Blank Frank...

So, no normal blog today. You know the kind of thing, the posts where I have deep unexpected thoughts knowing that you (sweet audience) will applaud my intelligence and wit. Yes, hooray and hosanna for Andrew, King of all things kingly. But it's Easter isn't it and I fucking hate Easter. For me, it's just an opportunity for every pious twat on the planet to (yet again) worship at the altar of bollocks.

All praise the Holy Roman Pope as he spouts words of pious empty nonsense. All hail the Easter lamb and the holy mint sauce. Pass me the chocolate egg whilst I say a prayer to the Easter Bunny and may the holy chick of fluffy yellowness forever peck your seed.

So, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps I'll be back to my normal brilliant form tomorrow. Not today though Frank.

At least the churches are all closed. Tell me God, why is that?

Of Krakens and Triffids...

Do you feel like you are living in a 1950s British science fiction novel? I do. Something by John Wyndham, such a brilliant storyteller. If you've not read him you've probably seen the films, The Day of the Triffids, Village of the Damned, I think that's about it for movies. My favourite novel is The Kraken Wakes. I won't spoil it for you by giving away the plot (you should read it) but it seems so fantastical and yet so realistic at the same time.

Fantastical, like a virus keeping us in our homes, too scared to see our family and friends.

Fantastical, like the pubs and most shops closing with no idea when they might open again.

Fantastical, like being paid, not for working, but simply staying home (stay at home FFS as they say).

Fantastical, because we walk around (when we have too) scared of getting too close (two meters please) to another human being. 

I'm sure that you have your own list of fantastical. I'm sure that you are as frightened and worried as I am. Yes, fantastical - but it's not fantastic, is it? It's shit.

Of course, in a Wyndham story, we would all be blinded by comets and then eaten by carnivorous plants, or maybe Sea Tanks would come out of the sea (the clue is in the name) and destroy us and our world as we know it. In a Wyndham novel, strange children would be born that could control us with their minds and who all looked and acted the same.

I bet he wished he'd thought of this alien (animal) virus, that appeared from nowhere and slowly destroyed everything we'd previously taken for granted.

If this were a novel (and in true Wyndham style) I might find a remote sanctuary to protect myself and mine from the man-eating plants/sea monsters/rising sea levels/and spooky children who look all the same and can control us with their minds. maybe I'll go and steal Bear Grills island just off Abersoch and fortify it. Or perhaps I could build an electrified fence and stay behind it whilst the chattering Triffids watch my every move. I could probably do it, I'm pretty self-reliant (I can even hang a picture). But it wouldn't stop the virus. Viruses don't work like that, it's not quite as simple as that.

So here we all are living in a nineteen-fifties science fiction novel. I wonder how it will end?

Growing up...

Today, I'll keep it short, sweet, and hopefully on an even keel (no madness or ranting). I've been filling my time with gardening. Well, it is that time of year and what an eventful year this is so far. It's that rush to get the seeds in before the deadline (mid-May to my mind) is reached. Yesterday, I planted this contraption with a variety of seeds, a vertical garden, what jolly good fun, my very own hanging garden of Babylon and all edible stuff. 

Believe it or not, to fill all those pockets took 50 litres of finest quality compost plus slow-release feed and vermiculite (just to help drainage). I've sowed parsley, beetroot, chives, spring onions, Italian salad leaves, all sorts of things I can't even remember, I was so lost in the flurry of sowing. I'm pretty excited, it's a grand experiment and one that I've never tried before. Yes, I'm growing up, or down, it depends on how you see things.

Wish me luck, I'm hungry.

Wussing it...

Wusses, eh? yes, I've become one, most of us have. Scared to go out, turning tail if the postman comes to the house, isolating my shopping for three days in the car. Mind you, with Princes, Prime Ministers, and paupers getting this all-absorbing bloody virus it's not so surprising that I'm a wuss these days. Yes, we've gone from a county that would fight them on the beaches to a country staying in their living rooms and complaining about it. Where are the teenage boys in the trenches, where are the young Spitfire pilots getting shot down from the skies and hardly out of short trousers (and I'm not talking about those wankers who at sixty wear shorts all the frigging time, even in winter)?

Yes, this an old man's politically incorrect rant so if you don't like that sort of thing then fuck right off now. Sorry, I forgot to mention I'm also getting pretty pissed off, not specifically, just in general, but I can't help being aware that for a person who once shouted about civil liberties, I'm now obeying the government to the letter. 

Dear God, what have I become? 

Listen, I don't want the days of trenches and dogfights back, but fuck me why can't people just stay in? Is it about their civil liberties, their loss of freedom, or are they simply wank-sponglers? Are they sticking up for their civil liberties, expressing their rights, rebelling, or are they simply a bunch of selfish twats? Thanks to them Facebook is flooded with people saying stay in. Why do you brain dead morons (me included) need to be told 100 times a day, isn't once enough? Stay in and live or go out and maybe die, killing a whole bunch of others at the same time. STAY IN. Not really hard is it, not really much to think about except they don't think do they?

Stay in. Stop saying stay in and just stay in (whoops there I go, ranting again).

Did we not do history at school (play, Land of Hope and Glory in background) or are we just mind-wiped followers of PC? Where is our proud nation of arrogant arses now? I'll tell you where, indoors, trembling whenever somebody has a parcel to deliver. Oh for the good old days where I couldn't say black but I could say white, I couldn't call a Pakistani a Pakistani but I could call someone from Russia a Russian, I couldn't say Yid but I could say Jew. Fuck me Britain what is wrong with us, why are we so up our own stupid arses? God forbid that I say something that disagrees with our recent sickeningly righteous, 'don't say that', ill-informed view of the world, but don't attempt to shut me up with your arsehole learnt behaviour. It ain't going to work. That is the job of Coronavirus (or Covid 19 if you prefer).

GOD BLESS THE GOVERNMENT!

Of course, this straightjacket of being correct comes down to a lot of things. Some of it comes down to corporate rules to avoid being sued (boo the corporates, cheats and liars, and playing the furlough card to save money), some of it is fed down by equally brainwashed (because brainwashed they are) education professionals (boo the universities, cheats and liars), some of it is political parties looking for the minority vote (big boo the politicians, cheats and liars). God, I can't even say disabled, maybe not even challenged these days. I certainly can't say crip, or mong, or coon, or nigger, or poof, or lezza, but I may just get away with Kraut, Frog and Polak (no, I wouldn't). I'm not saying that I want to use these words, I'm not saying that we should, but I am saying that I can state my opinion without being told I'm negative and out of step with what is expected these days (blah, blah, blah, rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, mutter, mutter, mutter). But, STAY IN RIGHT!

Well, here's a message for us wusses everywhere (can I still say that?), we can go somewhere else (yes, I'm being inclusive) and spout our pathetic shit because I'm not listening, am listening, not doing as I am told, am doing as I am told. But we should all stay in.

Seems, like I've lost it competely. Here's a cute kitten to make me appear normal. By the way, bollocks to you all (rant done).

Recycle extra...

It's strange how this situation has completely changed how I think about recycling. I've always done the recycling thing, sticking this, that and the other in the appropriate official bin, but now I'm taking the next step and not relying on the local authority to do the job for me. I'm taking responsibility for myself (well, necessity is the mother of invention). If I can use it then I will keep it and my bin capacity is down by at least 50% (apart from the wine bottle bin that is). It isn't always comfortable, (I really don't like emptying cat litter liners into a black bag, washing them off with the hose, and then hanging them up outside to dry on a line made out of a black plastic strip I rescued from a packing crate) but I've made a bag of 12 bin liners last almost a fortnight and our cat seems to piss and shit quite a lot (a three bags a day kinda moggie). That's a reduction of 80%! When the litter runs out then it's dry leaves or shredded cardboard (I'm keeping my cardboard just in case), I'll do almost anything to save me going shopping and mixing with a load of potential spreaders.

Any plastic container is now a seedling tray. Burgers, mince, chicken, mushrooms, tomatoes, have all become repositories for my seeds (and I have many, many seeds). Two-litre water bottles have become wall-planters for strawberries. I'm keeping empty compost bags, just in case I run out of planters (which I will). Large rusty screws are now hanging basket brackets, and redundant recycling bins (we were given new fancy stacking ones with a wheelie trolley - which I also use to port heavy sacks of compost from my car down to the bottom end of the garden) are now drilled and growing potatoes. 

It's all very utilitarian and it's all good and it's so much better in so many ways.

Compost has become like gold, so I fill the bottom quarter of my planters with sweepings and dead leaves, then another layer of homemade compost from my compost bin, and then the top half with the rich expensive compost I bought before lockdown. Eggshells, vegetable trimmings, potatoes peelings, are all welcome as fillers. I've even kept the polystyrene which encased the freezer, just in case if I get desperate for a tub bottom filler (Ooeerrr Missus - I'd prefer not to use it though).

Everything is worth considering for re-use. Beer can ring pulls have become useful washers, rusty screws and nails are used instead of neglected, old wormy wood is no longer burnt in the chimeniere as long as it's sturdy enough to do the job. It seems this horrible virus is making me realise just how wasteful I've been. In the kitchen nothing is thrown away, it's either eaten or composted or fed to the birds and there is much menu planning, none of this 'what do I fancy?' malarky any more. It's all about what we need to use up.

This 'new way' is making me feel good and it's cutting down on my dangerous and terrifying visits to town, this is making me feel 'holier than thou', this is fun. It's bloody tiring being aware of waste to this extent (I'm almost scared to throw anything away). I'm hoping that after this ends (if it all ends) my attitude won't change. But I'm a lazy bugger and washing cat litter bags really is a pain. It might be keeping me alive though, who knows? Stay in and do what I do - I'm smart - although cat shit really stinks.

One thought remains... Toilet paper. 😉

A tale to be told...

Today I am going to delight you with the first episode of a tale I have been telling myself in my head for more than a dozen years or so. Well, when I say delight I hope that it does because it may become my Monday thing if you like it.

Anyway without further ado...

A Prologue.

Meet the Vicar of Love and his cat (le chat) Bon Chance. I don’t know much about them really, they just popped up while I was listening to the radio last night although I don’t think the rock ‘n roll had anything to do with their appearance. I can’t imagine the Vicar of Love or even his cat roaming around Nashville really - or perhaps, hot damn, yes I can. Bar to bar and hall to hall, the Vicar of Love and his Cat Bon Chance out on the town and having a ball.

No, I don’t know much about them but I might as well tell you what I do know so let’s start at the very beginning; a very good place to start according to Mary Poppins. Not that I think there will be many spoonfuls of sugar in this tale, maybe the odd chimney sweep but he’ll probably be very odd indeed. They live somewhere in the deep south of the United States. New Orleans maybe. The Vicar of Love is a huge man, the size of a bull - in fact, that’s what his congregation at the Third Church of The Ju-Ju Jesus Peanut call him - The Bull.

His cat Bon Chance is a stray. The Vicar of Love found him squashed flat and mangled on the highway, run over by a trucker’s truck and then by the cars and SUV’s, hogs and hotrods, that came along after it. He was quite dead of course, but the Vicar, never one to be put off by something as inconsequential as death, managed to revive him with the power of prayer and pussy prosthetics. Now, when Bon Chance wags his tail it’s with the aid of the motorised tail-wagger that’s embedded in his 100% synthetic rayon fur.

Of course, all the random robotics and miniaturised micro-technology in the world wouldn’t have brought Bon Chance back from the dead any more than it would have corrected the misspelling of his name. Bonne Chance is a feminine phrase, but Bon Chance is ‘as Tom as tomcats can be’ as the Vicar of Love declares to his congregation every Sunday. So dropping the second ‘n’ and ‘e’ seemed to be in order. Anyways, New Orleans ain’t France in spite of its pretension and petticoats.

The power of prayer is a powerfully prayerful power and the Vicar of Love a powerfully powerful prayer-man. The Ju-Ju heard his words and Bon Chance was raised again, raised from the dead like some kind of feline Lazarus – Lazapuss as he’s been nicknamed by the Vicar of Love’s congregation.

That’s it. All I know about The Bull and Lazapuss, the keepers of the Holy Home, the attendants of the Hoodoo Heart, the watchers of the Third Church of The Ju-Ju Jesus Peanut. But of course, this is their tale to tell and not mine, so I’ll just make it up. As the Vicar of love says in his pious prayering, ‘Eye-eye to all that do be eyeful, do-be-do-be-do-be-do.’

Bon Chance!

Why I'm a twat...

So I didn't write a blog yesterday, I don't know if any of you noticed or missed it, but I have to say I missed it. That's my thing - routine, I don't want it but when I don't have it I feel that I'm letting somebody down. I don't know why or who but I do. That's also my thing - not letting people down, which is a horrible burden given who and what I am. My honesty and bluntness kills them and makes them feel let down, but if I didn't do it then I'd be letting myself down and I wouldn't be myself if I did that (maybe I'm complicated).

An old friend (an older friend now, as he unfriended me a while back) once said I was a complicated person. Probably the most complicated person he'd ever met. I don't think of myself as complicated, I'm actually very simple, a blunt tool is how I see myself, a hammer smashing eggshells (Hammer time again 'you can't touch this!'). Yes, I'm a twat. I call people out for what they say and do and it upsets them. Mind you, I'm not going to stand by whilst anyone posts crap about supporting a company who refuses to serve LBGT customers or take on gay employees, fake Christian minister or not. Just what the fuck is that about?

Yes, I'll call out your beliefs (no matter what they are and who you are) if I think they are stupid or unfair or alien to the way I think. I take no prisoners, make no allowances (not even with my closest family - not that I have many left). Think of me as Zorro without a rapier, using the safety of social media to run you through when you deserve, require, or need it. An armchair warrior if you will, but a warrior nonetheless. Warriors are like that, they kill for their beliefs, even if their beliefs are portable when based around new information.

Anyway, I'm not going to change. No matter how close to me you might think you are, what you were in my previous life (bosses, wives, friends, enemies) none of that counts. All that counts is my truth and I have to stick to it. I accept responsibility for that.

Just saying, (by the way there's a pink supermoon Tuesday night which has no relevance, but don't miss it).

Just saying.

Now wash your hands...

There is something worse than the virus out there apparently. It's called 'no soaps' (and I'm not talking hand-wash). Yes, 'no soaps' and it's just around the corner. Already the soap to other TV ratio is diminishing. Soaps are down to a couple of times a week, dragging out to what they laughing call 'suspense' to eek it out so that women of a certain age and men of an interesting persuasion don't go totally batshit crazy.

There are obviously things 'that some viewers may find distressing' in the episode of this soap (distressing like shouting, moaning, sneering, tea-drinking, pizza-eating - oh, and kidnap, murder and helicopters falling out of the skies) but all of those potential errors are better than this 'no soap' desert that is coming.

Emmerdale will be a normal Yorkshire village again, Coronation Street just another street in the less affluent part of Manchester, Eastenders may even cheer up a little (unlikely, I'm 'avin a larf, ain't I?), and Doctors and Hollyoaks - well I really have no idea.

What will people do without their double deal daily dose of Cain, Paddy, Rita, Roy, Phil and Dirty Den? What will men of my age drool over now that the soap totties are all off-air (they all start off as ordinary females and then transmute themselves into hot babes who change their sexual preferences at the drop of a... well, let's say hat). It's all so very entertaining and in thirty-minute easily digestible chunks - no thought required.

Of course, there is a negative side to losing our soaps. Soaps are a great educator. All life is there and it helps us to accept our difference, the LGBT world has become more acceptable to the 'masses' thanks to soaps. Gaslighting, grooming, drug abuse, alcohol dependence, domestic violence, disability, depression and other mental illness - they've all been addressed by soaps. Yes, it's not all fun murders, serial killers, kidnapping, car accidents, plane crashes, viaduct disasters, heart attacks, suicides and bunny boilers - they have their serious side too.

Don't despair though, the world we are living in currently is more dangerous and unbelievable than any soap. If the cast of Coronation Street were not loafing on the street but locked inside their terraced houses, The Queen Vic closed and empty, everyone in Emmerdale standing six-feet apart, wearing plastic gloves and face masks and fighting over toilet rolls... Well, it would simply be unbelievable, wouldn't it?

Not to worry. Some viewers may find scenes in their real lives distressing so don't be afraid to call the Action Lines - if you can get through.

The house that Derrick built...

So Derrick Jarman's house has been saved, Prospect Cottage, a wonderful dream made real by a dreamer. Derek Jarman was a wartime baby who died ill but not sad in 1994. An English film director who lovingly made a famous garden on the remote and unforgiving shingle shore near Dungeness nuclear power station. Dungeness, Britains only desert and Jarman, our Derrick, made it bloom and breathe and become.

Derrick believed that the Pilot Inn, nearby, provided “Simply the finest fish and chips in all England", and that was his approach to everything, fish and chips made into a gourmet experience whether it was his films, his house, his thoughts, or his garden. The garden design style is 'postmodern and highly context-sensitive - a complete rejection of modernist design theory'. But it's actually just fun. A considered, not considered, collection of junk and found things and thinks made into a wonderland of gardening by the plants and flowers that he grew in the unforgiving sea-sand and the gales. 

Derrick disliked the sterility of modernism and despised its lack of interest in poetry, allusion and stories. He was wearied by those 'How to be an expert' series of garden books. Alan Titchmarsh would not have been a dinner guest at his cosy table in his black painted, boarded, shack in the wilderness. Jarman's small circles of flints remind me of standing stones and dolmens. He once said that 'Paradise haunts gardens, and some gardens are paradises. Mine is one of them. Others are like bad children, spoilt by their parents, over-watered and covered with noxious chemicals' - and he was right. Gardens are organic by nature and they should be left to their own devices as much as possible. The poem painted on the black timber wall of Prospect Cottage is from John Donne's poem The Sun Rising opens with 'Busy old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?'

In these days of disquiet that's so bloody real. Awaking each day to the sun is such a bonus. Jarman's blueprint for life is one I aspire to. He was a complicated man intent on uncomplicating himself through his lifestyle. I think he achieved it.

It's just the sun rising.

The village clock...

I live in a small village in North Wales not far from the sea. It's beautiful around here and full of nature. My nearest beach is a little over a mile away and I can get to dozens of other beaches within 10 to 30 minutes in the car. It's a wild place, remote and not very sophisticated despite how the pubs and restaurants try to be trendy. There are no Chineses takeaways within 12 miles, cashpoints are few and far between, these days the phone signals are better but that's a recent thing and there's still a lot of blank spots and when the wind blows...

It's a wonderfully quiet life. We have standing stones, 6th-century churches, hillforts, extinct volcanoes, winding hidden lanes, and breathtaking views. All in all, I can live without takeaways, cashpoints and the harried hustle of the towns and cities, life is generally safer and slower and calmer here. It suits me.

Of course, the isolation and open-air environment is a godsend in these days of the Coronavirus. We don't have to go out or see anybody, and a walk up and down the garden path is exercise enough for me. I used to laugh about how some of the villagers thought that Manchester was a world away and how foreign travel was a scary idea that other people did. It turns out that it was true, it is very scary these days and I for one am staying put, besides I can go anywhere I want on the internet.

My Grandad, who was a Lincolnshire blacksmith, never went further than Scotland. His father, another Lincolnshire blacksmith, never left Lincolnshire (at least to my knowledge). Being local isn't new. Only a little more than 100 years ago each village had its own time, based on the church clock, and everybody set their pocket watches by it if they were fortunate enough to have one. Dialects changed from one village to the next, and after three villages it was a completely different language. 

I remember listening to my great grandfather speak and it sounded like Double Dutch (which it was, his parents had come across from Holland). What a different way of life. Insular, based in an area just a few miles square, simple and yet so complicated (you knew everyone and everyone's business and everyone knew yours) even a bad cold was a major event and a talking point for all (a bit like today really).

So here we are in lock-down. We are each living in our own little worlds and the big world is unattainable, no planes to jump on, and even going to the shops is both a risk and a monitored event, our business is known. Everyone is living in a village and I don't mean a global one, in fact, most of us are living in isolation in that village, small units wary of others. It makes me wonder if we aren't back to being cavemen, living our lives around the safety of the fire and fearing the dark and others.

Personally, I'm adapting quite well, no more than that, I'm enjoying the isolation, the physical distancing. Mind you I am not by nature gregarious or touchy-feely, and we are all in touch (although not touching as that could kill you) through television, radio, we can even interact with our friends through social media and electronic messaging or via our mobile phones. We don't have to send a letter or ride our horse to the next village to deliver a message. We are alone, but still in touch. It's an odd sort of life in this virtual village. It's not geographical, we don't rely on the church clock for the passing of time, and we know more about what is happening in the wider world than we do about our neighbours who are gathered around their own fires in their caves.

Anyway, my best advice is to enjoy it, learn from it, become more responsible, self-reliant, accept the situation. We have gone from being in control to having less (yet in some ways more) control of our own lives. It's all excitingly risky and we are all living on the edge of the past. 

Was that the church clock chiming?