Further ramblings of a self-made pauper

Well, that was a reasonably quiet weekend – the first for some time where we had nothing planned. I even managed a prolonged bout of Warcracking, which I haven’t done for some time.

On Friday we wandered into the West End after work. I wanted to get an SD memory card for my shiny new Lenovo tablet and ellefurtle was beguiled by the thought of the newly updated iPod Touch. First up was the SD Card. In the end I just bought a 16GB upgrade. I wanted more, but unlike other memory, SD cards seem to be ludicrously expensive. The 16GB was about £15, but prices went up exponentially after that. In time, I shall buy a 32GB (or 64GB) card and switch the 16GB to my little Nokia phone, which acts as my spare. For now though, 32GB in total on the tablet, should mean that I can hold movies and TV locally for watching on the move. Possibly some books and stuff, too.

The Apple Cathedral Store on Regent Street is being refurbished. The number of acolytes gathering there is undiminished, but the floor space is about a fifth of its normal capacity. It took us rather longer to find the iPod we wanted in the crush, but eventually we found it and now Furtle has a splendid shocking pink model, which works very well with the wifi/Bluetooth speakers we have dotted around the Gin Palace (I must buy another so we can pair them up as stereo speakers rather than the glorious mono we have at the moment).

After all this, we walked to Bond Street Tube to catch the Central Line home. We were, of course, closer to Oxford Circus, but the hope was that we would have more space to play with getting on at Bond Street. Maybe we should have walked back one stop further. Furtle got a seat, but I didn’t and the carriage soon filled up. As usual, the Central Line was like a blast furnace, so it was not the most enjoyable journey. We had decided already that we would get off at Leytonstone and nip into the Luna Lounge, a tiny bar/music venue for a couple of snorters before going home. In the end, the couple of drinks ended up being followed by a meal at the Olive restaurant, near the bus terminus and then back to the Luna Lounge to meet Elle’s sister, Alix and jfs for yet more drinks and a spot of live music from Crème de Chèvre a strange little four piece which, in the words of their own advertising blurb, have been ‘playing other people’s music in silly ways since 2008’.

It is an experience to say the least, to hear the guitar solo from ‘Free Bird’ played on a ukulele…

We got home about 12.30 in the morning, completely knackered, but happy.

Saturday we drove into deepest Essex to take a look at the Tendring 100 Agricultural Show. I thought it quaint that they called it the Tendring Hundred and was filled with thoughts of Domesday Book entries (a hundred was the amount of land needed to support a hundred sheep in those days), but rather more prosaically, it turned out the be the centenary. Last year and next year it will just be the Tendring Agricultural Show. I prefer my view of things, alas, alack.

Anyway. It was hot – very hot. Luckily we had made sure that we had plenty of water and there were, as you might expect, plenty of refreshment stands, so that was okay.

I enjoyed the day, but not as much, I think, as Furtle. The expected agricultural displays were there: Shire Horses, traction engines, cattle and sheep, ducks and poultry and so on – even ferrets and rats. Agricultural equipment suppliers were out in force and there was a large collection of vintage cars. Plenty to look at all round. Somehow for me, though, it fell a bit short. Whilst I was expecting there to be general trading stands, I was hoping for a bit more James Herriot and a little less retail opportunity. But then that is the way of things, I suppose. The event was for one day only and must have cost a fortune to stage.

Once again, I have a load of photos, once again I haven’t had chance to upload any of them and even if I had, they would be on the home computer, not the office one! I’ll try and remember to post some up (but I’ve said that before).

I did get a nice new hat, mind.

Last night we went to see Fleetwood Mac at the O2.

Funnily enough, I’d had the opportunity to get tickets earlier in the year as I have my phone with O2 and that grants a number of perks, including ‘priority access’ to gigs and other events in O2 sponsored premises. Anyway, at the time I let it pass, but a colleague of Furtle’s found himself with two spare tickets so we decided to tag along.

I don’t know precisely when Christine McVie re-joined the line up, but it’s clearly recently enough for the band to keep mentioning it. Maybe they weren’t allowed to play her songs when she wasn’t with them, thus severely curtailing their repertoire, I don’t know. Whatever, we saw the classic ‘Rumours’ era line up and that was good.

The set majored, unsurprisingly, on the trio of albums, Rumours, Tusk and Tango in the Night, with other material scattered through it. There was nothing that I could identify from the David Green incarnation of the band.

Lindsey Buckingham’s guitar playing was unsurprisingly excellent and he still has a voice good enough for rock. Christine McVie has retained her voice in its entirety and wrote and sang some of their best work. Stevie Nicks was more hit and miss. Some of her vocals were excellent, but she was flat on a couple of numbers, even allowing for her gravelly delivery. John McVie wqas reassuringly anonymous – yes, he played the bass and yes, he played it well, but it could have been anyone standing in the corner wearing a flat white cap. Mick Fleetwood was well, Mick Fleetwood. An overly energetic granddad with a white beard and ponytail. Mad as a spoon, but fun and friendly with it. More than any of them, he seemed pleased to be there.

My major gripe was with the sound mixing, particularly earlier in the set, when the rhythm section pretty much obliterated any and all of the harmonies and backing vocals and a couple of times I had to identify the choon from the bass line. It got better, but was never quite right. Some of this is doubtless down to the fact that we were up in the gods, in row Z right at he top, off to one side. That said, for £60+ a ticket I expected better. I blame the venue for that rather than the band, but it did spoil my enjoyment.

The O2 Arena as they like to call it has always had an odd policy regarding bottles (even plastic ones) of water. In preparation we pocketed a couple of spare caps as they have traditionally made you throw them in a bucket and only let you take water into the auditorium in open bottles. No longer. You can no longer take any refreshments in with you, open or sealed. We had to leave an entire unopened bottle of water at the entrance (we were not happy, but hardly in a position to argue), though we could buy beer once inside. Though we didn’t.

This is a poor policy.

Overall, though, a good gig. Three and a half out of five.

Because the band came on half an hour late, they played longer than scheduled, meaning we didn’t get home until after midnight. After a drink of lemon squash and a shower, it meant getting to bed after one in the morning, which is too much for me these days when I have to be up by 7am to get to work. I am fading now as I type this and will be happy to leave the office as close to 5pm as I can manage.

Glad I saw them, but I really wish I’d bought the tickets when I first had the chance. I would have got seats somewhere more central (if not much closer) to the band, where the sound would have been clearer (probably). Nonetheless, glad to have gone.

The building work is done. The Gin Palace is (almost) back to normal – full normality will be resumed progressively over the next few days.

The bare brick around the living room, exposed by the damp work we had done some time (far too long) ago has been plastered and the artex above it has been skimmed over. The walls have been painted, the wood panelling re-stained (a much darker walnut colour) and the wall lights, switches and plugs all replaced. We also have new curtain rails in the living room.

Somewhat against my better judgement, we also have a cat flap, though as yet, no cat.

The builders finally finished around 6pm on Friday and I have to say, it looks great. We spent Saturday cleaning and putting the furniture back. That was a lot harder than we had anticipated, but largely accomplished, though we were completely knackered at the end of it. Furtle finished it off on Sunday morning while I was still out for the count, so I hung the pictures back on the walls by way of recompense.

We had intended to do some work on the patio and garden steps – replace some mortar between slabs here and there, and fix some loose steps, but that is a job for next Saturday. For now we are luxuriating in the fact we have our house back.

All said and done, I don’t think I’m enjoying 2015 much. Not as a whole, anyway. There have been highlights and fun stuff, but that all kind of pales against the crap that won’t go away.

First there was Mum, then my Auntie Margaret – my Dad’s good and deserving younger sister died a fortnight ago. Last night we get off the tube to find that one of Elle’s old friends has unexpectedly passed away at the ridiculous age of 42. I knew him, but not well. Poor Furtle is quite cut up about it though, and having lost friends of my own in recent years, as well as recent family losses, I know how she feels.

While I was off at Auntie Mar’s funeral last week, my boss went off work. I thought it was an unexpected break and he’s back in the office today. Turns out his Mum had a heart attack. On Thursday last week, we found that our Deputy Director had been run over by a car. She won’t be back until next week, probably. And there have been health issues within the family, too. Not Furtle or me, happily, but close enough to home.

It just seems that a lot of bad stuff is happening around me and just won’t stop. I’m not a depressive personality, but come on, Guys, give me a break.

Just to add insult to injury, the work we are having done at The Gin palace is never ending. We booked a fortnight off at the beginning of May – not just for the building and redecorating, but that was an element and should have been enough time. Sadly not. The plasterer made such a mess of things that it’s still not finished, though it IS closer. I am working from home on Thursday in the hope that it will be finished and we will be able to get started on cleaning up and putting the furniture back over the weekend. But even if it IS the end of it, it means that by this Sunday, it will be close on 6 weeks since we could do anything with the living room or conservatory without squeezing past boxed stuff and trying to avoid touching the walls. Even upstairs we are short of space because of the amount of displaced stuff.

Still. We had a nice weekend away.

Grumble over.

Well, May has been an odd month.

At the beginning of the month, I went back up to Shrewsbury for a couple of nights so that we could scatter Mum’s ashes and say our final, final goodbyes. She was only a small woman, but there were rather more ashes than you would imagine. Heavier than you would expect, too. Anyway, we took half of them down the coast to Tywyn, where she and Dad had a caravan for so many years, and scattered those on the beach. We didn’t stay long; the weather wasn’t great and without a base to work from, a day out at the seaside in damp, windy weather is not recommended. Had it not been for the fact that it was the weekend nearest what would have been her 87th birthday, I might have suggested we change it to a warmer time of year.

Next day we drove up to Wem, where Dad is buried and- rather surreptitiously, dug a small hole on his grave, added some more ashes and then planted a fragrant herb on top. I wish we hadn’t had to have been so furtive, but the council wanted over £200 in interrment fees and we only wanted to add a few ounces of ash so that they could be together. Afterwards, on something of a nostalgia/remembrance kick, we drove to Telford where I finally got to see Nan and Grandad’s grave 40 years after they passed, and found time to seek out Uncle Des and Auntie Dot’s grave in the same churchyard to pay our respects, too.

It was all rather emotional.

Once that was done, it was back home to the Gin Palace, which we had to clear so that the replastering and redecorating of the living room and stairwell could be started and completed. We had allocated a full 10 days (including an allowance for the plaster to dry) to get that done and dusted.

Silly, naive us.

As I type this at the end of the month, we are still in a state of disarray. The builder is coming back on Monday to do more work. Hopefully he will need to put in no more than 3 days in total, but are having to try and work from home in rotation, to ensure someone is there while the work is happening. This is complicated by the fact that I have to take another couple of days to go to a funeral (this time my Good and Deserving Aunt Margaret, Dad’s younger sister, who had cancer…). So although I am working from home on Monday, I can’t really do that again for a while as it will start looking as though I’m taking the piss.

Better do some work now: reflections on the General Election (possibly) and the story of How Bryan got a tattoo (probably) over the next couple of days.

So this weekend just gone we had arranged to meet up with friends Tony and Tracy Lee to wander into town for the last couple of days of the Sherlock Holmes exhibition at the Museum of London.

The day started out cold, wet and windy, so we dressed accordingly, which of course was idiotic given that we had the British climate to contend with. By the time it was clearly far too late to go back and change into something cooler, the rain had gone, the winds dropped and quite a warm sun was shining. Still, much of the morning and early afternoon was indoors, so it wasn’t too much of a handicap.

The exhibition was excellent, if not quite as big as I’d expected. I actually don’t know why I thought it would be bigger, but I did. The displays started off with copies of manuscripts –including Poe’s ‘Murder on the Rue Morgue’, which it transpires was an influence on Conan Doyle – and various early Holmes manuscripts all written in long hand in the tiniest script you could imagine. For some reason I assumed that they would be typewritten, but no each one (by Conan Doyle at least) was written out longhand and with remarkably few alterations. There were copies of first edition collections and the draft cover illustrations for ‘The Strand’.

Further along, the exhibition moved on to cover late Victorian London, which to me was one of the stronger parts of the exhibition. Old maps, old photographs, paintings etc. Good stuff.

Then on to a selection of clothing and other Victorian artefacts – not in themselves directly to do with Holmes, but displayed alongside lithographs and descriptions etc showing how they fit into the world of Holmes (or, I suppose, more accurately how Holmes fitted into that world). This, along with the maps and views of Victorian London, was the bit that appealed to me most.

Finally, on to the bit where snippets of all the TV and movie variants were playing in turn on loop. Very interesting to see how similar Holmes always is visually at least, and how quickly the ‘standard’ version settled down.

Of course, no visit to a museum or exhibition is complete without a visit to the gift shop. So now we have some post cards, a fridge magnet, tea towel and a rubber Sherlock Holmes duck.
I might have acquired a bowler hat. I’m not certain what I am going to do with a bowler hat, but I’ve always kind of wanted one.



Next up, we stopped off at the Lord Raglan pub for lunch. A pint of bitter and a rather large fish and chip meal later, we wobbled down past St Paul’s and over the Millennium Bridge where after some indecision, we wandered down to Borough Market, which appears to be one part of London Tony was unfamiliar with, so we spent some time there, before rocking up to the Market Porter, which is one of the best pubs in the area, for a much-needed pint of Fruli.

Somehow having used up the entire day (or at least afternoon, as we started about midday), we caught the tube back and, seeing the crowds at Stratford, switched to the Central Line. For some reason, we decided to get off at Leytonstone, rather than carry on to Gants Hill. Leytonstone put us within striking distance of the sister-in-law, so Furtle texted her only to find that Alix and jfs were finishing an early supper in the ‘Olive Tree’ restaurant, which we could se from the bus terminus. So rather than going home, we found ourselves happily boozing in the ‘North Star’ instead.

It was a good day, though I have to say that we were rather tired by the time we got home for our much-delayed and anticipated pizza.

Thirty-four years ago today. Wow.

I was coming up to the end of the first term of my final year at college. I was 21. I can’t remember what I was doing thirty-four years ago today –probably a few seminars and/or lectures, certainly some mooching around in the students union bar, but I remember what I was doing thirty-four years ago tomorrow.

It was the early hours of 9 December UK time when Lennon was shot and it was that morning that we woke to the news. My alarm went off at about 6.45am and I put the radio ready for the 7am news. I was pleasantly surprised to hear a Beatles song playing. Then they played another. And another. I assumed that they were having a themed hour or something as radio stations are prone to do from time to time, and then they played ‘Starting Over’, John Lennon’s comeback single, which by that time was on its way back out of the charts. I was a little surprised that they would finish off a Beatles run with a solo Lennon track, but there you go.

Then the news came on and we were told that just before midnight, New York Time 8 December 1980 (about, 4am 9 December UK time?), John Lennon had been shot and killed outside his home in New York City. That was the moment that I first understood what hero worship was. I was flattened almost as much as if I’d heard 6that a family member had died. Perhaps not a close family member, but certainly not a distant one. I listened to the news and then the following half hour of Beatles and John Lennon songs on the radio before going down to the refectory for breakfast.

Even then, I don’t think I realised how the news of the death of someone I didn’t personally know had affected me until someone commiserated with me. I must have been glum, but that rather surprised me and I remember saying something stupid like ‘It’s not as though we were related, or anything’.

Anyway, I didn’t attend any lectures that day. I spent the day in the union bar, drinking coffee and listening to yet more Beatles or Beatles related music and helping the couple who ran the bar, John and Helen, decorate it for Christmas. A lot of reminiscing took place and then at lunchtime we had a couple of commemorative pints. There was a local band on that night, Johnny Thunder and his Hurricanes as you might expect with a name like that they played rock’n’roll 1950s style. I have no idea what they were like.

I have never been affected the same way by a celebrity death either before or since, but I kind of get it in a way that I didn’t before December 1980.

On Friday we treated ourselves to a bit of impromptu culture.

Furtle has long been of the opinion that we should do more to take advantage of London while we live and work here, on the basis that our long term aim is to do neither. So, on occasion, we have taken in an art gallery or a museum, or on other Fridays, just taken the bus to the West End and poked around in posh shops to see how the knobs live. In theory we would be doing something at least nominally kultural every Friday, but in effect we often just slope off home to the Gin Palace and gratefully shut the world out for as much of the forthcoming 48 hours as we can manage.

This weekend just past we actually managed to get out and do something. It wasn’t cheap, but it was fun.

It is many years since I last visited St Martin-in-the-Fields (it might well have been in-the-fields when it was built, back in the 1720s, but these days not so much, being on Trafalgar Square and all) and I’d been meaning to go back, but for some reason never got around to it. Anyway, it transpires that the regular concert for this last Friday was a couple of hours of Bach (both JS and CPE) and Vivaldi with a bit of Pachelbel thrown in for good measure. Now I like me a bit of yer old baroque, so we got tickets and went.

Thoroughly recommended, though not too often, unless that’s all you blow your entertainment budget on. Tickets at between £18 and £25 a head for a couple of hours aren’t, I suppose, too outrageous, but it does make you pause when you’re coughing it up unexpectedly. I don’t know whether or not is was because we booked in advance (if only a few hours in advance), but I also got a voucher worth 10% off the price of purchases in the café/restaurant in the crypt. There was very little opportunity for us to use it, but we had a glass of wine each. The break was only 20 minutes and we lost about half that queuing. Some old stagers bought themselves meals, but unless these meals come with antacids, it’s hard to see how it would be possible to eat them comfortably in the time available, regardless of how well they were made. At this point, however, I should note that the crypt was doing a very interesting apple (?) crumble and jug of custard, which I might investigate next time.

In the first session, Furtle had to grumble at a young woman who plonked herself down next to her and proceeded to text away on her iPhone every couple of minutes. If looks could kill, I think Furtle would have been wounded, but she held her ground and Ms Attention Deficit failed to reappear for the second period’s performance.

We have now booked to go again just before Christmas, but this time mob-handed. It will of course, be seasonal fayre. I’m less enthused by that, but the performance stuff will be okay. Once the audience participation carol sing-along starts though, I think I shall absent myself downstairs with a book and a glass of wine. I discovered the hard way last year that I really do not enjoy singing at carol concerts.

I shall, of course, be quite happy to go again and listen to non-festive music, particularly if it is more of the baroque.

I don’t suppose that I am alone in this, but for good or ill, I shall be happy when the Scottish Referendum is over, one way or the other. By tomorrow morning (though we might not know definitively until Saturday, I guess) it will be all over, one way or another.

Except that it won’t. The entirety of Scotland will be nursing a hangover; one half from celebrations that ran on too long, the other half from nursing their sorrows. Everyone will be wondering what comes next, some with more anxiety than others. In the event of Independence, the Scottish government would have secured a popular mandate from marginally more than half its voting population to break up the United Kingdom and jump, fingers crossed into the unknown, almost literally on a wing and a prayer, subject to the vicissitudes of market forces and romantic dreams of Mel Gibson in a kilt and none of the potential funding gap a semi Stalinist Scotland would face.

Be that as it may: what is clear is that there will have to be change. The future – either a split or so-called “Devo Max”, or Home Rule will have to be negotiated. But between whom is anybody’s guess: the Scottish government on one side certainly, but with whom on the other? There will be a mandate of one sort or another for the representatives in Holyrood, but who has given Westminster a similar mandate? I don’t recall ever being asked if the UK Government should negotiate terms for either Scottish Independence, or greater devolution. These are constitutional issues that should be passed over to the people for a decision (as were the unfinished and half-baked reforms started and abandoned by New Labour).

If Scotland votes ‘Yes’, there should be a referendum of the remainder of the UK to establish what the population will and will not support. The three Westminster Parties have ruled out the official use by Scotland of Sterling, with the Bank of England as lender of last resort – i.e. the UK taxpayer supporting the Scottish banks if needs be. I think that’s right – it seems logical to me. But no-one has asked me, nor have they asked anyone else. What constitutes the maximum amount of assets to be transferred, the UK’s most generous (or indeed least generous) bottom line? No-one has asked the people who will be expected to foot the bill.

Independence would answer the West Lothian question. So let’s call it the West Carmarthen question; same thing, smaller scale. That needs addressing – so then do we have an English Parliament? Certain questions will not go away whatever the result on Thursday. Whether the UK continues to exist as the same geographical entity, or not it will no longer be the same political entity. There will have to be some rebalancing of the so-called rUK in the event of independence, to protect the Welsh and Northern Irish from being swamped even more than they probably already are, by the much greater population of England and its consequent comparative political weight. In the event of the Union surviving, the same arguments pertain, with the promised shift of further powers to Holyrood. Where does this leave the rest of the UK?

Frankly it leaves the country politically unbalanced and emphasises and exacerbates the democratic deficit that already exists.

Whilst I would shy away from regional assemblies in England – there was no great appetite for those ten years ago and I’m not sure that people want an additional layer of government at that level anyway – there is a case surely for looking at the governance of the larger cities. It might be time to revisit the concept of elected executive mayors and city assemblies on the London model. There is a great deal of dislike for London in the English regions as well as the other nations. It is seen economically, politically and culturally as sucking in far more than its fair share of resources.

I am not convinced that this attitude is entirely fair (I live and work in London and have done so for over 30 years, but I’m NOT a Londoner), but perception, even an incorrect perception counts for a great deal. Rather than griping about or punishing London, the other major cities should be given the tools of governance locally that will allow them to catch up and capture some of the action for themselves. Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle certainly have the potential and I’m certain that others do, too. They simply need to have their ties with Whitehall loosened and allowed to develop themselves to suit local circumstances. Some people will complain that this smacks of Localism, the Tory idea and to an extent it does, but all parties have seen the need for some sort of redistribution of powers and responsibilities; Localism didn’t appear fully formed out of a vacuum. It just needs to lose its ideological baggage.

However the vote goes today, there has to be change. The bloated and self-satisfied edifice that is Parliament needs to listen to the people. It has to adapt to survive. There has to be a balance between what the country needs as a corporate identity and what the people need as an electorate. That means something more than standing up in Parliament, announcing massive cuts, swigging champagne and telling people ‘We’re all in it together’ when it’s quite plain that the authors of our misfortunes, with the exception of the odd public scapegoat, have blended with the shadows and are simply counting their ill-gotten gains.

Even without a redistribution to the English regions, if more power is devolved to Cardiff and to Belfast (and Edinburgh if the vote is ‘no’), at the very least there needs to be time set aside in Parliament for English MPs to debate and act upon English matters in the way that the various Assemblies and Parliaments of the other UK nations look after their own affairs. A separate English Parliament might conceivably be a step too far, I don’t know. I don’t think it is. The fact that the UK Parliament sits in the traditional home of the English Parliament is simply a reflection and recognition of the history of the development of the UK. What started off as the English Parliament is now the UK Parliament. Perhaps a more centrally placed English city could host an English Parliament?

However the political and democratic dice fall after today‘s referendum in Scotland, the political and democratic structure of the United Kingdom needs a drastic and effective overhaul. It maybe that some sort of Federal United Kingdom will arise from the ruins of the old structures, but it needs to be effective and it needs to be credible and it must be focussed on the needs of the people rather than the whims of some shadowy elite.