Ad's rants and burblings

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: West End Lane, Harlington

2011-07-31T09:45:00.006Z

At this point, I'm 18, so kidulthood is a better title description really. Never mind, we're on a roll.

This is 65 West End Lane, Harlington – south of Hayes, but still in the conurbation – which my sister Natasha and I shared during the the late 80s. It may come as a surprise but brother and sister got on like a house on fire. We had one noisy row, about one of us leaving the heating on all weekend, when money was too tight to mention. Besides, our work and social lives crossed paths irregularly. The flat had a nice garden, (and we, being on the ground floor had exclusive access to it) but the major disadvantage was with the flat was that it was crawling with mould, though this was mainly confined to the kitchen. It was loosely furnished, but rooms were huge and felt (and were) mainly empty.

This is Swans Chinese takeaway, a frequent eatery when living at 65 West End Lane. It did some of the best sweet and sour pork balls in the West of London – well, at least in the UB postcode area. Celebrated here when I received an unconditional offer at Goldsmiths'. It's a shame a skanky, and rather spooky launderette is no longer on the High Street – if a village as small as Harlington can be said to have one. This washeteria was famous for having most of its fluorescents flickering or completely fried, so washing one's clothes meant entering and staying – often alone for an hour or two - in the post-apocalyptic place; a launderette from the dark side. Creeped both myself and Natasha out, which is why I ended up doing the washing, while Natasha did my ironing.

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Waitrose and the Classic Cinema

2011-07-31T09:23:00.003Z

You see the concrete Waitrose and the Classic Cinema from this shot taken from a 427 bus? No, because it's not there any more. What replaced it, a Lidls, would have been far more welcomed by my mother in the 1970s, as Waitrose wasn't any cheaper than it is now. My family was fairly typical Hayes demographic. So why was it located there at all? Regardless, this is where the bulk of our shopping came from, as well as the equally defunct Bejam next door, since she didn't have a car, and the Sainsbury's in Hayes Town (always a capital T – it was a different world entirely to north Hayes - lower case n – North Hayes only exists for the purposes of estate agent marketing, and snobs.

The Classic was a flea pit even back then, and remained so throughout its existence. Films seen there include Close Encounters, ET, Bambi and Grease – though that might have been watched at the ABC in Ealing Broadway. It seemed to show a lot of soft-porn towards the end of its life. More usefully (for a kid anyway) It did sell Kia-Ora during the interval, and sweets on the cash desk – a practice I'm glad to say still continues at the Picturedrome in Bognor, my parents' local house.

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Mark's flat

2011-07-31T09:16:00.004Z

We're drifting into young adulthood here - I was 18 years old.

This was the first place I lived having decided (within the space of a few minutes one morning) that I missed London too much and wanted to return. My parents moved to the south coast after the Hayes By Pass started its march across Cranborne Waye in 1987. So I asked a family friend, Mark, if I could stay at his spare bedroom for a few weeks. He agreed, and eventually a few weeks ended up being 8 months. I paid £12 per week to live here. Not expensive, even though the hot water was often not hot, the heating ditto, the carpet was in fact splinter ridden floorboards, and the bed was a more camp than Freddie Mercury. I had an absolutely marvellous time living in such grime (absolutely no irony intended, the time I had was sloppy and chilled – and of course, cheap). Which bearing in mind I was only on £8,300 was probably the reason I could afford to stay on in London. Mark W, if you ever stumble across this blog entry – you were great company in a “Men Behaving Badly eat your hearts out” sort of way. And the half fixed Apple 2 computers, gutted vacuum cleaners and martial arts mags really added layer of squalor to the already squalid ambience I'll never forget.

I like the sign below what would have been the living room window: "NO BALL PLAYING". And just how many TV dishes can you fit on to a building before it falls down?

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Yeading Library

2011-07-31T09:04:00.005Z

This is one of my favourite places on earth. At least it was between the ages of eight and fourteen. It was (hallowed ground...) the library on Yeading Lane, Hayes. And what a heaven, this was, an escape, a portal into the worlds of John Wyndham, William Golding and Isaac Asimov. The books were well chosen, by the librarian, a lady then in her late 40s who seemed to have a telepathic insight into what I'd like to read next, and would put books especially aside for me. I had, of course, quite a wild crush on her for a year or so. The Tories will have you believe that this kind of small, suburban library is surplus to requirements. But it is places like this all over the land which allow curious working class kids, as I was, to access to books they wouldn't obtain outside the immediate locality – because when you're eight taking a bus to the main library, in my case, in far away Uxbridge, would not have been possible. So under this lot, I'd have been deprived of books for education and importantly. pleasure. I learned to love books and literature in this building. How dare this government be so casually flippant about the importance loose with such small scale, local resources. Grrrr. Schools next, huh?

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: The Parade of Shops

2011-07-31T08:57:00.003Z

At the main Uxbridge Road end of Brookside Road is a parade of shops frequented by the Cranborne Waye brat pack.

A nasty angle was required to take this picture, hence the lamp post being right in the way. The alternative would have been to stand amidst the dual carriageway and much as this is a labour of love, I'm not prepared to get whacked by a lorry for the sake of it.

The second picture was taken from the marginally safer top deck of a 427 bus – sadly the “real” 207 moved on from being a Routemaster to a single deckered bendybus. The parade used to contain, from left to right: a Spar (preceded by a Co-Op complete with lovely clanking Sweda tills with spinning numbers a la fruit machine). Next door a shop no-one knew what was inside because it was never open, a greasy café (called I think, Hayes Gate Café), a Martins newsagent, a chemists, a sub post office, a shop called Ajay's which we simply referred to as “The Indian Shop”. This shop had the distinction of being open until 10pm – whoopee. Next door was a shop whose purpose in life was to act as some kind of money magnet for kids. There was usually a couple of games (Space Invaders, Galaxians, Quasar, being the ones I remember) but it also seemed to specialise in dodgy deals of the insurance or loan shark variety. To be honest, I haven't a clue. Finally, there was an Indian restaurant of the flock wallpaper school of décor.

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Brookside Road park and field

2011-07-31T08:42:00.004Z

Popeye Park

The Field

Yeading Brook Bridge

Yeading Brook

A bit of a memory difference between Natasha and I. She thinks this the park was called Popeye Park, at least by the local brats. It was simply known to me as “the park”. Perhaps it was a generational thing, though there are merely two years between us. But when you are kids, two years can be a long time. Pleased to see it's here, more or less unchanged.

And unchanged also is the bridge over Yeading Brook. Not sure why us kids used to hang out by the bridge. Closeness to the park was definitely an obvious good reason, plus the open and generally empty car park meant you could do some really cool bike stunts such as wheelies and skids without having to deal with real traffic as the road comes to a dead end at the bridge. Much as it pains me to admit doing anything as public as dogging, I had my one and only taste of car sex here. But I'm not saying with whom!

The field. Once over Yeading Brook you end up in a place we just called “the field”. It goes nowhere useful. It is simply a buffer zone between Hayes and Yeading proper. And nowadays it looks pristine compared to the scrubby dump it was in the 70s and 80s. I've seen burnt out cars, motorbikes and even a fire blackened Bedford coach parked on the grass. The place felt forlorn and pointless to me, but it seems to have revitalised itself.

Memories of a West London suburban childhood: Cranborne Waye

2011-07-30T21:37:00.005Z

The big house

The nice end of Cranborne

Swan necked street lamp

The nice end of Cranborne Waye

150 Cranborne Waye

150 Cranborne Waye. Home sweet home for 18 years. The house looks a bit tatty compared to how it used to be. Mum's green fingers made the place a riot of colour when we were there – azaleas were her thing. The house looks small, and hemmed in by the two bay windowed dwellings either side. The lumpy roof is caused by the loft conversion. Huge windows are on the back of the house.

Original 1950s (?) swan necked street lamp. A rare breed these days, though New Addington near Croydon still has plenty to spare. The white cased HPS fitting doesn't do it any favours. I much preferred the orange LPS lamps, and because Hilling don Council didn't exactly spread them close together, our road always seemed quite dark and almost secretive compared to those of nearby friends.

A little patch of green. My favourite end of Cranborne Waye. Speaking of which, “Waye?” Please!!! Why the extra E? I have been told I've made a mistake spelling my own address when a child. Wrong. The twee-est part of a tweely named road.

The “big house”. No-one knew why or how this house got to be placed alongside a load of Warren Bros designed 3 bedroom terrace houses. And people who lived in it were a secretive bunch. Well, I suppose because they didn't have kids, we never found out much about them.

The back bedroom. (Grr, it needs creosoting). Dad built what was known as the Summer House in 1985 or so, which was an extended shed big enough to count as a reasonably sized bedroom with en suite toilet and sink. And despite him not intending it to be used for anything but a place to escape to in the summer heat, I kind of moved in permanently. It was my bedroom and quasi recording studio for two years. My abiding memory of the place was waking up at 4am during the night of the '87 hurricane, feeling the wooden panelling dancing, and thinking, “oh, I wonder what's going on?” and falling back to sleep immediately. The other memory was finding our chicken (yes, I that was the clucking kind of bird you tend to smother with southern fried coating) doing a kamekhazi (sorry, the pun was intended The other memory was finding our chicken (yes, I that was the clucking kind of bird you tend to smother with southern fried coating) doing a kamikaze .He saw a chicken reflected in the water of the toilet, dived in for a fight and drowned his stupid bird brained self. Sophia, my littlest sister, was traumatised for months following the bantam suicide.

Short story: Soldiers

2011-07-10T20:56:00.002Z

A leap into the unknown here for me. Having written a few stories for private viewing only, here is a short story I wrote about my locale, or close to it anyway, that I’m sharing with the net.

It’s a bit of urban horror, with a sprinkling of psychogeographical angst thrown into the pot.

http://bit.ly/ql6Ac0

Some background info:

In July 2007 I had an interview with my future boss, someone I had a happy working relationship with until 2010 when I left to go travelling with my wife. The interview was somewhat unconventional in that it was based in of all places, a pub. We sat down over Diet Cokes and she interviewed me as though we were in her office. Question 13 was “are you evil?” (Come now, admit it, that’s a cool question). This venue was chosen as a result of awkward logistics, eg, the building where her company is based gets locked up at 5.30 and since I was already working in central London, arriving there in time wasn’t a realistic option, as I didn’t want my then- present employer to know I was job seeking.

So we agreed the venue, the Britannia, in Barking, East London, also known colloquially as the titty bar because of its stone mouldings of bare breasted sea nymphs outside. The route to the pub took us through a subway and into a housing estate, which is pretty much described in the story as the portal and the flats respectively, though obviously I’ve never been inside any of the blocks. My imagination was captured by this unusual underpass, as the main character Burton is too – what is the purpose of the lighting? I never got to find out whether the installation was ever given a name or was just one of those ways to splurge some end of budget money on the arts. I’ll add a picture to the blog if it still exists these days. I also sensed the bleakness around this locale, atomisation and isolation built right into the fabric. The ideal setting for a short story of urban malaise, I thought, somewhat cheerfully, since if there is one place I feel comfortable writing about, that's it.

few days later, I’d written about one quarter of the completed piece. It got abandoned when I couldn’t think of a decent way to end it which didn’t involve huge amounts of death; never a bad way to end a story, but I wanted something different to try; a bit less predictable.

The locations are most definitely where they purport to be, the rest of the story comes from the author.

Hazel is the name of the mum-in-law I never had (because me and her daughter split not once but a rather careless three times. What an encyclopaedia of London knowledge Hazel was. In fact she was possibly the most knowledgeable Londonist after Peter Ackroyd, or at least more clued-up than anyone else living in Battersea at the time. So a wee doff of the cap to her.

My formal knowledge of psycho-anything is not so hot, but my experience of human nature isn’t so bad. So any psychologists reading the final part, who thinks “fuck, that’s wonky bullocks” – you’re right, I know, so please correct me on the “isns’t and I’ll thank you profusely and in public on this blog.

Hop Farm Festival - the audio report parts 1 and 2

2011-07-10T20:10:00.003Z

It only took me a week, but it's been one MF of a week (and M-F doesn’t stand for Monday-Friday, dammit). So, had to be put on hold for the time being, even though I'm only doing a bit of cutting and pasting for this entry.

Right, before your ears are a couple of Audioboos (audio blogs, essentially) of the Hop Farm Festival which myself and a few friends were fortunate enough to have our fat arses at last weekend.

And here....they....are.

http://audioboo.fm/boos/404014-tour-of-hop-farm-music-festival
A quick audio tour of the festival

http://audioboo.fm/boos/404019-ocean-colour-scene-at-the-hop-farm-festival
Ocean Colour Scene - my festival fave

We interrupt this rant...AGAIN

2011-07-10T16:37:00.003Z

Oh irony of ironies. I write a blog entry about how annoying it is to be part of the great 2 million claiming banker's get-out allowance, when...hang on, haven't we been here before?

Oh yes, the deja vu is justified - we have. Last blog entry. And the reason why I'm wriitng (or copying and pasting) all over again is because I've been offerd some MORE work. At this rate, I'll be back on full time fiarly soon. This time, it's support work: up to 30 hours per week of it. Mostly admin, but work I've done before (in the mid 90s) and thoroughly enjoyed.

There are a number of conditions which need to be ticked and tucked away before I can start. I'll know by tomorrow afternoon, and so I'll write more about what's expected of me, if it comes to pass that it is. Otherwise, it's back to Jeremy Kyle and mindless app form fillage. So wish me luck. Cross your fingers - and write more it in the fullness of.

Forced unemployment: or, "we interrupt this rant to bring you"...

2011-07-04T16:26:00.002Z

Oh irony of ironies. I write a blog entry about how annoying it is to be part of the great 2 million claiming banker's get-out allowance, when for a short while, I have become one of those who isn't. The work I've been asked to do is a rather intensive one day training course which is going to require from me a whole week's worth of prep-work, so I am going to speculate that the amazing, scintillating part 2 article accompanying you've guessed it, part 1, isn't going to get written until after then. By which time I may have been offered some kind of full time work (two offers, but the fat lady hasn't yet opened her cavernous mush yet, let alone exhaled joyously, so I'm still only at the crossed fingers stage).

Let's see. In the meantime, I there will be a festival update coming soon, if not imminently.

(In case there is any doubt within you, dearest reader, I am not complaining).

Forced unemployment: the introductory rant

2011-06-27T16:13:00.003Z

Being unemployed, without any say-so in the matter, is a sack of cack..

Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I wouldn't have believed me two years ago either. I haven't usually dissed my previous employees on this blog, mainly because I didn't mind working for them, but of course, should they have read this blog with its hypothetical employer whines, I'd possibly have been up before HR. This has happened. But on the occasions when I have mentioned particularly crudola circumstances where work has just been TOO MUCH, I've often thought to myself...”hmm, the life of leisure....how pleasantly desirable that might be”.

There was this time, not so long ago, when I sat cooped up in a windowless office in Barking, away from the sun, and most definitely, the fun. Or rather , the perceived fun that you , being cooped up, isn't experiencing by dint of that fact. This and being fuelled by the notion that the whole world (on those days off you took for annual leave) seemed to be occupied by leisured, well dressed personages having a jolly good time away from the office – perhaps forever away - and (so one thought in one's bitter way) probably looking at the likes of you, on said pathetic measly day off and let out for the afternoon amongst the rarefied air and privileged, permanently-on-holiday majority (it seemed) in the way which said, “ah, poor guy. Bet he's going to be cooped up tomorrow in some stinking trading estate”...and so on.

When you are stuck somewhere you haven't actually elected to, given a hypothetical choice, be – and despite the fact that my last office actually was in Barking (on the unglamorous trading estate side of what is not actually a glamours place even *on* the glamorous side of town, if you catch my drift) and yes, the office was indeed completely windowless, there was a reason to get up in the morning, whine, scratch your head about the pointlessness of working for a piffling salary (and by the standards of equally unworthy people like Fred The Shred, one could only wonder why my mum was who she was and why I, Adam R. W. Holdsworth, could not have been born to parents who, if not wealthy and privileged, were smart enough to take you to where the influence and smart money actually is. Working as an intern for your uncle's law firm. Or at least naming me Miles or Giles or Charlie. Oh I dunno, this all sounds like envy, and for heaven's sake, it is frigging envy, I know, I know, but this is my RANTS and burblings site and that's what I'm doing. Don't try to convince me I'm selling you a pup here, you came willingly to this joint to hear me fart on and on and on. No, please don't click the back button, honest, I'll be more measured and circumspect from now on....

OK, back to the plot, the one I haven't lost. I'm going to write, over the next few days, an article per day; and please don't hold me to this, life has a habit of getting in the way of a this blog; about how my life has changed since becoming one of the Big Society, without an excuse not to be part of the volunteering, kind, airy fairy bollocks* enabling me to actually have an opt-out excuse. Er, sorry guv, I'd love to work with little kids in wee homes, little cuties who are being whacked around by junkie parents but I have this commitment called a job which steals 37 hours of my week, then adds another 15 hours worth of travelling, then calls me to work when I get home, then means I have to be on call over the weekend, and yadda yadda blah. I, ladies and gents, don't have the opt out any more. I'm at home, cooped up on in front of of the computer, often with Tweetdeck chirruping sweetly every couple of seconds, with the very real option of watching Jezza Kyle for three hours per day, should I choose.

And because unemployment is so rubbish, sometimes, JK is the only cure. It's the only reason to get up, knowing that with the press of the on button, then the three button, you can see how your life, shit though it is, could become a few steps further down the bell-curve on the detritus index.

And so, over the next few posts, I'm going to explore what it is like for a 42 year old, partially sighted male, neither especially stupid but who has managed to live by wits much of the the time, over qualifications; one who used to have ha degree of self respect and at least could hold down a job for years on end with no question...just what goes through one's head? What do us scroungey types do all day? And more seriously, a few words on disability and unemployment. So join me, sweet workers of the world and celebrate your employment. For tomorrow, there is the Big Society, Jeremy Kyle swamp life, and an email in box full of Guardian job ads to brighten your day.

Next: I ask the Talking Heads question: “How did I get here?” And follow up with another song title, this time a Beatles one: “A Day In The Life”.

* By the way, I don't in all seriousness for one nanosecond, have any beef with volunteers, especially those working with kids in such vile conditions. My dad was one for a long time (and he had his own business to run full-time too). I have the ultimate respect for you and indeed for anyone who gives up their time for a good cause. I obtained my first full time job after volunteering too, so I can see its financial, as well as the altruistic value. I do hate this issue being force fed us by the present lot that we are all duty bound to work for free - “we're all in this together” malarkey. We're not. Simple as that. You volunteer because you're a good person or because you have a particular affinity with a cause. Not because some wanker in a suit, attempting to save some government cash, cash you've already paid in, tells you that you should. That's all.

Those Eden Kane Moments

2011-06-03T10:14:00.004Z

My mum, quite a hip chick in her day and still pretty lively for an old girl, used to own a record by a band called Eden Kane, whose main refrain went something like:

"Boys cry
Where no-one can see them
When no-one can hear them cry
No-one can see them cry".

I used to rather like this record, mainly because it had rather a jolly tune counteracting the somewhat plastic sentimental lyrics. So the Edens may not have been the "new" Beatles or Stones, but the record was a workmanlike enough piece of 60s filler to have been stored in my memory from about the age of 4 when music started really meaning something to me. BTW, I can also remember advertising jingles and slogans from when we had a black and white telly as our only telly. How very pointless, but there you go.

So to the lead-in to the blog article de jour. Music and crying. While I was thinking about it a few weeks ago while trundling round London, iPod giving my tinnitus something to think about, that bloody arsehole student betraying Judas Nick Clegg spoiled my very show by admitting that he cried to music. Well Nick, old china, old pal. My horse had been stolen by a more famous person than me, making *my* bloody idea appear unoriginal and me-to. Not the case, believe me, I got there first, just for the record if only by a few hours.

Music, is the ONLY fricken thing which has ever touched me in the crying department. Nothing else can. Some old bit of American country song wisdom says that a man is entitled to cry only when his "mom" or "dawg" dies. My mum is fortunately still well and able. I cannot guarantee for sure that I won't shed a tear or probably more like a bucketload when she does pass away, but hopefully she's a few decades left on the mileometer yet. Let's hope so. Unfortunately though, in the weeks between starting and publishing this post, I have had a mutt pass away, the sometimes q.v.'d Nicki – and yes, I bawled quite a bit over that, so buy me a Stetson, a car with no wheels, yet with enough battery power left to play the still- working eight-track of Willy Nelson best of moments and let me gurn into my bourbon glass.

Get me on a tube in the rush hour, in the right (or wrong) mood and then insert one of the following tracks between my ears on a decent set of Bose (or just a cheapjack piece of shit will do) and…………blubberitis, here we come. Help. Public embarrassment doesn’t come into it. Not being able to remember what stop I’m approaching doesn’t come into it either. I’m a lost cause, and sometimes end up actually lost.

Sad films can do it too. But the music has to work with the film. No sad music, no saltwater from moi. I don’t think, for example, that the admittedly moving plot of Atonement would have worked half as well if the Dunkirk soldiers’ singing hadn’t magically – in a moment of almost breathtaking pathos inducing beauty – morphed with the orchestral soundtrack. I almost fell over when I heard this, except I couldn't because I was in Goa, on a hostel bed, so not too many places to fall. Partly wonderment is down to the sheer skill and artistry demonstrated by the person responsible for bolting soundtracks together, and partly because it was just so fucking poigniant.

I don’t come from a particularly macho family – as an older brother to three sisters, that was always gonna be a hard one to pull off anyway, but I can count my dad as introducing me to one of the bawl-tracks mentioned below. Whether or not he cried when listening to is, I’ll never know because I wouldn’t ask him. It’s mostly a private business this crying to music bolllocks, and the only reason I’m sharing it with the world is that I doubt I’m alone. But fear not, I shall return shortly to the joys of assembling flatpacks, the trams of Croydon, or something else more prosaic.

So there it is, my confession. And also below, is some of the music that does it.

Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major, Adagio
Surely one of the most gorgeous pieces of music ever committed to score? So, its Mozart. So, you’ve heard it a thousand times before. For a reason.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsvgIW2YMWA&feature=fvst

Wendy Carlos/JS Bach – Brandenburg 3, part 3
Two things turned me onto electronic music. The second thing was discovering under a Chiswick bed and covered in dust, the Moog Prodigy, belonging to my then-girlfriend Nicola's dad and just having to footle with it. The first was being played this, aged 4 by my dad who I think was as besotted with it at the time as I became later. Works on so many levels. I’m so glad myself and Ms Carlos met while I was such a musical virgin . It was the best selling classical music record of 1968. Not surprising.

I could not find the exact track on Youtube – Ms Carlos seems rather precious about copyright for whatever reasons. Here's something from the the other end of the same concerto “in the style of”.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJo5q-SbvT0

Livin’ Joy – Don’t Stop Moving
A complete change of tempo and style here. Early 90s dancey,ravey floorfilla with heaps of Korg M1 piano, one of the most evocative sounds from this generation. This track is actually a piece of utter smileyness and never fails to put a humongous stupid grin on my face even during the depths of depression (and there have been some prize moments). And it makes me bawl out of sheer euphoria. One of the most positive lyrics going methinks.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIbFO-kXeyU

One Day Like This – Elbow
I can’t think of a more poetic, beautiful love song than this - I tell you, when I look at these lyrics, I suffer from extreme song envy. Guy Garvey sure knows how to sum up what it might be like to grow old with someone. And the orchestration, my goodness! Overflows with joy and optimisitc good vibes. Guy Garvey might have a show on 6 Music known as his “Finest Hour”, but this was easily his finest 6 mins, 51 seconds. If someone ever wrote me a song like this, I'd be boholden to them for-bloody-ever!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QfVejpYc8Zc

Little 15 – Depeche Mode
It's the key shift DOWNWARDS starting n verse 3 wot does it. Aaaarrrgghh.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfA2U4V2DZY

Nervously – Pet Shop Boys
Chris Lowe, the “other half” of the PSBs, knows how to combine textures in sound and chords to break the heartstrings of the toughest hod carrier. The schmaltzter is aided and abetted by one of the kings of analogue synthesis, Harold Faltermeyer, let loose on this number.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eS30s3X5ccM
(as an aside, I've just noticed that these two last songs are in the same key – coincidence?)

Set You Free – N-Trance
More dancey stuff that shouldn't fit into the mould of a classic bawl song but does - for me. This is a kind of lament to lost youth and quite likely reflects possibilities never fulfilled. Can almost see myself, aged 24, wondering in a scratching head, “doh!” sort of way what would happen next and not fully recognising the opportunities being dangled. I have relatively few regrets, in life, but there *are* some, and this is one of those songs which can transport me back to that less responsible, almost but not quite carefree period.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWbmmsH4SJU

Please comment and add your tracks if you're man (or woman) enough to do it. Come on, I am not alone, am I?

Ad's eats: Chutney's

2011-05-14T14:03:00.002Z

Address: 124 Drummond Street, Euston, London NW1

For the review, click the link:

http://boo.fm/b356945

This blog post is not like others I've made so far. So, here's a bit of information about it.

After being introduced to the audioboo concept by Jen F, one of my followees/followers, on Twitter, I though I'd give try it out in order to do something which I do on this blog anyway, which is to knock up a restaurant review. If you're too wimpy to click on the link above and find out, a an audioboo is a recording you make on your laptop or phone, which then gets sent to Twitter, Facebook and Linkdn - or whichever combination of the three that best suits.

The concept is neat because its immediate and can actually be done in the restaurant concerned, providing you've got a decent 3G connection or wi-fi availability. But the fact that you can produce a singing, dancing review in five minutes rather than half an hour, is an idea which appeals to the king of laze that is myself.

This review, for a restaurant I know and very much love, Chutney's, is my first attempt at such a review,

One thing I should have mentioned, simply because I try to do this on the blog, is mention whether the place is guide dog friendly: well, this place has handled a whole barrage of bouncing, biting and woofing beasts without batting a metaphorical eyelid.

(by the way, if you wish to follow me, the my moniker is daggersduck, spelled like the quacking animal this time, not like some member of the illiterati as per this blog).

The Upminster swastika?

2011-04-18T11:52:00.002Z

Found in the ticket hall at Upminster Bridge station. Does this look like a swastika to you too? Bloody hell.

The fall of the great British phone box - kinda

2011-04-09T13:03:00.005Z

A few days ago, I was in Kingston, Surrey. I used to hang out here quite a lot when I was in my teens, and pleased to see that the object shot below is still there, aherm, *several* years later. Back then I never had a camera ready. It was chekcing out girls with my mates that was really on my mind (Ealing Broadway, Kingston and for some reason Epping were good check out spots - I wonder if they still are?). All three places are wealthier than average by the standards of London suburbs, but Kingston *just* had the edge on class - nicer clothes and better hair. Ealing ruled for the amount of skin on display though (and it was only a quick 207 bus ride away for me too which was handy...anyway, digression, digression).

I thought at the time that these phone boxes were going to be an installation - here today, gone tomorrow. But it appears the domino booths were a permanent fixture. I wonder what their history is, why they are here at all, and why they remained? Anyhow, at last I got a piccy this time round.

The picture is not all that well framed as I was conscious of people walking around, so it was a quick snap 'n'' go jobby.

Ad's eats: Brilliant Restaurant, Southall, Middlesex

2011-03-23T21:51:00.005Z

Food: Indian
Contact details:
72-76 Western Road, Southall, Middlesex UB2 5DZ
www.brilliantrestaurant.com

We visited The Brilliant in Southall, Middlesex, today. As I grew up in nearby Hayes, I was miffied that during my time there, my parents had never taken me here, as it had a good rep even back in the early 80s - it is actually a Southall institution, having been in the same area since the early 70s. As Southall is one of the demographically "Indian" suburbs in Britain, let alone London, calling your restaurant The Brilliant in this environment is almost a taunt: "come, criticise me, tell me I'm not brilliant, tell me I'm rubbish". In its favour, it has won plenty of awards. But the only award that matters to us (insofar we came from distant suburban East London to be here) is what we think of it. Will we return? Will we recommend it to our friends? Was it in fact, brilliant?

Let's find out.

Firstly, the guide dog situation. It is really, really difficult to eat Indian or Chinse while being accompanied by a guiding beast. There is a point, after you've had maybe the third or forth row about whether the dog is allowed in, when you just assume that you will go into an eating establishment, all guns blazing. Though I refuse to take nonsense from anyone about this (to refuse a guide dog is breaking the law and ignorance is no defence in my opinion). Not a problem in The Brilliant, perhaps aided by the fact that one of the staff was obviously a dog lover and wanted to pet Nicki the Labrador while she was being good beneath the table. They get a huge brownie point for the no-fuss welcome. What a relief.

The decor here is cool but in a friendly, inviting way, with dark wooden floorboards, spotlights and a clean, no-fuss style that doesn't intimidate but still has enough sophistication, suggesting this interior design has been thought through. No job lot tables here - everything is in dark brown and dark orange. All just-so. (9 out of 10).

Our service was friendly and the food arrived in a timely manner without any hanging around (a pet hate of mine is being left for ages after the main course before your dessert order is taken). Service then was brisk and polite. (9 out of 10).

We ordered poppadoms as a pre-starter. I tend to find that a good, crisp, not-too-greasy poppadom indicates how the rest of the meal will turn out I was right on this occasion, as we'll see. By the way, we ordered spicy poppadoms and blow me down, they were peppery. Fortunately, we both love pepper and there are plenty of chutneys to dump them in to assist sweetening them up and bringing down the heat level a bit.

Our starters were tilapia fish pakora (9 out of 10). The high mark is given for the light batter made of gram flour, which didn't in any way kill off the delicate flavour of the fish. I had meat samosas, filled with finely minced lamb. I give these 7 out of 10 - better than average and good quality meat.

For the main course, we had a lamb curry which Lynn described as basic but tasty and awarded it 6 out of 10. I had the lamb masala which on the menu, was described as coming with a thick sauce flavoured with ginger, tomato and garlic. It left nothing to be desired: this was a dish delivered exactly what was promised. I can barely think of anything to fault it on and will give it a full 10 out of 10 because it really was that good. Bravo. If my stomach had been any larger I would have gone for second helpings.

Desert was a better than average pistachio kulfi which I'll give 7 marks for. It was served on an unusual long plate which didn't do anything for the flavour, but did add a little interest presentation-wise.

So overall, was the Brilliant, brilliant. I think so. It is one of those establishments where you think every award was justified and gained from hard work and attention to detail, as well as old fashioned customer service, rather than from "I'll scratch your back if you give me a plaudit" mentality. There are few Indian restaurants this good in my view and I would go there far more often if only had the fortune to live closer.

Finally, if you are interested in finding what what good places there are to eat at, places that also have good accessiblity (eg, guide dog friendly, helpful staff when it comes to menu reading, etc) then may I recommend the Access-Eat blog written by Graham Page. It can be found at:

http://access-eat.blogspot.com/

it mainly concentrates on restaurants and pubs in east and central London with occasional soirees to the home counties too.

Heston's pie: suck on this

2011-03-15T23:34:00.003Z

When I think of Heston, being an ex-Westie, I think of the service station on the M4 not a million miles away from my childhood home of Hayes, Middx. That, and perhaps, the book "Crash" by JG Ballard, set in and around this area, though a somewhat fictitiously located Northolt and Shepperton are also mentioned in this novel. Anyhow, I digress...

Heston, for the purposes of this blog entry, is a reference to Heston Blumenthal, owner of the Fat Duck in Bray, near Maidenhead, where they apparently use Bunsen burners, chloroform and nitrous oxide as part of cooking methodology. Waitrose hired him to create some of their not so cheap pies. And so he has. These are housed in wee boxes, right next door in the chill cabinet to the normal Ginsters pasties, porkie pies and other cooked pastry-with-meat delights.

I like pies. People who know me know this. And I know what I like in pie. A pie must have good, slightly crispy but not burnt pastry, with copious butter mixed in. And the filling should be loaded high, with lots of what it says on the packet contained within. If it says steak, one chunk of ratty crap is not good enough. No, there should be whole cow buried therein. Pie Minister pies have certainly got what it takes, though you may need an extension on the mortgage to purchase one.

And so be the case equally with Heston's creation. The filling - in this case chicken, bacon and leek - was plentiful, with loads of cream and a good dash of tarragon for flavour. All in all, a happy sort of pie. The sort of pie to come and see you, make me smile. But there is a dark side.

Remember, I mentioned that this this pie was in the chiller cabinet? Well, what I think when I buy a pie from such a location is that the pie is cooked. Well, it wasn't. I ate the pie on the tube after spending far too long travelling and becoming rather hungry. This evening's tubes were rubbish and my hunger was increasing. So I popped open the pie box and found....

....raw frigging pastry. Raw pastry. Yes, it was raw. And it was glutinous, sticky and - yes, I say it again without shame - raw. The filling wasn't. That's the weird thing. Naturally, by this point, my hunger was that of a rabid wildebeest deprived of zebra for maybe three or four months. It had to be eaten. It was, and I quited liked the filling.

But Heston, old son, old pal, old bean. Puh-LEEEZE tell us on the box that the thing needs slinging in the oven for 30 minutes (a fact I discovered by my second bite) before committing it to mouth.

I can't grade this pie out of ten simply because I've never eaten such a weird one. I'll give it a go though:

Filling: 8
Pastry: 1

If you can beat this pie eating experience, please let me know by popping a comment on this post.

The blog is back!

2011-03-15T23:20:00.001Z

Back on the blogger at last, having been a WordPress kinda guy (with the travel blog). Hope to see you soon.

Temporarily defunct

2010-05-27T01:44:00.002Z

Please note as from 22 April until "some time" next year I shall not be updating this blog. No, I'm not visiting hell on a sabbatical.

I shall be away backpacking with my wife and our joint blog will appear on

frexandspex.wordpress.com

By the way, our house is guarded by a psychotic (and by now, HUNGRY) pitbull so don't even think about burgling us while we toddle around the globe.

See you back here next year.

With love and xxxx to my fans (all two of them)

Daggersdukc.

Hayes pool again

2010-04-13T17:26:00.005Z

My sister pointed out after reading the last entry about Hayes Pool that this episode of Mr Bean was filmed there. Nice one.

So, for all you Hayes expats, a taste of home.

If anyone living there now should stumble across this, can you tell me if much ahs changed? (The Hayes is between Heathrow and Northolt, not the other London one near Bromley).

Anyway, inside the pool...

Happy memories by the pool

2010-04-09T21:28:00.005Z

Before I leave the country for a while, I took a wander round my old haunts and came across this building. Nothing very beautiful about it, but many happy memories were spent swimming here. In fact, the adult pool was so deep I used to have bad dreams about it as a kiddie.

I learnt to swim at this place and the entrance area is extremely nostalgic. There used to be coin operated rocking rocket ride for kids in the lobby area which was a fairly violent rock (at least it was when I was aged four). It was probably the rocket I looked forward to as much as the pool itself.

I would hazard a guess that it was the positive associations I had with sixties monstrosities like this which aided and abetted my later love affair with many other edifices of this type.

A snack idea too far?

2010-04-09T21:19:00.003Z

I'm biased and love the stuff, but a Marmite cereal bar really stretches branding to fit two target audiences - Marmite lovers and health bar eaters. I doubt these will be around for long, so enjoy while you can. I did.

Reason to be proud?

2010-03-29T20:35:00.003Z

I've blanked out names. This is actually a source of perverse pride to me. I've only ever had one work complaint levelled against me that I'm aware of. This is it. As complaints go, its pretty full-on. Might as well go the whole hog I guess.

It was sent on Friday.

*****

From: Pissed off customer
Sent: 26 March 2010 14:01
To: My whole work team (including me)
Subject: Phone call

Called your "call centre" 10 minutes ago to order a pocketalker hearing device for my severely deaf father. I have never had such obnoxious, rude and downright poor customer service.
I hung up on the phone call after he tried his hardest to treat me like an idiot.

The man was cocky and surly and has without doubt lost you a sale. If it wasn't for such a poor website I would not have had to use your call centre in the first place.

Please pass this email on to your manager/training department. He should not be allowed to speak to the public in that tone.

Pissed off customer

****

I would contest that I was hardly cocky or obnoxious - no more than usual anyway. I was trying to be my usual helpful self, and the woman was a stroppy shit, hassling for me to speed up my answers, which is impossible without superfast broadband, which is something we don't have.

Generally speaking, in a situation where a customer wants answers I don't have, I'd ask them politely what they need to know, do the research and ring them back, and in 99 percent of cases, this works fine. Seems old "firework up her arse" bitch here wanted the answers now, and NOW only.

So uptight. Such a fuckwit. It tells you a lot that she "hung up on me". I've never had cause to do this to a customer - ever.

I hope she enjoys the remaining years on earth she has. I guarantee that unless I get thwacked by a car or some other act of God, I'll be on this planet for a greater number of years than her, since her stress level appears, at least today, to be stratospheric. I'd love to say with some
honesty that I feel sorry for her but if she insists of pissing off everyone around her, then I don't. I feel sorry for her husband (if he managed to last more than a year in her company he must be a masochist), her family and her few remaining friends.

I believe that the issue she really had with me was that I didin't show her the deference she expected. There are few people I will ever defer to. I generally take the simple rule that if you aren't paying me, aren't someone I care a lot for, or my parents, then deference is earnt, not given as a right.

This is a test

2010-03-19T15:40:00.001Z

This is just a test to see how easy it is to write a blog entry without having to use the blog thingy itself. This is just a wee test.

Great sounds in music #1 - The DX harp preset

2010-03-17T21:02:00.009Z

An occasional wee series where I pontificate to some extent on what I regard as the most interesting, justifiably famous and simply plain easy to like sounds that have infiltrated pop music over the past 20 years or so. Mostly, just because I prefer that kind of thing most, these will be electronic or otherwise synthetic sounds. Rather than trying to describe them too much, I'll let you find out more about these for yourself with Youtube links to each sound.

So lets kick off with...the lovely sound of the DX7 harp.

A preset on the original DX7 FM synthsizer, launched by Yamaha in 1983, this incredibly fragile, lightly percussive sound graces many a quieter 80s and 90s track and appears in some unlikely places, such as the opening bars of Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat. Almost Japanese in quality, it doesn't really sound like a typical plucked Welsh harp, but has a more "oriental" quality. Given a bit of chorus or a tiny bit of vibrato (as was done by Level 42 in Sleepwalkers) the sound is like a light breath of fresh air.

I first heard Irish folkmeister Christy Moore's "Reel in the Flickering Light" in the late 90s and am as taken with it now as I was then. Not the usual kind of folk Mr Moore is renowned for, this work of childish whimsy is simply beautiful. I keep wanting to to repeat the adjective "delicate".

Like a lot of FM sounds, they were both over-used in the 80s especially and went out of fashion. And yet, the sounds on this instrument are almost laughably ubiquitous due to the fact that due to clever licencing, just about every computer sound card contains an identikit set of sounds from the synthesizer module.

Another new age-y place you can find this sound is Lanz & Speer's "Behind the Waterfall". Worth seeking on Spotify.

There is a plethora of wonderful sounds on the DX7, and I'll be returnig to it very shortly.

Why the Tories won't win - a little bet with myself

2010-02-28T19:49:00.004Z

With talk in the news of the Tories failing to engage with the public in terms of zooming ahead in the polls, which in theory they should be doing, here's my very simple theory behind he failure.

Nothing more than a bit of fun, here's why, according to me, the Tories won't win. Or if they do, it will be the tiniest of minorities.

Their philosophy seems to be "we need cuts - lots of them". However, unlike last time they proposed this, in the late 80s, it worked because the medicine seemed to fit the illness.

In this case however, I don't think many people feel the cure is right. For
analogy's sake, the doctor says: "you're overweight, so you need to exercise
more and eat less". Looking at your belly and dreading the hill outside his
surgery, you see he's right and you try your best to do his bidding.

This time round though, the doc says " you need to eat less, exercise more,
and because there are a couple of gods I happen to believe in sitting over
behind that curtain, I'm going to chop your arm off as well as a kind of
good ju ju sacrifice to them". Well how unfair is that???

The gods , in this case, are of course the bankers. Yes, we're fat, yes,
we're unfit, but no, we don't want to feel our arms to be bunch of fuckwits
in the city either. We don't believe or ever ask to share the existence of
our doctor's choice of god.

I predict labour may win by a very, very small margin once people start
realising that they are going to have to give up a whole load of body parts
to beliefs they don't want and don't wish to continue co-existing with.

Have you got Skype?

2010-02-14T22:21:00.004Z

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	Free calls. Make free Skype-to-Skype calls over the internet to anyone else on Skype.			Computer or mobile device. Skype works on nearly every kind of computer and on many mobile devices as well.

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Have you got Skype?

2010-02-14T22:21:00.003Z

Have you got Skype?

Tell a friend

Download latest Version


Hello Blogger

Your friend Adam Holdsworth (Skype Name: adam.holdsworth) wants to talk to you for free using Skype.

Download Skype for free


	Why get Skype?			What do I need?

	Free calls. Make free Skype-to-Skype calls over the internet to anyone else on Skype.			Computer or mobile device. Skype works on nearly every kind of computer and on many mobile devices as well.

	Free video calls. With a webcam you can make free Skype-to-Skype video calls.			Internet/WiFi connection. A broadband connection is recommended for computers. WiFi required for mobiles.

	Call phones. Call landlines and mobile phones anywhere in the world at great rates.			Speakers and a microphone. Some computers have these built in, but you'll enjoy better call quality with a headset.

You're just one step away from making free calls to other Skype users.

Download Skype

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Have you got Skype?

2010-02-14T22:21:00.001Z

Have you got Skype?

Tell a friend

Download latest Version


Hello

Your friend Adam Holdsworth (Skype Name: adam.holdsworth) wants to talk to you for free using Skype.

Download Skype for free


	Why get Skype?			What do I need?

	Free calls. Make free Skype-to-Skype calls over the internet to anyone else on Skype.			Computer or mobile device. Skype works on nearly every kind of computer and on many mobile devices as well.

	Free video calls. With a webcam you can make free Skype-to-Skype video calls.			Internet/WiFi connection. A broadband connection is recommended for computers. WiFi required for mobiles.

	Call phones. Call landlines and mobile phones anywhere in the world at great rates.			Speakers and a microphone. Some computers have these built in, but you'll enjoy better call quality with a headset.

You're just one step away from making free calls to other Skype users.

Download Skype

If you have any problems downloading Skype check out the help section

Talk soon,
The people at Skype

Privacy

Skype, associated trademarks and logos and the "S" symbol are trademarks of Skype Limited.

The MOD media machine - great taxpayer value

2010-02-11T12:22:00.003Z

A British hero. Employed by a bunch of zeros. More lions and donkeys

One of those facts which complete floors me was casually announced without any further reference on Radio 4's "Today" program.

The Ministry of Defence employs 400 people engaged in media and/or PR.

This in itself seems quite a lot. There are, after all, only 650 MPs serving the interests (I use the word with great caution) of the country - no seriously, they're not just self serving expense-monkeys. Perhaps.

400 people? I presume some of these are quite well paid, and would, if employed within other industries, be regarded as experts.

So why is then that the MOD can hardly run its own affairs, let alone publicise or promote them with anything other than a shame faced bleat that makes me cringe.

Quite frankly, if this is the best they can do with 400 people (some of who I guess are paid to obscure or block news), then really, they need to try harder. Even the news which is obfuscated tends to find its way into the public domain at some point.

As my sis Ab would say, "what a complete shower".

As I wold say too many cooks, say, around 350 too many?

In remembrance of Saint Kizzie (the dog)

2010-02-10T22:58:00.004Z

Nicki the guide dog's predecessor, Kizzie, died in January, but we only found this out, by accident, yesterday.

Kizzie, or Kizz, Kizzer, Frizante, Zig Zag Wag, Zigger, Miss Dogg, Mrs Tubington - a panopoly of names - was a very good dog indeed, both a laid back guide dog and a furry ball of friendliness to have around the house. Never in yer face, but always affectionate and happy to be cuddled. She was as much my pet as Mrs D's mobility tool and though I hate the use the word in relation to a dog, friend.

She had oodles of personality, once jumping in between The Wife and I during a pre-marriage quarrel. A few years after this, we re-united after some time away in Ireland, at Heathrow, and while we both hugged our greetings at the baggage reclaim exit, Kizzie waited, until, with a huge degree of constanation, let a most put-out sounding whine - almost a squawk: "COME ON - WHERE'S MY SNOG?"

Some things Kizzie was infamous for:

- Crossing her paws while lying on her tummy - very "lady-like".

- Making very grumpy huffing sounds when she'd had enough of anything.

- Having her nose close to the ground, even when on the harness, a habit which we never managed to fully break.

- Being the only dog I would ever trust to walk without the lead, even when close to busy roadds. Even with me, she was incredibly responsive and careful.

- Eating and wishing to eat.

- Testing the boundaries of the pecking order by taking a dump in tube stations, even after she'd had one recently. Despite what The Wife says, I feel this to be a deliberate ploy rather than accidental. The time interval between craps was always between 6-7 months.

- Not coming back. Her walking skills were great, her recall was, lets be frank here, fucking dreadful.

We know than because she was the most helpful and useful of dogs, she can only be reincarnated as an elephant, the most noble and more importantly LARGE beast going.

Mike Allen - Alan Partridge's doppelganger, hip hop god

2010-02-09T23:49:00.002Z

One of my heroes from tennyhood was old. I mean, actually older than my dad - he was born in 1942. He looked like Alan Partridge. He even SOUNDED like Alan Patridge. He was a DJ, who like Partridge, came on at night. So you can tell, it wasn't John Peel - he came later. This man was white, but played mostly black music. A dancer he was not, although most of the music he played was dance orientated.

What David Rodigan was to promoting reggae, Mike Allen was to early hip-hop. I was in my mid teens, and my parents taste in TV, bad even then, meant that my solace on Saturday nights, and later on Sundays, was my shitty little Sonatel clock radio cassette. Armed with fresh, or more likely, much recorded over TDK D-90, my fingers would hover over the record button waiting for the mad, incredibly creative world of mid 80s hip hop and electro.

A number of thoughts spring to mind.

1. He may have been at least two decades older than his audience, he was genuinely and highly respected in the hip-hop world. Really, how on earth did it happen? It was like having your favourite, subversive uncle round on a Sunday, one armed with a massive and intersting record collection. He'd make your dad seem a saddo and everything was offered with a knowing wink which said "we know your old lot can't help it - but come on boy, let's spin the next Roxanne record to get your ears into".

2. How did Capital Radio go from being a station which was almost public service broadcast quality in its range of programming. Saturday nights as I rembered it:

1800 Greg Edwards' Soul Spectrum - soul and jazz-funk.
2000 David Rodigan - reggae and lovers' rock
2200 Mike Allen - hip hop

Now, at this point, you could say that we have a particularly "black music" agenda here. Music whose fans might have been made up of three sets of fans, but there's a commonality of race. Here's the banger though; the next one was...

Brian Rust - playing gramaphone and big band tracks

SAY WHAT!?

This had a massive impact in my musical choices believe it or not. By the time my finger had hit the record button for the last time, it was midnight. And that meant I was usually ready for bed. And of course, since the radio was on, I'd actually just whack the sleep button and carry on listening to Brian Rust and his collection of scratchy 78s. Very eclectic and no effort on my part other than the maintenance of a keen interest in just about everything requiring a beat or a stave.

When and why did Crapital lose its eclecticism? I've not listened to it for decades.

3. Its sad that Mike's natural heir on the radio. Tim Westwood has such a wanky voice. I wasn't actually interested in the music so much in my late teens. It had come a lot more political, shouted at me, told me what to think and wasn't a bunch of posturing funsters bopping along to an Art of Noise styel soundtrack. I like it much more now.

I missed Mike Allen immensely, in fact I could barely believe it when his show was pulled.

Allen wasn't hip. He wore ties. He looked like your dad. He presented the "housewives show" in the afternoon mid-week. The idea that your mum could enjoy him as much as you did on Saturdays was a bit weird, slightly disturbing even. But fuck me, did he know his stuff? Did he love the music? I've no doubt about it. Did the kids respect him? Abso-bloody-lutely. Could he be employed to do this today? Not on your frigging nellie. How very, very sad and what a brutal indication that we've kissed goodbye to the enthusiastic amateur. Now we'd have some hip with the kids arsehole airhead who knows nothing about the music apart from what his musical advisor briefed him on pre-show.

I regard myself as truly blessed having grown up with this show. My suburban childhood in Hayes was pretty dull by many people's standards, but nevertheless, it was a GOOD childhood. Likewise, I was bespectacled, white and not your hip hop stereotype. In fact, genuine b-boys would have kicked my head in. Allowing myself to be taken out of my world of school and a safe, loving West London home into the grafitti-smeared environs of Harlam, South(south) Bronx, and LA was almost like an adventure to ancient Persia or Timbuktu.

I've a lot of thank you for, Mike.

Much respect.

Tower Block of Commons, Channel 4

2010-02-04T18:36:00.004Z

I'm not sure what planet Channel 4 have been on over the last few years. Their programs have become progressively worse, to the point where I can barely watch them. Shame, because in the 80s, they made some of the best TV in the world. The Tube, programs about (shock! horror!) gays, lesbians, black people. Wowza. Then it all went to rat-shit.

However, I have been impressed with the first programme in a series called Tower Block of Commons. It works like this.

"At 666 there lives a Mr Miller, he's a local vicar and a serial killer"...

Four MPs leave the comfort of their own homes (which are mostly rather posh, as you'd imagine since we've paid for most of them, sometimes twice) and live with the peasantry in their tower blocks. One of these tower blocks is a hop, skip and jump from my home. Taken out of their natural environment, needing to deal with such exotic tasks as shopping, dealing with a deficit of cash and an excess of time, the MPs seem to be able be required to cope with two things.

1. To get a feel for what it's like for the majority of us on the other side of the tracks.

2. To talk to said people and discover what life is like from their point of view, and even, in the case of Mark Oaten, to actually do something about the problems they face.

Much has been said about the petulant behaviour of these MPs, so I shan't go there again. Though, I do have to single out Austin Mitchell, who came across as a completely alienated twit, unable to empathise with his host (who seems to have been kicked out her flat especially so that Mitchell and spouse can move in for a few weeks), and I would imagine, the majority of his constituency of great Grimsby.

Oaten, seems to have borne the brunt of mockery aimed at him from the British press, and some of the more vocal youths of Dagenham, but, I think it is he who has come out of this rather well, after what appeared to be only major traumatic event for him (some kids said, rather nastily, that he may have AIDS - he is gay, and the comment was childish).

I'm not sure what the technical word is, so let's call them innkeepers. Out of all of the innkeepers, Cathy, typical of many of my neighbours, comes across rather well. Streetwise, kind, but more than a little depressed at the way things have turned out for her. I can understand why she is depressed. I work about 15 minutes walk away from her block of flats, and from the outside they look tidy enough, though right on the edge of the A13 motorway, so hardly in the beautiful surroundings. It is the disgusting state in which she is forced to live: with mould on walls and window sills, that would weigh you down. Why hasn't the council cleaned this up. I would suggest in most cases that the residents take some responsibliy here, but this is a systemic problem through the whole block; a specialist job and one way beyond the financial means of most people, let alone council flat dwellers, many of whom I know in this estate, are on benefits (I was told it was about 80 percent).

I was expecting this program to, do as other TV documentaries featuring ordinary people tend to do, which is patronise them. Sorry, that actually shouldn't say , I forgot myself for a sec. It must be quite a difficult job for Channel 4 executives. On one hand you have a group of individuals, MPs, nearly universally hated in this country right now, due to their greed and incompetence and in Blair's case lies. On the other hand you have a group of people to whom over the last few years their only purpose has been to serve as an increasingly large target for sponges. Basically, anyone who is not part of the Hamstead media set is potential fair game.

It must have been an almost impossible task not just to let it all blow and and head straight for the Roget's thesaurus in order to find suitably sarcastic terms for all of us. But somehow, the program was, I feel as balanced as a piece of reality TV could be. Contrived to some extent, yes, patronising, yes again, but less than I thought could be possible. And neither all the peasantry featured, nor all the MPs came out looking like buffoons either.

And I feel, that in the same way Susan Boyle has become a minor celebrity despite her obviously non-sleb cred, Cathy may also be the new voice of ordinary Britain. If she hasn't got a TV show of her own by December, I'll be very surprised. She would make a very good working class version of Anna Widdecombe - the voice of reason, given to you by your best friend's mum rather than by your warty great aunt Matilda. Watch this space

Tower block of Commons is on Channel 4, Monday, at 2100.

Big Keys Comparison by TechReady

2010-01-21T16:31:00.002Z

A small moment of fame! I demonstrate a couple of specialist keyboards for my firm, www.techready.co.uk.

. I'm the sexy dude in the Sweden T-shirt, not him with the baseball hat (that's Gabriel and he's a numpty!!! But we'll forgive him)

Hazell Dean - Heart First

2010-01-13T00:14:00.001Z

At 14, I had a mild crush on Hazell Dean - my sis used to rib me mercilessly cos of it.

So I was delighted to find this (gently remixed admittedly) gem of a track on Youtube. Soft dance, and a very early Stock Aitken Waterman production at a time when they were more Hi-NRG and creating to the gay crowd than strictly commercial. Like the lead sound in the middle 8.

Britain can't cope with the snow - SHOCKER

2010-01-07T21:16:00.004Z

I'm sick of hearing how bad our council and transport systems cope in snowy weather.

We can't deal with hurricanes, and we don't have solar panels in our deserts either.

Hardly a surprise as we neither have hurricanes or deserts.

We don't get a lot of snow. Mostly we get no snow year in, year out. Scotland does, and that's why it deals with it as well as Germany and Sweden, countries which also get a yearly kerplunk of snow.

I wish people would stop whining and know that we in England especially, don't deal with snow because it simply isn't there most years to be dealt with.

Enjoy the white powdery stuff. This variety is cheaper than coke.

Snow

2010-01-06T16:51:00.005Z

Some views from the house last night. The second one is of the back garden, where there are no streetlights. I find the high level of light pollution scary. Looks mightily ominous.

Protesting in Wooton Bassett

2010-01-05T19:49:00.004Z

Just heard about the planned protest by Muslim groups in Wooton Bassett.

I really don't like the war in Afghanistan and think our government are a pack of deceitful liars with an agenda which as a modern day peasant, don't understand. Not sure if they do, really, either. Just get told by the useless fecks at the MoD and America what to do, and do it.

We should pull out now. We should never have been there at all. I perfectly understand the need for these groups to protest. I feel the same.

But wouldn't this particular protest in this particular town be like pissing on someone's grave at their funeral?

Wooton has become symbolic for the nation as a place of grievance. Its a nice place - I've been there and was called "sir" by someone much older than me. It is rare enough to be called "sir" by anyone. It is also the place where real people, serving real wars get remembers. Not some amorphous group, but John Smith, Sapper.

They really need to think this one through. A protest is fine. But a mark of such blatant disrespect will really nark the vast majority of us who don't support the war, but truly don't want to see our soldiers and airmen blown to smithereens doing a job whose political ramifications they have very little say over. They have families and friends who give a toss for them as humans.

Youth

2010-01-05T18:37:00.003Z

I'm applying to join the Youth Hostel Association of the UK.

When does one stop being a "youth"?

At 40, I hardly feel "yoof-ful". The church I used to go to, when I did such things, used to extend the concept of "young people" to those whose hair wasn't naturally grey. And I bet even silverhaired dudes could still be counted as young with the help of a bit of Clairol or Just For Men.

There is a reason of course, for this tardy application. Cheap accommodation abroad.

Miranda Hart

2010-01-03T22:56:00.005Z

The lovely Miranda? Or is she?

I wish I could make up my mind as to whether Miranda's the best thing that's happened to comedy in the last year, or whether she's just a tall bird with an overly plumby accent. If you swapped the Roedean with a Yeovil, she wouldn't sound too far removed from Pam Ayers.

There is something remarkably compelling about her.

Too much food

2010-01-03T22:40:00.003Z

Forget dieting, I've never bought into the many and varied diet fads which spring up this time of year, with th exception of Atkins - which works but is boring over time, and difficult to integrate into a reasonably active social life (eg, I drink and eat out, er, about once a month, smile).

This time I've just eaten too much food.

So I'm cutting down in order to feel better. I still love food, and I do question anyone who regards food alongside such phrases as "guilt", "oooh, aren't naughty?!" and other puritanical guff.

Not guilty, just uncomfortable having my stomach stretched to the max over Christmas.

Happy new year.

Muslim burial food

2009-12-23T20:53:00.004Z

No, not an anti-Muslim post, just a dodgy pun.

Since those of Muslim faith like all funeral proceedings done and dusted more or less minutes after the victim of Death has become permanently kaput, do you think funeral directors hand these waffles out?

This brand is either named after an off the shelf company, or is simply a foreign food manufacturer's attempt to appeal to our need for speed, along with a doff of the cap to Middle England's affection for the old manor house. Not sure which.

Iceland microwaveable breakfast: the verdicts

2009-12-20T11:22:00.004Z

Here's the verdicts on the Iceland mixed grill microwaveable breakfast.

Mrs Dukc's verdict.

CHIPS: As greasy as chips can be. Soggy but quite pleasant.
SAUSAGE: Almost inedible, greasy, contains a adult gorilla’s daily salt needs.
GAMMON: Very high on salt but perfectly acceptable.
BURGER: Bought back many happy memories of “economy burgers with onions” from the 1970s. Pretty good, though nutriotionally suspect.
BEANS: Not as juicy as expected (good). Soaked up the grease nicely from the rest of the food.

Overall mark: 8 /10
Though good value, don't feel the need to try it again.

Mr Dukc's verdict:

CHIPS: Soggy, greasy, pleasant.
SAUSAGE: What people with no money feed their kids. Very suspect flavour but with a surprisingly firm texture. Not as rough as Richmond so-called “Irish” sausages. If you’re Irish you’ll know how much of a lie this description is.
GAMMON: Very salty, pretty meaty and actually a big portion for the money. Rather impressed.
BURGER: My mum used to buy these in 1977. A cross between a Telfers Economy burger from Bejam and a Goblin tinned special. Really rather nice though completely scummy.
BEANS: A long way from being the anaemic mess I suspected they would be. Did what I hope they would do. Good soaker of grease.

Overall mark: 8 / 10.
These are 10p more expensive than a Pot Noodle so these are indirect competitors. Whereas a pot noodle is scuzzy but llikeable, this is scuzzier still and possibly less lovable (dragged down the by sad sausage), but heavier. So if you're hungry, go for these. If you want a completely doggy snack that won't fill you but tastes sweetly nostalgic, the noodles win.

Cheapest breakfast ever

2009-12-20T10:41:00.004Z

I am about to tuck into what is probably the cheapest breakfast you can buy in the UK. Iceland sell a £1 pack containing a sausage, a flame grilled burger, a piece of "reformed" gammon, chips and beans. Yep. £1.

And the best thing is that is microwaveable in 6 minutes.

A review will follow very shortly.

Tesco's ginger card "gaff"

2009-12-16T10:43:00.001Z

So, Tesco has had to withdraw a card with the message "Santa loves all
children...even GINGERS ones".

A couple were pictured in The Sun being "offended" by it. Is there a
special kind of "rent-an-offendee" rate The Sun pays out? Everyone seems to
be potentially offended. I'm offended by Rupert Murdoch's continued
existence, but hey ho.````````

I can think of many bigger and better things to be offended by.

But I still don't get it. Why is being ginger "funny"? I don't think this
is the case outside England, is it? Many of my Ulster in-laws are gingers
but I can honestly say that when I've been over there, a chortle-fest about
hair colour has never been on my mind.

Could someone explain this to me?

The worst part of London

2009-11-25T19:13:00.008Z

Quite an interesting conversation heard on a train I was travelling on, while on the way to Birmingham, last Friday:

American Woman (W): I live in the worst part of London.
English passenger (EP) Where's that?
W: Dagenham
EP: I don't know where that is.
W: Its a long way out. East on the District Line. Really dull, very flat, full of people who aren't that bright.
EP: Sounds awful.
W: It is. When I came here for my job I was shown pictures of Knightsbridge and Kensington. My friend lives in South Kensington. I was so jealous. Dagenham's y'know, desperate. The last resort.

Being an inverted snob, and a resident of that fine town now for ten years, I had to pipe up:

ME: Oh Dagenham. Nice place. Cheap. On the tube. Great neighbours, hardly any crime where we live. What's not to like. Oh, by the way, I've lived there for ten years.

Completely embarrassed silence.

To be fair, at least the passenger actually lived here. I do get enourmously brassed off with people who have never been to places like Bognor (where my family live) and Dagenham without having been there, and feel the need to make some sneery and usually inaccurate remark. If you've never been to a place, using an area's reputation alone as a means to sneer at the place is just snobbery for the sake of snobbery.

I would say BRITISH snobbery; however, the particular passenger, as I say, was American.

But, at least, with people like that sneering at the perceived "failed" areas like ours: the joke towns, the chav estates and the perceived urban shit-holes, at least they don't entertain us with their presence

I grew up in Hayes (a joke town, at least if you're from Uxbridge or Ealing), lived in Deptford, Bognor (which used to dubbed "clown town"), Hackney (known, when I moved there in 1993 as the "dustbin of London" - but not now kiddies: a expensive dustbin indeed) and Dagenham, all places I've liked for various reasons.

So what's the deal, snobs.

I am currently reading: Estates, by Lynsey Hanley. This book is a compelling blend of psychogeography-meets-sociology. Am agreeing with much of it.

Pizza menu de jour: Haweli Indian

2009-10-16T06:28:00.004Z

Looks like this fun packed feature has been mis-named as today's menu is, yet again, an Indian treat. Not really a treat as I've not tried eating here either so "treat" may be a prematurely optimistic label. Having covered myself in case of treat disappointment and possibly litigation, it may be a treat as there is only one decent Indian round here that I am aware of, so the competition is somewhat flimsy.

It has the word "free" on it. Always encouraging in these hard times.

By way, in case you're curious, thus far I've not needed to raid the menu cupboard. The menus featured so far have all dropped through our letterbox the day before I proudly displayed them here.

Pizza menu de jour: Pizza Hut - its a sin!

2009-10-15T06:37:00.004Z

Apparently, meat eating is the new sin. Still, beats the usual target of smokers, the obese and ASBO (possibly also obese) kids. Count me in as being one. A sinner, not an ASBO kid - I'm far too old, though definitely obese.

This menu at least has the benecit of attractive design. I may well give the sinful pizza a spin this Friday, if I didn't indeed chuck it.

Faher forgive me
I tried not to do it...

(I saw me a pizza
And ate right through it)

- sorry Pet Shop Boys

Pizza menu de jour: Shabana Indian

2009-10-14T14:57:00.002Z

Today is the turn of this little cutie, the Shabana Indian (or sorry, Bangladeshi and Indian to be exact). Not been here so can't vouch for the quality of the food.

However, it has a welcome spot in our menu pile as good quality Indians are sooooo hard to find in Daggers. Hot curry is kind of limp in my experience. So, Shabana, its all hangs on you.

Pizza menu de jour

2009-10-13T16:09:00.001Z

How many pizza menus do you think I get a year? Loads. But I don't knowfor sure, I just know there are more pizza menus dropping through my doorthan I'd ever need, bearing in mind I only eat delivery pizza about six orseven times per year. Dagenham is simply festooned with pizza delivery places, though the only one we ever order from is Perfect Pizza in Elm
Park, the next door suburb.

With no further ado then, let me introduce you to Dagenham's finest. Starting with the Pizza Go Go menu, the beginning of a major series (subject
to me being bothered) on this blog.

The Gogo is an all-red baby featuring the emergency deal, the 999 pizza, for
those pizza emergencies, for when you just can't find a big enough bandage. Nothing like a 12 inch thin crust double pepperoni with onions to cover over that dripping wound, I find. When I lived briefly in Walthamstow, Gogo on Hoe Street was pretty decent for a cheap and cheerful take-away, so I trust the pizzas here are quite edible, possibly even better than this. That hold shot wasn't really that good, so for future shots, I'll be seriously considering alternatives. Compared to Korean babes holding the
latest Samsung mobile phone, this shot really sucks. But I'm learning fast.

Weasel words: Tough decisions

2009-10-07T15:27:00.001Z

An oft-used weasel phrase of our time:

"Tough decisions will need to be made on...".

Meaning: We are going to have to do something that might make us look
electorially unviable (because we are, same as the other almost identikit
clones on the opposite bench) - particularly when the well-oiled spin
machine throws a hiccup and the media wakes up from its torpor for a few
moments and asks some well targeted questions before falling back into its
alco-pop-mixed-with-coke induced slumber.

But regardless of this tough decision we'll make bravely, almost martyr-like
on your behalf, you, modern day peasant, and others like you will be
shafted. For us and our ilk its business as usual. Same as it ever was.

Swine flu and me

2009-10-05T18:31:00.003Z

Spent last week with Swine Flu. Here's a description of each day.

Wednesday: at work. Very mild symptoms but by 8pm was feeling a bit un-centred. Not especially ill, but felt as if though something was missing or wrong. Kind of like the last few hours of an acid trip.

Thursday: Hot, and feeling slightly more trippy and demotivated. Not desperately sick or anything. Didn't go to work as the world felt a bit jelly-like and kind of...wrong or something. I hard feeling to define, but best description is like how it is when you've had some reasonably good grass and are stoned just beyond the stage where you feel that getting home by bus would be safe. Note: I do have some experience of this back in the 90s.

Friday: Hot and cold with proper flu vibe kicking in. Coughed, spluttered and mildly stoned feeling all day. Read loads and didn't really feel like getting out of bed but bought netbook up to bed.

Saturday: felt rather hot, with sore throat and quite a hacking cough - the kind I had when I smoked 20 a day. However, by 3pm was feeling OK again. Not stoned or monged out today, just a bit hot.

Sunday: Apart from remaining cough, back to normal really.

Monday: Back at work and feeling mostly normal again, other than a slight cough. Felt a bit demotivated, but definitley within normal range. Busy, so didn't have time to worry too much.

So, what was Swine Flu like? Compared to the death-flu I had ten years ago where the world was extremely cold, hot and floaty (often simultanously) where getting off the duvet I lay out on the floor could take 30 minutes, this time it was a breeze. Actually it was rather nice to have the luxury of genuine illness without being hugely affected. There is no way I would have wanted to leave the house for too long (in fact I didn't got out at all). The prevelant feeling was that of being mildly drugged, and since I like being mildly drugged, overall, Swine Flu wasn't too bad an experience. If death is a 10 and losing a shoe for two minutes is 1, then this gets a 3. I wouldn't go around giving it to friends, especially those with kiddies, but the hype I'm afraid, does outweigh the actuality.

Bose make some decent headphones for this

2009-09-25T10:04:00.000Z

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/blog/2009/sep/25/sonic-cannon-g20-pittsburgh

Looks like the American cops have been using high frequency noise against G20 protesters in Pittsburgh. Interesting.

Simple solution: Bose Noise Cancelling Headphones. And if you can't afford these admittedly pricey noise cancellers, then any decent set of Sennheisers with some Nirvana playing at max vol. should do the trick. Do you feel stupid and contagious? No.

Seriously, anyone who objects to the protesters should remember that it may be your pet cause under attack by the increasingly unembarrassed governments of the world. I for one can't get too worked up about testing on animals, but like Voltaire, I would defend anyone's right to protest against it if they DO feel strongly enough. Creatively and amusingly rather than with violence if poss. Government can take mockery less even than being ignored (which is what we should be going more often - ignoring works with little kids).

I think Hitler's regime was allowed to develop under such complacent circumstances (mind you, ordinary pre Nazi era Germans were probably too busy trying to afford such basics as bread to care - until it was too late. .

Chas 'n' Dave "split"

2009-09-23T08:41:00.002Z

The Graun had an article yesterday about Chas 'n' Dave, the band who bought East End knees up music to the masses (in the 80s too) "splitting". Well, since they are ending on amicable terms, "splitting" seems a bit harsh.

I used to quite like their music in a non-committed sort of way, so when a friend dragged me along to the Fairfield Halls in Croydon to see them play, I went with some trepidation, not expecting much, but enjoying the company. They were fabulous!.

The lads put on a top gig - really energetic, with half the show dedicated to taking requests from audience members, the other half just larking around and mostly playing the more well-known tracks of theirs. Their presence will be sadly missed. They played Glastonbury a few years ago and from the comments I've read about the experience, they really worked the crowds, making many new fans along the way I'd guess.

Apparently Dave's missus has died of lung cancer (which prompted Dave's retirement from the biz). Not so nice.

From me, good luck to the lads, and of course...GERTCHA!

Mind of a what?

2009-09-21T14:00:00.001Z

Does anyone know what tune the musical box plays during the closing seconds of Mind of a Toy by Visage? Loved it since I was 11.

The Victorian sounding box It has a chord in there which turns me to mush.

I can't find anything about this on the net, even in its own Wikipedia entry.

Beautiful corporate bullshit

2009-09-17T15:40:00.001Z

You've gotta just love the bull put out by the likes of Trafigura, successfully sued for dumping a tankerful of sludge all over the Ivory Coast:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/sep/16/trafigura-african-pollution-disaster

So, does the company even acknowledge this disaster they caused exists? Naaah.

Instead, on the Trafigura website, we have this gem:

"A culture of risk awareness runs through all of Trafigura business activities, with traders operating within clearly defined risk parameters."

(Oh yes, you bet a culture of risk awareness runs thorough Trafigura business activities. Low-risk Africans. No bother, no risk).

Then this slice of crud under "Our Responsilbities":

"Trafigura impact on the global economy is a positive one; our responsibility is to the communities in which we operate, our customers, our suppliers and employees".

(I bet those Ivorian were soooooooo grateful for the responsibility shown to their health and the pleasant state of their city).

There is nothing in the "Our News" section about the company being sued. Not a dickie bird.

Shiver me timbers

2009-09-16T13:53:00.001Z

I'm not really in favour of voting for "one issue" parties, but lets be honest here, my only alternative is to deliberately destroy my ballot paper come the next election, or just aim my pencil randomly somewhere. The alternatives (apart from maybe the Greens) are just awful.

The Pirate Party's campaign is at least straddling an area which gels very, very strongly with me. So they may just get my X.

They are, apparently, the fastest growing party in Europe, and very popular with the kiddies. And I'm only half convinced that file sharing is complete morally neutral. The older I get, the more doubtful I become, but the heavy handed reactionaries in the music biz appear to resemble the horse and cart industry just after the 1,000th Model T rolled off a Detroit production line way back when.

http://www.pirateparty.org.uk/

Jack 'n' Chill

2009-09-16T10:06:00.001Z

I nearly always enjoy finding out "what happened next" to one hit wonders.

This topic might become an occasional ongoing theme, we'll see. To get the ball moving, here's what happened to Jack 'n' Chill who made the first UK house track, The Jack That House Built, which I really liked at the time (I was 18, and this stuff mattered a great deal, especially as I was still trying - abysmally as it happens - to play keyboards). I felt rather nostalgic hearing it yesterday when rediscovering it on Youtube

I had no memory of what the track was called or who it was buy, and since there are no lyrics, this required a fair amount of sleuthing (but thanks to Everyhit).

A link to the track is here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BDMu3r73Ko4

Its funny how some musos turn to drugs, and some to loose women and huge hamburgers, but in this case, one of the members of this band went on to become a dance floor backroom boy. Hope these guys are still working - it really was quite a pioneering track, being produced as it was in the UK - one of the first house tracks to have originated outside the USA and Chicago in particular.

Jack 'n' Chill: A duo consisting of producers Vlad Naslas and Ed Stratton, Jack 'N' Chill's hypnotic, instantly recognizable house instrumental "The Jack That House Built" was one of the first house hits produced in the UK (it reached no. 6 in the mainstream sales chart in February 1988). The similar-sounding follow-up single "Beat The Heat" was less successful commercially, and the duo then split up after just two singles. Stratton would then spend three years as a recording artist/producer signed to Virgin Records and later to Rhythm King Records and release a solo album entitled "Step into Time" under the artist name Man Machine. In 1990 he had the idea of creating the world's first dance music 'sample CDs' - a collection of 3 CD s called the 'Zero-G Datafiles' which featured over 3000 audio samples & loops. Although not intended to be used commercially, they became extremely popular. Together with Julie Stratton, Ed then formed the 'Time+Space' publishing company for sample CDs, and other talented sample producers were soon signed up to provide new collections for Time+Space to distribute on the Zero-G label. Meanwhile Vlad Naslas formed the instrument manufacturing company Lovetone with Dan Coggins, which (perhaps oddly) is specialized in guitar pedals.

Modern day peasants

2009-09-14T11:11:00.000Z

I have nicked this comment from "Calli" from the Graunad comments section as this view so much echoes my own:

"... the only economic recovery that would mean anything to me would be a change of political system. The current system just puts us, the ordinary people - working class, middle class, small business - through this cycle again and again. I cannot accept that this is an acceptable future for myself or my children, especially because those principally responsible for these cycles sail through the bad times unscathed.

The only political message that would convince me would be a long term vision. I'm not tied to a particular ideology, but it would involve a constitution, getting rid of the 'second' house, long term planning, massive restrictions on "free market capitalism", and limits on how long people can "serve" as MP's. I would make the process of becoming an MP much more like jury service than the gravy train it currently is.

Brown, Cameron : neither has my vote because all they represent is more of the same rubbish that has plagued the UK since, at least the war - a public schoolboy's bunfight were the ordinary citizens are treated like pawns. "

So....what to do next?

Speech Debelle wins Mercury Prize: or, where's the other good stuff?

2009-09-09T11:03:00.000Z

Ok, I've not heard Speech Debelle's album as I write this, so can't comment on its merits, but I have a question to the music biz in general.

If this album is so good, good enough to be recognised to be submitted for a major award (not to mention major sales jack), how come its only sold 3,000 copies up till now? *

There is so much good music around. So why does the biz continually promote mediocre crud? How many other brilliant artists am I missing, and who've also sold 3,000 CDs, when several million would be justified?

Biz: don't blame illegal downloaders, blame yourselves for not seeing the bleedin' obvious. If you promote crud, you lose sales. If you promote decent music then you gain sales. You'll get illegal downloaders too, but I'll buy a CD and not rely on Spotify when the music is good enough for me to keep it permanently on my iPod. Of course, when the Symbian version of Spotify is released, I'm becoming a premium subscriber.

Another another thing: over 40s buy music too. I am old enough to remember when pop could be bought by a teeny, my mum, and sometimes my granny. This does not necessarily indicate its high quality, but then pop is meant to be more Stephen King than Pushkin. Quality isn't the point - listenablity is. Most of the pop I love has no musical merit at all, but conjures up memories, grabs you by the feet and gets you bopping. Its a heart, not a head thang.

I will post a brief comment on Speech Debelle's album after I've played it.

* Yes, I know, Awards don't indicate whether something is good or not, and anyway, that's in the ear of the beholder of course. But no smoke without fire, right?

Too darn hot: who paid for the (Mc)Kinsey report?

2009-09-03T16:17:00.000Z

So a report is fired out by the McKinsey ("dya mind if I just borrow your watch to tell you the time and claim a tenner from you") management consultants, saying that the NHS needs to shave 10 percent of its staff to remain viable.

What the f**k do management consultants know about running a hospital? Or anything else, really?

And the slightly sinister thing is that no politician wants to own up for commissioning this report in the first place. SOMEONE paid for it. Consultants don't work for free last time I looked.

My theory is that actually, some stinking Nasty Tory paid for it to prepare us for when they inevitably win the next election.

"Hey look. We won by a huge majority. That means the public must really like what we intend to do. So...let's do what we do best. Close things. Make life as hard as possible for the population who aren't us. That's nearly everyone!!! Who cares - they are scummy old peasants. What? We are nasty. Nooooo! Never. We're just saving you all from the big taxes from big government....".

Then, seeing the fuss made by the GBP (Great British Peasantry) against a bunch of US neocons about the "Orwellian" NHS, backtracked. But...the money had been paid, the report was let loose on an unsuspecting bunch of serfs anyway.

Bet I'm right about this. And I'll be pleased to name the name on this here blog, if it's ever revealed.

Chopper!

2009-09-02T16:22:00.000Z

Really glad to see one of these around. When I was a kid these were all the rage. You had a Grifter if you were hip, but a Raleigh Chopper if you were the daddy. Mine was orange and black.

A few differences between this baby, which I snapped in Maldon at the weekend, is that the banana seat isn't suitable for giving friends a ride on the back ("backies") and I think the wheels on the modern-day version are closer in size to one another than the original 70s model, which featured a much larger back wheel, if my memory serves.

Ad's eats: Tarantino: 51 High Strett, Hornchurch, Essex

2009-08-20T21:09:00.002Z

For our 9th wedding anniversary, The Wife and I headed to Tarantino’s Italian restaurant in Hornchurch, after this was recommended by a work colleague.

Well, thumbs up to her, for this place was everything I’d been told it would be. Firstly, the service was really friendly. I think this is partly due to place being local, with another branch in Brentwood. Very much a family affair and all the better for without any sense of corporate blandness you sometimes find in Italian restaurants, though Zizzi nearby doesn’t do too badly in this respect despite it being part of the ASK group. Tarantino’s has a regular menu plus a couple of specials which change weekly.

I was told that the portions would be large, and that the quality would be high. Both assertions were not wrong.

For my starter, I ordered baby back ribs with honey barbecue sauce, and that’s exactly what I got, with the ribs falling off the bone. I would have complained that the sauce was a bit sweet, but then I remembered it said it would come with honey, as indeed it did. The portion on the platter was main meal size. My Dearly Beloved had meatballs which were the best I’ve tasted, made of a combination of beef and veal, very finely minced and tasting expensive. Again, a larger than average portion. So far so good.

Next we both had a tagliatele dish. Mine was with creamy tomato and garlic sauce, with strips of scotch steak. The beef tasted like it was not from the cheapest cut - I guess it came from sirloin, and was very tasty and perfectly cooked, so chewy enough without arguing with the teeth. This was, perhaps, the best pasta dish I’ve ever eaten. The sauce was delicious and robust, matching the steak strips perfectly, and the pasta firm and not claggy in the slightest. The Wife also gave her pasta dish eight out of ten, though I never tasted any of hers as it contained broccoli. I’d rather die before eating this.

Mrs Dukc was what full after this extravaganza of flavour and so went straight to coffee. I went for the strawberry cheesecake, which I would rate highly, though it didn’t have the wow factor of the pasta. Big portion though, so gets 7 out of 10.

Overall, I’m going to give this place a highly recommended rating. I do love Italian and it is quite easy to get a pasta dish. But it is very difficult to make a pasta meal exceptionally well, and that’s just what they’ve done here. Its won two awards, one being the “Best Regional Italian Restaurant” award. With good reason.

Despite the reputation Essex suffers, Hornchurch is an area of well-kept secrets, with Bonaparte being better than most French restaurants in London I’ve tried. Tarantino’s has barged its way into my “restaurants I now love” list. On a limb in the RM postcode area, all these delights are skipped by the London critics who tend to stick around the West End, Mayfair and Kensington. Great if you live or work there. However, for us in the far eastern suburbs, Hornchurch is a real unsung oasis.

Ssssshh. We’ll keep it to ourselves before all those peasants further west discover it.

Did Roger Linn love Alice too?

2009-08-20T15:33:00.002Z

Most people – that is the vast majority of punters who aren’t electronica/muso types – can ignore this post. But I was playing Spotify at work, and re-stumbled across an album my dad used to play a lot – “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” by Elton John.

Listening to All The Girls Love Alice made me think “by golly, that drum kit doesn’t half sound like a Linn Drum LN1, as used on countless Human League and Michael Jackson “Thriller” era tracks”. Well of course it wasn’t as the first Linn wasn’t made til at least 10 years later.

I wonder though if Roger Linn had a particular kit or track in mind when putting together those famous ROM chips? If so, I think the sounds on Alice are a definite possibility, the snare and toms are VERY close matches sound-wise.

The LN1 was a groundbreaker and is still iconic, and I have to confess I find it very pleasing to listen to nearly 30 years after it crashed and banged its way into the charts. The bass drum on the later 9000 – now that’s a full bodied sound – wowzer.

The simple happiness of finding Ricardo Autobahn's "Beep Beep"

2009-07-17T22:25:00.003Z

Just a random muse on a Friday night, after watching Demon Seed with Julie Christie (man, that computer has a frightening voice), I was noodling around the music files on the PC and found Beep Beep by Ricardo Autobahn, from the album Interrobang.

What a very good track. Two years ago, I heard this when I was a) extremely drunk; and b) incredibly, almost terminally depressed due to a lot of aggro at work, and its retro cheerfulness really helped me put the crappiness of the day - which in fact led to me leaving the job and taking my present (non crappy) one – to one side, if only for a few hours. As heard on The Zone (but where else?) Bought the album off iTunes, this track was the absolute banger!

It sounds like what what you’d get if you artificially inseminated a Spectrum computer with the sperm of a first gen Akai sampler.

I challenge any electonica fan not to grin mindlessley when playing it - which you may by clicking:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gb2buOocwaQ

Weekend doing nothing

2009-07-13T16:14:00.002Z

This weekend I mainly sat on my arse, reading and watching DVDs with the Dear One. We also went to the pub for Sunday lunch. All in all a weekend to savour (I am not being ironic, really). No, really, why can’t more weekends involve the grand sum doing nearly bugger all?

So, the only thing I missed was The Freak Zone. Chest la, I’m sure it’ll be on iPlayer this evening. There certainly won’t be any telly on, so at least I'll have an evening free - no a whole week really - to catch on musical weirdness.

But yesterday I saw it: a 42 inch Panasonic TV: £699 from Tezzers. A lovely trinket to treasure before I die. It has a great picture too, audio description facility built in (an essential for Mrs D) and even I can see it with my errant eyeballs.

(By the way, this isn't the telly concerned, in case you were wondering)

BBC1, 2, 3, four, and you can forget most of commercial channels, apart from CH 4 news, which is the only news worth watching other than Paxo on form. ALL FREAKIN’ RUBBISH.

So, my Panasonic dream telly will be surely like the world’s most elegant picture frame.

With a turd inside it.

Not a picture of a turd, which might be at least artistically interesting, but a real live turd, once that’s warm its fresh extraction form one’s botty, one that stinks of garlic and eight hour digested cider. This is the state of telly today. Quite literally, shit. Even the good shit is reconstituted shit. Shit is shit. Telly is shit.

Time to buy some more books or get out more. Oh no, I just wrote how much I enjoyed not going out. What a bloody hypocrite.

1938 tube train

2009-06-22T20:09:00.001Z

A few of us travelled down to Russell Square for a trip on a 1938 tube train to Ealing Broadway. This train has been lovingly preserved by the London Transport Museum’s Acton depot branch and looks, as far as I can remember, just as it did when trains of this type left the Bakerloo line around 1984. Not a bad innings for a hard worked tube. A few technicalities aren’t quite the same – the notching relays seem to come from a 1958 type tube, and the very tuneful original compressors have been replaced by Westinghouse units, straight from a Met Line train, but that’s stuff only a nerd would notice (yes, I’m one of ‘em).

We were impressed by the quality of the seats which were deep and accommodating. Those thirties chaps certainly knew a lot more about lumbar support than us – why are all seats in modern public transport so hard?

It was great to go back in time to a type of tube stock I just about remember. I would ideally love to ride an R stock train, as used on the District until about 1984, but I don’t think it’s possible as I’ve only seen them in 2 car formation at the same museum. They featured the loudest MA whine of any Underground train – ever.

Some interior shots of the train are below and I’ll be posting a video or two on Youtube shortly.

A new Grimm Bros fairytale

2009-06-18T06:48:00.001Z

Ever heard of that well-known Brothers Grimm story, “Goldilocks and the Two Bears”.

Three bears, surely?

Well, if you’re parliament, then the two bears version is all we’re getting, because we’re not worth it.

The two bears story could, by a creative parent, me made to work for a slightly gullible and young child at bedtime. But we know the story has changed beyond recognition. Without the porridge being “just right” as it was with the third bear, the story flops and in fact becomes a non-story. Who cares?

I wouldn’t trust this lot to sell me a dog. I’d get a cat, and they would tell me I was privileged to receive a new breed of feline-hound.

Weasel words and phrases: "Lessons have been learned"

2009-06-16T11:24:00.003Z

When politicians, those in public office and others in the business world, when referring to avoidable cock-up or more likely, spin malfunction say “lessons have been learned” I wonder what they mean?

Translated, if we take “lessons” to their natural environment, a school context, do they mean: “oops, we screwed up on the fire evacuation, so lessons have been learned and we won’t leave bin containers in front of the fire exits any more because if this had been real, there would have been child deaths on our conscience and more importantly, a raise on our insurance premiums”.

Or do they mean “lessons have been learned by this year’s intake of students?” In which case, the lessons will be unknown by next year’s intake of students.

You’d wonder how many “lessons” in the political/business sense actually stay learnt.

How I hate that phrase. Really, really hate it.

If at first you don't succeed

2009-06-04T15:57:00.001Z

I couldn't sleep a few nights ago, so started comiong up with these "isms".

If I come up with any more, I'll probably not post them:

If at first you don't succeed...

...you didn't succeed.

...leave the band and start playing free jazz.

...give up on the IVF and know that 57 is too old to get pregnant.

...resign from the job as MP. Your constituents won't forgive you.

...you should have read the notice CAREFULLY before trying to bring drugs inito Singapore

...you will probably fail again next time. Some peeps are just born to lose.

...consider renaming yourself Giles and tell 'em you went to Eton.

Susan Boyle: I was right

2009-06-01T13:28:00.003Z

I don't want to sound too smug about this, but it seems I was correct in my opinion (q.v) that Susan Boyle would be screwed over by the media. I may of course be premature here - we'll see in the fullness of time.

UK media is a wonderful thing when it chooses to exposing the greedy, lying, vile behaviour of politicians - thought it somewhat caught the late tram here and really should be been much more investigate much, much earlier on. With a few shining examples to prove the exception, it has been, until recently, rather guilty having a mutual blowjob with those who forget they don't hold power - but do have a responsiblity to serve us peasants. Something the Westminster Backscratch Zone has more or less forgotten to pretend to do since round about the beginning of Iraq War II. But I drift..

The press is equally ruthless, callous and boundary-free when it exposes the weakness of the peasantry, and indeed, that's what has done with Ms Boyle. Remember, the uneducated scum class (95 percent of us) can't afford libel suits.

Had she been my wee sister I would have given her a big brother hug and begged (begged as in get on knees and beseech, not begged as in mildly nag) her not to go TV, talented though she is.

As "OneTooMany", a Guardian commentator wrote:

"Shame on all you money grabbing dickheads who ruined this ordinary woman, and money wonwon't make up for it."

I could not agree more. I hope she's not going to get headfucked, but I suspect it is too late.

I'm in love...with a careless whisper

2009-05-18T17:29:00.002Z

I've just had a Google for it, and no-one seems to have spotted it yet, but Alexander Rybek's Eurovision winner is George Michael's Careless Whisper dresed up.

Chord for chord it is almost identical. It is even in the same key.

I wonder if George has noticed he's been ripped off? Maybe he's shagging the Norweigian and its an "in joke" of sorts.

I don't suppose we'll ever know.

Boyle-d in the bag

2009-04-16T12:13:00.003Z

So Susan Boyle does her thing on Britain’s Got Talent and wows the cynical judges. And the huge audience on Youtube. Even I watched her with my work colleagues yesterday.

Great. Good luck to her. She has a real talent – at last – and isn’t just a moronic, oh-so-knowing pretty face famous for being famous. In fact, she is the polar opposite.

Her problem is that she is a member of the peasantry. Same as me, same as most people.

She hasn’t gone from some “masters of the universe to be” public school background, being groomed for stardom from leaving the nappy. She is in fact unemployed.

She has (allegedly) some form of learning difficulty.

She is, in some people’s opinion, not the prettiest in the world. As Shawaddywaddy might have said “nature didn’t give her such a beautiful face”. Of course, beauty is the in the eye of the beer-holder, but it’s an opinion that’s been stated in such an obviously brow-beating sort of way that dissenters (lovers of the fat girl or the boy with the baldy head) need not collect £200 or pass Go. YOUR OPINIONS DON’T COUNT. We’re the media. We know best.

She’s a Christian. (Ooh, maybe that’s a cunning front for her ack-tu-ally being an Islamist terrorist scumbag).

She volunteers. (Yeuuucccchhh).

She has a positive attitude. (Wot – not a cynic like US???)

All the better ammo for the shithawk, rat-laden press to knock her down.

There isn’t much hope in Sleb-land for the, ungroomed, ordinary, nice person, who slips through the processing plant, such as her good self.

I truly, honestly, wish her the best of luck.

I just think she’s being set up to be cooked and eaten for breakfast by a petty, squabbling rat-pack with nothing better to do. Remember Michelle McManus, anyone? Oh yes, the fat girl who was knocked down and knocked out after the X-Factor win.

It is simply the question of “how long will it take”?

I’ve already taken a £10 bet that within three months, she’ll be a child-abusing, 30-years-ago abortion having, wicked, stupid, inadequate zero. And she’ll also be described as whatever the media slimeballs refer to these days as the politically correct version of “peasant”. Cos she is one. God bless her.

Reunion

2009-04-06T19:11:00.001Z

South Africans really love their shopping malls. Menlyn Park, near our hosts’ house, was around the same size as Lakeside Thurrock to give at least South East Englanders a sense of perspective. Every large city seems to have three or four of them. There doesn’t seem to High Street culture as with the UK. Sad, but not so bad when the rain is tipping down as it did for a few days before we left for home.

Our arrival in Johannesburg was a bit momentous as neither ourselves or our taxi driver could receive mobile phone coverage and hence we could not let one another know where we were (platform 16, a rather obscure, out of the way place as it turned out). What might have been a disaster turned out to be a minor glitch. Just as we were considering making our own way to Pretoria, our driver found us and transported us through the congested northern suburbs for over 1.5 hours. The traffic is easily as dense as London’s.

I won’t name them here. All I want to say is that it was pure delight to meet our friends and their young children (who had been babies last time we were there). Most of the next few days was spent with them catching up on old times round the bra’ai, talking into the night with plenty of Windhoek beers, good South African wine and Johnnie Walkers (which I’ve grown a taste for thanks to our hosts).

We visited the local shopping mall, I bought some specs – much cheaper there and of equal or better quality than the ones I currently own and wandering round the Pick ‘n’ pay. Pretoria is not a hotspot on any tourist trail of South Africa, but that wasn’t the reason we came. Mrs D found a fellow wordsmith with our lady host and plenty of female bonding took place.

And their kids were charming, intelligent littl’uns. I had been quite nervous in case we didn’t get on with each other, but that wasn’t an issue as they at best ignored or and at best asked us to read to them and in turn tell us some of their stories. I feel a career in writing may be in order.

I feel a little bland not mentioning their names, but for sake of their privacy I won’t.

To our hosts though – THANKS. Your boundless hospitality was and still is most appreciated by me and Mrs Dukc. I hope we’ll be able to reciprocate in the not too distant future – though sadly I can’t see how we’ll squash into our postage stamp sized house, unless it becomes suddenly blue, makes strange growling noises and sprouts the word “POLICE” above its door.

Tomorrow, I’ll write about a momentous, perhaps life changing event, which won’t name anyone.

Shosholoza Meyl Train

2009-04-03T17:00:00.005Z

Pardon me boy, is this the Shosholoza Meyl train?

Now we come to one of the highlights of our South African soiree – the Shosholoza Meyl train. Not quite up there with the Trans-Siberian, this is the longest train journey I’ve made. At 27 hours from end to end, and at £30 for the joy of being on the train this long, not only is it the budget alternative to flying, this has to be one of the biggest rail bargains anywhere in the world. Apparently, a sitter costs £7.50 one way, but I really don’t know how anyone could possibly do this and remain comfortable.

At 1230 sharp, our train left the far end of Cape Town station, trundling its way through the suburbs and into the country. Our first stop, Belleville, was unremarkable, and a few hours later, after travelling through some mountainous countryside, we travelled for mile after mile towards Worcester and onwards. Our beds were made up at 6, we ate at around 2030 and had a very relaxed time reading and talking crap until about 2330 when Mrs D hit the sack, and I carried on reading and admiring the starlit view – we rarely see stars in England due to light pollution.

It was a fairly large area in which to sleep – the arrangement is light that of the old slam door compartment trains which ran south of the Thames until recently. You have about three quarters of the entire width the carriage to sleep on, and have a fold down bunk above you. Fortunately, these are only really used when the trains are full, which since we were out of season, they were not. Between the seats is a fold up table, beneath which is a small sink (ours only gave out the meanest of dribbles). There are two toilets per carriage, so you essentially share one with about 8-10 others. The showers and toilets seemed to be given a thorough clean every few hours. British train companies could learn a lot from this. Food from the dining car was no more expensive than outside the train (a burger and chips was about £2.50) and was pretty basic though perfectly fine. It helped that we’d bought lots of bottled water with us and you do tend to get quite thirsty on these trains, even though ours did not feature air conditioning (the premier class train which does the same route is about seven times more expensive, so dream on).

I can’t think of anything negative about this trip, apart from being told that were running on time, when in fact we were an hour later than scheduled. Not a major concern, but we had contacted our taxi, meant to be picking us up at the station, and who had travelled from Pretoria. He became increasingly irate with us for keeping him waiting as he was on a meter and had already picked up a shared fare returning to Pretoria.

It was an interesting journey for its countryside, for the gentle tck-tck, tck-tck of the rails and because there isn’t a better way to travel apart from maybe a cruise ship if time is not a concern (we made time for this one and was definitely worth every hour “lost” to not having flown).

The company slogan is “A Pleasant Experience” and despite my reservations the strapline was spot on. It was and I’d recommend it to anyone who can make the time to do it.

Inside a sleeping compartment

Robben Island

2009-04-01T20:43:00.002Z

Robben Island "welkoms" you.

On the Monday, we travelled over to Robben Island, holding place for many apartheid-era political prisoners, including of course, the main man, Nelson Mandela. We had to hang around a while after buying tickets, since there was a bit of a backlog for the ferry, but after a meal of very large burgers, the boat took us across the five or six miles of water to the island.

Our tour guide was an ex-political prisoner and really knew his onions, offering us a humorous (yes, really) tour of the island, with plenty of information and anecdotes about what it was like to live there involuntarily. We started the tour by bus, followed by a walk around the cells where prisoners were incarcerated. We then travelled to the individual cells, including cell number 7 where Nelson Mandela lived. Because of our lack of sight, the tour guide allowed us into the cell – a rare privilege apparently. My thoughts on the island (though not the prison, which was suitably grim) was how beautiful the island is, with its views across to the Cape. With its white limestone and eucalyptus trees, it was rather like a desert island. But would like to live in the harsh conditions of the prison cell and hard labour? Nope. I think had we arrived during a storm, I may have left with a different opinion. I’ve been to Kilmainham Jail in Dublin, and that place was a true representation of grimness. Apart from the physical humiliation of having to move loads of lime from one place to another…then back…then back again (there was no real work for the politicos to actually do) I think I could almost enjoy the environment here, though not the incarceration.

An evening of wandering around the Waterfront again, followed by our final eats at the Kraal restaurant bought our stay in Cape Town to and end. Tomorrow would be the mammoth trip to Pretoria on the Shosholoza Meyl train.

Tour of the Cape

2009-03-30T18:58:00.002Z

The pleasant coastal town of Fish Hoek

Success at last with the rail tickets to Jo’burg! An early morning trip, surprisingly stress free bought us to the ticket office and our tickets. Hooray. This made the tour ahead that much more relaxed as, had we missed our tickets, we may have had to fly – or so we thought – incorrectly as it turns out.

We did the Cape Wine tour and southern Cape. What a beautiful country South Africa is, with landscapes which seem to change every few minutes, from wild costs to pleasant suburbs, all within a few minutes drive of each other. Our tour bus even met a baboon sitting, its red arse aloft, in the road.

We went through a country park, drove on to a rather nice seafood restaurant on the beachfront just outside Simons Town, and then on Stellensbosch and the winery. I thought the winery was a gorgeous building – there was a full scale wedding going on as we did our cheese and wine taste, and the guests had mainly come from England. Stellensbosch itself is the oldest town in SA, and looks a bit like a slightly more relaxed version of the back roads of Ealing. A great place to live as a Cape Town commuter I’m sure, providing you can afford it.

As we trundled our way from the southern cape coast on to the winery, our knowledgeable guide pointed out that we were passing the Cape Flats Township. “This”, she said “is where about 1.5 million people live”. I asked her to repeat it. I hadn’t mis-heard. About one third to one half (depending on who you believe) all Cape Town’s residents live here. And the place was, in appearance, rather like Langa. Only on a much larger scale. All in all, a worthwhile tour, simply the reason that it took outside the tourist zone in and around Long Street.

That evening, we had a wander round the Waterfront shopping centre. It was pretty much any other large and prestigious shopping centre. I must admit to quite enjoying going to foreign shopping centres which I suppose makes me a suburban fart. Some pretty decent tourist tat shops though, most of which only window shopped at. Please note NHS, asthma inhalers are only £1.40 here – and no prescription. I only wish buying straightforward meds was as easy here. I bought six of the buggers.

We dined in an Italian restaurant by the water’s edge – it was unremarkable, though it did serve gnocchi, something which seems, unfairly, to have gone out of fashion at UK Italian eateries.

This rather nice shot (not mine sadly) is of the

Waterfront shopping area.
We had another gander round the Waterfront, but at this point we were fairly tired, and at 11 returned to the Grand Daddy. A pretty successful day’s touring.

Robben Island tomorrow.

South Africa holiday: Township tour of Cape Town

2009-03-29T18:58:00.003Z

An early start on Monday took us to the township of Langa (supposedly meaning “sunshine” in Xhosa). Our driver, a dweller of said township, took us on an experience I’ll not forget. Firstly, we travelled to church. This was full to capacity (with about 600 in the congregation as a conservative estimate). Some of our party were fairly moved by the service, though I had mixed feelings and was fairly untouched – it seemed like the kind of service I grew up with, although services at Holy Trinity in South Kensington were all in English. I found the sudden swap-over from English to Xhosa and back again for no apparent reason detracted from the message, which was kind of garbled and too much like hard sell for my taste. Oh well, horses for courses. The church was absolutely windswept as was the township itself, with 40 mile an hour westerlies blasting through.

Driving around the first part of the township, I was surprised at how orderly it was, with some concrete houses laid out in rows.

Next, we travelled to a shabeen, an informal pub. Informal just means that there is no licence, and therefore the government restricts its serving hours until the late afternoon.

Served here was some of the most disgusting beer I’ve tasted. Made of sorghum, this stuff is made en masse – fermentation time is a worryingly short three days - and served straight from the keg or barrel or whatever it is. The taste is weak yet sour, and quite unique, with a thick layer of foam on the top. The shabeen itself was buzzing with flies. One of the reasons these pubs are more heavily regulated is that there are no loos at all, prompting the question, where on earth do you go for leak? This lack of a satisfactory answer may account for some of the insect activity I suppose. I think this is the kind of place hardcore drinkers gravitate to. A very interesting experience indeed.

When the idea that people should be entitled to have any kind of fun outweighs the perceived need to raise taxes from alcohol sales, our pointless government, having successfully closed the last proper non corpo-pub, will force ordinary people to drink in places like this, as government approved beer will be over a tenner per pint as necking more than one of them will of course, encourage rampant terrorism and anyway, consuming more than one tenth of a unit will also be regarded by them and their media sheep as binge drinking. Bring on the sorghum.

On to the hostel: an especially grim place in the township which has got to be the most hemmed in place containing humankind beyond a prison I’ve been to. Some pretty nice people spoke to us there. I felt justifiably privileged living in my small house on the east side of London compared to these people. Hell, I am indeed.

Next was the healer (dubbed by me the witch doctor). Not sure if witchery goes on here, but the NHS its not. Practical healing involves animal parts so we’re not talking homeopathic remedies, despite the presence of lots of herbs.

Finally, a drive taking us past an unincorporated part of the township that comprised the kind of shack with neither electricity nor running water I’d thought would occupy the whole township. This was as desolate a place as can be. The next day we heard that around 400 of these shacks were burnt down that evening. It didn’t even make the national news as this kind of thing happens so often. Thank goodness no-one was killed or seriously injured. Unbelievable.

In the afternoon we sat in our hotel bar and drunk South African champagne. We then ate a rather lovely meal in an African restaurant. I don’t really buy into the brow-bearing “guilty am I” response to the townships. I was far too young to have been able to influence things during apartheid, and there is bugger all I can do about what has been left behind. But the sheer fucking irony of pouring wine down my throat, and having the cash to do so without thinking about it too much was not lost on me. Consider this: The average domestic help in Cape Town earns R80-90 per day. A bottle of mineral water in our restaurant was R15.00 (about £1.00 at the time of writing).

I have nothing but sheer admiration for those living in the townships (half of Cape Town’s population). They have remained patient far longer than any decent human being could expect.

Langa Township’s unincorporated area.

Top of the Table - and another lower one

2009-03-24T21:13:00.005Z

The cable car spins round on its way up to the top of Table Mountain. The view from the top is quite stunning

After another fruitless trip to buy our tickets for the train to Johannesburg, we decided to head off to the Waterfront and take a tour bus around the city. The highlight of the day was definitely heading on the cable car to the top of Table Mountain.

What a stunning place, 1 kilometer above the city spread before us below. For anyone visiting CT, this is a must-do and I can not recommend it enough. It was relief to be away from the heat of town trolling round town on the open topper actually, and even more of a relief as the temps dropped by at least 10 degrees on top of the mountain.

A leisurely trip along the coast through some of the most expensive beach front housing on earth and one of the more exclusive resorts (so exclusive we skipped them) took us back to the Waterfront and back to our hotel for a well deserved food stop at the local Pick 'n' Pay - we were running low on soft drinks and choc and supermarkets apparently close on Sunday (this wasn't actually the case but we weren't to know).

After an hour or so reading in the hotel we headed to a restaurant called Mama Africa's, as recommended in our tourist guide, and if the amount of tourists crammed there is to go by,. Most of the other guides too.

I think I would have enjoyed this place more had we not been completely spoilt by Nona’s the night before. There was nothing wrong with at all. The cocktails, which were high quality and generous in size, were £2.00 a pop, so the relatively disappointment we experienced with the food was partly made by the liquid refreshment. But the service became ridiculously slow as the evening progressed (45 minutes between main course and dessert), the desert itself, a malva pudding, which in my case was super-bland and the music, which was deafening - and we were tabled about as far away from the band as could be. I'm not too snobby about being a tourist - I am one - but I felt this was far to "corporate tourist mill Africa" for my liking. I had a pretty nice Cape Malay curry which was both spicy and sweet and apparently, according to our friends in Pretoria I spoke to about it later, seemed quite like the real deal.

We had an early start on Sunday, so by 2230 we were back at the hotel and I read Christopher Fowler's marvelously easy to absorb autobiog, Paperboy, while Mrs DD slept like a wee child.

Andy Taylor - a sad farewell

2009-03-23T23:10:00.005Z

Andy's singing persona, Jimmy Johnny, bellows down the mic at a friend's barbie. It is a contentious topic as to whether he could actually sing though. Hmm, naysayer me.

My friend Andy Taylor died last month and his funeral took place last week, on Thursday, in Eltham.

He was a big man indeed in the disabled community. His company, Access Made Easy, has a record which I doubt any other private sector employer can match - 60 percent of his employees were disabled: I am one of them, albeit on an ad hoc basis.

I met him at the age of 18, 20 years ago now, while still at university, on the premise of meeting his then-girlfriend, Laura, whom I knew from school. Although Laura and I remained friends until a few years back, knowing Andy was like having a wiser, more knowing and definitely more motivated elder brother. For the next 20 years or so, we played music together, drank beer together, talked rubbish together and even tried to save the world in the way ten beers allows you think you are able to.

We recognised instantly our similar class and family backgrounds, we have a few sisters each and both of us had a broad taste in music - I spent many an evening over his various flats in Deptford going through his vast CD collection, eating food from the Good Friends and later The Orient, and sleeping on a succession of sofas in various states of rot. His kitchen ceiling once collapsed spontaneously while he was standing under it. I'm glad his accommodation improved soon after, though his temporary sleeping arrangement never improved much.

It would be wrong to make Andy out to be some kind of latter day saint because he was a welded-to-the-earth human, nothing more. But he was, for sure, a man of action (and a rather able wordmonger too as it happens). He could definitely talk. While wearing a super strong pair of walking shoes too, prepared to travel the extra mile. Lending a hand if that should be required. No slouch, he really did put his money - hard cash too - and his effort, as well as his mouth, into just about everything he was passionate about.

I know that his partner, Amy, his parents, sisters and his numerous friends and work colleagues all feel his loss within our lives.

So I will, with the greatest of pleasure, salute Andy. A well loved and now very much missed colleague, thoughtful friend, great sounding board, shrewd businessman, man of action.

And mostly for me, fantastic mate.

It was a great journey Andy. Just far too short.

Arrival in Cape Town

2009-03-23T18:30:00.003Z

The exterior of Nyoni's Kraal restaurant, which kept us fed for three nights. This place gets a highly recommended rating and if you go, ask for Deborah the waitress - she's a star and a half.

The South Africa trip started at Heathrow Terminal Five, which I must say was actually a gorgeous looking and importantly, easy to use building and nothing like the squalor I’ve experienced at the other older terminals. The flight was relatively comfortable for an over nighter and we landed in the baking sun of Cape Town at about 9 the next morning.

Our taxi landed us at the Grand Daddy hotel in Long Street. The Daddy Long Legs seems to be a chain comprising a boutique hotel, an “art hotel” and a trailer park filled with genuine 50s Airstreams.

So, after a breakfast of French toast with banana, maple syrup and bacon, and a few hours sleep in our very comfortable room, we were ready to hit the mean streets of Cape Town. Not a very intense day as we tend to spend the first day of any holiday abroad just finding our feet. Today we tried to pick up our rail tickets for the Shosholoza Meyl train, but the ticket office was closed (in rush hour, just when it might be used by people – nice to know the service ethic is as strong here as it is in the UK (sarcastic remark). We wandered around Long Street, and spent our evening at a restaurant I can highly recommend called the Nyoni’s Kraal.

http://www.capetownmagazine.com/todonight/Western-Cape/Local-is-Lekker-at-Nyonis-Kraal-Restaurant-in-Cape-Town~115

Our waitress, Deborah, was a complete mummy, explaining everything we were curious about in a most enthusiastic way. She actually made the place work for us in the big way and we returned twice more. Sure, this might be regarded as unadventurous but when you get African food this good, why spoil your stay by going somewhere else only to be disappointed.

So after our meals of Meat Towers and Pap (pap being mealy maize shaped and fried), and stew with samp (samp being a mixture of mealy maize and beans) we returned to our hotel, tired but stuffed.

A fine start to a wonderful holiday.

The last month - one holiday and a funeral

2009-03-22T20:13:00.003Z

The swanky yet homely Grand Daddy hotel, Long Street, Cape Town, where my and Mrs Dukc stayed for half our South African adventure

Myself and the wifelet have returned from a rather brilliant holiday in South Africa which took place in what started out to be a rather tumultuous month. I’ll make a separate entry for that event, hopefully later this week, though my bloody diary never fails to fill up - not that I’m hugely complaining, you understand.

This is a summary of events – with more retrospective blogging to come over the next few days Unlike Mrs D, who elected to bring her netbook with her, mine remained in the place where it should while I’m on holiday. Firmly at home.

So...for the first of our two weeks we stayed at the rather splendid Grand Daddy hotel in the centre of Cape Town, a place I’d be more than happy to recommend. We then travelled to our friends in Pretoria via Jo’burg on the Shosholoza Meyl train, whose slogan is “a pleasant experience” and for once, the phrase was not hyperbole, but pretty close to how I’d have described it.

While in Pretoria, we stayed in the rather nice suburb or Constantia Heights with our friends in their rather lovely and jealous-making house. On the Saturday and Sunday we visited a lion breeding centre where we handled lion cubs, and during the following days, we spent long evenings over the bra’ai with plenty of great South African wine and loadsa bottles of Namibian Windhoek beer. Lovely. We also did more prosaic stuff purchasing specs for me (which are of at least equal quality to those I buy in the UK and a third cheaper). We also visited quite a few Pick ‘n’ Pay supermarkets for typical SA food. I think food needs an entry on its own too.

Over the next fortnight I’ll be posting more deails and some pictures too.

I predict a riot

2009-02-24T23:14:00.002Z

I know its easy to say it, but I have a date in mind that the riot(s) in this country will kick off, and have been saying it now for the last two weeks at work. We've even opened a book - the prize, a case of beer. That date is 17 July. Watch and see if I'm right.

I have no evidence and no prior knowledge of anything, and I'm certainly no Mystic Meg (not that she's ever been wildly accurate, other than the the frequency of her paycheck).

No, my prediction is based on nothing but a wild stab in the dark. But I think a combination of the continuance of government ineptitude, further nest-feathering of greedy, psychopathic bankers and a really sunny, hot day...well, the combination of goodies is there.

I'll see you at Trafalgar Square or nearby on the day then.

I'm seething and can't see my fury lessening. I doubt I'm alone.

Madder than mad people who are certified as mad

2009-02-19T12:38:00.001Z

Geert Willders, a guy who wishes to point out the possible correlation between the Quran and terrorism is refused entry to this country. Given the evidence, I can’t see how anyone can deny the link. This film being freely available on Youtube. I have watched it and fail to see the controversy.

1) Terrorism happened.
2) Muslims did it.
3) The particular muslims who did it claim it was a good thing and should happen again.

PDQ.

A week later, Abu Qatada, a guy who has proposed multiple fatwahs against non-believers (that’s anyone who isn’t a hard core fundamentalist brainwashed Muslim –and even the majority of gente minded Muslims are most likely included here) who has been described as “bin Laden’s right-hand man in Europe” is awarded £2.500 of my hard-worked for money by the European Court of Human Rights. I can’t even blame my country’s wretched excuse for a government for this justice abortion.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/feb/19/abu-qatada-compensation-european-court

When such madness is over, would a reader this blog please wake me up. I’m taking some heavy duty drugs which I hope will aid the hibernation process.

Zanu-Labour reach new low

2009-02-16T18:37:00.002Z

Our glorious government has reached a new low. Yes, my Victor Meldrew-esque habit of exclaiming "I don't belieeeeeve it" has been stretched to lengths I didn't think possible.

Now you can't take photographs of coppers or millitary personnel in the streets of its somewhat-less-than-free city.

Even the police union has claimed this legislation which came in without any mandate or consultation, today, say its ridiculous.

Here's the story.

Zanu-Labour. Bringing the laws of downtown Harare to London. Political prisoner being beaten up? I give it two years.

Psychopoaths say sorry

2009-02-11T11:10:00.000Z

I'm sure I'm not the first to have compared the highly overpaid leaches in the top end of banking as "psychopaths" but actually, their so called apology displays all the characteristics of classic psychopathy.

"We're profoundly sorry" they cried unanimously yesterday. Ah, good, those’s what the public want, so let’s appear to do the right thing, goes the mindset.

But later on, they claimed that they were either "not responsible" for causing the crisis, or only "partly" responsible. They were quite happy to blame ministers, the regulator, even the general public for buying into the get rich quick, easy credit, pay back whenever culture. Excuse me, but the sheer amount of junk mail I received offering ridiculously easy credit terms during the "good times" mean I'm now on the mail preference service - I was receiving one or two pieces of mail per day. I don't, and didn’t need the credit - I'm an old fashioned kind of "if you don't have it, don't spend it" guy. A pretty fortunate position I know, but even if I wasn't just doing the maths would have indicated to me that it looked too good to be true, and therefore probably was. Or is, as it turned out.

My wife gave me a very important lesson soon after we were first married, after one of our first quarrels. I was trying to placate her by saying that whatever it was I'd done to cause her offence, I was sorry. Her lesson was: "If you don't know why you are saying sorry, then don't say you are, because it is meaningless".

Makes good sense to me.

These bankers aren't sorry - not in a way which expresses real empathy. They are just looking to do with right thing, but with no personal stake involved, their apologies are meaningless, drivel. It may have been better for them to have just kept schtumm.

Corporate humour

2009-02-06T16:14:00.003Z

I'm glad there are some companies left who understand that mission statements, targets, mention of the weasel-phrases "passionionate" and "committed to blah blah blah" are regarded by some of us as wank-words.

I much prefer the humourous approach, although your friendly neighbourhood lawyer might be scratching his or her head over this on-the-box statement.

This company's website is also a giggle:

www.x-keys.com

Blame it on Peston - they do

2009-02-04T23:24:00.004Z

I've just heard some bankers on Newsnight more or less claim that Robert Peston, the esteemed financial journalist, is "partly responsible" for the demise of Northern Rock. I didn't catch their names as I was having a shave at the time with the bedroom telly behind me. Life rocks on as usual in Dukcingham Palace.

I caught most of what they were saying though. Once I picked my jaw from the floor and glued it back on, I had to remind myself that these guys are:

1. psychopathic: a non-psychopathic banker can't do their job. the same as a intellectual, bolshy solider can't do his.

2. Unfortunately, sharing the same oxygen as me.

I suppose Peston could have told us all how wonderful things were cooking in that august institution's kitchen, and all would have been well. In fact, fine gateaux would have been served throughout the land.

Poor Robert. He does get excITE-ed to be sure, but I don't believe there'd be many, apart from a few rogue loopers who would claim he's actually inaccurate, or at least knowingly inaccurate.

ANY-way, his excitedness about all things financial make him SUCH an entertainer.

5 February: I found the story on the Reuters website:

http://www.reuters.com/article/GCA-CreditCrisis/idUSTRE5135MO20090204

A quick review of Zizzi, Hornchurch

2009-02-02T22:25:00.002Z

This branch of the Italian restaurant chain (part of the ASK Group) is located on Station Lane, just south of the town centre. It is situated on what looks like an old pub. My work group went there for our Christmas do, and it was quite crowded. Although I had a few complaints, mainly on the speed of service, I thought we'd try it again, especially as Mrs D had printed off a voucher entitling customers to a free second main course. Fortunately, it was not overly full this time.

The service started well, as did the food. Mrs D had a large garlic bread (large it was, and tasty too with mozzarella and caramelised onion splurged all over it), and I had a vegetable bruschetta, which was everything I hoped it would be. My seafood pasta was just about spot on too, though it could have been a bit bigger, and would have gained the place an extra point if it had been. Wifey had a chicken risotto, which she gave a good mark for.

We waited a while for dessert though. Having said that, when it arrived, my banana and chocolate waffle was perfect, as was Mrs D's apple crumble. Both of these dishes were baked in the wood fired oven, and the menu at least warns you of this.

However, the wait for the bill, having been twenty minutes, was too long. The only way to make the point was to get up and put our coats on. Why do restaurants insist on doing this? Not the first time its happened by any means, and annoying. Waiters can lose a good tip from my by drawing out the bill.

Overall, I'd give Zizzi's 6/10. The food is well cooked, though it does overdo the options involving tomatoes, though I admit to being a despiser of this particular Satanic fruit. Don't mind 'em squashed into a pizza paste or processed by H J Heinz & Co, but on their own...vile.

The service was somewhat slow and haphazard, ranging from top notch to slow and disorganised over the course of one evening. This does mirror our experience over Christmas too, so something to work on, guys. Oh, and the mens' toilets were not working. I won't mark them down on this, as it may have packed up earlier that day - but it is a bit rich of a restaurant featuring a large wine list not to warn newly arrived customers about this. I was about ready to wazz up the wall on the way home - fortunately, home being fairly close.

A pleasant, and not too risky local night out. Not too many thrills, but nothing done especially poorly either.

Snow and London buses

2009-02-02T22:10:00.002Z

Here's a picture of my street taken at 0730 this morning.

I was on my way to Grays (about 15 miles south east of here) to meet a client. It is ironic that NOT ONE BUS was running in London this morning. Not bloody one of 7,500 buses. And yet in Grays, the buses appeared to be running in quantity. Sounds like a nice day off for London bus drivers anyway.

Snow showers

2009-02-01T20:08:00.003Z

Not much snow in London, ever, so although this is pathetic by the standards of Winnipeg or Stockholm, this is the first snow of the year. Flurries started at about 1630 this afternoon. and the snow, though puffy and fluffy, is finally settling. I think tomorrow is going to mean transport grinding to a halt. That should be fun.

Snow, does prettify places, even Dagenham.

Accessibility whine: Google Chrome browser

2009-01-28T23:59:00.002Z

I'm frigging frustrated and intend venting a bit of spleen here.

I've just bought a PC netbook (a rather nice Samsung NC10), which is pretty good given its obvious limitations. The battery life is phenomenal and the keyboard, even given my fat fingers, is usable, just. I'm pretty pleased with it, but I'm forced to use Zoomtext on its higher powers due to the lappy's tiny 10.2 inch screen. Zoomtext is a bit of screen magnification software, and because I've the level 2 version, includes a degree of speech feedback, which can be used to read whatever the mouse is hovering over, or just to read a text file from start to finish, should that be your wish. I mainly use its AppReader tool, which allows you point a mouse at a thing, such as a paragraph within a web page, and have it read from that point onwards.

Now I'm hardly a coding genius, but I know that Zoomtext is pretty intelligent these days at working out the design of a web page, and reading the bits you actually need. In effect, if there's an advert at the side of a page, and you want to read the middle body text, Zoomtext will not shoot over to the ad. This wasn't always the case. Some of this I know, is down to the design of the page itself, some the browser and I know a lot of work has gone into Zoomtext itself (this is product I like one heck of a lot and can recommend it to just about any partially sighted computer user who can afford it, or who can get it on Access to Work is DSA if you're a student).

I wanted to try out the Google Chrome browser as it is safer to use than Explorer, allegedly, though nothing is as safe as my beloved, ageing Mac, it has to be said. So, on it went. And off it went.

I downloaded a quite simple page, www.mobile-review.com and selcted the English translation, and a piece of news. Whereas Zoomtext would be happy to speak the whole website without issue using MS Explorer, it failed to get beyond the first paragraph, before getting lost and drifting off to the bottom left hand side of the page. Completely useless. I could probably use the Chrome browser at work, since I use a giant 30 inch monitor there, but on the netbook, the issue is somewhat forced. So it Chrome was sullenly de-installed.

I wrote to Google summarising the issue, but I do wonder (time and time again) why access tech users are nearly always regarded as an inconvenience or afterthought by mainstream software developers? One of the glorious things about Apple's Mac, is that the technology needed by a blind or partially sighted people to make it speak or mag up the screen is built into the operating system. its not perfect - I'm using the Zoom feature right now, and it will never as smart or easy to use as Zoomtext - but hey, it means I can use my computer for the same initial cost as a non-partially sighted user. A rarity though, and Apple really can't be congratulated for their iPods which are generally an accessibility disaster area. My suggestion: install Rockbox on your pod, but only if you are have 4.5 gen or older as it won't work at all on the Classic version (as I write). And be very careful, read the instructions and follow them to the letter unless you want a dead iPod.

Another rant, while I'm on the subject of access tech. When I type in "Android" and "partially sighted" on Google, looking for information on any third party apps which may have been written in the area of screen mags or speech for the HTC G1 'Google Phone", why are all the phones which appear simple, stupid, big button affairs designed for the extremely old, or non-technical users. HELLOOOOO developers. Wakey wakey manufacturers. I am not a thickie. i am not an ooohh-aaaaahh phenomenon. I have a very specific problem with my eyeballs, and its a relatively simple technical problem to solve with tried and technology on existing products, not a phone for technophobes.

Just because I'm partially sighted doesn't mean my brain is dripping out of my arse (feel free to send it back to me if it should fall out). Most of the recent pictures on this blog were taken on a Nokia N82 phone, which is a great mobile indeed, and hardly a low tech jobby by 2008 standards. It is, indeed, a phone I like one heck of a lot due to its massive feature set. I would rather eat my own hairy turds than voluntarily give it up for a basic crappy phone designed for me, sorry, errrm, partially sighted people. But I would like my N82 a lot MORE if I didn't have to use a £10 hand held magnifier in order to see it. The alternative to credit crunch solution is mag software, going for the easy going sum of £150. As they say in German, warum? Nokia phones running Symbian actually are accessible with speech and screen mag - at a price - but they are a rarity amongst mobile phones (Samsungs, come to think of it, used to be able to, and still might manage to have their screen fonts scaled, to quite large sizes).

Wacky flavoured crisps

2009-01-28T20:38:00.002Z

Last year, Walkers crisps held a competition in which the public were invited to submit flavour ideas for a forthcoming range of crisps. The competition was called "Do Us A Flavour'. I was buying lunch and coffee from our sandwich van on Monday, and spotted the Do Us A Flavour range, all available from said van. Needless to say I had to try them all, and my guess is that you greedy lot will want to try at least a few of these flavours.

Here's your choice of crisp, with my opinion on each flavour below:

Fish and chips: I reckoned this would be a the tamest flavour, but the flavour is quite fishy and chippy. There is vinegar with a hint of fish essence, plus some lemon. Just like a day out in Margate. Works pretty dang well for me. 7 out of 10.

Crispy duck and hoi-sin sauce: quick a strong flavour of duck. My boss thought it was too ducky, though I considered this an advantage. At least it says what it is going to do on the packet. 7 out of 10 again.

Chocolate and chilli: You can taste the cocoa for the first five seconds, then the chilli kicks in. The flavours on their own work well, but the the flavour overall is chilli. 4 out of 10.

Onion Bhaji: The smell is pretty good, I bought my Indian colleague Amir a pack and he thought the smell was Ok, and the taste, he rated as "nice". However, the main flavour for me seemed to be monosodium glutamate. Very salty taste with a hint of onion only. Only 3 out of 10.

Builders Breakfast: This again is quite a good replication of the flavours, which, according to the packet, are sausage, bacon, egg, buttered toast and tomato ketchup. Quite a challenge for the flavour chemists then, and one which they've made work. For its sheer accuracy, I'm giving these 9 out of 10.

And the weirdest flavour, I've saved till last: Cajun Squirrel. Since I'm not Ray Mears, I've no idea what a squirrel, cajun spiced or otherwise, is meant to taste like. If this was described as cajun chicken, then I'd give it a very high mark indeed as that's just what it tastes like. I'm going to give it 7 out of ten as the cajun spice is just hot enough to give your tongue a small whack without blowing your face off. A good novelty flavour.

I think Walkers have done a pretty good job overall, and i envy the person whose job it was to replicate these flavours.

Happy crunching for the credit crunch.

Adam

Pimp my watch

2009-01-06T18:31:00.002Z

I am a great fan of TokyoFlash watches. LED watches which are totally pointless in they do no more than any analogue and much less than even a cheap Casio. But that's the not the point of TokyoFlash. They are in this world for gadget freaks and people who just love to show off in a particular way and for whom gold and jewels probably don't impress. If you have ever purchased a hi-fi for its display over its music out, or been to a nightclub to admire the light show over this music, you're a prime candidate as purchaser.

Here's how you tell the time on my Pimp P1 Pusher, below. On the left hand side, follow the column of red LEDs. 5. Now read the number of multi-coloured dots. The red lines indicate quarters: 15, 30 and 45 and 00. So the time here is 5.22 and I'm about to leave work. Easy. This is not the hardest to read TokyoFlash watch, the Barcode range really taxes the brain.

The watch does a little flash every two minutes between 1800 and 0100 - what the accompanying blurb calls 'Pimp time'. Lovely. Isn't 6pm a bit early for pimps?

It is actually quite a comfortable watch to wear, despite its gigantic size, courtesy of the wide leather strap, though wearing it under a shirt cuff is not possible. At £130 (Amazon.co.uk), its not the cheapest of watches either, but it has been a rather pleasant timepiece to use so far, and anyway, my wife bought it for me as a Christmas prezzie, so I paid nowt!

Ad's eats: Bavarian Beerhouse, 190 City Road, London

2008-11-30T15:18:00.005Z

Possibly the hardest working in London, these waiting staff are in danger of heading for deafness at an early age. They should be awarded with medals for their top service in the face such a racket.

German food, like British native food, does not seem to travel well internationally, at least not without being first maligned for being stodgy, porky and plain. Nothing wrong with any of these qualities if the food is prepared well. I've never quite understood why us Brits, of all people, should snigger at German food. We invented the pork pie after all. If you're a veggie, granted, you're going to stuggle a bit with Deutsch grub, at least with the pub grub type menu Germany is most famous for.

It was this kind of pub food we sought out when a eight of us headed into City Road for Mrs Dukc's birthday do - no, I don't reveal her age, though she is considerably older than me.

The restaurant's website describes the Beerhouse thus: "Bavarian Beerhouse is an unique
combination of excellent food, outstanding service, great German beer and fantastic atmosphere."
The description is oh so accurate, but for one thing. We'll get to that later.

Let's start with the good bits. The food at the Bavarian Beehouse is pretty authentic. I'm not exactly the widest-travelled wanderer, but I have been to Berlin twice and the food served at at the Bavarian Beerhouse tasted very much like the real deal to me.

My starter was a cheese special "Obazda Cheese" which consisted of a soft pretzel with a mixture of different cheeses which tasted like a grated cheese mixture bound together with mayo. My main was about as typically German as you can get, Munich Roast Pork. Four thick slices of butcher quality pork, in rich beer infused gravy, served with a large, gravy-soaking potato dumpling and piles of delish sauerkraut. For dessert, I had a light cinnamon-y pancake with spray-on cream. Cream aside, the cake itself was light and tasty. All in all, the food was fairly close to the perfect German experience.

After not such a promising start with the service, it got better and better, and the German waitress serving us became more efficient and polite as the evening went on. She deserved a medal for staying calm as this was one of the noisiest restaurants I've been to. I was with a bunch of blindos and therefore, only two of us could read the menu. After being told the music could not be turned down (the music being a loop of the ten "best" Christmas tracks in the world...ever" (special limited restaurant edition), I had the bellow the menu to my friends like a crazed market trader. To be honest, I was glad to get away from the noise.

The restaurant has a wide range of German beers on tap too, which I'highly recommend, the dark wheat Pauliner beer being my favourite with a rich, fruity taste, and one suspects, rather higher than you'd expect in alcohol content.

So, overall I would give this restaurant a "wait and see" verdict. I can hardly fault the food and happily give it an 8 / 10 mark. The service was pretty good too, at 7/10. I think even the world's best waiting staff would struggle under these conditions. Tables were set out five-aside 'stamtisch' style and the main clientele on the evening we appeared seemed to be office Christmas partygoers simply having a wonderful corporate time. By the end of it, I was beginning to hope that the guys sharing my air were all employees of Woolworths having the last fling before receiving their redundancy notices.

To conclude, this is s a restaurant let down by its customers. I am going to give this restaurant a "recommended" rating because I really want to like it and intend giving it another bash in January when hopefully things are back to normal. It does exactly what it says it will do on the on the tin. But Christmas party season isn't the best environment in which to relax with friends, unless the Christmas party is your own.

Information about the restaurant and its menu can be found here:

http://www.bavarian-beerhouse.com/

Food: 8/10
Service: 7/10
Environment: 2/10
Value for money: 7/10

Water Gardens, Harlow

2008-11-26T19:53:00.003Z

Rather liked the way this pic I snapped of Harlow Water Gardens yesterday turned out. The big and over-bright setting sun really brings out the starkness of the “spirit of optimism” 60s buildings to the right. Wish I’d got it when things were a bit more orange later, but that’s mobile cams for ya.

It was nowhere near as dark as it looks here, but I tried to force my camera’s processing thingy to behave rather like how the old fashioned recording level control in cheap radio-cassette players worked. That halo effect around the sun I only noticed on the big monitor. Absolutely no idea what that’s all about, Alfie – some kind of lens distortion maybe?

I go, we go, Yugo. Yu-gone.

2008-11-20T16:48:00.002Z

The final Yugo car is rolling off the production line today. Apart from the fact I didn’t realise these were still being built, I tried in the mid 80s, unfruitfully, to persuade my dad to buy one of these with the idea that having such an unhip car would actually make you rather hip – this does, in my experience, work, as people are secretly rather curious about things they sneer about without knowing why.

Sadly, he didn’t buy one (or indeed, a Skoda Estelle which I was equally keen to promote). However, my parents managed to own two 2CV during the late 80s/early90s so my campaign was not entirely lost, and yes, people were impressed by their flaky flapping windows and the starting handle potential of it.

MOOG PARTY TIME, or Test Card tale

2008-11-09T21:50:00.005Z

As a tot, which indeed I was in the early 70s, watching the test card was about as exciting as TV got.

Well, no, that's not quite true.

There was Bod, Mister Benn, Jackanory and a shedload of BBC kids TV. Television which the Beeb at the time thought very important, so lavished millions of pounds at making pretty decent. However, on those luxurious days where you were either sick/pretending to be or for when friends weren't around, you could sit, preferably huddle, under a duvet - and watch, or rather listen to - the Test Card. This was a thing which I doubt exists anywhere in the world today. There is no need. Tellies are too reliable for their own dang good.

Also known as "trade test transmissions" these were pretty un-entertaining, in that they featured a series of coloured vertiicle lines, dots, grey squares and a coloured picture of a girl and her clown doll, playing noughts and crosses. I believe their intended purpose was to assist TV service engineers adjust colour, tint, line-roll fiddle-di-doodahs or whatever engineers did with old valve monostrosities made of finest ticky tacky wood effect. In fact, here is one:

What I most remember about test cards though was the accoompanying music. This ranged from elevator classical to orchestrated film sound tracks to the synth-tastic sound tracks by Harry Breuer, Mort Garson and other mainly unknown, unsung heroes of the synthesizer.

I can't tell you how pleased I was then I my auntie Pat (known by me since as as "Gundigatt" from the days where I could genuinely not speak, resulting from age rather than level of drunkenness) came back from a trip to Woolies with a strawberry Mivvi and this little gem. A very, very fine album it is. The thrid track, Coconut, was one of those test card tunes! Joy - I recognised it and knew, in my smug five year old brain that NO ONE ELSE had this record, or would know from whence the track came!

I can't tell you much about this album's heritage. Even the website I managed to track a copy down from has the artist as 'unknown'. According to this site, I now know it was made in in Italy in 1973, and was on the Contour record label at least in the UK, a very cheap imprint if I recall. Most of the tracks were duds and made with a simple raison d'etre: "Moogs are in and cool, let's make some contemporary rock tracks with a MOOG in them ". Simple thought process, and mainly duff songs, though no less charming for their duffness On this album was a half decent version of "Son of My Father" and a version of Popcorn which in my opinion is better in atmosphere than the Hot Butter original but whose drumming is beyond bad. Where Wendy Carlos is regarded by some as a bit of a novelty artist (but isn't) this music is also regarded as a bit of novelty (and is). But how cartoonishly glorious it is too.

Other superb synthesizer remaindered and charity shop specials can be found at this website:

http://www.basichipdigitalgold.com/moog/moog.htm

Brand and Ross - nothing a good birching couldn't fix

2008-10-28T14:14:00.001Z

Back in 2000 or so, my old dad made a comment about the Weakest Link, along the lines of it’s a quiz show for bullies and does nothing other than reveal society for its wretched, Darwinian, screw-you-Jack nature. I didn’t get it. I liked the Link. I liked Ann Robinson (and having read her book, admire her all the more). However, his point stuck with me and like many others, I’ve noticed in the intervening years that society seems to revel more in humour that is not funny or worthwhile, just unkind.

Taking the mick out Ann Robinson’s evil mamma persona (or parodying it) has potential for laughs. Taking the mick of Ann Robinson’s alcoholism is NOT, in my opinion, remotely funny. To be amusing, a comedic victim needs to have made a fool out of themselves, or have displayed contradiction between practice and preach (this is why Spitting Image was such a success). Even relatively tame comedies like the Good Life kind of work because of the contradiction displayed by “people we know” or think we do.

Unkind humour can work. But for it to do so, the target must have also been careless in their bad luck. George Osborne springs to mind. Not just unlucky, but stupidly so.

So, Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand have been publicly exposed for leaving rude messages on Andrew Sach’s answerphone suggesting one of them was shagging his grand-daughter.

What smart cookies they are.

What heroes of comedy.

I bet they slapped themselves on the back for this piece of wit.

And what, pray tell, has Mr Sachs done to deserve such a “witty” verbal missive? Has he made some derogatory comments about either of these two losers in the past? Has he committed an act of paedophilia? I’m not aware of anything.

They are freaking bullies, plain and simple. And for anyone who did find it funny…would you feel the same if it was your granddad?

Andrew Sachs = a comic great and a nice, old guy.

Ross and Brand = over-paid celebri-twats with who really, really should know better but who have probably never been told to shut up. I hope they get given the birch. Then get given the boot.

And I hope that when they are sacked, that anyone thinking they are clever enough to pull a similar stunt get the message loud and clear.