So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, adieu!

Well, you'll probably never read this entry because by the time I get it posted to the interweb, we'll all have been brought to our knees by Swine Flu and hence we will be dying in our millions. Oh well, it was nice knowing you all, and it's a pity it had to end this way. I rather thought that I'd be killed off by something a bit more dramatic than by something as boring as the flu. In the 1970s there was a TV drama series called 'The Survivors' which was remade a couple of years back (I think it was called 'The Survivors' this time around too). As you probably know, it concerned the plight of the few miserable wretches who had managed to survive a savage and virulent pandemic that had swept throughout the world, transported by the prevalence of air travel. I have to say, life after the collapse of civilization is less appealing to me than, well - eating a pig's head for example, so if there is to be a pandemic, I hope it gets me first.

However, as you may know, the trespassing of old age is a matter of some concern for me. Strangely, I learnt this evening that the advance of Swine Flu is more likely to attack healthy people under the age of forty-five rather than us oldies. Hurrah! For once, my creeping maturity will save me. But then again, as I've said above, I don't want to be one of only a few people left – even less so if all I have for company is a few geriatrics, peeing in their pants. Oh well, I don't have much in the way of a pension anyway, so perhaps it's all for the best.

Talk about bad timing though – we've only just managed to land ourselves the first black president of the USA (well okay, it wasn't we who voted for him actually, but you know what I mean); and finally we're pulling British forces out of Iraq (not a moment too soon); then Forest eventually manage to avoid relegation at the eleventh hour; and I've only just got my hair to be exactly the colour I wanted – and then wham! It's all over. I knew it was a waste of time giving up smoking. Mind you, there are some consolations – at least we won't live long enough to suffer the ignominy of achieving "null points" in next month's Eurovision Song Contest. There, doesn't that make you feel better?

Right – I'm off to open that bottle of champagne that I've been saving for a special occasion. No point in hanging on any longer...

Goodnight, cruel world!

My Husband & I

Some people have a strange tendency to emphasise a word that shouldn't be emphasized, have you noticed? My big bugbear is when someone says: "Three hundred and sixty-five days OF the year..." when we don't really need any stress putting on the word 'of' at all. I'm not sure why people do this, but they're probably the same people who would say: "We're going to take this product TO the market..." or some such similar nonsense. What worries me about this (and yes, dear reader, I may even lie awake at night, grappling over such matters) is that language, as a living beast, adapts itself to modern use and aberrations such as this very soon pass into the common vernacular.

Take 'going to' for example: I notice that even some BBC newsreaders have taken to replacing this with the ubiquitous 'gunner' (as in: "They're gunner take this product TO the market..."). This is something I deplore and, whereas I doubt if my own speech usage is as perfect as Her Majesty's, I do try especially hard to avoid this one. I often say to people: What do you mean by using that word? A "gunner" is someone who might become engaged in combat during a conflict; a "gonner" (as it is sometimes pronounced) is an accepted colloquialism for someone who is shortly to become no more (as in deceased); and I have a friend whose name is Gunnar (which strangely enough, is Old Norse for 'warrior of war'). None of these words is a suitable substitute for 'going to', so I am fairly confident that this is not what people mean when they stray into its use.

You may be pondering on why I have decided to raise this matter now, when I have not posted a blog for several days (ed: Ahem, isn't 'blog' an example of the type of colloquialism you claim to deplore?). I suppose I should be recording the events of my week instead of using this rather public platform to rant about the vagaries of modern language. Well, my week has been hectic and heavily populated. I've had a lengthy and draining (evening) Board Meeting; drinks and dinner with friends; sailing in Thursday evening's race (we won – yay!); and a multitude of other trivia to deal with. I was never so happy as this morning when I was able to stay in bed for a while with a book and a cup of tea. I love the weekends. Although, have you noticed how common it is for people to say something like: "I'm having an early night this evening, with a good book and a glass of wine"? A lot of us would say this without thinking, yet it's rather crass don't you think, since how many of us would choose to go to bed with a bad book?

Oh, here I go again. I'd better finish now and get this posted as soon as possible. Yep, I'm gonna post this entry TO the web, right now.

p.s. The picture? Ah well, this is related to my next rant. Pigeons. Don't get me started.

Chéri

I've had a really delightful evening. I was invited to attend the preview showing of Stephen Frears's latest film 'Chéri' which is based on Colette's famous novel of the same name. The film won't actually be released in this country until later this month but you should see it when it is. It's directed by Frears from a screenplay written by Christopher Hampton – they were the pair that did 'Dangerous Liaisons' together about twenty years ago. This is another period drama set in France – this time in 'La Belle Époch' and again it stars Michelle Pfeiffer.

The photography is absolutely gorgeous, and the set design is sumptuous beyond belief. Everyone in the film is beautiful, fashionable, drunk, mad or ugly – and some characters are just plain silly, but it's exactly the sort of film one should see on a Monday evening after a horrid day at work. Definitely a feel-good film and yet (as you would expect from Colette) there is a shadowy underbelly to this poignant and ultimately tragic tale. Pfeiffer is surprisingly good, as indeed is the whole cast – Rupert Friend who plays Chéri does so without an ounce of self-pity and of course, looks gorgeous as he does so. Well done.

I attended the private knees-up beforehand where Nottingham's film hoi-polloi were tucking into the free booze and food. Both writer (Hampton) and director (Frears) were at the party which is a real feather in the cap for the Broadway, which organized the event as part of its International Film Writers' Festival (however, the two said luminaries didn't talk to me, of course). In the cinema though, I sat in the VIP seats which I think is the first time I've ever been so privileged. Ooh, missus. As I struggled with the vagaries of the motorway on my way home this afternoon, I almost had a heavy heart about going along tonight – I so wanted to come home to an early dinner and a good book – but I'm so glad that I went to this event after all. It has lifted my spirits and has made me feel better about the world. Yay! That can't be bad.

So, we're moving on....

A Quiet Life

I used to be such a sociable creature. This time last year, the walls of my apartment could have been forgiven for thinking that they only ever stared at each other, because I was hardly ever at home. These days, those same walls must be sick of staring at me – because I stay home rather a lot now. Oh, there were occasions in the previous life when I was at home too, yes indeed, I wasn't always out on the town. But usually, if I were at home, I would not be alone at the time – usually I would have someone else, or maybe two people, or maybe three, or maybe even a whole crowd of people with me, as I served up enough food and alcohol to feed the Red Army. God, they were some parties!

But now, I lead a very sedentary life. Friday was a good evening – we had dinner in Shaw's where 'Sould' was playing (a really cool, laid back soul band with a fantastic lead singer who has the most fabulous teeth you've ever seen). Again, the place was jumping and it was just another example of the wealth of entertainment that can be found just a few yards from my home. After that we went on to Nottingham's newest venue for live music (and much else), the Jamcafé in Heathcoat Street. My friend Ali was playing there, but we arrived too late and missed him. Luckily, we were able to catch then end of the performance by 'Shakes' which is a great band that I've seen before – they are described as delivering a "big, lively & raucous soul sound", and "made to make you shake yer money maker!" A good night, but remind me to tell you (again) about the BEST band currently emerging from Nottingham - I've written about 'Captain Dangerous' before and I'll never tire of singing their praises (except that I can't sing - unlike the boys in the band).

Anyway yesterday, drowning under a tsunami of paperwork, I decided to stay home. I don't often witness my walls enjoying themselves on a Saturday evening, and a strange sight it was too. I tried to watch television while I worked, but there appeared to be nothing showing except for vacuous quiz shows and vapid medical dramas, so I switched off. This had two effects: I was able to get to bed early and so could do my next Spanish lesson whilst propped up on pillows with a decent draught of whisky on the table beside me; and then I was able to wake up this morning without the usual furry head and throat and thereby I could sit – again propped up on pillows, but this time with a cup of delicious, scalding hot tea beside me. What luxury!

Today I have passed the time still kicking my legs against the paperwork (I'm slowly getting to the surface; sunlight beckons) and doing a whole load of washing too. Strangely, nobody has contacted me – except for the usual requests for assistance (why do people only ever contact me when they need something?) - and apart from taking a quick drive in the sunshine with the hood down on the car, I haven't seen another living soul all day.

So there you have it, dear reader. You thought that you might be tuning in to read about my exploits canoeing down the Zambezi river (by the way, I must tell you about that some time – for once, Great-Aunt Dolores wasn't with me, having been imprisoned for "embezzlement" by the Angolan authorities; how we laughed!), but instead you find yourself reading about my perfectly boring lifestyle. How crazy is that?

Adios.

Anyone Feel Peckish?

I was always really puzzled by the 'food chain' as a child. I was plagued by constant fears that I would one day get eaten by some weird, dripping-toothed monster or something worse – which was a somewhat ridiculous notion to have entertained really, given that the only thing bigger than a child in our neighbourhood was a Shetland Pony. Mind you, those Shetland Ponies can be vicious creatures when angered – we once heard of one that limbo-danced under a wrought-iron gate and snatched a harmless guinea pig from its cage (but that's another story).

Anyway, back to the food chain. Whenever I would wake in the night, screaming, shouting with terror that a monster was about to eat me, my father would come stumbling into the room and calm me down by carefully explaining that it couldn't possibly happen. "You see," he would say, "we are humans. And humans are at the top of the food chain. Nothing eats us."

And so, in my childish imagination, I envisaged this (quite literal) chain of creatures all lined up together, from the little itsy-bitsy fleas and spiders, through the frogs and the lizards, on to the birds and the cats, up to the jackals and the hyenas, and on to the lions and the polar bears – all politely arranging themselves in order of size and priority, before allowing themselves to be eaten by the next creature in line. It never quite made sense though – nothing was quite that well-ordered; nothing quite so predictable. Let's face it – a snake might eat a rabbit that was not only nearly the same size as itself, but whose diet did not comprise of hamsters for example, or similar smaller rodents, but of lettuce. So I could see that there were certain points at which the food chain became broken. It was a puzzle indeed.

And take the elephant. Elephants are pretty big animals - there's no getting away from it – so in theory they should eat anything that is smaller than themselves (which oddly enough includes humans), and yet all they grasp with their frighteningly dextrous long trunks is clumps of grass and leaves. And here's another thing – if my father was right and we are at the "top of the food chain", then shouldn't we eat elephants too? But that thought is ridiculous, isn't it?

Well indeed, dear reader, ridiculous that thought should remain. Yet it does not. For today, eating elephants is exactly what the blighted and ravaged peoples of Zimbabwe are doing. Crazed with desperate hunger by the policies of that insane and brutal dictator Mugabe, they have resorted to snatching the only food resource that seems available to them – Zimbabwe's glorious wildlife. In the dead of night they are slipping unseen into the bush and are slaughtering zebra, antelopes, buffalos - and yes, even elephants – in a wretched bid to avoid starvation. It's an unthinkable decline of the human spirit – a once beautiful and proud nation of noble and patient people, brought to its lowest point by one man's callous and cruel megalomania.

Perhaps my father was wrong – perhaps it is possible that a human being can be eaten. But the monster isn't some scale-jawed ogre lurking in the night. This monster cannot even be seen, even in daylight – it is merely the blackness and evil that lurks in the heart of one octogenarian egoist whose thirst for power is greater than his ability to strive – as he once claimed to do – for simple dignity for his people. The whole situation is hideous.

Old Friends

I heard somewhere that there are one hundred billion galaxies in the universe, each containing approximately one hundred billion stars, and astronomers estimate that most of those stars are likely to have planets. Ooh, that's rather a lot of planets, isn't it? Now, say only one percent (1%) of those planets is inhabited, that's still a lot of people out there because if those planets are anything like ours, that's about six billion people per planet. Hmm, quite a lot of people to choose from if you're looking for a partner, wouldn't you say? However, I know people who still have more Facebook Friends than even that. Some people seem to collect friends like jars full of sand.

Take my Great Aunt Dolores for instance – she's not on Facebook because she's dead, although I'm sure that doesn't stop some people, but she had friends everywhere we ever went. I remember once we were travelling in South America (we'd been panning for gold in Patagonia – another of her hair-brained schemes that came to nothing), and we'd hitched a ride with an Argentine battleship that had dropped us off in Uruguay. We'd had a whale of a time on board that ship and made many friends there too – that was despite Great Aunt Dolores fleecing almost the entire crew out of their hard-earned pesos by cheating at poker (although it was funny how she strangely managed to 'lose' me to the ship's cook in one game, and so I was forced to work in the galley as a pan-scrubber - and worse - for a whole week).

Anyway, as we waved them all off from the dockside in Montevideo ("I've spent some time on that ship before," said Dolores, "it wasn't called the General Belgrano in those days – it was called the USS Phoenix and it rescued me from a life raft in the Pacific just after Pearl Harbour. I took those Yankee suckers for all their dollars then, too. Why can't men play poker properly?") my Great Aunt informed me that an old friend of hers lived in Montevideo and that we should pay him a visit.

We took a taxi to a faded old villa on the outskirts of the city. It lay behind high, peeling walls in which were set a pair of magnificent – if slightly rusty – iron gates topped with two equally magnificent eagle heads in tarnished gold. After ringing the bell for what seemed like an eternity, we were finally let in by a decrepit old retainer wearing lederhosen and a feathered trilby. As we walked up to the house, I noticed that a decaying old open-topped Mercedes had been pushed into the empty, overgrown, lizard-infested swimming pool. I couldn't help thinking that it must be one of Dolores's more eccentric friends who lived here.

On the terrace we were greeted by a bent old man with a thinning grey fringe and a yellowing (but well-trimmed) moustache. "Mein liebster Dolfie," said my Great Aunt, "wie geht es dir?" The man turned to gesture towards a rather flushed and dumpy woman sitting in a deckchair. "Wir sind sehr gut, danke. Eva, mein liebster, Dolores ist hier, mit ihrem Neffen."

I was rather shocked by this encounter – I didn't know who these people were, but my Great Aunt had always professed a certain disdain for Germans, ever since her third husband had left her to run away with a young Weimar soldier in 1932. Anyway, they all chatted along in faultless German (which I barely understood) and we were served tea by the retainer's equally decrepit old wife. I think they were all a bit bonkers, to be honest, and I was surpised that Dolores counted them amongst her friends. For example, I noticed that the retainer and his wife both addressed the old man as 'Mein Führer' which I thought was a bit over the top, like he was Hitler or somebody! I mean, delusions of grandeur, or what??

What a Puzzle!

Well, dear reader – I have been neglecting you, haven't I? You wouldn't think it would be so hard to find the time to write a couple of hundred words, would you? But it is – I've had a very busy week trying to cram everything in. I feel as if I've been trying to fit together one of those 'Krypton Factor' puzzles (actually, you can also get them in Christmas Crackers) where there are various shapes that have to be arranged in such as way that they will form a perfect square. You always think you're just about getting there, when you suddenly realize that you're going to be left with a strange, dislocated elbow shape that clearly won't fit in anywhere. That's what my life has been like this week.

Of course, I don't always help myself I suppose. There are two contributory factors to this state of affairs: 1) I'm always overly optimistic about the number of things I can achieve in a given period of time; and 2) I'm very good at underestimating the amount of time I will waste doing meaningless things such as looking at Facebook and playing Mah Jong. If it weren't for these two factors, I'm sure I'd get everything done.

I was reading this morning about a man who has tragically died after falling 200ft whilst out on a country walk. I've done lots of country walks in my time, and have never once thought that I wouldn't come back alive. I feel very sorry for him but – and this was the truly shocking part of the report – it was stated that the man was in his mid-thirties. Nothing shocking about that, true - but then, later in the report, a police spokesman was quoted as saying: "We recovered the body of a middle-aged man..." What? In his thirties and he's classed as "middle-aged"? I know that policemen are getting younger and younger these days, but to make such an error of judgement seems astonishing. If someone in their mid-thirties is "middle-aged", then what does that make me? Physically, I'm a pink-faced old man with white blonde hair; spiritually, I'm a hundred and twenty years old, but mentally I'm still a teenager. How someone who was young enough to be my child can be described as middle-aged is incroyable!

Okay, time to get some work done. My first task, after yesterday's paella party, is to hire a horse and cart to take the empties down to the bottle bank. Hmm, we did go a bit crazy and it will require a strong horse to do that.

Grow Your Own Drugs

Nobody I know seems to have been watching 'Grow Your Own Drugs' on BBC 2, Mondays. I appear to be the only person who has been enticed by this delightful show. It's fabulous – if perhaps a little exploitative. Some commissioning editor obviously saw an opportunity to create a new Jamie Oliver by engaging a disarmingly handsome young enthusiast and giving him his own programme with a title designed to intrigue and provoke (I always thought the title 'The Naked Chef' was the most cynical piece of manipulation ever). Of course they're exploiting his youthful good looks to make the programme more appealing, but that shouldn't distract us from the fascinating subject matter.

James Wong is nothing if not enthusiastic – he absolutely foams and bubbles over with the stuff. He's an ethnobotanist (whatever that is), trained at Kew, and he is using his skills and training to show us how to make simple creams, salves, teas and much, much more from the stuff growing in your window box, the local garden centre or in the hedgerows. He uses flowers, fruit, roots, trees, vegetables and herbs that we can find all around us to provide preparations to help relieve a whole range of common conditions including acne, anxiety, cold sores and general aches and pains - plus great ideas for beauty treats such as bath bombs and shampoos. There are things like a marshmallow & liquorice cough syrup; a valerian hot chocolate that helps reduce anxiety; crystallized ginger for nausea (I could do with that next time I listen to 'Money Box Live' on Radio 4); and even Echinacea ice lollies to ward off colds!

The best thing is that James's enthusiasm is infectious, and as he prepares these remedies in his wondrous, open-air and spacious kitchen, he makes it all seem so easy – and such fun! He laughs and giggles and beams his charming smile at us as he chops and blends and squeezes and coaxes his ingredients into something naturally healing. I want to make every product that he brings before us, whether or not I have the ailment it's aimed to cure.

Sadly, there's only one programme to go, but if you haven't already seen it – you could do worse than catch the last one, which is next week. And if you can't do that – or if you can't catch it on BBC iPlayer, then you can buy the book (click here). James Wong is a star – I just hope that we see more of him in the future – they might be trying to model him on his namesake James Oliver, but although he certainly has all the enthusiasm and relaxed charm of our Jamie, so far (at least) he has shown none of that slightly irritating smugness that the Naked One displayed. And just like his teeth, young James Wong's manners are absolutely perfect.

Did you know?

We're being over-researched, you know. Well I suppose you do know, because you will be all too aware of the endless reports that are published daily: "Research reveals that...." Only this week we've had research to reveal that dog owners really do look like their pets (which means that I look like nobody because I don't have a pet; although at one time I had three fish); we've had research to show that drinking scalding hot tea can give you cancer (then I must have it because I always drink tea straight from the pot); research that says that eating chocolate can make you clever (why then, did we always think the fat kids at school were stupid?); and now research that shows that having a sister makes you happier and more optimistic (well, I have two sisters so I should be over the moon - in fact, I am!).

I wonder why they think that we have this constant need to examine our lifestyle or background or upbringing or reading habits or whatever, and then be informed about what consequences those influences might bring to our lives? I can't imagine that our ancestors ever needed to have all this information to learn what being alive meant. I'm sure that they would already know – without some expensive and lengthy research being conducted by some mad boffins in Cambridge or wherever – that if they stood on a rake in the field it would either pierce their foot, or the handle would jump up to thump them in the face. I doubt if they needed a Mori poll, nor a series of laboratory experiments, to tell them that sufficient rainwater and sunshine would make their crops grow and feed them.

I'm going to establish my own research centre. I can't be bothered with scientific experiments, or polls, or tests, or modelling, or sampling, or any of that rubbish. I'm just going to publish my results and claim the credit. So, you can look out for the following headlines appearing in the weeks to come:

New research published today shows that:

• not shaving can increase beard growth
• holding a barbeque in a rainstorm can reduce the heat from the coals
• drinking too much alcohol can cause a slurring of the speech
• attempting to walk on water can result in drowning
• drinking too much alcohol can induce vomiting
• vacuuming daily may result in cleaner carpets
• boiling potatoes can make them more edible
• drinking too much alcohol can increase the number of besht friendsh (hic!) that you think you have
• taking the Eurostar to Paris might be quicker than flying
• drinking too much alcohol can reduce one's ability to detect ugliness in other people
• wearing clothes can reduce nakedness
• reading the latest research information can induce panic and confusion in the population

You see? My research centre will bring ground-breaking advice and guidance to the British public, and won't we be all the better for it? However, I must finish now because I've just read a headline that declared: "Writing blogs causes some people to neglect doing something else..." Hmm, I must read that article in full. It doesn't sound very well researched to me.

Oh, to be in England...

Some people have no manners. I notice today that that nice Mr Barack O'Bama (well-known Irish politician, according to The Corrigans):

"O'Leary, O'Reilly, O'Hare & O'Hara
There's no-one more Irish than Barack O'Bama"

... well, as I was saying, that nice Mr Barack O'Bama commented today on HM The Queen saying that she "stood for decency and... blah, blah.." (some other word) and that she is "one of the things he likes about Britain". This makes her sound like some sort of curiosity; some kind of trinket. It's like saying: One of the things I like about Britain is... roast beef and Yorkshire pudding... or, one of the things I like about Britain is... the weather... or, one of the things I like about Britain is those funny old 'London Bobbies on Bicycles' (two by two)... or, tea-shops... or, Carnaby Street.

This strikes me as rather arrogant in a way. To use such a flippant and throw-away remark about our dearly-beloved constitutional monarch suggests that he doesn't really understand the institution, or Britain. I suspect that the honeymoon period is over for Barack; he's now being judged on his mettle and he's going to have to deliver the goods PDQ, or else the fairy tale will go sour. There's little left of that rosy-glow warmth we all felt when he was elected as the first black president, and the first person whose surname isn't Bush, in years. If he's going to come over here with his entourage of 500 and his helicopters, he'd better learn that we British don't take too kindly to having our dear Queen referred to by Johnny Foreigner as a tourist attraction. No, that's our job, thank you.

Well today, another milestone in the year has passed without being marked – yet again. I'm always disappointed that nobody ever plays an April Fool's joke on me. I'm always ready and willing to be hoodwinked by some jolly caper, but nobody ever seems to take advantage. I was only saying the same to the newsagent this morning (by the way, I was a bit surprised when he told me that the government had introduced a £5 tax on Cadbury's Whisper bars; it made my morning treat a bit expensive – damn that Alistair Darling). Mind you, April Fool's Day must be a dying tradition – the young lad in the petrol station said he'd never even heard of April Foolery. Tch! The young, eh? Actually, I think he might have been a bit on the slow side because he told me that there is a new law just passed that says that as a Volvo driver, I either had to pay a surcharge of £50 or give him a blow-job. I'm sure he must have mis-read that somewhere, but I didn't have time to argue, so I duly obliged. Still made me late for work.

So next year, please, please – someone play an April Fool's joke on me. I love tradition! Just like Mr O'Bama.