I have to confess – I spent the last week, playing with the Thing from Outer Space, or as Mad Dog called it , ‘The Boom Box from Hell”
He’s just jealous that his A-Drive is not hidden inside the nifty little panel, behind the blue light!
I guess Objects of Desire are just that; and this week’s Object will probably drive ‘little sister’ NUTS!!!!!
It is my David and Goliath watch.
I love it.
It is red, and it has cartoon faces, plus words of PROFOUND wisdom
‘Mullets get chicks’
Bloody hell, the secret of the Universe in one line. Marvellous.
What is a Mullet?
Simple, it’s a hairstyle – and until I did a search, thought it was totally modern, but I have found 18C references to this name.
It is red and I love it.
(and the Boom Box from Hell)
The events of the past week are not for the light hearted, as we watch, with horror, the devastation of the ‘Big Easy.’ And listen with incredulous dismay to Bush’s fatuous comments that ‘everything will work out’.
The sun still burns the skin, but in the mornings a mist shrouds the rooftops and lingers over the river, a sure sign that the season is moving on. Walking past the church, I can see rose hips colouring the hedgerows, and clumps of gleaming black elderberries hang heavy.
Before anyone says’ How English’ I spot two fat Pakistani ladies in saris and bangles leaning on the church wall watching the pious inhabitant of the village leaving the Sunday service. Perhaps they are wondering, as I am, why English ladies of a certain type, have to talk in shrill twitters.
Down on the river the first slight changes are showing, green burns to gold and the trees drop yellow tokens, drifting with the current. The dog days of summer are with us, and heat settles over the river where the ducks rest in the shade of the reeds and bushes.
Even the geese seem content to float gently on the water, no longer threatening all comers. I find it impossible to single out the young - the chicks have grown to maturity, and there is a sense of peace. Next year, the nursery will re-open but until then it is quiet.
Some of the geese have over indulged, and I can see one who is nearly spherical, so top heavy that I fear he will topple over. When he and his companions make the great flight for the winter, I am betting he will be the first to land.
The river gives a mirror image to the trees that bend down to the water, producing endless green depths, sometimes a river carp will break the still surface, sending out slow ripples of movement.
The boys jump from the stone bridge, their bodies brown with the summer, egging each other on to try another jump. “Scallywags” says the lock keeper, and waves another boat through.
The mist burns off leaving the intense heat that the Romans attributed to Sirius the dog-star, but it’s illusion to call it summer. Along the riverbank splashes of harsh orange tell us to prepare for the winter.
A black coot shoots over the water, leaving a perfect silver V on the river. Next year they will be back here, to raise another family.Perhaps they will be lucky enough to raise all their chicks.
I hope so.
The charmless one certainly made his mark on the funeral of Robin Cook, and despite my uncomplimentary remarks about him, I agree with those who said that he got it right.
He did get it right, and we don’t have many people in public life today who stand up and get themselves counted. Also the comments made in The Independent on Sunday (online) are worth our consideration. “Well” said the IOS, “What do you expect if you invite John McCririck as a speaker?”
Exactly, our John is not a boot licker and we have to accept that.
For once Mr McCririck looked nearly normal: view these photographs and tell me what you think. Very snazzy purple threads there. When he appeared on Channel 4’s news programme after the funeral, he spoke without descending into those very eccentric mannerisms we all love to hate.
and
The Channel 4 presenter came to grief as he attempted to insert Robin’s Cook’s supposed lack of religious fervour into the conversation. Our John chewed him up and spat him out.
“Completely irrelevant!” boomed the unsinkable McCririck and proceeded to wipe the floor with said presenter. (Hurry up Jon Snow and come back from your hols.)
Repeating his view, that it had to be said, John concluded the interview by pointing out that Tony Blair is a PM without reponsibility, and in his last term of office Blair simply doesn’t care.
True, Uncle Tony has nothing to loose, no election to come.
By this time the presenter was reduced to nodding agreement, and waiting for the ‘Off-Air’ light to come on. Moral, don’t second-guess intelligent folks who are a tad eccentric.
Surprisingly Mr McCririck has a wife, who he describes as ‘Boobs without any Brains.’ Quite so.
I hope she nails him by the balls to the floor every night.
Yep I do.
The funeral of Robin Cook was marked, and some say marred, with a speech made by a certain John McCririck. Across the pond, you Yanks have been spared the sight of John McCririck.
You lucky sods.
These photographs should explain my remarks. Mr McCririck is a racing pundit, horribly famous for his costumes, and views on women. The comment that only the size of a female’s tits really matter should be enough for anyone, and no need to go further, methinks.
and
and
Yes quite, enough of that.
As a journalist once said he has all the charm of an armpit.
But, Mr McCririck has caused Uncle Tony some chagrin. In his oration at the funeral of Robin Cook,he berated the PM for choosing to snorkel his holiday away, instead of attending this solemn occasion. He described it as a ‘lack of respect.’
Screams of rage from Labour flunkies, and the Downing Street spin machine failed to have much effect on our John. He retorted
“Of course, the Downing Street spin machine has been saying the family were against it," he said. "I know that to be untrue. One family member, very close, said it needed to be said, thank you very much."
Not a lovely chappie, our John, but this time he got it right; expect that is why the folks in the street outside the church were cheering, as they listened to the service.
Yep, bad move Tony, bad move.
Watching the news this week , makes for uncomfortable viewing in Britain. It’s over here, it’s a few miles away, places, many of us have used in the past without a second thought.
I think what really pisses me off is the loss of innocence.
Watching the faces of residents evacuated from Notting Hill this week as the police made an armed raid on a block of flats, the bewilderment and the fear made me realise what we have lost.
We know too much about the face of terror now.
You and I won’t be the same, none of us will be the same. Pick up our bags and move on, re-adjust to the world.
On a lighter note, even the humble spud isn’t safe. I have a friend who works in agricultural research, potatoes to be precise. From Germany, comes her anguished email.
Some assehole had stolen her experimental spuds. I expect her prime, disease resistant potatoes disappeared into the evening dinner.
Not a Happy Kraut.
The buggers even stole her scarecrow. Yep.
The bravura of the reactions to the 7th July bombings has largely dissipated over here, and a very different mood prevails in response to the latest threats. The sense of shock is compounded by the shooting of an innocent man.
A resident evacuated from his flat was quoted as saying that it was all very well being told to soldier on when bombs are apparently being left on his doorstep.
The Mayor of London says that these are difficult times. Yes Ken , they are but forgive us all if we ain’t too happy about innocent people being shot. ‘Executed’ is the right word.
The Lock, Iffley
As an antidote I take some bread down to the river, the geese are greedy sods, beaks wide open at all times. They collect round me with many sharp retorts and pecks, to neighbours. The more savvy ones just park themselves in front and let their beaks hang open.
“Just put it here chum.”
I walked down to the lock this morning in the rain, thinking it would be both wet and peaceful.
Not a bit of it.
A river-boat with a party of very happy and totally sozzled tourists was filling up the lock, creating an incredible level of noise. Bemused, I glanced over at the lock- keeper. The lock- keeper shrugs, it’s party time.
The crew of the preceding boat, stood glumly in the rain, soggy but determined to go boating. The rain drips off sou’westers, and my waterproof has given up being water-proof. As the boat glides through the lock, the Missus does a bit of musical.
“We’re singing IN the rain!” holding her brolly up as they sail down the river. The audience of two, myself and the lock-keeper applaud her efforts.
A fine silver mist comes off the river as the rain pours down but the ducks seem to be enjoying it, bobbing gently in the middle. Nothing like a good downpour say ducks, if you want to relax.
The geese have retired to their homes, fair weather impresarios – as soon as the sun comes out they will showing off with their flotilla parade, sailing majestically in formation.
I stand on the covered bridge enjoying the muted colours, a mixture of silvers and greys, and the cool rain-soaked air.
A squirrel runs along the fence, he has been feeding well by the look of him, nicely plump. He flicks his tail, not liking the moisture and does a vertical climb up the side of the bridge house, seeking shelter under the eaves.
A fisherman sits over on the far bank, he’s going to be there for a while, rain or no rain.
Life on the river is beginning to change. The last batch of chicks are growing up now, taking on their adult colours, we won’t be seeing any more babies until next season.
I notice the youngest goslings are changing. The last of the geese family to have chicks escorts them down the river, and I can see one chick already has his yellow beak, the other one still with a dark beak and his spiky baby hairs. Only two in this family, which makes me wonder if the parents lost some of their young.
I’ve been watching the bird families on the river since early spring, the geese making the most noise, honking like air raid sirens and flapping wings “Don’t mess with me”.
It’s an impressive sight in the morning as the flotilla of geese parade down the river, with the young positioned in the centre.
Always four adults as guard duty, and no quarter given if anyone gets too near. Wham! The offender gets beaten up, dunked under the water, hit the road Jack.
Photo: Iffley Lock, the Cottage
I sit by the river and listen to geese couples talk, in conversation geese have short deep notes. One goose doesn’t say so much, I’ll bet my last stick of lip gloss, that’s the guy.
“Yes dear, no dear, of course dear.”
Yea sure, keep the peace dear, and hope she forgets all the other stuff she was laying on me.
The lock-keeper’s cottage is a mass of flowers, the dog a kind of walking carpet, slumps on the path in the heat. The coots splash about near the river bank, preferring the shelter of bushes and reeds.
It’s the end of the year, and the mother coot has had enough, she gets physical with one of the chicks who’s messing about.
Maybe it’s time the kids left home.
Soon the geese will take the migrating flight, but not the Canadian geese. We will see them on the river over the winter.
All summer long, war has been raging on the river, the backdrop to long sunny mornings, where the bird population guard their chicks, and wait for you to drop them largesse, brown bread, white bread, they don’t care.
The river has also been the backdrop to war waged on us, all of us.
In London on the 7th July, outside London, it doesn’t make a difference – we have all been hurt.
It started slowly – the first report said no more than a loud bang had been heard on the Liverpool rail line. That was around half past nine.
By 12 midday, the world had changed
I came online to some very frightened emails and messages – one in particular from some one who had just woken up in the States, and didn’t know if I was safe.
I work in an Oxford college, stone towers, climbing ivy, green velvet lawns, the lot. I sat at my desk, looking out on the quad, thinking about being alive.
Photogrpah: Iffley Lock, early morning
Down by the river, we have been counting the cost – the mallard hen had produced a brood of 15 bundles of fluff.
The lock -keeper tells me that a magpie had taken out four of the chicks, we both regret the murderous magpie.
“The geese have done well” I remind the lock-keeper, thinking of the daily parade of proud geese parents escorting their young down the river, hissing like kettles at anything that comes near their babies.
The keeper agrees, although ‘they had lost quite a few chicks,have the geese.’
The weeping willow bends down to the river and the geese honk loudly to each other.
Life goes on for them – next year they will be back with a new brood. I look forward to that.
After the events of the 7th July I had to take some time out – rather like many others I suspect.
I am sure many blogs are expressing the anger and the sorrow of that day.
Those of us Brits who live outside London can hardly believe the apparent peace of our surroundings.
News pages, TV newscasts, make for harrowing viewing, the continuing pain of people searching for loved ones, makes your heart ache.
Amid the darker notes, lighter notes can be seen.
In small things.
Two days after the bombs, I walked down to the river, stop to confer with the lock-keeper. We are concerned for the safety of the coots' five chicks.A seagull attacked last week, and he isn't sure if they survived. I can find two chicks, now so well grown they have gained their adult colouring.
"Not a bad attrition rate" says the keeper when I report the survival of two chicks.
The fate of the moorhens and their babies still cause concern.
London joyous, Paris stunned by 2012 vote
LONDON (Reuters) - Supporters of London's bid to host the 2012 Olympic Games reacted with joy and surprise to the capital's shock victory on Wednesday while France struggled to comprehend how Paris had lost.
Thierry Rey, another former Olympic judo champion, summed up the sense of incredulity." "We don't understand...what more could we have done? I wonder if sometimes people don't want us."
Well my froggy friend, you got it in one – no, the IOC don’t want you and maybe yer Msier Chirac will give upon being so rude about ‘Le roast bif’, and the Finns were very unhappy about his comments as well.Only happened to have a judge on the IOC panel , did the Finns.Silly buggers, just because we flayed ‘em at Agincourt...sore losers the Frenchies, dunno why they have started making remarks about ‘Just playing the game’Never knew they felt like that; and they won’t admit we has the most delicious lamb - expect we are in for a season of road blocks and banning of’ ‘Le mutton’ now.
Shucks, I had better sharpen a few arrows. Yep.
