quiet sail

Waves gossip with the bow that breaks across them, lapping and gurgling the goings on of the Gareloch. There's no wind. The sails puff full only occasionally; the jib hangs. The jib is my job. Keep mind of the tell tails and let it out when needs be. When there's wind to fill it. There's a race, but it's a quiet one. Only three boats. My oilskin is stowed away, the west coast weather ignoring predictions and giving us a dry, silver evening. The clouds waltz around the sun, changing its light to chrome as it bounces off the water that could be quicksilver. Round the first marker there's a wheeze of a breeze and the spinnaker goes up like a great baloon, pulling us to almost 2 knots. But maybe not that much. The air is oysters and champagne without food poisoning or hangovers.

Afterwards in the club there are pints, smiles and food. A quiet Tuesday night made lively by those coming off the water.

Back at the house the vegetables come from the garden. The cats see no need to vacate the couch. The valley stretches below the house towards the old rail bridge and the sheep mutter to each other. My bags and wine crates are unpacked and put in their proper place.

more than a newt

Aside from several stalls (my fault) on Thursday morning, we made record time on the drive North. We got to Naughton and started drinking heavily. It was one of those nights that, whenever the energy dwindled, something would come up to bring the party back to life - there were several Lazarus moments brought on by karaoke, drunken boardgames and poker. The brightening dawn signalled bedtime.

Friday was a write off. Hangovers mixed with apprehensions about the weather and everyone had a bit of the grumps about them. We wandered about St Andrews in the rain, debating whether Saturday's polo would be cancelled. Lunch didn't help, beer didn't help, coffee didn't help and the Fat Face sale didn't help. We were all a bunch of miserable gits.

Staying up late to watch bad movies, a call came through - there'd been a car accident. Everyone was ok. Sam and I leapt into action. Five minutes and two strong coffees later we were on the road and almost halfway to the scene when the call came through telling us that the car was fine and they were driving back. Sam and I returned, exhausted, deflated, deprived of the chance to be heroes and relieved at the same time. Time to sack out.

Saturday proved that some people deal with the devil. In spite of every weather service on the planet predicting heinous deluges of rain, the sun bathed Perth in glorious light all day, the menacing thunderheads on the horizon staying on the horizon. Apprehension, misgivings, disgruntlement and grumpiness succumbed to the sunshine, bbq sizzle and copious quantities of beer and wine. And there was polo as well. Sadly, England beat Scotland, though Pete C did win man-of-the-match. Following the match we decended upon the marquee and boogied hard.
After the polo the gang returned to Naughton and got stuck in, raiding the fridge and freezer for munchies while ploughing through wine and beer. Adam got a bug stuck in his ear. Some chat went far too far. Once again, going to bed was not a forgone conclusion. Charlotte discovered a newt.

We were far more pissed than it was.


ordered chaos

I'm back in Scotland. It's raining. I'm hungover. Last night was very, very silly. Don't sing karaoke, shout it. In unison. Well, almost unison.

My bank cancelled my current account and didn't tell me about it.

Fulham Palace Road at rush hour is a scary place to stall your car 9 times.

Polo, bbqs, car auctions, books and interviews are in my immediate future. I need another coffee first though.

car rant

North London is a long way from West London. Believe me. It's easier to drive to Cornwall. There are more buses than people. Every 100 metres is road works. There are no decent coffee shops. Coffee's important when the person you're supposed to be meeting to sell you a car is going to be late. And you've got a mild hangover. But there was no coffee. There was a bag of Thorntons toffee that had melted into one gigantic toffee globule, requiring a swiss army knife to carve nourishing chunks off, but no coffee.

But there was a car. The car would make everything ok. I would drive home in it and love it and it would be mine. As it was French, her name would be Isabel. She would keep me safe in her chassis and I would treat her well. She would take me back to Scotland.

I shouldn't get my hopes up. Ever.

Isabel, sadly, was a two-bit crack whore. And the lady selling her to me was an elevated Chav. Yeah, she drove a shiny new X5 beamer and was laden with gold, but she was chav through and through, down to her core and piercing voice. Her stilletos were white on the inside, her black top couldn't hide the shell suit of her soul. And she was 40 minutes late. Which would have been fine if the car had matched even half my expectations.

It did not.

A sound warning came when she knocked £200 off before I even sat down in it. £650... not bad for a decent bit of kit. Bit over priced for a two-bit crack whore though. There was a dent - no worries, and the bonnet was faded out from the rest of the paint job - again, no worries. The aesthetics were not an issue for me. But the little things kept adding up. The elevated chav told me the power locks worked. Except for the driver's door. Which didn't lock at all. A windscreen wiper was missing. The other looked like it would rather be elsewhere. Unmentioned, but noticed, was the driver's side mirror was held on with black electrical tape. Sitting in it I could feel its agony - a longing to be properly done up or dragged behind the garage and shot. I was assured the engine was in great shape. But turning the keys showed the battery to be dead. Jumper cables were brought out, and the engine growled like a diesel should. The e.c. told me they'd throw in a new battery and the wiper and everything for £650. I asked about a service history. Her face went blank. She said there might be some papers in the glove box. Might be.

I made several excuses and ran away as fast as possible.

Poor Isabel.

So I'll be renting a vehicle for the trip north, and buying something when I get there. And she will not be a North London crack-whore, I assure you.

car hunt (updated)

Did you know that if you're registered blind you get a 50% discount on your TV License? It's true. Ridiculous. If you're deaf as well, is it free?

Today I'm hunting for cars. At the moment it's down to Golfs and Peugeot 306s & 205s. The former are prettier but diesels are proving hard to find. And there's something about dumping a bunch of rape seed oil and booze into the tank and driving 500 miles that appeals to me. I've looked at a few estates (that's station wagons for my American fans) but can't quite bring myself to drive like a soccer mom. Which is a shame, because I've got to cart a lot of shit up north.

Listening to Tom Cochrane's Life is a Highway and surfing Auto Trader.

*Update*
It appears I have a nemesis. Someone is going around buying all the decent diesel hatchbacks priced under a grand within a 40 mile radius. The last guy I phoned actually said the caller before had bought the car. I don't want to hear that. If I hadn't made my cup of tea before picking up the phone I would have had it. Curse my tea. And curse my nemesis. It's now less a matter of which car I want than which car is still bloody available. Curse the internet.

communal garden

Today's been like walking through cotton wool while someone hammered a spike into the back my head. Well, that's what the start of it was like. The hammering stopped and I went to see Cars - not terrible, but not Pixar's best either. I think I'll watch Finding Nemo tonight to remind myself how awesome they can be.

Back to the spike - well, it was my fault. It usually is. You see, hammering a spike into the back of your own head is difficult, so to replicate the effect I drank copious quantities of beer, champagne, red wine and calvados until 4 in the morning with some old friends and colleagues. It was an excellent evening. Only one person chundered and it wasn't me. One person crashing on the floor turned into three people crashing on the floor, midnight scrambled eggs and toast and the first party in the new garden. At one point in a panic I hurled a shotgun shell in the river, fearing for our safety should we get drunker and still have it in our possession. Harry wondered if there was a bar where they feature 'chapless thighs' - we wondered if he meant 'arseless chaps' and he said that too. There was gingerbread. It tastes good with beer. I think Harry baked it himself - if so, ginger may not have been the only secret ingredient. I worked out the timer feature on my little Canon for a group shot. For posterity. Or evidence.

Harry, Ben, Yours Truly & Rob on a bench in the garden

Blurry Rob and focused Harry in The Chandos - the cheapest pub near Trafalgar Sq.
Focussed Rob and blurry Harry still in The Chandos - still the cheapest pub near Trafalgar Sq

sexy mullet?

We ate Vietnamese food and watched Miami Vice last night. The former was a disappointment, the latter was not. This came as a surprise.

The starters were fantastic - simple soups made with care. The mains, however, could have come from anywhere east of Calcutta and as such fell far short of the high expectations the soup and word-of-mouth had brought for the cuisine. This could have been our fault. Sam and I may have ordered badly. But I think it may have been a case of dumbing down the menu to a tad to get those nervous about trying new cuisine to feel at ease. It's understandable from a commercial standpoint, but frustrating. The result is that Chinese, Thai, Japanese and now Vietnamese blend into one. You've got to be lucky enough to find, or in the know enough to know, the best; those that stay true to their food, with little or no pandering to the nervous westerner. I say this with a small amount of hypocrisy - I'm not a big fan of chicken feet.

Miami Vice was excellent - genuinely gripping and beautifully shot. The love story was difficult to swallow though, looking slightly extraneous. And it's disheartening to see that, even with a mullet and porn star mustache, Colin Farrell can pull.

Cornwall pics 3 - The Eden Project

I was not terribly keen on seeing giant greenhouses. Horticulture isn't really my thing. Of course I'd read the press - about how amazing everything was and how it was so much more than just a bunch of big bubbles with plants in them. Looking back on it, it was, for the most part, a bunch of big bubbles with plants in them. Which is odd, because I thought it was amazing. And big bubbles with plants in them aren't things I normally find amazing. We spent five hours there.

I've been trying to work out what it was that made it so cool and it's hard. It's probably the most well organised large tourist attraction I've ever been to, so much so that even when it's heaving with people, you don't have to wait long and you don't feel claustrophobic. The queues are short and fast. But that's not it. You don't go to the Bodleian Library to admire the card catalogue. The world's most organised lint exhibition is still going to suck.

I think it's enthusiasm. The whole thing is epic. These aren't just big bubbles, they're the biggest, and they're not just filled with plants - they're filled with a lot of plants. And the people who put them there don't just hug trees, they get to know them. Every aspect of every tree: social, commercial, scientific and cultural, is examined. And the people who have done this, from the directors to the guys emptying the garbage neutral recycling bins, believe in the tree. They believe in all the trees in fact. They've approached the entire thing with such enthusiasm and optimism that it's intoxicating, because the whole thing has been designed to channel that enthusiasm and optimism straight into the hearts and minds of the people wandering around, staggering, awestruck, mumbling that they thought it was just big bubbles with plants. It overwhelms cynicism with a sense of wonder, excitement and hope and lots of plants. I still can't wrap my head around it, but it was wonderful. And you should go there.

Big Bubbles. With plants.

A surprisingly empty flower bed.
They had vines! And this wicked Dionysan ritual, bronzed. They omitted the traditional severed head for the sake of the children, but at least they mentioned that there should be a traditional severed head.


Waterfall. In a big bubble.
This machine was an elaborate piece designed to crack a nut, highlighting something deep and meaningful regarding plants and industry and how far more of the former could be used in the latter. It thought it looked cool.

Oh - and on top of everything, they have awesome concerts - Snow Patrol, Magic Numbers, Goldfrapp. All sold out. Got to get their 2007 schedule. Party in the big bubble, baby.

Cornwall pics 2 - St. Mawes

We travelled to St. Mawes to have dinner at a posh hotel, but they had no room for us and so we wandered about in the early evening sunshine. It was just after the funeral, and the summertime buzz of sailing, swimming, rowing and life in boundless activity served as an excellent and vivid reminder to live.

There's something about red sails - I don't know what it is, but I'd like a small green boat with red sails. Better sort out a car first though.

Not quite the Shell garage in St Andrews.

What a place to grow up in the summer - hurl yourself into the harbour, swim out to a boat and go for a sail.

Then after your sail, you head home to your thatched cottage where you have a massive pasty for tea and something involving buckets of clotted cream for dessert.

Cornwall pics 1 - Perranporth Beach

Cornwall was sad but wonderful as well. There's something gleefully pagan and wild in the corners and shadows cast by the ubiquitous tourism juggernaut.

Perranporth Beach - very long - I ran the length and back Tuesday morning and am still recovering.

Three pics of the cove on the western end of the beach. They're all kind of the same but I like them, so I'm sharing them

food and music

It's hard to regret a good lunch. The sun sparkled off the river, the fish was fresh, the batter light and crispy, the beer cold. The banter was good - got caught up on the past month and chatted about what the next one has to offer. Sated, my cohort and I sauntered off towards Regent's Park to take in Fruitstock, the Innocent (of smoothie fame) music festival. This was a last minute thing - I didn't even know it was on. Instead of standard music festival lunacy, it was more like 30,000 Londoners decided to have picnic in the same corner of the park. And what a good idea that was, because instead of vans selling minging mystery meat burgers, almost everything was from small, quality, organic food companies. And there was a farmer's market - at a music festival! Pure brilliance - I would say the most brilliant thing ever, but I say that a lot, and it's beginning to wear thin. I wandered around looking longingly at a cornucopia of culinary delights, cursing my full stomach.

As for the music - well, to be honest, it was pretty chilled and I was paying far too much attention to the food. Sadly, full of fish 'n chips, I could only squeeze in a wee chocolate truffle. It was brilliant though.

Stopped Clocks, Yaks & Plans of Genius (all leading to a Belfry Party sequel)

Even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It's a cliché. Everyone knows it. But sometimes it really happens. Sometimes you glimpse that moment when it all works, when the last piece of a puzzle fits in, when the cog turns and the bells chime, in spite of everything. One of my best friends, Marcus, is very clever. But his powers of logic fail him. Frequently. In this sense, the clock is stopped.

Well, maybe not stopped - that's a bit harsh.

But the minute hand and the hour hand rarely meet. If the hour hand is his inherent intelligence, then the minute hand is logic, and as such they only cross over and point in the same direction at midnight and noon. So the clock isn't stopped. It moves normally. But unlike a clock, it's not on a schedule. It's erratic, unpredictable, sometimes uncommon and sometimes occurs in quick succession. When it does happen, when both the minute hand and hour hand point towards twelve, it's beautiful. It's like Hannibal from the A-Team loving it when a plan comes together. Well it happened tonight.

Marcus works for a luxury travel firm. And no, he can't give you any freebies. He enjoys his work but it causes a dilemma. When Marcus was at St Andrews, he founded the Tibet Society, devoted to providing aid to Tibetan refugees in India and Nepal and raising awareness of the the cultural repression happening in Tibet. He started Tibet Aid, a live-aid-type-thing, to raise money for the Tibetan Relief Fund. He wore t-shirts with the Tibetan flag. Sometimes he'd claim to be Buddhist. He was into Tibet, in a big way. And this company he works for, well, it sells holidays. Holidays in China. This doesn't sit well with him. He fears karma, but he loves his job. Then there's this luxury trainline that's just been built, from China to Tibet, that his company wants a major piece of - his karma is in turmoil.

And we know it. We give him terrible grief about selling holidays to China when only 3 years ago he passionately derided their human rights abuses and the cultural obliteration of Tibet. He tells us about the trainline deal and we continue to harangue him, as only mates can do. We make fun of the email he sent out trying to raise money for yaks in Tibet, calling it a small and insignificant placation of karma. Because what can a yak do?

But it was noon and midnight all at the same time, the Prime Meridian and the International Date Line met for one time only and Marcus had a plan. He reads this story - a story about how the trainline is threatened by subsidence, gobal warming and wild life. What wild life? Yaks (and yes, that's really odd, but true). They even contribute to the subsidence.

So Marcus decides to get the office to sponsor a charity. A charity devoted to buying yaks for Tibetan nomads. Nomads that roam the plains and steppes and mountainsides that the trainline crosses. The office doesn't know this. They're travel operators. They know bugger all about yaks that subside trains. They just think they're giving the poor a dumb animal. So they buy a yak for £85. It was a pretty successful venture - the office were all chuffed with their humanitarian effort and Marcus appeased karma, knowing that the yak he bought may well contribute to undermining the trainline. He wants them to buy more. They probably will.

I love it when a plan comes together.

Then there was the rat-tail. It was so dreadful, seated at the table next to us, that I had to surreptitiously take a photo. I've never done anything like that before. I felt sort of awful about it, but the rat-tail was more awful - enough to justify my own moral compromise. It was my version of buying a yak for nomads. By taking a picture and publishing it, I may prevent someone else from make so drastic a mistake. It was my duty. I don't have any hair myself, and to see someone treating what they have so terribly - well, it was upsetting. Upsetting and frightening. Why frightening? Well, that's a woman.

So fueled on butch rat-tails and yak tales, we came back to the new Belfry and drank beer and looked at old photos and everyone missed the last tube home. My second night in the new house and I'm already causing trouble.