BRISTOL WEEKEND

Cara and Rob's presi. She's got a license you know!

We have just spent a great weekend in Bristol. The occasion? Cara's 60th. birthday celebration. Cara had her birthday a week ago and this was the Bristol version of it as she and Rob live in the highlands of Scotland. Needless to say, some of the Highland friends came down too, turning it into a multicultural/national event. We had been looking forward to the weekend for literally months. Bristol is one of my favourite towns, reminding me in many ways of Goteborg. There was also the prospect of meeting old friends again who were expected at the party.

Trish and I went down on Friday. By train. And we were soon on the bus from Temple Meads station to our hotel. Now, apart from Carl, Hannah, Jan and Joel, I know only two other people from Bristol, Martin, who for years lived in Clifton and Sheelagh who I recently came into contact again after many years, through Facebook. Imagine my surprise when, halfway through our journey to the hotel, in the middle of the city centre, when Martin boarded our bus! This surprise was compounded a few hours later when Trish and I, sitting outside a restaurant in Millennium Square, were hailed from across the tables by Sheelagh. Small world.

On the Saturday we met up with Carl and son Joel, for coffee and beers before joining the revelers onboard the boat Cara had hired for her party, which took us, many attired in excellent fancy dress up the estuary to Avonmouth, complete with retro disco and buffet. There wasn't much room to dance but Rob did his best.

After the boat trip Martin and Sam, his partner, together with Grace, Trish and I, sloped off to find a decent pint of real ale, although in truth it turned out that only Martin, Grace and I were interested in the ale. We eventually turned up at a pub somewhere near the Arnolfini area where they had run out of said liquid. A trek across to the other side of The Mud Dock saw us at a hostelry the name of which escapes me, but where they sold the cunningly named brew pictured below.

We had a great weekend, it was marvelous to catch up with people not seen for a good few years and it was great to see Cara usher in her new decade with the vim and vigor of someone half her age.

HIT AND RUN.....NO FUN

Last Thursday was supposed to be just another day when I didn't have to turn up and do my day job. Instead, I had to go to Bedford to pick up my rucksack from the University which I had left there the day before. What a pity. 15 years of accident free cycling were about to come to an end as I cycled across the Greyfriars roundabout in the centre of town. Now being a car driver, I know how to negotiate roundabouts - give way to traffic from the right and, if clear, off you go across the roundabout. This i did faultlessly. However, suddenly from my right, overtaking me came a white van. The driver, a moron, a dangerous moron, decided that he could overtake me and then turn left. Actually, he timed it to perfection, as he cut across in front of me, the van missed me by inches, however, the trailer he was towing did not.

Now when you are flying through the air heading for a fall, strange things pass through your mind. I remember years ago, in the bad old days when there was a dog at home, which was allowed to crap in the garden, my falling off the ladder when I was cleaning windows. As I headed towards the turf, I remember thinking 'please don't let me land in the dog shit'. And I didn't. On Thursday I remember thinking as I headed towards the tarmac in the middle of the roundabout, 'please don't let there be a car coming round the roundabout that's going to finish me off'. There was, but it didn't. Instead the driver swerved to a halt and enquired, as I stumbled to my feet, blood pumping from my hand which had been sliced open by the road surface, after my health. Which was good of him. Meanwhile van and trailer accelerated into the distance.

Luckily, I know Bedford and as I was getting myself together, I realised where I was. The roundabout was right in front of the poice station. So in I went. More good fortune followed. The desk sargeant was a Luton Town supporter and immediately spotted my Hatters team shirt which I was wearing under my cycling vest.

I was soon being attended to ahead of the other 'visitors' to the police station which included a dishevled looking chap sporting a pork pie hat and a serious drinking problem. He was soon ushered through the door behind the desk and they also knew his first name. Either a police informant called 'Lonely' as seen in Callan that well known spy series of the seventies or an undercover cop I thought.

There was also two old biddies that sat on a bench that was not covered with the blood which was still dribbling from the gash on my hand, who were giving me the once over.One of them asked me what happened. When I told her she said 'ohhh terrible, did you get his number?' I refrained from informing her that I had stupidly failed, whilst lying on the tarmac, to whip out a pencil and pad and quickly jot it down.

The rest of the day was spent either at the police station being tended to by paramedics called to attend me by my Hatters supporting friend, the local Bedford (crowded) hospital, and finally at the Luton hospital being stitched up and cleaned.

So what if anything did I learn? Well, the fact I was wearing a helmet was a plus point, a fact the paramedics pointed out. They also pointed out that had I beeen wearing cycling gloves I would have been relatively uninjured apart from the kind of injuries that are usually sustained as a child when taking a big tumble on the school playground. I also learned that police stations don't have first aid kits so carry your own, and if you are going to A and E take something to do (I manged to mark all my college work in the three hours I was waiting to be stitched up), and lastly if they want more people to cycle in this country bike lanes would be a really good idea in the middle of busy cities.

On reflection, I had been very lucky. Others will not be. And yes, I'm back on the bike.

EASTER DAZE part 2

We were back in London on Sunday. This time it was to attend a photo shoot which I had booked through Groupon, an organisation I highly recommend to you. Through these people you can by vouchers for all sorts of cut priced offers. The one I had seen was a session at a top London studio, complete with free booze, makeover and a shoot with two free photos. All for £29. With some trepidation we made our way up to the venue in Great Portland Street. Luckily I found a local pub to sit and get some Dutch Courage inside of us. Again, I thoroughly recommend The Cock in Great Portland Street where Sam Smiths Old Brewery Bitter can be obtained for the fab price of just over two quid.

The photo session was much less taxing than I had imagined, due no doubt to the alcohol imbibed before it. We were soon out of the place with an appointment to view the snaps or was it schnapps, tomorrow.

We then wound up in Greenwich at The Rose public house and thereafter some other hostelry until the early hours of the morning with Charlotte.

Now unless you have been living in a vacuum, you will be aware that the whole of the country is looking forward to a day off this week due to the Royal Wedding. So visitors to London cannot escape the paraphernalia associated with this occasion. Indeed. flags and bunting are flying everywhere. So imagine my surprise, as we sat, the three of us, innocently dining at a cafe just off Oxford Street, to be accosted by Chinese TV seeking our views on the forthcoming nuptials.

Suffice to say, that they decided, after a brief conversation with myself, to interview not me but Trish, who made it quite clear that she will be watching events as they unfold on Friday. What a pity I thought, I had some pretty good questions about China's contribution to global warming lined up for inclusion in my interview, I wanted to know for example why, when we are doing our best to recycle and source renewable energy here in the West, China is carrying on without a care in the world, polluting their rivers and skies with the foul stench of industrialisation. It was not to be. That reporter had some kind of sixth sense it seemed, a natural ability to avoid trouble.

Trish gets on Chinese TV

A really enjoyable weekend was finished off with a ride on a London Bus from Oxford Street to Deptford, a ride of such contrasts as to be inconceivable in these right Royal Times.

EASTER DAZE Part 1

Quite a weekend has just passed, a long weekend, a lovely long weekend with beautiful weather. My weekend started early with the arrival of Andy from Leicester on the doorstep, armed with a big box of booze to supliment his entertainment for the duration. Andy, a long time friend is also a serial serial viewer. He sometimes spends whole weekends at a stretch viewing box sets of particular series. He does this to avoid commercials and waiting for a week to see the next episode. I had just the weekend planned for him.

Not only were we due to visit The Lane on Saturday for the latest instalment of the Tottenham saga but I had the first series of 'V' the science fiction classic remake ready for viewing. And true to form he followed in my footsteps of a few weeks ago and watched all 12 episodes over the two days.

I felt like the evil pusher as he sat in the comfy chair, unable to resist watching 'just another episode' , armed with the neccessary paraphenalia essential to maximise the enjoyment, decent beer and snacks, before he retired to bed,I fully expected to find him when I went down in the morning, still sitting there, but to his credit he was first up, already having visited the papershop and ransacked the kitchen for coffee.

We had a great time, very different from the old days when a visit from Andy was, as he drove off back to Leicester on a Sunday night, usually leaving an item of clothing somewhere in the house or on the drive, difficult to remember. (for one reason or another.) It was a pretty dissappointing but entertaining 2-2 draw at The Lane which Andy enjoyed for the experience of the visit, his first one for many a year. We rounded it off with a couple of beers at The Old Sun with Nick who had taken us down to the match yet again.

It was great to see him again but our weekend was only half done.

FAVOURITE TIME OF YEAR

One of the good things about living on this usually God-forsaken island happens round about this time of year. Spring. Now for those friends who are living in far away climes, where one month moulds seamlessly into another year round, with the occasional rise and fall in temperature, I apologise for this boastful diatribe, but it really is fantastic to be in the Northern hemisphere right now.

We have been blessed so far with plenty of sunshine and I realised it was time to get out into the garden to clear away the ravages of winter, and prepare for the summer and most importantly, the `Swengland' mid summer party, this year taking place on Midsummer weekend 25th June.

So Trish and I set about, cutting, pruning, planting and creating, not to mention removing two well established shrubs which took simply ages. In fact I was losing all resolution on Sunday with said roots of shrub and was beginning to admit defeat as it stubbornly refused to be dislodged from it's footings. However, at that moment the Conservative party candidate arrived on our doorstep hoping for my vote in the coming referendum or whatever. This horror gave me fresh resolve and I soon had the bugger out and the roots too!

So the work has progressed over the last couple of weeks and the greenhouse is full of flowers and vegetables requiring planting to the raised bed we have created using compost from our bin and molehills from the common opposite the pub. (thanks to Nick Iddon, who has an allotment, for this tip). Years ago I never thought I would be getting into doing this stuff but like life, you get back what you put in (that's the theory, for me it hasn't always been so) and it is a real pleasure to see the garden slowly come back to life, just like the plants within it. The fact it needed a considerable amount of CPR was inevitable.

So now the moment has come to enjoy the fruits of our labour and I'm off to the supermarket (bicycle of course) to buy a few bottles of wine and beer. You are welcome.

WHAT A WASTE OF TIME

Dear Ticket Office.

I suppose I will be one of many disappointed by not being able to purchase tickets for the Champions league quarter final. I am not writing to you about that. I understand that all who wanted could not be accommodated BUT the system used to purchase tickets is absolutely USELESS.

I logged on at 9.30 dead and was presented with the red line that indicates you are in a queue. I have no problem with that either. BUT when I join a queue I don't expect to go backwards. After all, if you joined a queue in a bank or some where similar, if someone came along when you got near the front and moved you to the back you would have grounds for complaint. That's what happened to me today. As the red line approached two thirds of the way to the end, suddenly it was whisked back to the start, and no, I didn't touch anything, it was on the computer by my side as I worked at my desk.

Is it possible for The Great THFC to come up with a better system for all its loyal fans? After fifty years I think I deserve better. As do we all.

Disappointing.

John Scales Bronze Member

Do you think I had a reply? Of course not.

JACK'S BACK

Jack then

It's November 26th 1968 and a 13 year old boy stands outside the Royal Albert Hall in London. It's a day he will never forget, it's a gig that will live in the memory. he has no ticket. They sold out rapidly even without the help of the internet. He's hoping he'll be able to buy one but none are on offer. As the concert start draws near he becomes disappointed, resigning himself to the fact that there is no chance to see his favourites that night.

However, someone was looking after him. Around the corner came another agitated figure. 'When does the concert start?' asks the stranger. 'I'm supposed to be meeting my friend and he hasn't shown up.' As if by magic a bell sounds inside the foyer. 'Well that's the bell that means the concert is due to start' the boy informs him, grasping at straws. 'You need to get in or you will miss it'. The stranger looks disappointed so the boy offers to buy his spare ticket. A deal is struck and 10/6 is handed over (I still have the stub) and the two of them make their way up to the upper circle to see the last ever performance by The First Supergroup- Cream. I wonder if the stranger ever wondered about the fact that there were two support bands that night (Yes and Taste) and in reality the concert didn't really start until an hour and a half later. If he did he didn't let on.

Jack now

So you can imagine what a thrill it was on Tuesday night to see one third of that dynamic trio-Jack Bruce in the rather more sedate surroundings of The Stables Theatre in Milton Keynes. The place was sold out as it had been 43 years ago and once again we were not disappointed. True, Jack now looks like the sort of elderly bloke you would give up your seat for on a bus or train, and his tiny body seemed to be lost in his clothes but his bass playing was as good as it was when Frank Zappa got him to play on 'Apostrophe'. Indeed for most of the night his bass bins burned and bounced with exactly the same tone as on the title track, worth a listen if you have never heard it. Of course Jack treated us to some classics, 'Theme From An Imaginary Western, Born Under A Bad Sign, Spoonful and We're Going Wrong being my favourites. it was pretty loud too (not as loud as Johnny Winter apparently) and by the end of the show Jack had rolled back the clock, wound it up and set it going hell for leather down nostalgia road.