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Monthly Archives: August 2011
Great British food tales
The Great Western Rail experience;
“Hello, can I have a cheese and tomato toastie on crusty farmhouse white bread, please?”
“Sorry, but we don’t have any tomatoes.”
“Ah, never mind. Toasted cheese then.”
“Er, we are out of cheese”.
“Oh. Toast then.”
“Yes, but it will have to be brown bread.”
For further great British food tales see Everyday at 8pm.
A crazy-dude free world
Vince and Howard from the Mighty Boosh
Ok, here’s the rub. You’ve bought tickets to see a show in London (a costa-del-armandleg jobby). Three rows in front, a young geezer does impressions of the gorilla, Bolo, from the Mighty Boosh in a very loud voice every few minutes*. The person next to him makes a show of saying “Shhhhhhhhh”, but this is more to appease the increasingly irritated people around them, than any expectation that he’ll watch the show quietly.
So, should they leave so that everyone else rest can watch the show in peace?
Or should the audience relax their expectations? Continue reading
Summer fun*
As part of our programme of Summer fun*, I went to Oxford with LB to go on the City Bus Tour. The rest is visual. Except, as you will see, it all comes back to pigeons.
The grind of music
LB loves music. One kind at a time. He started with Peter and the Wolf as a pup. Moved briefly to Gary Gilmour’s eyes, the Beatles and then to Keane. Keane were a keeper. We had a good three years with a constant Keane backdrop. It will be many years before I can hear a Keane track without sobbing. Thinking about the opening bars of Walnut Tree brings me out in a cold sweat.
But then it was over for Keane. Dropped overnight and replaced by drum and bass. Constant tinnitus. Relentless, tiny, teeny, tuneless noise. All the time. All.the.fucking.time.
The truck
All out of Toto lyrics for now. Boy, that is one repetitive song. Anyway, here is the truck somewhere in Sub-Saharan Africa.
The moonlit wings reflect the stars..
Part 3 of the overland saga and I’ve even grubbed around in the attic for my old sketch pad.
Sleeping. By the time we reached the desert we slept where we lay our sleeping mats. Scattered around the truck in two’s and three’s. Generally as far from the canoodling couples as possible. There were no roads, just space. It was pretty cold at night, so we’d bundle up in sleeping bags and doze off watching the shooting stars party.
The wild dogs cry out in the night
The thing with going on an overland trip in a Bedford truck is speed. It doesn’t really go more than about 40 miles an hour and Chalfont St. Peter to Kenya is quite a long way. A routine quickly set in. Up around 6.30am, bit of nosh then drive till lunchtime, bit of nosh, then park and camp and nosh around 6.30pm.
Talking about a revolution
June 11, 1988. The Nelson Mandela Wembley concert was live on TV. Tracy Chapman was haunting. The following week an ad in the back of Time Out, advertising a trip from England to Kenya. A couple had bought an old Bedford truck and were looking for passengers.
September 21st, 1988. About twenty of us set off from their gaff at Chalfont St Peter.
Well.
Fucksie me.
A commotion in the ocean
Sticking my toe back in the holiday thread. So many memories. Sigh.
Richy Rich regularly took a selection of the kids camping. One time he had three of ’em, aged 6, 4 and 1.5. On the Sunday, he took them to the beach at Highcliffe, near Bournemouth. They walked down the cliff path to the beach, dumped their stuff and ran into the sea. Instantly a big wave knocked Richy’s glasses off and swept them away.
Now Richy is like Vincent van Gopher without his glasses. He can’t see squit-diddly. This is not a good situation to be in with teeny tiny kids in the sea.
mydaftlife 
