causeway and belfast

Belfast may seem a long way to go for a dinner party. Especially when you have to pass through Gatwick South Terminal, a dreadful hole that seems to have an unhealthy balance of neds and chavs flying through. But if the company's good and there's wine to be drunk then there's no distance too far. A lovely weekend, with Jo very kindly driving us up to The Giant's Causeway. Which may seem like a long way to go to look at rocks. But they're special rocks left by a giant, so there's no distance too far to go for that either.

It was a blast. In some cases of frigid air as it's bloody freezing at the moment.

A camera shy Jo pours herself a glass of wine. Her new kitchen is huge. And her flatmates are lovely.

Ellie conquers the large stones along The Giant's Causeway

The Giant's Causeway
Not The Giant's Causeway, but cool pics nonetheless.

delayed until?

They've finally admitted that the flight's delayed. Too late for me to go buy and drink beer of course, but what should I expect? Bastards.

airports & numbers

3 - bookshops

0 - number of bookshops carrying the book I want to buy

20 - minutes ago my flight was meant to board

1 - beers I've drunk

4 - beers I wish I'd drunk

3 - bottles of whisky I've resisted the temptation to buy

10 - times in a minute that I've looked at the departures board hoping to at least be given a departure gate

2 - bottles of wine in my backpack

1 - bag over the hand luggage limit

75 - percent chance of getting away with being over the hand luggage limit

12 - minutes it took me to regret eating a pizza instead of a salad

6 - times I was tempted while standing in the queue at Smith's to buy a signed copy of Being Jordan at £4 off the cover price, just for the humour value.

3 - times I thought of buying it as a joke present

15 - times I reminded myself I cannot afford presents, much less joke presents

13 - minutes after purchasing a pen in Smith's that I found the pen I thought I'd left on my desk

18 - minutes before my flight is meant to be taking off

2 - minutes spent looking at iPods

1 - minute spent in Fat Face. I left as soon as I saw something I wanted to buy

23 - times I've cursed easyJet for not putting up a "delayed until..." message so that I could go spend too much on several beers

8 - announcements over the tannoy that I've been unable to decipher

1 - announcements over the tannoy that I've been able to decipher

the other stuff

Well, Apple released something I want but don't need. And can't afford. I think I predicted something like this.

I'm going to Belfast to cook for the multi-talented Jo and her mates this weekend. I haven't done a proper dinner party in ages, so am hugely excited. And Jo loves good food. It's always nice to cook for people that genuinely love good food. I hope her friends love good food. I'm sure they do. If they don't, they're going to get some anyway. It's all part of this wine tasting thing. It's an experiment. To do a food & wine matching dinner at someone's house. Cuz I think I could do that as a side thing. Maybe. When I'm not writing novels. Decent wine in Belfast though? In any case I've been running through recipes running from the ridiculous to the sublime and think I've got the right ideas. Keep it simple but good. Cookbooks are wonderful and dreadful all at the same time. So many ideas, so little time, skill etc.

Writing is becoming compulsive and my notebooks, when I don't lose them, are essential whenever I leave the house. For hardcore output, the keyboard seems better but for new ideas, the inspiration comes from the notebooks. Weird. The novel and short stories are battling it out at the moment. The novel's winning as it's more fun to write new stuff than to transcribe from the notebooks (for some reason the short stories all start in the notebooks).

I've started reading Don Quixote. It's remarkable.

the art

The second thing was the Dulwich Picture Gallery. A simple name for what seems to be one of London's best kept secrets. Or maybe I'm just out of the loop. This all exists in South London, a place I've been unkind to in previous posts. With good reason; some of it's rubbish. I've decided Dulwich is not. It's ace. Because up the road from the incredible restaurant (set 2 course lunch, £14.50, 3 course £16.50 - bargain) is this wonderful gallery. I went to see the Winslow Homer exhibit.

I'm going to digress for a moment. When I was a kid, just getting into double digits, possibly hitting pre-teens, I loved sharks. I had volume upon volume of shark books and learned as much as possible. One of the better ones (I can't remember the name) had a chapter on cultural views of sharks, from the people who worshipped them as gods to the often imbalanced fictional representations in Western literature and later film (Jaws, duh). There was a hugely powerful painting of a lone black sailor, flattened against the deck of his demasted ship, holding for dear life. The ship was surrounded by sharks and on the horizon was a waterspout - a seafaring tornado. Almost imperceptible further on the horizon is a big, three-mast ship. It's an incredible image, burned into my brain by the curiosity of youth and its own merits. There is tremendous courage as well as despair and it leaves the viewer desperate to know what happens. The accompanying paragraph explained that people were so concerned about the fate of the sailor when the painting was first exhibited (and ever since) that the artist had to explain that the sharks never get him, the waterspout misses him and the ship rescues him. The name of the painting is The Gulf Stream and Winslow Homer painted it.

The exhibition was astonishing - incredibly powerful and beautifully structured works, mostly of the sea. The best works gave the impression of movement; bold and striking snapshots of life with amazing light and commanding brush strokes.

The rest of the gallery was fantastic as well, small and perfectly formed. There were gems, including a couple of fantastic Canallettos (as well as Reynolds, Rembrandt, Van Dyck. Great art in beautiful but comfortable surroundings.

Of course afterwards the light was stunning and my internal debate as to whether I should take a camera came to what turned out to be the wrong, as I did not. So armed with my phone I took the following shots of the grounds and the art college building next to the gallery.

This is the art school attached to the gallery. I didn't get a decent shot of the gallery itself. No good light.

That's part of the gallery wall on the right.

The Gulf Stream

the food

2 new things in life today. 1, a new restaurant. Beauberry House is a grade 1 listed Georgian mansion nestled in a small park in Dulwich. Crazy Japanese fusion cuisine that looked and tasted amazing. Funky but pure and simple flavours. Exceptional beef, oysters, cod, chicken, tuna - all of our dishes were cooked to perfection. Seared tuna spring rolls, oysters wrapped in fried egg noodles served on a bed of buttered leeks in the half shell, tanaki beef - I'm still smiling thinking about it. And very groovy decor to boot. Check out the chandeliers:


Only one criticism - the fruit garnishing the desert was out of season and tasteless. Other than that? Awesome, inspiring and all those other comments that good restaurants make me feel but I'm nervous to utter lest my food geekery overtake me completely.

Sadly, it's in Dulwich. Which is, in technical terms, fucking miles away from Chiswick. Worth the journey though, I assure you. Go there. Eat there.

For the antithesis of the meal described, check this out.

missed calling?

Stumbled upon this. Going to the 3rd world and setting up techie stuff eh? Tempting, though it may reveal that I'm not as much of a geek as I think I am. And of course, there's always the risk of running into someone like this.

git & gadgets

Pete Doherty's been arrested again. This time for stealing a car. Humorous tidbits include that it was in Birmingham and that he was in the company of two Dundonians. Oh, and he was in possession of class A drugs. But that's kind of a "duh" bit of info. He's become the class clown, with the teacher looking sternly at the class, commanding the children not to pay attention as it only encourages him. Well then, teacher, throw his scrawny smacked-up arse in jail. Then we won't be able to see him. And insist that every penny of royalties from his albums goes to drug rehab clinics. And not the Priory or any of those swank places, but real rehab clinics that help truly destitute addicts, desperate to get clean.

Apple is releasing a new gadget today. I have no idea what it is, but I'm sure that once I see it I'll think of some way that a) I can afford it and b) I need it. Both of these sentiments will be lies. Quite bold lies as well. I need no more gadgets. I cannot afford anymore gadgets. What if it's more than one gadget that's released? Oh dear.

embrace

A dear old friend of mine once said that only when you embraced your inherent dorkiness could you truly be cool. As life rolls on it resonates more. I've got a lot of dorkiness to embrace, so it takes a bit of time.

The Ministry of Flailing, Cavorting and Evil sent me this brilliant link. It reminded me of so many conversations in St Andrews, ranting and raving about substandard theatre and drinking more, utterly convinced of my and my friends' creative genius compared to the world at large. Yes it was arrogant and bitchy but it was done with conviction. And we acted on our convictions, having fun and making some great student theatre. But mostly having fun. And drinking quite a bit of beer in the Cellar.

I'm writing a play about the aftermath of student theatre at the moment. It's got an awesome title. I'm not going to tell you what it is yet though.

Embrace the dork. Go on, you know you want to.

weekend roundup

Last weekend was excellent. Sometimes, living in London, complacency can hit and you can miss out. This is where house guests come in handy. They do stuff. They inpire you to do stuff too. Especially fun when you can split up at Portabello market so as you can check out foodie shops, foodie market stalls and wine shops while they peek at the clothes on the stalls. Of course temptations run rampant. In my head I'd emptied my wallet about 10 times at both the cheese stall and one of the wine shops. But in the end I only bought some homemade cookies. They were ace. But it was very cold. So lunch was munched with an Italian theme and aside from shrieking harpies in the corner an excellent day was had. As were a few gin and tonics and a couple of pints.

Saturday was a mixture of rugby and Peterborough. Rugby is a wonderful sport and Saturday's match was incredible, with Scotland's victory still bringing a smile to my face. Peterborough is a total and utter shithole. It's also a lot farther from London than you'd think. Fortunately, the company of friends helped dull the pain of place. The party I attended had a couple of strange ones, including someone I shared a name with and thankfully nothing else. I nicknamed him "product of cousins".

Sunday was a hangover followed by the most awful pub service in the universe. After waiting 2 hours our eagerly awaited Sunday roasts were cold and inedible. Fortunately there were irate, hungover women with me, so they complained and got the food struck from the bill. I'm terrible at confrontations like that, so I went outside to call my mum. Yes, I'm a big wuss. But it's a sad day that the local pub was dreadful while the big chain pub (an O'Neill's) was showing the Ireland-Wales match while serving brilliant food that came with free Guinness. So my hangover was beaten back by sausage baguettes and 3 pints. And table football.

A seemingly endless drive home, fighting to stay awake so as I could keep the driver awake and I cooked toad-in-the-hole for my folks. It was pretty good.

snow & caterwauling

It snowed this morning for almost an hour. That may be a record for Chiswick this winter. None of it settled of course, this is London after all.

Something happened the other night - I meant to write about it but kept forgetting. There was a noise from outside the Belfry. Now this happens quite a bit, and in fact had been happening a lot that night. The groans of the various trees and their branches was reaching new heights. I swear there are times when it sounds like they're trying to open a door or window. But this sound was different. It was a cat. But the sound was not your standard meow. It was low. Like a double bass or baritone meow. It also didn't have the "ow" lift at the end of it. It was a single note. And it sounded like it was pretty close. So I got out of bed and shut the skylight over my desk, thinking that that was why it sounded so close. As soon as I was back in bed the bass meow without the "ow" (a figurative "ow", for the "me" sounded nothing like me) started again. It was coming from the window above my bed, the highest window in the Belfry. And then the noise changed and someone else joined in.

For the most part, when you think of noises that cats make, it's mostly meows and the occasional hiss. Think of these as the domesticated cat noises. In the grand scheme of animal noises, they're unique but pretty pedestrian. A hiss is a fair warning not to touch a cat, but hardly the stuff of nightmares. Cats have other noises though. Noises that remind you that they're a lot closer to their wild cousins than you really want to know about. I'm sure the two cats outside my window thought there were no humans about because they let loose some crazy scary demon noises. The bass "me" shifted down and could now not be called a note. The closest thing to describe it would be a growl, but if that's the case then a bulldog's growl is a mere falsetto in comparison. I thought it may be facing up to a fox, in which case I felt sorry for the fox (not for very long, they're bloody pests). But an answering gutteral growl came that ended in an unholy shriek and then dipped back down. And then they fought. Then they stopped and started again. It went on for about half an hour. Having been a bit of a nature documentary junkie of late my curiosity overwhelmed my need to sleep. The noise was frightening. Imagine the vocal range of a 10 year-old boy going all the way down to the depths of James Earl Jones or Louis Armstrong. Then imagine that it curdled with a liberal dash of hell. Gurgling growls, shrieks and then peaking in the odd hiss. It took me awhile to fall asleep.

Sure they're cute now... but wait until they learn to talk. Be afraid.

keeping the belfry tidy

There is a box in the Belfry. Within it is about 3 years worth of paperwork. It remains sealed. It shouldn't, as its contents are important. But I don't have room for the paperwork. I should make room for it. Shred the closed bank account files and replace with open bank account files. I will do this. But at the moment I'm basking in the glow of a monumental tidy up and can't be bothered with the paperwork.

I finally put some of my art up on the walls. This made me very happy. One of them was the print of St Andrews harbour I was given as a leaving present by the Luvians gang. I refused to succumb to the futility of further personalising a place that must be sold. I make this place mine while I have it. Photos, prints, paintings, poems, postcards and posters now adorn these walls, most of them truly mine. There is an old spattering of memorabelia as well. Some of it so old I can't remember its significance. A couple of wedding invites kicking about as well. I don't know whether to save these or not.

I drove yesterday. Driving an automatic Volvo S80 is much like driving a tanker. A wide tanker. And automatics give me the creeps. Someone said it was like driving a go-cart. I think it's more like driving a dodgem, though with less control.

charity mate

A flotsam consisting of 2 1/2 decades worth of clothes, toys and books found its way to Oxfam today. Well. I dropped it off. I was worried they wouldn't take it. It was a lot of stuff - three large bags of clothes and two boxes of toys and books. One of the books was a National Geographic publication: The Adventure of Archaeology. It was a big coffee table book, the title print in a mock Indiana Jones typeface. It was quite a tome, brought out to cash in on the mad rush of kids wanting to be archaeologists in the wake of the movies. I was one of those kids, reading it and re-reading it fascinated but slightly disappointed about the lack of bullwhips and Nazis. It was well thumbed and had a few of the bloodstains from paper cuts that go hand-in-hand with big glossy books. I was sad to see it go and have thought I may buy it back from Oxfam at one point. Strictly for nostalgia. It's a kids' book. But I'd forgotten about it for so long and would no doubt forget about it again. I may well buy a new book on archaeology, one more suited to someone with a degree in medaeval history. More text, fewer pictures.

I have a proper fedora now, but no bullwhip. And I've not punched a Nazi yet, but hope springs eternal. Maybe when David Irving finishes his prison sentence?

After giving loads of books away I felt I should fill some more gaps in my bookshelves. Ok, there aren't any gaps in my bookshelves and in fact they overflow into various empty wine crates, but I still wanted to buy books. And I love bookshops. Even evil multinational chains like Waterstones.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Before I went to buy more books, I stepped into a wine shop. It was wonderful. Not the wine shop itself, which was good but not great (a Nicolas - they've got a very good selection of 2nd wines from great chateau), but just wandering, the smell of wood (wine boxes smell wonderful) and seeing the odd interesting bottle. I didn't even buy anything (this is for the best, I assure you). The incredibly attractive shop assistant made this remarkable. I was struck by several pangs of nostalgia and a bit of a thirst. So I ran away before my wallet lept from my pocket and my palate usurped common sense.

To the book shop I ran, where I added to my pile of books I must read. Both War & Peace (bought today) and Don Quixote (bought earlier) are in the pile now, new translations of both. Three volumes of Gabriel García Márquez as well (a collection of short stories, 100 Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera). None of it light reading, but stuff you kind of have to read. Especially the Tolstoy and Cervantes, just so that, as a writer, you know when you're ripping one of them off.

I finally finished Atonement. I took my time with it for a couple of reasons. The first is the sense of impending doom through much of the first part. It's so beautifully written that you know when something awful happens it will appall you. The other was that I just didn't want to finish it. If you haven't read it, read it. Many thanks again to my cultural advisor for moving it up to pole position in my must-read list many months ago.

In the midst of Atonement I read The Sea by John Banville, winner of the 2005 Man Booker Prize. It left me a bit cold. I think it was a bit of a triumph of style over substance. The writing is stunning. I'm just not entirely sure what the point of it was. I'm lending it to my mum to get a second opinion.

Currently ploughing through Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell. Bit of fun after the tragedy of Mr McEwan's writing.

mussels, mud pies and goulash

Remember those incredibly expensive notebooks? Well, I lost one. I thought I might have left it in a restaurant. But they told me (twice) no one had turned it in. So maybe I left it on the tube. I lost a pen at the same time, be it on the tube or in the restaurant. That was Friday. I met some friends at Belgo for an obscene amount of mussels and quite a few litres of Belgian beer. Both were pretty fantastic, and anyone seeking decent mussels should check it out. It's not the most common craving I suppose. But when it hits, head over to Covent Garden.

So I was pretty grumpy about the notebook.

And then Saturday morning I had an early start to go to breakfast. At Covent Garden. Which was kind of cool, though repetitive. It was cool because going in the morning before the tourists arrive, you get to see the loony street performers getting set up. This one guy arrived looking perfectly normal but carrying this massive case, and over the next 25 minutes (I'd arrived early to phone the restaurant to check if they'd found my notebook, but they hadn't) the case had become one of the palace guard huts and the performer had become a guard, albeit with a big red nose and clown makeup. Awful tourist rubbish, but quite cool to see the transformation. I was waiting for Ric & Simon. While waiting for Ric and Simon, it is not a question of who will be late, rather who will be more late. And they were, but within mere seconds of each other.

Breakfast was a dreadful rendition of eggs benedict. The hollandaise had seperated and the eggs were overdone. I didn't say anything. Eggs benedict is one of my favourite things though, so seeing it screwed up was annoying. And lemonade was £2.75. Which was outrageous and annoying. The company was fun though, and made the food and prices easily bearable.

The rest of Saturday was a bit of a write off.

Sunday was all about mud. And willows. And goulash. Every year the local residents don their wellies, grab some serious gardening tools and march over to the eyot (a tidal island in front of our houses) and prune the willows. I had new wellies just for the event and felt a bit awkward about it. New wellies are like new wax jackets - there's a bit too much shine and you don't look as though you've been doing enough dirty, mucky, outdoorsy type things to own them in the first place. Fortunately walking along the bed of the River Thames is about the best way to speed age wellies ever. And speed pruning 100 odd willows is a good way to knacker yourself out. I reckon the youngest helping out were about 10 and the oldest in their eighties, so for a strapping nearly 30-year-old, capitulation was not an option. It was muddy, dangerous, cold and windy, but when a 74 year old is happy to reach out on a precarious limb and clip that last branch, you can't wuss out. So 2 1/2 hours later, covered head to toe in river mud, dad & I headed home and helped mom prepare lunch for 25. All of those at the pollarding (for that is its name) came over, ate, drank and were merry. It was really nice and a perfect restorative after the morning's work. It started bucketing with rain as we tucked into our goulash and then pear tarts (seriously yummy pear tarts) and we all breathed sighs of relief that it had held off until we'd finished. Everyone seemed to leave in one big group and we realised that we still had a lot of food.

We had so much food left over that I invited some friends to come over and eat more. We still have food. And I'm not sure I can take much more goulash. Another slice of pear tart? Well, if I must.

hangovers & nephews

are a terrible combination. Trust me.

Groovy reunion night last night with Marcus, Ru and the lovely Clair. Started off at the fantastic Horse and Groom with loads of beer and crisps as, for some odd reason, the free sandwiches normally on offer were nowhere to be seen. We somehow got over the shock and heartache and proceeded to stuff our faces full of yummy crisps. Healthy meal? Nah, but it could have been worse. I was tempted to ask for some buttered white bread and ketchup to make crisp butties. Somehow I resisted. So we drank and spilled some wine and chatted about life in London, there was a bit of North vs South banter and then Clair upped and left us for her man. So we went to the Star Taverm which is one of London's finest boozers. We drank lots of great beer and then were joined by Ben and Kellie, who by total coincidence were dining around the corner at the Portuguese ambassador's residence. As you do. So they joined us and drank lots of beer until the bar shut.

Then we came home and I, missing the massive pot of coq au vin, cooked up bacon and eggs, with which we drank loads of bubbly. Then Ben and I drank whisky a put the world to right. Kellie, being smart, went to bed. Then we had to wake up way early to get them to the tube to get them on the plane to go back to Scotland. I felt fine at 630 this morning. 1130 is when I started feeling terrible.

And Kate won a Brit. Which is so totally awesome I can't believe it. Hurrah.

And, well, ugh too.

more new stuff. and pics.

It seems there's a mini renaissance in discovery at the moment. Will there be diver tourists destroying it in no time? Will rare goby find its way to the menus of the obscenely rich (probably not - goby ain't eatin' fish)? Will the new species of sponge and seaweed find themselves in the latest range of Herbal Essences Shampoos and Conditioners? Will Sir David Attenborough postpone retirement for a new series entitled: All This Crazy Weird Shit I've Never Seen Before? While I sincerely hope not, nothing would really surprise me. Although the Attenborough thing would be cool. Especially with that title. Because there's not much that the man hasn't seen to be honest.

Sometimes I wonder what the sibling rivalry between Sir David and Lord Dickie is like. They're both pretty badass. Lord Dickie comes out with "I was in the Great Escape" and Sir David jumps in with "I was cuddled by a family of mountain gorrillas". Lord Dickie's returns with a volley "I won an oscar for Ghandi" and Sir David has a bit of trouble with that one until he remembers that he wrote and narrated/starred in Life on Earth, The Living Planet, The Trials of Life, Blue Planet & The Life of Mammals, the greatest nature documentaries ever made. So he mentions this and Lord Dickie remarks about working with Spielberg on Jurassic Park at which point Sir David say, "Ah yes, Dickie, but the animals that I worked with were really there."

Then they'd get into a big fight.

Or something like that.

I took some arty photos today for the first time in ages. Some of them turned out ok. I was using digital, but set to black & white (most of them anyway, there were a couple of colour ones that turned out ok as well). It was nice to get out for a snap anyway. Off to see The New World this afternoon. Supposed to be quite remarkable

valentine's needs its scrooge

Christmas has its Scrooge, Thanksgiving has every single grumpy and dysfunctional American family (there are a LOT of those by the way), Easter has its questions (is crossing pagan fertility symbols with the resurrection really that great an idea?). Valentine's Day just seems to have terminally depressed single people and frantic couples willing to spend anything to ensure some sort of unique romance. Now, I've already made my loathing of this cynical, vapid, unromantic day clear in my second ever post. And though I was tempted to reiterate that loathing and the fundamental flaw in a holiday dedicated to romance, I felt I'd be repeating myself. Instead I think there needs to be some sort of fictional, mythical anti-Valentine, sort of like Scrooge to Christmas - or the Grinch (from the book, not the movie). Without the supernaturally induced redemption. No, the anti-Valentine must remain cynical and distrustful of such things. If there's a Ghost of Valentine's Past, then it only serves to remind this character of how rubbish all the previous ones were.

Maybe we could use Scrooge himself. Dickens wouldn't care, he's dead. And probably wouldn't care to much for a fake holiday created by the greetings card companies and aided by the restaurant trade. Just because Scrooge likes Christmas now doesn't mean he likes every holiday. He's not buying leeks for half of London on St David's Day. And all that pent up grumpiness he had must be focussed somewhere. Let it be today. Let it be an onslaught on how inherently unromantic this day is. Let it be a heartfelt lesson in what it really means to be romantic (Note: being one of 150 couples in a posh restaurant is not romantic - it's what everyone else is doing). Let him tell Bob Cratchit that he'd be happy to give him a couple of days off to take the misses out to the country for a romantic couple of days, but not on Valentines because the countryside will be covered in like-minded couples and there'll be no privacy. How about a week earlier? Have him throw bits of burning coal at people carrying around scarlet hear-shaped cards. Have him buy the local card shop and use all the cards to light a bonfire to warm the homeless. Have him fall madly in love on the 15th.

I like this idea - it has merit. There should be a contest - who can come up with the best anti-Valentine. It gives naysayers like myself someone to rally around. I've chosen Scrooge - who would you choose? Pol Pot? Abu Hamza? Dick Cheney? The Easter Bunny? John Prescott (could anything be more unromantic)? Answers in comments.

Oh - and to you delusional couples celebrating with a romantic candlelit meal. Happy Valentine's Day. You suck.

not irony but something of that vein

Ok, so a few years ago two-jags, the UK's ridiculous deputy prime minister reacts poorly to the unwanted application of egg to his person and belts the offending party with a big left hook. That was a few years ago now, but to this day my father claims that Prescott's only talent is his left hook. I thought it was a pretty clumsy punch myself.

In any case, it seems the US, never wanting to be seen as playing catch-up in political gaffes or odious deputies, has leapfrogged the fat, tax-dodging wanker and set the new bar for assaulting the electorate. Yes, the illustrious Dick Cheney has upped and shot someone on a hunting trip. I'm trying to work out if he loses points for it being an accident. You see, Prescott really wanted to punch the guy who threw an egg at him. You can tell from the video clips. There's no "ooh, I was just pointing out my second XJ8 when that bloke's jaw jumped in the way" in his eyes, there's murderous rage. Maybe there was a council tax bill in the egg. In any case, Prescott wanted to punch the guy and he did. Cheney wanted to shoot a quail. And instead he shot a person.

This is what a quail looks like:That doesn't look like a person to me.

And he's supposed to be the smart one.

There's a landslide of metaphors and puns waiting to be unleashed on this. I'm sure the web is exploding with them. From puns involving Dan Quayle to the inevitable comparison between being unable to shoot a bird without nearly killing a pal with being unable to invade Iraq without reason. Or being unable to co-run the country without spying on its populace. Or being unable to award building contracts without making himself and his pals obscenely rich.

So while this incident can be contorted into a mirthful metaphor for the entire Bush-Cheney presidency, Prescott's incident can be held up as his only success since 1997.

There is one more similarity between the Prescott punch and Dick's birdshot: there won't be any assault charges filed. And the arsehole shot a lawyer! If any other poor sap shot a lawyer by accident they'd be sued so bad their pets would be paying compensation. What do you bet the lawyer gets some fat consultancy with, say, Halliburton? He's 78 as well. So the VP will get away scot-free with shooting an OAP lawyer.

Of course if this deputy competition escalates, Prescott will be polishing his flame-thrower and then who know what Cheney will do?

I'm just that little bit twisted enough to enjoy the humour of the situation. Terribly cynical? Yes, but considering the dire state of politics in both the UK & US if you can't laugh at the Vice President shooting someone, what can you laugh at?

Besides, nobody's flaming mouse has burnt down their house recently. Much more fun than politics any day.

bed head

I took a nap this afternoon, waiting for a phonecall that never actually came. The lack of phonecall didn't bug me too much. I didn't feel like going out. It was a text that woke me, an unexpected one, bearing bad tidings. I was incredulous at first. Then it kind of settled in. There've been a few things like that of late. It seems advancing years makes bad news more serious. There's more at stake I guess. And I'm not even 30 yet. Getting there though.

So I wake up from my nap and I have bed head. Or, technically, couch head. I don't have much hair left and I tend to keep it pretty short. So having enough to get messed up was a bit of a novelty. It's a very small thing. Memories cropped up. Strange what triggers these things.

And Scotland lost. Bummer. And Ireland lost. Bummer.

I miss being in St Andrews for the rugby.

On a lighter note - it would appear that Andy's adventures in NZ have started with a bit of a bang. I got a brilliant drunken text from him and responded with my own drunken text. Some things never change. Thank goodness.

the new age of adventures

The discovery of a new tomb in the Valley of the Kings and the species in New Guinea is unbelievably cool. Amidst the strife and frustration in the world spanning culture, relegion, art, expression, science, war, the environment and pretty much everything some curious, intelligent and adventurous people are getting on with it and finding new things in a very 18th and 19th century kind of way. By going out and doing stuff. Being lowered into a jungle by helicopter because even the indigenous population have no idea on how to get there. By going to the most thoroughly excavated place on the planet and seeing what else might be kicking about.

Now, granted, the archeaologists weren't looking for a tomb. But they were still there, looking for something. Huts of some description I believe.

So the book on discovery isn't closed. And we are still so ignorant of our own planet and our own ancient history that it shouldn't be closed. Of course, it's not easy. There are the years in libraries and labs and lectures preceding and following these adventures that make them possible. But the adventures are what hook people, and inspire the next generation to suffer mind-numbing years of frustrating research to earn their right to adventure. And I hope that there are kids in the world right now who watch the news and maybe even read the paper who, instead of being frightened at the war, unrest, naysayers and paranoid meteorologists, look at the images of the sarcophogi in Egypt or the new frogs, birds and tree kangaroos and are filled with wonder. Who choose to be excited, interested, curious and to read more, instead of filling with fear of the outside world and the cultures to be found in it. Who want to find something new themselves.

We'll see. But I know I was certainly impressed and filled with not a small amount of wonder. Not enough to retrain as either an archaeologist or field biologist. But if there's ever a chance to stowaway and be useful on a dig or expedition, sign me up. I'll chronicle it.