In a haze

Unlike Jimmy Norman and Mick Jagger (among others) time is not on my side, but I have had a few moments of me time over the past few days, and could not have asked for better smog weather in which to laze it away; birthday bowling with my daughter and her friends, a few beers and a laugh with my mum, couple of games of Simpson's Hit & Run, and now it's back to work - if that's what you can call it. The place is like a graveyard today, all the crash barriers laid out in preparation for the big day on Friday, and the vast majority taking the opportunity offered by the many bank holidays to stay at home or head off to Tenerife or Bognor.

Last night I endured the terrible drone of Steve McClaren on 5 Live as the hard-fought victory at Ewood Park played itself out with that satisfying finish from Dzeko. Everyone knows that McClaren is a joke, but by god he was truly awful as a radio pundit. Alastair Bruce-Ball is a vivid and insightful commentator, but it was heavy weather for him as Uncle Steve laboured his way through yet another rambling soliloquy. He will no doubt feel vindicated that his constant repetition of the 'If they make it through the first 20 minutes...' cliché proved almost correct, and I began to want to smash my beautiful Roberts (not Jason) to pieces every time he said 'the boy Jones' or mentioned that he knew De Jong from his time in Holland, and knew 'the boy' Dzeko from his time in Germany. It was one of those commentaries that can turn games, because the energy required to propel your team to victory is diverted to hatred of the voice coming out of the speakers. And yet... It was not to be. Not this time anyway.

Of course, shit as they are (and I have been to Ewood Park. I know) Blackburn were never going to be an easy proposition at home. Big smashers they are and one piece of commentary about a Paul Robinson punt downfield (apparently it momentarily disappeared from sight in the floodlit gloom, it was belted so hard) reminded me with a feeling of pain of England's performances during the World Cup in Japan, when one of his kicks hit the camera which was suspended high over the centre spot. All muscle and scuffle in the box, big half backs diverting the ball in from 3 yards and a horrible sinking feeling. But then, there was Dzeko (who said Balo was offside? Not the ref)  doing a Torres and slotting one in just when you needed it.

Overall, it was a patchy performance which might have been very different if we had stuck one in during the opening 20 minutes, but it will definitely do, especially as the Baggies did so well against Spurs. What a marvel Silva is (though he did switch off for the middle section of the match, and it was noticeable how important he now is to our attacking game) and what a rock Kompany. It's ours to throw away now, that fourth spot, so let's keep going and get it done.

Outings

I almost feel as if I have just had a proper holiday.

Paid a visit to the Victorian village at Blists Hill in Ironbridge on Bank Holiday Monday. Moderately interesting I would say, not being one of those types who likes steam, metal, coal, bricks and stuff like that. What they've done is made a partial re-creation of an Industrial Revolution era Victorian village, complete with pub, sweet shop, school (relocated from its original location a few miles away) chemist, bakery, etc. It is a work in progress, so I shouldn't really be too critical I suppose, but it was rather expensive at £36 for a family ticket.

There are a number of authentic Victorians wandering around, including a schoolteacher, pirate, funeral-goers (?) and various others mingling with the grockles. A major gripe for me is the lack of commitment in these people. Stanislavski or Walt could certainly have taught them a thing or two. The (rather lame) pretense of authentic Victoriana, in the shape of being able to exchange your modern money for LSD (though of course you can pay for your vegetarian pasty or pint of Lowenbrau with either coin) falls away pretty quickly when the 'cast' can't keep up the act. My experience was that, although the people were wearing the clothes, they weren't inhabiting their characters.

I spoke to the headmistress (she looked the part) and was disappointed that she couldn't even muster a speck of acting. All they could do was scold the kids for touching things and then gas about local news. I wish that the whole place had been truly authentic - only tripe cooked in lard at the eating places, only Banks's mild or gin at the bar, persecution of minorities, etc. Only joking, obviously. I mean, at the sweet shop, the assistant made a scathing remark about the sugar content of some of the stuff on sale! Yet I was told that they had stopped selling chocolate bars because they couldn't source authentic wrappers. Makes you sick.

Prior to that, I strayed as far north as the Scousepost of Llandudno (Tony Bastable, we love you) and was pretty impressed. I have particular tastes, as you may have noticed (if you haven't, then hey fuck you) and seek something a little different in these homogeneous times. Llandudno did it for me. Yes it did. There was an endearing shabbiness to the place, perfectly summed up by the past-their-best hotels all along the prom. The Great Orme was something else, especially as we had won the rarest lottery - that of the weather - and were blessed with a glorious day. But, Jesus fucking Christ on a bike, what the fuck is the human race coming to? We can't cope with anything unless there's a burger and an ice cream (weather permitting) to help us through it. Shagging hell, I nearly choked on my rum 'n' raisin.

I even managed to make it to the top of Hen Dinas on the Saturday morning, and though it has changed somewhat (more overgrown, but with access paths and benches being added - the former I approve of, the latter, I'm not so sure) it still retained the magic it has always held for me. Just to think of those Ordovices running around sends a tingle up your spine. And the view is something else, brother.

Tarred

I know people will just assume that I'm a fair weather cyclist.

Back on the bike today after a fairly rigorous workout over the weekend and of course the weather is drop-dead gorgeous. There really is nothing to beat riding through London on a sunny morning - even if Boris is in charge. Anyway, why should I worry? I've earned my cap badge after cycling throughout the entire year when I was working in Hammersmith. So - na na na na na na!

Spent a day in Southend yesterday - the first time I've visited the place - and it was a very pleasant day indeed, though I don't think I've ever seen so many Hammers tattoos (and you can be sure that a lot of those geezers are going to be sore today, after a long afternoon supping Fosters along the esplanade - the sun bouncing off their shiny pates) in my life. Though the presence of large numbers of Man United tops may help to explain the dire performance of the Irons over the weekend. Capitulation is the only word for it.

It's an interesting journey from Fenchurch Street on the Shoeburyness service, similar to the West Midlands conurbation in that human habitation hardly seems to relent, apart from a stretch (I think) just after Basildon with huge fields of rape and the odd herd of cows or horses. Then you come to the estuarine verges of the Thames. The tide was out as we approached, so the boats were all sticking out of the mud like so many kids' toys, and the odd bark could be glimpsed on the shimmering water far away. For me it evoked the South China Sea.

Morda the flies

I'm just back from a long weekend in Shropshire, which in many ways seems to have been defined by insects.

First of all, as I arrived at Shrewsbury station, a wasp flew up my trouser leg and stung me several times (from the knee down, I hasten to add)












I managed to somehow wiggle the trousers around and get him to drop out of the bottom of my jeans, and luckily I don't react too badly to wasp stings.

Later that night, we paid a visit to the Miners Arms (which used to be called The Drill) in Morda. As we arrived, there was a veritable plague of flies in there, and the landlord decided to wage war. He placed an insectocutor device on the bar and switched off all the lights, leaving only the jukebox to play on. Gradually, the little critters were drawn towards it and the place cheered each time one of their bodies crackled into the electric bars. All of this to a background of Johnny Cash. Most surreal, as I hope is put across a little by the video below.

Heaven and Hell

Blightyfied by the minute on my return from

Port Aventura

Spain

Catalonia
A week is a long time in a place like that and there were so many things which caught my attention and made me curious.

Hard to distill that into a blog post, but I feel that one chance encounter sums up some of it at least.

There is a real disparity between the people who live in these kind of places and the thousands who visit every summer. I feel more at home in the spit and sawdust bars (the kind of places where Port Aventura employees no doubt pop into for a quick carajillo before clocking on) than I do in the schlocky themed places that abound in and around the theme park.


On the first morning of the holiday I woke early and walked into the nearest town of Salou in search of some authenticity.


(I've noticed also that the graffiti in Europe is still politically aware, a bit like it used to be in England in the 70s - a lot of anti fascist, anti homophobic stuff, which is all good, but I wonder why that should be? Perhaps some of my continental readers could offer a view)

So anyway, on to the chance encounter...

We were waiting for the trenet to take us back to the safety of our hotel, when along came a black guy selling sunglasses out of a plastic carrier bag.

There was a white guy (middle aged, paunchy) waiting as well, with his daughter, and the salesman tried his luck with this mark.

"No thanks," he said, "I've got some proper ones here." He pointed to the peak of his baseball cap, where a pair of orange tinted sunglasses rested. The look on his face said all it could say about the way he felt, and the way he would vote, if voting was of any interest to him.

The tram took an age to arrive, but arrive it did, and we reached sanctuary in the end. Back at the hotel, most of the maids and cleaning staff were black.

There will be more to follow on this subject, but I hope I have made a point.

photos

Trandals

I will be able to update my Twitter location soon, as I am off to Port Aventura (warning - intensely irritating sound on this link) on Monday. In the usual panic I realised that I had no clothes or shoes suitable for a hot climate (or, well, anything, really) so went on what was for me a shopping spree.

There was a sale at Next, and it was... horrendous. I will say no more, except that shops don't thrill me much, and sales even less. I can honestly see very few reasons to wear shiny grey pinstripe trousers. There was a sale at M&S, but, despite my age, something rankles about wearing M&S clothes. Silly, I know, but there you go. And despite that, I did buy some super lightweight chinos and 2 pairs of swimming shorts. All well and good.

There was a sale at Clarks. And there I made what I consider to be the purchase of the year. Oh yes. I have even coined a new word. You see, I have never been one for sandals. I accept that they have their place in some societies and I even accept that they are indeed useful, but I find it hard to accept that I should wear them. Then I saw the light! My Eureka moment! A cross between trainers and sandals. And here they are, in all their glory.