I thought 'Rapture' was just one of Blondie's weaker songs until quite recently. But it turns out that it's a little more serious than that. According to American preacher Harold Camping, the Rapture happens tomorrow from 6pm, when all the righteous will be swept up to heaven while the remaining 95% of us are left behind to wait for Armageddon.
Well. That puts my plans for the weekend in jeopardy. Mind you, at least it means I don't have to watch Birmingham City getting relegated from the Premiership on Sunday. Silver linings and all that.
By all accounts, according to Camping, this all starts happening at 6pm local time wherever you are, too, so it'll start in New Zealand, moving westwards as the earth spins. I reckon those of us in England will get a few hour's notice. However, as normal, the Germans will have got there first and no doubt their righteous ones will reserve the best places in heaven with a massive beach towel.
It has made me wonder: "What if this was the beginning of the end? What would I do if the world was ending tomorrow?" They say you should try everything at least once before you die. But I still can't get too enthusiastic about Morris Dancing, though.
Mind you, if you were a Christian with a sense of humour, you could play a great trick on your friends and neighbours. Simply wait until 6.00pm tomorrow, then go and hide. Bound to cause some consternation, I'd have thought.
It seems, however, that Camping isn't the first preacher to tell us the end is nigh. It happened before, notably in the 18th century - a Baptist minister in New York confidently predicted the end of the world would happen in 1843. It didn't happen. (It occurs to me - that last sentence is the most redundant sentence in history). Then he predicted it would take place in 1844, when, once again, it failed to happen. His followers referred to the world's stubborn refusal to end as 'The Great Disappointment', which tells you all you need to know about fundamentalists, I suppose.
For once, I wish that the people coming up with forecasts like this were a little more circumspect. On Sunday, Camping's followers will more than likely wake up and find themselves still here. (Carry on Camping, anyone?) Perhaps they need to be a little less shouty, a little more meek. After all, if they have to stay on earth, they might as well try inheriting it.
But in the meantime:
Friday, 20 May 2011
Sunday, 15 May 2011
A whole world of wrong
The other day I received an email. I read it. Then I read it again. I think I might even have had one of those comic 'shaking my head and blinking' moments as I let it sink in. If I'd have had a bottle of something strong next to me I might even have looked at it quizzically.
For this is what it said:
I'm just going to pause for one moment here, for those of you who actually know me in real life to wipe the tears from your eyes. I know, it's a belter, isn't it?
Effectively, the company 'Name Withheld' works for carries out online marketing. They find blogs that are relevant to their clients' needs and get them to write about product X in glowing terms, in exchange for payment and/or goods.
I know. It surprises people when they realise the world works this way. You'll never look at another blog in quite the same light again, will you?
This could be the moment when I say that I will not compromise my editorial purity. That there are things that are more important than the mighty dollar. I will not prostitute myself at the altar of commerce.
I am bigger than this. Quite a bit bigger, you might say.
But really, the fact of the matter is this. What a cack-handed approach! That annoys me more than any arbitrary discussion about morals. Name Withheld is going down, people.
Here was my reply:
For this is what it said:
From: (name withheld to protect the stupid)
To: fatboyfat
Re: Sponsored posts
Hello,
I am working on behalf of a sports supplements and fitness website, I am trying to raise their on-line profile.
Your site has some brilliant health content and I wondered if it is possible for me to do a guest post on your website.
Alternatively, if you do not offer guest posting opportunities, if you could let me know if you offer any forms of advertising.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Kind Regards,
(Name withheld yet again. Although it's tempting.)
I'm just going to pause for one moment here, for those of you who actually know me in real life to wipe the tears from your eyes. I know, it's a belter, isn't it?
Effectively, the company 'Name Withheld' works for carries out online marketing. They find blogs that are relevant to their clients' needs and get them to write about product X in glowing terms, in exchange for payment and/or goods.
I know. It surprises people when they realise the world works this way. You'll never look at another blog in quite the same light again, will you?
This could be the moment when I say that I will not compromise my editorial purity. That there are things that are more important than the mighty dollar. I will not prostitute myself at the altar of commerce.
I am bigger than this. Quite a bit bigger, you might say.
But really, the fact of the matter is this. What a cack-handed approach! That annoys me more than any arbitrary discussion about morals. Name Withheld is going down, people.
Here was my reply:
To: (Name Withheld)
From: fatboyfat
Re: sponsored posts
Dear (Name With..oh you get the point)
Thank you very much for your recent email, which has caused no small amount of excitement here at Make Lard History Towers. It was so perceptive of you to notice that a blog written by someone calling themselves Fatboyfat would in fact be a seasoned writer on all things health-related.
This blog does have readers. Literally tens over the course of a typical month. And they all come here for the latest of health-related information. I do have an unusual style though - I tend to hide the real meaning in the subtext. What was it that gave me away?
Was it the post where I ate a five-course meal? Or maybe the one involving a bottle of single malt whisky? Perhaps the one where I had the Hangover from Hades?
Maybe it's the constant references to extensive exercise? Like my attempting the Three Peaks Challenge and inadvertently renaming it the 0.6 of a Peak Challenge?
Or perhaps you spotted the hidden health-related messages in my more random posts, like the one about hitching hamsters up to electricity generators or having an argument with a fish?
Yes, I see it now. You really do read these blogs closely before you send out your allluring emails. It's such a good job you do, otherwise you'd look pretty stupid, wouldn't you?
As it happens I can't accept your invitation, as I'm currently waiting to hear from the Melton Mowbray Pie Federation. Let them down at your peril, otherwise you get pastried-up all over the place. It's not pretty, I hear.
Best regards in a completely non-ironic way.
fbf
Friday, 13 May 2011
About bloody time
A long time ago I mentioned that I was writing the screenplay to a short film. By 'long time ago' I mean something like three years, which in internet terms is practically centuries.
I wrote the screenplay. With the help of some sickeningly talented people we filmed it. More sickening talent was then employed in editing it. Which, by the way, is a nail-bitingly-head-bangingly long process. Well, it is if you only devote a couple of hours a week to it.
But that was the thing, you see. Those of us involved in the process had our normal lives to live. Jobs, families, drinking habits. The stuff that gets in the way when you try to make plans.
Between us, we faced up to losing people close to us, including the lead actor in the film. The world threw distractions at us and finishing off a silly, amateur seven-minute short film didn't really seem like a priority.
But time moves on. You can see where this is going, can't you?
Be nice. It might be short. But it had a very, very long birth.
I wrote the screenplay. With the help of some sickeningly talented people we filmed it. More sickening talent was then employed in editing it. Which, by the way, is a nail-bitingly-head-bangingly long process. Well, it is if you only devote a couple of hours a week to it.
But that was the thing, you see. Those of us involved in the process had our normal lives to live. Jobs, families, drinking habits. The stuff that gets in the way when you try to make plans.
Between us, we faced up to losing people close to us, including the lead actor in the film. The world threw distractions at us and finishing off a silly, amateur seven-minute short film didn't really seem like a priority.
But time moves on. You can see where this is going, can't you?
Be nice. It might be short. But it had a very, very long birth.
Sunday, 8 May 2011
The wheels on the bus go round and round
Pretty much every large city on the planet is doomed. That's my view after travelling into my nearest one over two days last week.
There was a conference in the city centre and the people who pay me sent me along to it. I could have driven, but thought it better to take the bus instead. And this is what gave me the rather gloomy outlook above.
I'm sorry, but public transport is a punishing experience in pretty much every way imaginable. Let me explain how.
I did not go into this with my glass half-empty. I was rather looking into it with a degree of anticipation. My current commute involves walking ten steps to my car, driving 25 miles to another city, parking up and walking into a building. It's not exactly a taxing process, but neither is it one to fill the heart with joy. Seriously, the A45 to Coventry is not something to stir up the emotions. Unless dyspepsia is an emotion, I suppose.
So I was looking forwards to my bus trip. I'm no stranger to buses; years ago I worked in Birmingham and it was the only way to travel. And I thought it would be the same last week. I imagined myself, leaping with gay abandon onto my allotted chariot, allowing it to convey me, a newly-born metropolitan sophisticate, to the great city. I would be free to do as I pleased once there, with no concerns about parking or the like.
I would be like one of those people in the adverts.Perhaps a skinny latte would be part of the deal? I'd have to find out exactly what a skinny latte was first (is it a type of pullover?) but I'd have this urban living malarkey nailed.
Waiting for the bus on Wednesday morning, most of this vision remained intact. I'd forgotten to factor in the 'walking to the bus-stop' phase of my journey into my timing, meaning a rather hurried walk had been made necessary. There are few things in life to which I attach the 'rather hurried' tag, and walking is evidently not one of them. I may have had a rather unpleasant glow about me by this point.
Never mind, I thought to myself, here comes my bus. I stepped on and dropped my £1.80 into the slot. Then, turning to face my fellow travellers, my heart sank.
Before I describe the scene that faced me, I should say that it is childish and wrong to judge people on their physical appearance. It is the mark of the shallow-minded. God knows I'm well aware of this myself, being on the receiving end of this treatment for much of what I laughingly call my adult life. I'm not proud of what I'm about to write.
It was like the cantina scene from Star Wars, only with a degree of forward motion added to the mix to further refine the horror. I had the distinct impression that they had all been enjoying a diverting conversation before my entry - perhaps about the latest flick-knives, or what's new in garroting - but they fell silent as they regarded me.
I was very conscious that I was wearing a suit. I had shiny shoes, a shirt and tie. It is not beyond doubt that some of the denizens of the bus were unfamiliar with this form of dress. Well, outside of court appearances, anyway. They looked upon me as if I had rocked up as an 18th century dandy, bewigged and carrying a nosegay.
I shuffled to a seat and gathered my thoughts. A man sniffed behind me.
"Not to worry," I said to myself. "At least you can look at the scenery. You can't do that if you're driving."
I regarded the boarded-up industrial units at the end of he road. A dog scratching its bum in the morning sunshine. And a scrawled message on the railway bridge that advised anyone interested that Kelly was, in fact, still a slag. I bring you this information free of charge.
The man sniffed once more.
Thirty seconds later we'd stopped again - people got on, people got off. I was made aware of really tinny music being played at the back of the bus. I don't know who it was who thought that selling very small speakers to teenagers with smartphones was a wise idea, but I would like to shake him warmly by the throat.
The man sniffed. In fact, the word 'sniff' doesn't do it justice. There was a lot going on with that sniff. It was portentous. It had depth. It spoke of medical conditions yet to be catalogued. And it was happening inches from my head.
From my left a young chap was having an increasingly animated conversation on his phone. I'm not one to overhear this sort of thing, but to be honest he wasn't giving an of us on the bus much of an option. I'm sure you'll be interested to know, as we were, that Imran didn't, in fact, go out last night, after some chicken that laid him low. And Ashraf can keep the money he's borrowed if he's going to say things like that. We don't know what Ashraf said, to be fair. Perhaps Imran needed some speakers on his phone, too.
The man sniffed. I was considering fashioning a copy of Metro into an impromptu rain hat.
Every thirty seconds we would stop and the passengers would be refreshed once more. As we approached schools along the route the aisle would fill up with youngsters, full of the swagger, the cheek and audacity of youth that makes others consider smothering as a viable option. An object lesson in language; by all accounts, the phrase "innit?" is to be used at the end of each sentence - even if it's not a question
Half an hour of this endured, the final stop was reached and I was disgorged, flapping and moist like a recently-landed carp, onto the pavement. I did not look or feel sophisticated. It occurred to me that if I worked in town this would be a daily occurrence for me. I shuddered at the thought and hoisted my wildly-heterosexual-manbag onto my shoulder.
And that's why I think cities are doomed. The bigger they get, the more public transport becomes a necessity. Before long, some of the poor souls who have to put up with it will snap. It's a good job we don't allow people over to carry guns, I suppose. The carnage would be biblical.
Right then, where are my car keys? Come to Daddy.
There was a conference in the city centre and the people who pay me sent me along to it. I could have driven, but thought it better to take the bus instead. And this is what gave me the rather gloomy outlook above.
I'm sorry, but public transport is a punishing experience in pretty much every way imaginable. Let me explain how.
I did not go into this with my glass half-empty. I was rather looking into it with a degree of anticipation. My current commute involves walking ten steps to my car, driving 25 miles to another city, parking up and walking into a building. It's not exactly a taxing process, but neither is it one to fill the heart with joy. Seriously, the A45 to Coventry is not something to stir up the emotions. Unless dyspepsia is an emotion, I suppose.
So I was looking forwards to my bus trip. I'm no stranger to buses; years ago I worked in Birmingham and it was the only way to travel. And I thought it would be the same last week. I imagined myself, leaping with gay abandon onto my allotted chariot, allowing it to convey me, a newly-born metropolitan sophisticate, to the great city. I would be free to do as I pleased once there, with no concerns about parking or the like.
I would be like one of those people in the adverts.Perhaps a skinny latte would be part of the deal? I'd have to find out exactly what a skinny latte was first (is it a type of pullover?) but I'd have this urban living malarkey nailed.
Waiting for the bus on Wednesday morning, most of this vision remained intact. I'd forgotten to factor in the 'walking to the bus-stop' phase of my journey into my timing, meaning a rather hurried walk had been made necessary. There are few things in life to which I attach the 'rather hurried' tag, and walking is evidently not one of them. I may have had a rather unpleasant glow about me by this point.
Never mind, I thought to myself, here comes my bus. I stepped on and dropped my £1.80 into the slot. Then, turning to face my fellow travellers, my heart sank.
Before I describe the scene that faced me, I should say that it is childish and wrong to judge people on their physical appearance. It is the mark of the shallow-minded. God knows I'm well aware of this myself, being on the receiving end of this treatment for much of what I laughingly call my adult life. I'm not proud of what I'm about to write.
It was like the cantina scene from Star Wars, only with a degree of forward motion added to the mix to further refine the horror. I had the distinct impression that they had all been enjoying a diverting conversation before my entry - perhaps about the latest flick-knives, or what's new in garroting - but they fell silent as they regarded me.
I was very conscious that I was wearing a suit. I had shiny shoes, a shirt and tie. It is not beyond doubt that some of the denizens of the bus were unfamiliar with this form of dress. Well, outside of court appearances, anyway. They looked upon me as if I had rocked up as an 18th century dandy, bewigged and carrying a nosegay.
I shuffled to a seat and gathered my thoughts. A man sniffed behind me.
"Not to worry," I said to myself. "At least you can look at the scenery. You can't do that if you're driving."
I regarded the boarded-up industrial units at the end of he road. A dog scratching its bum in the morning sunshine. And a scrawled message on the railway bridge that advised anyone interested that Kelly was, in fact, still a slag. I bring you this information free of charge.
The man sniffed once more.
Thirty seconds later we'd stopped again - people got on, people got off. I was made aware of really tinny music being played at the back of the bus. I don't know who it was who thought that selling very small speakers to teenagers with smartphones was a wise idea, but I would like to shake him warmly by the throat.
The man sniffed. In fact, the word 'sniff' doesn't do it justice. There was a lot going on with that sniff. It was portentous. It had depth. It spoke of medical conditions yet to be catalogued. And it was happening inches from my head.
From my left a young chap was having an increasingly animated conversation on his phone. I'm not one to overhear this sort of thing, but to be honest he wasn't giving an of us on the bus much of an option. I'm sure you'll be interested to know, as we were, that Imran didn't, in fact, go out last night, after some chicken that laid him low. And Ashraf can keep the money he's borrowed if he's going to say things like that. We don't know what Ashraf said, to be fair. Perhaps Imran needed some speakers on his phone, too.
The man sniffed. I was considering fashioning a copy of Metro into an impromptu rain hat.
Every thirty seconds we would stop and the passengers would be refreshed once more. As we approached schools along the route the aisle would fill up with youngsters, full of the swagger, the cheek and audacity of youth that makes others consider smothering as a viable option. An object lesson in language; by all accounts, the phrase "innit?" is to be used at the end of each sentence - even if it's not a question
Half an hour of this endured, the final stop was reached and I was disgorged, flapping and moist like a recently-landed carp, onto the pavement. I did not look or feel sophisticated. It occurred to me that if I worked in town this would be a daily occurrence for me. I shuddered at the thought and hoisted my wildly-heterosexual-manbag onto my shoulder.
And that's why I think cities are doomed. The bigger they get, the more public transport becomes a necessity. Before long, some of the poor souls who have to put up with it will snap. It's a good job we don't allow people over to carry guns, I suppose. The carnage would be biblical.
Right then, where are my car keys? Come to Daddy.
Friday, 29 April 2011
The Official Make Lard History Royal Wedding Not-Quite Live Blog
For the benefit of those of you not fortunate, or indeed British, enough to have been watching today's Royal Wedding shenanigans in realtime, I humbly present below for your delectation the key events as they happened. Or, at least as I remember them. I might have been distracted by scones at some point.
Sit back, pour yourself a cup of tea, get your flags out and enjoy.
Before 8.00am - the groom is awakened. It appears that Harry has managed to perform his Best Man duties and City of London fire service personnel are required to remove the manacles chaining William to a lamppost in Islington. Before long, National Heritage has placed a blue plaque on the site, marked: "Prince William Slept Here."
8.30am - Twitter is abuzz with anti-Monarchists telling everyone they are avoiding Twitter today because of mentions of the Royal Wedding. This rapidly becomes a trending topic and logical nightmare.
9.00am - the BBC are reading out messages of goodwill from around the world:
"Congratulations to the happy couple" - Harry and Vera, Sydney, Australia.
"What a lovely day for a wedding" - Bernard, Hong Kong
"I just lost my house in a tornado and couldn't give a stuff about your wedding" - Muriel, Tennessee
9.15am - the congregation begin to arrive at Westminster Abbey. We watch the horror unfolding among the gathered masses as they realise they have to sit for three and a half hours in a 1,000 year-old building with no toilet facilities. Armed guards are watching the font very carefully.
9.30am - Victoria Beckham almost smiles before correcting herself.
10.00am - an awkward moment when the King of Tonga arrives as everyone realises he looks almost exactly the same as Mohammed al-Fayed.
10.14am - Carol Middleton, mother of the bride, reacts spiritedly on being told that her daughter is to be made Duchess of Cambridge after her wedding. This has placed her own present of bedlinen in the shade, somewhat.
10.17am - every wedding has to have a creepy uncle. Step up, Prince Edward.
10.20am - the cameras pan around the streets of London, showing the smiling crowd, waving flags and banners. Golf sale now on, only 100 yards this way.
10.25am - a procession of limousines makes its way up the Mall towards the Abbey. "We do this so well in this country," says everyone.
10.26am - the lead Bentley hits a pothole with full force and continues on its three remaining wheels.
10.35am - Her Majesty the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh enter the Abbey. As the Queen is greeted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Duke makes some light-hearted comments to gathered dignitaries from foreign lands. Officials from the Diplomatic Corps are despatched to apologise.
10.45am - ever the joker, Princess Beatrice has decided to come in a hat paying tribute to a frightened stag seen through a barbed-wire fence. She and her sister Eugenie are next to be seen in Cinderella at the Alhambra Theatre, Oldham, in November.
10.50am - Miss Middleton makes her way from her overnight hotel with her father and brother. Mr Middleton senior has a thoughtful look on his face as he realises the implications of splitting the costs of all of this with the groom's family.
11.00am - the service begins and we spend the next hour or so carefully watching the gathered congregation for yawns or nosepicking.
11.15am - when the happy couple kneel for prayers, we find that Harry, ever the joker, has written the words "Help me" on the soles of his brother's cavalry boots.
11.30am - BecksWatch Update: Victoria still not smiling. Believed to be miming to 'Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer'.
11.50am - the newlyweds retreat to the shrine of St. Edward the Confessor to sign the register. We are left to ponder whether starting your married life next to the 1,000-year-old tomb of an Anglo-Saxon king is a healthy thing to do.
12.15pm - the procession leaves the Abbey en route to the reception at Buckingham Palace. There is an honour guard consisting of:
The Household Cavalry
The Blues and Royals
The Queen's Fusiliers
The Fusiliers' Queens
The Brigade of Harry's Past Girlfriends
The Royal Order of Pedants (motto: "It's a Union Flag, not a Union Jack. Unless you're on a ship.").
12.20pm - on BBC, Fearne Cotton interviews someone in the crowd who mentions Princess Diana before being rapidly replaced with a shot of a pigeon.
12.30pm - the Royal party arrives back at Buck House. Princess Beatrice now receiving FreeView TV on her hat.
1.30pm - an appearance at the balcony from the bridal party. Flypast from WW2 Lancaster bomber, Hurricane and Spitfire. The crowd cheers, grateful to see these 60-year-old machines taking a break from their recent duties enforcing the no-fly zone over Libya.
2.00pm onwards - the reception continues behind closed doors. Canapes, cava and entertainment from the Finchley Rhythm Kings.
I watch these things so you don't have to. Don't thank me all at once, folks.
Sit back, pour yourself a cup of tea, get your flags out and enjoy.
Before 8.00am - the groom is awakened. It appears that Harry has managed to perform his Best Man duties and City of London fire service personnel are required to remove the manacles chaining William to a lamppost in Islington. Before long, National Heritage has placed a blue plaque on the site, marked: "Prince William Slept Here."
8.30am - Twitter is abuzz with anti-Monarchists telling everyone they are avoiding Twitter today because of mentions of the Royal Wedding. This rapidly becomes a trending topic and logical nightmare.
9.00am - the BBC are reading out messages of goodwill from around the world:
"Congratulations to the happy couple" - Harry and Vera, Sydney, Australia.
"What a lovely day for a wedding" - Bernard, Hong Kong
"I just lost my house in a tornado and couldn't give a stuff about your wedding" - Muriel, Tennessee
9.15am - the congregation begin to arrive at Westminster Abbey. We watch the horror unfolding among the gathered masses as they realise they have to sit for three and a half hours in a 1,000 year-old building with no toilet facilities. Armed guards are watching the font very carefully.
9.30am - Victoria Beckham almost smiles before correcting herself.
10.00am - an awkward moment when the King of Tonga arrives as everyone realises he looks almost exactly the same as Mohammed al-Fayed.
10.14am - Carol Middleton, mother of the bride, reacts spiritedly on being told that her daughter is to be made Duchess of Cambridge after her wedding. This has placed her own present of bedlinen in the shade, somewhat.
10.17am - every wedding has to have a creepy uncle. Step up, Prince Edward.
10.20am - the cameras pan around the streets of London, showing the smiling crowd, waving flags and banners. Golf sale now on, only 100 yards this way.
10.25am - a procession of limousines makes its way up the Mall towards the Abbey. "We do this so well in this country," says everyone.
10.26am - the lead Bentley hits a pothole with full force and continues on its three remaining wheels.
10.35am - Her Majesty the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh enter the Abbey. As the Queen is greeted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Duke makes some light-hearted comments to gathered dignitaries from foreign lands. Officials from the Diplomatic Corps are despatched to apologise.
10.45am - ever the joker, Princess Beatrice has decided to come in a hat paying tribute to a frightened stag seen through a barbed-wire fence. She and her sister Eugenie are next to be seen in Cinderella at the Alhambra Theatre, Oldham, in November.
10.50am - Miss Middleton makes her way from her overnight hotel with her father and brother. Mr Middleton senior has a thoughtful look on his face as he realises the implications of splitting the costs of all of this with the groom's family.
11.00am - the service begins and we spend the next hour or so carefully watching the gathered congregation for yawns or nosepicking.
11.15am - when the happy couple kneel for prayers, we find that Harry, ever the joker, has written the words "Help me" on the soles of his brother's cavalry boots.
11.30am - BecksWatch Update: Victoria still not smiling. Believed to be miming to 'Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer'.
11.50am - the newlyweds retreat to the shrine of St. Edward the Confessor to sign the register. We are left to ponder whether starting your married life next to the 1,000-year-old tomb of an Anglo-Saxon king is a healthy thing to do.
12.15pm - the procession leaves the Abbey en route to the reception at Buckingham Palace. There is an honour guard consisting of:
The Household Cavalry
The Blues and Royals
The Queen's Fusiliers
The Fusiliers' Queens
The Brigade of Harry's Past Girlfriends
The Royal Order of Pedants (motto: "It's a Union Flag, not a Union Jack. Unless you're on a ship.").
12.20pm - on BBC, Fearne Cotton interviews someone in the crowd who mentions Princess Diana before being rapidly replaced with a shot of a pigeon.
12.30pm - the Royal party arrives back at Buck House. Princess Beatrice now receiving FreeView TV on her hat.
1.30pm - an appearance at the balcony from the bridal party. Flypast from WW2 Lancaster bomber, Hurricane and Spitfire. The crowd cheers, grateful to see these 60-year-old machines taking a break from their recent duties enforcing the no-fly zone over Libya.
2.00pm onwards - the reception continues behind closed doors. Canapes, cava and entertainment from the Finchley Rhythm Kings.
I watch these things so you don't have to. Don't thank me all at once, folks.
Monday, 25 April 2011
St George and all that
On Saturday it was St George's Day. A day to consider and celebrate all things English. So we did.
We went to a farmers' market. Very English indeed. Lots of people gathered about to sell cheese, sausage and beer with silly names. You can't get much more English than that, can you?
We took a diversion as Katie wanted to get her eyebrows done. So we went to an Indian beauty parlour in Moseley for a threading session. In the manner of all hopeless men - English or otherwise - I sat down and watched a Bollywood film for a few minutes while the eyebrow engineer (or whatever they're called) did her thing. Seems reasonably English to me.
The film was great. It was in Hindi with subtitles, but even without them I could get the gist due to the heroic over-acting going on. Just as we were leaving a small boy had hidden in a basement and was praying for help. But he was interrupted by a football appearing out of nowhere, followed by a princess character in flowing white robes. I would have liked to see how it ended, but Katie had been successfully threaded. We joked with the girl on the cash desk and headed off for the market. Yep, still comfortably English.
The market was a blaze of colours, shot through with the aroma of different cuisines. Caribbean, Asian, African, Chinese, Indian. We ate our ostrich burgers and reflected on the general English-ness of it all.
We drove home in our German car listening to American rock music on the radio. English? Undoubtedly.
What better way to mark the life of a Syrian soldier who served in the Roman army, died in Turkey, was buried in Palestine and remains a key figure for Christians, Jews and Muslims?
Because that's what Englishness is about, isn't it? It's not just about half-timbered houses and Shakespeare. It's not just Spitfires and Churchill. It's not only the preserve of shaven-headed gentlemen hanging flags on their cars. It's about different people, different cultures, different influences.
If my grandparents, coming over from Ireland 90 years ago, could see that, then I think it's something I can get down with too.
It's about the whole. And quite often, that's greater than the sum of the parts. How terribly English.
We went to a farmers' market. Very English indeed. Lots of people gathered about to sell cheese, sausage and beer with silly names. You can't get much more English than that, can you?
We took a diversion as Katie wanted to get her eyebrows done. So we went to an Indian beauty parlour in Moseley for a threading session. In the manner of all hopeless men - English or otherwise - I sat down and watched a Bollywood film for a few minutes while the eyebrow engineer (or whatever they're called) did her thing. Seems reasonably English to me.
The film was great. It was in Hindi with subtitles, but even without them I could get the gist due to the heroic over-acting going on. Just as we were leaving a small boy had hidden in a basement and was praying for help. But he was interrupted by a football appearing out of nowhere, followed by a princess character in flowing white robes. I would have liked to see how it ended, but Katie had been successfully threaded. We joked with the girl on the cash desk and headed off for the market. Yep, still comfortably English.
The market was a blaze of colours, shot through with the aroma of different cuisines. Caribbean, Asian, African, Chinese, Indian. We ate our ostrich burgers and reflected on the general English-ness of it all.
We drove home in our German car listening to American rock music on the radio. English? Undoubtedly.
What better way to mark the life of a Syrian soldier who served in the Roman army, died in Turkey, was buried in Palestine and remains a key figure for Christians, Jews and Muslims?
Because that's what Englishness is about, isn't it? It's not just about half-timbered houses and Shakespeare. It's not just Spitfires and Churchill. It's not only the preserve of shaven-headed gentlemen hanging flags on their cars. It's about different people, different cultures, different influences.
If my grandparents, coming over from Ireland 90 years ago, could see that, then I think it's something I can get down with too.
It's about the whole. And quite often, that's greater than the sum of the parts. How terribly English.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Blood, sweat and grout
It's funny, isn't it? The smallest thing, the most off-topic thought, something completely from left-field, can just creep up and surprise you. And before you know it, you're struggling to cope.
I was reminded of this last night as I was up to my elbows in the kitchen sink. Apparently you don't get to choose the time or place.
Yesterday was, in the main, a perfectly normal day. I spent the morning with my mother, shepherding her between the various tile-selling establishments of South Birmingham. Ooh, get me and my life. Hemingway had his bullfights, I have earnest discussions with people called Gavin about underfloor heating.
My mother is having a new kitchen installed at the end of the month and is just about as excited about the prospect as is healthy for a 75-year-old woman with one knee. It is not considered good form for someone in her condition to jump on the number 11 bus with 14 square metres of anthracite flooring and 500 wall tiles, so I was on duty.
But as the morning progressed it became clear that I was not just there for my driving abilities. She was asking for my opinion on matters. I was being called upon to help her decide on things like colour schemes and finishes. I was the one doing the mental calculations and asking the technical questions to the fore-mentioned Gavin. (Q: How technical can tiling get? A: Surprisingly, quite a bit.)
Once we'd chosen the floor and wall tiles (entertainingly, from two separate places) there was the small matter of my loading them into the car, driving back to mom's and ferrying them in, pack by pack. This latter task was not helped by the fact that it was me doing it. I am obviously more suited to this than my mother, but to be honest it's a depressingly close call.
Favoured Son of the Day Status gained (none of us can compare with Brother No. 1 for the permanent title - let's face it he has produced a grandchild), I made my way home, concerned that that lugging a couple of dozen packs of tiles seemed to have lengthened my arms to apelike proportions. The rest of the day went pretty much as days do, until I was doing a little light washing up yesterday evening.
I was looking at the tiles on my own kitchen wall and I remembered something mom had said that morning. She'd looked a little bewildered as we walked past the ranks of tile displays, and had said: "I wish your dad was here."
Of course. Dad would have been in his element. In the old days, he'd probably have drawn plans. He'd have been excited about the whole endeavour. The calculations would have been second nature. He and mom would have worked together with the precision and certainty you get from decades.
As I looked at my own tiles I remembered dad putting them up for us eight years ago. Carefully cutting them to shape, spreading the adhesive and slotting them into place with a measured and confident ease. Then I remembered how mom had looked earlier that morning, a little lost and alone and indecisive.
And it hit me right in the guts, there and then.
It gets easier. But it never goes away completely.
I was reminded of this last night as I was up to my elbows in the kitchen sink. Apparently you don't get to choose the time or place.
Yesterday was, in the main, a perfectly normal day. I spent the morning with my mother, shepherding her between the various tile-selling establishments of South Birmingham. Ooh, get me and my life. Hemingway had his bullfights, I have earnest discussions with people called Gavin about underfloor heating.
My mother is having a new kitchen installed at the end of the month and is just about as excited about the prospect as is healthy for a 75-year-old woman with one knee. It is not considered good form for someone in her condition to jump on the number 11 bus with 14 square metres of anthracite flooring and 500 wall tiles, so I was on duty.
But as the morning progressed it became clear that I was not just there for my driving abilities. She was asking for my opinion on matters. I was being called upon to help her decide on things like colour schemes and finishes. I was the one doing the mental calculations and asking the technical questions to the fore-mentioned Gavin. (Q: How technical can tiling get? A: Surprisingly, quite a bit.)
Once we'd chosen the floor and wall tiles (entertainingly, from two separate places) there was the small matter of my loading them into the car, driving back to mom's and ferrying them in, pack by pack. This latter task was not helped by the fact that it was me doing it. I am obviously more suited to this than my mother, but to be honest it's a depressingly close call.
Favoured Son of the Day Status gained (none of us can compare with Brother No. 1 for the permanent title - let's face it he has produced a grandchild), I made my way home, concerned that that lugging a couple of dozen packs of tiles seemed to have lengthened my arms to apelike proportions. The rest of the day went pretty much as days do, until I was doing a little light washing up yesterday evening.
I was looking at the tiles on my own kitchen wall and I remembered something mom had said that morning. She'd looked a little bewildered as we walked past the ranks of tile displays, and had said: "I wish your dad was here."
Of course. Dad would have been in his element. In the old days, he'd probably have drawn plans. He'd have been excited about the whole endeavour. The calculations would have been second nature. He and mom would have worked together with the precision and certainty you get from decades.
As I looked at my own tiles I remembered dad putting them up for us eight years ago. Carefully cutting them to shape, spreading the adhesive and slotting them into place with a measured and confident ease. Then I remembered how mom had looked earlier that morning, a little lost and alone and indecisive.
And it hit me right in the guts, there and then.
It gets easier. But it never goes away completely.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
LinkWithin
