Absent Friends

I have just got back from the pub after a fine evening's quizzing and banter with good mates to have the stool kicked out from beneath me.

Someone I know has died. Not quite a friend with a capital "F" but certainly more than an acquaintance with a capital "A". Not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless. A number of friends we had in common, who are also on LJ have reposted and spread the news that Mike Mitchell, sack_boy was killed by a train at Stevenage station on Wednesday just past.

I first met Mike as a player at NWO, on games that I helped co-write. He was an enthusiastic player and always in command of his brief; no-one who was there will forget his portrayal of (particularly) Olybrius and the way that the characters he played took on almost a more forceful personality than his own.

In the flesh, Mike could be funny, kind and well-meaning, but also rather guileless at times. But he was always friendly, generous and kindly spoken. I last saw Mike at my 50th birthday bash. He had, completely out of the blue, spent a fair amount on a set of DVDs for me, which I believe to be a typical gesture.

ellefurtle knew him better than I did; he played and was a long-time member of her guild in World of Warcraft. More than once she giggled at some online jest he had made in the game, or some jolly aside that just added colour and character to the experience.

So long, Mike. If there is an after life, I know that you will be poring over your character sheet to wheedle out the nuances in your new role. I think I still owe you a pint.

Absent Friends

I have just got back from the pub after a fine evening's quizzing and banter with good mates to have the stool kicked out from beneath me.

Someone I know has died. Not quite a friend with a capital "F" but certainly more than an acquaintance with a capital "A". Not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless. A number of friends we had in common, who are also on LJ have reposted and spread the news that Mike Mitchell, sack_boy was killed by a train at Stevenage station on Wednesday just past.

I first met Mike as a player at NWO, on games that I helped co-write. He was an enthusiastic player and always in command of his brief; no-one who was there will forget his portrayal of (particularly) Olybrius and the way that the characters he played took on almost a more forceful personality than his own.

In the flesh, Mike could be funny, kind and well-meaning, but also rather guileless at times. But he was always friendly, generous and kindly spoken. I last saw Mike at my 50th birthday bash. He had, completely out of the blue, spent a fair amount on a set of DVDs for me, which I believe to be a typical gesture.

ellefurtle knew him better than I did; he played and was a long-time member of her guild in World of Warcraft. More than once she giggled at some online jest he had made in the game, or some jolly aside that just added colour and character to the experience.

So long, Mike. If there is an after life, I know that you will be poring over your character sheet to wheedle out the nuances in your new role. I think I still owe you a pint.

Sir Bobby Robson

Now we hear that Sir Bobby Robson has died aged 76.



Bobby always came across as a true gentleman when he was giving interviews or in the pundit's chair during a televised football game. It was widely reported that he had received the all-clear in his fight against cancer a few years ago, but it now appears that that may have been premature.

A sad loss to the world of football and to the world of television.

Sir Bobby Robson

Now we hear that Sir Bobby Robson has died aged 76.



Bobby always came across as a true gentleman when he was giving interviews or in the pundit's chair during a televised football game. It was widely reported that he had received the all-clear in his fight against cancer a few years ago, but it now appears that that may have been premature.

A sad loss to the world of football and to the world of television.

The Ashes: Third Test

At lunch on the second day, after the first day was pretty much washed out by rain, Australia are 203-8. This pleases me very much.

Now, let's hope England can maintain the pressure.

The Ashes: Third Test

At lunch on the second day, after the first day was pretty much washed out by rain, Australia are 203-8. This pleases me very much.

Now, let's hope England can maintain the pressure.

Bad hat

Over the years I have bought quite a few hats (it goes back to 1990 when I watched Dick Tracy and decided I needed a fedora). I have had baseball caps, several trilbies and fedoras, a couple of pith helmets of different styles and a stetson I bought in Virginia.

I have also bought, I think, three panama hats. One I still use occasionally, is a collapsible one I can roll up and put in my pocket. I no longer have the fedora-style panama; as much as I think fedoras suit me, that one didn't. When I was upp in Shropshire last weekend, we were rooting around in the attic and I found the first panama I ever bought.

It didn't suit me then; it doesn't suit me now. In theory it is the same size as my other hats, but it seems to sit there, slightly too small, like a tomtit on a round of beef:


Oh, dear...

Bad hat

Over the years I have bought quite a few hats (it goes back to 1990 when I watched Dick Tracy and decided I needed a fedora). I have had baseball caps, several trilbies and fedoras, a couple of pith helmets of different styles and a stetson I bought in Virginia.

I have also bought, I think, three panama hats. One I still use occasionally, is a collapsible one I can roll up and put in my pocket. I no longer have the fedora-style panama; as much as I think fedoras suit me, that one didn't. When I was upp in Shropshire last weekend, we were rooting around in the attic and I found the first panama I ever bought.

It didn't suit me then; it doesn't suit me now. In theory it is the same size as my other hats, but it seems to sit there, slightly too small, like a tomtit on a round of beef:


Oh, dear...

Five Words Meme (i)

I volunteered to do two of these. First come first served, so these are the five words suggested by smokingboot

Cheese
The food of Kings; I despair those misguided souls who profess to dislike its curdy charm almost as much as I pity the lactose intolerant who would devour this prince amongst foods if only it didn’t make their head swell up like a Zeppelin.

There is a cheese to go with any other foodstuff on the planet: I have held this view for many years and was once challenged (such impertinence) on that contention in this very journal. I believe I proved my point then (you may go back and check) and I rest my case.


Matron
Ooh, Matron. Uttered in affectionate parody of the late Kenneth Williams, I know of no other phrase that can convey the sense of the mischievous, bawdy, double entendre without risking offence. From the same cultural roots that gave us the British seaside postcard, with fat ladies, hen-pecked men, naughty children, ice creams and inappropriate melons.
Instantly recognisable, appropriately inappropriate, British as crumpets and tea, marvellously incorrect.


Writing
Writing is my gossip. I am terrible at gossip in the traditional sense, much to ellefurtle’s mild annoyance. I never pay attention to what people are discussing about other people and rapidly forget what little I do hear. Your secrets are safe with me because I never remember them.

On the other hand, my imagination is prone to flights of fancy that for years simply floated around my head and faded. I always liked the idea of a diary, but with a pen and paper, it never progressed beyond ‘woke up, had breakfast. Mucked about a bit. Went to bed. It rained somewhat’. For reasons unknown to me, the computer keyboard freed me from that and I can write on-line what I could never manage in ballpoint or quill.

The written word is where I moan, observe, generalise, exaggerate and think. My journal is where I pin my demons to the page and kill them; they cannot haunt me when they have been trapped on the screen.

One day I hope to write something of consequence; I have mentioned before that I like the idea of being a published author. Whether or not I have the stamina and/or self discipline remains to be seen.


England
Oh England, my Lionheart. It is not fashionable these days to be proud of where you live and where you come from. At least it’s not fashionable in this country. I have never been particularly fashionable and I have to say that on the whole that I am proud to be English. Maybe not as proud as I once was, mind. My England is the England of Miss Marple and Boy’s Own Adventure Stories; the land of cream teas and cricket, of endless summer holidays and rainy bank holidays. Bulldog Drummond and Dick Barton, Special Agent. I’m not sure it ever really existed, but it damn well should have.

Oh, yes. Pipes, raincoats and trilbies; scrumping for apples and cries of “Yarroo, you bounder!”


Ambling
Hands in pockets, sleeves rolled up, jacket thrown carelessly over your right shoulder, the newspaper carefully folded and carried under your left arm. A sunny day – Sunday afternoon, perhaps – the birds are singing in the trees, God’s in His Heaven and all’s right with the world. Scuffing your feet along the pavement, kicking up dust and bits of twig on the pavement. Nowhere important to go, no deadlines to meet.

Lunch in the pub, perhaps. A cold pint of beer.

Ambling. Enduring picture isn't it?

Five Words Meme (i)

I volunteered to do two of these. First come first served, so these are the five words suggested by smokingboot

Cheese
The food of Kings; I despair those misguided souls who profess to dislike its curdy charm almost as much as I pity the lactose intolerant who would devour this prince amongst foods if only it didn’t make their head swell up like a Zeppelin.

There is a cheese to go with any other foodstuff on the planet: I have held this view for many years and was once challenged (such impertinence) on that contention in this very journal. I believe I proved my point then (you may go back and check) and I rest my case.


Matron
Ooh, Matron. Uttered in affectionate parody of the late Kenneth Williams, I know of no other phrase that can convey the sense of the mischievous, bawdy, double entendre without risking offence. From the same cultural roots that gave us the British seaside postcard, with fat ladies, hen-pecked men, naughty children, ice creams and inappropriate melons.
Instantly recognisable, appropriately inappropriate, British as crumpets and tea, marvellously incorrect.


Writing
Writing is my gossip. I am terrible at gossip in the traditional sense, much to ellefurtle’s mild annoyance. I never pay attention to what people are discussing about other people and rapidly forget what little I do hear. Your secrets are safe with me because I never remember them.

On the other hand, my imagination is prone to flights of fancy that for years simply floated around my head and faded. I always liked the idea of a diary, but with a pen and paper, it never progressed beyond ‘woke up, had breakfast. Mucked about a bit. Went to bed. It rained somewhat’. For reasons unknown to me, the computer keyboard freed me from that and I can write on-line what I could never manage in ballpoint or quill.

The written word is where I moan, observe, generalise, exaggerate and think. My journal is where I pin my demons to the page and kill them; they cannot haunt me when they have been trapped on the screen.

One day I hope to write something of consequence; I have mentioned before that I like the idea of being a published author. Whether or not I have the stamina and/or self discipline remains to be seen.


England
Oh England, my Lionheart. It is not fashionable these days to be proud of where you live and where you come from. At least it’s not fashionable in this country. I have never been particularly fashionable and I have to say that on the whole that I am proud to be English. Maybe not as proud as I once was, mind. My England is the England of Miss Marple and Boy’s Own Adventure Stories; the land of cream teas and cricket, of endless summer holidays and rainy bank holidays. Bulldog Drummond and Dick Barton, Special Agent. I’m not sure it ever really existed, but it damn well should have.

Oh, yes. Pipes, raincoats and trilbies; scrumping for apples and cries of “Yarroo, you bounder!”


Ambling
Hands in pockets, sleeves rolled up, jacket thrown carelessly over your right shoulder, the newspaper carefully folded and carried under your left arm. A sunny day – Sunday afternoon, perhaps – the birds are singing in the trees, God’s in His Heaven and all’s right with the world. Scuffing your feet along the pavement, kicking up dust and bits of twig on the pavement. Nowhere important to go, no deadlines to meet.

Lunch in the pub, perhaps. A cold pint of beer.

Ambling. Enduring picture isn't it?