Land of My Fathers...

I'm sat here watching Wales take on our Gallic cousins in the third match of the 2010 Six Nations Championship. I am certain there is no better National Anthem and no better venue for a live rendition of "Land of My Fathers".

Whilst I must admit I haven't heard every single anthem, I can't think of one that is more rousing and inspiring . It truly is a work of art. Slightly less entertaining now that Katherine Jenkins and her famous...er...lungs have been shelved, but awe-inspiring nevertheless.


I certainly prefer it to the dirge that passes off as our anthem. Whilst I do tend to get caught up in singing it at various events through out the year, I would certainly do a swap with Wales if that were a possibility. Still, we can look forward to a brand new version when Prince Charles steps into his mothers' jewel encrusted, dainty slippers. Oh.

The English do seem to get a rough deal from the whole anthem business. I would personally select 'Land of Hope and Glory', but then my opinion counts for...nada (sadly).

What makes you proud of your country? I am not turning my back on the St George's cross, but stilll? I am slightly ashamed (sorry) about our rough handed heritage. It is all very well having a a huge collection of territories or 'properties' and sharing our knowledge with them, but it all seems very partizan and an emphasis on owning somewhere with natural resources. Goodness. The US of A get grief for going into a country with something worth saving, but we have built our whole nation on exploiting other places.

Maybe I am some sort of socialist at heart. Not a Champagne one. Can't afford that. Cava perhaps.


Quote of the Day: "If you were my husband, I would put Arsenic in your coffee" - Lady Astor
"Madam. If you were my wife. I would drink it." - Sir Winston Churchill

Word of the Day: Agelast - A person who never laughs

Why does it always rain on me?

I, more than likely, did lie when I was seventeen, but I am not sure I should shoulder all the blame and I am not convinced Travis should be wholly trusted.

Actually one lie does stand out. I borrowed my fathers hip flask, complete with some whisky in it. The only time of the year he actually needed (sneaking some booze into Twickenham for the Varsity Match. Tut tut) it was when I decided to take it on loan. I denied all knowledge of its mysterious disappearance and consumed the Scottish potion at school. Craftily (or so I thought), I hid the flask down the back of the drinks cabinet to be discovered at a later date. I would have got away with the ghastly crime had I bothered to wash it out. The lingering aroma of the whisky was my ultimate downfall and I was suitably chastised.

I am getting a bit fed up with the weather. And yes, it does happen every year. Well, weather happens all the time, but hopefully you know what I am writing about.

I quite like rain, in patches. There is nothing like a heavy downpour on a summers day to refresh the dusty surfaces. That lovely earthy smell is a joy to behold. Only last year, Therese and I decided to go for a pleasant and exceedingly wet stroll in a thunderous August downpour. Drenched, but entirely refreshed.



It is the incessant drizzling of cold rain that drives me round the twist. That rain that really does permeate through to the skin. Even the hardiest of waterproofs wave the white flag. On the subjest of waterproofs, I carefully selected the cheapest available for my trip to Ecuador, one of the wettest parts of the globe. As it turns out, my investment in a garment from the bargain bin was not the greatest purchase. The jacket as a whole invited rain to seep through it and the only part that was actually waterproof was the insides of my pockets and they tended to flood during the afternoon downpours. Rendering my essentials (matches, cigarettes and maps) useless.

Having grumbled about the rain, I shall grumble about unnaturally hot places. I have often been faced with tuts and despairing glares after I have succumbed to the power of The Sandman in a theatre or cinema. Can you blame me? The seat are generally extremely comfortable, the lighting is dim and it is warm. Perfect sleeping conditions, don't you agree?

Not forgetting to mention the shops that seem fit to recreate a Saharan type atmosphere in their rented space. You go from one extreme, losing a toe or three to frost bite, to being exposed to a midday blast of heat somewhere close to the equator and the patrons seems fit to give you a distasteful glare as you sweat away like a carb-a-holic in a bakery.

I am bored of this grey weather. Roll on spring and the delights of new life blossoming every step of the way.

Oh dear. I would imagine I have established myself as a true Englishman ranting on about the weather.

Never mind.


Quote of the Day: "Rainbows apologise for angry skies" - Sylvia Voirol

Word of the Day: Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder

Untitled

It will be 26 days before the worried parents of Vladlena report her missing. It will be two months and three days before her body is discovered, floating out at sea, by a small fishing vessel.

The sea breeze was chilling. The salt stung her eyes, not from the sea spray, but her flowing tears. Vladlena was a mere shadow of her former self. Her eyes bulged, her ribs protruded through her pale skin and wrists bore scars of pain and anguish. Her once beautiful hair was now limp.

Her trembling hands gripped the top of the fence. Choking back the tears, she clambered over and stood on the edge of the cliff. The place was deserted, but for a few nocturnal animals going about their nightly business, foraging for food.

She leaned forward. The breaking waves were dimly lit by the partially covered moon. It was a long way down. Death was certain. She screwed shut her eyes. She could smell the aroma of fresh bread drifting up through the floorboards of her parents bakery. She could hear her mother calling out for her. She could see her brothers playing in the street below, from her bedroom window. She jumped.

A Murder Most Entertaining in Richmond

One could have forgiven Manchester for cutting short their journey and spending the day wandering about the dreaming spires of Oxford or having a punt along the Thames. Instead they foraged on along the M40 and M25, final destination Richmond.

A summer financial meltdown left the Mancunians with a depleted squad playing well above their level of capability. Nineteen games, nineteen defeats and 1,664 conceded points later, they found themselves in Richmond playing a formidable London Scottish destined for promotion to the Championship - a promotion away from rubbing shoulders with Bath, Leicester, Harlequins and the other giants of the oval shaped ball game. It was a long way to travel for another thrashing and let's face it, that was always on the cards.

London Scottish, justifiably, felt able to rest a few key players and a merry crowd were ready with their calculators. This wasn't set to be a battle between two lions fighting to lead the pride, it would best be described as a bloody bout between a Honey Badger and someones pet rabbit. Don't let the word honey convince you that the badger is anything but a ferocious beast.

Manchester started with a spring in their step and matched the Exiles for a short period. The coil soon lost it's bounce and the inevitable opening try came within ten minutes of the start. Some sloppy passing and poor handling prevented an early deluge of points. The Scots soon found their stride and began to work the ball around with flight and guile. A hot knife and butter would not do justice to the ease at which the Manchester defence was breached time and time again. At some point during the first half I got lost as to which players were running in the tries as my attention was drawn towards a rather attractive blonde sitting a few rows down from my small party. Exquisite beauty, similar to that of the eleventh try.

A half century (52-0) was posted by the interval and some refreshment was in order in the shape of a pint of the brown stuff. The Exiles started where they left off and the scoreline was increased by seven with an early try and conversion. Understandably, the heads of Manchester had dropped and the tries kept coming. Conversions were being missed at regular intervals preventing a three figure scoreline and lead.

The temperature began to plummet, but Manchester battled on bravely. London Scottish eventually got stuck on 87 points without reply. The last score to register was a throughly deserved try for Manchester. Deserved, not necessarily for their skills, more so for the fact that they never gave in. The home fans rightly applauded that final try and the Manchester players celebrated wildly providing a little cheer in what has been a torrid season. A Rocky Balboa quote would be good now.

"Yo, Adrian, we did it... We did it."

Whoops. Wrong one.

"The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a very mean and nasty place and I don't care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward". Smart man.

London Scottish should be reasonably pleased with their overall performance and Manchester should take heart from the fact that they shall soon be playing at a level more suited to them. Heavy defeats should not be dwelled upon. I'm afraid I am going to use that cringeworthy old adage now... "It's not the winning that counts, it is the taking part".

Quote of the Day: On his incumbant reitrement from rugby "I think I'll go down to the pub for a quiet pint... followed by 17 noisy ones" - Gareth Chilcott

Word of the Day: Apodyopsis - The act of mentally undressing someone

At the risk of sounding too much like Jerry Springer. Take care of yourselves....and each other.

How would I spend £56m?

I had my Euromillion tickets at the ready. The draw had been made and news had filtered through that a British ticket had won a £56m share of the giant jackpot, the other half winged its way to some sunned Senorita in Southern Spain - try and say that after one too many Sangrias.

There was a period of 24 hours between that announcement and the checking of the ticket. Of course, one is going to make a preliminary mental shopping list in that time, surely?



The first purchase was going to be a steak lunch on Saturday, in lieu of the sum appearing in my account. Obviously, it was going to need a little time to clear and that is all my current budget would have been able to cope with. In the end, I had a cheese and ham baguette at a friends house after losing a toe to frostbite whilst watching Spencer slay Tulse Hill in a hockey showdown.

My next purchase was going to be a veritable abode in central London. It was not going to be an outlandish purchase, but I was intending to spend a tidy sum on a property with 3 or 4 bedrooms, a large kitchen, a games room, a roof terrace and a sizeable garden - I am not talking about 'room for a pony' type garden a la Hyacinth Bucket - nothing that extravagant. Obviously the house purchase would take some time to finalise, so I would have some time to kill and money to burn in the time being.

Ideally, I would like to keep a lid on it, but people that know me might twig when I spring up in a property I could never afford or even appear all over the newspapers and a variety of TV stations.

My next transaction would be to give my folks and sister/brother-in-law/niece a tidy sum, on top of a family bash. My parents could certainly do with some money coming back from me as opposed to going the other way. I was toying with the idea of gifting a farm to my sister and family. Organic vegetables or cheese, perhaps, but it would be entirely up to them. I was looking forward to getting invited over for a stroll around the land and some homegrown food.



My next plan of action was to afford some of my royalties to my friends. Now this would definitely be incognito. Various friends would gain different amounts as they would have different needs. Some have houses that need to be paid off, some don't have houses and so on.

The overriding feeling would be one of a capitalist and a materialistic slant on things, but I vowed to give to the greater good. I had been planning to adopt an area of Malawi, to start off with, and build them some form of sustainable infrastructure.

On my one and only visit to Malawi, I was greeted with a country full of potential, but severely lacking in basic services. Something we, the first world, take for granted. Women walked for miles to reach a 'maternity ward'. When I say Maternity ward, I mean a ramshackle hut with no transport links, other than a dusty highway. The shack itself consisted of some earthy floors with a sculpted dip to make the mother-to-be a little bit more comfortable. Our school trip visited a hospital that had not had a single new syringe for five months. They were relying on boiling the old needles and having to reuse them. Very sad. So, I would hope to build some form of infrastructure in various parts of Malawi and aim to attract further attention and investment.

The trouble with that is where do you stop or where do you start? There are millions upon millions upon millions of people in desperate need of help. The top 1% of the world 'own' 40% of the global wealth (I hope the internet has not lied to me with that figure). Where is the justice in that?

Brighton & Hove Albion were going to benefit somewhere along the lines and hopefully Sussex would have been able to afford Sachin Tendulkar for a season or two.



My brain was overloading with ideas and I took the plunge to check the numbers.

As it turned out, I managed to match the 'Star Balls', but none of the other numbers came in, leaving me and the National Lottery on an even keel.

Oh well.

Of course, I didn't put much thought into it. Money is not everything.

Quote of the Day: "If you want to feel rich, just count the things you have that money can't buy" - Anon.

Word of the Day: Quomodocunquize - to make money by any means possible.

When I grow up, I want to be...

Sadly, this blog entry is not dedicated to the Pussycat Dolls, who I'm told have an album entitled "When I Grow Up".

I can't quite remember what I desperately wanted to be. The are vague memories of being rather keen on becoming a vet, but I think that was just a passing phase and didn't last much longer than a month or so. Not a suitable profession for someone with an entirely rational dislike of horses and other members of the equine family.

It never really occurred to me to pick a career at such a young age and go for it. Perhaps that is where I went wrong! It seems a lot of people never quite fulfill their dream or chosen career path, if this article on Beeb is anything to go by...

BBC Link - When I grow up I'll be a...

Everyone of a certain age should be able to remember the Prudential advert when a plucky little fellow proclaimed that he wanted to be a slug. In case you have forgotten...

I want to be a slug!


The all important question is what do you want to do with yourself for 40 odd hours a week for 40 plus years? Well, that is a $64m question for the likes of me. I am very indecisive at the best of times, I think. I started off by dotting about with a variety of jobs, generally picking location ahead of occupation - not the wisest of battle plans. Soon tiring of not being tested or not actually wanting to be there.

I have reached the grand old age of 29 and now is the time to do something for myself. Forget the online questionnaires that goad you into believing you were born to tinker with spreadsheets. Do something that you love. Live to work, not work to live. I find myself without an occupation, but with a dream and aspirations, as well as a precarious financial position. I intend, despite having a face for radio, to take the acting world by storm. Emails have be sent out (I know! Big step) and research has commenced. It would appear that it is going to be doubly hard as I have no formal training and I am unable to pay a King's Ransom that most acting schools demand. One will have to be inventive and frugal.

Never before had a ever had such a feeling as I did when I was treading the boards of various theatres. The feeling of being alive for the very first time. If you could bottle that feeling and sell it, then you wouldn't ever have to work again. Of course, I could act in my spare time for that buzz, but it is important to aim high. Not everyone is lucky enough to get paid for something they love doing, so I am going to have to try my luck.

Of course, being a rather difficult occupation to break into, I am going to have to find something sensible to pay bills and to tide me over, before the dream commences. So we are back to the age old question... "What will I be when I grow up..." and I haven't decided that yet.



Quote of the Day: "I will never find any difference between Pele's pass to Carlos Alberto in the final of the 1970 World Cup and the poetry of the young Rimbaud" - Eric Cantona

Word of the Day: Autohagiographer - One who speaks or writes in a smug fashion about their own life and accomplishments.

A Play Less Ordinary

'A Tomb with a View' was the play and the Edward Alderton Theatre in Bexleyheath was the venue.

Technical difficulties and the lack of light to follow the script gifted to me meant I got a different slant on the proceedings than the other 79 patrons, although some of them were definitely certified members of the blue rinse brigade, so they may suffer from the same affliction.

A rather quaint set greeted us when the curtains parted, a well designed wood panelled library was to be the one and only venue of Norman Robbins' sinister murder mystery. It was all very wooden... The set, not the performances!

The lack of noise penetrating my delicate ear drums allowed me to focus on the themes and movements, as opposed to trying to follow the storyline. So to unravel the crime, I was looking for physical signs of guilt.

A rather dignified looking gentleman, brilliantly named Hamilton Penworthy, who appeared to be more like an undertaker than a solicitor kicked off the proceedings. For the next ten minutes we saw an influx of characters. Marcus Tomb, who looked as though he was at the wrong performance dressed in Egyptian robes, was ushered in by Anne Franklin, his nursemaid. Lucien, Dora, Monica and Emily Tomb were to follow. A vast array of different characters with seemingly unsavoury traits and habits.
The vultures were gathering to pick over the carcass, in this instance a will reading. Ermintrude Ash, Peregrine Potter and Agatha Hammond completed the lineup.

The will reading appeared not to favour any of the cast, judging by the uproar. That is when the grizzly murders began. A variety of means were used to knock off cast members. Marcus Tomb met a gruesome end by the way of a well aimed bullet. Emily Tomb, wearing a rather distinguishable fat suit, fell victim to a poisoned apple (one of the many things she consumed through out the play) and there was a stabbing somewhere in the middle. Now forgive me for getting a little bit lost here. The cast were disappearing quicker than the sweets stowed away in my jacket. Mine is not a fat suit, sadly.

Eventually all that was left was the foppish Peregrine, the vixen like Monica Tomb and the ever present nursemaid free from her shackles due to the untimely death of her charge.

The plot seemed to be wrapped up when Monica Tomb was wrongly fingered as the assassin, but her death had been faked. The villain was none other than the sweet and innocent looking Anne Franklin, who was slaughtered by the hands of Monica. Justice had prevailed and the audience were left to gather their thoughts and question their own judgements. I made the fatal mistake of not picking the least likely killer.


Quote of the Day: "Murder is always a mistake - one should never do anything that one can not talk about after dinner" - Oscar Wilde

Word of the Day: Hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian - Pertaining to extremely long words

The Eagle has landed...

...he hasn't gone very far. Oh dear, he's fallen.

Almost 22 years have passed since the ever endearing Eddie 'The Eagle' Edwards became a global phenomenon and household name.

Mr Magoo ____________ Eddie the Eagle

On doing some further research, it seems Eddie accidentally fell into ski jumping. He narrowly failed to qualify for the downhill event to take part in the 1984 Sarajevo Olympics. This did not deter him and in order to help him fulfill his dream, he moved to Lake Placid to begin intensive training under the watchful eye of professionals. However, funding was not readily available to British Winter Olympians (rather elitist one might say) and things threatened to turn sour.

He was entirely self-funded and money was running low. He wasn't going to give up, he needed to find a cheaper alternative. That is when gallant Eddie switched his attention to Ski-Jumping - not the sort of event one would expect of someone suffering from extreme short-sightedness, but that didn't deter Eddie. Despite fogged glasses and a distinct lack of experience, he managed to qualify against all odds!

At the time of his qualification, he was working as a plasterer and resided in a Finnish mental hospital, not as a patient I should add. The rest is history. He came last in the 70m and 90m events, but he had endeared himself to a worldwide audience and found fortune and glory, commanding commercial fees of up to £10,000 an hour. Bankruptcy followed in 1992 and he was never able to qualify again after the International Olympic Committee (IOC) changed qualification rules to ensure there were no further 'embarrassments'.

The Winter Olympics are upon us again and those plucky Brits are in with a shout for some medals. Ski Jumping qualification kicks off the event on 12th February, followed shortly by the Opening Ceremony. Vancouver is the venue of gallant achievements, victorious performances and broken dreams.

Alpine skiing for Britain has long since been a sore point. The Bell brothers have hung up their skis after a long period of medal less tournaments and Alain Baxter was forced to return his Bronze medal from the slalom event after falling foul of a drugs test, having used a Vicks inhaler. There is a new breed for Britain and the Hove residing Chemmy Alcott is a personal favourite of mine and I shall be watching her religiously.




Bobsleigh has been the event everyone has been talking about after our very own Gillian Cooke suffered a wardrobe malfunction and bared a portion of her buttocks to the watchful audience and press. Cooke and her co-driver Nicola Minichiello are in with a shout of a medal, going into the tournament as reigning world champions in the two-women bob. Let's just hope they have a good crack at it.

Gillian Cooke bares (almost) all

One of my all time favourite moments has to be the first ever gold medal for Australia. This clip is surely the epitome of why you should never, ever give up.

Aussie Gold!


My own experiences in skiing are somewhat limited. Two seperate trips back in the early nineties is as far as I got. Being the tender age of 11 and 12 at the time, I was there for the skiing as opposed to being on the 'piste'. My only visit to Italy, thus far, was via a button lift that dragged me up over snow drifts for 2km after a rather unfortunate tangle of skis at the bottom of it. Apparently you are meant to let go and remount the next 'button'.

Let the games begin!


Quote of the Day: "Skiing is the only sport where you spend an arm and a leg to break an arm and a leg" - Anon

Word of the Day: Labascate - to begin to fall or slip.

Please, sir, I want some more...

I was just looking through some old photos of my gap year and was amazed that between a group of 20 of us, we had managed to eat in a vast amount of eateries in the space of five months. I am talking about 30 plus establishments in the country, which is quite impressive when a large proportion of our time was spent far from civilisation. There is nothing I like more than going out for food. If I could afford it, I would go out for dinner every single night of the week with a few lunches thrown in here or there. Not forgetting the odd breakfast.

There were six of us that were marooned in the Cloudforest for weeks on end. Some marajuana was consumed most afternoons when the rain came and invariably we got 'the munchies'. Sadly, all we had at our disposal were vegetables, rice, some homemade cheese (don't try this at home) and chocolate (something that I do NOT eat).

So we used to lie back and discuss what we would LITERALLY kill for. We used to dream of rare and tender beef, the sort of beef that just slides off the knife. Crispy Yorkshire puddings filled with gravy and some horseradish slapped on top of it. Pizza was another favourite topic of discussion. These sessions used to last for hours. So when we eventually left the Cloudy utopia for a weekend away, we would gorge ourselves by eating out for Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner. Anything and everything was consumed.

Nowadays, food is the hot topic. Healthy eating; 'Size Zero'; obesity; pukka food; pukka pies; celebrity chefs; and Turkey Twizzlers have dominated our screens for much of the last decade.

The traditional and original pioneers of 'celebrity' cookery in the shape of the austere Fanny Craddock and the prim Delia Smith were suddenly faced with an influx of competition from sirens like Nigella Lawson to shouty men like Jamie Oliver and the ridiculously cheerful Ainsley Harriot.





A veritable feast of cookery programmes have hit our screens. From Two Hairy Ladies and Ken Hom to Gary Rhodes and Two Fat Bikers or were the ladies the fat ones? I forget.

The Two Hairy Bikers are by far the greatest thing to happen to food since those bold French discovered that you could eat snails and that they taste even better when combined with garlic (the snails, not the French). They fearlessly go where no cookery show has gone before. Whether that be sampling the delights of the canine specie in the far east or dicing with the locals of Warrington.



My culinary skills were somewhat stunted from an early age. Both my parents are damn fine cooks and my sister ended up as a fully trained chef courtesy of Pru Leith and her rather sophisticated cookery school. So I was left with the 'essential' manual aspects, such as 'look for the spatula' or 'clean the whisk'. I have never quite developed a signature dish, but I have delved into the land of homemade pizza which is rather a satisfying hobby - not for the waistline!

Only the other day, news filtered through of a near disaster in a small town in Sweden. 20 Weight Watcher participants were gingerly queuing up for the post-Christmas weigh-in when the ground began to creak and eventually the floor gave way beneath them, sending them tumbling into the abyss.

"Hello and welcome everyone. I hope you had a good Christmas and didn't over indulge..."

CRASH

Apparently the cause of the accident is still being investigated - Tricky one, but I am minded to believe that too many complex carbohydrates were consumed. I do feel sorry for the Barophobic's meeting on the floor below, but at least their fear has finally been proven to be entirely rational.

I have two weddings coming up this year. The first being at the beginning of May and being the Master of Ceremonies, it is important that I look my best. The second being at the beginning of September, whereby I am the Best Man. So the aim over the next three months is to shed a stone and a half. Difficult perhaps, but not impossible.

One major factor that shall swing in my favour is living with a healthy cooking and eating guru. Joy, the Queen Munchkin (the Good Witch of the North doesn't sound quite so flattering), started her flagship business many moons ago to teach children (and parents) the benefits of and how to feed themselves a healthy diet. I would imagine you would need the patience of a saint at times, certainly when the flour comes out!

More details here - Munchkins Cookery



My arch nemesis is undoubtedly bread and the butter that adorns it. Avoidance of this will be the key to whether I man the microphone as a svelte host or whether I retain my 'bouncy charm'.


We shall see...

Without further ado (and if you haven't finished reading yet)

Quote of the Day: "One cannot think well, sleep well, love well, if one has not dined well." - Virginia Woolf

Word of the Day: Barophobia - The fear of Gravity.

Weight Watch: 15 stone and 6 pounds.