MUD AND POLICE
Well, it's been nice to read that one or two authors-of-blogs-I-read have had a wonderful time in the Glastonbury mud and are, for all I know, still soaking in a well deserved hot bath and looking forward to next year's festivities.
I remember the first time I went. Back in '77 I think it was, when it was still, very much, a free festival. The problem was, I think, that we were arriving at what was probably the back end of it all and that residents of the area had started kicking up a bit of a fuss at being invaded on a yearly basis by hordes of the great unwashed.
Four of us had planned to hitch down for the solstice but the 'whatever' factor kicked in and we ended up getting a lift from one of our mothers. Very much a case of bugger the credibility, owt for an easy life. Chemically induced apathy, maybe?
Anyway, the closer we got the more acute became our sense of embarrassment...Oh, mama. Just drop me at the third teepee on the left and send James round with the Rolls on Monday, would you?
We also had the added problem of not knowing just where it was going to be. The site shifted from year to year and we had heard that this year was going to be particularly problematic due to local hostility.
We needn't have worried on either count as it happened. We were trolling along rather sedately down one of those country lanes that probably don't exist anymore when we spotted blue helmets bobbing up and down over the hedgerows (which certainly don't exist anymore). When we espied what I believe is called a paddy wagon and it became apparent that the bobbing helmets were policemen on horseback, we told the guy's mother to stop, unloaded all our gear and joined the procession in what we fervently hoped was a nonchalant (and unmotherised) manner from the rear.
Unfortunately, this involved passing through the massed ranks of the local dibble. Now, I didn't believe for one moment that they would strip search us on the verge but for four paranoiacs to be in amongst so much blue serge, it was an uncomfortable experience to say the least. Polite middle class wimps that we were, many an excuse me passed our lips as we manouevred ourselves and our back packs through their midst and it was at this point that my first illusions were rudely shattered. Up to then it had been wholly outside my experience (and also my naiive expectations) that police officers were seemingly at liberty to heartily abuse members of the citizenry.
It was with some sense of relief that we emerged through the vanguard of the rear guard as it were. And then...
I don't know what I had been expecting...some lovey dovey hippy peace and love thing, I suppose but the reality of it was as much of a shock to the system as had been the fucks per minute count in the speech of the constabulary. I mean, this was hard core. This was circa 1977 and 'new age traveller' was not part of the common vocabulary of the time. Dreadlocked and travel worn, animated and aggressive, driving vehicles with no tax disc and in suspiciously unroadworthy condition, these people were totally outside my frame of reference. Several were nursing fresh wounds as a result of clashes with sundry dibbles and the tension was tangible.
We were invited into one of their vans by a thirty something woman and we accepted her hospitality and tea rather guiltily. I'm sure she thought we had hiked it down there rather than get dropped at the door. But maybe not, we must have been so obviously wide eyed and innocent that our pretense of insousiance would have been transparent to all. She was kind though and made us welcome.
An acceptable site was eventually arrived at and we pitched camp. The generator however, did not arrive so the only music on offer over the weekend would be acoustic.
There were a whole lot of kids with the travellers and I remember being impressed by their maturity, their ease with strangers and their communication skills to say nothing of their familiarity with the erection of teepees.
We had a great time and the constant police presence on the periphery never interfered with our enjoyment. I remember being impressed with the travellers' bravery...no, that's the wrong word...dedication maybe. I would go back to my comfortable semi and they would, well...move on, I guess.
But even at the time, I remember thinking that despite their rejection of our society, they all signed on somewhere and could not have existed as a discrete, separate entity, totally 'outside', completely self-sufficient, unreliant on either the DHSS or the NHS and this rather took the shine off it for me. Admirable sentiments maybe, but in practice, hypocritical.
And I think about those kids now. It might not have been easy for their parents to drop out but just how difficult would it be for them to drop in?
Pass the rizlas, Alice.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Friday, June 25, 2004
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
'S MORE GAS...BORED
Idris and the Frog have only been gone since Sunday and already one half of the kitchen looks like this.
The photo of the other half failed to make it past my inner censor. I do have some pride.
It has however, given me a chance to catch up on some marking. For the last three days I have been listening to recordings of oral interlocutions of such a numbing homogeneity as to leave your correspondent jaded in the extreme.
Under the influence of extreme boredom, my reflex is usually to hie me in the direction of Blogger.com or the fridge. On this occasion as, it has to be said, on so many others the 'or' was replaced by 'and' so now it is with fingers cooled by the green bottle that I bang this one out.
Other than ennui, I have no theme, no grand design, no wisdom to impart...just a few observations on the content of a week and a half's batch of newspapers I picked up on Monday and have just skimmed through this evening.
Overall, no great surprises. England seems just as fucked up now as it was when I abandoned ship in '91. Back then, I could handle individual pockets of the place just as I could appreciate individuals who lived there but, taken en masse, viewed as a whole, the country was a pile of shit in which the inhabitants seemed all too content to wallow. After 13 years of exile, I do not regret my decision to leave and, viewing the place from an objective distance, it seems to me that despite a few cosmetic adjustments, that which lies beneath is as rotten and corrupt and ignorant and bigoted and small minded as ever.
Broad strokes, I agree. A general impression which ignores the fine brush work certainly but one by which I will nevertheless stand.
A few snapshots.
David Beckham scratching his balls on a hotel balcony makes the front pages.
Our Prime Minister can say, "Now is not the time for a change in direction...but a change in gear." and really mean, "Fuck you, peasants. What do you know?" He's lost it. Get rid.
Kilroy-Bloody-Silk vows to "wreck" the European Parliament all the while drawing his 60 odd thousand quid salary from his villa in Spain. Hypocritical tosspot.
David Blunkett vows to "nail" a single solitary hooligan. Secretary of STATE, David...state, stately, statesmanlike, dignified. Playground bully. Enough said.
All the rhetoric concerning Europe is conducted in the language of conflict and defense. "Fight for Britain's interests", "bat for Britain", "defend our rights". Just what is it that scares them so much?
All the good things this Labour Government has done pass by ignored, unheralded, unpublicised by either the press or the government itself. Redistribution by stealth it may be but if no-one knows about it, who is going to kick up a fuss when a future Tory/Spineless Dipstick/Liberally-Bandwagonning Party government reverses it all?
Identity cards. Fucking fuck the fuck right off.
I seem to have rather stumbled upon a theme, wouldn't you say? 'Twas not my intention at the outset but, having turned over the stone, 'twere best I look under it.
So, from whence comes this Little/Middle England mentality and what is to be done?
An aside.
All the above is utterly and completely without any scientific basis in either research or experimentation. I appear to have arrived at these views by a process inexplicable to me...the steady drip drip of experience maybe...but I can no more explain them to you than a devout christian could explain the basis of their faith to me. What follows is pretty much of the same decidedly non-scientific background. Incoherent and unconnected it may be but I honestly do believe ("Have faith!", came the cry.) that all are somehow responsible for the mess I think we're in today.
Democracy has never really taken root in this country. We are probably the only surviving feudal society in Europe.
We are not citizens and have never accepted our responsibilities as such either. We are subjects of a Queen, in thrall to the aristocracy still. People inherit their positions in our second Chamber by right of birth and 'position'. We are still tugging our forelocks in deference to our 'betters'. Or maybe we have realised that we have no betters but rather than use this knowledge to realise our latent potential have used it instead to drag everything down to lowest common denominator level.
Our education system is not democratic. It has always favoured the rich and still does. There is no equality of education. Student loans deter the poor from a university education and the only way to get your kid into a good school is to move to an area with the right post code. Again, for the rich.
There is no debate in this country. Our politics are based on adversarial political point scoring (at national level, Bob!) and our newspapers are mostly propoganda sheets. The politicians do not trust us and we do not therefore, trust them. How can we place our trust in others when we do not even trust ourselves?
We have never really had a revolution in this country, at least not one that was lasting and produced a citizenry aware of its role and responsibilities in society. We've always let them get on with it and never really taken responsibility for our situation. We have always prefered to blame 'them' for our problems.
Empire. Would that we had been the conquered. We might still have a sense of humility and a more realistic sense of our own worth.
Great Britain. Well, I suppose it does roll off the tongue a little better than Moderately Good Britain or Not Bad All Things Considered Britain but still an obstacle to realistic appraisal, wouldn't you say.
Princess Bloody Di. For perpetuating the myth. And the Queen Bloody Mother for the identical crime. Abominations both. Only by reason of the positions we gave them you understand. Stripped of rank and privilege they would not have been in the least bit offensive. Well, offensive maybe but not dangerous.
The Second World War. In case it has escaped your attention and, judging by the amount of TV coverage it still gets, it may have, it's over, finished, ended. We have no more need of wartime propoganda stereotypes, thank you very much. Get over it.
Funny how one so optimistic concerning his own life can be so desperately pessimistic and cynical regarding the land of his birth, isn't it? Tell me I'm wrong, tell me there is still hope, tell me that one day we may indeed build Jerusalem in our green and pleasant land. And, should you doubt my love of country, just typing that last line has brought me out in goose-bumps.
Oh, I've had enough. I'm off to watch the Czechs stuff the Krauts.
Idris and the Frog have only been gone since Sunday and already one half of the kitchen looks like this.
The photo of the other half failed to make it past my inner censor. I do have some pride.
It has however, given me a chance to catch up on some marking. For the last three days I have been listening to recordings of oral interlocutions of such a numbing homogeneity as to leave your correspondent jaded in the extreme.
Under the influence of extreme boredom, my reflex is usually to hie me in the direction of Blogger.com or the fridge. On this occasion as, it has to be said, on so many others the 'or' was replaced by 'and' so now it is with fingers cooled by the green bottle that I bang this one out.
Other than ennui, I have no theme, no grand design, no wisdom to impart...just a few observations on the content of a week and a half's batch of newspapers I picked up on Monday and have just skimmed through this evening.
Overall, no great surprises. England seems just as fucked up now as it was when I abandoned ship in '91. Back then, I could handle individual pockets of the place just as I could appreciate individuals who lived there but, taken en masse, viewed as a whole, the country was a pile of shit in which the inhabitants seemed all too content to wallow. After 13 years of exile, I do not regret my decision to leave and, viewing the place from an objective distance, it seems to me that despite a few cosmetic adjustments, that which lies beneath is as rotten and corrupt and ignorant and bigoted and small minded as ever.
Broad strokes, I agree. A general impression which ignores the fine brush work certainly but one by which I will nevertheless stand.
A few snapshots.
David Beckham scratching his balls on a hotel balcony makes the front pages.
Our Prime Minister can say, "Now is not the time for a change in direction...but a change in gear." and really mean, "Fuck you, peasants. What do you know?" He's lost it. Get rid.
Kilroy-Bloody-Silk vows to "wreck" the European Parliament all the while drawing his 60 odd thousand quid salary from his villa in Spain. Hypocritical tosspot.
David Blunkett vows to "nail" a single solitary hooligan. Secretary of STATE, David...state, stately, statesmanlike, dignified. Playground bully. Enough said.
All the rhetoric concerning Europe is conducted in the language of conflict and defense. "Fight for Britain's interests", "bat for Britain", "defend our rights". Just what is it that scares them so much?
All the good things this Labour Government has done pass by ignored, unheralded, unpublicised by either the press or the government itself. Redistribution by stealth it may be but if no-one knows about it, who is going to kick up a fuss when a future Tory/Spineless Dipstick/Liberally-Bandwagonning Party government reverses it all?
Identity cards. Fucking fuck the fuck right off.
I seem to have rather stumbled upon a theme, wouldn't you say? 'Twas not my intention at the outset but, having turned over the stone, 'twere best I look under it.
So, from whence comes this Little/Middle England mentality and what is to be done?
An aside.
All the above is utterly and completely without any scientific basis in either research or experimentation. I appear to have arrived at these views by a process inexplicable to me...the steady drip drip of experience maybe...but I can no more explain them to you than a devout christian could explain the basis of their faith to me. What follows is pretty much of the same decidedly non-scientific background. Incoherent and unconnected it may be but I honestly do believe ("Have faith!", came the cry.) that all are somehow responsible for the mess I think we're in today.
Democracy has never really taken root in this country. We are probably the only surviving feudal society in Europe.
We are not citizens and have never accepted our responsibilities as such either. We are subjects of a Queen, in thrall to the aristocracy still. People inherit their positions in our second Chamber by right of birth and 'position'. We are still tugging our forelocks in deference to our 'betters'. Or maybe we have realised that we have no betters but rather than use this knowledge to realise our latent potential have used it instead to drag everything down to lowest common denominator level.
Our education system is not democratic. It has always favoured the rich and still does. There is no equality of education. Student loans deter the poor from a university education and the only way to get your kid into a good school is to move to an area with the right post code. Again, for the rich.
There is no debate in this country. Our politics are based on adversarial political point scoring (at national level, Bob!) and our newspapers are mostly propoganda sheets. The politicians do not trust us and we do not therefore, trust them. How can we place our trust in others when we do not even trust ourselves?
We have never really had a revolution in this country, at least not one that was lasting and produced a citizenry aware of its role and responsibilities in society. We've always let them get on with it and never really taken responsibility for our situation. We have always prefered to blame 'them' for our problems.
Empire. Would that we had been the conquered. We might still have a sense of humility and a more realistic sense of our own worth.
Great Britain. Well, I suppose it does roll off the tongue a little better than Moderately Good Britain or Not Bad All Things Considered Britain but still an obstacle to realistic appraisal, wouldn't you say.
Princess Bloody Di. For perpetuating the myth. And the Queen Bloody Mother for the identical crime. Abominations both. Only by reason of the positions we gave them you understand. Stripped of rank and privilege they would not have been in the least bit offensive. Well, offensive maybe but not dangerous.
The Second World War. In case it has escaped your attention and, judging by the amount of TV coverage it still gets, it may have, it's over, finished, ended. We have no more need of wartime propoganda stereotypes, thank you very much. Get over it.
Funny how one so optimistic concerning his own life can be so desperately pessimistic and cynical regarding the land of his birth, isn't it? Tell me I'm wrong, tell me there is still hope, tell me that one day we may indeed build Jerusalem in our green and pleasant land. And, should you doubt my love of country, just typing that last line has brought me out in goose-bumps.
Oh, I've had enough. I'm off to watch the Czechs stuff the Krauts.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
AZ ÖREG NÉNI KLUBJA
It's always a sign that summer has finally arrived when all the black robed widows move their kitchen chairs onto the pavement in front of one of their houses to watch the world go by.
Their synchronisation is a wonder to behold, both with regard to the to the minute precision of the simultaneous appearance on the streets of these crone clubs and to the way their heads move in unison rather like spectators at a tennis match.
It is easy when encountering such a clutch of crones to feel that one is somehow viewing the world upside down, it's rather like walking on one's hands into a bat cave.
In a bat cave however, it would be the guano you had to look out for but even though these crones give off, on occasion, the ammonia of mild incontinence, their production of bile, resentment and general sullenness makes the bats seem decidedly constipated in comparison.
I had a break from marking scripts earlier this evening and I took the Frog and one of her friends out for a stroll around the neighbourhood. We were in a neighbouring street and, as is their wont on these occasions, the girls were well in front of me and had already passed one of these blackspots as I approached it.
I was about to offer the coven a "good evening" with no hope of a reply, I might add, when one of them rasped,
"Haven't you taught her to greet people, yet?"
"Excuse me?"
"Don't they teach children to greet their elders where you come from?"
"Only if they think they might receive a polite reply. Children are very much like dogs in this respect. They're very good judges of character. Good night, ladies."
Streetlife? I've shat it.
It's always a sign that summer has finally arrived when all the black robed widows move their kitchen chairs onto the pavement in front of one of their houses to watch the world go by.
Their synchronisation is a wonder to behold, both with regard to the to the minute precision of the simultaneous appearance on the streets of these crone clubs and to the way their heads move in unison rather like spectators at a tennis match.
It is easy when encountering such a clutch of crones to feel that one is somehow viewing the world upside down, it's rather like walking on one's hands into a bat cave.
In a bat cave however, it would be the guano you had to look out for but even though these crones give off, on occasion, the ammonia of mild incontinence, their production of bile, resentment and general sullenness makes the bats seem decidedly constipated in comparison.
I had a break from marking scripts earlier this evening and I took the Frog and one of her friends out for a stroll around the neighbourhood. We were in a neighbouring street and, as is their wont on these occasions, the girls were well in front of me and had already passed one of these blackspots as I approached it.
I was about to offer the coven a "good evening" with no hope of a reply, I might add, when one of them rasped,
"Haven't you taught her to greet people, yet?"
"Excuse me?"
"Don't they teach children to greet their elders where you come from?"
"Only if they think they might receive a polite reply. Children are very much like dogs in this respect. They're very good judges of character. Good night, ladies."
Streetlife? I've shat it.
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Friday, June 11, 2004
AND IN THE GREEN CORNER...
The good gear...brb.
Well, it's been a long time coming and a long time promised but what say we splash a bit of spring water in the two combatants, release the aromas and let the taste off begin?
Okay, so JohnnyB got an internet fridge for his birthday. Piff, paff and ptui, say I. Fridge, schmidge! Councillor Bob Piper has got himself re-elected despite the best efforts of one Tony Blair. Byker's got himself a dream posting with VSO in Vietnam, Brockette has landed herself one ginourmous-fuck off-break out the Drambuie-nyaah nyaa nya nyaah nyaah-I can't quite believe this is happening to me-I got the fucking job-job, my old mucker The Shrub is off to all points north and the Naked Blog has just had a stonking guest week (even if I wasn't invited) and yet I still feel myself in a position to smirk in all their general directions.
And why is this, pray tell? Well, of all the gifts I have received from Jessica during the two or so years we have 'known' each other...in a chat room and blogger sense only, I might add, although the conversation has at times taken a turn for the biblical...by far the most tangible is the bottle of Booker's bourbon you see above. This was despatched my way some two and a half months ago for no better reasons than the facts that somehow, we have become friends and that she thought, or rather knew, I would appreciate it. As I said in my acceptance speech, I am not worthy.
First impressions? Well, the crate was pretty impressive, admirably stencilled with such evocative words as 'HIGHEST GRADE' and 'CLERMONT KENTUCKY', which, for some reason, evoked the names of Daniel Boone and Jimmy Stewart but the eyebrow raiser was, for me, the leather thong holding the sliding perspex frontispiece in place. Whisky and leather...oh, boy! Anyway, having released the thong and raised the perspex, I was faced with the chunkiest bit of wax sealant I had ever seen. Not knowing the correct protocol for such occasions, I plied my super-sharp, birthday present, multi-purpose, Hannibal Lector blade and then, to open the bottle by popping the cork was, for me, the work of but a moment.
Our Gert was present at the opening and first tasting thereof and the 63.4% by volume alcohol caused her to exclaim, "A kurva életbe!" which means, literally, "In a whore's life!" My reaction was somewhat more muted, being used to the cask strength Laphroaig, visible on the shelf in the background of the above photo, and also the near 60% home made Hungarian pálinka.
I swirled and I sniffed and I was overwhelmed by the vanilla. I sluiced around the taste buds and was perplexed by the lack of any promised smokiness. I swallowed and was blown away by the intensity of the aftertaste and the direct, in your face heat of the alcohol content.
In short, I wondered what all the fuss was about. I knew I would have to blog about it sooner or later and I made the decision there and then to leave it till a later date. A wise move, as it happened. Booker's is a sipping bourbon, rather like the single malts I am so fond of and so, I sipped and sipped, splashed a drop or two of spring water about and pretty soon, the feeling of, "If I'd wanted vanilla, I'd've gone to the fucking ice-cream parlour." began to fade and be replaced by an appreciation of the particular qualities of the distillation under advisement.
I think it was the disparity between smell and taste that threw me into a maelstrom of dislocation...after all, one whiff of a single malt and you know, just really know, what you've got coming...but the wait was well worth it and I now have a much better perspective on the relative merits of limited edition, straight from the barrel bourbon.
So let's cut to the chase, shall we? Let's pour a little of the Booker's into a clear glass and hold it to the light.
Colour: Deep, weathered oak; refracted reds; solemn somehow and dignified.
Swirl it around a bit and look deep, deep into its mysteries and how it reacts with the glass.
Body: Full, oily...this bugger's been on the weights.
Raise it to the nostrils and inhale deeply.
Nose: Huge vanilla, oak and a hint of the medicinal, slightly smoky.
Sluice it around the palate, linger a while, savour it.
Palate: It's intense alright, 63.4% alcohol and you would expect nothing less...vanilla again...intensely smoky...toffee/caramel...there's fruit in there, too...a hint of tannin (from the barrels, maybe?) and just a suspicion of a hint of a particle of an iota of tobacco.
Let's allow it to subject itself to the laws of gravity, shall we?
Finish: Very long, clean and somehow...musky. This stuff is growing on me.
So, what about the Laphroaig? Well, all I can do is repeat an earlier blog as follows...
Age: 10 years
Strength: 43%
Colour: Full, refractive, gold
Nose: Phenolic, seaweedy, very peaty with a hint of sweetness
Body: Medium and oily
Palate: Richly smoky, fully peated with a hint of sweetness, salty
Finish: Lingering and unique.
And, seeing as we're in a taste off, one just has to mention the cask strength. As with the 10 year old, I refer you to a previous blog.
This stuff is the business, the absolute dog's bollocks. At 57.3% alcohol and with a taste even more concentrated than the 10 year old, you may wish to take the precaution of nailing on your socks before sampling it. This should neither be your first experience of an Islay malt nor the first drink of an evening, but as a climax to a leisurely bender, it cannot be surpassed. Suffice it to say that, although I am reasonably free when it comes to offering around my other malts, this one is strictly for my own personal pleasure.
As is, from now on, the Booker's bourbon.
Winner? On points...the cask strength Laphroaig.
The good gear...brb.
Well, it's been a long time coming and a long time promised but what say we splash a bit of spring water in the two combatants, release the aromas and let the taste off begin?
Okay, so JohnnyB got an internet fridge for his birthday. Piff, paff and ptui, say I. Fridge, schmidge! Councillor Bob Piper has got himself re-elected despite the best efforts of one Tony Blair. Byker's got himself a dream posting with VSO in Vietnam, Brockette has landed herself one ginourmous-fuck off-break out the Drambuie-nyaah nyaa nya nyaah nyaah-I can't quite believe this is happening to me-I got the fucking job-job, my old mucker The Shrub is off to all points north and the Naked Blog has just had a stonking guest week (even if I wasn't invited) and yet I still feel myself in a position to smirk in all their general directions.
And why is this, pray tell? Well, of all the gifts I have received from Jessica during the two or so years we have 'known' each other...in a chat room and blogger sense only, I might add, although the conversation has at times taken a turn for the biblical...by far the most tangible is the bottle of Booker's bourbon you see above. This was despatched my way some two and a half months ago for no better reasons than the facts that somehow, we have become friends and that she thought, or rather knew, I would appreciate it. As I said in my acceptance speech, I am not worthy.
First impressions? Well, the crate was pretty impressive, admirably stencilled with such evocative words as 'HIGHEST GRADE' and 'CLERMONT KENTUCKY', which, for some reason, evoked the names of Daniel Boone and Jimmy Stewart but the eyebrow raiser was, for me, the leather thong holding the sliding perspex frontispiece in place. Whisky and leather...oh, boy! Anyway, having released the thong and raised the perspex, I was faced with the chunkiest bit of wax sealant I had ever seen. Not knowing the correct protocol for such occasions, I plied my super-sharp, birthday present, multi-purpose, Hannibal Lector blade and then, to open the bottle by popping the cork was, for me, the work of but a moment.
Our Gert was present at the opening and first tasting thereof and the 63.4% by volume alcohol caused her to exclaim, "A kurva életbe!" which means, literally, "In a whore's life!" My reaction was somewhat more muted, being used to the cask strength Laphroaig, visible on the shelf in the background of the above photo, and also the near 60% home made Hungarian pálinka.
I swirled and I sniffed and I was overwhelmed by the vanilla. I sluiced around the taste buds and was perplexed by the lack of any promised smokiness. I swallowed and was blown away by the intensity of the aftertaste and the direct, in your face heat of the alcohol content.
In short, I wondered what all the fuss was about. I knew I would have to blog about it sooner or later and I made the decision there and then to leave it till a later date. A wise move, as it happened. Booker's is a sipping bourbon, rather like the single malts I am so fond of and so, I sipped and sipped, splashed a drop or two of spring water about and pretty soon, the feeling of, "If I'd wanted vanilla, I'd've gone to the fucking ice-cream parlour." began to fade and be replaced by an appreciation of the particular qualities of the distillation under advisement.
I think it was the disparity between smell and taste that threw me into a maelstrom of dislocation...after all, one whiff of a single malt and you know, just really know, what you've got coming...but the wait was well worth it and I now have a much better perspective on the relative merits of limited edition, straight from the barrel bourbon.
So let's cut to the chase, shall we? Let's pour a little of the Booker's into a clear glass and hold it to the light.
Colour: Deep, weathered oak; refracted reds; solemn somehow and dignified.
Swirl it around a bit and look deep, deep into its mysteries and how it reacts with the glass.
Body: Full, oily...this bugger's been on the weights.
Raise it to the nostrils and inhale deeply.
Nose: Huge vanilla, oak and a hint of the medicinal, slightly smoky.
Sluice it around the palate, linger a while, savour it.
Palate: It's intense alright, 63.4% alcohol and you would expect nothing less...vanilla again...intensely smoky...toffee/caramel...there's fruit in there, too...a hint of tannin (from the barrels, maybe?) and just a suspicion of a hint of a particle of an iota of tobacco.
Let's allow it to subject itself to the laws of gravity, shall we?
Finish: Very long, clean and somehow...musky. This stuff is growing on me.
So, what about the Laphroaig? Well, all I can do is repeat an earlier blog as follows...
Age: 10 years
Strength: 43%
Colour: Full, refractive, gold
Nose: Phenolic, seaweedy, very peaty with a hint of sweetness
Body: Medium and oily
Palate: Richly smoky, fully peated with a hint of sweetness, salty
Finish: Lingering and unique.
And, seeing as we're in a taste off, one just has to mention the cask strength. As with the 10 year old, I refer you to a previous blog.
This stuff is the business, the absolute dog's bollocks. At 57.3% alcohol and with a taste even more concentrated than the 10 year old, you may wish to take the precaution of nailing on your socks before sampling it. This should neither be your first experience of an Islay malt nor the first drink of an evening, but as a climax to a leisurely bender, it cannot be surpassed. Suffice it to say that, although I am reasonably free when it comes to offering around my other malts, this one is strictly for my own personal pleasure.
As is, from now on, the Booker's bourbon.
Winner? On points...the cask strength Laphroaig.
THE CURSE OF THE SHOE
Further proof that the relationship between the Shoe and Amstelladagain borders on the uncanny. My lawnmower died yesterday.
R.I.P.
Further proof that the relationship between the Shoe and Amstelladagain borders on the uncanny. My lawnmower died yesterday.
R.I.P.
COME AGAIN?
One of our neighbours took the roof off his house the other day in order to build another storey onto it.
There's a rather sad, bitter and twisted old crone who lives opposite us whose verdict was thus.
"Those with nothing better to do take the roof off their house."
At first glance, a perfectly nonsensical little utterance but one which gives an insight into the workings of the minds of those who live in this suburb nevertheless.
First, a little background. Kanizsa was originally two settlements, one big(ger), Nagy and the other small(er), Kis. Nagykanizsa developed into what we would recognise as a small town whereas Kiskanizsa remained very much a rural village. The two have, to all intents and purposes, merged geographically but the town/village divide is still very real.
To the denizens of Nagykanizsa, chickens and vegetables are things one finds in small packages in the supermarket. Here in Kiskanizsa they are things to be beheaded and yanked out of the earth respectively.
Kiskanizsans view their town dwelling neighbours as arrogant and as lazy, idle rich whereas those from the town have, due to their ability come harvest time to strip a field/garden of it's produce in a matter of minutes, given the Kiskanizsans the nickname of locusts.
To this must be added an awareness of the general Hungarian mindset of, "I don't mind if my horse dies as long as my neighbour's horse dies, too."
Hopefully, we are now in a position to attempt a rough translation of the old crone's observation.
Firstly, it expresses envy that a neighbour has the necessary readies to perform such a task and secondly, the fact that she is far too busy to even contemplate such an endeavour. There is also an undertone of "I could also afford to do it, really," despite the reality of the situation having already been expressed in the envious bit.
Me? I just keep my head down. I'm only a trainee locust after all.
One of our neighbours took the roof off his house the other day in order to build another storey onto it.
There's a rather sad, bitter and twisted old crone who lives opposite us whose verdict was thus.
"Those with nothing better to do take the roof off their house."
At first glance, a perfectly nonsensical little utterance but one which gives an insight into the workings of the minds of those who live in this suburb nevertheless.
First, a little background. Kanizsa was originally two settlements, one big(ger), Nagy and the other small(er), Kis. Nagykanizsa developed into what we would recognise as a small town whereas Kiskanizsa remained very much a rural village. The two have, to all intents and purposes, merged geographically but the town/village divide is still very real.
To the denizens of Nagykanizsa, chickens and vegetables are things one finds in small packages in the supermarket. Here in Kiskanizsa they are things to be beheaded and yanked out of the earth respectively.
Kiskanizsans view their town dwelling neighbours as arrogant and as lazy, idle rich whereas those from the town have, due to their ability come harvest time to strip a field/garden of it's produce in a matter of minutes, given the Kiskanizsans the nickname of locusts.
To this must be added an awareness of the general Hungarian mindset of, "I don't mind if my horse dies as long as my neighbour's horse dies, too."
Hopefully, we are now in a position to attempt a rough translation of the old crone's observation.
Firstly, it expresses envy that a neighbour has the necessary readies to perform such a task and secondly, the fact that she is far too busy to even contemplate such an endeavour. There is also an undertone of "I could also afford to do it, really," despite the reality of the situation having already been expressed in the envious bit.
Me? I just keep my head down. I'm only a trainee locust after all.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?
I've just been over at the Shoe and been enlightened as to what women really mean by what they say. In a spirit of reciprocity, I feel it is only fair that I shine a light on the undercurrents of male conversation. It's not that we lie, per se. You just need to understand the code.
"You look nice tonight."
- any chance of a blow-job?
"How well do you know Jane/Lucy/Samantha etc.?"
- any chance of a threesome?
"Jane/Lucy/Samantha etc? Oh, she's alright, I guess."
- I wonder how far down my dick she'd leave lipstick marks?
"I really enjoyed talking with you."
- my ears hurt.
"Do you need anything from the shops?"
- anything small and inexpensive that'd wedge inbetween the crates of Stella.
"Shall we go out for dinner tonight?"
- What you cooked yesterday was crap and I'm not too optimistic about today, either.
"Do you want to drive?"
- I want to get bladdered.
"Can I help you with that?"
- I'm afraid you might drop it and it cost me a lot of money.
"Did you find that web page you were looking for?"
- Someone's been fucking about with the settings again.
"Morning!"
- Do not even think about talking to me for at least half an hour and where's my coffee?
"You don't have any plans for tonight, do you?"
- I want to watch the footy on TV and get bladdered.
"You look really nice in it, honestly."
- If anyone asks, I don't know you.
"Yeah...okay...right...mm hmm...of course..."
- Shut the fuck up.
Not that I would ever utter any of the above, of course. You do believe me...don't you?
I've just been over at the Shoe and been enlightened as to what women really mean by what they say. In a spirit of reciprocity, I feel it is only fair that I shine a light on the undercurrents of male conversation. It's not that we lie, per se. You just need to understand the code.
"You look nice tonight."
- any chance of a blow-job?
"How well do you know Jane/Lucy/Samantha etc.?"
- any chance of a threesome?
"Jane/Lucy/Samantha etc? Oh, she's alright, I guess."
- I wonder how far down my dick she'd leave lipstick marks?
"I really enjoyed talking with you."
- my ears hurt.
"Do you need anything from the shops?"
- anything small and inexpensive that'd wedge inbetween the crates of Stella.
"Shall we go out for dinner tonight?"
- What you cooked yesterday was crap and I'm not too optimistic about today, either.
"Do you want to drive?"
- I want to get bladdered.
"Can I help you with that?"
- I'm afraid you might drop it and it cost me a lot of money.
"Did you find that web page you were looking for?"
- Someone's been fucking about with the settings again.
"Morning!"
- Do not even think about talking to me for at least half an hour and where's my coffee?
"You don't have any plans for tonight, do you?"
- I want to watch the footy on TV and get bladdered.
"You look really nice in it, honestly."
- If anyone asks, I don't know you.
"Yeah...okay...right...mm hmm...of course..."
- Shut the fuck up.
Not that I would ever utter any of the above, of course. You do believe me...don't you?
Monday, June 07, 2004
HE DON'T KNOW ME VERY WELL, DO HE?
Another one of Lampi's quizzes hits the thumb as squarely as usual.
You are DONKEY! You are outgoing and genuinely
love life. You're hilarious and tell it like
it is.
what shrek character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Another one of Lampi's quizzes hits the thumb as squarely as usual.
You are DONKEY! You are outgoing and genuinely
love life. You're hilarious and tell it like
it is.
what shrek character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Saturday, June 05, 2004
DADDY PLUGS IN
or
ROLLING BACK THE YEARS
I always forget. It always takes me by surprise. The first bass notes take me unawares and wake the snake...the kundalini straightens my spine, pimples my skin, tickles the adrenal into hyper-production, plugs me into something more than mains and takes over the string pulling function of my brain. I dance. Even sitting down.
Maybe I work too much...maybe whenever I'm home, the Frog is sleeping and my 150 watt speakers are a no-no...maybe it's 'cos I finally got around to buying a pair of headphones for the beast and can finally access all my mp3s mid-blog...but just how is it possible to forget just how much I love, really love, music?
Anyway, the soundtrack to a Saturday night's blogging.
Limp Bizkit - Getcha Groove On
The Smiths - Every Day Is Like Sunday
David Bowie - Fame
John Martyn - Sweet Certain Surprise
Boss Hogg - Itchy & Scratchy
Miles Davis & Thelonius Monk - Blue Monk (Live)
Gregory Isaacs - Night Nurse
Metallica - Nothing Else Matters
Captain Beefheart - Dachau Blues
Salif Keita - Yamore
Stereo MCs - Connected
Peter Gabriel - Red Rain
Talking Heads - And She Was
Sandy Rogers - Fool for Love
Any of the above can be requested by leaving e-mail addy in the comments except Salif Keita which is a monster of a file and even though I've squeezed the pips out of it and tried to send it to Jess on occasions too numerous to mention, it always comes bouncing back to sender.
Monk's playing now...such floppy fingers and yet such a sureness of touch...oooh, bass solo...be right back.
Wow, I'm breathless, astounded.
Boss Hogg!!!!
"Ooooooooooooooooooooooo, you've made me suffer" LOVE IT!!!!
"I'll keep you sedated
give you what you want
paint you pretty pictures..."
Oh, Gregory, you have such a honeyed voice. And such a way with words.
Tell her, "Try your best just to make it quick.
Woman, tend to the sick."
'Cos there must be something she can do.
This heart is broken in two.
Tell her it's a case of emergency.
There's a patient by the name of Gregory.
Night nurse, only you alone can quench this here thirst.
My night nurse, oh gosh!
Oh, the pain is getting worse.
I don't wanna see no doc.
I need attendance from my nurse around the clock.
'Cos there's no prescription for me.
She's the one, the only remedy.
Night nurse, only you alone can quench this here thirst.
My night nurse.
Oh, the pain is getting worse.
I hurt my love and I'm sure...no doctor can cure.
I think it's the "oh gosh!" that does it for me. Perfect!
Come on, Salif, do your stuff. Oh boy, it's gone straight to the tear ducts. Love, loss, happiness and a indistinct keyboard viewed through a watery cornea. One of the best songs ever written. Ever.
"Aye yaye yayuh"...oooh, funky!
"Something ain't right" You are kidding.
Funny how one's first heroes are either musicians or football players, isn't it? Or is it?
With the hormonal conflagration that is adolescence, is it really any wonder that something so primal as music can affect us beyond all reason?
"Heroes fall into the ground
like hell's magnet pulls me down
down on my knees
I try to please" (reference: 10 points)
Heroes fall, and heroes change but some stand the test of time even if we do view them now in a different light. My first live concert was Genesis' Foxtrot tour in maybe 1973 or 4 and I love Gabriel as much now as I did then. I was there for the Ziggy Stardust tour, Steve's grandmother queued up to get us two tickets at Sheffield City Hall...I loved you Steve, rest in peace and minimalism, old friend...and I like his music just as much today.
I guess they started to appeal to me by virtue of their very difference, their unconventionality and yet, when I come to review my musical favourites today, I find that they all have in common that self same unconformity that appealed to me all those years ago. Do we really change that much at base? Or maybe that unconformity has morphed into diversity...an appreciation of anything that has the spark of originality and makes that all important connection, a live feed into the neural network to make me feel more alive, plugged via something more vital than the intellect into something older than all of us, something...well, primal.
Oh well, if music be the food of love, play on, my friends...play on. Oh, yes.
or
ROLLING BACK THE YEARS
I always forget. It always takes me by surprise. The first bass notes take me unawares and wake the snake...the kundalini straightens my spine, pimples my skin, tickles the adrenal into hyper-production, plugs me into something more than mains and takes over the string pulling function of my brain. I dance. Even sitting down.
Maybe I work too much...maybe whenever I'm home, the Frog is sleeping and my 150 watt speakers are a no-no...maybe it's 'cos I finally got around to buying a pair of headphones for the beast and can finally access all my mp3s mid-blog...but just how is it possible to forget just how much I love, really love, music?
Anyway, the soundtrack to a Saturday night's blogging.
Limp Bizkit - Getcha Groove On
The Smiths - Every Day Is Like Sunday
David Bowie - Fame
John Martyn - Sweet Certain Surprise
Boss Hogg - Itchy & Scratchy
Miles Davis & Thelonius Monk - Blue Monk (Live)
Gregory Isaacs - Night Nurse
Metallica - Nothing Else Matters
Captain Beefheart - Dachau Blues
Salif Keita - Yamore
Stereo MCs - Connected
Peter Gabriel - Red Rain
Talking Heads - And She Was
Sandy Rogers - Fool for Love
Any of the above can be requested by leaving e-mail addy in the comments except Salif Keita which is a monster of a file and even though I've squeezed the pips out of it and tried to send it to Jess on occasions too numerous to mention, it always comes bouncing back to sender.
Monk's playing now...such floppy fingers and yet such a sureness of touch...oooh, bass solo...be right back.
Wow, I'm breathless, astounded.
Boss Hogg!!!!
"Ooooooooooooooooooooooo, you've made me suffer" LOVE IT!!!!
"I'll keep you sedated
give you what you want
paint you pretty pictures..."
Oh, Gregory, you have such a honeyed voice. And such a way with words.
Tell her, "Try your best just to make it quick.
Woman, tend to the sick."
'Cos there must be something she can do.
This heart is broken in two.
Tell her it's a case of emergency.
There's a patient by the name of Gregory.
Night nurse, only you alone can quench this here thirst.
My night nurse, oh gosh!
Oh, the pain is getting worse.
I don't wanna see no doc.
I need attendance from my nurse around the clock.
'Cos there's no prescription for me.
She's the one, the only remedy.
Night nurse, only you alone can quench this here thirst.
My night nurse.
Oh, the pain is getting worse.
I hurt my love and I'm sure...no doctor can cure.
I think it's the "oh gosh!" that does it for me. Perfect!
Come on, Salif, do your stuff. Oh boy, it's gone straight to the tear ducts. Love, loss, happiness and a indistinct keyboard viewed through a watery cornea. One of the best songs ever written. Ever.
"Aye yaye yayuh"...oooh, funky!
"Something ain't right" You are kidding.
Funny how one's first heroes are either musicians or football players, isn't it? Or is it?
With the hormonal conflagration that is adolescence, is it really any wonder that something so primal as music can affect us beyond all reason?
"Heroes fall into the ground
like hell's magnet pulls me down
down on my knees
I try to please" (reference: 10 points)
Heroes fall, and heroes change but some stand the test of time even if we do view them now in a different light. My first live concert was Genesis' Foxtrot tour in maybe 1973 or 4 and I love Gabriel as much now as I did then. I was there for the Ziggy Stardust tour, Steve's grandmother queued up to get us two tickets at Sheffield City Hall...I loved you Steve, rest in peace and minimalism, old friend...and I like his music just as much today.
I guess they started to appeal to me by virtue of their very difference, their unconventionality and yet, when I come to review my musical favourites today, I find that they all have in common that self same unconformity that appealed to me all those years ago. Do we really change that much at base? Or maybe that unconformity has morphed into diversity...an appreciation of anything that has the spark of originality and makes that all important connection, a live feed into the neural network to make me feel more alive, plugged via something more vital than the intellect into something older than all of us, something...well, primal.
Oh well, if music be the food of love, play on, my friends...play on. Oh, yes.
Friday, June 04, 2004
THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKING
Nice to see that normal service has been resumed over at the Shoe. Good to have you back, Jess.
Nice to see that normal service has been resumed over at the Shoe. Good to have you back, Jess.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
IT'S FINGER FLICKING GOOD!
I would be most grateful if somebody could explain how I got a referral to my blog from http://www.yorkshiresubbuteo.co.uk/. I am in a state approaching flummoxed.
I would be most grateful if somebody could explain how I got a referral to my blog from http://www.yorkshiresubbuteo.co.uk/. I am in a state approaching flummoxed.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
THIS IS NOT AN UNDERCOAT
Part 2.
The series where we bring you the latest in Hungarian house styles with particular regard to colour schemes.
All the following are examples from the latest must have postal code of Nagykanizsa towards which all those with more money than taste are presently gravitating. It'll be a gated community within the next ten years, mark my words.
Let's begin with another example of the style I like to call the sandwich.
Notice the subtle way in which the colour of the roof is reflected in the foundation and the care with which they have attempted to make the house blend in with its surroundings.
As a further example of the Pablo Picasso theory of camouflage, I give you this little number.
I can imagine the whole family sitting around the sample card of an evening and arriving at this decision quite democratically. Surely they wouldn't have tried the Neil Warnock approach to team selection and just thrown darts at it...surely not?
Those moving into the area who remembered to pack just a smidgen of self respect and decorum have tended to adopt the pastel approach. It would appear that this year's cop-out colour is yellow.
Last year, it was a rather fetching shade of peach as demonstrated by the house of an acquaintance of mine.
As I was driving out of this wonderful little community, I chanced upon this.
Perchance the architect was placed in cryogenic suspension sometime in the 60s and has just been revived.
Anyway, on the way home I passed my favourite bit of advertising in the whole of Nagykanizsa and felt I should share it with you.
...such stuff as dreams are made on.
Part 2.
The series where we bring you the latest in Hungarian house styles with particular regard to colour schemes.
All the following are examples from the latest must have postal code of Nagykanizsa towards which all those with more money than taste are presently gravitating. It'll be a gated community within the next ten years, mark my words.
Let's begin with another example of the style I like to call the sandwich.
Notice the subtle way in which the colour of the roof is reflected in the foundation and the care with which they have attempted to make the house blend in with its surroundings.
As a further example of the Pablo Picasso theory of camouflage, I give you this little number.
I can imagine the whole family sitting around the sample card of an evening and arriving at this decision quite democratically. Surely they wouldn't have tried the Neil Warnock approach to team selection and just thrown darts at it...surely not?
Those moving into the area who remembered to pack just a smidgen of self respect and decorum have tended to adopt the pastel approach. It would appear that this year's cop-out colour is yellow.
Last year, it was a rather fetching shade of peach as demonstrated by the house of an acquaintance of mine.
As I was driving out of this wonderful little community, I chanced upon this.
Perchance the architect was placed in cryogenic suspension sometime in the 60s and has just been revived.
Anyway, on the way home I passed my favourite bit of advertising in the whole of Nagykanizsa and felt I should share it with you.
...such stuff as dreams are made on.
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