Would anyone go Christmas shopping in town anymore? Crowds of people, traffic moving slower than treacle, and endless Christmas songs. I understand Mariah Carey has made nearly $100m in royalties on āAll I Want for Christmas is you.ā Thatās enough to turn me into the Grinch.
Do people see speed as the answer to all our problems? Whether itās streaming data, messaging a mate or having a pizza delivered barely seconds after placing an order. Whatever happened to the delight of anticipation? Donāt get me wrong. Obviously, some things naturally improve with waiting time, like sex, or improve with ageing like cheese, wine and teenagers. Other things such as fashion, sixties sitcoms, and taxes donāt. This plea is not a request to return to listening to a computerās rendition of Greensleeves for a decade, while trying to get through to your mobile provider. I just think a little wait enhances the prize. Iād far prefer to sit and smell someone preparing food in a kitchen than wait for the putt-putt-putting of a scooter with a meal the temperature of an hour-long dead corpse.
Is there so little thrill and danger? By far and away the moments of my life that sparkle in my memory are those of danger, wonder or excitement. Often all three. (These of course include marriage ceremonies). If, as they say, lifeās key moments will flash in front of my eyes just before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I am damn sure mine will not include any snippets from work, religious services, group sessions of any description, let alone earnest social or political discussion. I suspect those fleeting last moments will feature marriages, my beloved wife, kids and grandkidsā¦ yet interspersed with: Screaming in fear bulleting solo down the Cresta toboggan run in St. Moritz Jumping off Annapurna on a hang-glider in Nepal (following my wife) Hand feeding a Tiger shark (admittedly wearing a butchers chain mail glove) scuba diving in the Pacific near Tahiti Sideways out of control in an eyewateringly expensive classic Ferrari around the UKās famous Goodwood race track Avoiding a stampede of screaming girls at a Beatles concert at the Hammersmith Odeon Jumping out of a plane at 14,000 feet over Nelson, New Zealand (again following my wife) Accidentally getting airborne solo in a glider whilst still a schoolboy. Munching fugu (deadly poisonous puffer fish) in Tokyo Working with lions the size of Buicks on a movie shoot in Africa, certain I smelled like a tasty chicken Discreetly exiting the boudoir of a lady who failed to mention she was still married until her husband returned early from a business trip. As I look at current generations it would appear most of their thrills are vicarious, living through an Avatar in some video game or fantasising about men in Spandex in f/x laden movies. For real spice a few dawb paint at some middle class location like a museum, Wimbledon Tennis, Ryder Cup Golf, or Test cricket beseeching me to Stop Oil. Safe sensible places where the public might tut-tut displeasure. To me, thatās about as exiting as watching toast get cold. Danger and risk of injury is what makes you feel alive. If protestors want to raise their heart beat and get real press, try that kind of malarkey as an MMA event or NSCAR race and see what the crowd think of you.
Do common sense and dress sense also take a holiday when people fly? There was a time when people actually dressed up when they travelled, especially by air. It was glamorous and everyone wanted to get in on the act. Huge dark sunglasses and silk scarves wrapped around heads like Grace Kelly and men aching to look as cool as Sinatra, Davis and Martin in snappy suits or slacks, pullovers, and penny loafers Over the decades travel started to go down hill and the glamour was traded for cattle herding. However, there was still some point in looking good instead of like a refugee from an all-nighter, as you might get bounced up a class if you looked the part. But even that glimmer of hope has gone as check-in would rather upgrade a plastic influencer with an IQ to match their shoe sizeĀ than a Nobel prize winner. Nowadays, unless you can hop on a NetJets, you are just a hunk of meat needed to be cattle prodded from airport point A to airport point B. And a vast number of travellers display the same sense of behaviour as our bovine four legged friends.
Do fancy restaurants insist on the loos being as dark as a coal hole? My wife complains she can never find anything in her handbag, let alone have enough light to touch up her war paint. As for me, after a few glasses of Bordeaux, these black holes are an obstacle course. More than once I have returned from turning wine into water with a bruised leg or burgeoning black-eye.
Does everyone who has previously won an Olympic bid then say it was never worth it, yet countries queue up to host it? The Moaning Minnie list of previous Olympic hosts is longer than the ribbon gymnasts wave about on their floor exercise. (Quick question here. In an age of equality why are only women allowed this exercise?) The Australian grumble about how the Olympic village outside Sydney was originally a rubbish tip and at least they have returned it to that. The birdās nest stadium in Beijing might as well be birds nest soup and the Olympic structures in Rio crumble like rocks of cocaine that are sold there. I read today in the London Times that before Paris has even fired a starting gun there is much mooching and shrugging of shoulders of unhappy Parisians. The hoteliers are complaining that the hotels are at only 70% occupancy as so many tourists have taken to Airbnb. Restaurant bookings are down as again those in Airbnb are cooking in. āPourquoiā, (why) cry our French cousins, the stub of a Gauloise cigarette screwed into the corner of their downturned mouths. GREED is the answer. The simply ridiculous price hikes by the cheese eating surrender monkeys, as Homer Simpson once described the French, are just one step too far. Add to that the by-the-throat greeting by Parisians to foreigners and you have a recipe for attendance disaster that even Escoffier could not have whipped up. Of course as an extra āamuse-boucheā to this PR meal disaster is the fact the French have had an election with change in direction that makes a weather vane in a tornado look stable. With a two part vote the first set swung France to the right. āQuelle horreurā the media all wept as they ran around hands on cheeks like the figure in The Scream by Edvard Munch. So they then get every single other party to co-operate on candidates on tactical voting to beat Marine Le Pen and instead end up with a far left Government who want 90% top rate of tax, retirement dropped from 65 to 60 and unlimited immigration. And who think the Olympics an outrageous waste of money. Do I see conflict of interest raising its head here?
Canāt we see that our views on age are just relative to ourselves. Right now I think of myself around mid-forties until I am reminded I have a son nudging fifty. Yet when I was seventeen I remember being very sad that Clint Eastwood was 40 when he made Dirty Harry and thus was in the twilight years of his career. I sighed that Debbie Harry of Blondie had found stardom so late in life at 33. I am sure President Biden looks at Jagger and Richards prancing around as rock gods on stage and the same age as him, wistfully wishing he would be allowed to do the same thing but the decorum of his office prevents it. I mean, he knows he could do it.
Have people started flinging things at stage performers? Adele recently at herĀ Las Vegas concert dared anyone to throw anything at her and see whatĀ happened!Ā Ā Well, itās not exactly a new phenomenon. Originally performers were paid byĀ money thrown at them on stage. I assume the more that was thrown the moreĀ grateful they were.Ā Ā Tom Jones has had enough knickers thrown at him to supply a decent sizedĀ Marks and Spencer store and no doubt Ozzy Osbourne has enough headlessĀ bats to build a wall.Ā Recently the objects have ranged from a lemon at Arianne Grande (is that aĀ subtle comment), a dildo at Lil Nas X, a mobile phone lobbed at Drake, aĀ teddy at Lady Gaga and weirdest of all, the urn of a fanās dead motherāsĀ ashes tossed at Pink! (Before that someone tossed her a Brie de MeauxĀ cheese)!Ā Ā There are three issues here that worry me. Firstly, who goes to a concert withĀ a massive roundel of cheese or even a funeral urn as something suitable toĀ toss at a performer. Secondly, with supposed security at these events how onĀ earth do they get in? Thirdly, donāt the people sitting next to them think this isĀ a tad unusual?
Are our drawers filled so randomly?
When I need a suitable coffee cup for a cappuccino itās right top shelf above the fridge. A small cup for an espresso is top left above sink. I mean, isnāt everyone the same?
Random draw pulling in other peopleās homes searching for something is an occupational hazard when cooking for friends.
I used to think the way we fill our cupboards and drawers is 100% random. When you move house your ultimate goal apart from not strangling builders or recommending the electrician to a good vivisectionist is unpack, unpack, unpack.
Who cares which drawers contain toothpaste, soup bowls or neckwear? You just stuff it in relieved that another cardboard box has bitten the dust. However, having recently gone through the experience (more like trauma) of moving, my wife and I have found our subconscious has been in overdrive.
Because I unloaded kitchen apparatus and my back creaks bending down or stretching up, weight was the driving factor where things got stored. No more mixing bowls on bottom shelf or air fryer on a top one. Now heavy things are all on middle drawersā¦ but being chief unpacker also had other advantages. Things my wife enjoys but I dislike, such as pulses, peanut butter and gherkinās miraculously now appear at the end of cupboards whereas things I enjoy are right at eye level dead centre; Marmite, Branflakes dark chocolate and cheese biscuits.
Is looking forward to a holiday nearly as good as going on one?
We have not travelled outside of the U.K. and European time zones since December 2020! I donāt think I have spent two years in the same time zone since I was six!
However, we have taken the plunge and planning to go to Cambodia at the beginning of next year. Itās months away of course, but the mere fact we have an itinerary to exotic sounding places has lightened my footsteps and my spirits.
Did I persuade my wife to let me help us move? The last 6 weeks I have neither written this blog nor a sentence of my next novelā¦ that I started in April!
My darling wife and indeed our marriage had survived five previous house moves during which for one reason or another I was unable to be there.
I decided this time things would be different but should have heeded the look of foreboding on my wifeās face.
Patience is something I have always interpreted as not doing something now. Well, it isnāt when it comes to moving. Patience is a basic ingredient. Rather than methodically unpack one box at a time if I decide I need something I open twenty looking for it. I then get frustrated and need to lie downā¦ leaving a huge mess.
As you might imagine this can cause industrial scale irritation in my wife. So banished from unpacking duties I become itching to put up every picture everywhere, I set about hanging them.
Hereās what my bruised ego and body have learnt.
1.Ā Molly screws, which expand as if they were pregnant and are meant to allow you to secure things to plasterboard/gypsum or light walls to hang things fromā¦ are actually the devils fingers that are more likely to flip you the bird than be of any use.
2.Ā Those white hooks with tiny masonry nails that are meant to make drilling holes a thing of the past, well they donāt work either. They have the durability and dependability of Liz Trussā previous Tory government. Firstly, the hooks themselves crack at the slightest pressure. Secondly, after a few weeks hanging something up, each hook can suddenly say:
āNah, had enough of thisā¦ā and call time on staying put and instead jump out the wall.
3.Ā Electric screwdrivers are all very well until they shred cheap screw heads and leave you with a half drilled in screw with no way of removing it.
4.Ā White painted walls may look clean but they mark even by just looking at them.
5.Ā Parasols no matter how expensive or how heavy the base always blow over in a mild breeze and never last more than two years.
6.Ā The heaviest furniture always lives in the most difficult part of the house to reach.
7.Ā Super glue is never the answer, but double sided extra strong Gorilla tape is a gift from the Gods.
At the beginning of each year, do we go through this ritual inspection of the chicken entrails to reveal the booby traps or goodies awaiting us in the New Year? If you are a sentient being with an IQ bigger than your shoe size, you already know the answer. In sport there will be a couple of upsets, otherwise the usual suspects clean up at everything. Politics and global warming will get hotter and a couple of natural disasters will blight lives. Mid-summer a silly story about some animal being able to perform open heart surgery, play a Beethoven sonata or predict the outcome of a football match will make worldwide headlines. A big rock star will fall off his perch as well as a past-it-sell-by-date TV show will get the ax. Two certainties are the winner of the Best Actress at the Oscars will cry, and then suggest the category is sexist and should just be for best actor.
Can nostalgia be dangerous? Brrrm Brrrm! Walking straight onto a plane with no security checks Carrying my speargun as cabin baggage in a plane First and business class transatlantic flights with no beds Airplane tickets made by travel agents only Smoking carriages on the subway/smoking sections on a plane Asking what is the movie on the plane Hovercraft to France Railway carriages with compartments and corridors Going for a Sunday drive 101 Octane Fuel Buses with conductors Driving without a seatbelt Just a radio with a single speaker in the car Spare tyres in cars No speed limits on motorways Electric Milk Floats Parking meters fed with coins
Does the impending holiday season now revolve exclusively around my TV? Firstly I should say that while tapping out this blog, the sky here in Malta is blue and the dogs are sunbathing in 22c/72f. Thanksgiving and Christmas are about as far from my mind as next yearās tax bill. However television commercials insist on dragging me away from my balmy reality into the fantasy of snow, turkey, goodwill to all menā¦.and get me to start buying. I really do not understand how these companies who start commercials in November and scatterbomb the schedule for nearly two months with the same message, think this warms viewers to their cause. No matter how brilliant a commercial is, there comes a tipping point when repeated viewing turns into watching it again is worse than nails dragged down a backboard.
Care about a fake? I note with interest a puff piece in The London Times about the Hollywood nouveau riche hiring Art Consultants. The need is because these well coiffed beings can shuffle their A list clients to the heads of the queue to get a chance to gobble up a piece of art before anyone else. It also makes A listers feel less insecure having someone there to praise or confirm their good taste or have the expert lend Hollywood Royalty some of their own.Ā Really? I agree if you made a few zillion dollars parading around in Spandex with theĀ superpower to create a hurricane by blowing through your nose, you donāt really have much credibility as a Serious Actor; but in the art world, like any other, money is money. If the Hulk is prepared to pay more than a Titan of Wall Street for a scribble and dots by Cy Twombly, let the richest man win. I would lend more credibility to all these art experts were it not for the unfeasibly large amount of fakes or overbid artwork that has been sold to our brave Hollywood friends! As long ago as 1989 Sylvester Stallone sued his art consultant for $5m.(Brave person. I would have been more worried about a jab and a hook rather than a law suit). Steve Martin bought a fake Heinrich Campendonk (crazy name crazy guy) as have hoards of others. It appears these consultants no more protect you from a painting by Pinocchio rather than Pollock as anyone else
Can I not turn on the news or pick up a paper without screaming about the weather? The UK news media liken what would be a warm day where I live as akin to the UK living in hail and brimstone. Beelzibub and his minions are stalking the hell-like streets. Pah! However, here in Malta this summer has been hot enough to poach an egg in my underpants. I like the beach as much as anyone but I cannot understand people flocking to be staked out on the sand with the sun hot enough to turn their bodies the colour of condemned veal. Certainly most locals shake their heads in disbelief at the tourists gently sizzling on the shoreline. So instead, my wife, the French bulldogs and I enjoy the view of the Mediterranean from the comfort of the air conditioning, with the occasional sprint into the pool. Even the dogs hop across the garden flagstones to jump into the flowerbed to pee. Forget booties for the snow, you need them to protect your tootsies from turning into ten chipolatas!
Do I still prefer pulling a cork rather than unscrewing a cap? Logic has gone out the window here. No other business in the world would tolerate a (conservative) 5% failure rate, which is the figure given for 'corked' wines. That's one in twenty. We have hissy fits when one in in ten thousand IPads just blink. Can you imagine if one in twenty cars were faulty? And yet.... That seductive pop bursts so many pent up emotions. The sound rivals the soothing tones of a $500 an hour shrink. That pop can just as easily equate to the escape of bottled up sexual tension on a first date, to the release of frustration after the week from hell (I suspect David and Sam Cameron may well have yanked a few corks after Brexit). Then there is the whole wonderful bullshit theatre of the sommelier. Firstly he thrusts the bottle under my nose, ignoring if I was in mid-sentence or even mid- joke, demanding my undivided attention in his far more important world. I can barely remember the name of what I have picked out, let alone the year but I gamely play along with the charade, putting on my specs to carefully inspect the bottle. Then, deftly using one of those tiny contraptions I can never get to work, the wine waiter swiftly extracts the cork. If he is a sommelier par excellence he might even sniff what he has removed, and with a look of supreme indifference, pocket it as he pours me a thimble full of wine to taste. Of course if he really knew what he was doing he should know instantly if a bottle is bad and simply apologize and produce another. But he has his reasons and waits as I take a sip. The moment of truth. Occasionally when the bottle is so badly corked that my tongue dials the fire brigade, I am brave enough to challenge the wine waiter and suggest the bottle of botulism he has presented me with ain't quite up to standard. However I am ashamed to admit most times I am too intimidated if I think the wine is punching me in the throat rather than caressing my taste buds.Ā Usually my party have drunk half the bottle before someone has the courage to say that "rather than suggesting a bouquet of raspberry with a hint of chocolate and whisper of tannins, this tastes like a bus driver's sock.ā We then haul over the wine waiter. Depending on if we look like we might know what we are talking about he will inspect the glass and mutter an apology, or simply whisk the offending bottle away. I have never seen a sommelier actually taste a corked bottle. A good one that is not corked, yes. But a bottle of rancid wine juice? Never. As I said, they know from the get go, but hope your too sloshed to notice. The reason they say nothing is the staff will of course chalk up the bottle as rancid, add it to the claim of dud bottles they present each month to the supplier and open (hopefully) a decent bottle of the same vintage to enjoy once the bloody patrons have left.
Is it so difficult for simple things to do the one thing they were designed for? We have a set of drawers in our bathroom in the built in cabinets around the sink. However, they are all coy. Instead of fully opening they half open. I have checked the runners etc. They are specifically designed only to be drawn out half their depth! I spend my life with my arm half bent rummaging around at the dark recess of the back for medicines, pills, chargers and other bathroom paraphernalia having to sweep them to the front so I can see them. I would really like to meet that designer and warmly shake him by the throat.
Are descriptions of taste so pompous and indecipherable? I read recently that a wooden cask tub of Macallans Whisky, which was bought for Ā£5,000 thirty years ago on a whim of I suspect some rich dipso, has just sold for over Ā£1m! To justify this ludicrous bar bill, that works out at around Ā£2,000 a bottle, the descriptions of the taste have reached epic proportions of nonsense. Can anyone really tell me whatā¦ āa yellow halo with a mesmerising nose with a scent of salted caramel drizzled chocolate brownie restrained with a background of fresh orange marmalade and neroli with a dying hint of tobacco leafā really smells like? To me it stinks like an Oreo cookie covered in Robertson finest Golden Shred marmalade, sprinkled with fag ends.Ā And thatās just the smell. The rapturous pretentious waffle goes into overdrive when describing the taste; I dare you to read this and take it seriously. āOn the palate waves of sweetness carries and mingles mature oak and library leather bound book dryness. This breaks into a regal spice mix of nutmeg ginger and ground coriander, over a wash of ginger perkin biscuits, soft buttery dates and freshly baked Danish apricot pastries.ā (London The Times 27 April 2022) Ā A perkin biscuit? WTF is that? I mean, justĀ line up six whiskies and tell me which one they are referring to. āI say, Cedric, I think it might be this one though I not sure if the spice mix is regal enough and I think sweaty sock juice mingled with old leather football boots more apt than library books.ā What makes my jaw hit the floor in admiration at the effusive nonsense is the ingredients of scotch are simply malted barley, water and yeast. And yet it reads here that someone tipped half the content of the unused drawer in the kitchen into the still used to ferment the whisky. The people who write this tripe I assume double as Real Estate novelists. The people who describe bathrooms as bijoux when you have to stand on the loo to shut the door.
Is the weather schizophrenic? Winter this year has behaved like the house guest who outstays his or her welcome. I have to admit that summer 2021 was hot enough to poach an egg in my underpants, therefore I was relieved for the respite of a winter chill. However, itās now the beginning of May , yet Nanook of the North would have pulled on extra clothing over Easter here in Malta. Grey skies, a wind that could yank the eyebrows off your face and rain horizontal enough to win a limbo dance competition. Today the sun is shining but according to the forecast, itās a deception worthy of David Copperfield (the magician, not the Dickens character). In a few days time, the temperature is set to drop low enough to make my pubic hair crackle; so the Ambre Solaire will go back in the cupboard and out will come my hot water bottle.