, where on Friday night she saw various celebrities and singers live at the BBC raising money in the annual extravaganza. I know they do a great deal of good work with needy kids, but charity is no substitute for a fair society - perhaps one day we will really have that ? Just because a banker earning a few hundred grand phones in every November to donate fifty quid doesn't mean we should all cheer - it does more to salve their conscience than really create a more equal Britain.
I used to travel quite regularly on trains, but now rarely get to see our nearest major station at York. Growing-up in a railway city, which some might say was more of a chocolate city or even a heritage city, it was hard not to be sucked into the magic, particularly as we have such a majestic structure to contain all the comings and goings, enhanced by stepping outside to see the ancient city walls right in front of you, and over to the left the soaring Minster. It's no accident that York is home to the wonderfully free National Railway Museum; even if we have lost our carriage building works down at Holgate.
My partner thought it strange that I'd want to go and stand around waiting for so long before our daughter arrived, but I just wanted to absorb all the atmosphere, which was extra strong on a dark and foggy November tea-time - shame there were no steam trains to enhance the mood yet further. The place was extraordinarily busy with people milling about the concourse, in the newsagent/bookshop, getting a hot drink, sandwich or giant pasty.
I saw the Sir Bobby Robson locomotive arrive from Newcastle on its way to London; such a shame that the great footballing legend is no longer with us, and I'm sure that the hundreds of passengers were much more concerned with their personal journeys than noticing a shiny nameplate commemorating some old guy who died of cancer.
The basic structure of the station hasn't changed much since I first visited as a lad in the sixties; I'm pleased to say I was never a lonely train-spotter clutching pad and pencil - just an ordinary youngster gazing-up at the soaring curved canopy of metal and glass, railway clocks and sturdy footbridge. Of course, the cafes and other outlets are now trendier and more expensive, and the general ambience of the station is much less grubby than it once was, but the business of (hopefully) rapid transport will always be the same.
My daughter's train was only a few minutes late, unlike the journey down when it broke down and they had to swap to another one, resulting in a delay of one-and-a-half-hours. Mum had told her that I'd be waiting on the platform, but perhaps recalling the days when you used to purchase a cardboard platform ticket, I was hanging about at the front near WH Smith, which allowed for a few more minutes idling around in the no-barrier open station - they have talked about bringing back the fence and ticket-checking, but I hope they don't. It will only restrict those who wish to simply wander and take-in the busy beauty of one of England's finest railway cathedrals.
I used to travel quite regularly on trains, but now rarely get to see our nearest major station at York. Growing-up in a railway city, which some might say was more of a chocolate city or even a heritage city, it was hard not to be sucked into the magic, particularly as we have such a majestic structure to contain all the comings and goings, enhanced by stepping outside to see the ancient city walls right in front of you, and over to the left the soaring Minster. It's no accident that York is home to the wonderfully free National Railway Museum; even if we have lost our carriage building works down at Holgate.
My partner thought it strange that I'd want to go and stand around waiting for so long before our daughter arrived, but I just wanted to absorb all the atmosphere, which was extra strong on a dark and foggy November tea-time - shame there were no steam trains to enhance the mood yet further. The place was extraordinarily busy with people milling about the concourse, in the newsagent/bookshop, getting a hot drink, sandwich or giant pasty.
I saw the Sir Bobby Robson locomotive arrive from Newcastle on its way to London; such a shame that the great footballing legend is no longer with us, and I'm sure that the hundreds of passengers were much more concerned with their personal journeys than noticing a shiny nameplate commemorating some old guy who died of cancer.
The basic structure of the station hasn't changed much since I first visited as a lad in the sixties; I'm pleased to say I was never a lonely train-spotter clutching pad and pencil - just an ordinary youngster gazing-up at the soaring curved canopy of metal and glass, railway clocks and sturdy footbridge. Of course, the cafes and other outlets are now trendier and more expensive, and the general ambience of the station is much less grubby than it once was, but the business of (hopefully) rapid transport will always be the same.
My daughter's train was only a few minutes late, unlike the journey down when it broke down and they had to swap to another one, resulting in a delay of one-and-a-half-hours. Mum had told her that I'd be waiting on the platform, but perhaps recalling the days when you used to purchase a cardboard platform ticket, I was hanging about at the front near WH Smith, which allowed for a few more minutes idling around in the no-barrier open station - they have talked about bringing back the fence and ticket-checking, but I hope they don't. It will only restrict those who wish to simply wander and take-in the busy beauty of one of England's finest railway cathedrals.
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
Pesto Pasta
At least once a week I'll cheer myself by having a lunch of green pesto pasta - a meal that is quick, very tasty, and only has two ingredients - dry pasta and basil pesto from a humble supermarket jar. Of course, you can make it much more complicated by making your own basil sauce or even fresh pasta, and adding stuff like olives, bacon, olive oil, cream, herbs etc. etc.
For some reason I have no liking for the red version of this paste; the primary elements of the delicious green are: basil, olive oil, pine nuts, parmesan and garlic. If you've had a weekend of fried eggs and bacon and an enormous Sunday roast this vegetarian delight is both pleasurable and very filling, which means no need for a large Mars bar at three in the afternoon. Simply boil some water, cook the pasta for ten minutes, drain, and mix whatever shape of pasta you have chosen with a few spoonfuls of pesto. It is made even better with a grated Italian cheese sprinkled on the final dish, or even a good quality mature English with a nice kick of flavour.
I find that pesto pasta is a bit like Marmite - not that you either love it or hate it, but that however many times the meal is served it's impossible to tire of the unique concoction, particularly if you toss in some scraps of bacon or olives to vary the recipe. Our Tibetan Terrier is also a big fan; I'm not sure if this goes against veterinary advice - at least an Italian vet is unlikely to object, and it's much better than giving them chocolate or chips.
I then try to prolong my period of pleasure by preparing a strong mug of tea and sitting in a comfortable chair to read a book - currently Smith's Gazelle by Lionel Davidson, the author of the wonderful Rose of Tibet and Kolymsky Heights. After a while I will feel the urge to nod-off, mimicing the siesta time indulged in by our hotter European neighbours.
A chance to drift off into the dream time, having satisfied the primitive urges of hunger and thirst; more shadowy needs and desires can now take control of the snoozing mind as one slips away from the petty demands of the conscious world.
For some reason I have no liking for the red version of this paste; the primary elements of the delicious green are: basil, olive oil, pine nuts, parmesan and garlic. If you've had a weekend of fried eggs and bacon and an enormous Sunday roast this vegetarian delight is both pleasurable and very filling, which means no need for a large Mars bar at three in the afternoon. Simply boil some water, cook the pasta for ten minutes, drain, and mix whatever shape of pasta you have chosen with a few spoonfuls of pesto. It is made even better with a grated Italian cheese sprinkled on the final dish, or even a good quality mature English with a nice kick of flavour.
I find that pesto pasta is a bit like Marmite - not that you either love it or hate it, but that however many times the meal is served it's impossible to tire of the unique concoction, particularly if you toss in some scraps of bacon or olives to vary the recipe. Our Tibetan Terrier is also a big fan; I'm not sure if this goes against veterinary advice - at least an Italian vet is unlikely to object, and it's much better than giving them chocolate or chips.
I then try to prolong my period of pleasure by preparing a strong mug of tea and sitting in a comfortable chair to read a book - currently Smith's Gazelle by Lionel Davidson, the author of the wonderful Rose of Tibet and Kolymsky Heights. After a while I will feel the urge to nod-off, mimicing the siesta time indulged in by our hotter European neighbours.
A chance to drift off into the dream time, having satisfied the primitive urges of hunger and thirst; more shadowy needs and desires can now take control of the snoozing mind as one slips away from the petty demands of the conscious world.
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
The alien at the end of the bed
It's always good to escape the sometimes stale inland atmosphere and feel a strong sea breeze slapping your cheek as an antidote to the hysteria of modern life; and it's lucky that my sister lives very close to the chilly North Sea, with fragile mud cliffs constantly collapsing on to pebbles and sand below.
She wasn't there when we arrived the other day, but her bloke was, looking a little pale but still managing a smile for the unexpected visitors.
'Everything alright luv ?'
'I didn't sleep very well, that's all.'
'Better get to bed early tonight with a mug of cocoa.'
'Yes. Do you want a cup of tea ?'
It wasn't long before my sister arrived back with the dog - a very small Chinese specimen that insists on humping everything that moves.
'Has he told you then ?'
'Told us what ?'
'About screaming the place down in the middle of the night.'
'No.'
'Reckons he saw a little green man at the bottom of the bed !'
'Too much Wensleydale last thing at night ?'
'More like some bloody film........Starman, I think it was.'
'But that's a great story. No little green men though - the alien travels across America in the body of a dead house painter - and very friendly he was too.'
I don't think my sister's area is particularly noted for alien visitation, despite a minor RAF 'listening' station very close by. It seems unlikely that this was anything more than a bad dream, which caused much hilarity amongst family members. Why do we always laugh at those with mental disorders ?
It turns out that these episodes with her partner are not uncommon - in the past he has accidentally struck her while being under the influence of rapid eye movement; it would be very unwise to leave any weapons or kitchen knives in close proximity to the bedroom. Most folk don't seem to experience such extreme reactions to their nightly brain adventures - his harrowing scream was said to be loud enough to wake many of the slumbering neighbours.
I would recommend Starman though, which starred Jeff Bridges and Karen Allen, in a gentle love story with an extra-terrestrial dimension. Even one of the more recent offerings - Paul - is quite a jolly film, starring the stereotypical little green man as a wise-cracking healer trying to return to his own world. We might not be laughing at my sister's bloke if it turns out the real thing has landed on the Yorkshire coast not far from Scarborough.
She wasn't there when we arrived the other day, but her bloke was, looking a little pale but still managing a smile for the unexpected visitors.
'Everything alright luv ?'
'I didn't sleep very well, that's all.'
'Better get to bed early tonight with a mug of cocoa.'
'Yes. Do you want a cup of tea ?'
It wasn't long before my sister arrived back with the dog - a very small Chinese specimen that insists on humping everything that moves.
'Has he told you then ?'
'Told us what ?'
'About screaming the place down in the middle of the night.'
'No.'
'Reckons he saw a little green man at the bottom of the bed !'
'Too much Wensleydale last thing at night ?'
'More like some bloody film........Starman, I think it was.'
'But that's a great story. No little green men though - the alien travels across America in the body of a dead house painter - and very friendly he was too.'
I don't think my sister's area is particularly noted for alien visitation, despite a minor RAF 'listening' station very close by. It seems unlikely that this was anything more than a bad dream, which caused much hilarity amongst family members. Why do we always laugh at those with mental disorders ?
It turns out that these episodes with her partner are not uncommon - in the past he has accidentally struck her while being under the influence of rapid eye movement; it would be very unwise to leave any weapons or kitchen knives in close proximity to the bedroom. Most folk don't seem to experience such extreme reactions to their nightly brain adventures - his harrowing scream was said to be loud enough to wake many of the slumbering neighbours.
I would recommend Starman though, which starred Jeff Bridges and Karen Allen, in a gentle love story with an extra-terrestrial dimension. Even one of the more recent offerings - Paul - is quite a jolly film, starring the stereotypical little green man as a wise-cracking healer trying to return to his own world. We might not be laughing at my sister's bloke if it turns out the real thing has landed on the Yorkshire coast not far from Scarborough.
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
The Gig
John Cooper Clarke is perhaps the most stubborn and remarkable survival of the UK punk heyday of the late 1970s and early 1980s; and we waited until November 2011 to witness the man in action at the York Duchess - an uninspiring cellar of York's ugliest and most derided building - The Stonebow. The fascinating history of one of England's finest settlements has given us the magnificent Minster and extensive city walls - all we can manage in the twenty-first century is out-of town shopping centres and numerous Park & Ride sites.
The fact that Cooper Clarke has done the voice over for the Domino's pizza TV advert might suggest the guy has sold out, but his performance couldn't have been more different from the slick advertising of today's media. John is often described as a performance poet, yet most of his act is little different from a stand-up comedian, with a few verses of swearing thrown in. He has a loyal cult following built-up over several decades of assaulting our tender ears with rhyming and non-rhyming rants that puncture any safe view of the world, while ignoring the insistence of our 'advanced' society on political correctness.
A local student had the unenviable task of being the warm-up guy for the great man, struggling to raise more than a tiny ripple of applause with his version of performance poetry, without the many hilarious asides of the old master. With a great deal of bravery and persistence the young academic might eventually carve out a career of wordy comedy, but very few will survive the harsh decades of public indifference.
An evening with John Cooper Clarke is about as far as you can get from the usual Saturday night diet of appalling game shows, Strictly Come Dancing or the X Factor, but I'm glad we made the effort to leave the comfort of our sofa in the middle of rural nowhere for a blast of poetic comedy that is truly unique - though not for the faint-hearted. Long may he continue to tour the obscure haunts of Britain - keeping it real; some appearances on post-watershed telly are also long overdue for the Salford lad, now for some inexplicable reason living in Essex !
I can only hope that John achieves the ultimate ambition to own a disabled parking badge (despite no obvious disability) allowing parking directly outside any place he wishes to visit. If this dangerous trend develops it could be an end to the infamous Park & Ride as we know it.
The fact that Cooper Clarke has done the voice over for the Domino's pizza TV advert might suggest the guy has sold out, but his performance couldn't have been more different from the slick advertising of today's media. John is often described as a performance poet, yet most of his act is little different from a stand-up comedian, with a few verses of swearing thrown in. He has a loyal cult following built-up over several decades of assaulting our tender ears with rhyming and non-rhyming rants that puncture any safe view of the world, while ignoring the insistence of our 'advanced' society on political correctness.
A local student had the unenviable task of being the warm-up guy for the great man, struggling to raise more than a tiny ripple of applause with his version of performance poetry, without the many hilarious asides of the old master. With a great deal of bravery and persistence the young academic might eventually carve out a career of wordy comedy, but very few will survive the harsh decades of public indifference.
An evening with John Cooper Clarke is about as far as you can get from the usual Saturday night diet of appalling game shows, Strictly Come Dancing or the X Factor, but I'm glad we made the effort to leave the comfort of our sofa in the middle of rural nowhere for a blast of poetic comedy that is truly unique - though not for the faint-hearted. Long may he continue to tour the obscure haunts of Britain - keeping it real; some appearances on post-watershed telly are also long overdue for the Salford lad, now for some inexplicable reason living in Essex !
I can only hope that John achieves the ultimate ambition to own a disabled parking badge (despite no obvious disability) allowing parking directly outside any place he wishes to visit. If this dangerous trend develops it could be an end to the infamous Park & Ride as we know it.
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
Comfort Food
I returned to the village of my birth, and enjoyed fish, chips, scraps and mushy peas with lashings of vinegar from the shop that used to be the butcher's. The old fish and chip shop is now the chaotic Chinese takeaway.
It was truly a day of Indian summer, strolling by the shallow beck under an almost cloudless sky that had only the slight crispness of late October, and the sniff of winter not far behind. Round the corner from the pub and village green it was sad to see the ongoing destruction of the ancient ridge and furrow fields by the massive housing development - a battle that went on for more than ten years, but sadly lost. These fields were a vast, unofficial playground for us as kids, and to see yet another green area going under brick and tarmac is like a scaffolding pole through the heart.
Our young lad asked me to take him to the play area, walking past the sprawling wreck of a house where we grew up, with its enormous garden, and mature trees to climb into the expanding sky. The local team were warming-up for a football match on the carefully mown playing field nearby, where studs must never tread upon the sacred cricket square protected by thin wire.
I smiled, remembering how I'd thrown some of the sports club's new turf rectangles on their roof as a wayward youngster. Our Mischief Night (the day before Bonfire Night - November 5th) was pretty tame, but a certain level of disregard for the powers that be is a healthy tradition that should always continue - best in the style of Gandhi's non-violent resistance.
I bet even the Dalai Lama got into a few minor scrapes as a lad.
It was truly a day of Indian summer, strolling by the shallow beck under an almost cloudless sky that had only the slight crispness of late October, and the sniff of winter not far behind. Round the corner from the pub and village green it was sad to see the ongoing destruction of the ancient ridge and furrow fields by the massive housing development - a battle that went on for more than ten years, but sadly lost. These fields were a vast, unofficial playground for us as kids, and to see yet another green area going under brick and tarmac is like a scaffolding pole through the heart.
Our young lad asked me to take him to the play area, walking past the sprawling wreck of a house where we grew up, with its enormous garden, and mature trees to climb into the expanding sky. The local team were warming-up for a football match on the carefully mown playing field nearby, where studs must never tread upon the sacred cricket square protected by thin wire.
I smiled, remembering how I'd thrown some of the sports club's new turf rectangles on their roof as a wayward youngster. Our Mischief Night (the day before Bonfire Night - November 5th) was pretty tame, but a certain level of disregard for the powers that be is a healthy tradition that should always continue - best in the style of Gandhi's non-violent resistance.
I bet even the Dalai Lama got into a few minor scrapes as a lad.
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
My Computer
My computer, which is just about the only link I have to the outer world, took 248 seconds to start up - it has taken up to 295 seconds. Imagine what you can do in the spare 47 seconds ! For a man it only takes two pumps and a pop......
This is the frustration for those sad folk unable to afford a new PC after several years of declining performance. A fridge or TV can function at the same level for many years, but computers must have a deliberately installed chip that ensures their speedy decline and the necessity to beg, borrow or steal some cash to secure a shiny new one with the acceleration of a Formula 1 racing car.
Of course, I have some free speed-up software installed.......to tell me how slow the machine still is.
The world beyond my window is a cloudless blue - we are promised a temperature of one degree Celsius tonight in this rural area of northern England. So far we haven't switched on any heating; it only seems a short time ago that we had the so-called Indian summer.
A retired neighbour has just climbed in his green wheelie bin, which is perhaps a subtle comment on how he feels about the role of old people in broken Britain, or an urgent need to compress rubbish with only a fortnightly collection.
This is the frustration for those sad folk unable to afford a new PC after several years of declining performance. A fridge or TV can function at the same level for many years, but computers must have a deliberately installed chip that ensures their speedy decline and the necessity to beg, borrow or steal some cash to secure a shiny new one with the acceleration of a Formula 1 racing car.
Of course, I have some free speed-up software installed.......to tell me how slow the machine still is.
The world beyond my window is a cloudless blue - we are promised a temperature of one degree Celsius tonight in this rural area of northern England. So far we haven't switched on any heating; it only seems a short time ago that we had the so-called Indian summer.
A retired neighbour has just climbed in his green wheelie bin, which is perhaps a subtle comment on how he feels about the role of old people in broken Britain, or an urgent need to compress rubbish with only a fortnightly collection.
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