The House Husband

Another beautiful and cold day. No clouds, blue sky, less than 8 degrees: My perfect day.

Given the ongoing lack of mobility in Mirinda’s knee, rather than take the dogs for a lovely walk across some gorgeous common, after lunch, we went for a drive.

Whenever Mirinda spots a new house on her realo app, she likes to go over and listen to the soundscape. This way any hint of noise and any prospective houses can be instantly marked off the list of possible visits. Her ears are quite exacting so this reduces the amount of houses she has to see by a goodly sum.

Today we managed to wipe off a couple of places that stretched along a road that ran parallel to the A3. They were only really suitable for the deaf or the type of people who never open their windows. As we fall into neither category, they were all scratched from the list.

We were close to Butser so we decided to pop into the Red Lion at Chalton for a drink. This is the pub where, upon meeting Dawn, Nick and the boys for the burning of the wickerman, we were cruelly forced to retire to because they had suddenly banned dogs. I remember it very well because it marked the first time I met Nicktor and we spent the evening together in a pub, minding the dogs. Things haven’t really changed that much.

Here we all are having lunch in the car park. Typically, Nicktor is holding up one of his milk bottles of beer. I’m pretty sure it was love at first sight. Dawn, Mirinda, the boys, Karen and Nigel all wanted to see the burning so we (Nick and I) generously volunteered to sacrifice ourselves on the altar of the Red Lion.

Eating in the car park in 2004

I can’t believe how young the boys are in this photograph! It just shows how long we’ve known the Cansfields.

Today the Red Lion is almost all restaurant, particularly on a lovely Sunday like today…though the beer is still lovely. The food was busy assailing our nostrils with delicious temptation but we were good. We drank our drinks and then drove home, narrowly missing the new tunnel.

Mirinda checks the colour of her cider

There’s one thing worse than ingesting four separate varieties of fish for Christmas Eve dinner…when they swim back upstream in the middle of the night.

I woke up, sometime during the dark, all hot and sweaty. We haven’t had the heating on since we arrived and the window was as wide open as it gets, so it was obviously an internal problem. I felt a bit queasy. I sat up and had a drink of water. I tried lying down again.

I very quickly went into the toilet and was violently ill. I also managed to wake Mirinda up, who insisted I wash my teeth before returning to bed.

I immediately started feeling better and was pretty soon fast asleep, my temperature once more normal. Dodgy fish? I think so.

When I woke up properly, it was like a long forgotten bad dream. I felt fine and was ready for breakfast.

Today we went and visited the castle. We walked across the Charles Bridge and waited for a tram up the hill. The rain, which has been threatening for days, suddenly decided to fall with a little more deliberate steadiness. We waited what seemed an age for a crowded number 22 tram.

The castle is not exactly a castle. It is an entire complex of buildings including a cathedral, a palace, some streets, numerous ticket offices, a basilica and so much more. It’s impossible to see everything in one day. Well, maybe not strictly speaking ‘impossible’ but in order to remember any of it, you really should spend about three days. The tourist people know this, which is why (I assume) the entrance tickets last for two days.

It’s not the best in the rain (it was also very cold and windy today) but at least you can go inside most places. First up was St Vitas (of the dance) Cathedral. Sadly, not my kind of place at all.

Although it is still used for church services (there were three this morning) it is much more like a museum. It is also cold and soulless and full of tourists, snapping away, yabbering and pushing.

Getting in each other's photos

The front section is roped off so that, if you haven’t paid, you have to remain behind it. You can see the length of the church but not delve into the special places reserved for those of us who willingly parted with a few shekels. Moving beyond the rope was slightly better.

The church has a lot of rich history and fancy statuary but, for me, it’s completely ruined by the constant stream of tourists. I like to feel a church. This one felt dead.

I did rather like these odd jugs hanging from their pot racks above chapels. I don’t know why but they looked strangely good.

Kitchen utensils in the cathedral

From the cathedral we popped into St George’s basilica where you could at least sit down. Within it’s walls is the last resting place of Ludmilla who had, possibly the worst mother-in-law in history.

Ludmilla was the grandmother of Wenceslas. When he was 14, his mother, Drahomíra, grew so suspicious of her mother-in-law (Ludmilla) that she organised a bunch of rough types to go and strangle her with her own scarf. She became a saint because of it and now, among her many jobs in heaven, she is also responsible for anyone having problems with their in-laws.

Poor Ludmilla with her scarf wrapped around her throat

After a lovely warm, dry pause in a cafe, we wandered down to the Golden Lane. This is an area of the castle complex which grew up organically. It started off as just a bit of wall and gradually grew into a very narrow street of goldsmiths.

Eventually the street was full of artist types (writers, painters, strange mystical woman who told the future) and became a bit of a slum. Then, in 1952, the last person moved out and the tourist board moved in and prettied it all up, giving an Ideal Homes look of the medieval.

Now each doorway is crowded with groups trying to take photographs, converging with other groups as the streets fills with more and more people. It is a bit bizarre! Especially the Czech bookstore woman who was intent on selling a Chinese version of a Prague Castle book to anyone looking remotely Chinese.

One for the family album

After being frozen, wet and jostled for long enough we decided to leave the castle grounds and start the walk back to the hotel. Actually, the audioguide had a time limit of 3 hours and it was almost up.

We started down the long staircase back towards the bridge when Mirinda spotted this place.

U Krale Brabantskeho - the best pub in the world

It is brilliant. When you walk in it’s like you’ve stepped back in time. It’s dark but warm, the staff are attentive and very rude. The beer is dark and stouty, the food is finger licking good. In fact, finger licking is not just forgiven, it’s encouraged. We had a few drinks and some chicken wings and then, sadly, left for the hotel.

I’m seriously considering encouraging Nicktor to have a weekend in Prague with me in order to spend the entire time at this pub. According to Dawn, I shouldn’t.

Anyway, after a nice long rest (watching numerous sets of credits on the supposed English language TV) we went out to Bily Konicek’s Restaurant & Jazz Club for our turkey dinner.

The dinner was fine (very little fish) but the jazz was excellent. Two guys entertianed us all night. One on fiddle, the other on guitar; they were amazing. it more than made up for last night and the fish. We stayed for quite a few sets and thoroughly enjoyed it.

Mirinda hides behind a pina colada

A while ago, we planted some big poppies in the hot border. Something in the garden gave loud thanks to whatever deity insects give thanks to. Two of the poppies were devoured while still in bud. Clearly these were very specialised insects because they left the California poppies well alone, only eating the big ones. This, as you can imagine, was a bit annoying.

And then yesterday, upon my return from work, a huge red poppy, perfectly formed, greeted me from the middle of the hot border. It stands 4′ tall and the petals are massive. Mirinda reckons it was supposed to grow 5′ tall which is why it’s towards the back of the bed – to give the bed an even line of height as it progresses towards the Crazies’ fence.

The tall poppy in situ

This height difference does not matter. It stands proud and glorious, particularly in the morning sun. In fact, even Nicktor crowed about its beauty when he came over today.

Big poppy up close

In order to keep me company (I’m sure there was no other reason), Nicktor decided we should go a bit old school and have a Nicktor Day. This is where the seeds for Nicktor Nights were sown.

Ages ago, when Mirinda was still commuting, Nicktor and I would have occasional Saturdays which included breakfast at a cafe, beer at the Crimea, football at Aldershot then more beer, before staggering back to our respective homes.

With the advent of London Living, meaning Mirinda was only home on the weekend, we stopped our Nicktor Days, settling for football on Tuesday nights. Somehow this developed into him staying over and going to work from our house the following morning. Except the night it snowed so much that he couldn’t leave the next day and we had a bonus Nicktor Night.

Eventually the football became occasional and we slipped into the Nicktor Night format we now follow.

So it was a bit like revisiting the past. We met at Aldershot station and went straight to the Crimea which was pleasantly uncrowded. Being a pre-season friendly, the crowds are not what you’d call massive and this is reflected in the pub.

The football was pretty dismal. We played Brentford which, for reasons we couldn’t fathom, required a big police presence. With 200 travelling fans and about 900 home supporters, it was all very friendly – there wasn’t even any singing – and the police had a very easy afternoon.

The odd thing about about the game was the introduction of drinks breaks for the players. Halfway through each half, the ref blew his whistle and the players all headed for the bench for a 5 minute drink. We were a bit surprised they didn’t have a golf cart like they do in the cricket, with some sort of outrageous advertising on top of it.

Anyway, as I said, the game was not very good and explains why we don’t normally go to pre-season friendlies. To be fair, it was very hot and not the most ideal conditions for playing a winter sport.

After filing out we headed back to the station for the short train ride to Farnham and stopped in at the Mulberry Hotel (‘the home of the gourmet burger’) to watch the final 11 overs of the cricket over a couple of pints. This was far more pleasant than the football. Particularly watching replays of Stuart Broad’s fabulous hat trick and the Indian collapse.

Feeling peckish, the fish and chip hop across the road wove a spell around us to the extent that we went straight over and bought a delicious deep fried dinner. We sat by the River Wey and watched three young guys defying gravity with their seatless bikes while we ate.

We then walked home via the river path and Nicktor showed me the various places where he would walk home when he was but a lad growing up in Farnham. It had changed a lot (it was 30 years ago) although not the house he lived in, which he showed me.

He told me a funny story about when he was about 16 he was invited to a birthday party at the pub. Not sure about how that worked, he took beer with him. That made me laugh. A lot. I do wonder whether he’d take a plate to a birthday party at a restaurant.

Back at the house, we drank some more beer, then whisky, and watched two excellent films (for a change). The classic Lucky Number Slevin, a crime thriller with some great twists and turns. It’s one of those films (a bit like The Usual Suspects or Fight Club) that discussing the plot would ruin the film for anyone who doesn’t know it. Suffice to say that it is a great film and one I’d recommend…although it is violent so not for the squeamish.

The second film we watched was Mean Machine in which Vinnie Jones plays an ex-England football captain who ends up in prison. He winds up coaching a team of prisoners who play a game of football against the warders at the end of the movie. I remember when this first came out and thought it looked pretty bad but, having finally seen it, I have to say it was very enjoyable.

A few people think it is an English copy of the American film The Longest Yard but, rather, they are both adaptations of the same book. After looking it up, I found that The Longest Yard (the 2005 one with Adam Sandler) was actually a remake of a 1974 film called The Longest Yard (the one with Burt Reynolds) which, according to imdb.com, was far better. Even more interesting is that Burt Reynolds appeared in both versions although playing different parts…clearly.

Of course we finished the night with a couple of episodes of Sorry before retiring for the night. Nicktor had a big grin on his face because he could sleep in. The poodles were over the moon because they were allowed to sleep with me.

Even though I don’t work – well, in the traditional way, whereby I interact with other people while getting paid for doing something deemed worth paying for – my weeks are filled with ‘stuff’. Weekends, on the other hand, are a time when Mirinda and I can chill, enjoy the garden and/or visit other people’s, basically just enjoying each other’s company more than anything else. When she’s away, I tend to feel a bit lost.

Dawn obviously felt a bit sorry for me; with a vision of me sitting at home moping (not mopping, which is difficult when seated) and so invited me to join all four Cansfields at Millfest.

Millfest is an annual event held in the beer garden of a lovely, very English country pub in Milland, not far from them. Fortunately it’s quite a sizeable beer garden.

They have a number of (unknown) bands performing on the smallest stage I think I’ve ever seen, a fantastic beer tent as well as the bar, a food delivery service that is run with military precision and a massive crowd of, mostly, family groups.

I was very lucky. Nicktor offered to come and pick me up. This was lucky for a couple of reasons. Mainly because the trains were replaced by buses between Farnham and Aldershot, which would have been a pain. Also because I haven’t seen Nicktor for a few weeks so it was nice to have a catch up in the drive back.

While waiting at home, I managed to watch the first half of a rugby league match between Warrington and Wigan (a quarter final of the Challenge Cup) which, I can only describe as amazing. After the first 25 minutes, Wigan had played like a bunch of crazy people, building up an impressive 22-0 lead. Then everything turned on it’s head and Warrington scored some fantastic tries to go in at half time at 22-16.

I’m not the biggest league fan in the world but the game was incredibly exciting. It was like Warrington had been dazed and confused while Wigan ran all over them and then, shaking themselves, full clarity returned and they fought back. It was a pity the half ended because I reckon they would have ran away with the game at that point.

Nicktor arrived as half time drew to a close so I didn’t get to see the rest of the game. On Breakfast this morning, I heard that Wigan took the game 24-44. Without having seen the second half, I figure that Warrington just ran out of steam. The ‘pundits’, the sort of guys that dad hates, were saying at half time that if Wigan wanted to win, they had to not only defeat Warrington in points but also in stamina. They didn’t think they would, particularly after Warrington staged the sort of comeback that Spartans would be proud of. Well, Wigan showed them!

Anyway, we arrived at the Cansfield house in time to see the last few Indian wickets fall in the first test at Lords, before heading out to Millfest.

It’s not often that I get to see the entire family in one go, so it was a bit of a treat for me. As Dawn was driving, she wasn’t drinking, so it wasn’t as much a treat for her.

Interestingly, the acts we saw were very good with 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s and 00s covers but failed miserably when it came to trying Pink Floyd. One memorable performance for all the wrong reasons, was by a girl in black and white horizontal stripes wearing acid blue bedroom slippers, trying to emulate Clare Torry‘s wordless performance on The Great Gig in the Sky. She wasn’t very good…that’s me being generous.

A stage clearly not made for Big Bands

Still, apart from the Pink Floyd blunders, the bands were quite good. They performed some great medleys of songs that were strung together very well. I should add that we didn’t see the earlier bands which, even I, cannot comment on. I particularly liked the Led Zeppelin numbers they performed although the woman drummer, while in all other ways excellent, was no John Bonham.

While we were there, Nicktor seemed to attract an inordinate amount of female attention. As he greeted, what seemed to be his harem, I asked Dawn who these women were and she just shrugged, as mystified as me. After she asked him for the umpteenth time who they all were, he made sure to go and chat to a few males he claimed to know.

I managed to snap him with a couple of his floozies. Apparently, after I took this photograph, the woman with him was a bit concerned. I’m not sure if this was because she didn’t want to be seen with him or she just didn’t want to be seen. Regardless, I’m not big on showing mercy without foundation.

Nicktor notices my high powered zoom lens

Millfest ended for kids at 10pm so we packed the car with the boys and took them home. Dawn drove me to Haslemere station where I realised I was drunker than I thought I was.

With a great amount of effort, I managed to read the indicator board to find that the next train to Guildford wasn’t for three quarters of an hour. Adding this to the journey time and the fact that I would have to change trains then get a railway bus meant I wouldn’t be home until September. I went and grabbed a taxi.

And what an knowledgeable taxi driver I had! At one point, while classical music filled the cab, we were discussing the Russian novel One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Actually, I was talking about growing up in Australia and happened to mention the fact that in the Russian labour camps, if the temperature sunk as low as -42, they didn’t have to go to work, quoting Solzhenitsyn and he came back with “A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich?“. We had a jolly good chat about how Russian literature developed as a result of a repressive rule.

At home I collapsed beneath the weight of over excited puppies and gradually drifted off to sleep with the television entertaining itself. At 3am I decided I should go to bed.

After a day spent researching the usual plethora of totally unconnected things (cotton manufacturers, racing circuits, beheaded kings, etc) I set off for Embankment to meet my Aunty Jan & my cousin, Idonarose.

While I haven’t seen Aunty Jan for decades, I feel I have, really, given her strangle-like embrace of Web 2.0 technologies and seemingly endless Facebook and Youtube posts. Actually, I’ve followed her trip this time, around the UK and Lanzarotte, via her Youtube posts.

So I arrived at Embankment station and headed for Starbucks. I told them to meet me at Starbucks because I know it well. They were supposed to be coming from Harrods so I was expecting many bags with their distinctive labelling. They were waiting for me inside with coffee and food. They hadn’t gone to Harrods because Idonarose had to interface with her iPad. I told her what I thought of Apple. Mirinda should be glad she wasn’t there.

And we had a great time. I’d never met my cousin before (though I’d know her anywhere, having seen around a thousand photographs of her) but it was like I knew her. I think it’s fair to say, we got on extremely well for two people who had never met.

From Starbucks I dragged them up to the Coal Hole for a few real drinks. I say dragged because poor Aunty Jan is still battle scarred from her gangplank assault. She can’t walk far so we only went four miles.

The Coal Hole is a weasel favourite because it’s a freehouse and always has interesting beers on tap. I asked what they wanted and was very surprised at the answers. Aunty Jan wanted a Harvey’s Bristol Cream. Most people who know me well would know this is a tough one. I can order any number of beers and I can just about manage mixers but, when you’re facing a Schumanian and you ask for something as exotic as Harvey’s Bristol Cream, you feel a right plonker.

The barman, who’s command of English was pretty much equal to my command of whatever language he was speaking, just said they didn’t have any…I think. Aunty Jan was given a rosè.

However, the greatest thing any cousin of mine could do is order a real ale and that’s just what Idonarose did. A pint of London Pride. She did ask how much a pint was and I explained it was, about, a pint and a half pint was, pretty close to half that but I assured her that I would drink anything she couldn’t manage. I think she took this as a personal challenge!

Idonarose knocks back a pint of Pride

Three pints of real ale she put away! What a girl. That’s two Prides and an odd concoction that included coriander – it had a weird taste that did not resemble coriander at all but tasted of something green. I reckon she could hold her own against any of the people I generally drink with. She should be an archaeologist.

I know some people have different ways to get the measure of someone but, by the gods, if you drink real ale, you’re well up there in my mind. I could hear my wife calling me shallow as I wrote that. Some sort of future echo reaching out across the oceans.

One odd thing that happened was the strange effect Aunty Jan has on my camera. Not my brand new, whiz-bang jobbie. No, my normal, ordinary, point and shoot that I bought in Australia when my other one died of old age and general over use. Obviously there was a lot of photo taking. Apart from satisfying Aunty Jan’s need to document every step of every day, my mother would kill me if I didn’t get shots of us all together.

The trouble was, Aunty Jan just had to move the camera and it would take a photo. It didn’t happen with me or Idonarose (we had to push the button) so I’m figuring it was something to do with the spirit of some dead, dead drunk, drunk that was staggering around the top floor of the Coal Hole and was being mischievous. It was truly odd.

What happens when there's a ghost in the machine

We managed to spend around four hours, drinking, laughing, talking about family, laughing some more and getting acquainted (that was me and Idonarose, I didn’t need to get reacquainted with Aunty Jan). She’s only seven years older than me and, given we spent a fair few years growing up in the same house, more like a sister. But having never met Idonarose, I needed the five minutes it took for us to click.

The three of us at the Coal Hole

By the way, no-one told me I had to call her by her full name! There’s me, marching into Starbucks saying “Hi, Aunty Jan. Hi, Idey,” without realising this just wasn’t allowed. I guess I’m just grateful I didn’t have to call her by her full name every time I spoke to her. Can you imagine? “Hi, Aunty Jan. Hi, Idonarose Everett Reavell Joan Beatrice Mabel Delilah Luanne Patricia Stephanie Orr.” Frightening. And very difficult when drunk, I imagine.

Cousins

Anyway, we had a lovely time and managed to disturb every other single person in the pub before we left and I popped them into a cab for the trip back to Parson’s Green. It was then the long haul back to Farnham for me.

I should mention that there’ll possibly be an awful Youtube video featuring me which will be online as soon as an Internet connection can be found. You have been warned.

Aunty Jan & Gaz

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And well done Claire, who came through the operation in flying colours. It’s been a great day.

It’s a strange phenomena that big, burly and excessively hairy men can acceptably wear dresses to the cricket. The social norms at live cricket matches change. Fancy dress of all sorts becomes the order of the day. When or why this started is anyone’s guess.

Consider that anyone wearing a costume must remain in it for the duration of a match (or until he’s thrown out for building towers of plastic glasses) and the commitment becomes one of endurance. This is going to become apparent if the costume is Scooby Doo or an inflated and exaggerated muscular gladiator. Therefore, the decision to wear light summer frocks is definitely the preferable option. It seems this is what the group of six men in identical dresses and sunhats figured.

Even so, it’s difficult to understand the logic of this guy with the parrot head and fairy dress sitting beside the pirate.

A man dressed as a parrot in a frilly fairy dress

The oddest combination that I say at Headingley this year was the batman and robin, handcuffed together, standing at the urinal in the men’s toilet. This may not seem any odder than most of the other costumes except when you consider the guy dressed as Batman was a bearded dwarf and Robin was at least 6′ tall.

Alongside the strange Hawaiian guy complete with grass skirt and Detective James Crockett from Miami Vice, there was a strange group of thuggish looking chaps wearing grey military style coats, complete with pseudo Nazi insignia and bowler hats.

These guys were a particularly feisty group, standing up at any opportunity to yell encouragement at anyone else making a ruckus. Observation, however, was not one of their strong points. At one stage, one of them had returned with some beer and couldn’t seem to find the rest of his battalion, although they were only about five seats from the steps. Add to this the fact that they were all dressed identically in grey jackets and bowler hats and were yelling at him and his total confusion was indicative. If it’s possible to have a face, perfect for befuddlement, he had one.

I’d never been to Headingley and Nicktor had warned me, numerous times, that the western terrace was likely to become a battleground, being notorious for things ‘kicking off’ regardless of the cricket. For about six hours, we sat and watched the match with a good natured crowd who seemed to be watching with us. It was during the last hour that I realised Nicktor was right.

The stewards at the cricket, for some reason, do not like people stacking plastic glasses into what some call ‘towers’ and others, ‘snakes’. The idea being to make them as long as possible. This is true of Old Trafford as well.

Over the course of the day, a lot of plastic glasses are collected and then piled up to be displayed to the rest of the crowd. This causes a cheer and some good natured yelling. Sometimes, if the snake is impressive enough, the TV cameras will even pick it up for those luckily watching from home.

Man with a small stack of plastic glasses

Then the stewards march in, stern faced and try and remove the glasses. Of course, they tend to go everywhere, which gets yet another big cheer. The stewards must be paid an awful lot of money because they suffer at the hands of drunken fans. Though they are backed up by the police when things turn nasty. Like the guy who whipped off a steward’s cap. The police had spotted this and marched straight down to evict the guy responsible.

Personally, I think this is a bit of an over reaction to something that is quite harmless. What isn’t harmless is when the stewards come in and things turn nasty when a fan disagrees. And by ‘fan’ I mean of the snake building rather than cricket because, oddly, during the last hour, not a lot of cricket was watched by most of these blokes.

Another popular pastime is to drop a golf ball in someone unsuspecting chap’s beer. This is fine except everyone starts chanting ‘down in one’ and you have to drink it all down very quickly. To be fair, this is quite funny unless it happens to you. Most of our group of 12 spent a good part of the day with their hands over their glasses. You quickly learn how to drink while keeping the golf balls out.

And so by the last few overs, there were very few people left around us. We were like a small island of supporters in a badly attended game. Except that, rather than non-attendance, most of them had been kicked out by the stewards and/or police.

I’m making it sound terrible when in fact, it was fine. It was very rowdy and there’s no way you want to take your kids (which is a shame although there are other areas of the ground not as bad) but mostly it was just good natured stuff which, as it turned out, was more exciting than the cricket.

The Yorkshire Cricket Club tries to combat this rowdiness by doing a few things:

The beer queues
I’m sure they have designed the way they sell beer to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to get drunk. By researching levels of inefficiency and adopting them, they ensure that anyone standing in a queue is pretty much guaranteed to be in it for a minimum of 45 minutes.

The beer limit
No-one is allowed to buy more than four pints of beer at a time. This means more of you have to queue. If you are just a single person on your own, it’s going to be a pain queueing continuously but if you’re part of a group, four pints goes a lot further. Particularly if you have five people ready to take four each at the end of each 45 minutes.

The beer carriers
These are cardboard contraptions designed to disintegrate when coming into contact with liquid. They are also designed to carry four pints of beer without lids. And when they stop working, all four pints are destroyed.

The beer itself
At Old Trafford they advertise the alcoholic content of the beer, which is pretty low, but at Headingley they don’t. I think the reason they do this, judging by the beer, is because there isn’t any. I think people get drunk on the atmosphere and smuggled bottles of spirits.

All in all, the cricket was good in parts and interesting all day.

We ate Chez Gaz gourmet lamb burgers al fresco with Nicktor continually telling the girls they weren’t getting fed from the table. He did this once a long time ago and was given a severe reprimand. As a reward he left them a bit which was immediately devoured, almost before hitting their bowls.

Nicktor dropped off at the Hogs Back Brewery on the way over so we had the pleasure of drinking fresh beer in a big plastic bottle. The sort of lovely beer that has a short life use by date ensuring it is consumed as quickly as possible. In olden times, this would have been called ‘small beer’. It is brewed to go – fast beer, if you will.

We actually had an interesting discussion about Macdonalds and why people like eating tasteless food. Setting the health issues aside, it always amazes me that people eat for the sake of eating rather than for the joy of the taste. I mean, we all have to eat so why make it joyless?

I’m not having a go at Macdonalds. After all, they are one of the most successful companies ever to open its doors to the world, but I wonder why people keep eating there. Nicktor says it’s a treat for his boys when they go and they love it. I still wonder what’s to love. I asked why they don’t prefer KFC because, while clearly just as bad for you, it at least has a lot of taste. He just shrugged.

This led quite naturally to a discussion about why, so called beer drinkers were content with tasteless lagers. Not all lagers, of course. I’m quite partial to Peroni and there’s some marvellous German, Belgian and French beers I try as often as possible. It’s the likes of Fosters and Carling and Heiniken that has me bemused. It seems people only drink it to get drunk without anything as mundane as taste to get in the way. And these breweries are very successful.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for getting drunk but I like to employ my sense of taste while doing so. I’m not being a real ale snob; I really wish someone who willingly drinks tasteless beer would explain it to me.

After an enjoyable chat, we were no closer to the truth but it appears to be that the less taste, the more successful a product will be. Humans are very odd sometimes.

Our two films this week were The Firm (not to be confused with the Tom Cruise film of the same name but very different premise) and the original I Spit on Your Grave. The former about football hooligans wrapped in a coming of age story about a young lad from London and the latter a tale of very sweet revenge.

We were a bit disappointed with The Firm. It promised much but delivered little. The humour, however, was fantastic and ran through it like a soft centre of caramel surrounded by excessively dark chocolate.

The one thing it did do was to give me a glimpse into the strange world of 1980s fashion in London. I now know where the chavs inherited their love of tracksuits and appalling haircuts.

While it showed the grim reality of football violence and how these things escalate out of control when you allay yourself to a demented leader, there was no football – I’m disregarding the brief spell of 5-a-side that the hooligans play at one stage. Not having the backdrop of football tends to dilute the message because it just becomes a film about a bunch of violent guys who go out and beat each other up in mass riots. Essentially there is no reason, albeit a slim one, when the impetus is removed.

I realise it’s actually a film about Dom growing up and away from his childhood, wanting to be accepted by the tribal members of an older fraternity but it still lacks the football and I think that is essential.

I Spit on Your Grave was interesting when we had seen the remake a few Nicktor Nights ago. The original is very dated (it was made in 1978) and was obviously made on an extremely tiny budget – even the leading lady looks like she hadn’t had a meal for years. Afterwards, Nicktor said he preferred the remake but I disagreed. My thinking was that for all its gloss, the remake added more gore than was entirely necessary as well as an extra character who was a bit surplus in my view.

Nicktor did rather like the way in which the chief protagonist met his end however. Sitting in a bath tub with the leading lady apparently going to give him a lot of pleasure. Instead, she cuts off his privatest of parts with a big knife. He has his eyes closed, lost in the moment and mumbles: “It feels good. So good, it hurts.” Suddenly blood gushes up as a main artery is severed and he stares down into the tub in disbelief. Classic revenge moment.

Of course it has problems but not quite as many as the remake – the girl’s survival for one – which, for me, makes the original better.

The evening’s entertainment, however, was not over yet. We sat and watched two episodes of the British sitcom I wasn’t allowed to mention in a previous posting. Nicktor decided I could reveal the name as he feels his shame should be spread across the entire Internet. It was Sorry!, starring little Ronnie Corbett, from a time of gentler comedy. We laughed all the way through both episodes. I have just discovered, there are 7 series…

I love Nicktor Nights. Nicktor is getting a new job. I hope we can still have them.

Today I trundled off to the Globe to join the Weasels in our usual Gentleman’s Box, this time to see Shakespeare’s comedy, All’s Well That Ends Well. Not that the day started so well.

My plan was to catch a train into town, pop over the flat to drop off a change of clothes and then hightail it across to Bankside to meet the Weasels at the Anchor Inn, as usual, ready for the opening. South West Trains thought this plan was very silly and, in keeping with their practices of not particularly catering for their passengers, they changed the Sunday timetable, eliminating half the trains.

I’m sure they did this a while ago as the timetable poster quite clearly has one train an hour into London rather than the two an hour of old. Subsequently I had the pleasure of sitting on Farnham station for half an hour, wondering how fine I would be cutting it at the other end. It’s not like I could change the plan – I had a bag of clothes and my netbook, neither of which I really wanted to cart around the pubs of London.

For once, the Jubilee Line was working on a Sunday and I managed to get to the flat at 12, texting the Weasels that I would be late and would meet them at the Globe. Lorna responded by sending me a picture of my beer which they were forced to share out and drink between them.

Time was ticking frantically away – it always ticks faster when you haven’t much left – so I opted for a taxi. The rather pessimistic driver informed me that it would take about an hour to get to the Globe because of roadworks and diversions and general mayhem in the City. He reckoned the best option was to drop me at Southwark Bridge and I could walk across.

He wasn’t wrong about the traffic. It was horrendous. Southwark Bridge had become the favoured route across the river for everyone and appeared to be one long, single lane of parked vehicles. I walked across while they sat and waited. I sent my silent thanks to the god of taxi drivers.

I arrived at the Globe with minutes to spare, meeting the Weasels as they approached. They reiterated the fact that they had to drink my beer, which was very considerate of them. We took our place in the Gentleman’s Box and settled in for the performance.

We were nine Weasels – we should have been ten but Dawn decided to go to the Orkneys instead. John, Rob (who had been steadily drinking for 24 hours with a brief nap break in a corn field), Bev, Darren, Lorna, Lindy, Tottie (John’s niece, Lindy’s daughter who is an actor and who took Dawn’s ticket), Tom and me. Matt was also supposed to be there but for reasons not disclosed to me, didn’t turn up. I can’t say I was disappointed.

Our box, unlike other times, had no table. We were tempted to steal the pone in the box next to us but it was being used by the technical guys responsible for the subtitles so didn’t think we’d get away with it like we have in previous years. Given we were one short, it was easy to utilise the high stools for a food delivery surface.

The groundlings during interval at All's Well

I’m not a big fan of Shakespeare (as most people are well aware) and this play goes a long way to explaining why. I really have no idea why the characters did what they did. I could look up the plot but I think it preferable that I should try and explain it from where I sat and watched. Tottie said it was one of the ‘problem plays’ which means people have no idea whether it’s a comedy or a tragedy. I think Shakespeare was asked to write it in a hurry – maybe for a quick couple of quid or as per contract – and didn’t bother with the sense of the plot. Anyway, here is Gary’s version of All’s Well…

Some important guy (a count, maybe) is dead and his son (I didn’t catch his name so I’ll call him Boy) is off to the French court. In the house is a girl (Helen – though John seems to think it was Helena) who has grown up with Boy although she is not related to him. Maybe she was an orphan or they found her by the road…I couldn’t work that out. And, of course, she is in love with him and is rather dismayed that he’s off to Paris.

Then we meet the best character in the play. A rather dashing, foppish chap who I shall call Eddie (because he looked and sounded like Eddie Izzard and I didn’t catch his name either) is seen flirting outrageously with Helen, discussing the pointlessness of virginity. For me this was the funniest scene of the whole play and Eddie was superb. Actually he was excellent throughout the play.

So Boy and Eddie leave for Paris and Helen is all upset and distraught. She then has an idea. Someone has given her a miracle drug for some reason and she intends to cure the King of France in order to gain a request from him – Boy’s hand in marriage.

This all goes according to plan except Boy isn’t enthused. The King however, insists and they are married. Boy, however, refuses to consummate the marriage and, instead, goes off to Florence to fight in the war. Helen hatches a plan to follow him and ends up in, I think, a nunnery. She leaves a note behind intimating that she is dead.

She somehow manages to get Boy to bed one of the nuns during which there’s a lot of ring swapping between them. However, the nun tells Boy she will not speak during the act and it must be dark. This all goes according to plan and, I think, Boy was going to marry the nun.

Back in Paris everything comes out and the King discovers the ring that Boy has is the one he gave to Helen (I don’t remember this happening but clearly it did). Helen appears and says she isn’t dead and that Boy didn’t sleep with the nun but with her and she’s now pregnant with Boy’s child. Boy breaks down and they live happily ever after. I guess.

Somewhere in the middle of this, Eddie is kidnapped and tricked into thinking he’s been captured by the enemy and confesses lots of things about his master (Boy) and various other chaps – this was a wonderful scene played superbly. I’m pretty sure Shakespeare meant us to despise this fop but the actor was so good and so likeable that I actually liked him far more than the rest of them.

Because of his confessions he is left a sad, scruffy chap, stripped of his garish clothes. I’m not sure what else happens to him.

So, all in all, a bit confusing and, if you ask me, pointless. If you want to know the real storyline, I’ve found this link which may make things clearer.

After the performance, which we all agreed was quite enjoyable – some more enjoyable than others and at least it was better than last year’s Macbeth – we wandered across Blackfriars to the usual pub for a few pints before making the long trek across the City to the Bavarian Beer House at Tower Hill.

Weasels mincing on the way to the beer hall

Tom found out about this place while searching for Bavarian beer and, it was thought, we could relive the delights of Munich therein. Which we happily did. Big jugs of beer and white sausage. Fantastic!

White sausage and pretzel - doesn't get any better than this

After a few gallons of Bavaria’s best brew, we staggered across to the Anchor for a final pint before I bid them all farewell at London Bridge station. I was rather drunk but was back in the flat half an hour later and asleep about 10 minutes after that. What an excellent idea that was.

Last of the sun over the Thames

If you’d like to see John’s photos of the day, they are here. And I should give credits for the mincing and sausage shots, which were Lorna’s.

It’s tough getting by in Zurich. Actually, can I rephrase that? It’s quite easy because you never know what language someone is going to use. So I just stick to English which seems pretty universal. It’s quite fortunate that beer sounds the same no matter what language you use (luckily there’s no obvious Spanish speakers).

Our hotel is in a great spot for wandering from and wander we did this morning. After a massive breakfast – I had the William Tell breakfast which is basically a big plate full of shredded then fried potato with two eggs and two bits of bacon resting on top. Don’t get me wrong, it was delicious but just a bit too much potato for the beginning of the day. Mirinda was much smarter and had the healthy option of cereal and fruit. Not sure why these places can’t just do toast and Vegemite.

So completely fortified (or stuffed, which is how I felt) we set off from the hotel, striding down Stampfenbachstrasse towards the river. Then Mirinda had a little ‘umm’ and a little ‘ahh’ and decided she should have brought her fleece with her. I was sent back for it. Back UP the hill. Then back down Stampfenbachstrasse.

I do like the name of this street but can’t help but wonder what drunks do if they need to get back to it and have to ask directions or answer a police officer. The German language never ceases to amaze me. Rather than make up new ones, they just keep sticking bits on the end of each existing word.

Zurich is on a river which flows not far from Stampfenbachstrasse. The river Limmat flows into (or out of) Lake Zurich and has to be one of the cleanest rivers I’ve ever seen. Amazingly, you can see the bottom from anywhere along it. This is a shot of the river taken from the tower at the Grossmunster and you can see the bottom!

The river Limmat from the Zurich Grossmunster

In fact, it was so clean that we could see a bicycle lying on the bottom. And it continued on into the lake. This was also very clean. I think it must be the Swiss thing for perfection. I quite like it. The water looked like you could drink it.

Speaking of water, I forgot to talk about the shower in our room. It’s excellent and so nice to have soft water again – I was a bit spoiled in Australia. The heat and pressure are both excellent and it’s all very easy to use. Shame…I do like to have a good moan about the bathrooms but just not possible here.

One thing that had completely escaped us was that today was May day and something we didn’t know anything about at all was the annual May day march through Zurich. This was rather fortunate because these things have been known to kick off in the past and it may have deterred us somewhat from joining in with the festivities.

It wasn’t until we crossed the river that we spotted the riot police and water cannon waiting for any eruptions or ructions from the crowd. Apart from lots of yelling about international solidarity and a hearty version of the Internationale a bit later, it went off very well and the riot police were not required.

Waiting for any problems from the socialist hordes

We wanted to go for a ferry ride around the lake but rather than plough through the slowly gathering crowds of marchers (the end of the march was at the quay) we decided to set up camp at a nearby beer garden. And what a wonderful piece of serendipity it was.

We sat for a good hour, enjoying a couple of beers and a pretzel – just like the pretzels I had in Munich – and salad and chicken for lunch and were royally entertained by the Bauchnuschti Stompers. They were excellent and here’s a little taste of them playing Always. We were quite close so it’s a bit loud.

The drummer was a cheery chap who would pop up for a swig of wine between songs. He announced at one stage that they were playing a particular song in honour of the fact that Nicco Cunningham from New Orleans was in the audience. I have no idea who this was as no-one seemed to indicate any sort of recognition. Still, it was very good.

A pretzel and not a bretzel

We then ended up at the quay, amazed that the stage had gone, the demonstrators had all disappeared and the riot police gone home. You would never have known anything had been going on and yet only an hour before there was a crowd of thousands with flags and speeches and megaphones. Very Swiss for all trace to be removed within moments of the end. There wasn’t even any rubbish!

Good for us though as we managed to buy a ticket for the short round trip around Lake Zurich. It was all very lovely – we even caught a glimpse of snow capped mountains when the clouds cleared for a bit. It did rain for a while – big, splashy drops that chased us inside for a coffee/tea – but it didn’t spoil anything. In fact, Mirinda sat on a wet chair just so we’d have somewhere dry to sit. Here’s our ferry:

The ferry we took around Lake Zurich

We then wandered up to the Grossmunster, the famous Zurich cathedral which is awfully bland because this guy called Zwingli decided to get rid of anything that looked lovely (statues, paintings, icons, etc) because God didn’t like it. This was during the reformation when God only liked things that were without colour. So the church is very, very dull inside. However, you climb the tower and the beauty of man is spread out before you.

You might think that Zwingli missed a trick with the towers but, to be fair, they weren’t built until 1786 and he was doing his thing during the 16th century.

The view towards Lake Zurich from the tower of the Grossmunster

If you ask me, Zwingli was a bit dull. If you believe in God and wonder at his creations then surely wanting to decorate a church with scenes depicting God’s wonders would be de rigeur. If you believe in him then you must believe he created all the colours and the rich tapestry of life. I’m not that keen on a church that decides it’s not nice to look at lovely things. To be fair, I’m not the best judge anyway. Moving on, then…

The church was founded by Charlemagne after his horse tripped over a couple of graves. These graves were dedicated to the martyrs Felix and Regula who, having had their heads cut off, carried them to the place where the church eventually was built. Typically weird but wonderful fairy stories as most of these big churches have.

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We did have these wonderful plans to go down into the town for dinner but, after a couple of hours chilling in the hotel (and, it should be admitted, a little snooze) we decided to order room service instead.

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I just heard on the snooker that whispering Ted Lowe died today. Sadly missed and fondly remembered from Pot Black. You were great, Ted.

Today was the deathday of Pompeo Girolamo Batoni (or Battoni, depending on where you research it), a Tuscan painter born in 1708. He painted a lot of tourist pictures during the Grand Tour days. The ones with the person sitting (or standing rather nobly) in front of historical ruins. Like tourist photographs of today. I know because I researched him today.

Coincidentally, there is an exhibition of his work at the National Gallery at the moment, so I may pop along next Wednesday. Here’s one of his portraits:

by Pompeo Batoni

And talking about things I’ve researched; I came across the digital version of a rather interesting statue this week that lives at the Science Museum. I’m reminded of it because the gout has made a bit of a reappearance today. I shared this with Nicktor as I know he’s the only person who would sympathise.

Anyway, this statue…it shows how vindictive people can be when they DON’T suffer from gout. I downloaded an image of it from work. Just have a close look at it.

The family who suffers together...laughs together

Now, apart from it being a wonderful piece of sculpture, just take a good look at the wife’s face. She is clearly enjoying his discomfort. She is looking directly at us, as if to say “Gout? Ha! Just let me show him” just before she squeezes the foot she holds in her hand.

Now look at him. He is in agony. An unfair and unjust agony brought on merely because he likes a drink and a haunch of venison with his port and brandy. But he is howling in agony BEFORE she has squeezed his foot. She is merely holding it. Oh, gout, how lethal is your sting!

Never mind the kid. He’s obviously looking at his father, asking when he can start drinking, like all sons to their fathers.

The sculpture was made by Meissen in Germany, one of the first companies to produce porcelain. I think it’s quite lovely but the subject is somewhat not!

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On Breakfast this morning I heard something quite awful. It was announced that Fuller’s Brewery will NOT be selling London Pride at the 2012 games in London because Heineken have the exclusive beer selling rights for the entire games. Now, quite apart from the fact that Heineken is tasteless and possibly second last on a long list of nice beers (Foster’s, clearly being last) and ignoring the fact that it is a Dutch beer and not British, I have to ask why? Why is it exclusive? Why do the Olympic committee assume everyone likes tasteless fizzy water? Can there be no choice? Why not half and half?

At the cricket you get both (or either) lager and real beer. It’s not that difficult.

However, that’s not really what bothers me most. Heineken is Dutch. It isn’t the Amsterdam Olympics. It’s the London Olympics. London Pride is a London thing (according to the posters) and a jolly good beer. WHY? I really think it’s rather sad that obviously money is more important than flavour. I wonder what they served at the Sydney Olympics. Budweiser, perhaps. Or Kingfisher.

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Oh, and I found out about the weird totem pole in Farnham Park. The one I talked about here. It is one part of a pair of sculptures by local artist, Ruth Wheeler, park volunteers and a bunch of local kids from three schools. The trunks are from a tree which was cut down in 2009 (it was in danger of falling over and killing someone). Ruth has carved feathers into the wood and the inside has been purposely scorched to give a contrast to the light timber. The holes are naturally formed by woodpeckers bashing their beaks into it when it was alive. There is another sculpture (I assume looking the same if not similar) near the main entrance to the park.

A pity it doesn’t have some sort of pagan significance.