Saturday 20 February 2010

RICHARD'S NIGHT OUT

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A strange couple of days have just passed. On Thursday Trish and I ended up in a gay bar in London and it happened again last night, this time in Luton! The story behind this latest alternative night out has a lot to do with our friend Richard, Arsenal ticket purveyor and his charming wife Annette. I must state here for the record that Richard is Welsh and like my other Welsh friend in Scotland, likes nothing better than a few pints or more.


So when we eventually turned up at The Black Horse in Luton to meet them for a chat and a drink it was enevitable that when last orders were called, Richard was anxious to continue drinking elsewhere in town. It turned out that the nearest bar open late was The California Inn just round the corner. 'It's a gay bar' Richard told us and although I am old enough to remember 'Gay Way' reading books at school I was under no illusions about where we were headed.




The pub in question used to be known by another name, and was a deadly place where the most exciting thing that happened was when the number of drinkers inside the creaking watering hole exceeded single figures. Someone then had the bright idea of turning it into yet another gay Luton bar. And what a good idea it was too. Instead of the dreary, drab, dark interior of yore it has been transformed into a lively and very friendly pub/club/bar. We were soon accosted by a six foot transvestite who I think was selling raffle tickets, I didn't ask what the prize was. The music was loud and crap, but the drinks were cheap, six good glasses of wine for £8, which was the price of a bottle, although as usual the beers were the usual crappy lagers.

We stayed there for about two hours before wandering back to Trish's where I just about had enough energy to watch Amy Williams win gold in the womens' skeleton. Now that's what I call class!


GOLDEN GIRL

Friday 19 February 2010

LONDON CRAWLING

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Greenwich University
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London was the destination today, Greenwich to be exact, to visit Charlotte at her university. I have been once before and although Greenwich is a reasonably acceptable part of London, one just has to suffer the getting there, which in our case today, was by rail. Suffice to say the journey with First Crapital Connect did not go without a hitch. We reached St. Pancras International without a problem but after that the troubles started and how typical when you are on a tight schedule-we had to be back home by 8 pm and we did not leave until 12.30.
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Stranded just outside Farringdon due to an electrical failure I had plenty of time to marvel at the precision of the Victorian brickmanship in the wall we had ground to a halt by. What a pity the same craftmen had not been in charge of installing the electrical system on the train! Eventually we were able to limp into Farringdon where we were asked to find an alternative means of transport to Charlton.
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The rest of the day went pretty well really. We had a guided tour of Greenwich campus following a reasonable dinner at a local Spanish restaurant where the menu was so limited that I nearly did a really gross thing and ordered fish and chips. I an honestly say that when in Rome I always do as the Romans do, so when in an Indian restaurant for example, you don't order a kebab. It always makes me wonder about the mentality of people who do that kind of thing, so I never do, but nearly, nearly very nearly I did today.
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Our visit to London ended in the pub where Charlotte works. We had a fine welcome there meeting her workmates and looking at all the photos on the wall of the recent drunken revelry in which Charlotte seemed to feature regularly!
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Wednesday 17 February 2010

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY FOR A BIKE

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Today I got back on the bike. Not unusual for me I know but it was such a lovely day I decided to go and see my friend Mike who lives in Dunstable. Now here I have to be fair to him, he's trying, again, to give up smoking. He's doing it in testing times. A couple of weeks ago, on the way back from White Hart Lane his car gave up the ghost on the hard shoulder of the M25. We had to be recued by the AA and they were value for money on that night I can tell you. And he has no job and no way to repair it. But I digress. A couple of days ago he called me to say he was going to buy a bike. He had seen one in the store that poses as a pawn shop but is really a place where knock off goods are sold. To prepare himself for this purchase he had borrowed a (too small) bike from a relation.
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Here I have to point out that Mike has spent most of the time I have known him deriding bike riders, identifying them as 'fair game' from behind the wheel of his (now defunkt) car. In true poacher turned gamekeeper fashion he is now to be found leaving his lungs around on a road somewhere in the local area. Good luck to him. I certainly will support him but rest assured, if I am EVER in my 4x4 and I see him in the near distance............
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Anyway the ride to and from Mike's was uneventful for the most part although I had the customary 'I'll pull out from the side road because you are invisible' incident. Now you have to have nerves of steel to ride a bike round here. Not only are the roads full of potholes due to the ravages of the last two winters, but they are also full of shitty drivers. When I tell people I cycle, they usually are incredulous, giving me a slighly weird look up and down, but I can tell you whenever the going gets tough on the road all I do is think back to last summer when I was in The Caribbean on the island of St. Vincent visiting Trish's mum then these roads suddenly hold no fear.
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For those readers who did not receive my diary during the summer, here is the relevant extract:
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MONDAY AUGUST 10th 2009: THE VINCY VAN

The van, tightly packed and sweaty, threw itself around the tight hairpin bend. A sheer drop down into a rainforested valley beckoned an inattentive driver. The engine screamed in pain as the vehicle surged round and into the tight climb on the other side of the corner. The chassis of the van swung back to the vertical and all inside went with it as one. The van headed on its' precarious way up and further into the interior of St. Vincent.

Our day had started in unremarkable fashion. The drive to Piarco airport was short and early. Of course, with their usual efficiency, Liat airlines not only contrived to make their flight to St. Vincent an hour and a half late but also contrived to have seemingly arranged for us to have no airplane to board after we had passed through the gate! As we emerged onto the tarmac expecting a twin engined 44 seater hopper there was nothing to see. All stood around wondering what to do. As usual someone took the initiative and went off to see if the plane in the far distance was the one we were supposed to be boarding. It was. Soon we were flying over a aquamarine sea and islands large and small towards our destination.

The runway at Arnos Vale airport is right by the sea. Indeed the plane comes in over the water and touches down instantly. To my right I saw The Arnos Vale Cricket Ground where the West Indies had recently and amazingly lost a test match to Bangladesh. A strong hit it seemed, would be 'six and out' into the Caribbean. We were met by 'Cousin Fred' a tall 46 year old Vincenzian who turned out to be our minder and fixer. He took us in a ramshackle taxi driven by 'someone he knows' to the Capital, Kingstown.

St. Vincent is an island much less traveled by the tourist. Few white faces in evidence here. Consequently one has the feeling that what you see is everyday life carrying on regardless of visitors. Fred took us to the 'van station' where we were to catch transportation to the north of the island and the village of Rosehall, Trish's family home. Fred seemed to know everyone, being constantly greeted by strangers and on occasion passing scribbled bits of paper which I took to be betting slips.

The van 'station' was an incredible place. Hot, noisy and busy. A concrete rectangle by the sea in the middle of town. The vans themselves are just that, vans but with windows and seats. Like a minibus but with less headroom. The old Volkswagon 'hippie van' style springs to mind. However these vans were modern, Toyotas, Nissans and Mitsubishi. Some were in better condition than others. Most of them were outrageously decorated and constantly roared in, beeping their horns for recognition and trade. The sliding side door would then open, often before the van had come to a halt, and the occupants,'conductor' first, would squeeze themselves out. As I was to find out later, these vans would be packed beyond bursting, every seat taken with young and old alike and where there was no seat, one would be fashioned using a wooden board. The conductor would then tout for trade among those waiting and once packed the van would take off on it's new journey.

Fred organised our luggage to be taken first. The two suitcases took up two seats and they were classed as two people and thus $10. The van filled up with passengers and roared away taking our suitcases and four our bottles of Duty Free with it. Fred had spoken to the driver and assured us that everything would be safe. I got the feeling that it would not be worth the grief no to carry out his request.

The village of Rosehall is a fair trek from Kingstown and not many of the vans were up for the journey. Fred had actually organised it so our luggage would firstly be dropped off at the house and then the van would come back for us. As one particular van had taken the luggage we had to wait for it's return and travel with that one regardless of the fact that in the iterim, at least one other van would have been going in our direction. We went shopping for food.

On return, we waited for two hours. On more than one occasion I wished we had taken a taxi but then I would have missed what was to come. As we waited, we were offered trinkets and fag papers from numerous hawkers who Fred chased away with a few well chosen words or phrases that I had no understanding of. A witless Rastafarian took his shirt off and danced in front of us shouting, clearly either off his tree or brain damaged from years of dope smoking. Fred got rid of him too.

Fred and I became bored waiting, so leaving poor old Trish guarding the shopping, we sloped off through the packed market to a Roti Bar where we had a beer and got some take away food. When we returned, so had our van. Fred quickly commandeered three seats and we were ushered inside and took our places near the rear. Reggae music was blaring from the tinny speakers back and front. My knees were pressed tightly up against the seat in in front of me. I had barely enough room to move, and that was before the van began to fill up. And fill up it did.

In the hot the sweaty place it seemed as if all and sundry were suddenly making a beeline for our transportation. One by one in they came through the side door. The music blared and the conductor persuaded more and more that there was indeed enough room for them. Soon,even with the wooden board seat, it seemed we were full. I counted 17 people and I reckoned there were seats for 14. Desperately I said to Trish, 'surely we are full' as an 18 stone woman, laden with her shopping approached the side door which suddenly seemed tiny compared to her more than ample frame. But no, somehow and contrary to the laws of physics, she shoehorned herself into a space previously not in evidence. With the skill of a Tokyo rush hour metro guard, our conductor squeezed the door shut and we were ready for the off.

Our driver gunned the engine and we powered out of the square. I realised that the last time I had felt as I did now was in 1968 on the North Bank at Highbury when 67,000 people squashed themselves into the ground to see my heroes lose 4-0 to a mediocre Arsenal team. Soon we were roaring up and out of Kingstown.

Trish had warned me that the drive would not only be a long one but uncomfortable too. She forget to mention highly dangerous as well. St Vincent is a volcanic island. Vegetation is lush and the landscape is mountainous. The narrow road we were on wound it's way around and around hills and hairpins that the driver seemed to regard as part of a personal time trial challenge. Occasionally we would approach a village, usually a ragged straggle of small dwellings and shacks. Our road went straight through the middle. Instead of slowing, our driver actually accelerated, blaring his horn as he advanced. In the distance I could see the usual stray dogs wandering in the middle of the street. The West Indians en masse have a lackadaisical approach to life, never moving quickly, sauntering coolly their way through. I suddenly realised this included West Indian dogs, for as our van approached, they seemed to be playing some super cool version of chicken, waiting until the very last moment as we bore swiftly down on them, to languidly stroll out of the way. My buttocks clenched as small children next appeared as the dogs sped past but they seemed to be rooted to the side of the road as we hurtled by. I thought for sure one of them must dart out sometime in some village somewhere.

Suddenly a passenger in our helpless band would call out something incomprehensible and our driver would apply the brakes, hard. But we were so tightly packed in, we were like a human seat belt. I realised it was the way to signal that this was your stop. Then we were off again. As we rocketed along I started to compare the sensation of this trip, to the experience of the new ride 'Stealth' at Thorpe Park which I had ridden in the early summer, at the insistence of some of my Year 6 children. That was truly terrifying. The difference was that Stealth lasted a mere 26 seconds. After the best part of an hour I was still aboard our ride.

In order to take my mind off what I thought was to be certain death at any minute, I began to look at my fellow passengers. To my left was Trish whose fingernails were digging into the seat in front. To her left was a Rastafarian who looked like 'The Cat In The Hat' by Dr. Seuss. His tall, colourful, Rasta hat bending over comically as it jammed against the roof of the van. Behind me was a woman and her two small children who were singing along with some of the reggae and soca tunes blaring over the scratchy speaker. Meanwhile their mother was taking and making phone calls on her mobile screeching at the top of her voice so loudly I had to cover my ears. Then there was Fred looking cool and thinking about his winners, and bizarrely in front of me an elderly man and wife who were actually asleep! Then there was the fat lady, who luckily for those sitting in her row was the first out. The others, including the two young girls sitting next to the driver were soon out too, leaving us, and a few who were going further, to survive the rest of the journey to Rosehall.
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Not THAT Rosehall!

Tuesday 16 February 2010

THE BIG MISTAKE

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Made a big mistake today-Went to IKEA. Everyone knows not to do that when it’s either the weekend or a school holiday. When I saw how many cars there were in the car park I should have done an impression of an Italian tank commander in the WWII and turned round and gone home. Once inside the Swedish superstore became Disneyland UK. Children tore around the store with their parents seemingly unable to stop them. I am ashamed to admit it but once I had selected one of my purchases, I roller blind for the kitchen, I placed it strategically on my trolley, sticking out at the perfect height to impale any brat who was not looking where he or she was going. Unfortunately-no victims.

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Of course no visit to IKEA would be complete with a visit to the Swedish shop. Here they sell some of the things I miss since I foolishly returned home from Sweden in 1990. What a shame acres of unspoilt countryside and intelligent environmentally friendly people is not for purchase in the store. I had to make do with Kalles Caviar (med dill) assorted crispbreads and…..wait for it……………..just for Rustan…….yes…..pictured below, the one thing he needed to win our New Year’s Eve ‘Come Dine With Me’ cook off. I’m not going to open it mate. It will be here when you next visit, I’m looking forward to the real taste of Sweden. It’s the only one I’ll get round here!

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THE WILD GEESE

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The Guardians Of The Gate
DAY FOUR 14-02-10

As I opened the curtains this morning I was greeted with overcast skies and although the mountains in the distance were sill capped with snow, it was disappearing fast. We sauntered up to the village store to buy the newspapers before breakfast. It was Sunday an I thought it would be good to relax over breakfast reading the Sundays. A great plan but I did not account for the fact that the breakfast room at The Dunroamin Hotel was only heated by the warmth coming of the eggs and toast. This made the idea of sitting and reading the papers a pretty difficult task, after a while I could feel the tips of my fingers welding themselves to the pages of The Observer. We decided to warm up by setting off for East Gilgo.
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Ice Station Zebra

OK now I for one am not someone who is a slave to commercialism in any shape or form, and yes, I knew today was the time of the year when supermarkets turn £5 bunches of flowers into £15 bunches of flowers overnight and I know a rip off when I see one. So when the day had dawned on yet another Valentines Day I knew one of the best places to be was in the highlands of Scotland, away from it all. Usually at this time of year I am skiing, paying sky high prices, in Austria. But I have been there, done that this year and so it was pretty unusual to still be in the UK at this time.

As we approached the house I could see the killer geese waiting for us. Now I don't have any real phobias that I know of but I really don't like poultry and the bigger they are the less I like them. Rob and Cara have some pretty aggressive geese wandering around their property. I am pretty sure like a lot of creatures they can smell fear from a distance. As soon as they heard our footsteps they congregated like a collection of night club bouncers, across the driveway. Luckily the noise of them brought out Jones with whom they no better than mess, especially, as Cara had run over one of their number some time ago as they foolishly attacked the car!

Saved from the bouncers we spent the rest of the afternoon watching Spurs try and lose their fifth round tie with Bolton.

Monday 15 February 2010

THE BOBS OF WAR

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Rob is a big Bob Dylan fan. I only write this because as a long time friend, I have been subjected, over the decades, to the complete works of Bob Dylan. Now I realise that Bob has his place in our music history. Not even I can deny that, but readers, I just can't stand him. There are a number of things I can't stand:

Firstly and most significantly, is his harmonica playing. Rob, when pissed, loves nothing more than a trip into the past, via photos or music. This ALWAYS means that Bob will feature somewhere. The problem with this is that the further back we go, the worse his playing of the harmonica becomes, until all we have is Bob sticking the harp in his gob and breathing in and out randomly. Using this method, sound will always come out, it's music but not as we know it Bob!

Then we have his voice, which unlike his harmonica playing has got worse as time has marched on. Now it seems, he sounds like a very breathless Tom Waits. Occasionally he sounds like a pissed, breathless Tom Waits. The sum total of all of this is that Bob is off my list of CD's I must hear/have before I die.

Of course, the most important thing is that he gives Rob pleasure but I know what I am going to buy him for Christmas, wireless headphones! That's a promise Cara.

UNBELIEVABLE

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DAY THREE 13-02-2010

The addition of a duvet, a hot water bottle and two blankets meant that the night at The Dunroamin was spent in warmer conditions than the previous one. After the usual excellent breakfast complete with tasty bantam eggs, we made our way, via the paper shop to East Gilgo. The weather was bright and sunny giving good opportunity for photography.

East Gilgo, Rob and Cara's self built house, overlooks and is built on the edge of Loch Migdale. The walk there takes about half an hour climbing up behind Bonar Bridge, giving splendid views of not only Migdale but Kyle Of Sutherland. Today was the second round of the Six Nations rugby internationals. Luckily for us Wales (Rob) were up against Scotland (everyone else) in Cardiff.
We fetched up, after a morning of reading the papers, at Les and Lesley's house, just over the Bridge after which the village is named. As kick off time approached more and more people arrived, all seemingly bent on antagonising the Jones boy with regard to the outcome of the game. Wine, beer and other alcoholic beverages flowed and soup and haggis pie was provided by the hosts.

The game went badly for Wales for 75 of the 80 minutes.In fact scores were only leveled with no time left to play. Cue possession rugby by Wales. In rugby, unlike football, time cannot be called until the ball goes out of play. In a now historic finale, Wales actually broke through for a winning try and conversion with time up on the clock in this 'extra time' period.. Cue delirious and dervish like celebrations from Jones. It was truly unbelievable. Dogs hid and cats scattered as the ancient call of victory emanated from the bowels of hell itself.

Sunday 14 February 2010

NOT DUNROAMIN


DAY TWO 12-02-10

As a Doctor Who fan and fan of time travel in general. I never expected to be transported back to the seventies during our stay in Bonar Bridge. But no, our hotel is firmly entrenched in the days of wide lapels and flairs. I fully expected Inspector Reagan to burst in stating 'we're the Sweeney son and we ain't had no breakfast'. The heating is non existent and condensation runs down the bedroom window all day. The cold and damp has eaten into the fabric of the dwelling and it eats into the bones of soft southerners too. Truly reminiscent of days of yore.
Rob and an eskimo

After an excellent breakfast we set off with Rob for a guided tour of his favourite areas. We passed through Lairg, following Loch Shin Our first stop was at Merkland where we spotted some deer grazing amongst the heather and lichen.


Patrick, landlord of The Scourie Inn
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Rob as usual was in fine form, what he does not know about nature and animal life in most areas you can write on a postage stamp. So he constantly regailed us with a mixture of facts and local folklore. I must must confess that at one stage, sitting in the front of his 4x4, I nodded off. This was not due to the conversation but to the two pints of excellent ale consumed at lunchtime at The Scourie Hotel courtesy of hosts Patrick and Judy. This day was truly excellent and photos fom it can be found on my Picassaweb site.