Poor old Dr Bamagoode appears to be in more trouble with Old Man Spot-lancer after tattling to the Fuzzbusters that he had one over the eight and went dancing through the night.
Meanwhile the Basildons have shown their distaste in dealing with the younger members of the Lightfingers suggesting they are too fluffy to rescue the family from penury and they would prefer to be dealing with Mr Fudge. Their concerns were made clear to Old Dr Bamagoode though why he is speaking to the Basildons at all remains a mystery!
More on the Bunghole tournament today as it seems Young Lightfinger has joined with Bunghole Junior in pestering Grandpa to let him have the bash at his place. I doubt the prospects of this endeavour and fear that Bunghole Senior will go with Lord Portsmouth rather than risk upsetting the rest of the family by letting Junior get his hands on the whole shooting match. This won't go the way of the Loops and their bash where they dumped the party on Boho when everyone thought it would be held by Lord Dover. Poor Boho will be paying for this for some time to come and what with the continuing expense of running the Fabricator I expect his pockets to be somewhat empty for a while to come yet.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Minchin Cat and Dr Bamagoode
Minchin Cat and Mrs Fuzzbuster were dining on old roll mops over lunch regaling each other with tales of their exploits. Mrs Fuzzbuster noted to Minchin Cat that Dr Bamagoode had been absolutely beastly about Minchins trip to the Spot-lancers with the Basildons. Old Bamagoode had accused Minchin of being "cocky" of all things and of decrying the Fuzzbusters' good name to the Spot-lancers. Not only that but Dr Bamagoode said that Minchin thought the Lightfingers and the Henchermens' pursuit of the party goods deal with the Edgwares was "fekkin ridiculous". Needless to say this was much cheered by the Basildons.
Well after digesting Fuzzbusters news, Minchin stayed silent for a while before suggesting that Old Dr Bamagoode had better up his game if he wanted to come to the Minchins' spring party next year.
Not only that but Old Bamagoode appeared to have pissed off the Lightfingers, the Edgwares and the Spot-lancers but that both branches of the Sunny's were also getting irate with continual balls-ups about who said what to whom and whether they should send them the party goods by special delivery or not, a debate the Edgwares had also been discussing about their own noisy neighbours. None of them offered however to host the party themselves, it always seems to fall to Dr Bamagoode or his family, usually sponsored by Lightfingers and Fudge. Anyway if Bamagoode does get to come to the spring ball, who will want to sit next to him?
It looks like Bamagoode will be issuing the party goods at an alarming rate in the future if both the Edgwares and the Sunnys get their way, lets hope that the Lightfingers don't offer up Count Bogshot as the delivery boy again. It seems unlikely as Bamagoode has slagged him off for the lacklustre special delivery to the Edgwares last time out.
Ironically the Minchins have just purchased a party-goods company and Mrs Minchin was more than happy to send her second-eldest to see Old Bamagoode to close the deal! Lets hope the Henchermens don't get in the way. Maybe Old Dr Bamagoode will get to the spring-party after all.
Meanwhile Fuzzbuster is blaming Aunty May for queering the pitch on the 2018 Bunghole tournament. Bunghole Junior is squirming because Aunty May said that Grandpa Bunghole is on the take and can't be trusted with the silverware. This means that Grandpa Bunghole won't let Junior have the tournament at his house because its too close to Anuty May's and Junior will have to travel. We know how homesick he gets. It's hardly worth his while turning up, he says, as he always has to leave early. It's clear that the Fuzzbusters won't leave him alone whether he goes or not. Anyway, Aunty May ought to have a closer look at Junior Bunghole as I suspect he's no better than Grandpa when it comes to running the show.
Well after digesting Fuzzbusters news, Minchin stayed silent for a while before suggesting that Old Dr Bamagoode had better up his game if he wanted to come to the Minchins' spring party next year.
Not only that but Old Bamagoode appeared to have pissed off the Lightfingers, the Edgwares and the Spot-lancers but that both branches of the Sunny's were also getting irate with continual balls-ups about who said what to whom and whether they should send them the party goods by special delivery or not, a debate the Edgwares had also been discussing about their own noisy neighbours. None of them offered however to host the party themselves, it always seems to fall to Dr Bamagoode or his family, usually sponsored by Lightfingers and Fudge. Anyway if Bamagoode does get to come to the spring ball, who will want to sit next to him?
It looks like Bamagoode will be issuing the party goods at an alarming rate in the future if both the Edgwares and the Sunnys get their way, lets hope that the Lightfingers don't offer up Count Bogshot as the delivery boy again. It seems unlikely as Bamagoode has slagged him off for the lacklustre special delivery to the Edgwares last time out.
Ironically the Minchins have just purchased a party-goods company and Mrs Minchin was more than happy to send her second-eldest to see Old Bamagoode to close the deal! Lets hope the Henchermens don't get in the way. Maybe Old Dr Bamagoode will get to the spring-party after all.
Meanwhile Fuzzbuster is blaming Aunty May for queering the pitch on the 2018 Bunghole tournament. Bunghole Junior is squirming because Aunty May said that Grandpa Bunghole is on the take and can't be trusted with the silverware. This means that Grandpa Bunghole won't let Junior have the tournament at his house because its too close to Anuty May's and Junior will have to travel. We know how homesick he gets. It's hardly worth his while turning up, he says, as he always has to leave early. It's clear that the Fuzzbusters won't leave him alone whether he goes or not. Anyway, Aunty May ought to have a closer look at Junior Bunghole as I suspect he's no better than Grandpa when it comes to running the show.
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Forty Six
It is not just a number but a physical arrival at a place. Past 45, closer to 50, the end of days. Anyone who says life begins at forty, that provides but a short span 'cos it sure as hell stops at 45. Remember all of those things you were going to do, at 46 it is genuinely time to forget it.
Never be a rock star
Never star in Hollywood
Never make it as a pilot
Never shag a supermodel- well not another one at least.
Never run up stairs
Never trek around Nepal
Never ski at the Olympics
Never Play for Chelsea
Whilst this is the despair, the joy is your children?
Now you can live your life vicariously through them, become some sad old f****r pushing his kids to stage school, screaming at the touchline on a rainy Sunday morning, ranting about getting good grades and doing homework as its so important now. Only it isn't is it.
What is important at 46? Not a lot.
Actually generally not having to give too much of a shit what is going on is great, not caring about politics anymore, not hating (other than drivers), tolerance of differences, anticipation of changes, the future seems much nearer and the long thread of experience starts to genuinely feel like an advantage rather than a track record. Work time passes more rapidly, you need less sleep, hangovers are more transient, burning imperatives are somehow slightly cooler.
The one real fear is that you may not get to read, see or understand everything that you want to before you die. This is particularly true if you have the classic mid-life and go buy yourself a motorbike.
Never be a rock star
Never star in Hollywood
Never make it as a pilot
Never shag a supermodel- well not another one at least.
Never run up stairs
Never trek around Nepal
Never ski at the Olympics
Never Play for Chelsea
Whilst this is the despair, the joy is your children?
Now you can live your life vicariously through them, become some sad old f****r pushing his kids to stage school, screaming at the touchline on a rainy Sunday morning, ranting about getting good grades and doing homework as its so important now. Only it isn't is it.
What is important at 46? Not a lot.
Actually generally not having to give too much of a shit what is going on is great, not caring about politics anymore, not hating (other than drivers), tolerance of differences, anticipation of changes, the future seems much nearer and the long thread of experience starts to genuinely feel like an advantage rather than a track record. Work time passes more rapidly, you need less sleep, hangovers are more transient, burning imperatives are somehow slightly cooler.
The one real fear is that you may not get to read, see or understand everything that you want to before you die. This is particularly true if you have the classic mid-life and go buy yourself a motorbike.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Spandau Ballet
Just a little note to say that setting aside the crap venue and awful facilities at the O2 Spandau Ballet were really very very good and far better than we all thought they would be. Tony Hadley in dark suit rambled about the stage like a demented shark alternately growling and cooing the wonderful lyrics to their beautiful anthems. Each line supported in riposte by the most fabulous sax music bringing the crowd straight back to the 80's and that haunting sound they captured so well and made their own. The brothers Kemp prowling around the stage with their guitars, menacing the other guys and rolling into each old standard with energy and charisma. This was a great night out- now think how much better it could have been at the Hammersmith Odeon rather than the plastic greenwich bubble.
The O2 Arena
Oh yes, the O2, the very pinnacle of entertainment venues we are told, the worlds most succesful concert venue, everyone wants to play there and so on and so forth. Well lets dispel the myth. It is big. It is in London. From some seats you get a good view.
From most seats the view is distant and the sound poor. The catering inside the venue is poor, formulaic rubbish at exhorbitant prices; £25 for a bottle of crap white wine, £4 for watery lager in plastic flower pots, £4 for cardboard chips in damp cardboard boxes the dilemma is which to eat? In fact don't eat any of this crap - it will kill you.
Outside the venue the choice is far greater, there is a tapas bar, a mexican, a chinese restaurant, thai food, and several formula bars. They are all crap too. Food and drink done without passion, flavour, authenticity, real ingredients and care delivered by low paid staff in low rent kiosks. Plastic food in plastic film set units with a plastic smile and a plastic table cloth. The only thing of quality is the price.
This is a good concert venue in the same way that planet hollywood is a good restuarant or that Jordan is a beautiful woman.
By the way, if you are tempted by the priority ticket offers that O2 go on about so much please think again. You see this is marketing at its finest. The priority trick assumes that tickets will be difficult to find or come by (which you don't know until they go on general sale). If you think they will be hard to get then you will be pleased to jump the queue as a valued O2 customer and get your tickets ahead of the rush. Only problem is that O2, in my experience, take this as an opportunity to get rid of all the awful tickets up the side of the arena that they could not get rid of normally to the grateful punters who think they are beating the rush. Clever stuff eh? Sell the crap tickets first to muppets who think that priority means that they are doing you a favour rather than what is obviously the other way around. By selling all of the rubbish seats it gurantees that the venue is a success and when normal punters (or more often that not glorified touts- sorry ticket agencies) come on line to buy the decent seats they do not have anything to complain about. Genius.
From most seats the view is distant and the sound poor. The catering inside the venue is poor, formulaic rubbish at exhorbitant prices; £25 for a bottle of crap white wine, £4 for watery lager in plastic flower pots, £4 for cardboard chips in damp cardboard boxes the dilemma is which to eat? In fact don't eat any of this crap - it will kill you.
Outside the venue the choice is far greater, there is a tapas bar, a mexican, a chinese restaurant, thai food, and several formula bars. They are all crap too. Food and drink done without passion, flavour, authenticity, real ingredients and care delivered by low paid staff in low rent kiosks. Plastic food in plastic film set units with a plastic smile and a plastic table cloth. The only thing of quality is the price.
This is a good concert venue in the same way that planet hollywood is a good restuarant or that Jordan is a beautiful woman.
By the way, if you are tempted by the priority ticket offers that O2 go on about so much please think again. You see this is marketing at its finest. The priority trick assumes that tickets will be difficult to find or come by (which you don't know until they go on general sale). If you think they will be hard to get then you will be pleased to jump the queue as a valued O2 customer and get your tickets ahead of the rush. Only problem is that O2, in my experience, take this as an opportunity to get rid of all the awful tickets up the side of the arena that they could not get rid of normally to the grateful punters who think they are beating the rush. Clever stuff eh? Sell the crap tickets first to muppets who think that priority means that they are doing you a favour rather than what is obviously the other way around. By selling all of the rubbish seats it gurantees that the venue is a success and when normal punters (or more often that not glorified touts- sorry ticket agencies) come on line to buy the decent seats they do not have anything to complain about. Genius.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Leather Lane
Its raining so not too good to be outside today. Leather Lane is a good compromise, sandwiched between the Grays Inn Road and Hatton Garden the market offers the usual low rent mix of mobile phone accessories, global food (Daddy Donkey's Kick Ass Burito's being a favourite) clothes strictly for fancy dress, knock off DVD's and seeds and nuts for the corpse dodgers.
In amongst this however is some great architecture (in individual buildings) good cafe culture, and a great independent bookstore ( The Soho Bookshop) with a design specialism upstairs and a porn shop in the basement for those who like to mix the two. Haircuts are a fiver, your shoes can be re-soled, and the fellafels from Sara's grocery are authentic.
The nature of markets in London and our relationship with them is strange. If Leather Lane were not there, few would mourn its passing, but as a part of the character of this eclectic part of town, it is as essential as black cabs and red buses. It sells little of value and probably provides grey earnings for a range of illegals and benefit cheats but nevertheless is unique in its diversity and provides part of the flavour for "midtown", hidden from the agents boards and grade a offices the agents sell , separate from the girly bars on the Farringdon Road, discrete from the Victorian splendour of Smithfield and the Holborn Viaduct and cheek by jowell with the precious metal dealers and diamond merchants of Hatton Garden. Indeed the difference between the traders in Leather Lane and Hatton Garden is hard to see beyond the sharp suits and doorway heavies. This analogy could be stretched to include those who ply there trade in Grey's Inn as well but with less obvious doorway heavies.
As a footnote a good place to spin off is Brookes Market, now no longer a market but a square notable for its european influences (if you can see beyond the preponderance of Camden bins) and the beautiful gothic of St Albans the Martyr in the corner. Here on a rainy day, it is possible to still sit beneath the impermeable canopy provided by the London Planes and dream of better days.
In amongst this however is some great architecture (in individual buildings) good cafe culture, and a great independent bookstore ( The Soho Bookshop) with a design specialism upstairs and a porn shop in the basement for those who like to mix the two. Haircuts are a fiver, your shoes can be re-soled, and the fellafels from Sara's grocery are authentic.
The nature of markets in London and our relationship with them is strange. If Leather Lane were not there, few would mourn its passing, but as a part of the character of this eclectic part of town, it is as essential as black cabs and red buses. It sells little of value and probably provides grey earnings for a range of illegals and benefit cheats but nevertheless is unique in its diversity and provides part of the flavour for "midtown", hidden from the agents boards and grade a offices the agents sell , separate from the girly bars on the Farringdon Road, discrete from the Victorian splendour of Smithfield and the Holborn Viaduct and cheek by jowell with the precious metal dealers and diamond merchants of Hatton Garden. Indeed the difference between the traders in Leather Lane and Hatton Garden is hard to see beyond the sharp suits and doorway heavies. This analogy could be stretched to include those who ply there trade in Grey's Inn as well but with less obvious doorway heavies.
As a footnote a good place to spin off is Brookes Market, now no longer a market but a square notable for its european influences (if you can see beyond the preponderance of Camden bins) and the beautiful gothic of St Albans the Martyr in the corner. Here on a rainy day, it is possible to still sit beneath the impermeable canopy provided by the London Planes and dream of better days.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
St Pauls
Rather than sit through an office lunch at the screen reading and eating crap I have decided to roam my local world for an hour when work allows.
Today I ended up at St Pauls. I've lived in London most of my forty odd years but had never been inside. Breathtaking.
Whilst in poorer times I have objected to paying to get into Churches I handed over the cash and started roaming, I only had one objective, to climb the dome. After two laps I found the stairs, a lazy slack spiral at first ascending in pidgeon paces up a long climb to the internal gallery (the Whispering Gallery) that wraps the inside of the base of the dome. The scene inside is fascinating and to watch a service from here amazing, the mosaics on the floor and the brightly frescoed walls and dome above reflect Wren's desire to bridge the gap between heaven and earth. An artifice achieved.
Alone it is difficult to whisper to oneself across the great chasm but the italians mumbling faberanza got the message across adequately.
A little door on the far side has an arrow pointing up and through a narrow set of stone steps, past ancient oak doors and iron framed oriel windows leads another stair, a tighter stone circle, up to the external "Stone Gallery". From here you step outside, breathe heavilly and look to the horizon. Fabulous views open up and the scale of the cathedral starts to take over your head. It is vast. You look down on churches, offices and Paternoster Square, full of insects going about London life without looking up, never quite appreciating what looms above.
A lap of this deck enables you to gather the strength and breath for the last stage up to the Golden Gallery. This is a more daunting climb, gone are the stone steps replaced by a lattice of iron spirals in sets of 20 steps between landings, rising through the inside of the dome shell between the outer surface and inner trappings. The ironwork is old and rests on beams upon beams with rather worrying later concrete interventions moulded around the stairs. Again you pass tiny oak doors and lattices of footways and passages, here more precarious and less enclosed than at the lower levels, you pass vestiges of original stone and timber stairs long ago abandonned and leading in alternate directions. My heart was pumping hard, either from the climb or the vertigo. Finally you arive at the last flight a narrow place of stone steps, lowering ceilings and steep ascent, you enter a chamber with the obligatory tourist guards, and make a final stumble, back on stone, up onto this gallery that runs around the outside of the top of the dome, before the stone ball and lantern rise up above.
If you thought the previous views were good here you can almost see the Sea to the east as you overlook the Port of London, the Thames runs shimmering in a loop to the south beyond to the downs and to the north the Weald Ridge, Wembley and Harrow. London seems but small and its edges within touching distance. This view is amazing. In medieval London this must truly have felt like rising up to god, with no buildings over a few stories back then, the feeling must have been one of fear and awe. This remains. The power and grandeur embodied in this monument will stand in comparison to any contemporary buildings in history as a testament to the power of religeon and the unutterable stupidity of man. The ability of Man to create this and then dedicate it to a deity shows how low our self esteem must be, when simply to build this edifice should demonstrate that man alone has the power of creation.
I loved it. Where to tomorrow?
Today I ended up at St Pauls. I've lived in London most of my forty odd years but had never been inside. Breathtaking.
Whilst in poorer times I have objected to paying to get into Churches I handed over the cash and started roaming, I only had one objective, to climb the dome. After two laps I found the stairs, a lazy slack spiral at first ascending in pidgeon paces up a long climb to the internal gallery (the Whispering Gallery) that wraps the inside of the base of the dome. The scene inside is fascinating and to watch a service from here amazing, the mosaics on the floor and the brightly frescoed walls and dome above reflect Wren's desire to bridge the gap between heaven and earth. An artifice achieved.
Alone it is difficult to whisper to oneself across the great chasm but the italians mumbling faberanza got the message across adequately.
A little door on the far side has an arrow pointing up and through a narrow set of stone steps, past ancient oak doors and iron framed oriel windows leads another stair, a tighter stone circle, up to the external "Stone Gallery". From here you step outside, breathe heavilly and look to the horizon. Fabulous views open up and the scale of the cathedral starts to take over your head. It is vast. You look down on churches, offices and Paternoster Square, full of insects going about London life without looking up, never quite appreciating what looms above.
A lap of this deck enables you to gather the strength and breath for the last stage up to the Golden Gallery. This is a more daunting climb, gone are the stone steps replaced by a lattice of iron spirals in sets of 20 steps between landings, rising through the inside of the dome shell between the outer surface and inner trappings. The ironwork is old and rests on beams upon beams with rather worrying later concrete interventions moulded around the stairs. Again you pass tiny oak doors and lattices of footways and passages, here more precarious and less enclosed than at the lower levels, you pass vestiges of original stone and timber stairs long ago abandonned and leading in alternate directions. My heart was pumping hard, either from the climb or the vertigo. Finally you arive at the last flight a narrow place of stone steps, lowering ceilings and steep ascent, you enter a chamber with the obligatory tourist guards, and make a final stumble, back on stone, up onto this gallery that runs around the outside of the top of the dome, before the stone ball and lantern rise up above.
If you thought the previous views were good here you can almost see the Sea to the east as you overlook the Port of London, the Thames runs shimmering in a loop to the south beyond to the downs and to the north the Weald Ridge, Wembley and Harrow. London seems but small and its edges within touching distance. This view is amazing. In medieval London this must truly have felt like rising up to god, with no buildings over a few stories back then, the feeling must have been one of fear and awe. This remains. The power and grandeur embodied in this monument will stand in comparison to any contemporary buildings in history as a testament to the power of religeon and the unutterable stupidity of man. The ability of Man to create this and then dedicate it to a deity shows how low our self esteem must be, when simply to build this edifice should demonstrate that man alone has the power of creation.
I loved it. Where to tomorrow?
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