The Wisden of Geoffrey Boycott.
You can only get better by first admitting that you were not as good as you thought you were.
It's all very well for Jimmy Anderson to complain that the ball wasn't turnin' but if you can't make runs on flat bitches then you haven't a hope in hell of winning Test matches.
On the evidence here, England look a one-dimensional team who only bowl well on flat bitches or against zeam-bowlers when their batsmen can go'ard att the ball.
England have had a helluvalot of batsmen that were better than this lot. I should know. I was one of them, averaging 59 in any Test Match on the subcontinent.
In Sri Lanka next month, they may well get turning bitches but they may also be lucky and face flat batting tracks.
You see you cannot win Test matches unless you make runs. I've said it before. We didn't have a cat in hell's chance of winning.
I am convinced that Bell cannot pick Saeed Ajmal. Pieterson shows glimpses of lettin' the ball come to him, playing straighter, but just when you think he is getting better, he reverts to his old faults of lunging in front of 'is pad and playin' across the line.
The only way Morgan's gonna get any runs at Test level is to play his shots but I am still not con-vinced that he is the man for a crisis moment. You see, Cook and Strauss defended their stumps, let the ball come to them, just knocked it for one so that they rotated the strike.
I've said it before, matches are won by an accumulation of runs, not by grand gestures..they always go wrong in the end.
I'm a great believer in puttin' runs on the board. Then before you know it, you've got forty or fifty before the middle order even comes in. (OK I made that piece of Boycott Wisden up but you wouldn't have noticed, would you??).
Showing posts with label Satire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Satire. Show all posts
Friday, February 10, 2012
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Here's to TJ Hughes ...nine haiku 20.08.2011.
So here's to TJHughes......nine Haiku in honour of TJ Hughes, which went into administration and did not quite make its 100th birthday, after decades of looking after its customers.
No more shoe bargains,
amazing handbags, Triumph
bras or five tog quilts.
No more basement queens
faffing about to find you
the flight case you want.
No more pyramids
of Werther's originals
or shopping trolleys.
No more Ferrero
Rocher or pound Toblerone
bars at the checkout.
No more queues at the
bedding counter to pay for
thermal vests, duvets.
No more sales counter
happy girls refunding, no
esalator hope.
No more washed-out meat
and two-veg posters that
you noticed looked rude.
No more carpetted
restaurant, extra water
jug, joke at the till.
No more sitting on
the low wall, taking the weight
off, eating pasties.
No more black cabs to
take you to Anfield and
Mam to Scotty Road.
No more shoe bargains,
amazing handbags, Triumph
bras or five tog quilts.
No more basement queens
faffing about to find you
the flight case you want.
No more pyramids
of Werther's originals
or shopping trolleys.
No more Ferrero
Rocher or pound Toblerone
bars at the checkout.
No more queues at the
bedding counter to pay for
thermal vests, duvets.
No more sales counter
happy girls refunding, no
esalator hope.
No more washed-out meat
and two-veg posters that
you noticed looked rude.
No more carpetted
restaurant, extra water
jug, joke at the till.
No more sitting on
the low wall, taking the weight
off, eating pasties.
No more black cabs to
take you to Anfield and
Mam to Scotty Road.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The Emperor, his son and their old clothes. 22.07.2011.
Source: The Independent
Notes on the Select Committee hearing in which James and Rupert Murdoch were questioned for a couple of wasted hours by a collection of, on the whole, rather supine investigative M.P.s.
Although there was palpable anger in the room, it seemed to melt away before the professed Emperors of Pulp, like the sigh of a spent wind.
A respectable amount of handwringing and bluster to keep at bay the quiet seething of the Committee was meted out by the Murdochs, Junior and Senior, both cut from the same diamond and having arrived fresh from a training programme on how to deal with the questions they were going to be asked. In the end, when the magic hours allowed by English parliamentary law had been filled by dark posturing and circuitousness, it was as though the two men had merely been slapped with a couple of wet fish.
In fact, the hearing was a chance for the Murdochs to do a bit of grandstanding; to cast some sneering remarks before the Great British Public( (those who were interested enough to watch online). Talking about what for any of us would be an astronomical sum of money paid out for any reason, James Murdoch, the scion of the elder, gnarled-but-got-all-his-marbles old man tossed a vague recollection of hush-money to the waiting committee 'I don't recall exactly how much'. This was code for 'we deal in billions. Talking about a few million is, frankly, beneath our contempt'.
The News of The Screws was dangled every now and then by the King Lear-like figure of Ruper Murdoch to focus the contempt in the room, finally being offered up as a sacrificial lamb, though not without the petulance of a rich man losing one of his smaller yachts...Murdoch Senior was eager to point out the loss of the 250,000 readers. Numbers mattered,particularly at this juncture in the sense that they could be deployed to denote loss or else pre-eminence.
Throughout the long session (this was no shareholder meeting and was doubtless prepared for by a 4a.m bowl of porridge and a gym workout by Senior) oldness was wheeled out as required, though not, you understand, the kind of oldness that signified loss of power or decrepitude, rather the oldness of a lion with a thorn in its paw.
The Old Pretender did resort to using old age as victimhood on occasion to buy him some thinking time as money clearly could not plug the gap at such moments. He appeared not to hear the questions asked but then belied his hearing loss with barbed answers after the sage-like pauses.
The father/son angle was fully exploited with Senior and Junior holding their position in dock, and by touches on the arm across the pillories. Senior bowed his head most of the time (apparently in contrition or fatigue but in reality with the concentration of a bull preparing for the next charge).
Their suits had been carefully chosen, even though they were the Emperor's old clothes. Both wore sky-blue ties (to denote innocence) and pleasing, pacific, dark-blue pastel shades, one slightly darker than the other, you see, to signify that they were not in league,or partners in grime but merely relatives. Senior's suit had a faint pinstripe running through it to suggest- well, seniority (and legalese, of course). The pre-Committee training session had clearly instructed them both to place one hand on top of the other. The gesture, according to a body language expert implies helpfulness, openness and also prevents hands from gesticulating wildly and giving too much away.
I also detected a dose of defensiveness in the gesture. James Murdoch's robotic, repetitive answers were betrayed on occasion by the high colouring that broke through the Meditteranean tan borne of too much holidaying and by the rapid blinking of Senior's hooded eyes.
Their verbal suits, however did not have quite the same acuity, although the old father/son schtick came to the rescue. There was Senior's summarising with his down-to-earth thumping, cutting and pushing , the salami-slicing of the table with the hams of his age-spotted hands which said 'I am a man who knows the relative value of things-and by the way, I can still cut the mustard.'
The plastic signage in front of their corporate persons, one saying 'James Murdoch' and the other saying 'Rupert Murdoch' made them look like two naughty public schoolboys (albeit of an Antipodean hue). The obedient crowd behind them seemed to come to their aid rather than holding them back, their heads moving like sunflowers according to the position of the Sun and Son.
At times, Junior was seen to stumble verbally, often parrying with words and exhibiting the signs of having just emerged from the prepping session blinking into the light. Phrases like 'I'm glad you asked me that', 'with reference to the specifics of your question' or 'that's a very good question' allowed him some false contrition and wriggle-room. 'I' was used interchangeably with 'we' and 'we' was used interchangeably with 'News International or 'The Corporation' and demonstrated the fluency of power. Nevertheless, the Son blurtingly ended up repeating himself all the way to the end of the two-hour session. The continuous use of the words 'active' 'proactive', 'actually', 'specifically' 'currently' and his way of denial, as in 'we don't have access to that information' or 'it would be wrong to make a statement while there is a legal process ongoing currently with regard to that particular issue' made him look like a snake thrashing in a pit. Sometimes his language was worthy of Dick Cheney. 'This was re-looked at' he offered 'along with the re-started criminal investigation.' And 'to my knowledge, it was not known about' was another Cheneyism..
Senior's use of long silences not only bought him time but seemed to add a bizarre gravitas to his duplicity, as well as allowing him to find 'le mot juste' in between bouts of bellicosity and a withering, sickly humour which issued from between his teeth like sawdust from between the teeth of the kind of circular saws one finds in a sawmill.
It must have been hard to find the necessary level of penitence or grimness, though, as neither the puppy or the old dog had ever been grilled before.
There was a side effect of the courtroom drama that was much more satisfying than the salacious revelations of the redtopped, bloodsoaked Empire; the distinctly British restraint of the Committee did serve to point up the crassness of the Murdoch show and its disdain for the rule of law. It wasn't, after all, the highest court of the land and a jail sentence was not pending. But it was great to see the Committee members make play with the ancient art of sarcasm, whipping these newsmasters, these hounds with the spoken word, with language; the delicious ironies of men who make their money out of 'telling it like it is' having to tell it like it wasn't had not escaped some of the Committee who wryly clasped their faces with their hands and twisted in their seats. You hoped that they would descend like piranhas onto meat that was dead in the water, though sadly, this did not happen.
The pie incident did happen, though one began to wonder if it had been staged by the Murdochs themselves. The whole thing, except for the pie incident, was not unlike a Bird and Fortune sketch. Each man dug himself into a dirty hole with a set of rather expensive spades and a tiny push from the mild-mannered Committee.
Old Murdoch rolled his head occasionally in a turtle-like fashion to denote derision. His hand-chopping of the table spoke of a vice-like grip, a waning virility and the mutual exclusion between power and delegation.
Like water seeping between cracks, the lies, the blackmail, the manipulation and all the excrescences of power and the pursuit of money had led to a drip becoming a stream and the stream becoming a current throughout the whole phone-hacking phase of the public enquiry. It had led to the spectacle of the world's most powerful media emperors being brought before a lowly court. These excrescences were the very opposite of the thing that Rupert Murdoch popped up from time to time during the Hearing to lecture about. 'Transparency' he had opined 'is one of the things that makes us a more open society, that's one of the great things about this country' (not to mention tax-breaks for residents living abroad).
I am reporting all this straight, of course, but what the hell... decorum and journalistic ethics and standards has clearly gone straight out of the window and punched the wall to smithereens, and anyway, what use is a verbatim report of the biggest farce of them all.
Notes on the Select Committee hearing in which James and Rupert Murdoch were questioned for a couple of wasted hours by a collection of, on the whole, rather supine investigative M.P.s.
Although there was palpable anger in the room, it seemed to melt away before the professed Emperors of Pulp, like the sigh of a spent wind.
A respectable amount of handwringing and bluster to keep at bay the quiet seething of the Committee was meted out by the Murdochs, Junior and Senior, both cut from the same diamond and having arrived fresh from a training programme on how to deal with the questions they were going to be asked. In the end, when the magic hours allowed by English parliamentary law had been filled by dark posturing and circuitousness, it was as though the two men had merely been slapped with a couple of wet fish.
In fact, the hearing was a chance for the Murdochs to do a bit of grandstanding; to cast some sneering remarks before the Great British Public( (those who were interested enough to watch online). Talking about what for any of us would be an astronomical sum of money paid out for any reason, James Murdoch, the scion of the elder, gnarled-but-got-all-his-marbles old man tossed a vague recollection of hush-money to the waiting committee 'I don't recall exactly how much'. This was code for 'we deal in billions. Talking about a few million is, frankly, beneath our contempt'.
The News of The Screws was dangled every now and then by the King Lear-like figure of Ruper Murdoch to focus the contempt in the room, finally being offered up as a sacrificial lamb, though not without the petulance of a rich man losing one of his smaller yachts...Murdoch Senior was eager to point out the loss of the 250,000 readers. Numbers mattered,particularly at this juncture in the sense that they could be deployed to denote loss or else pre-eminence.
Throughout the long session (this was no shareholder meeting and was doubtless prepared for by a 4a.m bowl of porridge and a gym workout by Senior) oldness was wheeled out as required, though not, you understand, the kind of oldness that signified loss of power or decrepitude, rather the oldness of a lion with a thorn in its paw.
The Old Pretender did resort to using old age as victimhood on occasion to buy him some thinking time as money clearly could not plug the gap at such moments. He appeared not to hear the questions asked but then belied his hearing loss with barbed answers after the sage-like pauses.
The father/son angle was fully exploited with Senior and Junior holding their position in dock, and by touches on the arm across the pillories. Senior bowed his head most of the time (apparently in contrition or fatigue but in reality with the concentration of a bull preparing for the next charge).
Their suits had been carefully chosen, even though they were the Emperor's old clothes. Both wore sky-blue ties (to denote innocence) and pleasing, pacific, dark-blue pastel shades, one slightly darker than the other, you see, to signify that they were not in league,or partners in grime but merely relatives. Senior's suit had a faint pinstripe running through it to suggest- well, seniority (and legalese, of course). The pre-Committee training session had clearly instructed them both to place one hand on top of the other. The gesture, according to a body language expert implies helpfulness, openness and also prevents hands from gesticulating wildly and giving too much away.
I also detected a dose of defensiveness in the gesture. James Murdoch's robotic, repetitive answers were betrayed on occasion by the high colouring that broke through the Meditteranean tan borne of too much holidaying and by the rapid blinking of Senior's hooded eyes.
Their verbal suits, however did not have quite the same acuity, although the old father/son schtick came to the rescue. There was Senior's summarising with his down-to-earth thumping, cutting and pushing , the salami-slicing of the table with the hams of his age-spotted hands which said 'I am a man who knows the relative value of things-and by the way, I can still cut the mustard.'
The plastic signage in front of their corporate persons, one saying 'James Murdoch' and the other saying 'Rupert Murdoch' made them look like two naughty public schoolboys (albeit of an Antipodean hue). The obedient crowd behind them seemed to come to their aid rather than holding them back, their heads moving like sunflowers according to the position of the Sun and Son.
At times, Junior was seen to stumble verbally, often parrying with words and exhibiting the signs of having just emerged from the prepping session blinking into the light. Phrases like 'I'm glad you asked me that', 'with reference to the specifics of your question' or 'that's a very good question' allowed him some false contrition and wriggle-room. 'I' was used interchangeably with 'we' and 'we' was used interchangeably with 'News International or 'The Corporation' and demonstrated the fluency of power. Nevertheless, the Son blurtingly ended up repeating himself all the way to the end of the two-hour session. The continuous use of the words 'active' 'proactive', 'actually', 'specifically' 'currently' and his way of denial, as in 'we don't have access to that information' or 'it would be wrong to make a statement while there is a legal process ongoing currently with regard to that particular issue' made him look like a snake thrashing in a pit. Sometimes his language was worthy of Dick Cheney. 'This was re-looked at' he offered 'along with the re-started criminal investigation.' And 'to my knowledge, it was not known about' was another Cheneyism..
Senior's use of long silences not only bought him time but seemed to add a bizarre gravitas to his duplicity, as well as allowing him to find 'le mot juste' in between bouts of bellicosity and a withering, sickly humour which issued from between his teeth like sawdust from between the teeth of the kind of circular saws one finds in a sawmill.
It must have been hard to find the necessary level of penitence or grimness, though, as neither the puppy or the old dog had ever been grilled before.
There was a side effect of the courtroom drama that was much more satisfying than the salacious revelations of the redtopped, bloodsoaked Empire; the distinctly British restraint of the Committee did serve to point up the crassness of the Murdoch show and its disdain for the rule of law. It wasn't, after all, the highest court of the land and a jail sentence was not pending. But it was great to see the Committee members make play with the ancient art of sarcasm, whipping these newsmasters, these hounds with the spoken word, with language; the delicious ironies of men who make their money out of 'telling it like it is' having to tell it like it wasn't had not escaped some of the Committee who wryly clasped their faces with their hands and twisted in their seats. You hoped that they would descend like piranhas onto meat that was dead in the water, though sadly, this did not happen.
The pie incident did happen, though one began to wonder if it had been staged by the Murdochs themselves. The whole thing, except for the pie incident, was not unlike a Bird and Fortune sketch. Each man dug himself into a dirty hole with a set of rather expensive spades and a tiny push from the mild-mannered Committee.
Old Murdoch rolled his head occasionally in a turtle-like fashion to denote derision. His hand-chopping of the table spoke of a vice-like grip, a waning virility and the mutual exclusion between power and delegation.
Like water seeping between cracks, the lies, the blackmail, the manipulation and all the excrescences of power and the pursuit of money had led to a drip becoming a stream and the stream becoming a current throughout the whole phone-hacking phase of the public enquiry. It had led to the spectacle of the world's most powerful media emperors being brought before a lowly court. These excrescences were the very opposite of the thing that Rupert Murdoch popped up from time to time during the Hearing to lecture about. 'Transparency' he had opined 'is one of the things that makes us a more open society, that's one of the great things about this country' (not to mention tax-breaks for residents living abroad).
I am reporting all this straight, of course, but what the hell... decorum and journalistic ethics and standards has clearly gone straight out of the window and punched the wall to smithereens, and anyway, what use is a verbatim report of the biggest farce of them all.
Friday, June 10, 2011
More football howlers 28.05.2011.
Source: Live BBC transmission. Match of The Day Man Utd v Barcelona.
"The main soloist in a solo effort for his team does it again"
"Rooney going on an individual run"
"You expect them (Barca) to have lots of possession"
"The mountain they had to climb after Messi's second half goal became an Eiger after Villa's.
"The main soloist in a solo effort for his team does it again"
"Rooney going on an individual run"
"You expect them (Barca) to have lots of possession"
"The mountain they had to climb after Messi's second half goal became an Eiger after Villa's.
Friday, November 5, 2010
On Antony Gormless..iron men in the Alps
On Antony Gormley's piece in The Grauniad Review. 07 08 2010.
'Why I put 100 iron men in the Alps' by A.Gormless.
Not content with spreading replicas of himself all over Britain (the real one is bad enough!) the postmodernist A. Gormless, has decided to despoliate bits of Austria, the more unspoilt the better!
'In the summer of 2005' he writes, 'my wife and I went to wander in the mountains of Vorarlberg to see if it was possible to install a multiple-body work there.'
Describing the charm, the solitude, the pastoral beauty of the region, Gormley goes on
'There was something euphoric about the silence and clear air of those days spent walking.'
A shame, then that he had to come along and spoil it all!
'Horizon Field' he gargoyles 'comprises 100 iron body forms spread over seven valleys, creating a field that makes its own horizon, the latest of my attempts to ask a simple question in material terms: " Where does the human being fit in the scheme of things?"
In his scheme of things, the human being known as Antony Gormless fits in anywhere he plants it and a good few other places besides. Crosby, Cuxhaven, London, New York have been overrun with lifesize and irremoveable Antony Gormlesses and the Austrian Alps, he is determined, will be no exception. At this very moment, the gritty Gormless is believed to be preparing a single asbestos 20,000 ft.'Gormless of the Desert' to dwarf the Sahara it will stand upon.
And that's not all! He will soon be unveiling 100 stainless steel Gormlesses, currently housed in an Asda superwarehouse which will withstand the lowest temperatures known to 'iron man' Gormless. They will be hauled by a team of 20,000 huskies backed up by snowskis and planted at the North and South Poles, sunk deep into the ice-cap. Gormless himself will be there to open the ceremony.
And there's more... several hundred titanium models are to be launched to the Moon and then Mars from Cape Canaveral in December. They are due to touch down in the next few months. The sculptures will be known as 'Yet Another Place.'
He's also planning a Satgorm made up of a cluster of Gormlesses welded together to orbit planet Earth in perpetuity.
'People may well ask' he rumbles, surveying the Gormlesses peppering the Austrian Alps, "What the hell is this thing doing here?" and the work returns that question and it responds reflexively "What the hell are you doing here?"'
He has a little reflection himself: 'Michi Manhart, the local hunter, farmer, landowner and ski-lift owner' he writes' decided that 100 iron men was just what the mountains...needed. So long as the helicopters installing them did not disturb the deer he intended to shoot.'
Operation cast
iron only shows Gormley's
self love and brass neck.
'Why I put 100 iron men in the Alps' by A.Gormless.
Not content with spreading replicas of himself all over Britain (the real one is bad enough!) the postmodernist A. Gormless, has decided to despoliate bits of Austria, the more unspoilt the better!
'In the summer of 2005' he writes, 'my wife and I went to wander in the mountains of Vorarlberg to see if it was possible to install a multiple-body work there.'
Describing the charm, the solitude, the pastoral beauty of the region, Gormley goes on
'There was something euphoric about the silence and clear air of those days spent walking.'
A shame, then that he had to come along and spoil it all!
'Horizon Field' he gargoyles 'comprises 100 iron body forms spread over seven valleys, creating a field that makes its own horizon, the latest of my attempts to ask a simple question in material terms: " Where does the human being fit in the scheme of things?"
In his scheme of things, the human being known as Antony Gormless fits in anywhere he plants it and a good few other places besides. Crosby, Cuxhaven, London, New York have been overrun with lifesize and irremoveable Antony Gormlesses and the Austrian Alps, he is determined, will be no exception. At this very moment, the gritty Gormless is believed to be preparing a single asbestos 20,000 ft.'Gormless of the Desert' to dwarf the Sahara it will stand upon.
And that's not all! He will soon be unveiling 100 stainless steel Gormlesses, currently housed in an Asda superwarehouse which will withstand the lowest temperatures known to 'iron man' Gormless. They will be hauled by a team of 20,000 huskies backed up by snowskis and planted at the North and South Poles, sunk deep into the ice-cap. Gormless himself will be there to open the ceremony.
And there's more... several hundred titanium models are to be launched to the Moon and then Mars from Cape Canaveral in December. They are due to touch down in the next few months. The sculptures will be known as 'Yet Another Place.'
He's also planning a Satgorm made up of a cluster of Gormlesses welded together to orbit planet Earth in perpetuity.
'People may well ask' he rumbles, surveying the Gormlesses peppering the Austrian Alps, "What the hell is this thing doing here?" and the work returns that question and it responds reflexively "What the hell are you doing here?"'
He has a little reflection himself: 'Michi Manhart, the local hunter, farmer, landowner and ski-lift owner' he writes' decided that 100 iron men was just what the mountains...needed. So long as the helicopters installing them did not disturb the deer he intended to shoot.'
Operation cast
iron only shows Gormley's
self love and brass neck.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Clapham Mums.08
Clapham Mums.
Through the windscreen of a silver Landrover Cruiser, a camera observes two Forty-something women who have just belted up in preparation for a short drive. Both are wearing sunglasses atop their newly-coiffed hair. They are Del and Abby. Del is wearing a lime-green top with pastel pink accessories. Abby is ash-blonde with strawberry highlights and darker, more subdued clothing.
Del: (checking the tiny strands of styled hair in front of her ears in the rear-view mirror)
"The thing is Abby, Friday will be just fete stuff, so I've blanked out my diary.
The old kitchen goes out on the Tuesday and the new, bespoke kitchen comes in on the
Wednesday"
Abby: (as Del comes to the end of her sentence, enthusiastically, ina rising tone) "Mmmmm."
Del: (after a slight pause) "AND...we've FINALLY taken the decision ,thank God, to put the children into the Belvoir Academy which MEANS. . . we'll have to work very hard. S-o-o Abby, it looks like I've joined the ranks of the employed again. But you know what, I got riddled with arthritis the moment Jamie was born. You just don't realize how important your health is..."
Abby: staring out of her side window "Tell me about it."
Del: "Listen, I'll tell you what I'll do Abby- my petrol light is low so I'm gonna have to
drive through to Tesco's. I'm sorry to drag you round the houses. You know I seem to spend
my whole life driving between friends, school, the nursery and the gym! Then there's the
Church fete on Saturday. Muggins volunteered to arrange the gazebos in there!"
Abby: "God, the church, I know, Del. And the thing is is you can't choose who you meet in
church...you're dealing with people from all walks of life.. Like that
godawful trampy guy."
Del: "Mmmm...Exactly, this is it. Wasn't he terrible?"
Then, after a wistful pause conjured up by a shared memory of a Christening service marred by the presence of 'the trampy guy', a friend of Del's husband who had invited himself along, reeking of alcohol.
"You know what, it seems like ages since I saw you Abby!"
Abby: "I know Del, where does the time go? Don't answer that!"
Del: "Tell me about it. Last time I saw you I'd just bought the Cruiser. But the thing is is that
this the only thing I can fit my four into...and the other day I had to pick up and deliver six of
the gazebos to the church. SIX."
There's a lull in which both women digest the discomforts of their respective lives. In doing
this they each retreat a little into the spare chins they have been trying to ward off with
surgery, before Del picks up the thread of her discomfort.
"Sometimes I've got three pick-ups to do:-1:30, 3:20 and 4:30. I once did a school run and
had to go back to the same school three times. I mean, can you BELIEVE it?"
Abby: " Oh don't I know it Del!"
There's another silence, this time giving pause for a small satisfaction.
Del: "Abby, we're just about to turn into Dulwich College. I'm meeting two friends...they're
just back from France." Then, after a pause "God, I bet those cheeses are high by now "
Abby: "Yeah...so what's your week like Del ?"
Del: Straightening up as if about to look in the mirror before being distracted by a change in
the traffic light sequence.
"Well on Mondays I always have piano lessons. I'm really enjoying them actually.
The first piece I managed to play was Polonaise by J.F.C.Bach. The second
was by Redikov...who's Russian...I think! NO, don't laugh!"
Abby: Spluttering "As in Molotov, the vodka?!"
Both women are suddenly convulsed at the recent memory of a party where both had been
regaled with vodka in tiny brushed chrome shot dispensers by the host, a friend of Abby's
partner, Rod. 'That's Molotov' he had said 'it'll blow your head off.'
Del: "Oh my God, Abby, don't remind me. Did I really? I did, didn't I".
Abby: "Rod's bloody vodka...how can I forget it?! Oh dear me! Where were we?"
Del: 'Too right, yes, so, ahem -on Tuesdays I walk the dogs 'cos the dog-walker can't make it.
The order of the day for the fete's gonna be the auction, then the dog show and the debs.
show, which should be fun! Then comes the sale of goods. We raised about 12 grand last time
Abby which was seriously unsung hero stuff. I thought if we could bring in say, 10 grand that
would be s-o-o-o- great! ANYWAY.....I've got parent's evening next Monday and a school
trip the following day, so I'm gonna be whacked. Abby, I'm just gonna turn round here then
I'll drop you off coz I've got to pick up Jamie"
Del pulls over and releases her safety belt as Abby does the same.
Del: "Have a lovely, day...ciaou!"
Both: Exchanging a light peck of the cheek "Mwaaaah."
As Abby descends from the Landcruiser, Del shakes her hair and peers into the mirror again
while Abby cups her hand behind her in a little goodbye gesture.
Through the windscreen of a silver Landrover Cruiser, a camera observes two Forty-something women who have just belted up in preparation for a short drive. Both are wearing sunglasses atop their newly-coiffed hair. They are Del and Abby. Del is wearing a lime-green top with pastel pink accessories. Abby is ash-blonde with strawberry highlights and darker, more subdued clothing.
Del: (checking the tiny strands of styled hair in front of her ears in the rear-view mirror)
"The thing is Abby, Friday will be just fete stuff, so I've blanked out my diary.
The old kitchen goes out on the Tuesday and the new, bespoke kitchen comes in on the
Wednesday"
Abby: (as Del comes to the end of her sentence, enthusiastically, ina rising tone) "Mmmmm."
Del: (after a slight pause) "AND...we've FINALLY taken the decision ,thank God, to put the children into the Belvoir Academy which MEANS. . . we'll have to work very hard. S-o-o Abby, it looks like I've joined the ranks of the employed again. But you know what, I got riddled with arthritis the moment Jamie was born. You just don't realize how important your health is..."
Abby: staring out of her side window "Tell me about it."
Del: "Listen, I'll tell you what I'll do Abby- my petrol light is low so I'm gonna have to
drive through to Tesco's. I'm sorry to drag you round the houses. You know I seem to spend
my whole life driving between friends, school, the nursery and the gym! Then there's the
Church fete on Saturday. Muggins volunteered to arrange the gazebos in there!"
Abby: "God, the church, I know, Del. And the thing is is you can't choose who you meet in
church...you're dealing with people from all walks of life.. Like that
godawful trampy guy."
Del: "Mmmm...Exactly, this is it. Wasn't he terrible?"
Then, after a wistful pause conjured up by a shared memory of a Christening service marred by the presence of 'the trampy guy', a friend of Del's husband who had invited himself along, reeking of alcohol.
"You know what, it seems like ages since I saw you Abby!"
Abby: "I know Del, where does the time go? Don't answer that!"
Del: "Tell me about it. Last time I saw you I'd just bought the Cruiser. But the thing is is that
this the only thing I can fit my four into...and the other day I had to pick up and deliver six of
the gazebos to the church. SIX."
There's a lull in which both women digest the discomforts of their respective lives. In doing
this they each retreat a little into the spare chins they have been trying to ward off with
surgery, before Del picks up the thread of her discomfort.
"Sometimes I've got three pick-ups to do:-1:30, 3:20 and 4:30. I once did a school run and
had to go back to the same school three times. I mean, can you BELIEVE it?"
Abby: " Oh don't I know it Del!"
There's another silence, this time giving pause for a small satisfaction.
Del: "Abby, we're just about to turn into Dulwich College. I'm meeting two friends...they're
just back from France." Then, after a pause "God, I bet those cheeses are high by now "
Abby: "Yeah...so what's your week like Del ?"
Del: Straightening up as if about to look in the mirror before being distracted by a change in
the traffic light sequence.
"Well on Mondays I always have piano lessons. I'm really enjoying them actually.
The first piece I managed to play was Polonaise by J.F.C.Bach. The second
was by Redikov...who's Russian...I think! NO, don't laugh!"
Abby: Spluttering "As in Molotov, the vodka?!"
Both women are suddenly convulsed at the recent memory of a party where both had been
regaled with vodka in tiny brushed chrome shot dispensers by the host, a friend of Abby's
partner, Rod. 'That's Molotov' he had said 'it'll blow your head off.'
Del: "Oh my God, Abby, don't remind me. Did I really? I did, didn't I".
Abby: "Rod's bloody vodka...how can I forget it?! Oh dear me! Where were we?"
Del: 'Too right, yes, so, ahem -on Tuesdays I walk the dogs 'cos the dog-walker can't make it.
The order of the day for the fete's gonna be the auction, then the dog show and the debs.
show, which should be fun! Then comes the sale of goods. We raised about 12 grand last time
Abby which was seriously unsung hero stuff. I thought if we could bring in say, 10 grand that
would be s-o-o-o- great! ANYWAY.....I've got parent's evening next Monday and a school
trip the following day, so I'm gonna be whacked. Abby, I'm just gonna turn round here then
I'll drop you off coz I've got to pick up Jamie"
Del pulls over and releases her safety belt as Abby does the same.
Del: "Have a lovely, day...ciaou!"
Both: Exchanging a light peck of the cheek "Mwaaaah."
As Abby descends from the Landcruiser, Del shakes her hair and peers into the mirror again
while Abby cups her hand behind her in a little goodbye gesture.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Election notes
Election notes. 11.06.2010.
Day Five of a very long, slow car crash, or if you prefer, a game of Parliamentary Poker...or if you'd rather, Pass the Policy Parcel.
In the Poker game, he pokes you, you poke him, he pokes you back while poking the other one. That one pokes back with a concealed hand of policy cards. Then the first one pokes back with a different array of policy cards, adding interest. And so on. They all continue poking each other whilst threatening to declare their hands and to quit and throw in their chips while they are ahead, err, behind.
The trick is to do it at the right time with the best array of policy cards.
In the Parcel game, each contestant offloads the offending Policy Parcel on to the next player while the Parliamentary music fills the airwaves. As soon as it stops, the person left with the parcel in their hand is sent to Number Ten.
After the jiggery pokery had been wound-up, the Parliamentary parlour games were suspended with Cameron having caught Clegg, rabbit-eyed, in the headlights at one of those critical moments.
The black jag. with the jet-lagged P.M. rolled in and out of Buckingham Palace. The P.M gave his resignation speech, all heart. The silver jag with the incoming P.M, David Cameron, rolled along Horseguards Parade. The bus to Crouch End overtook the silver jag. in the bus lane. The traffic light, symbollically on red, stopped the traffic, buses, taxis, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all plus a lone mobile phone snapper peering through the smoked black windows of the silver jag. Inside, Sam Cam may have had the appearance of someone in the back of a prison van. Silver jag rolled up to Buckingham Palace, past some scaffolding and a few skips at the palace entrance. I thought I heard the sound of clapping from the sparse crowd who had gathered there but it turned out to be merely the crunching of gravel on the driveway. Cam. went in to chat to the Queen.
Sam waited in the car.
As the moment yawned, chasm-like, waiting for the incumbent to step out, I hoped, in a flight of fancy, that the Bullingdon Club 'Youngest Prime Minister-in-Waiting-for-200-years' was going to bottle it, that this was why he wouldn't emerge from Buckingham Palace but I should have realised that an old Etonian with a Shellac mask for a face and buttons for eyes, something like one of the Medici traders of the Middle Ages was far too thick-skinned to be faint-hearted. A coup had happened, The Tories had stolen the Libdem clothes. The Libdems will rue their subservience to the Tories. We all will. Well, most of us (the majority?!). They'll wish they had thrown the Red mantle over their kingmaking shoulders. The Tories have tooled leather skins as well as shoes... they'll be procuring Trident, possibly letting off some of the rich top-earners from taxation. And killing foxes. And Cameron likes a good fox-hunt. Remember that.
Day Five of a very long, slow car crash, or if you prefer, a game of Parliamentary Poker...or if you'd rather, Pass the Policy Parcel.
In the Poker game, he pokes you, you poke him, he pokes you back while poking the other one. That one pokes back with a concealed hand of policy cards. Then the first one pokes back with a different array of policy cards, adding interest. And so on. They all continue poking each other whilst threatening to declare their hands and to quit and throw in their chips while they are ahead, err, behind.
The trick is to do it at the right time with the best array of policy cards.
In the Parcel game, each contestant offloads the offending Policy Parcel on to the next player while the Parliamentary music fills the airwaves. As soon as it stops, the person left with the parcel in their hand is sent to Number Ten.
After the jiggery pokery had been wound-up, the Parliamentary parlour games were suspended with Cameron having caught Clegg, rabbit-eyed, in the headlights at one of those critical moments.
The black jag. with the jet-lagged P.M. rolled in and out of Buckingham Palace. The P.M gave his resignation speech, all heart. The silver jag with the incoming P.M, David Cameron, rolled along Horseguards Parade. The bus to Crouch End overtook the silver jag. in the bus lane. The traffic light, symbollically on red, stopped the traffic, buses, taxis, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all plus a lone mobile phone snapper peering through the smoked black windows of the silver jag. Inside, Sam Cam may have had the appearance of someone in the back of a prison van. Silver jag rolled up to Buckingham Palace, past some scaffolding and a few skips at the palace entrance. I thought I heard the sound of clapping from the sparse crowd who had gathered there but it turned out to be merely the crunching of gravel on the driveway. Cam. went in to chat to the Queen.
Sam waited in the car.
As the moment yawned, chasm-like, waiting for the incumbent to step out, I hoped, in a flight of fancy, that the Bullingdon Club 'Youngest Prime Minister-in-Waiting-for-200-years' was going to bottle it, that this was why he wouldn't emerge from Buckingham Palace but I should have realised that an old Etonian with a Shellac mask for a face and buttons for eyes, something like one of the Medici traders of the Middle Ages was far too thick-skinned to be faint-hearted. A coup had happened, The Tories had stolen the Libdem clothes. The Libdems will rue their subservience to the Tories. We all will. Well, most of us (the majority?!). They'll wish they had thrown the Red mantle over their kingmaking shoulders. The Tories have tooled leather skins as well as shoes... they'll be procuring Trident, possibly letting off some of the rich top-earners from taxation. And killing foxes. And Cameron likes a good fox-hunt. Remember that.
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