Meat on The Ledge

Do you ever find that things aren't quite what they seem?

A chap I know once went to a dating agency and asked for a "feisty" female. Due to an unfortunate transcription error they sent him one who drank a lot.(*)

And the other day I received what I assumed was my first spam friendship request on (popular social networking site) Facebook. It turned out to be an invitation to a "luncheon meet".

Thankyou. I'm here all week.

(* If Mrs Rine is reading this, I'm referring to a mythical person for comedic interpretation and no relation to real people alive or dead)

Eastern World, it is Explodin'

I was interested to learn from Dave's Blog that his Mum is visiting him for a few days and he appears to have trepidations.

I don't think he has any reason to be concerned as I've just found this blog.

No Direction Home

Bob Dylan continues in the "you-couldn't-make-it-up" department by confirming that he may lend his voice to a GPS navigation system.

I for one will be queuing up!

Just imagine asking for the post code for Desolation Row, diverting at Positively Fourth Street into Highway 61 (for the second time) as you go Freewheelin and Bringing it all Back Home.


"Have you got the directions for Swaffham High Street Bob".


"....jingle... jangle.....the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming......."

Mind the Gap

I think the three most depressing things about growing older are as follows:

1. Your eyesight starts failing and you get stuck in a busy London Street desperately squinting to read the A to Z (or the GPS Screen on your Nokia).

2. Your tolerance of arses reduces to an unacceptable level. The merest audible hint of Chris Evans is enough to ruin your day.

3. Your teeth start falling out.

Of these, the last one is by far the most depressing.

You can, for example, buy a pair of ready readers for a quid or lash out on some stylish "eyeware" which even young hip dudes are wearing. Job done.

With regard to the Evans problem, at least you can switch the radio off and ensure you venture nowhere near any portable radiophonic devices between the hours of 5pm to 7pm when his atrocious "show" is broadcast.

No, without wishing to sound like Martin Amis, Dental decay is like an ever present reminder of your own mortality. It is the most depressing thing of all of the processes which everyone goes through, excluding of course people suffering from serious medical conditions which makes this whining sound totally pathetic.

When I was about 10 a dentist in Kent decided I had the opposite problem - too many teeth for my tiny little mouth. I was sent to a specialist who removed teeth and filled my mouth with a grotesque plastic contraption incorporating rubber bands to pull the remaining teeth together.

Now I would dream of looking like Ugly Betty.

My lovely (and very expensive) crowns are falling out faster than the Gallagher Brothers with each other and I'm reaching the stage where I have to choose between forming a Pogues tribute band or wearing the dreaded "d" word - denture. There, I've said it.

I'm wondering whether I'm simply being vain in worrying about this and whether I should take the same attitude I would to wearing an Elton John on my head. Fortunately in the Internet Rag 'n Bone Business I am starting to look far less out of place now the gaps are appearing and in any case you only see it when I'm laughing - and I don't laugh because I'm so depressed about my teeth.

Scotch Missed

It's not many years since a Scottish accent was regarded as somehow more trustworthy than a twanging Estuary English voice, weasly whining Welsh or a wacky and unreliable Irish brogue. Other regional accents such as Vernon Kaye Bolton or Paul Gascoigne Geordie speak for themselves... they are quite entertaining to listen to but you wouldn't trust them to look after your car insurance.

It used to be conventional wisdom that if you were setting up a telephone call centre, the ideal gold standard would be Edinburgh. Those dulcit, attractive Scottish tones would seduce the most irate customer and leave everyone feeling they were dealing with a sound and caring organization.

Earnest and honest Scots who helped build up this impression of their race were all around, whether it was Jackie Stewart, Barbara Dickson, Sean Connery or Robert Carlisle. In politics the Scots abounded with such highly regarded conviction politicians as John Smith and the only senior Labour Minister to resign over the Iraq War, the much missed Robin Cook.

Sadly, the lingua franca of Scottish solidity has been devalued in the last three years faster than the Zimbabwe dollar. A succession of high profile Scots have done to our economy what John Major was doing to Edwina Currie and the currency is as muddied as the Clyde.

Gordon Brown - promised a caring modern Socialist State but ended up merely running after Murdoch headlines like a frightened chicken.

Alistair Darling - "Darling I shrunk the economy". London Born but Scots by upbringing.

Sir Fred Goodwin - Born in Paisley but most people consider him to have no parents. Once failed in the Highland Games Caber section as he was such a useless tosser.

and now

Alex Salmond - "The Toast of Tripoli" after helping release mass murderer Al-Megrahi for a hero's welcome back home.

One suspects he assumed it was "Al McGrahey" and therefore automatically deserving favour and subsidy.

Sorry Scotland, you've blown it.

(If I haven't managed to upset you in this posting, please accept my apologies. As a 50% Scot myself I'm not half bothered).

And So Tibet

Oz has become a lazy little blogger lately.

Whilst we've been staying at big nana's he spends a great deal of time under the bed like a little furry hermit crab :


And yesterday when we were trudging along the canal with Olivia in the pushchair, she insisted on getting out to walk. Oz insisted on getting in:

He sat in this position all the way home. Fortunately nobody reported us to the RSPCC.

Heron a G String

We're oop North.

Here's a pic of Lancaster Canal with a Heron which was playing Chicken with Oz.

Our local East Angular Heron flies off when we get 100 yards away but this was a hard Northern Heron who would be out on a cold December night with just a thin T Shirt and a packet of tabs stuffed into the armhole.

Something for the Weekend

I met a bloke in a pub once, sitting looking miserable at the bar. He was, not me.

"What's up Mate?", I enquired. (At this point you are suspecting a made up story)

"I've just been fired", he replied morosely.

"Oh really, who did you work for?", I enquired sympathetically.

"I was the book-keeper for Rory Gallagher".

"Oh dear", I said. "Still, there's no accounting for Taste".

Crisis in the Underpants Department!!!

Well, Mrs Rine has now been away a week and a half and a crisis in the underpants department was bound to occur!



I'm talking about the availability of freshly laundered underwear of course. This could only mean one thing ...I'd have to learn to work the washing machine!

Don't run away with the idea that I'm some old fashioned sexist beast who doesn't do housework. Oh no, I am a modern metro-sexual male who knows one end of a Dyson from the other and sometimes uses as many as four rings when warming up ready made pasta. (I was going to use two rings but he was still busy solving the enigma code).

Early on in our relationship it was agreed that Mrs Rine would handle all my underpants and I would look after the dishwashing. She does the laundry and I load the Smegging Dishwasher which demands fantastic technical Krypton-Factor type skills and spatial intelligence of the highest order. After 10 days without me she's probably run out of cups and saucers.

But the clothes washing can't be Rocket Science can it? I bunged all the clothes in the machine, turned the dial to 40 degrees (which is incidentally Werner Von Braun's educational attainment in rocket science), lit up an imaginary fag and put my imaginary feet up on the table to continue my busy morning's net-loafing.

Once the cycle had finished (1 hour 50 minutes) and I'd worked out how to extract the washing (17 minutes) I hung it out to dry and thought to myself how clever I was - from Smeg to Smug!

As I examined the wash, however, I couldn't help noticing that things like my white socks hadn't returned to their vestal perfection but remained steadfastly, er, black. Nothing seemed to sparkle like it did on the detergent adverts when they used to show them between programmes on ITV.

It slowly dawned on me that I had missed a vital stage in the whole process by not putting the little block of washing detergent thingy in the drawer thingy at the front of the machine.

"From Smug back to Smeg", muttered Oz under his breathe but distinctly audibly.

Coast Starring

I'm a big fan of the BBC 2 series Coast.

When someone pitched the original concept for Series One you just know that they'd imagined one of the select crew of overpaid middle aged comedians going on a "journey" round Britain's Coastline. "We could get Stephen or Rory or Griff or Michael Palin or Alexei!".

Thankfully they weren't available and a motley collection of unknown eccentrics were assembled who make Time Team look like Hollyoaks. Miniature Scottish Chap who does a "Miss Piggy" with his beautifully conditioned hair, Skinny bloke with Umbrella sticking out of rucksack, lovely Dr Alice with Bristolean vowels wanted by Amnesty International, Posh Bloke who is gagging for his own series...

But here's the thing:

The premise of the programme is a trip round the UK Coast - but they are already on SERIES FOUR! You can understand a few series filling in gaps but they are already having to nip over to Brittany and Ireland to keep it going.

Just imagine what it's going to be like by series 136....

Masterchef

Mrs Rine has been up North since last Monday on Nappy Duty and I have been left fending for myself (and my two charges).

Rumours abound that I am the "Sultan of Ping" and have been existing on Sainsburies Quiches and Steak & Kidney Pies microwaved. I would just like to dispel this ugly rumour (Aka T. Blair).

Only this evening, for example, I had 4 (YES FOUR) rings on the cooker going and concocted an Italian Inspired Pasta dish.


It comprised:

Giovanni's Spinach & Ricotta Tortelloni

Tomato & Basil Sauce

Runner Beans from 3 doors down

Courgettes from Garden fried with Mushrooms

John & Gregg would have been salivating....

Lily decided it was nothing to do with her...

Oz was open mouthed with astonishment...

A Nice Pair of Lilies

Here's a weekend looky-likey competition and it's a right little poser.

I'm struggling to spot any of the differences myself.

Dear Prudence

So. The Bank of England and Mr Black Eyebrows are continuing with their experiment with the euphemistically titled "Quantitative Easing" by stuffing another £50 billion into the economy.

Is it just me, or does this plan sound ridiculously over-simplistic?

It's like saying "I'm a bit short this month. But don't worry, I've got a Colour Photocopier downstairs and will run off a few hundred quid to tide me over". It seems to me this is a dangerous experiment which is bound to have negative results - they have already increased the money supply by 10% and sure that will simply devalue the money supply by, er, 10%?

To use another metaphor, isn't it like someone saying "I'm looking a bit fat. I know - I'll pop out and buy some bigger clothes!".

'Es told 'em down at t'Fish Shop that I've 'ad me leg off!

A Programme coming up on Radio 4 this Thursday has shocked me into realising that Keith Waterhouse's Masterpiece Billy Liar is 50 years old this year.

I'd forgotten what an impact the book had on me when I read it and later saw the wonderful John Schlesinger film in 1963 with Tom Courtenay and Julie Christie. The book caught perfectly the poignant struggle between adolescent brash confidence and vulnerable insecurity and unlike any other fictional work of the period seemed to reach in and touch the inner rebel.

I couldn't get enough of the book, reading and re-reading until my head was full of pieces of the text. I remember Billy Fisher used to make up phrases to take the piss out of older Yorkshire folk such as "I'm reet thraiped lad" or "It's neither mickling nor muckling" and I can even remember the poster on the 'Wayside Pulpit' which read "It is better to cry over spilt milk than to try and put it back in the bottle". I'm certain there aren't any other books that I can quote so freely and verbatim.

Looking back with the benefit of Google I'd forgotten just how good the film was. I'd also forgotten the brilliant performances by Wilfred Pickles as Billy's Dad and Leonard Rossiter as Mr Shadrack the Undertaker (Billy's employer). Even Rodney Bewes as Billy's friend Arthur was a surprise.

Apparently Morrissey was also a fan of the book and Wikipedia assures me that "William, It was Really Nothing" was in there somewhere. I also found this great set of clips from the film edited to the Smiths which makes me want to get straight over to Ebay to find a DVD copy of the film. In fact I'm off there now.

Heaving

I know you come here for witty insights into the human condition but sometimes one has to just chill out and take things a bit easy, if only for the hypertension.

Anyway here's a few snaps of the garden:

A is for Apples, teaming and heaving on the boughs and ready for 12 months supply of apple sauce.

B is for Busy Lizzies, always good value in a pot.

T is for Tiny Tomato, one of which has actually gone red. Hardly self sufficiency I know.

J is for Japanese Prayer Temple where we go at 5am every morning to pray to the Buddhist god Wickes.

R is for Runner Beans, the very best garden value. Excellent with everything from Roast Beef to Macaroni Cheese.

L is for Lillies. Excellent value and very attractive but liable to run rampant if unchecked.

B is for Bastard, the Mole who is causing me more grief than Esterharzy in Le Carre's magnificent opus.

And C is for Clarkson who appears on the lawn every day.

Tousled

The other day I described Lily's hair as "tousled" and it occurred to me that "tousled" is a word which is only ever applied to hair.

It's a word that has been through Adjective School and missed all the lessons apart from Hair so has come out as a total specialist and one-trick pony. Just like double barrelled toff "one-trick" that only seemed to pop up in pony classes. One day someone is going to call them in and say "I'm sorry, Tousled. Times are tight and there's a lot of words fighting for employment in the average person's 500 word vocabulary. I think we can manage Hair without you from now. You're fired".

On the other hand, there are adjectives that are supremely versatile. Take the word "blue" for example. If you reported that "Jeremy Clarkson is a bit Blue" you could mean that he is:

Conservative

Sad

Pornographic

Azure in Skin Tone

And all spot on!

Let's feel sorry for "tousled" - it should get out more and try and meet a few new interesting nouns for social engagement and variety with a view to possible declension.

Can anybody suggest any other specialist adjectives that have worked themselves into a corner?