Gosh!

Gosh my writing has been a bit crap and dreary lately!.. Lets try and resume normality and struggle through. I've been getting complaints you know?

Enough, On with the blog!

Andrew Edmunds

I am assuming Andrew Edmuds is the owner, or perhaps the chef that has lent his name to this establishment in Lexington Street in Soho.

The beautiful Slinx had organised a Wednesday night treat for me. It was full of thought and kindness as she wished to take me out to somewhere new that both of us had not been to before. Now, this isn't an unusual occurrence as Slinx is very much the independent type and likes, where she can to dip her manicured hand into her varied collection of purses.

If you take the time to read the reviews that the link points you to, you will note that most patrons mention that they felt the establishment is quaintly 'cosy'. Cramped to the extreme would be a more accurate description. It reminded me of a small submarine that had been bedecked in the style of a French Bistro. I also noted that there was almost more room behind the spacious bar/ waitresses counter than there was in the dining area. I now realise that they need a decent retreat to escape the swinging punches of suffocated and angry patrons.

This, by the way was my impression of the 'upstairs' which is actually at street level. There is a rumour that there exists a downstairs which alas I did not spy, but I have to assume, judging from the upstairs, bares more than a passing resemblance to a dolls house coal hole

The restaurant was mostly empty when we arrived and the waitress checked our reservation and motioned us to a postage stamp side table nestling, in corridor style next to another postage stamp sized table occupied by two of Soho's finest, camp, chain smoking media types who were already in loud full consumption. We asked politely whether there was another table? With a nod of the head we motioned toward one in the window or one near the back. All were booked. We sat down and viewed the menu with a small measure of British humour. At least our neighbours were very thin.

On the face of it the menu had promise. Here was a restaurant that wanted to serve proper, mostly French influenced food in season. Slinx plumped for the smoked salmon followed by the shoulder of lamb. I tried the mushroom bruchetta with a poached egg and the special of the day, the braised haunch of hare with Swede mash and cabbage.

A note about the service here. Our waitress had asked us if we would like an aperitif, that of course is expected. I do wish however that she could have kept the disappointment from her face when we smiled and insisted that some still water would be fine. It was a little early really for anything else, even for me, as Slinx had been informed on booking (the only available slot) that we would have to be prompt at 7 and vacate by 9.

Voila, the food arrived. The smoked salmon appeared smoked but looked a mite limped, and my poached egg had been rushed. It ran clear as well as yellow. Now, you might not know this but I'm very partial to a poached egg and in truth, in your own kitchen on a hung-over Sunday morning the timing can be a bit tricky. it shouldn’t however be remotely tricky to Mr Edmunds or his namesake. And, if you don’t mind me ranting, my bruschetta was soggy. The mushrooms were ok though. Just as I like them. Overcooked.

Perhaps there was a rush on downstairs? As I said I hadn't seen it, there could have been a party of 20 demanding dwarves down there creating havoc with an impromptu game of skittles and I would have been none the wiser.

A slightly mis-timed starter can be forgiven. It would be cruel of me to dwell on a review so long if that were all. Oh, if only that were all..

Slinx and I soldiered on. By this time we were leaning across the table to kissing distance. Sadly this was not as we overcome by romance but to try and hear, as the Christmas party of five was seated next to us.

What with the camp brothers on one side and the loud but very dull departmental bash on the other it was like a high pitch, incessant cacophony.

Dunkirk spirit kept us going. Now dear reader I know that you can't hold a restaurant to trial for the behaviour of its patrons, especially if that behaviour is displayed in its glory in the festive season, but in my humble opinion you can make your floor space deal with the problem. In short either lose a table or two or price it out and improve the food so that if you are forcing your customers to taste each others perfume, at least their the kind of neighbours you might enjoy getting to know.

The main courses had arrived by now. When we had ordered Slinx was warned her lamb would be served pink. "Good" she'd said dreaming of some proper blood to eat. It was pink, but barely, oh.. and grey.

It tasted ok though.

I on the other hand had ordered the 'special' The waitress had said to me when I'd ordered it and commented that I'd not had hare before. "It has a game taste, very gamey in fact" Id been a bit worried about this as some game can be very gamey indeed. Often even crawling and I didn't fancy that. I needn’t have worried. The waitress had declined to mention that what little game it had left had been well beaten out of it. This may have been because the poor hare had been braised to well beyond an inch of its death and was as tough as old boots. When I did manage to cut into it, a not insignificant effort, I found what was left inside to be as dry as old Mother Hubbard’s shoes. The chef also showed his sense of humour at this point. He served the hare in a large bowl on top of a foundation of Swede mash and cabbage with sauce. This of course meant that you couldn’t hold it steady as you attempted to break through the leather exterior to expose the dainty wood pulp beneath.

We smiled allot. Well we couldn’t hear so we had to. Slinx was mortified, I was happy and truly very grateful. I'd finally found motivation to review somewhere again.

The false smiley voiced waitress tried to tempt us with desserts. I think we'd had enough. The camp boys had left and were replaced by a Russian billionaire with his escort. We went and had a quick glass of champagne at Kettners and shot off home.

A vodka and tonic on the sofa was a lovely, quiet end to the evening.

Footnote: Incidentally, there was a table on its own by the window. It stayed empty all the time we were there. That ones obviously the venus fly trap table to lure you in. If you really want a decent French restaurant then go to Mon Plaisir in Monmouth Street, Covent Garden.

Its The Darkness

No, not the band who I predict will drift into obscurity after their early summer fanfare. No, its the light, or to be more accurate, the lack of it. At this time of year many of us resemble packs of uniterested zombies. I just came home on the tube and in the harsh lights surrounded by dozing people clutching early bought bundles of Christmas wrapping paper, and others clutching half finished cans of Stella Artois (The experts choice) I felt like I was on one of the last boats out from some dying civilization. Its citizens too exhausted to feel relieved. Or was that just me?. And this was only in the evening.

Pale skin, lank air and bad attitudes marked the journey. Every natural being on the planet slows down and cosec up in its den when the sun goes in. I suggest that we should to.

On a lighter note.

Ernie?

Oh yes!

Jerry Sadowitz was good. Judging by his stage persona I reckon he misses the sunshine to.

Now... Where's my drink?

Bus Fares, What Bus Fares?

On the way to a meeting the other day I had to get to Waterloo station. I hopped on a bus. Or at least I would have if there were still any proper Routmaster buses left.

We have a new type of bus in London now which we call the 'bendy bus' This name makes it sound sort of well, cute, like a child's toy. It's not. Its a giant articulated monstrosity that can barely fit through the streets.

It also explains to me why 'Transport for London is swallowing public funding quicker than you can count the cash.

You see, the bendy bus has 3 lots of doors and there is only a driver and no conductor anymore. So everyone just gets on and sits down.

In short, bus travel in London is now free.

Has anyone been told?

Almost Here, Sometimes There

It was only a few weeks ago that I was bereft of ideas and wondering how I would ever get a few words down here again. I've had a bit of a break since then partly as I've been fighting an on-and-off lurgy interspersed with a torrid time at work. In short, I just haven't been in the mood. I wonder sometimes how it would be if I was paid to write. Not having the alcoholic or self destructive tendencies of the late Jeffrey Bernard I might well have just starved.

As it is, time is the enemy. I could tell you here about nights out, or even lunches in high places but that would be mere reportage. Instead I would rather focus on observations for a while.

Like the things I observed on a train back from Southampton the other day.

Now that's a funny place isn't it?

I'd give you more but I'm saving it up. And Half Life 2 came out last week after a 5 year wait, and well, computer time is precious of an evening.

Keep reading.

A proper post may come tomorrow.

Things Coming Soon

A big night out at Heaven and would you believe it, lunch at The House of Lords.

It's all go you know!

Traditions Carry On Regardless

I'ts always a shock when things move on. I'm happy to say though that providing you know what you are looking for things are often more unchanging than you think. Take November the 5th for instance. This night has been responsible for accidents, maiming, pleasure and silliness for a very long time indeed. Well at least since the attempted French / Scottish pact failed to blow up the Houses of parliament.

Now I don't know about you but fireworks on 'bonfire' night were always mandatory in my history and over the years I have expressed disappointment that the fireworks that you buy seem to have got smaller and smaller, safer and safer so much so that its almost not been worthwhile having your own. Sure you can go to the big display in the park and I think that you should do that anyway but I also think that not much beats being slightly dangerous in your own garden.

This year I thought I'd buy a few, and where better to go than a newsagent in Whitechapel. Not necessarily an area in town you'd want to visit, more the opposite, but I don't mind as I used to live there.

I didn't know the laws had changed. The safety boys have been at it again and now you can't even buy a sparkler without being accompanied by a government nanny. I wonder about future generations. I mean a 13 year old can't buy a model kit anymore lest he or she notice that the glue fumes make his playstation look possibly enjoyably weird for a while.

Anyway. I decided that I would re-visit the newsagent of old.

Myself and The Duke walked the perilous route to the shop itself only to find that the man who runs the shop wasn't allowed to stock them anymore! This was a shock, akin to finding that National Armaments now only makes teddy bears.

Luckily, just as I was wondering what the world has come to, the friendly historical shop keeper who remembered my silly spending habits from years past happily introduced me to his brother.

A smile and a chat followed as we were led around the cornerish to another shop and taken in the back door. There, like an illicit arms dump in various states of undress lay the fireworks I was looking for.

Some of them were as big as small domestic fridges and all of them carried messages pointing out that standing closer than about 100 meters could lead to death.

As we browsed around, younger guys came in and loaded up for more illicit sales around the streets.

We hauled away some alarming incendiaries and headed off and not for the first time, my rocket was shot some admiring glances. And some people (as usual) ran away.

In short it worked out well due to the fact that often, if you know where to look, traditions carry on regardless.

As we meandered, the night sky above East London was torn apart as rival gangs immolated each other and fought fireworks duels 20 story's up between tower blocks.

I love the smell of cordite on November the 5th.

A Box Room. Circus

Last Thursday found me at Circus. Its not often I don't really like a bar. Well in fact I can't remember a bar I didn't like before. This one though irritated me. Its in a basement under a restaurant. Its swanky and severely designed. It reminded me of a long box room. Or perhaps even a corridor.

There is a bar area but it hasn't enough bar stools and those that exist are very high leather chair types. The swivels on them had obviously been lubricated in Teflon and the seats themselves had been polished by silicon soaked dusters. If you were silly enough to sit on them you span round alarmingly and then slid half off. I soon realised that like the bench seats that run down one side of the bar they had been designed by someone who didn't drink and who probably never left their Aeron.

I arrived alone and the beautiful Slinx and an old friend were expected shortly. The few seats that were in the main seating area were busy and there was no where to sit or perch. Near the bar though in a great space big enough to turn a tractor was a rectangular table that could easily seat 3 or 4. There was one chair there. I asked the waiter whether it might be possible to find additional chairs to enable a civilized meeting. The waiter was polite and as far as he could be helpful. But he couldn't.

As you may know I'm sometimes a fan of style over substance but in this case the designers have excelled themselves. Its a bar that looks good empty but simply doesn't function. As a last note I'll add that the very expensive sound system has faithfully recreated the sound of a tinny walkman in an open space. And just as welcome.

Don't go.

Do Go However to Aperitivo

I've said this before. This Italian tapas outfit is just the ticket for a meal with friends or any occasion. We were three people. We ordered 9 dishes. We were hungry.

Monkfish cooked in white wine, king scallops with mushy peas, divine lamb cutlets, hand made meatballs, a poached egg seemingly cooked inside a fine pastry parcel, fried aubergine, smoked chicken salad and the rest. The menu is great and the room is quiet enough to enjoy. The food just keeps coming and there is a good, though short wine list too

I'm hungry again just writing it. And great value to. Are you mad? Next time someone wants to catch up and have dinner just go here.

Worth it.

Lots to Do

Time flies when you least want it to. What I mean by that is if you are busy and active with lots going on you suddenly realise that the thing you meant to do yesterday, last week or increasingly even, last year has slipped by and still remains un-done. In fact sometimes when you pause to think about it you can't quite remember what it was that was the thing. The thing obviously that you meant to do.

I think its probably age. There are good things about being in ones thirties but they often come with the thought "Gosh, I wish I'd been able to do this, felt like this, or viewed this thing in this way a few years ago. Don't get me wrong I'm not moaning about age getting on. At least not yet, but I have managed to write some long sentences here without actually saying very much at all. And I didn't do that a few years ago. Perhaps I wish I had.

Many of the things I refer to are to do with writing things down so that when I come to this blog I can write the witty piece that I thought of whilst walking down the street on the was to the barbers, or the thing I thought when I saw a certain building. It seems that many possibly excellent writing subjects pop into my head when I'm walking about. And then, when I sit down here at my keyboard, I can't quite remember again.

With this in mind I plan to purchase a small electronic MP3 thingie / dictaphone so that I can look even odder as I perambulate about muttering to myself.

It might pay off.

The last week or so has mostly been very good. There have been cocktails at the Savoy, lobsters at Christophers in Covent Garden, walks in the beautiful autumn gold forest by my abode and even an extreme all night of clubbing at The Cross. And these are just the things I can mention. Any one of them could have fuelled a rip roaring piece but its not here.

This weeks looking just as busy but on top of it I'm actually busy at work and have two new cats in the house.

They have been named 'Persia and Martin' Don't ask why.

In other news the ever lovely Slinx has been a bit poorly. It won't last long though I'm sure.

Goodness

Eight days have passed. Its been busy. I'll be with you in a minute.

Bright Lights and Theivery

After a busy and sad week last week, Slinx and I made a rare trip to the West Madlands. To be specific Walsall. Keen eyed readers with good memories will remember that this is the home of an excellent butcher, an enormous amount of pubs, a not very good football team, the highest percentage of teenage pregnancies vis a vis population and currently, my Mother.

The trip was three fold in purpose. Firstly I wished to take the ever lovely Slinx to see some of this authors history. Secondly it was to take my Mother a gift of a personal computer and introduce her to the Interweb for almost the first time and thirdly to visit the very famous Walsall Illuminations. Or as the locals call them 'The hallucinations'

Now don't say you have never heard of them. Indeed stop saying "what Walsall? In Poland? Your ignorance of the parts of Staffordshire known as the black country is shocking. Then again I had never heard of Coppull either until I just looked it up. Its in Cumbria. Come to think of it, where's Cumbria? And what's it for?

Now. The Walsall Illuminations are held for a month or two every year in the Walsall Arboretum. The Arboretum is a large park in the town with a lake or two, paths, green bits, tennis courts, bowling greens and at least one bandstand. In the summer its home mostly to drunks and the occasional dog walker. In the winter people first started 'lighting up' in 1872 and on and off this happened until 18982. After that it seemed people got bored and decided to go to the pub instead and the practice died off. Someone must have remembered as in 1950 it was started again and has been happening ever since.

I bet the people of Walsall don't know that Arboretum actually means.."A place where an extensive variety of woody plants are cultivated for scientific, educational, and ornamental purposes." (Dictionary.com)

I bet they do know that its second only to Blackpool Illuminations in this country. Its a smorgasboard of bulbs, tableaux, strings of light and laser shows. Its bloody good actually. And it has a fairground in the middle.

Slinx bought a pair of flashing bunny ears to wear around the park. I agreed that's its not fair to let children have all the fun.

The night was finished by a great Chinese meal with some old friends of mine. If your up in that area you can't go much worse than eating at 'Simons on the Chester Road near Aldridge.

The Unexpected Case of the Stolen Pound Coin

I had an unplanned day off today. It was unplanned in the sense that I only decided to have it last night. I felt a sniffle coming on and not to put to fine a point on I felt knackared. A good sleep and a make myself useful day beckoned.

As part of this theme I visited that national institution B&Q. These purveyors of home improvement and hardware tools were going to sell me some loft insulation. Yes, its true. I too think of such mundane subjects as keeping warm sometimes.

As I parked up a man was unloading his shopping trolley which I noted contained packs of laminated flooring into a wholly unremarkable maroon ford car. He to was wholly unremarkable with wispy hair and I'm afraid to say a neatly trimmed, ginger, Nigel Mansell styled mustache. I waited a few moments for him to unload and with a polite smile he gave me his empty trolley. I reached in my pocket and handed him a pound coin as at this particular branch of the hardware shop 'trolley theft is obviously rife. You need a coin to release a trolley from its neighbors.

He took the coin and said thank you. I trolleyed on and shopped.

You can guess the rest can't you. I purchased the insulation and filled my car with it and then returned the trolley to the pack.

Guess what? My trolley was broken and had no pound coin to eject. In fact the mechanism was broken so it couldn't be used.

What a shylock!

And one that thought quickly on his feet at that.

That's my pound that is, and I'd like it back. Watch out for the man with the mustache at B&Q. I bet he does it every day, dozens of times.

One other thing. There is a nice Turkish chap outside this particular shop that sells hamburgers, teas and hotdogs from a van. Being a touch peckish I sampled his wares. Inside his little kiosk was a sign. The sign read "B&Q employees please note that from next week tea and coffee will be 50p"

I wondered if it were an old sign and as such that week was last week. Or whether it was placed weeks ago and every week impoverished employees had to plead with the man that it couldn't have gone up because next week is, well next week and not this week.

What did tea cost last week. Was it more or less?

This world sometimes confuses me.

Other Momentous News

My Brother who lives far away in Seattle America has conspired with his wife Kristy to grow a child. Liana Morgan Palmer was born a few days ago. Good luck to her for at least the next 90 years or thereabouts. I wonder if she will be another reader?

TG

Mouse: The Cat: 1996 - 2004: Approx

Mouse was a noble black and white cat about eight years old. Age is often a mute point with cats. He was always bit odd, even when he was a kitten, but he was my friend, and others to. I know he was only a 'furry friend' but I shall miss him an awful lot.

It seems he didn't have proper kidneys. Then again I'm surprised I do.

He left for good. Today.

Normal blogging will resume after a moment or two of silence.

I'm burying him in the garden in the morning at dawn. With a view.

Please paws for thought, especially if you knew him.

I will.

Thank you

TG

Update Today

I have added the second part of the Ibiza story below.. Scroll down for part two.

It seemed more sensible than adding part two above part one...

Ahh There You Are...

Part One

Well all is back to normal again. I'm almost looking forward to good night out again. A knees up if you will. I might be at one this weekend, or it may wait a while. We shall see.

So I Went to Ibiza

It was all a bit weird as I was there without Slinx. I did however pull my socks up and get down as it would have been very remiss not to. My company for the week was luckily The Duke who can always be relied upon for a rolled up sleeves approach to any project.

I'm not going to give a complete review for two reasons. 1) Other people's holiday stories are a little like other peoples holiday photo albums. In short, like rotting fish, they are usually best avoided. Unless you are a good travel writer of course? Which I have not yet attempted to be. 2) My memory isn't that reliable. Yours woudn't be either after what I've been through so don't complain.

I would also add as an addendum that I didn't see enough of the island to really give a proper story. The bits I did see though, and the people that peopled them were, on the whole, bloody good.

Bars of note:

Base Bar. At Ibiza town on the harbour
Rock bar. Next door
Bar Mambo. Sunset strip San Antonio
Savannah, 2 doors from Mambo
Bar Tahiti, On the beach next door to the now dead Bora Bora in PDB. Music OK.. At least it has some. Their Tahiti chicken, bacon and all the rest sandwich is worth a mention. Number 16 on the menu if you are served by the big bald French bloke who, perhaps can't read words.

The bar by my pool Errm by the pool obviously.

Clubs / nights ticked off:

El Divino. Hed Kandi Closing Party. Saturday 18th September.

My god! Don't bouncers get born with clickers in their hands for a reason? Well obviously they do in Ibiza to, but they don't use them for number controlling in clubs. Nah, in Ibiza they just use them to tot up the takings as its quicker than counting the cash.

Hed Kandi nights are now obviously seen as the place to be if you are on your hols with 10 lads from Scunthorpe. I assume that they must have flogged all the stock at night from the cake factories and car part manufacturers they work for back in Blighty to afford a few drinks and the entrance fees. They must have been seduced by the cd covers and believed that the night would be populated by curvy, perfect, pert, high heeled girlies who would just smile at them at the mere raise of a puggy eyebrow. At least I think that must have been the case as they couldn't even afford shirts. Now I'm all for an access for everybody policy in theory, but I inhabit a real life world and I'm happy in it. Being as its my real life world I hate theory and can I please be in charge of the door policy so that the people who really, actually want to dance and get into it can actually enjoy themselves I almost expected a conga to break out. Fights nearly did. Hail me.. The night clubbers Stalin.

The Duke and I shoe-horned ourselves outside onto the terrace and mostly shuffled for a long time. Women, for there were some there, occasionally struggled through the crowds to get air. They didn't stand still for long as the stark choice of suffocation inside or having Gary from Humberside stuffed in his shorts with a sweaty back, mouth dribbling on them whilst gurning pitifully at them made them make a choice. Some, of them honestly hurled themselves on to the harbour rocks over the VIP area in a spatter of blood and gold high heels rather than face the truth. The truth being. Die from lack of air, or die from Gary's lack of charisma and very old fashioned mating tactics, circa 10,000 BC. Class.

We had a result at about 3AM! Someone had left 2 small unopened bottles of water on the table we were leaned against. I'm not normally like this but being as the bar queue was longer than a printout of Iceland's central heating bill we eyed them for an eternity. That's the frozen food store if you wondered, not the country.

In the end we drank them with no consequences. Result £15 whole quid saved.

I have to say it did improve as the numbers thinned. The San An boys faded away and only those with real stamina and good pharmaceutical tolerance remained. The joint rocked from 4.30 ish till 8 AM when I left. Don't quite know what happened to The Duke, he was last seen talking to a small and pretty, female blond thing...


Defining memories...

1. The Duke jumping up and down on the dance floor pointing at me whilst grinning like a loon.
2. The bloke in the shirt behind me from the North who suddenly shouted "Yes!. Lets Haaave IT! so loudly the whole floor (and DJ Box) turned and cheered him.
3. A peck on the cheek from a pvc clad female nurse on stilts.

I won't mention that I also kept getting chatted up by chaps batting for the other side, it must have been The Duke's little joke of stuffing in that hanky hanging from my arse jeans pocket.

I managed a small amount of fruit for breakfast and slept till 12.

Space

The defining club. They had said that "its a unique experience" They had said, "There is no where quite like Space" In fact a day later I was describing what it was like on the outside terrace at Space when a passing Ibiza veteran, all bracelets and bone walked over and interjected with the statement

"There are not enough suitably good superlatives in the world to describe the terrace at Space on a Sunday afternoon". He was right. His name was Henry. I hold with that statement.

Back to Sunday. We did Space from early afternoon and subject only to an early evening break I left at nearly 3 AM. The terrace which is the main floor and sort of outside shuts at 12 PM. The terrace is what its all about. Expect beautiful people, ugly people, munted people, lady boys, bikini girls, posers, freakers and a friendly, packed wasted crowd. Also expect extreme chemical excess and pumping uplifting noise. Party until you simply don't care.

Inside after the terrace shuts is hard and repetitive. People in there were simply past caring (or in some cases even seeing) but I still see the flashing lights when I shut my eyes.

One word of advice at this juncture. Male or female, animal or vegetable. Don't text and then phone your significant other. In my case the beautiful Slinx to tell them that you miss them and that you really wish they were there to share it with you.

Even though they will wish the same and in reality be pleased that you care, you never sound quite as compos mentis as you would like (because you arn't) and, truth be told. They want to be there to. Leave that one in the theory box.

People don't appreciate it. Give your mobile to your mate and the battery to another mate. Or even a stranger. That way everything will be cushtie.

3.30 AM to 9AM Sleep

Breakfast
Beach
Pool
Kip

10PM Monday: Rock Bar Ibiza Town.

We met up with some fellow clubbers from London including the infamous Harry who we had bumped into at Space on Sunday. Its like that. Its a funny thing.

Manumission Closing Party Monday Night

Manumission is held at Priviledge which is officially the biggest club in the world with a capacity of 10,000 people. Its run by a bloke who's real name is actually Mike Manunission. No really. And his wife. What a job eh?

Everyone had said that you might not go back but its a must see for a one off visit. I hadn't been to any of these places before so we went.

This place is enormous. I can't begin to describe it. Just the car park approaches remind you of an Olympic sports venue. Only grubbier with more wasted people staggering around. If you had arranged to meet someone there you would have needed GPS systems and a team of scout dogs. And that's before you get in....

Intermission

Its a long blog this and I will update it with the final and concluding episode soon. In the meantime I shall carry on bouncing in my chair to this album.

The Album

Its Space.. And the first CD IS the terrace, buy it, bounce and weep with joy!

More to come...

And some more non-clubbing stuff too.. A taster for those of you with long memories. I saw the bag man today. He's selling Poncho's.. don't get me started...

TG - To be continued.

PS: Dont worry. Slinx and I are very fine.


Part Two

Ibiza Continued (Written 4th October 2004)

Well you didn't have to wait long. Then again I couldn't wait long either as my memory (as mentioned in part one) is fading as quickly as my hardly noticed tan.

Without further ado I shall knock the last bit out. Oh please... This is literature, keep that thought to yourself.

Manummision Part 2

As I said, its big. The main room / floor is like a football pitch but without the grass, and indeed the terraces. Instead of a centre area it has a swimming pool. In the middle of the swimming pool reached by a slender walkway across the water is the DJ booth which is like the bottom half of a large Dalek. The walkway was guarded by a monolithic bouncer. I'll leave you to picture that.

I'm assuming the bouncer was there to stop anyone from getting within 60 feet of the DJ's as at a number of moments during the night, charging over it and hurling them into the icy depths seemed like a laudable idea.

To give you an idea of the ego of Mr Manumission you only had to follow the signs for the toilets. There at the top of the stairs going down was a sign which said "Welcome to Manumissions World Famous Toilets" I did use the facilities and I have to say that other than in scale they were unremarkable. The only slightly unusual sight I did see on one visit was an elderly Spanish lady replete in traditional black mourning lace who was armed with a toilet duck and a bucket. She was giving the urinals a good old clean seemingly oblivious to the clubbers milling around her.

This was at about 4.30 (or maybe later?) in the morning, and a more questioning man might have spent a little time pondering whether the move from agriculture and peace and quiet to an economy entirely driven by drugs and clubs can be good for a people. She did however take pride in her work and whilst stoically ignoring all around her wielded her damp cloth and bleach like only a proper mum can.

The Shows

Now, the thing about this place is that its all set up so you can all (in theory) see the enormous stage at the far end from the entrance. The stage is indeed huge and its backdrop is in keeping. At the rear of the stage there is a wall. It acts as the backdrop. Its about 6 or 7 storeys high (perhaps its only 5, I can't quite remember) Anyway it was filled at various times by scantily clad femmes wearing not very much, who, with the help of a hunchback and Mike M and his wife broke into theatre like shows during breaks in the music.

It doesn't really work. The only good spots to view it from are high up VIP areas which you can only access if you're really in the know, or on the main floors. Sadly the main floors were populated by gangs of orcs with numerous Gary's as their leaders. The floors were also covered with broken glass and were in main traffic areas making things a bit tricky. Also once you have half seen one, you have seen em all. Sure the girls dance reasonably well but the shows would make Busby Berklay spin in his grave. Its a nice thought and for many people there it was obvious that this was what they had come to see. Perhaps they don't have TV?

Perhaps its just me. I applaud anyone who can fill this place but would I go again or recommend it. No I woudn't.

And that's before you pay 10 Euros for a glass of coke from a siphon.

It was a curates egg. The music tried to please everyone and chopped and changed every 10 minutes and the crowd tried desperately hard to please themselves.

We weathered it till nearly 7AM and headed for the laid on bus to Space for the afterparty.

As we were about to board the bus a Manumission rep worker person encapsulated the issue. He didnt mean to but he foolishly said, "Why are you all going, there,s another hour or so yet?" A dozen eyes swivelled, some quite erratically, toward him and in a few words people just said "errm, it was a bit shit"

Space The Final Frontier

The bus of oblivion lurched off with me, The Duke and a chap who we had met called Ritch onwards back to Playa Del Bossa.

Space wasn't open for another 40 mins or so. The bus poured out its contents outside a bar. Drinks were in order.

Its been a long time since I have been in the company of such a rag tag band of determined. The after party at Space was to go on till 4 PM and then there was a beach BBQ party till god knows when which would follow it.

It was going to be a hard slog and was patently already to much for some of the jockeys. I had a lovely conversation with a chap who coudnt actually speak at all. His brain was willing but his mouth and vocal chords simply belonged to someone else. He nodded and used his eyes a lot.

The people who served us at the bar were charming. To be hit by 100 zombies at nearly 8 in the morning didn't seem to bother them at all. Back to that economy changing debate I think.

We went to Space. The Duke went at 8.40 for his plane which was a bit sad. I stayed.

By about lunchtime the music was getting harder and the terrace was packed. All I was really doing was nodding my head. Even though I was with a good group of nice people (Big hello to the Cork crowd!) I realised that continuation whilst medically possible wasn't medically advisable. I skipped the rest of the carry on and left them all to it.

I was all clubbed out.

Tune in soon for part 3 which I promise will be an amusing even perhaps well written summary of the other bits that was this trip.

Scurrilous Rumours

I've' heard em. Some of you obviously forget that I know all. I can tell you know? Well I'll put a stop to that sort of scaremongering right now! I haven't stopped writing. I've just not been around to write. Those of you that have held faith know the truth. This blog will be properly updated and my thoughts will once again be focused on the necessary.

So without further ado. I shall begin.

On Thursday.

I've Been Away..

In Ibiza mainly. Also my PC at home had a disk failure... updates coming soon.

The Summer Appears (Albeit in September)

I'm naturally not one who revels in the icy gloom. Not for me a tingle of excitement as the trees begin to lose their leaves. No. I'm a summer person by nature and happiest sitting back in the sunshine idly idling. Preferably with a large drink.

I can understand it that those of you that are blessed with pasty skin and freckles by the bucketload who are ancestors from the Nordic branch of the family don't share my penchant for the hot burning sun but I think I possibly have some Mediterranean blood somewhere and given a few days of the aforementioned idling I feel, proverbially 'happy as Larry'

I don't know who Larry was but I did find this quote

"The word may well have come from English dialect larrikin for a mischievous youth, once common in Warwickshire and Worcestershire, which itself is closely related to larrie. "

So, it seems that as is now, Larry was a simple happy Chav in pre-burberry days. For an explanation of that please refer to my last post. It warms your heart doesn't it?

Weekend Report

After drinking far too much as was good for me on Friday night in the bars of Old Street, home of the Hoxton haircut I launched myself into some heavy duty gardening on Saturday. Calm yourselves I know. The excitement of it is palpable.

Not withstanding that I made excellent progress and cleared large areas of garden including the pond which had taken on jungle like qualities. The garden looked good. I was indeed pleased. Especially as the sun beamed whilst I worked.

I'm very disappointed with the tomatoes though. I shall have words with them. I can only assume that the monsoon like August stunted their development.

Saturday evening was spent with a BBQ and Sunday was spent idling in the garden, with drinks, and a lovely Slinx.

All was well.

Next week I'm off to Ibiza. I don't think things will be quite as relaxed. After all I don't have a garden to sit in whilst I am there...

On a Serious Note

I watch the news. I read the news. I have been moved (like you) by the tragedy in Belsan.

What man does to man, and in this case child is unbelievable and unforgivable. The men with power have to talk with the men that have none.

If they don't. As has always been, tragedy will breed new tragedy which will always hurt the innocent more.

Bush, Blair, Putin. You are all in charge as are others.

Ambition is a double edged sword. Sometimes you can end up being responsible for far more than you bargained for.

Munter

Its my favorite word at the moment.

Munter: Disagreeable. Often ugly. Person with no style. Visually and perhaps mentally inferior to your current state. Possibly grubby. Possibly wasted or drunk. For wasted, see munted below. Source currently unknown.

Example use: Look at that munter!..."

Munted: A state of muntedness. Can self describe without the derogatory meanings ascribed to others. Drunk, stoned, wired, wasted; Munted.

Example use: That night in Ibiza I was well munted!

A quick google will show that Munter is an old surname dating from Kent (A county in England) circa 17th century. Kent is not considered the best place to hail from though there are worse. Try Walsall for instance the part origin of your author.

It is possible though that Kent could be its origin as Kent is also where (I believe) the word 'Chav' was coined to describe some of its more socially challenged inhabitants. See this site and watch the videos for the idea...Chavscum.

Tired Me

Crikey!. Another feature packed weekend has left me looking forward to a good long sleep tonight.


Rollerblading Road Ride

On Friday night I thought I'd try something a little different for a change. So instead of piling into the nearest bar I popped to shop on Friday lunchtime and bought myself a pair of shiny rollerblades. On Friday evening assisted by my good friend the Duke I assembled, if one person can 'assemble' on Park Lane by Hyde Park for an organised Friday night skate. There was about 100 people. Most of whom where obviously accomplished skaters, and one chap riding a recumbent bicycle with a very large pair of speakers strapped to the back and an amp in a trailer.

At the stroke of 8 o clock the skate marshals who were wearing safety first fluorescent jackets piled into park lane and stopped the traffic. We took to the roads like a Tour De France peleton. Only with more wheels per person obviously.

I'd chosen a bit of an extreme event for a first time skate outing as this was a 3 hour epic 20 mile hack through central London.

It was fun and at times it was fast. It was also quite scary, particularly on the downhills. The traffic didn't like it as we took over the roads but the tunes were banging out of the cycle stereo and at the end, happy but knackared The Duke, a friend of his and myself found a nice boat moored in St Katherines Dock and relaxed with a well earned beer.

I had only wiped out once. At speed. Skating backwards on the pavement over Tower Bridge. No damage was done, I just rolled spectacularly along the concrete and got straight back up. I'll pretend it was a stunt fall.

So, all in all, I am quite pleased to report that my early mid life crisis is progressing from strength to strength.

Next week: Base Jumping.

Saturday

A quiet one with Slinx and a DVD evening.

Sunday

A trip to Cambridge was quite nice but I have to report that for an ancient town, and one that is packed to the gills with students, it is very very short of pubs. Though I did note that it has a healthy population of wasps. It was an early night in preparation for a big bank holiday Monday.

I did buy a T Shirt though. I'm not normally one for witty slogans but I liked this one. It says.

I can only please one person a day
Today is not your day
Tomorrow is not looking good either

Thames Boat Trip

Some friends had organised a river booze cruise from Surbiton. We had to be there at 10AM and picked up a boat that fitted 12 people. This was good as there was 11 of us. As soon as we were aboard we cracked into the beers and this was to be the theme of the day. We cruised up river past Hampton Court and it was a little like being on holiday. If you get the chance to do something like this I recommend it. The homes on the river banks are often stunning and there are a lot of houseboats that look like great places to live. Especially I would imagine in the summer, should we ever have one.

We stopped at pubs and pootled about. A lot was drunk and we delivered the boat back at 6PM before weaving home.

All in all it was a top flight wheeled and ruddered social smorgasboard.

Hence my tiredness.

The Good Times Are Back

Friday

Saw me with the car. This was intentional as I hadn't planned to go out. In the end I did but due to my rattling car keys was responsible to the point of vicardom. Ended up in the Bunker Bar in Covent Garden. We liked it here. Good beer brewed on the premises, funky music and quite funky clientele. A new haunt I think.

The reason that I had bought the car to work on a Friday is that Saturday was going to be a big event day out and I knew that my will power alone would not necessarily get me home at a time suitable for an early start come the morn. In the end I made it in with time for bed.

South West Four, Clapham Common

Its an innocuous sounding title that isn't it? It sounds like a postcode. It is. It could be the name of a rubbish boy band or perhaps a bus company? What it doesn't sound like is an afternoon party in the park with 10,000 people. A main stage playing host to world famous DJ's Sasha and Erick Morillo amongst others. A tent stage of uplifting house music from the infamous Bora Bora beach bar in Ibiza and another tent of harder stuff. In short it was a serious party fest.

The weather has been crap this summer. It has rained nearly every day and I was dreading the rain for this day. Luckily it held off and for most of the time the party was in sunshine. We danced and partied hard through till close at 10PM and I can't remember such an enjoyable day. There were some sights to be seen. Most noticeably the smiles everyone had. I didn't see a policeman in sight nor any trouble but I'm sure the unlicensed pharmacies had done a roaring trade.

Day time clubbing is the way of the future. It might sound not quite right but to be getting up on Sunday morning around 10 rather than getting home on Sunday morning after a night out at around 10 makes a big difference to the rest of your weekend. And what's left of your physical state.

It wasn't like the England I know. I hope its on again next year!

Other News

Rain, rain, rain, rain and more rain. I'm a busy lad. I don't have that many gaps in my time and keeping on top of the garden is always tricky. The problem this summer has been that every time I have a gap it chucks it down. Its been so bad that water cress that was growing in the pond has migrated 20 yards to the veg patch. Its handy to pick I grant you but If I wanted a watercress farm I'd hardly have planted tomatoes, runner beans and gladiolus. Would I?

I got burgled this time last year. It sparked me into writing this blog. Its my anniversary then. Cards and gifts please.

Wasps and the Leaflet

Good Mooorning Vietnaaaam!

Oh *ahem* sorry. Wrong script and I don't have a hairy enough back.

Waspish Wasps

What is it about these creatures? They really are the football thug of the insect world aren't they. They share the same intelligence are just as randomly aggressive and if they could, I bet they would wear Burburry caps, chav like jewelery and have their knuckles (if they had hands) dragging along the metaphorical ground.

Even The Duke has been victim. At the weekend he was on a fact finding mission to Cambridge. Whilst taking a breather he phoned me up and laughed at me for saying how the bloody wasps were making my garden time a nightmare.

He soon stopped laughing however as unbenowns to him, whilst he had been enjoying mirth at my expense, a couple of the aforementioned yellow and black troglodytes has slipped into his cool can of beer.

Oh yes. I said "Told you it was no laughing matter" as he later hove into view with a face reminiscent of John Merrick due to stings on the inside of his lips.

A state of emergency

It was with great excitement that I received the booklet from our beloved government entitled "Preparing For Emergencies, What you need to know". I nearly missed it completely as it was shoved through my door along with double glazing leaflets, pizza delivery menu's and stanahh stairlift adverts but I digress. I also tell lies, as there ware actually no pizza delivery leaflet. That's just one of my fantasies. Can you believe that I live somewhere within 40 minutes of the very center of London (on a good day driving very fast) and no one will deliver pizza to my door. Its no wonder I'm not eating at night properly...

Where was I? Oh yes. The "Preparing For Emergencies" booklet. I am afraid I must report that it does no such thing. There is no sections entitled.

"Its a week before pay day and you really need a big night out, ring this number and we will give you the money"

or.

"The girl / boy I love doesn't fancy me"

or even (for some)

"Which shade of blond is the right blond for me, right now"

In fact as an emergency handbook it ranks in usefulness terms along with 'Where's my kippers' a story of a lost Scottish fisherman's struggle to cope with divorce on Shetland, and 'Lassie'.

You will get one to, you will see. The really hilarious thing about it are the photographs of the people that are responsible for reassuring you / us / me that all will be fine providing we stay in doors, watch the telly and wait for them to sort it all out, The lady at the top is named "Debbie Spargo" and she is the "Chief Executive of the emergency Planning Society"

Take a look you will see what I mean. She looks like she would be well at home in the WI meeting of Frinton on Sea. She doesn't look anything like the person I want in a crisis. She doesn't for instance look anything like Bruce Willis in Die Hard or any James Bond, nor even steely like the retired Paddy Ashdown. In short I want some grit and determination.. not a nice cup of tea. And I love the fact that she obviously musn't be calledd 'Deborah' lest we think shes a bit up market. Ahh the joys of writing something to appeal to everyone. Dammed impossible if you ask me. Oh you didn't?

I think what I don't like much about our current administration.. (oooh did I say administration? Sorry *cough* government. They think we wont notice anything if we all have a nice cup of tea down at the WI and stay in.

I think I'll keep going out and looking around ta.

Other News

My cat seems to be worried I may not be eating enough and for the past few weeks been trying to feed me mice, at night, usually at around 3 AM. He shouts in cat voice "look what I have for you". Its not nice, he keeps getting blood on the sheets.

Even worse I returned home recently after a heavy night out to find that he had, with precision, dropped a mouse into a glass of water by my bed. It had obviously drowned there unable to climb out. Nice!

Going to this this weekend.. \o/

South West Four

The Apple Tree

Cycling to work one day last week I was just crossing the tow path from the Lea River to change over to the metropolitan canal which would then take me on through Victoria Park in Hackney.

I was in an industrial estate in Bow where the waterways (strangely enough) look at their most industrial. As I crossed the bridge over and threaded my bike through the gates to then continue down the slope back onto the other towpath I noticed the tree. In fact I passed under it as you have to there. I had passed under it before of course but this time, for some reason I looked up.

There, a good 8 feet above me was an apple. I stopped for a minute and pondered, and looked again. It was still there. So I thought, here, at the top of a canal bridge in the middle of an industrial estate is an apple tree. I wonder how old it is? It certainly looks old. 100 years? More?

When I have time I will look into this and find out the story of the old apple orchards of Bow.

Circle Line Tube Party

On Friday afternoon at about 4PM someone emailed me this link..

The Cirle Line Tube Party

Its different now as it says "You missed it".

In short it was invite to a spontaneous party to be held on the last 4 carriages of the 8.04 circle line east bound underground train from Liverpool Street. We were urged to bring drinks and sweets and our best smiles.

The Duke and I turned up on the spur of the moment and the whole of the platform at Liverpool street station was crammed full of people waiting for the off. The allotted train pulled in and we clambered aboard and as soon as the train pulled away it went wild. There were musicians, sound systems, streamers and crazy people as far as the eye could see. Which incidentally wasn’t very far as in fact the shout had gone up perhaps a little early and there were so many people it wasn't really practical. It was also sauna time. Despite this is was quite good fun. At each stop we tried to be quietish as bemused London Underground staff and indeed bemused ordinary passages looked confused. The train kept lurching on in a cacophony of banging, strumming, laughing and pole dancing.

We made it as far as Sloane Square. There were to many people really and I suppose they didn’t know what to do with us. Apparently the train behind was also crammed with spontaneous party goers, and the one behind that. When it bacame clear that we would be getting no further we all slowly trooped with glittery strings in hands out of the station to Sloane Square itself. And there, everyone had a party.

There was music and dancing and it was great fun. It went on a bit late. We then somehow ended up at a carry on in a park near Spitalfields and even later I bizarrely ended up on a sofa in Victoria.

I do have photos of all this weirdness. Part of me wonders if it was really appropriate behaviour for a gardener like me but I think it needed doing.

The Weekend

Its finally been proper summer for a few day or so and its been scorching over the weekend. I haven’t done very much. As you may imagine Saturday was something of a write off and if the Japanese, or any one else for that matter had decided to invade at that point I wouldn’t have offered strong resistance.

Sunday however was more civilized with a stroll and a contemplate along the South Bank. I was armed with a Sunday Times and fortified with a couple of beers. In between all this I watered the garden and worked on my tan.

I have been pondering my purpose lately. It's a tricky one. The possibility is beginning to occur that I might not actually have one. This is not entirely comfortable, as my ego being what it is, I have always assumed I did.

I'll keep you posted.

TG

The Apple Tree

Oooh, I meant to write about the apple tree last night. In all the excitement I forgot. I shall try to in the next post. This might not be until the weekend though.

We shall see.

A Suitably British Event

Sunday saw a visit to some corner of London Docklands to watch the London Triathlon. I wouldn’t normally do such a thing but it was a nice day and The Duke was taking part. Cripes! I never realised he was fit, though I had noticed he doesn’t smoke that often. He fairly shot round the course. First the swim which saw hundreds of chaps bobbing about in the docks for a while before they thrashed off for a mile and a half. Spectating this part wasn't to exciting as they can't hear you and you don't know who is who as all competitors wore the same blue hats. We cheered all the same.

Then the 40 kilometre bike race. This was the reason I was there really. He was using my bike as his bike was built by hand in a barn in 1945 to celebrate the end of the second world war. I think it was built from fossilised baguettes in France by a soldier with one eye and the last time he took it out the front wheel amusingly fell off (as did he) at traffic lights. My bike on the other hand, actually works.

Most of the field were professional / serious type athletes. This didn’t deter the man himself though oh no! We saw him go past, legs flailing and elbows at regulation postman height as he didn’t dare change gear as the last time he had tried that on his bike the handlebars broke. It was all very British. Not to much sweat and get there in your own time. Even better he spurned expensive kit and for this part of the race wore a very visible pair of black Calvin Klien underpants over his shorts to stop any "flapping about" as he put it. He said later that a very fit and attractive female triathlete had slowed down slightly to give him a playful smack on his arse whilst shouting "Come on Calvin". Knowing him I bet he managed to get her number before she disappeared into the distance. All very excellently Chumly Warner.

Then they all had to run 10 kilometers. A kilometer I am informed is a little less than a mile but faster in a continental way. The Duke was in his element in this part and breezed around.

We. For there was indeed a "Team Duke" saw him come in past the crowds at the finish. We thought it was only fitting that he crossed the line grinning and puffing on a large cigar.

He romped home a very credible 273rd out of 306 competitors in a shade over 3 hours and 15 minutes.. Well done that Duke!

Team Duke and the support team then retired to the pub.

I might try it myself next year. You never know.

Spurred on by this I again cycled into work and back today. I'm starting training early.

Falling Over

This week I've mostly been falling over or off things. Sometimes I’ve been walking into things. I obviously haven’t been doing this on purpose and I think it must just be one of those easily explainable things, a sort of; I haven’t fallen over much since I was a kid and, well that was quite a long time ago so I shouldn’t worry about it as I'm probably just due a few; type of thing.

I fell of my bike first, that was on Thursday. It happened as I crossed over the canal bridge at Picket's Lock that morning on the way to work. I had forgotten that I had changed my bike types for smoother faster ones and as a consequence I would have less grip on the rough stuff but be faster on the road. I remembered I'd changed them suddenly as the bike shot away from me on shale and I was reminded again of a school physics lesson on gravity, mass, friction and enforced deceleration or some such that I hadn’t listened very hard to.

I was alright, sort of. The back wheel on my bike was a bit bent and the path scratches on my shoulder and back are healing nicely but overall there was no real harm done.

Then on Friday I walked awkwardly into the back of a tall chair. Whilst this doesn’t sound like much the chair was jammed against a table so didn’t give way. It just scratched my side quite painfully.

And today I fell over whilst being chased by a wasp in my garden. It was a similar event as the cycling accident in that the sandals I was wearing at the time (Yes I know! But it is my garden and I was alone) don't have much grip at high speed whilst trying to turn sharply.

Ah well, another grazed knee.

Wasps

Yes, the wasps have not gone away. They are just pissed off. Cutting the lawn today or even just trying to sit out and read the paper was not as serene as it usually is. I'm pissed off with them to, and whilst their puny and aggressive little brains might think they have the better of me they are wrong. And they are shortly dead. I have a phone, and fingers to dial numbers on it with. The wasp man will come back and finish the job. Oh yes he will...

Ibiza Madness

It was The Duke who suggested, planned and manned the '24 hours in Ibiza Trip' So I should have realised it might be a long night. Some regular readers may recall that this lad and myself have had some good nights out before and this was obviously to be no different, just slightly far away. And I had never been before, so it seemed important.

The four of us, The Duke, Mike, Lu and Me arrived at Ibiza airport on Saturday at about 10 AM. The sun was shining and it was warm :) I had almost forgotten what proper sunshine felt like.

We got in to a cab and Mike turned to the driver, smiled and said two words "Bora Bora" The driver (late thirties, all Spanish stubble and chest hair) threw his head back, laughed out loud, smiled at us  and turned some funky music on.  An unusual reaction from a cabbie I thought but much better than a scowl.

By 10.30 we were on the beach right in front of the apparently infamous Bora Bora bar. The bar has some big speakers hanging around and these were pulsing Balearic beat gently and not to loudly across the beach. We had drinks in hand and all was nice.

As it was so early it was quiet but as the day wore on more and more people arrived. The music kept picking up in time with the arrivals and by early afternoon it was busy and everybody was swaying, laughing chatting and foot tapping.

Very different to Hyde Park on a Summer Saturday afternoon I mused. I was foot tapping to,  and smiling. The crowd on the beach seemed to be mostly Spanish, I guess its their holiday destination too?

4.30PM, As if a switch was thrown it suddenly seemed that everybody was either swaying or up on their feet dancing, I looked toward the bar and it was packed with people dancing, some on the tables. The music was fantastic and there were arms in the air. I suppose you have your idyllic quiet beaches around the world where you can be fed hand-reared lobster ice cream and hardly see another sole for a week and that’s certainly one kind of trip. This beach though was amazing and the atmosphere was something else.

Pacha

We left the beach around 7.30 as Lu and Mike had managed to find us a hotel shower room for a small fee for an hour. We changed for the evening and headed to the restaurant at the super club Pacha for a 10.30 table.

I had found out before the trip that if you ate at the Pacha restaurant and spent over 40 Euros a head you didn't have to pay to get in. Being as entrance was going to be 40 or 50 Euros anyway this seemed like a free meal. It was excellent food, wine, ambiance and service.

The restaurant is lovely, very hacienda in style. We were the first people there other than one table where a man sat alone, immaculate in a fine tailored blue linen suit. He was in his 50's or older and had an impeccably trimmed white beard. The staff kept smiling and various people came and spoke briefly to him. He had the air of a very wealthy man and this was his domain. He was possibly one of the owning family? With his age he may even have been a founder. Pacha opened, though was tiny then, on the same site 31 years ago. It would fit? By the time we left the restaurant it was packed with European fashion conscious and monied types. It was a bit over the top. This was obviously one of the places to be on a Saturday night.

The club was extraordinary. We were early in, so it was quiet, but people kept arriving and arriving. We spent allot of time on the upstairs terrace just swaying, sitting and people watching. We had various dancing forays and lots of conversations around the stupendous drink prices. 8 Eros for a glass of water, 15 Euros for a voka tonic etc. It didn’t really matter as there cant really be anywhere quite like this place anywhere else can there. It reminded me of the restaurant at the end of the universe from Douglas Adams hitch hikers guide to the galaxy.

There must have been 20 bars in the club, numerous rooms, the huge terraces the massive sunken dance floor, the dancers and the music simply got better and better. In truth it really got to busy to dance and the main areas were rammed. There must have been thousands of people there. It doesn't mean much to me but The Duke was quite excited that he had been standing right next to a chap called Mike Manumission.

We were all feeling the pace a bit by now as we had been awake for around 24 hours straight. I had been mixing my potions a bit and I have to admit it was all a bit to much and I took a funny turn. All was ok though,  I had simply been out-partied.

Around 5 we left the club past some people still queuing to come in!. (It finishes at 8AM) and took a cab back to the beach where we slept on the sand until we were woken by the dawn and small knots of clubbers dancing in the half light to car stereos playing that same, never ending Ibiza beat We walked up to the super club Space to get a cab to the airport. Space was just opening to start its "We love Space" Sunday through to Monday 22 hour dance fest. There were queus to get in... people were arriving after Saturday night to carry on. They had more stamina than us ;)

We were back at my house for much needed BLT's by lunchtime on Sunday. 

We were absolute wreckage. I can't wait to go back! It may be in September....

In other news the man came and took the wasps away today. 
  

Joined Up Government

I went to Westminster today to meet some government mandarins. The great, the good and the irrelevant had been asked to come in for an afternoon of discussion about the perils of email spam.  
 
The nice chap who introduced the discussions was from our Department of Trade and Industry and his business card said he was their 'Director of Broadband' I pointed out that sounded like it might be a narrow subject on its own? He agreed and didn't notice the irony. Instead he talked about how he had managed to expand his remit to embrace other Interweb and electrickery problems. Well, those are my words not his.  
 
I don't have much hope that he will get that far as I think to succeed and push things through you need a strong vision and some determination. When he addressed us all for the introductions he opened with an apology that he wouldn’t be able to stay for the evening reception, as "his wife wouldn’t let him".  He then went on to use his memory of school dinners to explain why he was possibly so angry about spam. At the end he gave the floor to a nice young lady who was nervously called Heather and would be chairing us. He closed as strongly as he began by saying he had to go to find out what he was supposed to do next from his PA as she didn't let him keep his own schedule in case he lost it.  
 
These attempts at humorous endearment didn't really raise a chuckle from the assembled throng as we could tell from the weak smile that sadly, they were true.  
 
However we soldiered on throughout the afternoon and after much heated debate between consumer and business bodies, international law enforcement agencies, ISP's and Spam experts (i.e. me / my company - see ArmourPlate) We really nailed the problem for future generations.
 
We all agreed the following..  
 
1. Spam is a problem and spammers are bad people who make lots of easy money whilst we don’t necessarily.  
 
2. Someone or everyone should try and do something about it.  
 
3. Your basic computer user doesn’t know anything.
and
4. None of us including the DTI could decide how the government is going to get good press out of it.
 
Aren’t you proud?  
 
At the end of all this we were given canapés and wine whilst an actual Minister in the thin, crow like, yet intense form of Steven Timms (Rt Hon Minister for Communications) gave a small speech saying how pleased he was that the problem was being tackled in an organised fashion. He then introduced the Managing Director (UK) of Microsoft who told us how spam was their number one priority and that he wanted to work with us all. I don’t think anyone believed him as his portly fingers, fresh from many a palm greasing lunch kept trying to stop themselves crossing.  
 
Microsoft had paid for the nibbles.  
 
It was interesting in a way though, and to see the wheels of government in slow operation was as always an eye-opener. In short, expect nothing much soon.  
 

Saturday Night Ibiza Madness

 
 
I haven’t been sleeping very well lately,  and I am a bit under the weather. It’s been a stressful time. I hope however that I have restored myself by the weekend as my good friend The Duke has organised a weekend trip of serious financial and mental irresponsibility.  
 
Flying out on Saturday morning early we shall be on the beach in Ibiza by lunchtime, after that it will no doubt get blurry as we are all of to Pacha.  We shall leave Pacha on Sunday morning and fly straight back to Blighty.   I shall obviously be here on Sunday afternoon. We shall see whether I manage to write anything other than a plea to my bank manager before Monday.  
 

Wasps

 
 
Wasps have their place I’m sure. Just not around me. I have a nest of wasps in the garden in one of the compost bins. I don't like this. On Monday a man is coming from the council to make them go away. He's charging me £37.  I wonder how they reached that figure? Is it per wasp averaged by how many wasps in a nest over a period of years or what?
 
I don't know. Do you? 
 
TG
 

Cricket at Lords

On Thursday I went to see some cricket at Lords Cricket Ground, the headquarters of the game. I had never been to watch a cricket match before even though I do enjoy listening to it on the radio (test match special, BBC Radio 4 of course)

It was a new type of game, called 20 / 20 cricket; in short each side has to score as many runs as possible in just 20 overs. For those of you aren’t aware an over is a series of 6 balls bowled. For those of you who are even less aware than that I am not going to use this opportunity to explain what cricket is, or its rules, now even its subtleties. 20 overs though is not very many and the whole match including the half hour interval for the sides to change over took from 5.30 to 8.30 in the evening. Its a taster game if you like to attract impatient types and new viewers as a 'proper' cricket match can last up to 5 days and often obscurely neither side will actually win.

This is possibly why it has never really caught on in America.

The other thing about this type of cricket is that the cricketers don't even bother to dress properly in white flannels. Instead Surrey wore dark blue 'pyjama stile sports kits whilst the other side (Middlesex) wore black.. or a darker blue. I'm not quite sure if I have that the right way round but you get the idea. Sadly the umpires didn’t wear shirts, blazers and ties either but some red polo shirt and 'slacks' ensemble that made them look all the world like strangely middle aged holiday reps. Or possibly golfers. Also the ball is white rather than deep lustrous cherry red. All a bit rum really.

Lords in an excellent sports ground though and apparently has been there since Roman times (I exaggerate of course). Though I'm not sure it was cricket they played then? The sun was shining (for a change) and I enjoyed the game. It was a one sided affair and Middlesex might have achieved just as much if they hadn't turned up but the atmosphere was enjoyable, the ground was full to capacity and I recommend going to one of these things if you get the chance. Oh, take your own drinks as the bar service was awful. I missed 10 of those 6 ball overs just waiting at the bar...

The Weekend

As I write it’s Saturday evening. I’m experiment with being quiet, thinking and deciding what direction to go in lots of ways. If I figure anything out I shall let you know. In the meantime I may open a bottle of wine, or I may not. I will however go for a decent cycle ride through the forest tomorrow and I shall potter in the garden.

I rarely figure much out during these brief excursions into the introspective but I shall persevere nonetheless. If anything happens tomorrow I may well post it here.

Flat

I'm flat at the moment. Lots of things are transpiring and quite frankly I'd rather they weren't.

I'm sure its a blip though. Life after all isn't that bad.

At the risk of being repetitive I'm sure some sunshine would help.

A full and more cheering post tomorrow or Friday I would think.

I had an idea today...

-TG

Orwellian Society

Hmmm. Just watched the news and things aren't right. Then again they haven't been right ever really. What I mean is they are becoming less right.

All over the news today is the fact that a Muslim cleric chap should be kept out for the county because his views insight religious hatred. Well I've read as much as I can and it all seems to come down to the fact that he has said that he understands why the Palestinians have resorted to suicide bombers and whilst he doesn't condone it he doesn't quite condemn it either.

I seem to remember the wife of our Prime Minister, Cherie Blair said something similar last year. No one seems to be having a go at her. This seems to me a case of inciting religious hatred in reverse. Should Mr Blunket and crew be charged with this new crime that he is trying to create?.

Make your own mind up and look at the facts rather than the froth by reading here.

Who's Marbles?

Another news story I saw today concerned the removal from Iraq under cover of the tightest security of tons of nuclear material including 1.7 tons of "enriched uranium". The article reads like the USA have saved us all from terrorists who might have used this if they had got their hands on it to create a so called 'dirty bomb'

The funny thing is that I did a bit of digging whilst I was eating my lunch and discovered that enriched uranium and many of the their radioactive bits and pieces the Americans have hoovered up is really really valuable. In fact its so expensive the Americans can't make as much as they need for their military and other (some good) applications.

So. Who owns it? That's my question. It seems to me that on the one hand the UN could have been given it to look after and should they conclude Iraq doesn't need it anymore they could sell it and give the money to Iraq to help with the problems. Or should it just disappear into the US for free.

Once upon a time there was a boy who liked to play marbles. He was a very bad boy so the teacher stamped on his hands, breaking them and he couldn't play marbles anymore. So the teacher collected all the marbles and instead of giving them to the boys parents so they could help buy bandages. He wandered off and sold them.

I call that theft?

I suppose though in a funny sort of way that given the Americans (in the main) make their tank and other rounds out of depleted uranium because its so dense that it blows through most defending armour, and given that they used thousands of such rounds so poisoning Iraqi land and children for generations to come, they are in fact giving it back with the other hand. I bet they collect it all again much later too. And this time probably sell it back. Thats all right then?

A rant? Or a comment?

I could do this every day. But I won't. Just occasionally I become vexed. I also suppose I'm now on certain hit lists for illustrating something.

I had better do it now. If this carries on our lifetime will see a law against it. Thought police. Orwellian after all?

The weather doesn't help.

Though,, it was nice yesterday and I cycled into work. I will find the flamingo's again. For now you have to make do with the Swans.


What noise do Swans make? 

The Light Bar

Friday night was supposed to be a quiet evening. Civilized even. Well it almost stayed that way. Regular readers will have noticed that excess fuelled evenings have become something of a rarity with me lately. Not last Friday though...

The night began quietly enough with a drink or two at Two Floors with Slinx and a couple of friends and then on to that old haunt The Rex for a viewing of Shrek 2 in their excellent cinema. We enjoyed the film. A few more drinks on the premises and the Rex was getting busy and we were getting lively. At this point going on to the Light Bar was mentioned.

I had not been here before. Though I shall visit again.

The bar is in the reception of The St Martins Lane Hotel. The reception area is all white and straight ahead of the main doors the bar sits enclosed in its own long, wide rectangular room. Once through the doors, past the man that only lets members, stars and hotel guests in you are seated by a very nice lady who finds you a table. The bar itself is a little like a very wide railway carriage but with better lighting, comfortable seating and a lack of windows. In fact it doesn't have any at all. The far end of this long room has a large display cabinet full of cut glass glasses. It reminded me of a Selfridges shelving display. No matter. The whole thing is apparently designed by Phillipe Stark. You don't crowd at the bar as their is only table service.

Wow. What a drinks menu! Its all about cocktails and boy, these cocktails are worth waiting for. Slinx went for a Raspberry Martini which looked about as raspberry as it could be. It tasted divine to. I went for a new twist on an old theme and tried a Mexican Mule.

Tequila
Creme de Cassis
Limes
Ginger Beer
... 3 blueberries on top.

I have just realised (as I write this) that I have all of these ingredients here at home. It is only that I am drinking a nice Torres red wine that is stopping me working out the measurements and attempting a recreation. I will though so expect this to be a cocktail of the month for July.

Where was I? Oh yes. It tasted fantastic. Or at least it did to me. Considering that by this point I had drunk white wine, gin and vodka liberally through the evening it seemed only right to switch spirits.

The crowd in this bar is rich and shows it off. Expect the Beckhams or the Minogues, visiting American film brats and London Bling. Hats teemed with perfect tans and perfect teeth. The music was great and people were up on their feet dancing. The people we were with said it was very quiet that night. It was busy enough for me as the space is wonderful to observe. It is, in my humble opinion the best bar in the very up market category I have been in. You might think that given it has no windows it may feel a little oppressive. But it works just so.

If you wish to go, phone the bar in advance. If you don't sound too ugly and ask nicely you may be placed on the guestlist. Note; I don't say "put" on the guest list. No people "put" you on the list for a taxi queue or a decent new car. Here I feel your name is carefully placed. Neatly.

We had three drinks each. I 'think' I finished up on Mojitos. I 'think' they were the best I have ever had.

Its all a mite blurry after that and it was too much for Slinx, who whilst sometimes showing the determination of the late Oliver Reed, thankfully has a rather smaller and more beautifully formed physique.

We woke up in our clothes.

Saturday was very quiet indeed.

If you only get to go to one expensive bar ever. Go here on a Friday night after midnight. If you can get in of course. 5 Stars.

Tour De France

Some of you may have noticed that the Tour De France has started again. And I would guess, more of you have not.

However, it has.

In the spirit of this, or more probably an early mid life crisis, last week I cycled to work. So what I hear you cry, isn't he in London, doesn't he work in London. How hard can that be? Well its not quite like that as I actually live just North East of London in Essex and work is right slap bang in the middle of the teemimg London Town. It is, in fact 23 miles each way.

It was hard work on the way back I can tell you as its mostly up hill. I travel in along The River Lea Towpath for over 10 miles of the journey. It is beautiful. I saw Swans and Herons and a Kinfisher and Sheep and an Eagle and even Flamingoes around the river. Oh and some passed out drunks neear Tottenham. I am doing it again tommorow. This time though I shall take my camera and prove it. Especially about the Flamingoes...

TG

Life is Good...

Shame about the weather though?

Yes folks, London is warmish but, sadly London is grey. Now I don't mind this in weather, we do after all live in a temperate climate. It would however be nice to have a little less grey in the daytime.

Sunday morning found me and the ever lovely Slinx wandering hither and thither in the lovely Columbia Road flower market. I lived very close to this and the other East end markets for years and I have to attest that they are a great day out. Get up early for a Sunday and head to Liverpool Street Station for about 10AM. Walk through Spitalfields Market and enjoy the atmosphere. Head across the road and cut up down Fournier Street and past Gilbert and George's house then through Brick Lane Market. Enjoy the sights, sounds and people. Hell, even buy some things or eat something. In short just mingle. Then head up to Columbia Road. If you have been following my albeit loose directions you should suddenly find yourself in a 'Garden center gone mad in a street thing'

It wasn't raining on Sunday which helped the walk. Have a cup of coffee or something to eat and buy flowers till you can carry no more. This market, as are all the Sunday markets here is wonderful and part of the fabric of London. All have been established on the same spot for well over a hundred years and they reek of history. Only the costumes have changed. I haven't even mentioned Petticoat Lane market as its not really what it was. But it is in Petticoat Lane and the name alone is reminiscent.

Where was I? Oh yes Columbia Road. Should you happen here you may notice a pub at the one end going east. Its called The Royal Oak and in years past it was machine gunned by the Kray Twins in real life, machine gunned again by the Kemp twins in the film about the Krays and then used (tongue in cheek I think) as "Samoan Joe's" in the film "Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels"

These days it has forgone its time as a rather lifeless market traders boozer and been taken over by strange types.

To be more specific it has become a day center for clubbers who really aren't going to make it home after a Saturday night (or maybe not ever at all..) With great music on the decks (if you like anthem, real music songs) it serves alcohol and humour to a whole selection of miscreants. Think fag ends on the floor, fags at the bar (its quite gay, but not in an intimidating way if you arn't) people dressed in T shirts or all black, dancing and posturing in a very happy way and you are half way there. It's difficult to describe but I like it. The music was great, people were alarmingly friendly as they all seemed to be friends of a friendly herbalist and I completely recommend you visit for a snifter. Just to see.

If you do get sat down some of the best entertainment is had watching ordinary (read; non drugged) market visitors coming in for a quick drink or a pee. The tourists especially..

"Come on, don't be scared, you're perfectly safe....;)

Sadly, they usually run off.

Oh. We liked the little dog on the bar. It doesn't belong to the pub but it seemed very happy.



Its a Westie you know... 

Don't stay to long or you risk joining in....

We moved back through to Spitalfields Market where we shopped and then had some very good Tapas at Meson Los Barriles. Go there and watch the market watch you.

It's all worth it and I'm not issuing any refunds at all.


Do you ever feel like you are being followed?

-T

Chrysolina americana L

It's a new beetle. No not the VW car with the engine in the boot but a new pest. Apparently it eats Rosemary and Lavender. Hence its other name as the Lavender beetle. I know all this because I've looked it up. I've looked it up because I've got em on my Lavender. I shall not poison them because this would harm the bees, and I like bees. I will however keep a close eye on the little buggers and see how much damage they cause. If it gets bad then there will be a soapy water of death moment in my quiet hamlet.

They are beautiful to look at, like shiny metallic VW cars with purple stripes on their silver reflective backs. You woudn't think you would see mirrored surfaces on creatures would you? Terminator beetles even. Have a look..


See? 

In other news I have done the sum total of nothing today. A random day off in the week (although pre-arranged) is one of the great inventions of our time. I got up late, lazed about. Had a pleasant pub lunch with my good mate The Duke and slept on the lawn into the afternoon. In short I frittered away my time in the fashion of a carefree immortal. Which of course I am not.

I truly recommend it. Back to work tomorrow...

Not Dead Yet

Just in case you think I have retired you should be aware that life a pace continues on all levels. The beautiful Slinx is delightful as ever and London's night haunts are still frequented. In fact only this Saturday past saw another Wapping mad house party. Slightly smaller than previous efforts there was only 60 people or so. As usual though it was gone 6 AM when bed was reached..

I'm off to the cinema tomorrow. What shall I go and see?

thegardener@gmail.com

Pants

Well to be more specific for the moment, Trousers. Men's trousers to be exact. I am bringing the full weight of my focus onto the thorny subject of, yes, men's legs, and what to wrap them inside. We might get to pants later, we shall see.

First a mental experiment. Try and envisage men's legs through their trousers. I don't know, just think of the last time you were in the proximity of a crowd of ordinary men. That's it. Hold that picture. It may be the tube this morning, or the bus, or the street. If you are very unusual you may be a camera man in the house of commons. Or even odder, the presenter at a photocopy sales conference. I don't know? It's up to you, this is after all your visualisation. If you are girl or bat for the other side on occasion you are not allowed to cheat and think of good legs, like those on a rugby team, or indeed a football team. Unless you are Rebecca Loos. If you are that Rebecca and you are reading this then you are allowed special dispensation because the legs you often see aren't the ordinary type of random white nobbly hairy stick or lumpy things I am imagining that most of you thought of on first thunk.

And MEP, think of accountants, not Military Fitness. That's cheating.

Right. Are we all there now? For most of us its not a pleasant thought is it? If it is then you might wish to refer back to the above and read again. Or you are odd.

Anyway, I don't have time to address the minority as this is a democracy. I have the pen, so I win.

The problem is this, at least from a male perspective. We have to cover them up in some way mostly, often when we go to work. Which trousers are really suitable?

I, for the most part lately have been wearing jeans. Yes I know we can't all wear jeans to work every day and quite frankly I'd rather not all the time but what are the alternatives? I have been looking around and there only really seem to be two options for the relatively non media office that's not in the city and therefore does not warrant a suit.

Option one: Black trousers that all seem to have the same characteristics, namely the consistency of an onion bag, with patchy shine after 3 wears and a high nylon content to attract cat hairs and fag ash in equal measures.

Option two: Faux, smart combats that I'm sure only work if you work somewhere where you think its cool to have a stupid haircut and you do web design.

So dear readers. Help me with this one. What is man to wear as an alternative to jeans? In the summer so he looks smart (but not too smart) and doesn't suffer either 'rucking in the arse / crotch area or enough static to drag children from across the street(now there's an unseemly thought...). And I don't want to model the 'post room' boy staypress creases either!

Your advice stencilled in red on the GPO box outside 11-14 Southampton Place WC1A please. Or your money back...

I may comment on pants later. We don't like to throw them away do we?

In the Spirit of Things

I thought I'd try again. After all, if you don't try what's the point? To soften you up first is a picture I took on Sunday. Its hardly exciting, but then again its Garlic from my garden, picked by me late on Sunday afternoon.


Garlic Indeed 

There, that's us all grounded then.

I took a risk on the tube tonight. Obviously I'd had a couple of pints. Unusually I found myself in a scene reminiscent of a Spike Lee film. Onto my carriage walked a crowd of eight guys, all young but aspiring to be in the hood. I have never seen so many Nike clothes outside a Darren Chambers benefit sale. The fact that they all were wearing 'left ear' gold with diamond cluster earrings marked them out as boys in a fraternity. They entertained themselves by trying to smile, jab the peaks of their baseball caps into the faces of fellow passengers and invading everyone's personal space. As there were seats either side and opposite me, some of them sat down, all legs and bling chains akimbo. I was surrounded.

The atmosphere was tense as the mostly knackered office types around smelt the testosterone and tried to hide. The boys sensed it and went into show off mode.

Much slapping of hands and cuffs round the head were exchanged, and much talk of "linkin" in the morning.

At this point the guy next to me decided to make a point. He took a picture of me on his Nokia and gleefully showed it around. I noticed the four fingered gold knuckle duster, they laughed at the shot. Much fun was being had. People were cowering.

He thought he had the upper hand so he shouted out "Look, I make this guy a movie star". His gold teeth flashed. He filmed me for a few seconds with the phone then raucously laughed.

Never one to do anything sensible I took my own phone from my pocket, and surrounded by a sea of muscles and sports wear, hit the video switch and held my phone inches from brave boys face.

His teeth flashed again, this time with bravado I thought he blushed. The carriage went very, very quiet indeed. Sharp inward breaths were quietly drawn. I stopped, hit the play button, showed him the video and laughed at him whilst smiling...

There was a pause..

He looked me in the eye.

His mates looked at me

I looked at them

They cracked up and the boy next to me was toast, out fronted by his target. They took him down in a sea of piss-takes.

I may have been being very stupid I don't know, but it said to me that however people try to be, a group of blokes is a group of blokes whatever. A useful lesson there I think.

It may have been dangerous? But I always advise not acting the victim. Unless you really are of course, in which case its already to late. Not that I'm casting aspersions on the lads with the gold chains, teeth and probably even prosthetic limbs on the ride but they were a bit scary to those not in their group.

As someone once said. In the land of the witless, the half wit is king.

Summer is Nice

Enough said, Its lovely.

Oh, I shall be having a garden party next month. It should be good.