Pokey hats

Tags

Cadbury 99, chocolate teapot, Grace Darling, ice cream bike, laryngitis, Lindisfarne, Neil Oliver, pokey hats, Robert Burns, St Cuthbert's Church, Stanley Baxter

(strawberry ice cream cone, 2010

TheCulinaryGeek from Chicago, uploaded by Mindmatrix)

 

 

The guys hadn’t returned and so the wedding preparation discussions

continued.

Ice cream bike, or not?

Virginia had suggested the latter, but Diana mixed up the tricycle concept

with a chocolate teapot.

Won’t it melt? she asked.

No, it is a bike with a fridge thingy attached to it and people can have…

Pokey hats! enthused Mrs C.

Neither Virginia nor Diana had heard of these delicacies, but Mrs C

laughed and explained that they were cones, with or without the addition

of a Cadbury’s ‘Flake.’

You mean like a ’99’? asked Virginia.

Aye, they always remind me of a Stanley Baxter joke about a young lad going

up to the ice cream van on his housing estate and hoarsely asking for a pokey

hat.

The vendor smiles and says:  Raspberry sauce, son?

Aye, the wee lad responds enthusiastically, wi’ a voice like sandpaper.

Flake?

Oh, aye!  He sounds really gravelly.

Crushed nuts?

Naw, laryngitis.

Mrs C, do remember that we are trying to be ladylike, reprimanded

Diana, who had noticed that Virginia did not really approve of such

ribaldry.

Changing the subject, Virginia broke in, where did you get married Mrs C?

Oh, St Cuthbert’s,  Lindisfarne, the housekeeper replied.  That was a long,

long time ago.

What made you choose that church?  Diana asked.  Mind you, it must have

lots of history.

Och weel, there was a line fae Burns that Ah learnt at school and it has aye

stuck wi’ me:  ‘Nae man can tether time nor tide.’  Ah didnae want himself

thinkin’ that he could tether me, so Ah suggested a wild, unpredictable place,

beyond the causeway of the normal mainland and subject tae the vagaries o’

the tides, tae tie the nuptial knot.

The causeway? Virginia was puzzled as she was not au fait with the

coastal geography of the region, never having been a fan of Neil Oliver.

She also had difficulty with the idea of a tethered Mrs C. It was not an

image she chose to reflect on for long.

Aye, Ah thought crossing the causeway fae wan world tae anither was kinda

symbolic o’ traversin’ the matrimonial threshold from spinster tae married

wumman, ken?

Tres metaphysical, murmured Virginia.

Weel, better that than onything physical developin’, fur Ah thocht that if

he put a foot wrong in the crossing, he’d be swept aff tae sea and he widnae

hae found me rowin’ aff tae rescue him, like wan o’ they Grace Darlin’-type

wummen.

Mmm, Virginia pondered the fact that Mrs C was definitely a ‘sink or

swim’ kind of female.

And did he ever put a foot wrong- then- or subsequently? Diana dared

to ask.

Nae mair questions the day, Mrs C replied and went off to fill the

teapot, which was very definitely not made of chocolate.

Portrait of Grace Darling by Thos Musgrave Joy)

 

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Bingo!

Tags

Andrew Graham-Dixon, Baltic cruise, Basingstoke, Beam me up.., bingo, Bradford on Avon, Bridge, Bridge Mints, Catherine the Great, cribbage, Dame Edna, David Cameron, deviation, Estonia, Faberge, fly fishing, geophysicist, George Clooney, George Osborne, hesitation, Inner Hebrides, ISA, Jeremy Paxman, Kit-Kat, Knights in White Satin, Lamborghini, Madge, Martini, Missing Amber Room, Neil Oliver, Nick Clegg, pasty, Poleconomy, Potemkin, Putin, religious affairs broadcaster, repetition, St Petersburg, Tallinn, The Hermitage, Tuck shop, Waldemar Janusczak, White Nights, Winter Palace

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk was feeling like the fishy guest who putrefies after

three days.  Not that Sonia had hinted that she had a sudden need to reclaim

her spare rooms, but it was just that both women required their own space.

Diana felt that it was a bit like sharing The Winter Palace with Catherine the

Great, and it sometimes felt like a similar temperature too.

Diana’s estate agent was frantically sending her texts, reporting on the

positive viewings on her cottage in Bradford-on-Avon.  Prospective buyers

adored the quaint windows- as far as she could recall there were none.

Couples loved its tranquil position in a quiet village.  ‘Bustling town‘ was how

she would have described its location.  And why did they mention the river

after the worst flooding in a century?  She was in an elevated position and

hadn’t had a teaspoonful of groundwater in her cellar.  So far there had

been no second viewings.  Still, it wasn’t Easter yet.

Sonia kept wanting to play Cribbage, Bridge or a variety of Bingo every

evening.  Diana didn’t care for these games and would have been happy to

provide the canapes for the occasion, if only George Osborne, or

Nick Clegg could have dropped by, so that she could sit the session out, like

some kind of Madge to Edna’s grande dame.  She had a sneaking

suspicion that Sonia would have eaten the politicians up as efficiently as

she disposed of a box of Bridge Mints and that she would probably have

preferred Potemkin to drop by unannounced for a game of Poleconomy.

Apparently the Chancellor and the Deputy PM love Bingo– so much so that

they were right behind tax reductions of 50% on the game. (David Cameron

was less enthusiastic. He prefers a night in with a pasty.)

Just as well that Sonia had given up driving, after she embedded her car in the

frontage of Costamuchamoulah, must-seen cafe.  Otherwise she might have

been tempted to cash in her annuities to purchase a Lamborghini to roar up

High Street.

Diana could imagine other old biddies, such as Ginevra, being all too keen to

make a black hole in their pension funds in order to subsidise a Martini habit,

or worse.

It wouldn’t take too many cashed-in ISAs to buy a toy boy and it would

probably be more short term fun than having to fund an Eastern European

carer.

Diana was beginning to realise that she wasn’t as young as she had been.  She

had been planning a Sagbag cruise to somewhere culturally interesting, such as

St Petersburg.  It would have been something to look forward to after the

house sale and removal stresses.  She quite fancied listening to some minor

celebrity rabbiting on about Faberge eggs, or leaning over the deck rail with a

George Osborne lookalike..(No, she meant Clooney, surely?), night after White

Night, or Knight after White Knight, not necessarily in white satin, or even

statins.

Now Putin had put paid to that Baltic fantasy.

Really someone should put the ‘Ras‘ back into his name.  She held him

personally responsible for preventing her from viewing The Hermitage.  How

one small man could spoil everything was very irritating.  If he had been a

pupil in her class, she would have told him not to be so greedy.  The lion’s

share was not his to grab.  She would have made him put it back and go to

the end of the queue.

He would have to have said, Thank you, Mrs Fotheringay-Syylk, with no

repetition, hesitation, or deviation.  And if she had detected any hint of

sarcasm or impertinence in his tone, then he would have been the last to

leave the classroom and may have even had to stay behind to help her

tidy up Lost Property. (But how do you tidy up Crimea?)

Sanctions!  She knew all about them.  Charging round the hockey pitch

twenty times would have sorted him out.  As for the Tuck Shop– out of

bounds till the end of term!  Or maybe till the end of time.

She absent-mindedly bent down to pick up the mail from the doormat.

There were two letters, both addressed to herself.

There was an envelope stamped with the estate agent’s logo.

She ripped it open. She was being offered a record price for the cottage!

Bingo!  Drusilla had been right.  It had flown away.

She opened the other missive.  It was from Sagbag Cruises and included a

published list of floating lectures.  Geophysicists, Religious Affairs

Broadcasters….

Where was Bendor Grosvenor?  That was what she wanted to know.

Maybe he didn’t do Sagbag. What about Neil Oliver?

Oh, wow!  Waldemar Janusczak on The Missing Amber Room.  A cruise to

Tallinn. Sign me up, Scotty! she screamed.  I’m definitely going for that one,

whether he was born in Basingstoke, or not.  I must ask Drusilla if she wants

to go too.  I mean to Estonia, not Basingstoke.  Imagine sailing round all those

roundabouts!  You’d feel seasick!

I can’t understand why Dru prefers Andrew Graham-Dixon.  He showed himself

up on University Challenge.  No, even Jeremy Paxman giving his fly-fishing tips

on a nautical jaunt round the Inner Hebrides isn’t as good as Waldemar on a

Kit-Kat wrapper.

And by the look of the price offered for my erstwhile humble abode, I can

treat my dear daughter too.

By George-bingo!

Adults Only

Tags

Amoxil, Blackberry, Calpol, Facebook, Michelin-starred, Neil Oliver, Nemo Me Impune Lacessit, Peppa Pig, The Liverpool Pathway, Twitter, University Challenge

^{That little minx, Tiger, has no respect for boundaries.  She has also messed up my font}

^{size-help! She ought to be on Facebook or Twitter or some cherub forum.  My blog is for}

^{adults only.  I mean, if you go out for a special meal now-say to a Michelin-starred}

^{restaurant where you will be paying shedloads to be seen eating a smear of quince coulis,}

^{no sooner than you have broken open your walnut brioche than, out of}

^{the corner of your gimlet eye, you will perceive a Sherpa-waiter}

^{carrying a Peppa Pig upholstered high chair, making for a table near to}

^{you and your romantic companion.}

^{A legging-ed Mummy will stride out behind the drudge, looking}

^{neither to the left, nor to the right, clutching the enfant terrible’s}

^{entertainment tablet in one hand and guiding the mini-cyclone with}

^{the other.  She will bear an expression that basically could be}

^{translated as Nemo Me Impune Lacessit. ( I think Neil Oliver accurately}

^{identified that motto on Christmas University Challenge, but}

^{surprisingly didn’t know some of the coastal questions.  Ah well, he was}

^{an archaeologist first and foremost.  But I digress..)}

^{Anyway, the maternal facial expression defies socio-cultural challenge and so bang}

^{goes your £200 treat and on goes the music-emitting tablet.  If you are}

^{lucky, she may not breast-feed no 2, which is lurking in the carrycot,}carted in by a rather

sheepish Daddy.

Mind you, it might not be Daddy; it might be Latest Replacement Carrycot

Transporter.  (What has happened?  The font’s okay now!)

You are just adjusting the air nozzle above you on a long-haul flight,

before you give your undivided to the amusing safety video, when the mother

in front of you, not long out of some job in the city which required a

Blackberry and no common sense, reclines her seat with a thump

and, for some reason, omits to give her wailing offspring a drink

during take-off’s maximum ear pressure.  Has she administered

Calpol, or Amoxil- also known as banana medicine, which my kids

drained in bottlefuls?  Brilliant for sore ears, novitiates to

parenthood. But check with your doctor first, naturally.  A lot of the

profession were prone to dose their own kids up for a bit of flight

harmony. Oh yes, they did..

It’s the same with the supermarket shelves of chocolate goodies

placed strategically at pushchair level, right next to the tills.  Distract

the child, I say.  You used to be able to get sugar-free brick-hard

little crescents of Scandinavian bread that would shatter a

pensioner’s crowns but were ideal for gummy toddlers to suck to a

satisfying mush, just as you rounded the final aisle and came in sight

of the tantalising foil-wrapped temptations.  We ensured that the

rusky saviours were probably gluten-free, so we weren’t all child

haters.  At least, not then.  Knick-knack, paddywack, give the sprog a Bonio.

Seriously, though, it’s not the kid’s fault, is it?  He or she would

probably prefer to be cocooned in a cosy cot with a nice little

routine to follow.  Wouldn’t we all?

Rant over before someone puts me on The Liverpool Pathway.  That

reminds me: I need a drink!

 

 

Bunch o’ Killjoys!

Tags

Andrew Marr, Cnut the Great, England, Historic Royal Palaces, Lucy Worsley, Neil Oliver, Viking, Winchester Cathedral

Did the Vikings eat pizza or pasta?  Not that I know of, but  ask  Ask, the Italian restaurant which is well and truly ensconced in Godbegot House, High Street, Winchester.  This erstwhile manor belonged to Emma, our Saxon queen, who was married to Cnut, last of our Viking rulers, according to Neil Oliver.

This was the first English stone house to be built outside a religious community and it had glass windows and real chimneys, which, admittedly did not draw too well.  The solar, chapel, bedchamber and treasury room were upstairs.  Don’t tell Lucy Worsley, Chief Curator of the Historic Royal Palaces, or she will be up there like a shot, dressed as Gunnhild, Emma and Cnut’s daughter.  Any excuse!

Oliver ranged around Scandinavia and Scotland, shedding light on our links with characters such as Harold Bluetooth, Swein Forkbeard, Henry, the Holy Roman Emperor and others.

He also went to a Viking restaurant and manfully admitted that testicles had never before passed his lips.  But our brave Jarl is no craven troll-like Andrew Marr, so down they went, along with liberal portions of air-dried, rotting offal and putrid, buried shark.

I was grateful that I only had to consume a modest portion of acceptable sea-bass at Ask.

Neil obviously takes his paternal role seriously and disciplines his children so that they will control any baresarker tendencies.  He commented that he always insists that his offspring try any new food, before being allowed to reject it.  This was his opportunity to demonstrate do as I do; not just as I say.  Poor guizer, he wasn’t even offered a Danish pastry for afters, for clearing his board.

Let’s face it, for anyone who has digested haggis, rancid blubber is a complete dawdle and any Viking brat would have been lashed to their high stuhl with elk sinews and have been force-fed northern lights* before they had a chance to utter the universal, complaining phrase:  I don’t want it.  It would have made the Diet of Worms-okay, I know this is nothing to do with anything culinary- appear like an enticing platter of amuse bouches.

More surprising was Neil’s admission, albeit accompanied by the slightest sardonic simper, that England-yes, ENGLAND, was far more progressive than the rest of Europe, owing to its advanced coinage and commercial organisation.  The man is turning soft and obviously opposes devolution.  Alex Salmond- isn’t that name of Norman derivation?-will have his guts for garters, let alone starters.

The next gobsmacking sight was Neil striding down the nave of Winchester Cathedral, in search of ossuaries which contain the scrambled relics of Emma, Cnut et al.  You’d have thought he’d be on the side of the Roundheads, who were responsible for the vandalism and general mayhem, but, instead we had a cavalier flick of the hair, an ironic twinkle to rival the Pole Star and his verdict on the Parliamentary iconoclasts:

Bunch o’ killjoys!

Attaboy, Neil.  Keep eating the testicles and see you at Up Helly Aa!

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Sex and the City

Tags

Amanda Barrie, Andrew Marr, Antony and Cleopatra, Carry on Cleo, Chichester Festival Theatre, Dan Snow, Hilary Devey, History of the World, Janet Suzman, Kim Cattrall, Lord of the Rings, Neil Oliver, Shakespeare, Smeagol

Yes, the rain is back with a vengeance.  The average monthly rainfall in the UK was expected over a few hours.  A thirty two year old New Zealand woman was killed by a falling branch at Kew Gardens yesterday – but hey!- all those drivers who cut down the narrow roads through the villages in our part of the country still want to force you into the roadside hedges while they spray you with a mini tsunami.

Last night the first programme in The History of the World by Andrew Marr was broadcast.  It was a choice between that and Dragons’ Den.  Since I didn’t want to induce scary nightmares to my slumbers, I  decided to give Hilary Devey a miss.  I gave Marr the benefit of the doubt.  (His wife has been doing that quite a bit recently.)

I don’t know who provided the graphics, but they were very reminiscent of those in Lord of the Rings.  The crumbling stone arches which homo sapiens had to traverse in order to leave the African continent led the tribe to vaster territories in which to spread their DNA.  I half expected Andrew to materialise as Smeagol, crying:

Come on, Hobbits.  Long ways to go yet.  Smeagol will show the way.

At that point a horde of marauding Orcs would have eaten him and spat out his bones.

I couldn’t take the commentary seriously as I kept thinking about how the presenter himself has not revealed himself to be highly evolved in any ethical sense.

This tiny genetic mutation- yes, red hair is the result of a recessive gene, and I can say that as I have the same colouring- pointed out that 27,000 years ago, our ancestors left handprints on the walls of caves.  Okay, Andrew, but they did not leave them beneath the waistbands of jeans worn by female colleagues outside bars in Fitzrovia, before rushing off from the family home to interview US presidents.

I can’t imagine what Michelle’s reaction would be if Barack started misbehavin’.  I think she would be more than cross and might leave something larger than a handprint on his backside.

Marr then waxed lyrical about the invention of the needle which enabled mankind to wear clothes that actually fit properly.  Try telling that to weather girls.

Since then the tie has been invented, but quite a few trendy tribes of politicians seem to think that they can wear a suit and omit the aforementioned item of neckwear.  They belong to the type that has to continually apologise and I personally do not trust Neanderthal, retrograde informality- except in Neil Oliver.  Maybe they will be eaten by their successors.

Marr then popped up in Egypt with a dramatic representation of what happened to the hooligan elements who de-stabilised society by sleeping around.  This took place in the first towns and he commented that the behaviour reminded him of Eastenders.  Would that have been plebeian conduct, Andrew?  No, he just put it down to an outbreak of Wild Nile Naughtiness but he explained his own misadventure as being the product of overindulgence in alcohol- a few too many glasses of Cobra, maybe?

Or maybe he has been carried away by the Janet Suzman production of Antony and Cleopatra at Chichester Festival Theatre, with Sex and the City actress, Kim Cattrall trying to outdo Amanda Barrie in carrying on.  Ah, Andrew, well might you exclaim:

Infamy, infamy – they’ve all got it in for me

But you deserve it!

There are no final victories over the darker side of human nature, he said.

So, what could it possibly be that attracts women to very well-paid presenter and interviewer Andrew Marr?

If you are looking for good genes, why not make eyes at Dan Snow?  Now that’s a colossus, or would he just be pleased to meet me?!

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

A Heap of Broken Images

Tags

Alex Salmond, Andy Murray, Bradshaw's Guide, David Dinnie, Edinburgh Military Tattoo, Eurozone, Fifty Shades of Grey, Forth Rail Bridge, Highland games, Iron Brew, Isaac, Lysistrata, Merlot, Michael Portillo, Neil Oliver, New Orleans, Only Connect, Patrick Moore, Perlmutter, Scotland the Brave, The Sun, The Waste Land, Togo, Top Secret, University Challenge, Victoria Coren

Bank Holiday Monday

Someone sent me an attachment this morning which was headed Fifty Shades of Grey for Men.  It was a paint chart.  There is nothing remotely sexual about Elephant’s Breath, I think.

Tropical storm Isaac is heading for New Orleans on the 7^th anniversary of Katrina’s cataclysm.

The geographical feature that is characterised by cataclysm is deluge and not earthquake, as one panellist on University Challenge mistook tonight.

It was an evening of quizzes, with the return of a slightly more overweight Victoria Coren on Only Connect. Watching this programme, I feel like a character in The Waste Land:

I can connect

Nothing with nothing..

Victoria is like Madame Sosostris, the wisest woman in Europe, with a wicked pack of cards.  She apparently loves poker.  She stands by The Wall which is a heap of broken images and :

 uncorseted, her friendly bust

 Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

I wish that she had retained the Greek letters of the alphabet on the question choice blocks.  These were replaced through attacks on elitism.  Now, if the women of Togo read The Lysistrata, then why the general dumbing down in this country?  After all, the substituted hieroglyphics are just as refined, though pictorially evident, I suppose.  My favourite is horned viper.

Curiously, Victoria’s dresses are becoming tighter and tighter and her fantasies more curious too- she admitted to a desire to find a naked Michael Portillo in her dressing room, seated on a case of Merlot.  The Merlot you could understand… Personally, I would prefer to read Bradshaw through, cover to cover, in a single sitting.  Still, there’s nowt so queer as fowk.

The Edinburgh Military Tattoo was next and the best bit was the drumming cohort from Switzerland, Top Secret.  I looked carefully but our friend, Roger, was not of their number. The second best bit was the mass formation for Scotland the Brave. You can keep all thon fancy film scorey type tunes and I think Alex Salmond would have been pretty annoyed at them playing There’ll Always be an England, unless it conveyed the proviso:  doon there and no’ up here.

The whole evening was devoted to tartan programmes about Highland Games all over the world, in places such as North Carolina. There are more games held worldwide than in Scotia itself.

The only interesting programme was Horizon with its explanation of the infinite expansion of the universe. If Scotland keeps expanding exponentially then it should be good for Pitlochry looms and kiltmakers in general.  As a nation it will grow vaster than empires and more slow, no probably even faster.  However, the programme stressed that we were all in this together and could not go it alone, as multiple galaxies are swallowed.  So, Alex, we need to remain united so that we can fight all the dark matter in the Eurozone and in other global economies together.

A programme on the Highland Games showcased David Dinnie who had been the world’s most renowned athlete in times gone by.  Women used to faint away at the sight of his torso, in much the same way as they do now when they see pictures in The Sun of every Tom, Dick and Harry letting their hair down. (Not.)  Leave the hair business to Neil Oliver, I say.

Anyway, Dinnie used to endorse Iron Brew, as I think it was spelled back then- (Scotland’s other national beverage- made frae girders.)  He looked as if he had licked the Forth Rail Bridge.  Maybe a wee taste of A G Barr’s fizzy drink’s 0.002% ammonium ferric citrate was what Andy Murray had doped himself on before winning Olympic gold.  Aye, Alex Salmond, ye can take the man oot o’ Scotland, but ye cannae tak’ the iron oot o’ his soul.

Alba gu brath!

Tuesday 28^th

My scientific observations seem to be confirming Professor Perlmutter’s Nobel prizewinning research about exponential expansion of the Universe.  I am quite taken with cosmology now.  I noticed a very large, docile dog on a lead at the local Lavender café.  It was very like a lurcher, but much larger.  I asked its owner what breed it was and she said, A fat greyhound.  Also there are all these sightings of lions in Clacton-on-Sea etc which turn out to be large feral cats.  Some can be four foot in length so you could be mistaken for thinking that they are pumas, especially if you have been on the old Merlot for the evening.  Stick to Irn- Bru, I say.  It puts hairs on your chest and dampens down the Portillo fantasies.

Anyway, everything is becoming larger- Patrick Moore, Victoria Coren and the whole Universe.  No wonder I can’t get into my favourite jeans.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Recognition

Tags

Antarctica, Argentina, Billy Connolly, Blairgowrie, Border Terrier, Buckingham Palace, Buenos Aires, Canongate, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, coffee, fritillaria, gardens, Holy Fools, honey, Jenny Geddes, Kate Winslet, Lion Rampant, manukah, Mount of Olives, Neil Oliver, Perth, piper, post office, Prince Philip, Princess Alice of Greece, Robert Falcon Scott, Saltire, Scotland, Suttonford, Waterworlds, William Speirs Bruce

Tuesday

Stickily oppressive.  No rain, but grey and the first signs of hay fever appear.  Probably the effects of mould spores from rotting vegetation.

Visited my friend’s professionally landscaped garden which was established at the start of the summer.  Yellowing box edging is probably dying from early drought, excessive waterlogging later on, or simply from the peeing habits of a new Border Terrier.

Our garden is suffering from mordant animals which gnaw every bulb that one plants.  Altruistic bird feeders may encourage rodents.  Seventy six snakes head fritillaria that I bought from The Telegraph failed to materialise, so I won’t be able to recreate the floral watercolours of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, not that I have the skills, anyway, but that is not the point.

Went to Costamuchamullah for a very skinny latte and noticed honey for sale from Perth. It reminded me of a joke told by Billy Connolly – but he might have pinched it from Chick Murray – about how he had stayed at a B&B in the Highlands and the proprietor had served him a breakfast tray with an individual pot of heather honey on it.  He had remarked, I see you keep a bee.

 It took me a moment to work out that it was probably Australian honey.  Is it Manukah? I wondered.

When I returned home, I simply had to check the facts on Wikipedia. Oh yes, you do find it in Perth, Oz, and it is produced by apis mellifera and, to be called manukah, it has to have a 70% pollen count from tea tree Leptospermium scoparium.

The disappointing part was that it also said that: “alongside other antibacterial products, [it} does not reduce the risk of infections following treatment for ingrown toenails.”

So, probably not a best-selling product for Aquanibble then.  Might be fun to say to one of the four optimistically termed assistants in Costamuchamullah, I’ll have a pot of your honey.  Oh, by the way, only if it reduces the risk of infection from my ingrown toenails.

 They would probably just ignore me in the way that they usually do when they are too busy wiping a perfectly clean surface while a serpentine queue builds up and spirals out of the door into the street.  Perhaps I will have to stop wearing my invisibility cloak- you know, the one that envelops females after the age of fifty.

Apparently there are honey outlets in Perth, Scotland too:  Heather Hills Farm and Scarletts in Blairgowrie produce masses, in spite of the predatory nature of a single honey buzzard that seems to have been circling since 2010.

Scientists have confirmed that there are planets out in the far beyond called Waterworlds, but they are not huge theme parks.  In fact they are composed of hot ice.

Ice was a theme this evening with a Neil Oliver repeat of his journey to the Weddell Sea and South Atlantic.  After he had left The Falkland Islands, it took him four days until he reached the first icebergs.

I thought he might stand, lashed to the prow of the boat, and let his hair flow behind him, but he sensibly stayed in the cabin.  I don’t think he would fancy Kate Winslet, but I haven’t asked him.  Maybe a nautical Jenny Geddes might be more up his Canongate. Anyway, he very commendably seemed resistant to seasickness.  You wouldn’t want his macho Celtic image to be undermined by a shot of him leaning over the side, or taking Quells.

Of course, the whole point of the expotition seems to have been to draw attention to the Scot, William Speirs Bruce, who had discovered many firsts, rather than that Sassenach Scott, who might have had the correct name, but wasn’t related, at least by surname, to Robert the. Scott had an interesting middle name, though – Falcon.  Another Pointless question to which I shouldn’t know the answer.

Anyway, Bruce had filmed penguin colonies and measured ice and been a thorough scientific Scot – self-conscious flick of the hair.  He hadn’t been as shocked as Levick, a scientist on Scott’s team who witnessed the sexually delinquent behaviour of the Adelies.

I’m sure Neil just loved the opportunity to transmit old photos of a piper in full Highland regalia, playing the bagpipes, surrounded by Saltires and Lions Rampant on huge ice floes.

The irony is that if Bruce hadn’t been so stereotypically parsimonious, then he might have bought his fuel nearer to the South Atlantic base, instead of trying to save a bawbee by sailing up the coast to Buenos Aires, where he took on board some Argentinian scientists and cut-price provisions.  The Argies set up a post office with a franking machine and this influences territorial rights to this day.

Meanwhile Scott and even his stoker were awarded polar medals and Bruce didn’t even get a packet of Fox’s Glacier Mints.

 Explorer Bruce went to his ice hoose

To get his poor husky a bone,

But when he got there

The cupboard was bare.

He found a wee note

Saying, “Taken your boat

And your seal blubber lamps,

But have left you some stamps.

We don’t want to seem mean

But our franking machine

Proves this land is for Argies,

So no argy-bargies.

And we’ll claim the minerals, Bruce.”

 

The other brilliant programme was about Princess Alice of Greece. She served as a nurse in the Balkan wars, but when her faith became too difficult for the rest of the family they had her detained and irradiated by early experimental psychiatrists and psychologists.

When she was released she protected a Jewish family in her own apartment and used her deafness to advantage in deflecting soldiers’ questions.

I loved the image of her being re-united with her son and roaming the corridors of Buckingham Palace in her nun’s habits, smoking Woodbines.  She only owned three dressing gowns at the end of her life, but had used her jewels and other assets to help the poor.  She is buried on the Mount of Olives.  If this be madness, then she is in the tradition of The Holy Fools and it makes me question who is sane and who is mad.  Prince Philip should be incredibly proud of her, as he very likely is.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Opening Ceremony

Tags

Andy Murray, Arctic Monkeys, Daniel Craig, Danny Boyle, Great Ormond Street, Helen Mirren, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Kenneth Branagh, Kirstie Allsopp, Minack Theatre, MRSA, Neil Oliver, Olympics, Paul McCartney, Pierce Brosnan, Roger Federer, Sean Connery, Sergeant Pepper, Sir Chris Hoy, The Queen, The Tempest

I decided to watch the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games.  The only clouds over the stadium were Danny Boyle’s ingenious examples on sticks. I felt my brain was in candyfloss as I witnessed Kenneth Branagh in a stovepipe hat, spouting lines from The Tempest.  I felt that Boyle could have saved some money by hiring Neil Oliver as he had recently been reciting the same speech at the Minack on Coast.  I suppose he might have forgotten his lines by now.

But why was Isambard Kingdom Brunel – his middle name another possible question on Mastermind-ranting on Glastonbury Tor?  Why were child patients, bouncing in Great Ormond Street beds? They can’t have been so ill, being subjected to the terror of huge spidery monsters. Maybe the long-legged spinners represented MRSA bugs and other virulent and difficult to cure infections which seem to swarm all over our wards.

Why were Sergeant Pepper and his entourage hot on the heels of men in the trenches? I felt rather confused.

Then I was stunned that Daniel Craig brought in HM, and I don’t mean Helen Mirren. I wondered if both ladies might not have preferred Sean Connery, or Pierce Brosnan as an escort.  I know I would have.

At a crucial point, when Sir Chris Hoy was carrying our flag, the cameras scrolled to The Queen, who was examining her cuticles.  She may have been wearing a fascinator, but fascinated she was not.  She would probably have preferred watching it all on the telly.  She didn’t even get to light the flame, and she was probably the most qualified to do so, as she was Corgi-registered, according to some wag.

The Czech team made me laugh with their preparation for our weather.  Kirstie Allsopp was probably admiring their wellies with attitude.

Argentina marched past.  I was hoping that they would be overwhelmed by British confidence and would give up all claims to the Malvinas.

Some athletes were chewing, or texting on their mobile phones.  I thought of the minimum standard of behaviour that I had expected from my pupils and I bristled at the parade of bad manners.

There seemed to be an accompanying toga-ed young person who cradled a copper shell which looked like a begging bowl for contributions for the country being represented.  There was one Indian woman volunteer who was not in a toga and who simply muscled in on all the attention.  Later she did not seem at all apologetic.  I supposed that she had had her fifteen minutes of fame.  That Andy Warhol has a lot to answer for.

When Switzerland marched past I was disappointed that Roger was not carrying the flag.  He had sensibly gone to bed early as he had a match the following day.  He was very wise, as it meant that he avoided having to repetitively sing, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, at the instigation of a curiously puffy-faced Paul McCartney, who looked as if an early night and a healthy microwaveable Linda-meal would have done him good.  He needn’t have felt threatened by the Arctic Monkeys, at any rate.

Rafa wasn’t there either, but half of Spain seemed to be in their parade, so no one missed him.  I suppose that it gave Spaniards something to do, seeing as they don’t have any jobs.

There was a Hong Kong team and a mainland China one.  No wonder they win so many medals. They cheat by entering twice.

The fireworks and pixel lighting were sensational and Heatherwick’s copper petals came together symbolically and formed a flaming cauldron, worthy of Andy Murray’s mother’s spell-inducing incantation:

Make Andy triumph over ditch-delivered drabs.

It was one thirty before I hit the sack: I knew I’d regret it over the weekend.

Outdoor Pursuits

Tags

Bradshaw's Guide, Caliban, Corfe Castle, Gore-Tex, Kenneth Branagh, Lettuce, Michael Portillo, Minack Theatre, Neil Oliver, Nick Crane, Shakespeare, The Tempest

I thought that I would inspect the lambs’ lettuce I had planted a few weeks ago.  The earthenware pot was overflowing. So much for home grown five-a-day.  Oh well, it wasn’t the weather for salad, I consoled myself. I had to put the central heating on.

There was nothing on telly, but Michael Portillo, clutching his Bradshaw, eating whelks in Whitstable and avoiding salmonella.  Next was Neil Oliver hanging out of a steam train which was chugging its way round Corfe Castle.  The cameraman had chosen a very forgiving angle so that Neil could let his hair stream out of the window.  He then went on to play a lead role in The Tempest at the Minack Theatre, upstaging Kenneth Branagh, as it turned out:

The clouds methought would open, and show riches

Ready to drop upon me…

He should and could have been Caliban.  And there was the great British public, draped in Gore-tex in that curious collective, masochistic death wish to acquire pneumonia, vaccine availability or not.  That Nick Crane has the weather down to a fine art.  You don’t see him setting forth without his brolly being stuffed into his haversack. Bet his Mum is pleased.  She probably checks that he is wearing a vest and has a clean handkerchief.

Portillo doesn’t seem to carry anything, not even a poncho, which is what the partly Spanish would probably prefer.  He probably relies on the rain being mainly on the plain, not the train.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012