I Hate Caravans
One negative thing about travelling up and back to Carlisle is the high number of trundling caravans you have to fight past on the M6. The Lake District is like a candle for these moths. They should be banned from using motorways. The only silver-lining of having them block up the road, is the ability to laugh at the manufacturer's names given to the boxes of scrap metal on wheels.
My favourite model from this trip was the "Marauder".
Bizarrely, it was being driven by a guy dressed in a black desert nomad costume and wielding a great curved sword.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
The Dance of Death
We went up to Carlisle at the weekend to see Vic’s mum and dad. Nelson the dog has pretty much got over his psycho paw gnawing and was pleasantly surprised to see us arrive. As usual his little willy popped out to greet us at the door.
Day 1 saw Nelson over-excited about having a mini human in his midst. India was unsure of what to make of him. A muscular mass of black hair with big teeth and lots of salvia wasn’t something she wanted up close and personal in her face. Frantic pointing at the dog and cuddling up close to mummy was about as adventurous as it got.
Day 2 saw a gradual coming together of the two naughty monkeys: they were both excited, but not crazily so.
Day 3 was the complete reverse of day 1, with India squealing in delight at the dog and trying to grab his tail / pat his back / stick her hands in his mouth. Of course, as soon as Nelson was aware of tiny hands grabbing at him, he would spin round to challenge the 2ft tall energetic bundle of nuisance. Slow motion boxing-style replays of his spinning would probably have shown beads of dog salvia being thrown from the thrashing beast. India didn’t like this, and would retreat into our arms in an instant, laughing maniacally as she did so. Then her brow would furrow and our devilish child would wait for the unsuspecting dog to turn away before pounching once more. Repeat until either dog, dad or mum got bored.
The three days played out like some great Dance of Death, with the two participants gleefully taunting each other and being forcibly separated by the adults of the house when things looked as if they were getting out of hand.
No wounds administered by either dancer, but next time we go up – when India should be fully mobile – I think we can expect fireworks.
Especially if it’s the first weekend of November.
We went up to Carlisle at the weekend to see Vic’s mum and dad. Nelson the dog has pretty much got over his psycho paw gnawing and was pleasantly surprised to see us arrive. As usual his little willy popped out to greet us at the door.
Day 1 saw Nelson over-excited about having a mini human in his midst. India was unsure of what to make of him. A muscular mass of black hair with big teeth and lots of salvia wasn’t something she wanted up close and personal in her face. Frantic pointing at the dog and cuddling up close to mummy was about as adventurous as it got.
Day 2 saw a gradual coming together of the two naughty monkeys: they were both excited, but not crazily so.
Day 3 was the complete reverse of day 1, with India squealing in delight at the dog and trying to grab his tail / pat his back / stick her hands in his mouth. Of course, as soon as Nelson was aware of tiny hands grabbing at him, he would spin round to challenge the 2ft tall energetic bundle of nuisance. Slow motion boxing-style replays of his spinning would probably have shown beads of dog salvia being thrown from the thrashing beast. India didn’t like this, and would retreat into our arms in an instant, laughing maniacally as she did so. Then her brow would furrow and our devilish child would wait for the unsuspecting dog to turn away before pounching once more. Repeat until either dog, dad or mum got bored.
The three days played out like some great Dance of Death, with the two participants gleefully taunting each other and being forcibly separated by the adults of the house when things looked as if they were getting out of hand.
No wounds administered by either dancer, but next time we go up – when India should be fully mobile – I think we can expect fireworks.
Especially if it’s the first weekend of November.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Excerpt: Life of a Tackley Lad
The writing up of Gramp's memoirs continues at a snail's pace. As I've not got time to write anything original today, here is an excerpt that I prepared earlier. Gives a good idea of the generally tone and spirit of Volume 1:
"At the top of the back garden were the pigsties. One belonged to us, the other to Tommy Smith who lived next door. My dad usually kept two pigs at a time. When they weighed about sixteen score, one was sold for cash and the other was slaughtered outside the sty, with the meat retained for our use. Pig killing day was always exciting for the young boys in the village. A little streak of sadism seemed to lurk in us. Many of us used to hold the rope that secured the pig to the killing stool. The slaughter was always a gory task. A small sharp blade was inserted into the pig throat and the animal would bleed to death. It soon became law that all animals had to be shot before being cut.
My Uncle Harold Harris used to do the killing. He used to enjoy it. After despatching the pig he would hang it in our back shed overnight and then return the next day to butcher it. Nothing at all was wasted. The intestines were removed, cleaned, salted and used for a nice pan of ‘chitterlings’. Beautiful home-cured lard, seasoned with a little fresh rosemary from the garden, was made out of the pig flear. We had a lead trough in the back shed in which all the salting was performed. This is how we made our bacon and cured the ham. My dad used to make his own curing brine, using salt, treacle and a few selected spices. His secret ingredient was a drop of old ale. It worked wonders.
After they were cured, the bacon sides and hams were brought into the house. Hams were hung on the wall at the side of fire, and the sides hung from the ceiling in a rack. There they were left to mature until they developed an intense flavour that has no equal today."
The writing up of Gramp's memoirs continues at a snail's pace. As I've not got time to write anything original today, here is an excerpt that I prepared earlier. Gives a good idea of the generally tone and spirit of Volume 1:
"At the top of the back garden were the pigsties. One belonged to us, the other to Tommy Smith who lived next door. My dad usually kept two pigs at a time. When they weighed about sixteen score, one was sold for cash and the other was slaughtered outside the sty, with the meat retained for our use. Pig killing day was always exciting for the young boys in the village. A little streak of sadism seemed to lurk in us. Many of us used to hold the rope that secured the pig to the killing stool. The slaughter was always a gory task. A small sharp blade was inserted into the pig throat and the animal would bleed to death. It soon became law that all animals had to be shot before being cut.
My Uncle Harold Harris used to do the killing. He used to enjoy it. After despatching the pig he would hang it in our back shed overnight and then return the next day to butcher it. Nothing at all was wasted. The intestines were removed, cleaned, salted and used for a nice pan of ‘chitterlings’. Beautiful home-cured lard, seasoned with a little fresh rosemary from the garden, was made out of the pig flear. We had a lead trough in the back shed in which all the salting was performed. This is how we made our bacon and cured the ham. My dad used to make his own curing brine, using salt, treacle and a few selected spices. His secret ingredient was a drop of old ale. It worked wonders.
After they were cured, the bacon sides and hams were brought into the house. Hams were hung on the wall at the side of fire, and the sides hung from the ceiling in a rack. There they were left to mature until they developed an intense flavour that has no equal today."
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
My Eyes!
Vic and I are exchanging cars everyday at the moment, a result of only having a single car seat for India. Today I drove Vic's car into work blind. I left my glasses in my car, which Vic had already departed in. With no vision correctors on, the drive to work was hair-raising. The world was a blur and I struggled to judge speed and distance. I felt I was wearing a goldfish bowl on my head. It was scary.
And I've got the return trip to look forward to later...
Vic and I are exchanging cars everyday at the moment, a result of only having a single car seat for India. Today I drove Vic's car into work blind. I left my glasses in my car, which Vic had already departed in. With no vision correctors on, the drive to work was hair-raising. The world was a blur and I struggled to judge speed and distance. I felt I was wearing a goldfish bowl on my head. It was scary.
And I've got the return trip to look forward to later...
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Athens
The Sunday Times Style magazine reports that the Greeks have ordered 130,000 condoms for the 17,000 athletes living in the Olympic Village over the next couple of weeks. A former athlete describes what goes on during the games as a 'f***fest'.
Now, these are purely my calculations, but figure 1 teaspoon of semen per condom. That's 5 ml times 130,000 condoms = 650 litres, or 1300 pints, of semen.
Almost enough for Ian Thorpe to swim in.
The Sunday Times Style magazine reports that the Greeks have ordered 130,000 condoms for the 17,000 athletes living in the Olympic Village over the next couple of weeks. A former athlete describes what goes on during the games as a 'f***fest'.
Now, these are purely my calculations, but figure 1 teaspoon of semen per condom. That's 5 ml times 130,000 condoms = 650 litres, or 1300 pints, of semen.
Almost enough for Ian Thorpe to swim in.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Crash Bang Wallop What a Big One
Somebody left the skylight to our bedroom opened yesterday. They knew that there was a chance of showers, but didn't expect the Summer Storm of the Decade to hit. I returned home to discover that the two inch gap at the top of the window had allowed buckets of water to soak the carpet and the bed. The rain had descended through layers of duvet, sheets, more sheets, a sleeping bag, and porous rock to soak the mattress. The carpet was drenched, and despite sponging with old towels, it was still wet this morning.
It was me who left the window open.
The lovely Falcon pub -- 200 yards down the road -- had a fire engine pumping its cellars out all night.
Good storm.
Out of Hospital
Gran came out of the JR yesterday. She's back at home and pleased to be sleeping in her own bed.
A House Divided
Vic went back to work on Monday for her first three day week. India was at the nursery on Monday and today. Yesterday she was looked after by my mum and dad. As expected, Vic hates it.
Somebody left the skylight to our bedroom opened yesterday. They knew that there was a chance of showers, but didn't expect the Summer Storm of the Decade to hit. I returned home to discover that the two inch gap at the top of the window had allowed buckets of water to soak the carpet and the bed. The rain had descended through layers of duvet, sheets, more sheets, a sleeping bag, and porous rock to soak the mattress. The carpet was drenched, and despite sponging with old towels, it was still wet this morning.
It was me who left the window open.
The lovely Falcon pub -- 200 yards down the road -- had a fire engine pumping its cellars out all night.
Good storm.
Out of Hospital
Gran came out of the JR yesterday. She's back at home and pleased to be sleeping in her own bed.
A House Divided
Vic went back to work on Monday for her first three day week. India was at the nursery on Monday and today. Yesterday she was looked after by my mum and dad. As expected, Vic hates it.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Electrical Storm
As I write this we are currently in the middle of the best electrical storm I've experienced for ages. Being at the top of the High Wycombe valley, I have a panoramic view of the lightning striking down around us. The office is slowly being flooded. So much rain has fallen that the gutters and roof can't cope. Water is pouring in through the window seals, soaking the carpets and cascading over power lines. At any moment I might lose this posting. It's very exciting. One of our 'Crisis Team' has just told me -- in his best Hollywood action movie voice -- that they've had to "cut the power on the other side of the building!". I am expecting us to be evacuated any second.
To top things off, our dimwitted HR Fools decided to force our Facilities Manager to resign last week, and he's out of the office today on gardening/beer leave. Instant Karma again (Kate). He's going to be soooo eager to fix the office tomorrow...
And now I'm hearing that (as usual) the freak weather is causing the closure of most of Wycombe's roads through flooding. There is also an accident on the M40 back to Oxford. Time to leave I think...
As I write this we are currently in the middle of the best electrical storm I've experienced for ages. Being at the top of the High Wycombe valley, I have a panoramic view of the lightning striking down around us. The office is slowly being flooded. So much rain has fallen that the gutters and roof can't cope. Water is pouring in through the window seals, soaking the carpets and cascading over power lines. At any moment I might lose this posting. It's very exciting. One of our 'Crisis Team' has just told me -- in his best Hollywood action movie voice -- that they've had to "cut the power on the other side of the building!". I am expecting us to be evacuated any second.
To top things off, our dimwitted HR Fools decided to force our Facilities Manager to resign last week, and he's out of the office today on gardening/beer leave. Instant Karma again (Kate). He's going to be soooo eager to fix the office tomorrow...
And now I'm hearing that (as usual) the freak weather is causing the closure of most of Wycombe's roads through flooding. There is also an accident on the M40 back to Oxford. Time to leave I think...
Friday, July 30, 2004
A Murder Mystery
Saturday night sees us celebrate Rob's birthday with a Murder Mystery Dinner. The scenario is 1930's India, with the characters being a motley crew of British Army Colonel's, Muslim playboys and Indian Independence activists. It is a boxed game, rather than one I've written myself. I've played four or five of these games now and they can go one of two ways: 1) Complete disasters as people drink too much and get confused about what's going on/fail to reveal their information correctly. 2) People get in character, stay sober and concentrate on the game, reveal what they need to and ask the right questions, resulting in a smooth evening.
Apart from the time Rob and I had to dress up in drag, most of our MMG's have ended up as disasters... I'm hoping that as three of the six won't be drinking more than a glass of wine, we'll be OK this time out.
I'm off to locate some props this afternoon: Stuffed tiger, croquet mallet (the murder weapon), Colonel's hat and false moustache, medals, books on the Boer War (Robin is playing a South African businessman/rugby player), blunderbuss, etc.
I have no doubt that it will be me who turns out to have done the dirty deed: caving the skull in of one of my officers... with a croquet mallet.
Saturday night sees us celebrate Rob's birthday with a Murder Mystery Dinner. The scenario is 1930's India, with the characters being a motley crew of British Army Colonel's, Muslim playboys and Indian Independence activists. It is a boxed game, rather than one I've written myself. I've played four or five of these games now and they can go one of two ways: 1) Complete disasters as people drink too much and get confused about what's going on/fail to reveal their information correctly. 2) People get in character, stay sober and concentrate on the game, reveal what they need to and ask the right questions, resulting in a smooth evening.
Apart from the time Rob and I had to dress up in drag, most of our MMG's have ended up as disasters... I'm hoping that as three of the six won't be drinking more than a glass of wine, we'll be OK this time out.
I'm off to locate some props this afternoon: Stuffed tiger, croquet mallet (the murder weapon), Colonel's hat and false moustache, medals, books on the Boer War (Robin is playing a South African businessman/rugby player), blunderbuss, etc.
I have no doubt that it will be me who turns out to have done the dirty deed: caving the skull in of one of my officers... with a croquet mallet.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
For Whom the Bell Tolls: Exam Results
I've just received my exam results. The email, sent by the CIMA Doomgoblins and made of lead, arrived with the accompanying sound of the London Lloyds Bell announcing the tragic news that another ship had been lost to the cruel sea.
You may well remember that I came out of both exams feeling very upset and frustrated. I'd put in a lot of hardwork and feared my poor performances on the day had thoroughly rotted the fruits of my labours. I was expecting to be acutely embarrassed by the results -- I know what is expected of me in these exams now and have been predicting nothing more than a 30-35% score in both.
So imagine my surprise and shock at scoring 47% and 50%, meaning a near-miss in the Financial Strategy and a very important scraped pass in the Case Study.
I'm stunned and can only think that the exams must have been overly difficult and CIMA had to bump up the marks*. There is no way that I scored anywhere near those marks on the day.
Vic and I are going to get pissed on champagne tonight.
I didn't embarass myself!
I've only got one more of the friggin' things to pass!
Put out the bunting!
Roll on the November retake!
* CIMA claim that they don't do this, but we all know that they do really...
I've just received my exam results. The email, sent by the CIMA Doomgoblins and made of lead, arrived with the accompanying sound of the London Lloyds Bell announcing the tragic news that another ship had been lost to the cruel sea.
You may well remember that I came out of both exams feeling very upset and frustrated. I'd put in a lot of hardwork and feared my poor performances on the day had thoroughly rotted the fruits of my labours. I was expecting to be acutely embarrassed by the results -- I know what is expected of me in these exams now and have been predicting nothing more than a 30-35% score in both.
So imagine my surprise and shock at scoring 47% and 50%, meaning a near-miss in the Financial Strategy and a very important scraped pass in the Case Study.
I'm stunned and can only think that the exams must have been overly difficult and CIMA had to bump up the marks*. There is no way that I scored anywhere near those marks on the day.
Vic and I are going to get pissed on champagne tonight.
I didn't embarass myself!
I've only got one more of the friggin' things to pass!
Put out the bunting!
Roll on the November retake!
* CIMA claim that they don't do this, but we all know that they do really...
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
A Little Tip for You: Don't Point the Finger
My dad sliced the tip of his finger off yesterday with a pair of garden shears. He was pruning the waterlillies. Mum said she found the tip on the blades, looking like half a baked bean. The finger bled for England, so they visited the JR's A&E. Unfortunately the chopped off end was too small for them to sew back on, so dad will presumably have a stubby finger now for the rest of his years.
My dad sliced the tip of his finger off yesterday with a pair of garden shears. He was pruning the waterlillies. Mum said she found the tip on the blades, looking like half a baked bean. The finger bled for England, so they visited the JR's A&E. Unfortunately the chopped off end was too small for them to sew back on, so dad will presumably have a stubby finger now for the rest of his years.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
The Biotic Man
We're using Thame's library again after a long break; driven by the need to feed India an ever-changing selection of books. She loves books.
I'm currently reading Rubicon ('The Triumph and Tragedy of the Roman Republic') by Tom Holland -- a rip-snorter of a history book, with colourful shocks on every page -- and Jack Heffron's Ideas for Writers.
Since the demise of starlines, I've avoided "how to write" articles, but Heffron's opening two chapters has already fuelled my desire to put pen to paper. He lists the top ten enemies of writing, and top of that list is the Procastinator -- a costume that I often wear. Taking Heffron's advice to 'just write', I've discarded my procastinator mask and have flung myself back into Writing Project 1: Typing up my grandad's memoirs.
The Life of a Tackley Lad is now being typed up and edited at the rate of 1000 words a day -- hardly speedy, but at least it's being done and I'm getting satisfaction from doing it. Hopefully it will cheer me gramp up a bit -- gran is still in the JR hospital.
The shift back to this outstanding project corresponds with a few other subtle changes: I am taking vitamins and eating dried nuts, seeds and fruit to combat an apparent vitamin B complex deficit. I am sipping Danone probiotic goo to give my body some friendly bacteria and a boost after all those antibiotic courses. I am doing the odd sit-up, and drinking gin and tonic rather than beer, to get my unsightly blubber belly in check.
Better body, better application of the mind.
We're using Thame's library again after a long break; driven by the need to feed India an ever-changing selection of books. She loves books.
I'm currently reading Rubicon ('The Triumph and Tragedy of the Roman Republic') by Tom Holland -- a rip-snorter of a history book, with colourful shocks on every page -- and Jack Heffron's Ideas for Writers.
Since the demise of starlines, I've avoided "how to write" articles, but Heffron's opening two chapters has already fuelled my desire to put pen to paper. He lists the top ten enemies of writing, and top of that list is the Procastinator -- a costume that I often wear. Taking Heffron's advice to 'just write', I've discarded my procastinator mask and have flung myself back into Writing Project 1: Typing up my grandad's memoirs.
The Life of a Tackley Lad is now being typed up and edited at the rate of 1000 words a day -- hardly speedy, but at least it's being done and I'm getting satisfaction from doing it. Hopefully it will cheer me gramp up a bit -- gran is still in the JR hospital.
The shift back to this outstanding project corresponds with a few other subtle changes: I am taking vitamins and eating dried nuts, seeds and fruit to combat an apparent vitamin B complex deficit. I am sipping Danone probiotic goo to give my body some friendly bacteria and a boost after all those antibiotic courses. I am doing the odd sit-up, and drinking gin and tonic rather than beer, to get my unsightly blubber belly in check.
Better body, better application of the mind.
Monday, July 19, 2004
The Naming Party
Thank you to everyone who joined us for India's naming party yesterday. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. It was great for me! The afternoon went quicker than even our wedding day, and I was conscious of the fact that most people got all of 5 minutes (if they were lucky) talk time. Sorry! It was a blur, but I did my best. Thank you again for coming and your kind gifts for India. And the booze of course. It was a suitable celebration of India's arrival into the world.
A summary for those who didn't make it:
We'd booked the Barns Centre for 12:30. We got there early -- we had lots to set-up.. The Centre Manager forgot our booking. Vic was stressing at 12:35 that he wasn't going to turn up and all the food that she and her mum had been preparing for 3 days was going to cook in the back of the car. At 12:45 I managed to locate John Thomas (real name) the Barns Centre Mgr and he opened the hall for us 5 minutes later. Tears from Vic were averted. My bollocks were saved from getting cut off with the bread knife. With all hands on deck we managed to get set-up and rolling just as the first guests arrived.
The day was sweaty. Very humid. Great for those who wished to sit out on the grass and catch some rays, but bad for those of us who were stressed at not having a venue / 5 minutes to set-up the place. Many guests had the pleasure of having my salty sticky cheek pressed against their face on arrival. Not great for the armpits either when you've -- as usual -- not written your speech and are trying to jot down a few notes on the back of a stamp.
The food was great.
Uncle Stasher -- more formally known as Andrew -- played a perfect piece [The Swan] on his cello to open the ceremony. The babies were enthralled.
The four godparents/cheque-bringers -- Rob, Emma, Stasher and Steph -- behaved themselves and nodded when required.
India was oblivious to the fact that it was her party and she was the centre of attention.
Thank you to everyone who joined us for India's naming party yesterday. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. It was great for me! The afternoon went quicker than even our wedding day, and I was conscious of the fact that most people got all of 5 minutes (if they were lucky) talk time. Sorry! It was a blur, but I did my best. Thank you again for coming and your kind gifts for India. And the booze of course. It was a suitable celebration of India's arrival into the world.
A summary for those who didn't make it:
We'd booked the Barns Centre for 12:30. We got there early -- we had lots to set-up.. The Centre Manager forgot our booking. Vic was stressing at 12:35 that he wasn't going to turn up and all the food that she and her mum had been preparing for 3 days was going to cook in the back of the car. At 12:45 I managed to locate John Thomas (real name) the Barns Centre Mgr and he opened the hall for us 5 minutes later. Tears from Vic were averted. My bollocks were saved from getting cut off with the bread knife. With all hands on deck we managed to get set-up and rolling just as the first guests arrived.
The day was sweaty. Very humid. Great for those who wished to sit out on the grass and catch some rays, but bad for those of us who were stressed at not having a venue / 5 minutes to set-up the place. Many guests had the pleasure of having my salty sticky cheek pressed against their face on arrival. Not great for the armpits either when you've -- as usual -- not written your speech and are trying to jot down a few notes on the back of a stamp.
The food was great.
Uncle Stasher -- more formally known as Andrew -- played a perfect piece [The Swan] on his cello to open the ceremony. The babies were enthralled.
The four godparents/cheque-bringers -- Rob, Emma, Stasher and Steph -- behaved themselves and nodded when required.
India was oblivious to the fact that it was her party and she was the centre of attention.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
The Hanging Tree
My journey home takes me past an unusual tree. It is enormous and very dead. It stands proudly by itself at the edge of a pasture. It looks as if it is the victim of a lightning strike: Not a single leaf hangs from its twisted bare limbs -- just an old tyre and rope swing. It's the sort of tree you would imagine mobs would use for lynchings and I therefore call it the Hanging Tree. It has a striking and haunting beauty. Every time I drive past I think to myself that I should stop and take a photo of it for posterity.
Last week when I drove past, a man WAS taking a photo of it. It reassured me to know that I wasn't the only person who saw beauty in the dead giant. I'm not mad.
If you want to see the tree for yourself, it's on the B482, just on the right as you across the M40 travelling from Stokenchurch to Cadmore End.
My journey home takes me past an unusual tree. It is enormous and very dead. It stands proudly by itself at the edge of a pasture. It looks as if it is the victim of a lightning strike: Not a single leaf hangs from its twisted bare limbs -- just an old tyre and rope swing. It's the sort of tree you would imagine mobs would use for lynchings and I therefore call it the Hanging Tree. It has a striking and haunting beauty. Every time I drive past I think to myself that I should stop and take a photo of it for posterity.
Last week when I drove past, a man WAS taking a photo of it. It reassured me to know that I wasn't the only person who saw beauty in the dead giant. I'm not mad.
If you want to see the tree for yourself, it's on the B482, just on the right as you across the M40 travelling from Stokenchurch to Cadmore End.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
The World Series of Poker
Jonnie wants to get the ante-natal boys together for a low-stakes game of poker. He claims that he's never played before, which sounds like a hustle to me.
A few weekends ago was the World Series of Poker. The result from this event which blows me away is the guy who came second -- winning a mere $3.5 million -- only started playing poker after going Pro at that silly card game that I play -- Magic. Well done Dave Williams. On top of that, in 8th place, winning a cool $575,000 is Sweden's 2001 Magic National Champion.
If only Vic had let me play more Magic when I was a youngster...
Perhaps our £2 Buy-In Boys Night In session will be the first leg on a $3.5 million poker pay day for me...
...Yeah right.
Jonnie wants to get the ante-natal boys together for a low-stakes game of poker. He claims that he's never played before, which sounds like a hustle to me.
A few weekends ago was the World Series of Poker. The result from this event which blows me away is the guy who came second -- winning a mere $3.5 million -- only started playing poker after going Pro at that silly card game that I play -- Magic. Well done Dave Williams. On top of that, in 8th place, winning a cool $575,000 is Sweden's 2001 Magic National Champion.
If only Vic had let me play more Magic when I was a youngster...
Perhaps our £2 Buy-In Boys Night In session will be the first leg on a $3.5 million poker pay day for me...
...Yeah right.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Silks, Songs and Sag Aloo
Vic's Mum and Dad were down with us at the weekend. It was Bob's birthday. They were also down for a friend's memorial service -- the guy had a fatal heart attack just a week after retiring to France.
For Bob's birthday treat we all ventured off to the newly renovated House of Spice in Thame. They've gutted the place and refurbished it in the style of Pizza Express less the style. The smoking area is beneath the non-smoking area, so all the smoke drifts up to the non-tabbers. At one end of the restaurant they've installed a giant plasma screen on which they were loudly playing Bollywood movies. [I love the colour of the silks and the fact you can spot who the heroes and villains are from the colour and condition of their clothes and size of their moustaches.]
As we'd walked up to eat, and the weather was threatening rain in that typically English manner, we had carried a pair of umbrellas with us. The helpful waiter, who couldn't speak English -- he didn't even understand that common Indian Restaurant Phrase Book standard of "half a pint of Kingfisher lager please" -- took our umbrellas from us and hid them in the cloakroom next to the big screen.
When our time came to leave, we asked the Waiter Who Only Understands The Word Pint to retrieve our umbrellas for us.
And as he scuttled up the restaurant towards the clockroom and that big plasma screen showing a classic Bollywood musical, I couldn't resist saying:
"For him it's a dream come true... he's off to Brollywood."
Vic's Mum and Dad were down with us at the weekend. It was Bob's birthday. They were also down for a friend's memorial service -- the guy had a fatal heart attack just a week after retiring to France.
For Bob's birthday treat we all ventured off to the newly renovated House of Spice in Thame. They've gutted the place and refurbished it in the style of Pizza Express less the style. The smoking area is beneath the non-smoking area, so all the smoke drifts up to the non-tabbers. At one end of the restaurant they've installed a giant plasma screen on which they were loudly playing Bollywood movies. [I love the colour of the silks and the fact you can spot who the heroes and villains are from the colour and condition of their clothes and size of their moustaches.]
As we'd walked up to eat, and the weather was threatening rain in that typically English manner, we had carried a pair of umbrellas with us. The helpful waiter, who couldn't speak English -- he didn't even understand that common Indian Restaurant Phrase Book standard of "half a pint of Kingfisher lager please" -- took our umbrellas from us and hid them in the cloakroom next to the big screen.
When our time came to leave, we asked the Waiter Who Only Understands The Word Pint to retrieve our umbrellas for us.
And as he scuttled up the restaurant towards the clockroom and that big plasma screen showing a classic Bollywood musical, I couldn't resist saying:
"For him it's a dream come true... he's off to Brollywood."
Friday, June 25, 2004
The Referee's a W@nker
It always happens to England doesn't it. Yet again we see a perfectly good goal disallowed by a home-decision referee. Mister Meier even over-ruled his assistant [linesman] who signalled the goal as valid. A dreadful piece of refereeing, and one that robbed England of their rightful place in the semi's. I'm gutted. Forget the penalties -- they are always a lottery and we shouldn't have been in that position.
If you'd like to send Urs Meier a message -- congratulating him on his great work in a Portugese shirt -- you'll find a handy feedback section. Bewarned that the page might not load first time: His server is probably seeing a lot more traffic than normal...
I'm getting tired of seeing England nearly make it.
It always happens to England doesn't it. Yet again we see a perfectly good goal disallowed by a home-decision referee. Mister Meier even over-ruled his assistant [linesman] who signalled the goal as valid. A dreadful piece of refereeing, and one that robbed England of their rightful place in the semi's. I'm gutted. Forget the penalties -- they are always a lottery and we shouldn't have been in that position.
If you'd like to send Urs Meier a message -- congratulating him on his great work in a Portugese shirt -- you'll find a handy feedback section. Bewarned that the page might not load first time: His server is probably seeing a lot more traffic than normal...
I'm getting tired of seeing England nearly make it.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
I Expect
The football is keeping my mind off my Gran's terminal condition. For this reason alone I'd like to England progress another round. Stories that 40,000 of the 65,000 capacity crowd will be English -- despite the fact is being played in the host's backyard stadium -- encourage wishful thinking that perhaps this time, more than any other time, England can go all the way.
I have £1 on England to win 3-1 in normal time.
The football is keeping my mind off my Gran's terminal condition. For this reason alone I'd like to England progress another round. Stories that 40,000 of the 65,000 capacity crowd will be English -- despite the fact is being played in the host's backyard stadium -- encourage wishful thinking that perhaps this time, more than any other time, England can go all the way.
I have £1 on England to win 3-1 in normal time.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Chow Italia
Vic seems to think that I'm xenophobic when it comes to football. She uses words like "hate" -- as in "Why do you hate the Germans / French / Italians [delete as appropriate] so much?"
Last night it was the turn of the Italian dream to crumble, and when I expressed my pleasure at seeing them go out of the tournament, Vic asked the above question. I'm not xenophobic of course, but football's a funny old game, and I do have some deep-seated, jingoistic, views on the above three nationalities when it comes to football (e.g. all three of the above teams have misplaced arrogance). But the bottom line is that there's nothing better than seeing the once mighty struck low. Who cannot appreciate the bitterness of seeing the celebrations of the Italians at their last-gasp winning goal being immediately cut short by the news that it was irrelevant and they were going home on the next plane out. They deserved it, just as Spain deserved it two nights before. A team of poncy reputations playing without respect for their opponents or the game --either playing for the draw or playing without drive or ambition. I'm pleased for Sweden and Denmark -- they deserved to progress, unlike the dire Italians. All the Italians can do is wave about wild accusations of collusion. It's got nothing to do with xenophobia -- it's all about merit.
However, I can't wait to see the TV coverage of the tomato-throwing Italian public welcoming their heroes home. Hopefully they'll have a crate ready for spitmeister Totti.
Vic seems to think that I'm xenophobic when it comes to football. She uses words like "hate" -- as in "Why do you hate the Germans / French / Italians [delete as appropriate] so much?"
Last night it was the turn of the Italian dream to crumble, and when I expressed my pleasure at seeing them go out of the tournament, Vic asked the above question. I'm not xenophobic of course, but football's a funny old game, and I do have some deep-seated, jingoistic, views on the above three nationalities when it comes to football (e.g. all three of the above teams have misplaced arrogance). But the bottom line is that there's nothing better than seeing the once mighty struck low. Who cannot appreciate the bitterness of seeing the celebrations of the Italians at their last-gasp winning goal being immediately cut short by the news that it was irrelevant and they were going home on the next plane out. They deserved it, just as Spain deserved it two nights before. A team of poncy reputations playing without respect for their opponents or the game --either playing for the draw or playing without drive or ambition. I'm pleased for Sweden and Denmark -- they deserved to progress, unlike the dire Italians. All the Italians can do is wave about wild accusations of collusion. It's got nothing to do with xenophobia -- it's all about merit.
However, I can't wait to see the TV coverage of the tomato-throwing Italian public welcoming their heroes home. Hopefully they'll have a crate ready for spitmeister Totti.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
So Hot
After the supreme disappointment of the France match, there was no getting away from the possibility that those fateful last two minutes would come back to haunt the England team. Thankfully, after two very professional performances, England have qualified for the knock-out stages.
All thanks to Wayne Rooney.
The boy done good. Or, as the heart-on-sleeve Ian "Wright, Wright" Wright said: "He's on fire... he's so hot, he needs an asbestos kit."
And that's what makes the BBC's TV coverage of the games so much better than ITV's:
Studio pundits like Gary Linekar and Ian Wright who genuinely care -- and are passionate about -- the England team. Unlike their counterparts on ITV -- Jamaica's Robbie Earle and Ireland's Andy Townsend -- Ian and Gary have played for England and know what it's all about.
Commentators who a) don't get over excited, b) understand the difference between a big match and a good match, and c) know the names of the English players (unlike Sir Bobby Robson).
No cutting away from the build-up for TV advertisements in the 30 second period between the end of the national anthems and the kick-off.
The quarterfinal against Portugal should be a cracker: The stadium should rock. After that, the semi's could throw up a clash with the lack-lustre Germany. Then France in the final. I can almost see David Beckham raising the trophy up in his hands, with a St. George's flag behind him with "Thame Boys" written on it.
After the supreme disappointment of the France match, there was no getting away from the possibility that those fateful last two minutes would come back to haunt the England team. Thankfully, after two very professional performances, England have qualified for the knock-out stages.
All thanks to Wayne Rooney.
The boy done good. Or, as the heart-on-sleeve Ian "Wright, Wright" Wright said: "He's on fire... he's so hot, he needs an asbestos kit."
And that's what makes the BBC's TV coverage of the games so much better than ITV's:
Studio pundits like Gary Linekar and Ian Wright who genuinely care -- and are passionate about -- the England team. Unlike their counterparts on ITV -- Jamaica's Robbie Earle and Ireland's Andy Townsend -- Ian and Gary have played for England and know what it's all about.
Commentators who a) don't get over excited, b) understand the difference between a big match and a good match, and c) know the names of the English players (unlike Sir Bobby Robson).
No cutting away from the build-up for TV advertisements in the 30 second period between the end of the national anthems and the kick-off.
The quarterfinal against Portugal should be a cracker: The stadium should rock. After that, the semi's could throw up a clash with the lack-lustre Germany. Then France in the final. I can almost see David Beckham raising the trophy up in his hands, with a St. George's flag behind him with "Thame Boys" written on it.
