Pa's Tale

At sparrow-fart tomorrow, so it's an early night.

Nothing much going on lately. Helen had a track day at Brands Hatch today, which she found exciting (as you might expect) driving her Bandit round the track. My golf has been of modest quality as the great Wheel of Form inexorably turns, but I shall try harder while I'm away - one doesn't want to make a prat of oneself with a bunch of strangers.

One of my helpful chums took the trouble to google Tunisian belly dancers, and he advises me that the male ones are indistinguishable from the real thing. So I'll be careful when I'm pushing money into their jock straps, just in case.

I'll be back for Easter.

It was all about loafing about and watching indifferent sport on the box. The weather on Saturday was nasty, so I didn't get into the garden, and the sport was pretty feeble. I don't pay for Setanta, so I didn't have to watch England beating the little guys from Slovakia (population 5.4 million).

In their rather British way, the best cyclists in the world found that the Olympics had been a bit of a one-off. But the delicious Victoria won her sprint gold, so all was well.

There is cricket, of course, but I don't need to mention the feebleness of the England team. They try their best, but they are no better than basic county level. Chris Gale was doing his six-hitting thing, so I took a hoe into the front garden and did a bit of work in spite of my poorly back. When I came back in, three wickets had fallen. Perhaps the England bowlers are better when I'm not watching.

Pietersen wants a day off to go and see his missus: it will be interesting to see whether he can bring himself to bat in an hour or so in the current game. Home-sickness wasn't a thing that seemed to bother the pre-war Ashes sides. A month on the boat just to get there, then several matches against the local states/counties, a five-Test series, then a month on the boat to get home.

The Aussies must be rubbing their hands at the prospect of whacking the Poms yet again. As usual.

I must say that I'm ready for a change of scenery, and Tunisia will be a nice holiday. Two days to go.

Gordon Brown, who seems to be the busiest man in the land doing important stuff to save the world economy, was able to find time to get involved in the raving twaddle surrounding the "Royal Family" as to whether they could marry a catholic. Who gives a toss? They should be deported back to Germany on the grounds that we can't afford them any more.

And the MPs are making an ongoing spectacle of themselves. It is reported that the Home Secretary Smith, who was claiming expenses based on the statement that a room in her sister's house was her principal residence, has charged the cost of ppv "adult movies" (i.e. porn) to her parliamentary expenses. And these people are supposed to tell off bankers for fiddling. And Brown puts up with it. What a load of rubbish.

That reminds me that I have been showing signs of becoming a grumpy old man. Yes, I hear you say, it's about time you noticed. As the French would say, "je m'en fous".

Among the stuff that Margaret from Australia gave me was a letter from my uncle Cecil's wife (I never knew he was married) in reply to a query from Andrea, one of my great-nieces, some years ago. The old lady said that Archibald (the bolter) had been a major in the British Army (not true), that he had lost a leg in some battle in India (he never went there - he lost his leg at 16 because of an accident when he was a boy soldier), that he was Churchill's political agent during the Oldham election campaign (not true - he was only 16 at the time), and that his wife was a Lonsdale from Lowther Hall (not true - she was a cotton weaver's daughter in Nelson).

I have started to think about writing a story about Archibald's parallel lives - the real one and the one he wished it had been.

My freezer has been growing frost over the past several years to the point where I couldn't open the drawers, so I attacked it yesterday with a fan heater and a hair-dryer. It took a couple of hours and left me with a sore back, but it is done.

And I got my car MOTed.

I lost my singles golf match this morning because of inadequate putting, and must play a pairs match tomorrow, wet or fine. Still, I'm out there.

There is an ad in my paper today. HM Treasury has a vacancy for a "Knowledge Manager". Isn't it a bit late?

Saturday was the usual TV sport, with England doing OK against the Scots albeit with a second half wobble.

The main event of the weekend was the arrival of my cousin from Australia with her husband John. Margaret is the grand-daughter of my runaway grandfather Archibald, the one who left his wife and five kids and bolted to Oz with Jean. Margaret is an enthusiastic genealogy researcher, which is how we made contact, and has met lots of relations (sometimes to their surprise).

I played golf on Monday morning because it was Don's 75th birthday bash. My recent form had evaporated as expected. Margaret had spoken to Sharmain, who lives not far away and she came to join us for lunch. As far as I can understand these things, her great grandfather Charles was my grandfather Archibald's brother. Does that make me her great-uncle?

There was a bourguignonne for supper. I had marinated the beef overnight in the wine, but there was lacking a certain smoothness in the end product. No matter.

The Aussies left at 6.30 this morning to drive to St Pancras to take a two-night Eurostar trip to Paris, where they have never been before. They are frightened of nothing, these guys!

And I played golf again this morning, parred five of the front nine holes, and seemed to be heading for yet another win. Then there was a spot of bad luck, and I only finished second. There is, however, a stewards' enquiry in progress, because today's winner played off the wrong handicap and should be disqualified. (This is of interest to about 16 people in the whole world - but that makes it important! To them.)

MOT for the motor tomorrow. I have booked the 8a.m. slot, so I will have time to do a bit more in the garden if I am so moved.

I won again today for the fourth consecutive time in the week. That may be the first time in the history of our group, but it is certainly the first time in my life that I have so performed. I have no idea what I have been doing right, but of course I put it down to good behaviour. I fully understand that payback time will quickly follow, so I have put my winnings in a special purse. This lives in my golf bag so that I can pay back over the losing weeks that are bound to follow.

Negative thinking, of course, but I do have experience to back me up. But after that (to me) amazing week, there isn't much else to say. I can hardly comment on French strikes. And the pope has shown once again that he is a tiny-minded card-carrying fool. If you are committed to the belief that condoms are evil, then you can't admit that they do have a use in slowing the AIDS thing. Religious pillocks of all kinds make me cross.

I watched a nice interview on BBC with Jack Kyle. He was the best fly-half of the 40s, and I saw him on a school trip to (I think) Ilkley to see him playing against the All Blacks in about 1950. I hadn't known that he spent the next forty years of his life as a surgeon in Zambia. They don't make them like that any more.

And I had a listen to Elbow, which seems to be famous. The number I heard started with sweeping strings followed by a Coldplay-type dirge. Well, at least I won't need to buy it. There's enough piffle on my iPod already.

Since Tom's last fiddle with my PC, the closing down routine involves a slide-show of pics. There's stuff from fifty years seemingly picked at random from my (dare I say it? - data base), and it is nice to watch.

An interesting weekend in prospect, what with the rugby and my Australian guests. And the droghte of March will surely be followed by the showres sote of April, when longen folks to gan on pilgrimages, the holy blisful martyr for to seke. (The transliteration from Middle English may not be accurate, but it is at least fifty years since I last had a look. But Chaucer was living and working a couple of miles from here when he was writing the Canterbury Tales in the 14th century.)

Sorry. I'll go now and have a look at the cricket.

Here's a thing that hasn't happened to me in many months. After my lucrative victory on Monday, I went out again yesterday and did it again. Nothing brilliant, just steady knock-it-down the middle and sink the putts. So I've made back the losses of the last three months in just two outings.

Of course, I elected to take a rest day today. But I did a worrying thing. My home insurance provider loves me dearly, and gave me £20 of M&S vouchers to prove it. I went to the shop and blew the lot on ready-made food. That was very naughty, and I am now inspecting tonight's microwave supper with a sense of doom. My own fault for getting lazier.

I have a clear mental picture of what has to be done in the garden. All I have to do is execute. But I did scratch around in the sunshine today and made some progress. My current excuses are a) it's too early to plant out the summer flowers (it's not the Saints de Glace until mid-May), b) until I do plant out, the pots are in the way of the power-hosing project, c) I can't do any heavy digging because it might harm my golfing muscles, d) it was nice, though time-consuming, on the terrace with the paper and a spot of the amber nectar. Though I did cut the front grass - there's twenty minutes of effort.

Quite by chance I came across transcriptions of interviews with old cotton mill workers (The Lancashire Textile Project). I was at the latter end of that period, but I wore clogs as a lad and was woken in the mornings by the clatter of the weavers going up to the mill behind the house. I will try to put together what I know about our immediate family - a good chat with sister Christine brought up some more detail - it's a tale of rags to rags in two generations then out again. And it will be meaningless to my children, let alone my grandchildren.

OK, it's my own fault for giving in to idleness - I'm now going to cook my supper: 5 mins in the microwave for a chilli con carne. Yes, I know. The horror!

... for me. It's all about the Wheel of Form. The demolition of the French team (one of the feeblest I have seen for a long time) was very satisfactory. People forget, amid the media claptrap, that England lost in Dublin by only one point, and by only one score against Wales. But the way the French collapsed under the onslaught was, how shall I put it, sad? hilarious? take that you Petits Bleus?

The French online media had a special mention for Armitage. He learned his rugby as a teen in Nice, where he was living because his father, an English engineer, had been posted there for a few years, and he could have qualified to play for France. The lad speaks impeccable French, says L'Equipe. He plays quite good rugby too.

Before the game, I cut the grass ("mowed the lawn" doesn't quite fit) and made more mental notes about the work to be done. Un de ces jours, sans faute.

And in today's warm spring sunshine, fifteen of us out on the golf course, I slaughtered the lot of them. Best I've played for what seems like weeks, and it's because the Big Wheel of Form is on its way up. Que ça dure! Though I know it won't.

Some Senior Medical bloke has told the government to put the price of booze up to stop some noddies from overdosing. But the government knows full well that there would be terrible electoral retribution from my end of the age spectrum. Pricing pensioners out of their well-earned pint? No way.

I must confess though that it was only the cost that stopped me when I were a lad. I could afford a binge drink only at Christmas, when I had earned some money delivering the Christmas post as an auxiliary postman. Since then, of course, I have occasionally over-indulged. If the GP were to ask me "How often do you drink?", I would have to say "Most of the time", because honesty is supposed to be the best policy for a piss-head. (My name is Peter and I'm an alcoholic" - that's what I would have to stand up and say at AA meetings. But it's too late now!)

I have cancelled my June trip with the lads because a) it's to a championship course (too hard to be fun), b) it's with fifteen other pissheads and I can't stand the pace any more, and c) the following week I'm going to Tuscany to play golf (which sounds a lot more genteel).

The nice weather seems set to continue. Will my form? Watch this space.

A couple of nondescript days - though by no means unpleasant. Enlivened, of course, by Liverpool's demolition of the highly over-rated Real Madrid. And by being able to take the amber nectar outside on the terrace.

As anniversaries go, how's this - my car was stolen one year ago. The things I remember! One day after Ma's birthday.

Then it became today. I have a chook in the oven, roasting with some spuds. And I will do some slow-fried courgettes. Meanwhile, the Celtic Fringe men are busy bashing each other. I can't be bothered, though I did see some of the Wales game in Italy. The Welsh were lucky to sneak a win. I must ask why Italians are playing rugby. It will mess up their hairdos for a start.

The highlight today for all right-thinking persons was the collapse of Man U in front of 75,000 people. When the ref awarded the traditional penalty to settle the locals' nerves, I thought that it was all over. In the kitchen, getting some lunch, I heard noises from the commentators and found that Liverpool were back in it, and that enabled me to watch the rest of the game. Jolly spiffing stuff. You have to sneer at Man U (though they were quite good against the Italians in midweek).

And Burnley mashed Notts Forest. No need to mention Charlton.

OK. I ate roast chicken and roast potatoes with courgettes, and it was acceptable. But it's a lot of faff just for me. The chicken will last most of the week, which is a boring thought. The oven continues to annoy me with its dodgy thermostat (and its scruffy inside), and I had a look at possible replacements this morning. Action needed! Qui, moi? Action?

The Micks overcame the Jocks, though not by a lot. I have England v France in my diary for tomorrow, but I am not optimistic. I don't care who wins as long as we have an open running game. My fallback is the golf from Florida, and I will watch with interest the 19 year old Ulster lad McIlroy, who hits the ball for miles and sinks the putts. And who seems to be a normal sort of bloke (define "normal" in the climate of today's media hysteria about everything).

A quiet week in the diary, though the garden is demanding attention, then the arrival of my newly found Aussie cousin next Sunday. To the golf now.
Byee.

A spring pic before I go.

Not just me personally - it's Springtime!

Nothing much going on. Pleasant mornings and general idleness. Though I did take Tuesday off golf and put my house back together (people who know me know that that just means a quick swish with the hoover and a removal of old newspapers).

I realise it means nothing to those not in the know, but my partner and I played a greensomes match today (you both drive, then choose the better one and play alternate shots. OK. Sorree.), and we won because I played my best for ages. Perhaps a sense of responsibility to my partner made me try harder.

Liverpool last night made a mess of Real Madrid again. It's a pity they can't get up for the league games with the same brio. I'll watch the dreaded ManU in a minute.

Odds and sods now. What did that Swiss con man have that enabled him to take millions off assorted rich women, one of whom owns 12.5% of BMW? Words fail me. My broadband provider Tiscali seems to be in deep doo-doo, having been suspended on the Italian stock exchange (did they upset one of Berlosconi's friends?). Sky are reported to be hovering.

I have to make an apology to the Brightonians. I knew that the veggie pie I made on Sunday wasn't very good, and I have just had a rubbish supper with the warmed-up leftovers. Ugh. It was not nice at all, and I have had to top up with bread and cheese. Ice cream and biccies to follow.

And football for dessert. Golf tomorrow and Friday before I can take a couple of days off to do some shopping and watch the rugby.

It turns very slowly, but it may have passed the bottom - I hesitate to speak in these terms because My Lady Golf might hear me and slap me on the wrist - but I had a couple of lucrative wins this week. I must have cleared about twelve quid, but I can't spend it because I will surely have to give it back over the next few days.

On Wednesday I had to put covers on six duvets ready for the weekend. It is almost my least favourite domestic activity. But I gritted my teeth and saw it through.

The chicken experiment worked well, and the carcass was boiled down on Friday to provide a great stock. Vegs bunged in to make a minestrone which was well received by the Bristolians, with some left over for Saturday lunch for Kate and her friend. So the four quid chicken provided about ten servings when backed up with vegetables or rice or pasta, at only just over a pound per serving. I might repeat every couple of weeks.

The Brightonians (is there an official term?) came up on Saturday, and I did a fisherman's pie (a lot more expensive than chicken, but what the hell! They know I'm spending their pitiful little inheritance), and I poached Comice pears in red wine. It's nice to dig up my old staples, which are not worth doing for jes' lil ol' me.

Everybody has gone now, so I will sit in front of the telly and drink beer while watching sport. The living room will gradually recover its pristine appearance over the coming days. (I jest.) And since I even cooked a significant lunch for the mob, I will only need an omelette for supper.

The Australians are wreaking a fearful revenge on the South Africans for their cheek. Four new bowlers wiped out the Saffers' first innings for not many, the runs are being piled on, and humiliation is clearly the intention. The last five Aussie 1st innings wickets went for about four runs, but they already had plenty in the bank. I tremble for our chaps when Ashes fever grips this summer.

Gallant little Burnley are playing a cup tie at Arsenal today. Priez pour nous.

I may have to retract my resignation from modern rugby, because I saw a recording of much of a Premier League match played on the weekend between London Irish and Leicester. It was full of inventive movement and far better than the current Six Nations pap.

Sky were showing this in the absence of any live sport (OK, WI v England was on, but it hardly qualified as "live" sport). The real cricket action was taking place in South Africa, where a bunch of new Australian guys did the business. That's the trouble with Aussies - as soon as one lot retire, a new mob comes forward to carry on. Scary!

As with football, there is a problem for the national rugby sides with the massive immigration of cricketers and rugby players. Our South African cricketers, Strauss and Pietersen, are doing well, as are the Australians (can't remember their names, but they tend to be wicketkeepers). But most of the English rugby teams have foreigners at outside half, which makes it hard to breed home-grown ones. I read that Saracens have been taken over by South Africans, who have fired most of their players as from the end of the season, presumably to be replaced by yet more Saffers. It's not as if there is big money to be made, but another old club has changed utterly.

Sky Arts offers some nice things which I record from time to time. Last night I watched a b&w film of a Led Zep studio performance. We were spared this stuff because of our emigration to France, but it is amusing to catch up. Plant was as daft as a brush, though he seems to have grown up over the last 40 years. He still has silly hair though.

I splashed out four quid on a chicken, which I roasted last night with the usual trimmings (a bit boring for one). It will last me all week - a risotto tonight, and chicken and pasta pie next, then something improvised, and the carcass will be boiled down to provide stock for the weekend. I suspect, however, that this over-exposure will put me off chicken for a couple of weeks. Cheap nosh though.

I'm unhappy about the state of my golf, but it is vital that I get out there. And there are still enough good shots to keep me interested. There was a matchplay tournament in Arizona, and they kept showing pictures of the saguaro cactus. I'll attach a pic of Ma admiring one in the Lost Dutchman State Park a lot of years ago.

You wouldn't want to be a politician in Guinea Bissau (which I only mention because my sponsored child Maude lives there). The army chief of staff got blown up by a bomb in his office, so the president got shot dead. Tit for tat.