Pa's Tale

Here are four names which make me go "Oh no, I'm gloomy enough": Coldplay, Elbow, Richard Hawley, and, new to me, Doves. I came across the last-named on a BBC thing about electric something, and the Doves (Wilmslow lads, Helen and Rick might be amused to hear) did a lively set with a Bulgarian choir. In fact, I quite enjoyed the show, so I downloaded some of their stuff. Elbowish. Enough said.

But I watched an excellent show on Sky Arts which was part of a guitar festival - Crossroads Chicago. (Tom - look away now) Clapton was the main man on the set I saw, and he had Jeff Beck, Robbie Robertson and Stevie Winwood with him. They all sounded fresh and dynamic. I might even buy the DVD. Blind Faith stuff is still good, you know.

Now here's a thing. Fleetwood Mac are back on the road, and a five-star review in the paper today. "In two and a half hours, there isn't a dull moment", it says in my paper. Who says 70's music is passé (apart from Tom)?

Château Dubois is building up to La Grande Arrivée. There is food and drink, and a little to spare. The bad news is that lots of rain is forecast for Sunday. On verra.

The golf is still going reasonably well. All I have to do is turn my arse along with my shoulders, then rip it. Easy, really.

I was going to mention the Pope and his takeover bid for the woman-fearing homophobe wing of the CofE, but medieval church politics isn't even amusing. The blokes who have gone over will be revelling in their robes and incense flim-flam, and they are even married. There could be some jealous chaps over there.

I went to see Nursie today to have the three-monthly hormone implant stuck in my tum. There's no point in complaining: all they say is "Well, you're still alive, aren't you?" and all I can say is yes.

A little jest. A dyslexic woman had been to the doctor for some tests. She was called to tell her that the test results were in, and that the doctor wanted to see her. So she went in, and the doctor said "You have acute angina". She blushed and said "Well, thank you doctor!"

More golf tomorrow while the Paris mob are on the road, then I shall devote myself to my guests. Though I reserve the right to slip off for a nap if I need one.

The Guardian continues to impress. The stuff about the dodgy oil traders dumping toxic waste in Africa, then getting an injunction to prevent the paper from saying that an MP had tabled a question in the Commons about it was excellent. The equally dodgy lawyers got a black eye, and big questions were aired about legal process.

Today, the paper is telling us about the Met Police's system for keeping on computer details of people (and their cars) who have gone to demos against e.g. arms trading, coal-fired power plants etc. It starts to sound like the old East German Stasi. They'll be asking us to inform on our neighbours next. I wonder which politicians authorise this kind of thing, or more worryingly, if they don't, how does the Met get away with it?

You thought big sport was dodgy, but atleast it doesn't impinge on civil liberties. And Liverpool gave ManU a seeing to.

And small sport's OK. Fifteen of us went out this morning, and your humble correspondent won. By virtue of a forty-foot putt on the 18th. You have to make these moves when it matters. And a tax-free ten quid is important in these troubled times.

There is a very busy week coming up, but I have thought about it so much that it is now looking pretty straightforward. I roasted a chicken last night, so I will have a chuck mayo salad next, there will be curried remains, and the carcase will provide stock for a minestrone on Sunday. Then no more chicken for a month.

This weather is very nice. I even had laundry on the line yesterday. My action plan has no entry for tomorrow, so I may have to play golf.

...qui,moi? But some people will be pleased to know that I have fully planned next weekend's grub, give or take the odd snack. And that I promise to find some time to push a hoover and duster round the place.

There has been much hoo-hah about Griffin appearing on a BBC program. I don't know what he wants for himself (it surely can't be political power), but I do worry that there seems to be a self-appointed collection (can't call it a group) of English people who claim the exclusive right to have a democratic opinion. Griffin might be a nasty piece of work - the media tell me so, but I don't know because I have never met him - but there are a lot of English people who share some of his views. I have some opinions that would get me barred from reading the Guardian, but don't we all? The democratic concept is looking a bit threadbare these days. How can it seem to be such a good idea that it must be imposed on people of a totally different social background? Are we still trying to leave our footprints in the aftermath of empire? Britain has only been practising it (democracy, I mean) for about eighty years, whatever the received wisdom about Magna Carta and Parliament and topping difficult kings.

No politics for me. But I read a nice bit about a group of rich Germans who think they should be subjected to a wealth tax. They have quite enough to live on, thank you, and feel that they should make a greater contribution to the national kitty.

You don't hear many rich Brit slobs thinking like that.

Now where was I? I went to Woolwich to get my life certificate signed by the Electoral Register Office. Quite reasonably, my French pension payers need to be reassured that I am still alive. And I went on the bus, and I did some shopping (for extremely cheap clothes). And I got a haircut from my Kurdish barber. He insists that it must always be done with scissors only, a notion too technical for me.

The house next door is to let/for sale, and I have just seen the people who fancied buying my house a couple of years ago, and they are still looking to buy. Am I open to offers?

My sister Christine called today. They are off on their three-month trip to Hong Kong and Australia to inspect the grandkids. A bit of a marathon.

BBC web headline today: "Man denies sawing off wife's head." Well he would, wouldn't he. Deny it, I mean.

Warmed up magret de canard boulangère ce soir. And a big shop tomorrow.

As recommended by Bob Dylan. There was a bit too much sport on the box on Saturday, so I popped over to BBC and watched an hour of a film about Waterloo. Historically in order, but Rod Steiger as Napoleon took a bit of swallowing. Entertaining, because we knew the result, but fairly pointless. It's a bit like sport really, which is a pastime, not an earth-shattering matter of real importance.(Even the Millwall, Charlton and Arsenal supporters in my golf squad admit that.)

On Sunday morning, the outside temperature was 1.5º, which called for a touch of central heating. It will be on more than it is off for the next few months. But there was a bit of sunshine which showed up my dirty windows, so I washed them, and now I can see through them.

Fairly ordinary golf results this week, though my three-ball today gave a nice result - Tom won the front nine, Harry won the back nine, and I won the overall, so no money changed hands.

I can't bring myself to comment on the Afghan farrago, except to think that there is a virtual civil war being waged for the future of Pakistan. It is scary to say the least, and it does seem to be in the West's best interest to help to squash the Taliban. The US have clearly had a word in Karzai's ear and told him that the game is up for him. So where do you find the next "good" guys?

I am concentrating on the loaves and fishes question; I have made a provisional list of dishes to feed the mob, and there is always bread and pasta if all else fails.

One of my golf chum's wife has been wheelchair-bound, suffering from MS, for many years, and she is currently in intensive care after a fit/stroke. Geoff said today that the doctors have told him that there is no hope of survival. I am talking to him.

I said I didn't win anything on Monday, but I had forgotten my raffle prize - a bottle of agricultural rum - "rhum agricole" - from Martinique. I won't drink it all at once.

And I played three more times this week, and won a few quid by being steady. OK, by being not as bad as the others. And the weather has been gorgeous.

I have been fiddling with music, and my current Number One album (I missed it the first time around) is Rumours by Fleetwood Mac. Old-fashioned I may be, but it's good music. And Arkansas rockabilly. Sun Records, with Perkins, Presley, Cash and others. Very jolly. I have downloaded some Sonny Burgess, the Arkansas Wild Man (I think he was an insurance salesman in between cutting primitive rock'n'roll tracks). Get up and boogie! And don't step on my blue suede shoes!

My main preoccupation (apart from missing some gettable putts) is the upcoming Big Visit. How to feed them all? But I have taken comfort by re-reading my blog posts of the last two years (available to everybody from Archives). It seems that nobody starved. There may be as many as fifteen for the Saturday bash, so I may have to think in terms of either buffet or two sittings. But it is best to have one big sitting, so I'll think of something.

A couple of days off now. Housework and gardening, shopping, cooking and watching sport on the box. There's no rest. But the golf course will be there waiting for me on Monday, so it's all right.

My team of three went to Sheerness for a veterans's competition. The golf course is on reclaimed marshland on the Thames estuary, and it is open to the wind off the sea. Which duly blew. We didn't win anything, but we played OK and had a good day. The rain arrived as we left for home.

Then there was Heineken Cup rugby, with the usual biff-bang matches. Very entertaining, but I am not happy about the distance the modern rugby ball can be routinely kicked. Once upon a time, a goal from half-way was amazing, but now they are ten-a-penny. It's the equipment, especially with golf. The great old golf courses are being reduced to pitch and putt because of the clubs and balls. The USGA was too scared of legal action from the manufacturers to impose limits. Tennis too. The balls are hit so hard nowadays that the old skills - drop shots, lobs ... are disappearing.

Kate arrived for a day's rest on Sunday. She has gone to a conference today about Sami's condition, then dinner in London with old friends and colleagues and a late train back to Bristol.

We had yet another golf day today. The Vets' Captain's invitational golf and lunch. Didn't win again (I suspect that my winning days are over), but again I was able to turn up and play and enjoy it. Say no more.

While I was making my first attempts to play golf - in Divonne, near Geneva - I won a trophy, which is a large silver tastevin. It weighs about 16oz. and it seems that its value as scrap is £168!!! Prizes were better in 1975. I had better polish it up and show it some respect.

I have to say that I think golf as an Olympic sport is plain daft. What proportion of the world's population has access to a golf course? I suspect a massive brown envelope job on the part of the equipment manufacturers. Though I suppose there are other events - stuff to do with horses and yachts - which are hardly accessible to the huddled masses either. Oh well.

The Nobel Peace Prize for a bloke who has only been in office for a few months. What's that about then? What do those Norwegians put in their tea? Perhaps Obama got it for not being George Bush.

There was a large plate of bangers and mash and cabbage after golf today, followed by a chunk of chocolate cake. Groan. No more food for me for 24 hours. And an early night. Followed, of course, by an early start on the 1st tee tomorrow.

And the drought has broken (down here in the soft Sarf East). Our trip to Sweetwoods and the game were through persistent drizzle (the weather forecaster was obviously banged up in a windowless room as he droned on about "mainly sunny").

So we got wet, but didn't dissolve. I had no desire to become active on Tuesday and Wednesday, so I loafed about indoors while the rain came down.

There has been a fine crop of horse mushrooms in the garden, so they will be cooked in butter and garlic to go with my fry up tonight. If you don't hear from me again, you will know that I misread the mushroom type.

There was a big event at the golf club today. The Veteran champions of all the clubs in Kent came up for a competition, but a few of us got out before them to enjoy a round in once-more glorious weather. I hope it stays like this because three of us are going down to Sheerness for a veterans' team event. Extra good because my pal Bal insists on driving us there. Guess what!

A bit of leccy bother last night. Everything went off around midnight. No power, so I got a torch out and set my old alarm clock for an early start this morning. Then at 5.45 the power came back on. There are people outside digging and fixing. It seems that a mysterious box in the ground went phut, but it's all fixed.

The Post Office stand-off is very annoying, partly because Amazon might stop using Royal Mail. If I'm out when a delivery comes, I can easily collect it from the village (sorry, that should be "Village" - it is Blackheath after all) post office. Other mail services tend to be based in hard-to-find places. As with all strikes, I'm not convinced that they get the desired result. I must say that I have always thought highly of Royal Mail, and I would like to see it preserved. Will someone bang heads together. There is no point in destroying such a nationally important operation because of an inability of the warring parties to make peace. I have to call it incompetence on both sides.

Right. Rant over. There is a fair amount of visiting going on. Nisar had a couple of nights while pursuing his research in London. Kate will overnight this weekend on a similar mission, then Helen and friend might overnight here the weekend after. My room rates are going up, by the way.

Then there is to be the traditional Toussaint/Hallowe'en party. Everybody is booked in on the Saturday (Paris are driving over), so I have time to start thinking about how to feed fifteen people. Last year, for a particular reason, M&S helped me out. We'll see.

A spot of lunch now, then an inspection of the garden.

... though fortunately there is golf. I played a couple of indifferent rounds recently, but I'm feeling a bit tired. Must be brave tomorrow, because we are playing our annual four-ball match for the Queen's Birthday Chalice (it's an old pewter mug that I donated twenty-odd years ago, but a posh title makes it worth playing for). That's at Clive's club, out in the boondocks between Tunbridge Wells and East Grinstead, so a bit of extra driving called for.

Then a Veterans' team event at Sheerness next Friday. I said there's not a lot going on.

I have a beef stew bubbling on the hob, the first for months. It's getting to be that time of year. There's a touch of heating on as well. Never mind, it will be Spring in six months.

Arsenal have just massacred Blackburn, and at the moment Chelsea are beating Liverpool. I wish I could care. But Burnley won again yesterday - much more important.

Had a chat with Uncle John. He has acquired a Jack Russell puppy which of course bites his slippers and pees on the carpet. He is very pleased with it, probably because he has never had children so it's a novelty.

I tried to have a nap this afternoon, but I find it difficult to nod off. Must try harder. Yawn.