Monthly Archives: August 2010
I’ve been wandering around somewhere near Wales with my laptop under my arm like a dowser, except I don’t want water or ley lines, just an effing broadband signal.
Not much luck thus far. The blog is going to be intermittent for a while…
I’ve been sleeping really heavily this week. When I wake up it’s like I’m coming round from a general anaesthetic: who am I, where am I, what manner of life is this anyway? This morning I was dreaming about Date with Destiny (late, great George Washington’s only offspring – keep up at the back and in Devon) and when I woke I had this great idea that I would stop and see her take on Theyskens Theory and a Hurricane Run filly (Cochomba?) in the Prestige Stakes @ Newbury as I am going that way…
I lay in bed coming round from the anaesthetic of sleep wondering why this great diversion off the M4 had not occured to me last night when I was backing her and Cochomba who (@ 12s) seemed a tad too big. Then as the haze slowly lifted I remembered that the race is at Goodwood, which is not on the way at all. I could pop into Windsor I suppose, but I think wellies would be in order, if the riverside track there is not actually underwater. Speaking of wellies, there is a post that’s been in the queue since last weekend, but its nature defied description of the normal order. Seeing as I’m already deeply discombobulated, I don’t suppose it will do much more harm to mention it now, but be warned it comes with a warning…
Some might say, what goes on in Devon should stay in Devon and there’d be good sense in that. I say I am under heavy manners from regular blog visitor WBWC to get this out there so I’ll do my best.
Last Saturday I woke up dreaming of the Christow Show which we were going to with the Devon Home Cook, Andy the Landy & the two daughters. Christow is off the track in a pretty combe (valley?) and we were promised the usual: classes for horses, dogs, carriages, terrier racing and some vintage tractors \o/
The show delivered on all the above, but there was also the main attraction (repeated twice according to the programme – we fled after the first “performance”). The thing of which I speak was entitled The Rexon Performing Ponies and there’s no way of really dressing this up or down, so I will just outline the general carry on that went on before our eyes and you can imagine it for yourselves.
Music: Cheryl Cole’s “Fight for this love”
Protaganists: Two ladies who might have known better, two children who clearly could not, and two ponies who definitely did
Activities: Wiggling and gyrating and marching forwards and walking backwards (dancers) walking backwards and looking pissed off (ponies)
NB I am sharing this with you all in good faith and whilst I am aware that it may look otherwise there was NO semi-erotic content to this Devon Family Show in the Open Air which is very Healthy and the blog will not tolerate any Comment that begs to differ.
During what was undoubtedly the 12 inch version of Chezza’s ironic track about Cashley, the brain could not quite compute the messages the eyes were delivering and when the mixed visuals eventually penetrated the cerebrum we were too polite to do anything but hang our mouths open “like slack-jawed fools”. Thanks for that line Ray LaMontagne. Perhaps he’s seen the act too.
Then, when we thought it was all over, they had a bit of a costume change and like some kind of hideous world of a bad acid trip they started all over again, this time to the tune of Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. I refer to you the NB, there was definitely No Irony Intended.
We were sitting in a row with some younger teenagers who had no such qualms about knowing people in the village and eventually broke rank with giggles and when confronted with some particularly ungainly “dance” moves from the boa-feathered women my party was in deep hysterics. The kind where you might wet yourself if you were not intent on maintaining some dignity of an afternoon.
The appreciative audience
Now, because this is not the most favourable of reviews and I am mindful of the Devon Home Cook’s position in local society down Devon way, it would not be politic to include a link to the Performing Ponies, but if you are ever a bit drunk you can google the Rexon Stud. Such an action, which is best saved for high days and holidays, will take you to a whole gallery of photos and *whispers* videos for your entertainment. They are now taking bookings for next year. Just a hint if you are thinking of booking them for your wedding or bar mitzvah – ask them to ditch the monotone matriarchal commentary that goes on more or less throughout reminding us that the horses “can’t wait” to come and do these performances and the “harmony” is all achieved through “non-violent” methods – just as her daughter starts waving a schooling whip at Black Lad (the larger pony of the two – obviously).
I have run out of words now. Some may wish I had ran out of them earlier.
I can’t think why, but I have been compared (on this very blog) to Beryl the Peril, Dennis the Menace’s mate.
And usually I would raise my hackles and hotly deny the charge, but this week has been such a series of minor muddles partially of my own making that I would probably be on dodgy ground if I tried.
1) Right Knee, Left Knee
2) Garden wall, Car “bumper”
3) Line full of wet washing (stubbornly refusing to dry)
4) Work’s new gazebo blown down causing H&S outrage at public outdoor event – collected shiny and new – returned muddy, ragged and broken
But now I have definitely got it out of my system I am switching Beryl off from today (well it will have to be tomorrow now because today has got off to a typical Berylish start) and becoming Catherine Deneuve instead.
But I am a teeny bit worried it won’t be as much fun…
This is how the Metropolitan Police are treating the death of this poor fellow who worked for MI6.
I am really sorry that this guy has met such a violent and untimely end aged 30; it’s just when you examine the facts revealed so far – found cut up in a holdall in his bath – the suspicious and unexplained statement makes me want to throw a brick at the radio. You don’t say?
If the Police have nothing to add to the facts could they just not shut the eff up? The same goes for repeating over and over again that the post-mortem was “inconclusive”. Of course the Police are probably not repeating it every hour on the hour – that would be the news wouldn’t it?
A terrible thing has happened and thus far it is a hideous mystery. Please keep quiet about it until there is something material to add.
What I expect the media will do to fill the factual void is start speculating about the victim’s lifestyle 😦
Due to the endless rain in the South East, Goodwood have been forced to abandon today’s racing – waterlogged track.
Due to the endless rain in the South East, Makemeadiva has been forced to abandon her washing on the line for the second day in a row – experience tells me it will dry out one day…
And, just as I plan a spot of racing in Chepstow, they are forced to give up their last two flat cards to Bath (how apt). The calamity is due to worms. The wrong kind of worms. I may be forced to go to Hereford instead which is the wrong kind of racing.
The Wray Barton Wrecking Crew is a full ten years and a bit younger than me, but when I am fortuitous enough to spend time with her I am always left in mind-boggled awe at her capabilities and talents. This weekend I was indeed so boggled at times I was left wondering if we were, in fact, entirely related. I worked the possibilities through in my mind and was left with the slim chance that if one of us were changelings it was more likely to be me. I remember when she was first born and she is unmistakeably that same personage still. I, on the other hand, left my mother in a state of unconsciousness for a week with my difficult delivery so might quite easily have been switched. Either that or the Wray Barton One took all my organisational abilities when she exited the womb, seeing as I had forgotten to take them earlier.
Anyway, just I was pondering the differences I found a very big same. We spoke on the phone yesterday and she had cleaned out her car. Why? I asked incredulously having been carted stocklike in it and its rich aroma through the combes and wrays of Devon at the weekend. Because, she said, Someone is getting A Lift in it.
I know this feeling. Only on Monday I suspected I might have to give my boss a lift with minutes to spare. I dragged the reversible picnic (dog) blanket over the passenger seat, threw some rubbish in the boot whilst leaving a window open and hoping the dog smell was not too pungent. You can’t smell it yourself you see. So there in our Last Train to Scuzzville cars we are most undubitably related.
If you are in similar dog mobeel boat make sure you include the following in your cleaning programme:
Remove all dog snot from the back window
Dusting the dashboard
A thorough hoovering of the upholstery
Place an air-freshener in the cup holder.
Too late I heard today that the best cleaner for dog doings is this enzyme based cleaner. I haven’t checked and verified, but it might be worth a whirl sometime folks. Oh what exciting lives we lead.
Ray LaMontagne’s new album God Willin’ & If The Creek Don’t Rise (with the Pariah Dogs) is just out in the US. I’m not sure if we can get it here yet, but it seems to be available online on vinyl too. How exciting, although I’ll just be downloading I guess. This is the only track I’ve heard so far from it, but I love it.
“Drowning in the small talk and the chatter…”
The album cover reminds me of Neil Young’s Harvest: one of my favourites and definitely perfect for these Dog Days and Broken Knees.
Even on 40 year old knees…
I have a few posts I have been meaning to do:
Blind Sex Pest Goldfish Seeks New Chaste Home
No Cardigans with Maxi Dresses SamCam
“Progressivity” ain’t a word George (Gideon) Osborne
Exactly Wot is this “Recycled” Money of which you speak Health Man?
Premier League Football starts: the World’s mouth gapes
But today I will share instead how I came to be dressing my wounds in Betfred’s shop circa 19.43 yesterday evening, whilst Elhamri broke out of the stalls and galloped down the course, delaying the start of the 19.45 at Windsor (which is a ridiculous figure of eight course) wherein I had backed Imaginary Diva (on good advice) who eventually placed third (8/1 e/w = a minor contribution to dinner).
See the thing is, I can see how I might improve my aesthetics to comply with diva criteria, but mostly I can’t quite pull it all together. Take yesterday. I was enjoying wearing a dress, for once. Normally skirts and wotnot are a bit tricky because I am always getting into scrapes: bashing myself with my wicked sharp metal bike pedals leaving bruises and cuts on my shins, getting scratched by the dog on his regular leg tangles when a cat is in sight and bashing myself on assorted fixtures and fittings. There are probably about ten days a year when my legs are fit for public consumption. Anyway yesterday was one such. I had on a nice French black linen shift dress and had added a Minnie Mouse red and white spotted silk necktie. My footwear was not flip-flops! I had received compliments and I was looking forward to popping it back on and going out for supper after my run. let’s also gloss over the bare facts that although my legs were on good form, my arms looked like I had been self-harming (iron burn and drinking blister), but you can never have it all you know.
At about 18.15 I popped out for a quick run with the dog and my friend (leaving starving Guv’nor on the sofa urging speed which was fine because I am trying to effect a faster pace anyway). I suppose the rest doesn’t take much figuring out and my dignity would probably preclude a detailed account of painfully going down (like a sack of shit). Suffice to say the material ingredients of my downfall included running with the dog on the lead, a dodgy drain and uneven concrete. Not paying full attention was certainly a factor. Going for a run is meant to induce a meditative scenario and I was anything but. I was still in my head and not in my body so my body took a big fall to remind me of my failings.
Notwithstanding the humiliation, I did not cry and we did a bit more limping/running but once home I had to jump in the shower where much stinging commenced. We have at home child knee-sized plasters but I needed one the size of a saucer so I had to go to the shop and get the necessary (plus antiseptic anaesthetic cream) which I liberally applied in the bookmakers. I thought that would be a bit more health and safety than in the restaurant (where an even more starving Guv’nor was now waiting) and would be killing two birds with one stone which is always a good thing isn’t it?
This morning, in addition to the arm injuries, I now have one well smashed up knee, a scraped one and a slightly unhappy, but much recovered pair of palms. Ho hum. That’s blown dresses until 2011.