Naked Decorating

...well, in this heat it's the only way to do it. Actually I slightly exaggerate, I wasn't completely stark, boxers were worn. There doesn't seem a lot of point in getter paint roller specks on your trouser sausage after all.
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Last night saw an expedition of blokes to Delapre Abbey Beer Festival which despite only having a third of the beer left by the time we got there still meant a choice of 90 or so real ales. I would tell you what I had but you don't expect me, Mr Memory, to recall such fine detail surely? Suffice to say the two pints of Oakham Ales Bishop's Farewell in The Malt Shovel on the way home were the two best pints of the evening, and upped the alcohol content to beyond the point where remembering what was consumed right now a bit of a problem. Something I can retrieve from my frazzled synapses were the astonishingly over-priced and over-cooked hot dogs at £4 a pop! It's amazing what mashed beer drinkers will pay to soak up the ale, me included.

My imbibing colleagues were the two Ds and Geoff, who has kindly posted the photographic evidence on Facebook. This is one of the less frightening examples:

Three Bellies & A Wippet

It was good to see you three miscreants who I'd not been a-drinking with for years. By the time this pic was taken we were all quite inebriated. Surprisingly my hangover today is only of the "mildly grumpy" variety.
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Right, it's time to strip off and get down to the matt vinyl emulsion...

Rhetorical.1

Bloody weather. Why has March swapped places with May this year?
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Why do bands who peddle cliché-ridden self-aggrandising piffle of the lowest order have bigger audiences for their yawn-inducing drivel than bands who actually try to do something different?
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'kin Kenny is denying reports he's going to bottle it - again. Does this mean he will be gone by the time the owner comes back from Boston?
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Does Joey Barton have nice hair because his head is full of manure?
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Where are the other seven real ales? Did they ever exist?
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On the same subject as above, will I have a headache tomorrow morning?
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Will Rebekakakakah Brookes be found guilty?
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Would you rather be Greek than American?
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Bloody weather....did I say that already?
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Happy Birthday Brian Eno, 64 year-old genius that you are. You have delighted us with your esoteric and genuinely progressive music over the years, and long may it continue (see second rhetorical, above).

I Am (no longer) Kurious Oranj

It's the last day of my two weeks off...boooo! We had a few days in Amsterdam with PW & CW and a jolly good time was had by all. One of the things Amsterdam is known for is bikes. If Katie Melua was right, and there are 9 million of the things in Beijing then there must be at least half that number in Amsterdam. Most of them appear to be permanently parked up...

Hmmm...I know it's here somewhere...

This is a multi-storey bike park just outside the main train station. We arrived at night so we thought that come morning rush hour they would all be gone, but not so, and they didn't seem to be touched in the four and a bit days we were there. This also seemed to be true for other mass bike dumps, but that's not to say there weren't thousands out on the streets where they have their own bike lanes, and are a law unto themselves. Out in the evening sitting outside a bar PW and I observed that although most bikes had lights a good 90% couldn't be bothered to switch them on, and all bike riders wear the darkest possible clothes. Not only that but only around 50% seem to observe red traffic lights, all this making walking around at night quite an experience. The other odd thing about Amsterdam traffic is that taxis give way to pedestrians! Who wouldathunkit??

Being a long time ex-pothead I was constantly aware of the all pervading scent of cannabis sativa, and on Sunday night when the Dutch were out in orange force celebrating the eve of Queens Day, the air was a mixture of alcohol and weed, a quite heady mix I can tell you. As the result of a culture were weed smoking is accepted as normal the atmosphere of the city, although vibrant, does not have the manic edge of London, which can only be a good thing. However the forces of conservatism are never far away, and I learnt on returning home that just prior to our departure the Dutch powers that be had passed a law banning tourists from smoking cafés, not that anyone seemed to be taking any notice!

We went to the Van Gogh Museum, which is a obviously a must and once I had seen the four paintings on my "to do" list, my low tolerance threshold where art museums are concerned kicked in. To be honest seeing the famous self-portraits of the Dutch master in actualité was a bit underwhelming, added to the fact that the place was heaving with tourists, ruining any atmosphere. Some folk were going round in a long snaking line at a pace a snail would be ashamed of spending ages at every painting. I'll admit to being a philistine heathen were high art is concerned, and I cannot fathom where they get their patience from. Now, if we were in a science or living museum (Ironbridge Gorge, the cradle of the Industrial Revolution being a fine example) spending ages looking at the inner workings of a Victorian smelting plant would be no problem!

While the others were keen to visit the Anne Frank Huis I did not fancy depressing myself by confirming the depths that human beings can sink to in pursuit of a cause. I know the story, that's enough for me, and look at the queue!

While my companions were there I went for a hike round the city, indulging in coffee and sticky buns at appropriate intervals.

Tulips, many many thousands of them form a riot of colour at Keukenhof Gardens which is another must see...

Our final evening coincided with the eve of Queen's Day were every Dutch man and woman wears something orange, heads into the city and carouses until the small hours. A great way to end a holiday!

Amsterdam is a great place and we would go again, the only difference being that B and I would fly as the train journey takes too long even without the one and half hour delay on Eurostar going out (!), and is far more expensive than a flight.
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On me 'ead....

This is not a dream, it actually happened today...

Perambulating homewards I espy two 10 year old(ish) lads playing football in the street, on the opposite pavement. One of them makes to leather the ball back to his mate, slices it, up it goes and coming down narrowly misses a passing car, bounces, its trajectory now heading directly to me. For some mad reason I'm 10 years old again, so as it comes down I half-volley it on my instep, and it travels in a straight line right back into the arms of the taller of the two lads on t'other side of the road. Jeez, it could have gone anywhere! What was I thinking?

"Wicked" sez tall lad..."You play football?" "Yeah, many many years ago" I lie, digging being cool wid da kidz. "Who you support?" he says, standing there in his Barca shirt. Oh gawd I think, I'll bet he follows Man Utd, or much much worse, t'Shite. I'm in for some ridicule now. "Everton" sez I. He grins, whoops and hollers and amazingly says "Wow, me too" AND he high fives me! His little mate says "I'm Millwall, you bought Tim off us." Amazing! Two kids who support real teams, not a glory hunter in sight, although technically supporting Liverpool can't be classed as that nowadays. Whodathunkit?!
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Anyone who gets on their moral high horse and bemoans the fact that the likes of Barclays Bank and Vodafone and sundry other huge corporations get away with paying far too little tax, albeit legally, should think again next time they hit "Checkout" on Amazon.co.uk

Registered in Luxembourg, the UK branch of Amazon does not pay too little tax here. No siree, for it pays NO TAX AT ALL claiming that its operations here are merely distribution as all of its trade takes place in Luxembourg. HMRC are currently contesting this, eager to get their hands on millions if not billions of potential backdated tax.

Not only that but Amazon is directly responsible for the demise of independent book shops and CD shops. So next time you buy a CD or a book, pay a wee bit extra with a UK based seller. I'm as guilty as anyone, but it's time for a boycott methinks!
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Mucho JHB tomorrow - woohoo!

From the Slough of Despond

I have avoided the internet since returning home from Phill's yesterday afternoon with a coal-black cloud hanging over me following Everton's meek Wembley capitulation to probably the worst Liverpool team and manager since the Souness era. I have also not watched any TV news or MotD, so all of this is without meeja influence.

Since the start of the week when I was optimistic of our chances of overturning a hoodoo against Liverpool in cup semi finals and finals that stretches back to 1906 would you believe, I slowly but inexorably became more and more pessimistic, a mood change that often accompanies approaching derby games. Arriving at Phill's some ten or so minutes prior to kick off you could have powered the TV from from my nerve endings, such was my charged state. As the game kicked off and despite Liverpool's initial gung-ho attitude, it soon became apparent that the blue team were the only group of players on the pitch who seemed to know what "team" actually meant. Liverpool looked like they had only just met each other and we slowly but surely gained the upper hand with an unsettling ease - optimism does not sit well with us Toffees.

Then a classic "to me, to you" moment between Carragher (couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke) and Agger let in Cahill, and there was only going to be one outcome once he had passed it to Jelavic. Woohoo! We were 1-0 up, looking the better team, and had we upped our game and taken it to them we could and indeed should have all but sealed the game before half time, but it wasn't to be as we seemed strangely reticent even after going a goal up. This can only be a result of the manager's defensive temperament taking over, as you can't imagine any team 'Arry manges going into their shell after taking a lead, can you?

Come the second half you knew that Liverpool would come out all guns blazing and this is what happened and this is also where the psychological hold they have over us came into play. Our key players were all disappearing, Baines never getting forward, Fellaini wandering about looking lost and Cahill invisible. To cap it all our most consistent defender of the season then gifted that dreadful excuse for a human being that is Luis Suarez with the simplest of goals and it was 1-1. Despite Phill's assurances that we would still win, I knew that there was only one team winning this game and it wasn't us.

By now Andy Carroll, the £3.5 million player for whom Comolli mistakenly moved the decimal point before signing the cheque, had missed a couple of sitters, to much derision from Phill, although I kept fairly quiet as I knew what was coming, and it duly did. Taking on the role of Moses, where Distin and Heitinga were the Red Sea, The Lummox rose like an overweight ballet dancer to Bellamy's corner, and even he couldn't miss the target. 2-1, game over, I went home.

In conclusion, I can only say that due to their performance in the second half and in particular the last 15 minutes, Liverpool deserved to win, and that is the fault of one person alone. We lost this match because David Moyes does not know how to attack a game when we've taken the lead, and this uncertainty translates itself to to the team. Although defending a 1-0 lead might work against West Brom and their ilk, it ain't going to work against a team like Liverpool, crap as they may be. He is also incapable of the psychological man-management that would get rid of a jinx that has gone on for far too long against our beloved neighbours.

About the only good thing you can say is that at least Liverpool cannot come up against a defence as generous as ours was in the final...ah...unless Spurs win this afternoon.

Right, I'm off to punch some walls.

Bath full of offal

This week, mainly on Harriet's recommendation but partly to satisfy curiosity, Phill and I went to the Olde England pub for our traditional Thursday night beer. Highly praised by H and other friends this is a charming if somewhat strange hostelry. What used to be a Victorian house on a corner is now a pub serving up to ten real ales, loads of fruit wines and liqueurs and real ciders, the clincher being the legend "No lager sold here" on the door! Suits me, sir.

There are two floors both the size of a medium sized living room given over to large wooden tables and chairs. What may once have been a second bedroom upstairs has been partitioned into the loos which hold one person at a time only, although they have managed to have separate facilities for gents and ladies, and the bar which is basically a serving hatch, again with room for one person at a time. It didn't take long for queues to form.

As for the ambience, it's a great little place. With no jukebox or fruit machine, or TV, you have to...engage in conversation, remember that? As you are sat round a large table you'd have to be a complete misanthrope to not at least acknowledge the presence of the strangers you are sat near, and soon enough Phill and I were chatting to Emma & John from Leeds, who were playing Scrabble. If you know us two, you can imagine what happened next, and apologies to our new friends, but we kind of took over their game, Phill assisting Emma and me John, who kept telling me he felt completely out of his depth, heheh. After struggling to start with Team J&R triumphed by the end. Wahey! Checking later it seems Phill and I contributed a word each that...ahem....do not actually exist, even in the rarefied upper atmospheres of Scrabble Genius. What is it folk say about smartarses?

We'll certainly be going back there, that's for sure, maybe with a less cavalier attitude to the dictionary, oh, and the beer is amazingly cheap too!
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Farcebook, we all love it don't we? So far I have not been frogmarched into the virtual torture chamber that is Timeline, and so I still see the fun targeted advertising down the right side of my News Feed page. Today I have all the usual gubbins advertising everything from mobile phones (I've just got a new one), music festivals (well, obvious really), Internet browsers (more tallying to burgeoning nerd factor no doubt), to Daz Soap Club (what on earth is that, and how do they know I wash? And we prefer Persil in our house, so there). Stuck at the bottom of the list is one tagged "Boyfriends wanted" purportedly from a girls' dating agency that bravely chose to call itself "Plenty Of Fish". Oh dear....
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At work I occasionally like to have some background music and Wednesday's choice was Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov. For those of you old enough, that's "Rrrrrimmmsssky Kkkoorrrrsakov" - ask your mum or your dad. Anyway here's the link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZKlFcjHBZY&feature=related

Obviously I don't watch the video but occasionally check a look to see how far in we are, and at around 22:30 minutes in I noticed the guy in the audience in the blue T-shirt appeared to be asleep. In fact if you fast forward to 23 minutes, he's well away. I'm sure we've all been guilty of similar behaviour, and my soma inducing environment of choice used to be the theatre, which I've not been to for years as it always saw me fighting with creeping unconsciousness, despite the too small and very uncomfortable seating that Shoesville's Art Deco theatre offered at the time. Now I'm 200 years older I just know I'd be out like a light probably even before the safety curtain has gone up.
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The idea of me taking exercise is about as unlikely as finding a chin in a Tory cabinet, but noticing my girth expanding slowly but surely and my weight going ever upwards I decided to download a pedometer app (ooh you trendy so-and-so) on to my new-fangled mobile telephonic and computing device that goes by the unfortunate name of "AccuPedo" - Sun readers could easily get confused. They probably used the same marketing guy who came up with "Plenty Of Fish". Anyways, the mythical target for those who "pedo" (ahem) is 10000 steps a day. Sounds a lot and it is, about 4¾ miles at my stride length. I walk to and from work every day, which it turns out is just over 5500 steps, leaving me 4500 steps to tread before the calories I burn up exceeds the amount I shovel in to any worthwhile extent.

In order to achieve this I have been taking ever more circuitous routes to work but I still have not hit the target. At this rate I'm going to have to get a bus to the next town and walk home.

Now, where's that Crunchie?
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Cold Soup Band in Entreé Triumph

Some life-as-consumer stuff...

Some of you may be aware of the ongoing trauma that was (notice the use of the past tense - yippee!) the installation of our new bathroom here at Burwood Towers. To cut a long and quite dull but highly stressful story short, the original bath was discovered to have a minor flaw and so had to be changed, meaning a week without a bathroom for B and I. Thanks to Mike for the use of his facilities in the interim, the portaloo in the driveway was only called upon for emergencies.

The online company we bought the bath from go under the moniker of bathrooms365 and although I have to praise my point of contact Jill for doing all she could to help us, it has to be said that trying to contact them over a weekend be it by phone or email is a waste of time as there's nobody there. Methinks a name change to bathrooms261 may be appropriate. They eventually coughed up £40 by way of compensation which added to the extra delivery cost they had to pay probably wiped out their profit on the deal.

The upshot of having to change the bath meant that we are left with the original as the delivery driver was under instructions not to take it away, a fact I learned after the event. An EBay sale may not worth the hassle as a similar if slightly smaller bath from the same manufacturer with an almost identical if very slightly bigger flaw sold for a meh-inducing 98p!

If any of you fine people want a 1700mm x 800mm x 15mm (extra thickness to cope with my ever increasing weight at shower time) bath, RRP £310 plus, for a bargain price of £50 do get in touch. Please note that you'll have to arrange collection. If nobody is interested I'll chance my arm on EBay at £100 and failing that it's Freecycle.
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Insurance companies, doncha just love 'em? If like me you are a customer of Anglian Water then over the years you will have seen a fair few bits of flotsam and jetsam attempting to prise your wallet open to pay for a Homeserve (HS) insurance policy which covers things like wiring and underground pipework that are not necessarily covered by your normal house insurance.

A few years ago I took out one these pesky blighters only to realise it makes more sense to have it covered by British Gas (BG) as the boiler service is thrown in too. This means a duplication of cover, so I contacted HS in order to reduce the cover to the one remaining element not covered by BG. Weeks went by, no response, so I thought sod it, I'll cancel the bloody thing. Direct debit duly kicked into touch, and a letter sent to their customer service department explaining what I'd done and why I then get a letter from HS saying as my direct debit was no longer going through I owed them £x if I wanted my policy to continue. I ignore this of course, and a few weeks later get a letter from HS complaints department apologising for any delay, but that my complaint is being looked into.

Hmmm...odd, as I had not actually complained about anything. Interestingly this letter also contained a complaints procedure leaflet from the Insurance Ombudsman, so it appears the current fear and loathing instilled into banks etc by the PPI farce has spread to insurance companies. I thought nothing of this as surely they would work out that all I had done was cancel the policy once they read my letter and that would be the end of it. Not so, as yesterday I get a phone call from a very apologetic woman at HS who asked me if I would accept £50 in settlement of my complaint...err, yes please!
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The title of this wibble refers to Gazpacho, seen live in London by moi last week, a band that I highly recommend as it should appeal beyond the usual left-field racket that I tend to favour. Check out some tracks here.

Apparently Gary Numan has made a decent record, something about as likely as an orange narcissistic and annoying Scot getting elected to Parliament on the back of the Muslim vote in an ultra-safe Labour seat...oh, hang on a sec.. In fact if you type "George" into Google, the first one is Clooney, the second Michael and third is Bradford's newest MP! Life is indeed full of surprises.
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Last night saw the mighty Team Squonk spend some more of their accumulated pub quiz winnings in the the best curry house in Northants, Pooja in Wellingborough. By the way, I'm a carnivore and Pooja is 100% veggie, so it must be good for me to say that! We are nothing if not creatures of habit, and my main course nowadays at this fine if slightly surreal culinary establishment tends to alternate between two or three staples, but this time I tried something new. As veterans of this restaurant the cryptic menu descriptions of the food on offer now hold no fear, even a curry base described as "Mixed Gravy"! However, always curious as to what a Manchurian Dhosa might be, as it is described euphemistically as "A Dhosa (a flat pancake and a Southern Indian speciality - as if you need telling if you're still reading) filled with Manchurian" I took the chance on this comestible candidate, and taking a chance at Pooja has sometimes left me underwhelmed. This time I was not disappointed, as I was greeted with a filling of chilies, peppers, corn balls, and the still secret ingredients that make their curry sauces mouth-wateringly seductive. Damn, I just drooled on the keyboard..

If you're ever in Wellingborough (probably a bit of an unlikely proposition, I know) give Pooja a visit, you won't be disappointed. The menu only begins to hint at the cornucopia of salivating deelites on offer!
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