[growing old gracefully] and the problem of seagulls

Look, I honestly do appreciate my residential location, which I’ve somehow accidentally or on purpose [depending on which deity you follow] found myself in.

I really am grateful … but what I do not appreciate is being woken every morning by the squawk of bleedin’ seabirds outside my window at 03:50.

I know that that was the time because I got up and had a look, didn’t I, before telling them to stop their bloody racket. All very yo-ho-ho in the morning light it was too, with birds screeching about over by the ships, very Robert Louis indeed as I gazed down on the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of a one legged man or to musket my way to a few of those pieces of eight.

Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to write about today.

Yesterday, as you’d understand because I posted, I did the long bike trek into town, taking my two part spectacles into ASDA for repair. They refused, which is fine, so I had to go elsewhere but one thing which struck me was that ageing women shouldn’t try to dress as if they were still thirty. A mini-skirt and boots on a sixty-year old lady is not a pretty thing.

What is a pretty thing on a sixty year old lady is grace and elegance.

Who said a matriarch or that indefinable person called a ‘lady’ cannot be an alluring prospect if she is obviously some kind of Segie whom the years have treated kindly and who goes in for the Arthurian motif? Has anyone not heard of Queen Margot either - although I think she was a bit younger, wasn’t she?

Which brings me to the men.

In about 1995, I was asked by a girl hockey player of nineteen, with thighs like tree stumps [I have to get my own back somehow]: ‘Why do you try to dress like you’re nineteen?’

Rather than tell her to get knotted, I heeded the pastry-loving damsel’s words, took a look and yes, I’d basically grown older and forgotten to adjust the attire in accordance with the years.

Soon after, I passed my psychedelic yellow Sonnetti jacket and jeans on to a deserving teenager, discarded the designer trainers and went in for the loose top, straight cut jeans and black leather Echos on the feet. All I needed then was the body to go with it but that’s a later tale from Russia which you’ll never hear because I don’t want a certain person to know with whom I went.

So yes, a woman of sixty can look quite alluring if she:

1. is not a man-hating misandrist;
2. does not carp on and on and on about women’s rights and how wonderful Germaine Greer is;
3. looks after herself;
4. plays the part of the mysterious woman with a past.

What a man does, when the chin goes double, triple and finally becomes not unlike a pelican, is another matter. Maybe he should:

1. give away the pastries and sweet comestibles;
2. get back into the training;
3. fail to notice the younger ladies;
4. get involved in some noble pursuit which will bring the women in anyway;
5. have lots of money.

One thing he should not do is ride about on a bicycle at top speed, weaving in and out of cars parked at the lights as if it was a slalom course and then tear off down the road because as sure as a plaster cast, those worthy drivers will catch up with him further down the track and no amount of riding up on the footpath, playing chicken with stationary pedestrians and running lights will alter a car owner’s gleam of determination.

The moral is that people of a certain age should start to act their age. The two words ‘concrete boots’ leap apppealingly to the imagination for cheeky sods like the aforementioned.

Disclaimer: I didn’t really do any of the above – it was just fantasy, like the rest of my life.

Speaking of fantasy, there’s another aspect I’d like to touch on and that’s the ‘old farts – young tarts’ syndrome. With the best will in the world, chaps – that’s a fantasy unless you’re in a third world country and we all know about Gary Glitter, don’t we?

And by the way, have you seen some of the YTs today? What are they doing looking like that at that age? Is it their parents’ fault, their fault, society’s or Gordon Brown’s?

Having written all the above, I wonder if it isn’t easier for a woman in the early years and a man in the later years.

Perhaps not but it seems so.

Seems to me that a younger lady who wishes to enjoy the company of men no sooner need announce, ‘Here I am, boys,’ than she has an instantly loyal clientele. A man announcing, ‘Here I am, girls,’ might not attract quite the same degree of attention.

I saw one just now in the town and she was like a magnet for the middle-aged and yes, I would have.

Conversely, lovable, well dressed rogues who enjoy dancing might find felicity beyond fifty. In fact, I know a number of them. In Tenerife, I saw one Spaniard, maybe sixty-five, not all that tall, an expressive rather than a good dancer, cleanly dressed, with a very pleasant manner and women of all ages dripping off him. I looked at my girlfriend of the time and asked how he managed that. Later, he came over and we chatted about things – he really was one very cool dude without realizing why, I was sure of that.

So yes, perhaps we have to come to terms with where we are and not keep deluding ourselves. I shouldn’t imagine this will get too many comments as it’s a deeply personal issue for many and there’s a lot of either self-delusion or despondency about.

Solution? Perhaps an attitude and values makeover first, followed by a dose of reality – Britain’s good for that. Then a lifestyle change with a new game plan thought out.

[the cabbage] neo-feudal staple

As we slip into the neo-feudal, post-democratic, Richard Briars and Felicity Kendall society, it would be as well to reflect on the two staple foods you should have planted in your garden plot.

The cabbage [from Wiki]

Cabbage is an excellent source of Vitamin C. It also contains significant amounts of glutamine, an amino acid, which has anti-inflammatory properties.

It is a source of indole-3-carbinol, or I3C, a compound used as an adjuvent therapy for recurrent respiratory papillomatosis, a disease of the head and neck caused by human papillomavirus (usually types 6 and 11) that causes growths in the airway that can lead to death.

In European folk medicine, cabbage leaves are used to treat acute inflammation.[7] A paste of raw cabbage may be placed in a cabbage leaf and wrapped around the affected area to reduce discomfort. Some claim it is effective in relieving painfully engorged breasts in breastfeeding women.

Buckwheat [from Wiki]

Buckwheat contains rutin, a medicinal chemical that strengthens capillary walls, reducing hemorrhaging in people with high blood pressure and increasing microcirculation in people with chronic venous insufficiency.[23] Dried buckwheat leaves for tea were manufactured in Europe under the brand name "Fagorutin."

Buckwheat contains D-chiro-inositol, a component of the secondary messenger pathway for insulin signal transduction found to be deficient in Type II diabetes and Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). It is being studied for use in treating Type II diabetes.[24] Research on D-chiro-inositol and PCOS has shown promising results.[25][26]

A buckwheat protein has been found to bind cholesterol tightly. It is being studied for reducing plasma cholesterol in people with an excess of this compound.

The Russians have sworn by these two for centuries and with good reason. Get yourself onto a diet where these are the framework and your digestive tract will leap up and thank you for it.

[the eu] and its interface with the great british workman

Sometimes the more mundane issues are the more interesting.

Last Thursday, I heard a knock on the door and there was The Great British Workman, named Chris, to be known for simplicity’s sake as The Great British Workman, wearing a sickly yellow green jacket.

‘We’re ah, going to do the lekky, like.’

All right, there were a number of assumptions here. Firstly, what the hell was he talking about? Secondly, what ‘lekky’ needed to be done? I was happy, I had my pay meter, the shop was not far away to do the top ups, the sun was shining.

‘We’re moving your meter, like.’

‘Ah, and where, Chris, are you moving it to, pray?’

‘Downstairs.’

‘Why would you move my personal paymeter, which currently houses my electronic key, which I had to negotiate with the electririty company over a period of twenty five ‘press one if you need to be confused’ days, to some remote part of this mansion, accessible only by three flights of stairs and five intervening doors, when the whole point of a personal paymeter is to know instantly and at hand, how much electricity you have, to take the aforementioned key, go to the shop with it and say, ‘Ten quid on the lekky, please?’’

‘Health and Safety.’

‘Yes and I fervently believe it’s a great idea, health and safety but how does this come into the discussion about my paymeter?’

‘Well, it’s unsafe like.’

‘Who says?’

‘Health and Safety.’

‘Right, let me get this straight. Last week, you’d concede, my personal paymeter was perfectly safe, no sparks or conflagration of any kind? Good. Today though, it’s become unsafe, a liability lurking in a box, ready to spring out and incinerate my children and hopefully my missus?’

‘The EU like. New regulations come through.’

‘Now I understand. Right Chris, when do you want to do this?’

‘Tomorrow – wil you be in all day?’ he innocently asked, expecting everyone to phone up work at a moment’s notice and say, ‘Think I won’t drop in today; I’m having my paymeter removed.’’

‘I’ll be in.’

.o0o.

TGBW arrived only thirty minutes after the designated time [and I appreciated that I’d been given an actual time in the first place], with stepladders, tools, a sheet and a mate, wearing a sickly yellow green jacket.

Soon they were up in the loft, there was a lot of yelling at someone called Tel, elsewhere in the loft and then a great thick black cable was passed through, maybe an inch thick, snaking its way into my bathroom.

‘This is moving the meter, is it?’

‘We have to change the cable.’

‘What, for the whole building?’

‘Yeah, the old cable doesn’t meet specifications.’

‘This is a new flat, that was new cable you put through a month back’

‘Well yeah but it doesn’t meet specifications now. The EU like.’

‘At this point, I ran into the owner of the complex, an exceedingly nice chap named Frazzled to a Cinder, hereafter to be known as FTAC, not wearing a sickly yellow green jacket. You can always tell the owner of a venture in this land - where things are actually built, rather than a few figures being creatively moved about on a page as he applies to be bailed out – he’s the one with the worry lines on his brow and the glazed eyes at age thirty-two and he doesn’t wear a sickly yellow green jacket unless he has to.

‘FTAC, what’s all this about? I don’t want my fucking meter moved downstairs, excuse my French. I was perfectly happy in this nice little complex with its gardens, fountains, triple glazed gas filled, acoustic glass, CCTV, bicycle sheds, carpark, domaphone and piped music.’

‘James,’ he said, in that exasperated voice, ‘tell me about it. This is costing me a thousand fucking pounds to change the fucking cable over. The thing’s cost twenty three thou so far. Scottish Power. We’ll try to get them to keep the disruption to a minimum.’

‘And I thought I had problems. Thanks, FTAC.’

.o0o.

Three and a half hours later, with me still stuck in the flat, TGBW reappeared. ‘Ah, look mate, they say they’ll be in to do it Monday morning now. Problem with the new meters like.’

‘Oh thanks a whole lot for that, GBW, I appreciate being cooped up here all day. What time Monday?’

‘Well, we can’t tell, can we? I’ll be here eight o’clock though. Will you be in Monday like?’

‘For you, Chris, anything.’

.o0o.

The trip to my mate was also stymied due to certain internal issues at that end so a pleasant weekend was had writing and editing the book.

.o0o.

Monday morning duly arrived and no one appeared, as I’d suspected.

About ten, TGBW appeared and said, ‘Right, we’re shutting off the power in an hour. Will you be in, like?’’

‘How long for?’

‘An hour.’

‘No, how long will the power be off for?’

‘An hour. We’ll finish the cable now.’

Thirty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. There was TGBW, Tel, a stepladder and the ubiquitous sickly yellow green jackets. I knew he was my mate because he said, ‘Awright, mate?’

They now went into a four hour session of cursing, swearing to themselves and whatever in the loft, every so often resulting in cable coming through to the flat, dust and debris going over the carpet and walls.

‘You got a vacuum?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Right, brush and pan ’ll do.’

The other one was at my box, incising cable, drilling, screwing, unscrewing and generally enjoying himself. I felt ravaged.

Then the drilling in the walls and roof began.

A couple of hours later, I caught TGBW and asked when the ‘lekky’ was going off.

‘Tomorrah now. They didn’t get the right meters.’

I wondered if he’d meant to say Gomorrah rather than tomorrah. ‘Tell me, Chris, are you expecting me to be in tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, if ya can like. We need ta get in the flats.’

‘That’s very kind of you. For how many more days will this happen?’

‘Only tomorrah.’

At this point, some very official people with clipboards appeared – I knew they were official because they had clipboards and weren’t wearing wearing sickly yellow green jackets - and I made the mistake of asking, ‘Is it absolutely necessary that the personal paymeter go downstairs?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘You’re electricity, right?’

‘British Gas and Electric.’

‘Not Southern Electric?’

‘No. Ah, you’re not one of ours then. What, are you, Npower?’

I went and found a Scottish Power man downstairs – he was the one looking on approvingly and not much else but his jacket was orange, which provided pleasant relief, like – and I asked him the same question.

‘No, not at all.’

Good, my severed cables and debris notwithstanding, my interruptions and inconvenience were soon to be ended. Now, quite a number of hours after the threatened shut down of electricity, I sought out TGBW.

‘Well, we’re not shutting it off until tomorrow morning now.’

.o0o.

Tuesday morning.

About ten, TGBW appeared and went through the ‘we’re shutting the lekky off in an hour’ spiel.

An hour later, it was shut off but everything had been done – washing, ironing etc.

Two hours later, I went for a wander in the strangely silent building and found an interesting sight downstairs. Leaning on his van, with a bemused smile on his face, was FTAC.

‘Morning, James.’

He wandered over and we found an alcove. To my questioning glance, he explained, ‘These people standing about are the first gang, for the cable. There’s another lot meant to be here but they were sent to another site instead and we’re waiting for a third gang to arrive. This lot are costing me by the hour.’

‘They’ve cut off the power.’

‘Maybe you’ll have better luck than me. We’ve got flats to build.’

‘I wondered why it was so quiet.’

‘Look, that’s him over there. Go and have a chat.’

I did. It was a rotund, red-faced little man with Scottish Power tattooed on his forehead and wearing an orange jacket. ‘Excuse my presumption but is it necessary to have the power off while no one’s doing anything?’

‘Don’t blame me mate – it’s them wot didn’t turn up.’

‘Yes but while everyone’s hanging about chatting and having cuppas, could be have a smidgeon of lekky perhaps?’

‘Nah. Regulations. Health and Safety. Sorry.’

FTAC was grinning, fit to burst. I went upstairs, crestfallen.

One hour.

Two hours.

Three hours.

I went downstairs to find out and TGBW explained to me, ‘Yeah, the meters came but they were the wrong ones. We’re waiting for the new meters.’

‘Chris, forgive me for being stupid but I thought you were actually getting my meter out and putting downstairs behind an old washbasin?’

‘Oh no, we can’t touch them. They belong to the company.’

‘You mean I have to phone my electricity supplier, with whom it took weeks just to get an identity code, to come out and shift my personal paymeter downstairs here, coordinating with Scottish Power?’

‘Yeah, it might be worth calling ’em like.’

I went upstairs, intending to do no such thing.

Half and hour later, there was a knock on the door. It was TGBW. ‘I’ve come to take out your meter.’

I ushered him in and watched the start of the complex process of about a dozen little sub-boxes needing removing, new cable attached and so on. There was still a little bit of battery power on the Mac so I went back to that.

Late afternoon now, I went looking for them all and found TGBW, a success in itself. He explained, ‘They need these lugs,’ he drew a diagram on the wall with his finger, ‘and they didn’t bring ’em. You’d think seein’ as we’d put new cable in, we’d need lugs too.’

‘Hold on – do you need the lugs or do they?’

‘Them. We put ’em in but they have to supervise it, like.’

‘Why?’

‘Regulations.’

‘Health and Safety?’

‘Yeah.’

Just before my regular meeting with my mate of a Tuesday evening, TGBW appeared at the door and knocked. ‘Your juice is back on.’ He then moved to the next flat.

In the car, my mate chuckled, ‘There might be a blog post in that, you know.’

This morning I told FTAC I was running a post on this and he grinned. He’s heard of blogs, of course but being involved in building things, he doesn’t have a lot of time.

If you want to meet him, he’s the one with the polished accent, his sentences punctuated by he word ‘fucking’, looking like a navvy and driving the van.

[ice cream farms] and the entrepeneur

If the Iceland entrepeneurs can create an ice-cream farm:

On why they decided to produce ice cream on their farm, Egilsdóttir said, “I guess we’re just a little weird.” It only took her and her husband three days to execute their idea. “If we get an idea and it makes sense, it is best to execute it immediately,” added Gudmundsson.

... then why can't we set up something like that? Maybe we already have.

[dearie me] can't see my glasses in front of my face

I tell you, it's not funny.

The other day, I was in the kitchen, my 'computer glasses' fell, I tried to stop them hitting the floor and stuck out a knee and the lenses fell out. Following this, it was a case of finding the little screw [metal] all over the kitchen every time it pinged out of the hole.

Anyway, I got the little bugger [metal] in eventually.

Well knock me down with a glass case if yesterday they didn't fall off again - in two pieces. They snapped in half.

Now I'm wondering who's got something against me writing the book and blogging 'cause I can't do either properly without 'em. Maybe they just don't like my specs.

[quick grabs] the hearts and minds follow

JPT:

I saw a Policeman walking near to where I live today and I thought 'what's he up to then?'

Nornorwester:

Which of the alternative versions of the following proverbs is true:

A) A woman's work is never done.

B) A woman's hair is never done.

A) A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single shoe shop.

B) A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single stag party.

A) If wishes were horses I’d have a palomino.

B) If wishes were horses then Gypsy Princess would have definitely won the 2.45 at Chepstow.

Bob G:

March is here

Another month shot in the ass.

Vox:

I will confess to not understanding how having read War and Peace or Madame Bovary is supposed to make one any more sexy, but otherwise, this common practice of deceit doesn't surprise me at all.

Deogolwulf, on the fallacy of chronological snobbery:

The progressive-historicism of the fallacy often betrays itself in such epithets as “medieval logic”, spoken as though an instance of logical inference could somehow be invalidated and therefore ignored merely through association with a pre-modern source.

[british police] where did the rot set in

My mate said that Scotland Yard is now recruiting thugs. There are still many career officers out there but they're gradually being pensioned off.

Some time back, the Telegraph wrote:

It is no exaggeration to say that Sir Paul takes over at a point of crisis in policing. It is in danger of slipping away from the people it is meant to serve. The middle classes who would, until fairly recently, have supported the police through thick and thin are increasingly disenchanted with what they see.

This is not entirely the fault of the police, though the activities of some senior officers, including Sir Paul's predecessor Sir Ian Blair, are partly to blame. The culpability lies predominantly with the Government and its imposition of targets on the police that actually make it less likely that they do the job most of us want to see.

I'd have described myself as basically pro-police but various incidents highlight the growing dissatisfaction with our bobbies. Mind you, they're on a hiding to nothing and have to do some unpalatable things these days. Another problem is that they have to do the dirty work for this appalling government and by 2012, may even have to fire on white, British, middle-class people who are p---ed off with what's happened.

In 2006, this blog began with the point of view that we are heading for a dystopia imposed by Them and nothing I've subsequently seen alters that view in the slightest. The difference between us is that you blame Brown and the incompetent government but I sheet it home to the Armani suited bstds behind them, predominantly living in Bavaria and Switzerland and with chapters in Scotland.

Sorry to be a bit out of sorts today.

[take this cup] and let the deadly hour pass me by

There've been some beautiful words written which fit the mood precisely.

Such a pity most of you don't read Russian because these below haunt me every time and I can't believe that Любэ did not include the song in their 'best of' collections:

Когда минуты роковые настают,
И волны чёрные до неба достают,
В недобрый час,
В недобрый час.

Помилуй, Господи, нас грешных ты спаси,
И если можно, эту чашу пронеси,
Не мимо нас,
В который раз.

Anyone who does have a smattering of Russian knows that what follows is not a translation but a rendering, as there is much which is idiomatic in the words above. In effect, the lines say:

When the deadly time, the testing time comes to you and in front of you the waves rise like a giant wall up to the heavens, this is an unpleasant hour or period of time you must live through.

Please Lord, forgive us our sins and if possible take this cup of wrath from our hands. In other words, let us escape the horror which is coming up.

That's interesting for this group to write because they'd have to have been as far removed from religion as any sinner. It goes to show that when we find ourselves in that hour where we're alone and have to go through it all by ourselves, how nice it would be to have that bitter cup lifted from our hands.

The context, by the way, in which the words were written was of troops in landing craft being ferried to the shore, presumably to be gunned down when they get there.

[one man show] the problem of the succession

How many times do we see a group, series, film franchise, monarchy or whatever languish because of just one person?

The obvious choice in the monarchical world was Henry VIII, although talent did pop up later in the form of Anne’s daughter. In music, the biggest surprise to me was how the death of Jon Bonham derailed that group when many thought it was Page and Plant that drove it.

I’ve just been reading about a group I’ve featured on this blog before – Niagara and how they ended:

Ceci se rajoute au fait que Muriel, fatiguée, déprimée et lasse, ne supporte plus la pression. Elle décide d'arrêter... Niagara n’est plus! Ainsi se conclut la brillante carrière d’un groupe ayant réussi dans tous les domaines.

This is a perfect example of a group which was not a group – it was actually a duo and when we get down to the stark reality – it was her.

At least Blondie acknowleged that Deborah Harry, whom I’m delighted to be able to claim I’ve rubbed up against in a frottagically crowded pub, was the be all and end all of that group.

Similarly, take out Ian Curtis and what’s left?

In film, would the Bond franchise still be alive without Craig? Perhaps that’s one case where the principle of ‘take out the principal and there’s no point anymore’ doesn’t apply.

[the blogosphere] marginalizing itself into oblivion

You might like to read this first.

Right, now my post:

For quite some time I’ve been wondering about how the blogosphere is allowed to go on when it almost certainly militates against the powers that be.

I mean, at some point, surely they’ll have to pull the plug, as in China.

At least, that’s what I thought.

At a simplistic level, party politics and government, they don’t have the power yet in this country or the U.S.A. to close us down on a pretext although there’ve been attempts, not least the two tier blogosphere and other proposals.

What does seem to be happening is that it’s killing itself off and it’s marginalized. Let’s face it, we don’t go to any blog to hear or see the news – we go to the MSM, in my case the Telegraph first, followed by Reuters, the BBC, Google for the U.S. news and The Age for the Australian. Don’t remember the last time I looked at the Guardian.

If we want analysis, we have our blog of choice – Dale, DK, Denninger, whoever. The rest of us, busily typing away, are at best marginalized, no matter how perspicacious we may claim to be. We don’t reach anyone except those wanting a quick, thirty second grab.

Therefore, the powers that be, the genuine ones, Them, have relatively little to fear, which won’t stop them fearing, as all totalitariansm does in its own paranoid way.

Perhaps the blogosphere peaked in late 2006/early 2007 – certainly I saw a lot more cut and thrust around that time.

I wonder how you see it these days?