Mrs Gruff may have been too pissed to put a decent welcome home dinner on the table (duck over-cooked, the skin still covered in salt and unbrowned, the vegetables raw, the roast potatoes leathery and rough inside) and angela too much under her husband's control to be of any use to me, but Christmas hasn't been a complete disappointment. I'm delighted to discover that Plymouth gin no longer burns my throat like paint stripper.
Happy Christmas one and all
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Monday, 21 December 2009
All Along The Watchtower
Richie Havens:
The Grateful Dead:
U2 (Don't laugh!):
Bruce Yawnsteen:
Brian Ferry:
Keziah Jone:
Eddie Vedder:
Michael Hedges:
Chantel McGregor:
XTC:
Don't give up the day job boys.
The Erinn Brown Band:
Jeff Healey:
Neil Young:
Bob Dylan:
Jimi Hendrix (again):
The Grateful Dead:
U2 (Don't laugh!):
Bruce Yawnsteen:
Brian Ferry:
Keziah Jone:
Eddie Vedder:
Michael Hedges:
Chantel McGregor:
XTC:
Don't give up the day job boys.
The Erinn Brown Band:
Jeff Healey:
Neil Young:
Bob Dylan:
Jimi Hendrix (again):
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Appalachian Spring
Looking for an uninterrupted presentation of a piece that has been one of my most liked, for a very long time, I cam across this, in three parts, unfortunately:
Apart from its sounding almost right what really struck a chord (resonated, in the modern idiom?) were the efforts of the conductor; reminiscent of music masters, perhaps long dead, who, knowing full well that they could never conduct outside the confines of the school hall, nevertheless gave themselves fully to the vicarious expression of their talent. Many a proud parent was grateful to the balding figure bowing modestly before him as he clapped his heart out.
I make no apology for publishing all three:
Apart from its sounding almost right what really struck a chord (resonated, in the modern idiom?) were the efforts of the conductor; reminiscent of music masters, perhaps long dead, who, knowing full well that they could never conduct outside the confines of the school hall, nevertheless gave themselves fully to the vicarious expression of their talent. Many a proud parent was grateful to the balding figure bowing modestly before him as he clapped his heart out.
I make no apology for publishing all three:
Monday, 16 November 2009
X-Rays and Shadows
It seems that I'm not malingering after all. I'm impressed that the NHS managed to obtain an appointment for me with a specialist just three weeks hence.
Monday, 9 November 2009
Malingering
Ill again. I've suffered something I'd rather not be acquainted with for almost five weeks and today I returned to work after 11 working days off, although, fit enough for work, I am far from fit. The good news is that, having almost finished the prescribed course of antibiotics, I can at last have a drink.
I'l give the microbes a week from this Wednesday to give up and go away, and then I'll demand more drugs from the quack.
I'l give the microbes a week from this Wednesday to give up and go away, and then I'll demand more drugs from the quack.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Taken Three Weeks Ago
A touch of vanity, for which I ask forgiveness, but the point of the post was to show off my Westie Hat, knitted for me by a colleague of The Mrs Gruff's.
The location was Upper Booth Farm, which straddles the Jacob's Ladder section of the start of The Pennine Way. The site is listed in Cool Camping, though God alone knows why.
Saturday, 26 September 2009
By Some Strange Coincidence
A Douglas Dakota flew over the Gruff 'apartment' as I was leaving for work. It seems to have been associated with a Supermarine Spitfire and what one might be forgiven for thinking ought to have been a Hawker Hurricane but from the shape of the wings and tailplane could well have been a Messerschmitt Bf 109. As I drove round the back of Blackpool airport what appeared to be the Red Arrows flew over me. Less than thirty minutes earlier I had been looking at the southern Fylde coast on Google Earth, which shows what appears to be the Red Arrows parked in a row on the airport, and no I'm not suggesting that the image on Google Earth was taken half an hour before I left 'home' for work.
Friday, 4 September 2009
Monday, 31 August 2009
Knackered But Smiling
Having sunk four bottles of Hawkshead's Brodie's Prime, after an indifferent, Guinness (to be drunk only in extremis) lubricated, lunch, and now 'appreciating' Pusser's rum in large measures, I find myself smiling as I reflect on the excesses of last night (mine, not the customers'). Those who 'believe' that the customer is always right have clearly swallowed far too much of their own self-serving bullshit and should try serving the always right customer.
Those who live by serving know that the customer is almost always wrong, and invariably unpleasant to boot.
Those who live by serving know that the customer is almost always wrong, and invariably unpleasant to boot.
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Sunday, 23 August 2009
The Elegants
This a very ropey film with a very ropey soundtrack but it does demonstrate that once upon a time people could do things without the aid of trickery (listen to the original).
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
Might Have Beens
I saw an illustration of the first locomotive in a book in Foyles, in 1986 or 7, and have looked for information on it, without success, since then. I've just come across this illustration while looking for images of the 3 metre gauge railway that Hitler dreamed of building to link the Nazi empire. I'd always thought the LMS proposal was for a three unit locomotive but the illustration clearly shows it as two units and the caption describes it as a Bo-Bo+Bo-Bo. Apparently it was conceived at Derby in 1937; it would have been manually fired with a 50 sq ft grate and boiler steam pressure of 800 psi. A condensing tender carrying just 2,000 imp gals was considered sufficient for a non-stop run from Euston to Glasgow.
The second locomotive is one that I don't recall seeing or reading about before but may well have done, long ago. Like the LMS machine above it never ran, though the frames and some of the bodywork were constructed by the North British Locomotive Co. Power would have been provided by a pulverised coal fired gas turbine, developed by Parsons & Co of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Coal fired gas turbines for railway locomotives were a dead end, as the Americans had discovered with the white elephants produced by the Union Pacific, Norfolk and Western and Chesapeake and Ohio railroads.
Both illustrations are the work of Robin Barnes and can be seen here.
The second locomotive is one that I don't recall seeing or reading about before but may well have done, long ago. Like the LMS machine above it never ran, though the frames and some of the bodywork were constructed by the North British Locomotive Co. Power would have been provided by a pulverised coal fired gas turbine, developed by Parsons & Co of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Coal fired gas turbines for railway locomotives were a dead end, as the Americans had discovered with the white elephants produced by the Union Pacific, Norfolk and Western and Chesapeake and Ohio railroads.
Both illustrations are the work of Robin Barnes and can be seen here.
Monday, 1 June 2009
Chasing Sheep ...
... Is Best Left To Shepherds.
It's amazing what the offer of a much better paid job, improved prospects at the bar (and a jolly good row with a bloody awkward customer), a nice walk on the eastern edge of the Lake District last evening and a couple of bottles (one of them hot Sake) can do for one's state of mind. Mine seems to have improved considerably and for no reason I can think of I've suddenly remembered Michael Nyman, the composer of the music that accompanied The Draughtsman's Contract, which is one of my top ten films.
The walk was very satisfying and, like many things, the sort of thing I once did all the time. Living in isolated holes for years has rather dulled my wits but with light at the end of the tunnel and some real prospects in sight I seem to be rousing at last.
Apropos of the walk: The route we followed (number 2 in an AA list of 50 in the Lake District) took us through some meadows in which cows were grazing; all very Wordsworth except for the sounds of dieselised haymaking (how much more picturesque it would have seemed had we seen whole families of the rural poor slaving for eighteen hours each summer day to make less than a subsistence wage). In two fields the cows were wary and happy to run away and leave us in peace as we tramped across their breakfast, lunch, tea and supper, except for one suspicious bullock who stood watchful sentinel, but in a third the cows were rather more organised and to our surprise formed a line across the field and started to walk purposefully towards us. Doubtless the beasts were hungry and thought we were the providers of whatever additive rich supplements they've come to think of as the bovine equivalent of hamburgers and kebabs but the keeper of the Gruff household was not reassured. Although she has assisted at surgical operations in cold barns and held together the throbbing walls of sectioned uteruses (utera?) Mrs Gruff is not at all keen on large animals and it seemed wise to make for the hedge about fifteen or twenty yards off, which we did. However, Mrs Gruff tends to dawdle and a frightened squeal followed by 'I'm going to be trampled' drew my attention. She looked quite comical eyes tightly shut and head pulled down hard into her shoulders, hands out at each side and closely surrounded by a 240 degree arc of rapidly advancing beef weighing perhaps five tons. I shouldn't have laughed as I told her she wasn't going to be trampled, though it did look like it, and the cows stopped short and drew off, but the incident did provide us both with no little merriment for some minutes thereafter.
Walk number 2 is based on the village of Sedgewick, which lies on the now derelict northern section of the Lancaster canal.
Post Script: I'm not at all sure whether it was blackly ironic or eerily coincidental but three weeks after this was written a woman with whom Mrs Gruff once worked (a veterinary surgeon who was heartily disliked by very nearly all who knew her) was trampled by cows while out walking her dogs. She has the posthumous satisfaction, though prehumous might be more appropriate given the speed with which the incident was reported in the national daily papers, of knowing that her name liveth for evermore even though it be besmirched by budgie droppings, which blackly ironic (or eerily coincidental?) fate is certain to amuse those blessed with Mrs Gruff's irreverent sense of humour.
RIP LC and Mrs Gruff bids you less than a fond farewell.
It's amazing what the offer of a much better paid job, improved prospects at the bar (and a jolly good row with a bloody awkward customer), a nice walk on the eastern edge of the Lake District last evening and a couple of bottles (one of them hot Sake) can do for one's state of mind. Mine seems to have improved considerably and for no reason I can think of I've suddenly remembered Michael Nyman, the composer of the music that accompanied The Draughtsman's Contract, which is one of my top ten films.
The walk was very satisfying and, like many things, the sort of thing I once did all the time. Living in isolated holes for years has rather dulled my wits but with light at the end of the tunnel and some real prospects in sight I seem to be rousing at last.
Apropos of the walk: The route we followed (number 2 in an AA list of 50 in the Lake District) took us through some meadows in which cows were grazing; all very Wordsworth except for the sounds of dieselised haymaking (how much more picturesque it would have seemed had we seen whole families of the rural poor slaving for eighteen hours each summer day to make less than a subsistence wage). In two fields the cows were wary and happy to run away and leave us in peace as we tramped across their breakfast, lunch, tea and supper, except for one suspicious bullock who stood watchful sentinel, but in a third the cows were rather more organised and to our surprise formed a line across the field and started to walk purposefully towards us. Doubtless the beasts were hungry and thought we were the providers of whatever additive rich supplements they've come to think of as the bovine equivalent of hamburgers and kebabs but the keeper of the Gruff household was not reassured. Although she has assisted at surgical operations in cold barns and held together the throbbing walls of sectioned uteruses (utera?) Mrs Gruff is not at all keen on large animals and it seemed wise to make for the hedge about fifteen or twenty yards off, which we did. However, Mrs Gruff tends to dawdle and a frightened squeal followed by 'I'm going to be trampled' drew my attention. She looked quite comical eyes tightly shut and head pulled down hard into her shoulders, hands out at each side and closely surrounded by a 240 degree arc of rapidly advancing beef weighing perhaps five tons. I shouldn't have laughed as I told her she wasn't going to be trampled, though it did look like it, and the cows stopped short and drew off, but the incident did provide us both with no little merriment for some minutes thereafter.
Walk number 2 is based on the village of Sedgewick, which lies on the now derelict northern section of the Lancaster canal.
Post Script: I'm not at all sure whether it was blackly ironic or eerily coincidental but three weeks after this was written a woman with whom Mrs Gruff once worked (a veterinary surgeon who was heartily disliked by very nearly all who knew her) was trampled by cows while out walking her dogs. She has the posthumous satisfaction, though prehumous might be more appropriate given the speed with which the incident was reported in the national daily papers, of knowing that her name liveth for evermore even though it be besmirched by budgie droppings, which blackly ironic (or eerily coincidental?) fate is certain to amuse those blessed with Mrs Gruff's irreverent sense of humour.
RIP LC and Mrs Gruff bids you less than a fond farewell.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
Apropos of Nothing
By God I'm bloody tired.
Post Script: Actually I must have been quite drunk as I have no memory of writing this post and now wonder what else I've written, elsewhere.
Post Script: Actually I must have been quite drunk as I have no memory of writing this post and now wonder what else I've written, elsewhere.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Bigotry and Chips, On Both Shoulders
The south east of England, with London, is the only 'region' of the 'United' Kingdom to make a profit, which makes the rest of this accursed 'country', including the surly Celtic fringes, dependent on the industry and ingenuity of those who live there and doubtless accounts for the widespread resentment expressed towards them. Although I live in the north west I am from the south east and I think it 'sporting' to advise outsiders that in the south east of England those who describe all Londoners as 'cockneys' and regard those whose taxes pay for their state subsidised lifestyles as 'idiots' are regarded as ill-informed and ill-mannered fools biting the hand that feeds them.
Monday, 30 March 2009
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Friday, 6 March 2009
This post was intended to demonstrate that I am not restricted to twentieth century music but after clicking on a few links I came up with this, and the memories swamped my intentions:
To some those songs are 'rock 'n' roll' but they are not. Rock 'n' Roll was the creation of commercially astute impresarios, much as Punk was twenty years later.
A punk impresario submitted this:
And this:
And died in the breach.
A long time ago, before two marriages, numerous relationships and more than one credit crunch, I owned copies of the first three Imperial Rockabilly albums, as well as a good few other regional and proprietorial rockabilly collections. I've no idea where the plastic ended up but the sounds reverberate still in my head.
Coming soon: Early secular and profane music, Renaissance and Baroque music, of all sorts, and other secret musical loves.
To some those songs are 'rock 'n' roll' but they are not. Rock 'n' Roll was the creation of commercially astute impresarios, much as Punk was twenty years later.
A punk impresario submitted this:
And this:
And died in the breach.
A long time ago, before two marriages, numerous relationships and more than one credit crunch, I owned copies of the first three Imperial Rockabilly albums, as well as a good few other regional and proprietorial rockabilly collections. I've no idea where the plastic ended up but the sounds reverberate still in my head.
Coming soon: Early secular and profane music, Renaissance and Baroque music, of all sorts, and other secret musical loves.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Monday, 16 February 2009
Seasick Steve; Memories; My 'Collection' and Robert Johnson
I've just been watching a documentary about Seasick Steve and was struck by the realisation that I possess about three quarters of the songs played in the programme. Seasick Steve is a man 'after my own heart', though he seems not to have lost his way as I did, and I will always be grateful to him for reminding me that I have an album of Robert Johnson's work in store in Berwick-upon-Tweed.
This is Robert Johnson:
Now watch this:
And this brings them neatly together:
This is Robert Johnson:
Now watch this:
And this brings them neatly together:
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
To Kill A Mocking Bird
Here's a picture of my boots. ... (intemperate language deleted) ...
I've had the boots for ten years and spent more having them re-heeled and soled than I paid for them, and I'm delighted that, for now at least, the company is still in business.
The boots:
I've had the boots for ten years and spent more having them re-heeled and soled than I paid for them, and I'm delighted that, for now at least, the company is still in business.
The boots:
Sunday, 8 February 2009
Saturday, 31 January 2009
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Friday, 23 January 2009
Missing Tricks
Tuscan Tony has posted a photograph of the view from his terrace, taken this morning and I found it so inspiring that I was moved to post my own breakfast view:
No It's nothing to do with me, nor Mrs Gruff, who is the tenant here (I'm just a non-paying, long-staying guest): The landlord seems to take pleasure in preventing anyone from doing anything about it (including the proprietors of the Chinese chippy next door - whose rubbish that is) merely to assert his rights over the property. We'd take care of it, though having spent almost a thousand on the garden of the last property, with the agent's agreement, only to see it all ripped out on the whim of the landlord I wouldn't invest any of my own money, but he won't allow us to. I'm stuck here for now but there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon. I don't expect that particular sun will rise but one never knows.
The moral of this tale is that if one is not careful one can end up living (?) in a decaying hovel in a local environment over which one has not the least influence, and you can forget any thoughts of anything as liberating as control.
No It's nothing to do with me, nor Mrs Gruff, who is the tenant here (I'm just a non-paying, long-staying guest): The landlord seems to take pleasure in preventing anyone from doing anything about it (including the proprietors of the Chinese chippy next door - whose rubbish that is) merely to assert his rights over the property. We'd take care of it, though having spent almost a thousand on the garden of the last property, with the agent's agreement, only to see it all ripped out on the whim of the landlord I wouldn't invest any of my own money, but he won't allow us to. I'm stuck here for now but there is a glimmer of hope on the horizon. I don't expect that particular sun will rise but one never knows.
The moral of this tale is that if one is not careful one can end up living (?) in a decaying hovel in a local environment over which one has not the least influence, and you can forget any thoughts of anything as liberating as control.
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
Knocking One's Bollocks Off for Whatever One Deems Currency
I've no idea what Spotnicks Amapola means but this is what they sounded (and looked) like:
Heroes of the Soviet Union or just another group of 'hopefuls' from elsewhere?
Heroes of the Soviet Union or just another group of 'hopefuls' from elsewhere?
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
Vince Taylor
I always preferred Rockabilly to Rock and Roll but this was a notable exception:
Vince Taylor was English, born of English parents and brought up in the USA. He was back in England in the late 1950s but was never very stable and is said to have told people that he was Christ re-incarnated. I believe that he committed suicide. Vince is on the right and the fellow on the left is (or was) Eugene Vincent Craddock.
Vince Taylor was English, born of English parents and brought up in the USA. He was back in England in the late 1950s but was never very stable and is said to have told people that he was Christ re-incarnated. I believe that he committed suicide. Vince is on the right and the fellow on the left is (or was) Eugene Vincent Craddock.
Monday, 12 January 2009
Another Almost Forgotten Track ...
... from my time as an art student in the early seventies:
I think we were all very lucky to be young then, but we weren't aware just how lucky we were. Now everything's been turned to shit and we must earn our keep and fight for what we know to be decent, right and proper.
Looking at Pink Floyd on YouTube I came across this:
Just keep taking the drugs ladies and gentlemen, everything is under control, and I keep thinking 'drugs, drugs, drugs and more drugs, and alcohol, and a great deal more alcohol, and then more, and then put the politicians up against the wall and they won't need any drugs of any sort again, and nor shall we'. It's all under control, so don't you worry your little heads about a thing. But there are people who worry and they are themselves a worry simply because they worry and we can all do without worries so what do we do with those people? The answer is that we drink less and we don't smoke and we don't take drugs and although they don't stop worrying, and they don't go away, they can rest assured that we are healthier because they have worried. And that's all that counts to worriers: not what we worry about; merely what we do that worries them.
Fuck them!
I think we were all very lucky to be young then, but we weren't aware just how lucky we were. Now everything's been turned to shit and we must earn our keep and fight for what we know to be decent, right and proper.
Looking at Pink Floyd on YouTube I came across this:
Just keep taking the drugs ladies and gentlemen, everything is under control, and I keep thinking 'drugs, drugs, drugs and more drugs, and alcohol, and a great deal more alcohol, and then more, and then put the politicians up against the wall and they won't need any drugs of any sort again, and nor shall we'. It's all under control, so don't you worry your little heads about a thing. But there are people who worry and they are themselves a worry simply because they worry and we can all do without worries so what do we do with those people? The answer is that we drink less and we don't smoke and we don't take drugs and although they don't stop worrying, and they don't go away, they can rest assured that we are healthier because they have worried. And that's all that counts to worriers: not what we worry about; merely what we do that worries them.
Fuck them!
The Groundhogs Again
Cherry Red was the track on Split that I listened to most after 'Split Part 2'. Although I've heard Split Part 2 a few times since the early seventies I haven't heard Cherry Red since then until this morning (I sold the album, for 50p I think). I think it's worth sharing:
Patchmo
Beaker has a new tank mate called Patchmo (for reasons that I will not go into). He's a calico shubunkin and considerably smaller than Beaker so I've given him a plastic toadstool to hide in (don't ask).
Saturday, 3 January 2009
Prudence Regained
Prudence is now back in captivity. A little careful investigation revealed her location, which was precisely where I thought, and the offer of an open exercise ball, with a little patience, resulted in her re-acquisition. Transferring her to roomier accommodation was hazardous however, since she is very agile and does not like to be handled, and she thrice escaped my gentle grip, though I was just as fast and just as determined.
Naturally, she immediately set about working for her freedom again and she is now busily engaged in looking for a weak spot in the bars of the small cage, where she will live until the guinea pig cage is rendered escape proof. She cannot be allowed to live out again: There are signs that she tried to escape from the sitting room (the gap under the door is very small and she is very big) by digging through the carpet, which is the landlord's property.
I think I'll glue some glass sheets to the outside, with silicone, and prevent enlargement of the hole from inside by gluing a piece of flat stone or tile over it.
Naturally, she immediately set about working for her freedom again and she is now busily engaged in looking for a weak spot in the bars of the small cage, where she will live until the guinea pig cage is rendered escape proof. She cannot be allowed to live out again: There are signs that she tried to escape from the sitting room (the gap under the door is very small and she is very big) by digging through the carpet, which is the landlord's property.
I think I'll glue some glass sheets to the outside, with silicone, and prevent enlargement of the hole from inside by gluing a piece of flat stone or tile over it.
Friday, 2 January 2009
Prudence Located
She's in one of the ring binders that live on the lowermost bookshelf, chewing up statements. I could hear the sound of hard plastic or compressed and coated cardboard being chewed and knew immediately what area she was in. The sound of paper being shredded guided me to the spot. A trap has been laid. It needs only patience (and Prudence's prudence in not chewing through any of the numerous live cables - mains and IT - that lie in that area) for the return of the wanderer.
'Slowly, slowly catchee monkey', as Pater Gruff used occasionally to intone, and catchee the 'monkey' I shall, eventually. I do hope she doesn't electrocute herself, and I earnestly desire that no vital documents are destroyed in her efforts to make herself comfortable, bless her.
'Slowly, slowly catchee monkey', as Pater Gruff used occasionally to intone, and catchee the 'monkey' I shall, eventually. I do hope she doesn't electrocute herself, and I earnestly desire that no vital documents are destroyed in her efforts to make herself comfortable, bless her.
She's Done It Again!
Prudence has escaped once again. This time she chewed a hole in the upper lip of the lower part of her guinea pig cage. I was aware that she was working on one, and had intended taking steps to block it up today, but it wasn't anywhere near large enough for her to wriggle through yesterday. What an industrious, and determined little rodent she is, and what a free spirit too.
I'll just have to leave suitable nesting places in quiet corners, with a tasty food supply, until she's safely incarcerated again.
And she didn't need a vaulting horse.
I'll just have to leave suitable nesting places in quiet corners, with a tasty food supply, until she's safely incarcerated again.
And she didn't need a vaulting horse.
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