After the infamous Dalriada Spladoosh I mentioned that I sometimes found it difficult to get involved in Porty issues as living so far away means that I feel a bit 'out of it'. There was then a discussion on the Porty Diaspora and it was suggested that I start a blog to keep people informed on what I am up to, and maybe other Porty exiles could do the same.
So: The Sports Clinic are beginning to lose sympathy with my achilles tendon problem. " You've been running on it again, haven't you?" Well of course I have been running on it again. That's what it's there for. So they get patronising. " It's commendable that you are still running at your age, but you have to accept that as we get older our tendons tend to become less flexible. You're obviously not going to stop running, so if it starts to play up, stop wherever you are and walk back."
Yesterday I was ten miles up a dismantled railway track when 'It' started to play up so I dutifully stopped and walked back. It was great! Instead of concentrating on the state of my psyche, I was able to enjoy the countryside. Aren't there a lot of butterflies about this year? White ones, red ones, yellow ones with an orange stripe. I'll have to invest in an I-spy book of butterflies. It'll be a good bramble harvest as well. A combination of the wet and the heat.
It also gave me time to contemplate the mysteries of cyclists. Why do so many of them insist on cycling on the road when there is a perfectly good cycle path only metres away? When they are in family groups, why do the mothers and children have cycle helmets but the fathers don't? Is it a macho thing? Why do they aim for the horse manure, but avoid the doggy do? The latter point also raises the question does anyone manufacture poop scoops for horse owners?
Halfway through the return journey there was a long, straight stretch of track. Well in advance I could hear the sounds of engines revving and assumed it was not someone listening to the Turkish Grand Prix. It turned out to be six adolescent young men racing each other on unfeasibly small motorbikes through a heavy cloud of class C smoke and laughing uproariously each time they crashed into each other. I sat on the bank, inhaling deeply, and watched them for a good quarter of an hour, but gave up when they started playing for the audience.
The way in which other runners would smirk as they passed was heartwarming. We are a close knit little running community along this track. It's a bit like the porty dog walking fraternity - we all know each other by sight if not by name.
The highlight came just as I was getting back to town. A cyclist slowed down to a tentative wobble. "Achilles gone again has it? I'll see you at the clinic tomorrow." These chiropractors never miss a trick.
Rathbone's Ramblin'
Rathbone's Ramblin'
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
Re: Rathbone's Ramblin'
andrathbone wrote:a heavy cloud of class C smoke
rathbone wrote: I sat on the bank, inhaling deeply
This is not a good example to be setting, Mr R!!!
All I really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt!
-Lucy Van Pelt (in Peanuts, by Charles M. Schulz)
-Lucy Van Pelt (in Peanuts, by Charles M. Schulz)
Having just become used to the soubriquet 'the spotted member', this week I was given a practical lesson in the principle that size isn't everything.
Mrs Rathbone and I set off for London with the firm intent of visiting the Picture of Britain exhibition at the Tate and instead went trawling along Oxford Street in search of 'plain winter boots' (don't ask).
Perhaps it was the transcendent state induced by hearing the mantra "do you have these in a seven" repeated several thousand times, but by the time we got to the Gallery I was in a particularly receptive frame of mind.
For those of you who watched the series but haven't been able to get to the exhibition, it's both a joy and an anticlimax. An anticlimax because many of the paintings featured in the series aren't here, but a joy because the painting have been supplemented by other works such as Wordsworth's notebooks (terrible handwriting) and Turner's sketchpads (these are sketches??)
However, my moment of revelation came not from the big famous Turners, Constables or Landseers, but in the form of a small watercolour of the Vale of the White Horse by Eric Ravilious. There was something about the quality of the thing which made me want to spend some time with it. Because the show closes next week it was the usual last minute packed throng and I had to push my way through to the front four times before I had intimidated enough people to get them to let me have enough space to even see it properly.
Beautifully done, with only three colours - yellow ochre, cerulean blue and paynes grey by the look of it. The skill is all in the cross hatching.
As usual, things get lost in reproduction, but in the original it really does look like it is raining and you feel you could walk along that ridge and up the path in the distance, beneath the white horse. Yet none of this is naturalistic (just look at how stylised the grass is). Quite a difference from the big, famous, photographic victorian landscapes around it, and all the better for being so small, humble and perfectly formed.
Now, if someone could only make humble winter boots in a size seven.
Mrs Rathbone and I set off for London with the firm intent of visiting the Picture of Britain exhibition at the Tate and instead went trawling along Oxford Street in search of 'plain winter boots' (don't ask).
Perhaps it was the transcendent state induced by hearing the mantra "do you have these in a seven" repeated several thousand times, but by the time we got to the Gallery I was in a particularly receptive frame of mind.
For those of you who watched the series but haven't been able to get to the exhibition, it's both a joy and an anticlimax. An anticlimax because many of the paintings featured in the series aren't here, but a joy because the painting have been supplemented by other works such as Wordsworth's notebooks (terrible handwriting) and Turner's sketchpads (these are sketches??)
However, my moment of revelation came not from the big famous Turners, Constables or Landseers, but in the form of a small watercolour of the Vale of the White Horse by Eric Ravilious. There was something about the quality of the thing which made me want to spend some time with it. Because the show closes next week it was the usual last minute packed throng and I had to push my way through to the front four times before I had intimidated enough people to get them to let me have enough space to even see it properly.
Beautifully done, with only three colours - yellow ochre, cerulean blue and paynes grey by the look of it. The skill is all in the cross hatching.
As usual, things get lost in reproduction, but in the original it really does look like it is raining and you feel you could walk along that ridge and up the path in the distance, beneath the white horse. Yet none of this is naturalistic (just look at how stylised the grass is). Quite a difference from the big, famous, photographic victorian landscapes around it, and all the better for being so small, humble and perfectly formed.
Now, if someone could only make humble winter boots in a size seven.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
I've been watching the repeats of Heimat on BBC4, and getting hung up on the logistics of developing the village into the town. The little details of the area around the war memorial change from episode to episode.. How did they do that? Start with the town as it was in the 1980s and work back in time, demolishing things, or start with a small set and keep adding?? Pity the DVD hasn't a "making of Heimat" featurette.
I suppose it would be possible to pull together a Porty Heimat. Virtual Memory.
To take one example, when I was small the area at the junction of Adelphi Place and the High Street was the tram depot. The trams used to go from there up to the Post Office at Waterloo Place. Then, when I was about nine, the trams were replaced by buses with signs on the back of the seats saying ' no spitting on the bus' and little metal plates for striking your matches on before you lit up your Craven A. Apart from a few memorial feet of track outside the Post Office, the tramlines were torn up, the depot was torn down and the flats were thrown up. Now I notice they've got nice little railings along the front and Mrs. Wright has put out her plant pots to add a bit of colour.
Then there were the shops in front of the villas in Bath Street, now all gone. Molly Hood's, where you had to take your sweetie coupons until rationing was lifted. The Barbers where you didn't need coupons to get something for the weekend. The Greengrocers, where the parsley actually tasted of parsley. And the chip shop which served real chips in real newspaper and is now the last to go.
Which brings me to Rathbone house from whence I came,
replaced long ago by nothing much. The garden went even earlier to accommodate some rather attractive public conveniences, subject of another thread on this forum, glimpsed in this early seventies photograph. The building behind the house, used to be an ice cream factory before it became a depot for caterpillar tractors. It went in the comprehensive Pipe Street redevelopment.
When I was in Porty in August, Bob Jefferson asked me what changes I'd noticed. Honestly, very little, I replied, It is like watching your children growing up -Apart from having to buy new shoes every five minutes you don't really notice the little changes until it's too late.
I suppose it would be possible to pull together a Porty Heimat. Virtual Memory.
To take one example, when I was small the area at the junction of Adelphi Place and the High Street was the tram depot. The trams used to go from there up to the Post Office at Waterloo Place. Then, when I was about nine, the trams were replaced by buses with signs on the back of the seats saying ' no spitting on the bus' and little metal plates for striking your matches on before you lit up your Craven A. Apart from a few memorial feet of track outside the Post Office, the tramlines were torn up, the depot was torn down and the flats were thrown up. Now I notice they've got nice little railings along the front and Mrs. Wright has put out her plant pots to add a bit of colour.
Then there were the shops in front of the villas in Bath Street, now all gone. Molly Hood's, where you had to take your sweetie coupons until rationing was lifted. The Barbers where you didn't need coupons to get something for the weekend. The Greengrocers, where the parsley actually tasted of parsley. And the chip shop which served real chips in real newspaper and is now the last to go.
Which brings me to Rathbone house from whence I came,
replaced long ago by nothing much. The garden went even earlier to accommodate some rather attractive public conveniences, subject of another thread on this forum, glimpsed in this early seventies photograph. The building behind the house, used to be an ice cream factory before it became a depot for caterpillar tractors. It went in the comprehensive Pipe Street redevelopment.
When I was in Porty in August, Bob Jefferson asked me what changes I'd noticed. Honestly, very little, I replied, It is like watching your children growing up -Apart from having to buy new shoes every five minutes you don't really notice the little changes until it's too late.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
What a wonderful post, Rathbone.
I vaguely remember the shops in Bath Street before they fell into disrepair. The new houses being built on the site are coming along apace.
The house on the Prom looked a wonderful place. I loved the little windowboxes.
It's so sad that homes like this had to go.
And small world that Portobello is, the lovely Mrs Wright (and Mr. Wright) were neighbours of Ali and I up until they, and their flower pots, moved along the road.
I vaguely remember the shops in Bath Street before they fell into disrepair. The new houses being built on the site are coming along apace.
The house on the Prom looked a wonderful place. I loved the little windowboxes.
It's so sad that homes like this had to go.
And small world that Portobello is, the lovely Mrs Wright (and Mr. Wright) were neighbours of Ali and I up until they, and their flower pots, moved along the road.
This card was recently up for sale on ebay. It was posted from Portobello in August 1918.ecm wrote:What a wonderful post, Rathbone.
I vaguely remember the shops in Bath Street before they fell into disrepair. The new houses being built on the site are coming along apace.
The house on the Prom looked a wonderful place. I loved the little windowboxes.
It's so sad that homes like this had to go.
www.porty.org.uk
The tenement on the left with the bay windows sticking out - the top bAy window was my Mum's front room! She lived there for 30 years (see, our family just gets EVERYWHEREMarya wrote:This card was recently up for sale on ebay. It was posted from Portobello in August 1918.
)Enough of your nonsense - get back to the Play Pen!
If that wifie doesn't get off the road soon she'll be mowed down by a Scotmid delivery lorry reversing out the car park.Marya wrote: This card was recently up for sale on ebay. It was posted from Portobello in August 1918.
It wouldn't surprise me if Epykat lays claim to her being her Great grannie.
.-
Pal of Porty
- Posts: 2136
- Joined: 30 Sep 2004, 13:41
- Location: Old Folks Home
- Contact:
Which brings me to Rathbone house from whence I came,
replaced long ago by nothing much. The garden went even earlier to accommodate some rather attractive public conveniences, subject of another thread on this forum, glimpsed in this early seventies photograph. The building behind the house, used to be an ice cream factory before it became a depot for caterpillar tractors. It went in the comprehensive Pipe Street redevelopment.
When I was in Porty in August, Bob Jefferson asked me what changes I'd noticed. Honestly, very little, I replied, It is like watching your children growing up -Apart from having to buy new shoes every five minutes you don't really notice the little changes until it's too late.[/quote]
Super photo of Rathbone House always wondered what it looked like, thanks for that Rathbone.
I live in Rathbone Place and if I've got my bearings right, my garden and part of my house stands on the very spot where Rathbone House used to be. I must post a photograph from the same spot this one was taken, when I can figure out how to do it
replaced long ago by nothing much. The garden went even earlier to accommodate some rather attractive public conveniences, subject of another thread on this forum, glimpsed in this early seventies photograph. The building behind the house, used to be an ice cream factory before it became a depot for caterpillar tractors. It went in the comprehensive Pipe Street redevelopment.
When I was in Porty in August, Bob Jefferson asked me what changes I'd noticed. Honestly, very little, I replied, It is like watching your children growing up -Apart from having to buy new shoes every five minutes you don't really notice the little changes until it's too late.[/quote]
Super photo of Rathbone House always wondered what it looked like, thanks for that Rathbone.
I live in Rathbone Place and if I've got my bearings right, my garden and part of my house stands on the very spot where Rathbone House used to be. I must post a photograph from the same spot this one was taken, when I can figure out how to do it
How old would you be, if you didn't know how old you are?
I was in the kitchen contemplating how long the thunder would keep off and watching Zorro make his mark on my cabbages when this little card came through the letter box: We regret that we were unable to deliver your goods as no-one was at home when we called. To arrange collection from our depot conveniently located fifty miles away please call the following number...
... I was out the front door like a shot and managed to catch the little oik (he looked 13 but was probably 23) before he got back into his van. "What's the meaning of this?" I asked. "It means, mate, that you weren't in and I have to take your stuff back." "I'm obviously in otherwise I wouldn't be standing here." "But you didn't answer the door wen I knocked, so its too late." "You didn't knock, you just stuck the card through the letter box." "You calling me a liar?" "Far be it from me to impugn your integrity, but..." "And it's in the computer now, so I have to take the stuff back." "What do you mean it's in the computer" He waved his little palm device at me. "I've entered it in 'ere that there was no one in." "Well, delete it then." "More than my jobs wurf ,gov."
Fifteen minutes later he conceded that he could actually delete things on his computer without the wrath of multinationals descending on us both, opened the back of the van and dumped the boxes out on to the drive. "Wot's in these anway? They're fecking eavy." "Shelves", I replied.
This was the culmination of the ultimatum which the Rathbonettes and I had given Mrs. R at the beginning of the summer holidays. Is it really true that people in the teaching profession are obliged to keep cardboard boxes, containing every piece of work produced by every pupil they've ever encountered, in perpetuity? Mrs R seems to think so. (It's in her contract, she says). As a consequence, the only way that you can reach the computer this is being written on is to attach guy ropes to the loft hatch and abseil into the study. Television viewing requires the ascent of the east ridge of the living room and don't even contemplate using the dining room table without prior negotiation with the federal emergency management agency.
To give her her due, after the initial shock of the mutiny, she did settle down to a systematic sort-out of her clutter (sorry, essential archives) and I was forced into the other side of the bargain -- putting up shelves in the garage to store the results.
Once they had been de-oiked, the shelves were remarkably easy to put up. None of your old fashioned bolt together stuff. Oh no, this was easy, push together and twist-lock, heavy duty stuff designed for real garages, like the one Kevin Webster runs in Coronation Street. It only took two and a half hours.
By that time it was thundering merrily and Zorro had scarpered back to his hutch three gardens up. Needless to say, when she carried out the post construction inspection Mrs. R. homed right in on the dent where I had to give it a wee bash with a hammer before it would either push together or lock no matter how hard I twisted. Her ability to see the smallest blemish through the dullest gloom, aided only by a nanosecond of lightning flash, never ceases to amaze.
... I was out the front door like a shot and managed to catch the little oik (he looked 13 but was probably 23) before he got back into his van. "What's the meaning of this?" I asked. "It means, mate, that you weren't in and I have to take your stuff back." "I'm obviously in otherwise I wouldn't be standing here." "But you didn't answer the door wen I knocked, so its too late." "You didn't knock, you just stuck the card through the letter box." "You calling me a liar?" "Far be it from me to impugn your integrity, but..." "And it's in the computer now, so I have to take the stuff back." "What do you mean it's in the computer" He waved his little palm device at me. "I've entered it in 'ere that there was no one in." "Well, delete it then." "More than my jobs wurf ,gov."
Fifteen minutes later he conceded that he could actually delete things on his computer without the wrath of multinationals descending on us both, opened the back of the van and dumped the boxes out on to the drive. "Wot's in these anway? They're fecking eavy." "Shelves", I replied.
This was the culmination of the ultimatum which the Rathbonettes and I had given Mrs. R at the beginning of the summer holidays. Is it really true that people in the teaching profession are obliged to keep cardboard boxes, containing every piece of work produced by every pupil they've ever encountered, in perpetuity? Mrs R seems to think so. (It's in her contract, she says). As a consequence, the only way that you can reach the computer this is being written on is to attach guy ropes to the loft hatch and abseil into the study. Television viewing requires the ascent of the east ridge of the living room and don't even contemplate using the dining room table without prior negotiation with the federal emergency management agency.
To give her her due, after the initial shock of the mutiny, she did settle down to a systematic sort-out of her clutter (sorry, essential archives) and I was forced into the other side of the bargain -- putting up shelves in the garage to store the results.
Once they had been de-oiked, the shelves were remarkably easy to put up. None of your old fashioned bolt together stuff. Oh no, this was easy, push together and twist-lock, heavy duty stuff designed for real garages, like the one Kevin Webster runs in Coronation Street. It only took two and a half hours.
By that time it was thundering merrily and Zorro had scarpered back to his hutch three gardens up. Needless to say, when she carried out the post construction inspection Mrs. R. homed right in on the dent where I had to give it a wee bash with a hammer before it would either push together or lock no matter how hard I twisted. Her ability to see the smallest blemish through the dullest gloom, aided only by a nanosecond of lightning flash, never ceases to amaze.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
Another great tale Rathbone.
You made me think about the POL standard for offspring, one just adds ettes. Magnolettes was the first example I remember and both of these work well. Jeffersonettes is a belter and sound like a TV programme. However, I think we need a back up plan if the new Mrs Wangi has a bambino; Wanginettes just doesn't work. It sounds like head lice.
You made me think about the POL standard for offspring, one just adds ettes. Magnolettes was the first example I remember and both of these work well. Jeffersonettes is a belter and sound like a TV programme. However, I think we need a back up plan if the new Mrs Wangi has a bambino; Wanginettes just doesn't work. It sounds like head lice.
The only problem I see in Jeffersonettes, Porty, is that 'ettes' is a feminine plural diminutive. I think Farside might have something to say about itPorty wrote:Another great tale Rathbone.
You made me think about the POL standard for offspring, one just adds ettes. Magnolettes was the first example I remember and both of these work well. Jeffersonettes is a belter and sound like a TV programme. However, I think we need a back up plan if the new Mrs Wangi has a bambino; Wanginettes just doesn't work. It sounds like head lice.
www.porty.org.uk
It was as if a big orange guy had come up to me, slapped my face and said:spladoosh - you've been tangoed.
There hadn't been much traffic and all the lights had been green, so I was early for my appointment at the Chiropractor's. Not that I minded because, unlike the dentist, Duncan the aussie chiro has a good selection of magazines.
Top of the pile there was an article on Gil Scott-Heron and in an instant I was right back into 1970, on my old pitch opposite Camden Town tube station, resplendent in my Red Mole t-shirt, peddling left wing propaganda to the masses. It was after one of those (usually unproductive) sessions that I had wandered up to Compendium and discovered Gil Scott-Heron, or rather his novel The Vulture. (As an aside, I notice that The Vulture has recently been reprinted by Canongate, of all people. It's about the life of a murder victim as retold by four men who knew him as a boy and really captures what it was like to be black and american in the 60s - perhaps I should add it to the Big Read list.)
I found that I could relate to the polemic in the book , honed as I was on those long dadaistic evening in the Meadow Bar during the late 60s, arguing socialism with the university anarchist society (now there was a contradiction in terms).
As time went on and Scott-Heron began to issue his work on records with titles such as Home Is Where The Hatred Is, he spoke a lot of sense to me about nuclear proliferation, apartheid, the links between race-poverty-big business, and the machinations of Nixon, Ford, Goldwater and Carter. The man was uncompromising, enraged and, above all, articulate.
As he said:
The revolution will not be right back after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will not be televised.
In other words, Gil Scott-Heron was one of the formative forces on my personal political development.
So it came as a little bit of a shock when the article I was reading ended:
" Godfather of Rap in the 1990s, Gil Scott-Heron is now probably best known as the voice in the Tango Ads when he says - You know when you've been tangoed."
There hadn't been much traffic and all the lights had been green, so I was early for my appointment at the Chiropractor's. Not that I minded because, unlike the dentist, Duncan the aussie chiro has a good selection of magazines.
Top of the pile there was an article on Gil Scott-Heron and in an instant I was right back into 1970, on my old pitch opposite Camden Town tube station, resplendent in my Red Mole t-shirt, peddling left wing propaganda to the masses. It was after one of those (usually unproductive) sessions that I had wandered up to Compendium and discovered Gil Scott-Heron, or rather his novel The Vulture. (As an aside, I notice that The Vulture has recently been reprinted by Canongate, of all people. It's about the life of a murder victim as retold by four men who knew him as a boy and really captures what it was like to be black and american in the 60s - perhaps I should add it to the Big Read list.)
I found that I could relate to the polemic in the book , honed as I was on those long dadaistic evening in the Meadow Bar during the late 60s, arguing socialism with the university anarchist society (now there was a contradiction in terms).
As time went on and Scott-Heron began to issue his work on records with titles such as Home Is Where The Hatred Is, he spoke a lot of sense to me about nuclear proliferation, apartheid, the links between race-poverty-big business, and the machinations of Nixon, Ford, Goldwater and Carter. The man was uncompromising, enraged and, above all, articulate.
As he said:
The revolution will not be right back after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will not be televised.
In other words, Gil Scott-Heron was one of the formative forces on my personal political development.
So it came as a little bit of a shock when the article I was reading ended:
" Godfather of Rap in the 1990s, Gil Scott-Heron is now probably best known as the voice in the Tango Ads when he says - You know when you've been tangoed."
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
I was at this gig in the barras in 1993 (I think it was a band called Arrested Development) but anyway, right after the gig while we were still dancing away this guy came up to me and said something that sounded like "do you want some heroin?"
You have to remember that a gig had just finished and my ears were ringing, but I swear he said "do you want some heroin" so I said "no thanks" (just say no, kids). But he looked puzzled and kept saying something something heroin - and I was just about getting irate when he said "but it'll change your life!" and I remember thinking - I'm sure it will pal - but after enough times of me saying I wasn't interested, he left.
Only later when I saw the posters did I realise that the poor lad was asking me if I'd heard of Gil Scott Heron, did I want to go and see him as he was in Glasgow, and how his words would change my life. And I treated him like a scag dealer.
Sorry Gil and sorry that nice bloke.
You have to remember that a gig had just finished and my ears were ringing, but I swear he said "do you want some heroin" so I said "no thanks" (just say no, kids). But he looked puzzled and kept saying something something heroin - and I was just about getting irate when he said "but it'll change your life!" and I remember thinking - I'm sure it will pal - but after enough times of me saying I wasn't interested, he left.
Only later when I saw the posters did I realise that the poor lad was asking me if I'd heard of Gil Scott Heron, did I want to go and see him as he was in Glasgow, and how his words would change my life. And I treated him like a scag dealer.
Sorry Gil and sorry that nice bloke.
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Jackson Priest
- Posts: 493
- Joined: 30 Aug 2005, 16:57
- Location: Marlborough Street
- Contact:
Dadaist said
It was only later that I realised he wasn't asking me if I required transport home.
As far as Mr Scott-Heron is concerned, I think he had to pay the bills somehow - innovators never seem to get their due. I think that Esther Phillips' version of Home Is Where The Hatred Is must be one of the most sublimest soul/jazz sides ever. Check it out baby...
PS. Did you know that Gil Scott-Heron's father used to play for Celtic? Strange but true. Maybe that's why he was in Glasgow.
JP.
Oppositely, I was at a Primal Scream after-show party a few years back (I used to lead an incredibly glamorous life), when Mani, he of Stone Roses bass-playing fame, came up to me and asked me if I was "sorted." My ears were ringing too, and my brain wasn't functioning particularly well that evening, and in confusion I replied, "Yes thanks - I've got the car parked just down the road."I was at this gig in the barras in 1993 (I think it was a band called Arrested Development) but anyway, right after the gig while we were still dancing away this guy came up to me and said something that sounded like "do you want some heroin?
It was only later that I realised he wasn't asking me if I required transport home.
As far as Mr Scott-Heron is concerned, I think he had to pay the bills somehow - innovators never seem to get their due. I think that Esther Phillips' version of Home Is Where The Hatred Is must be one of the most sublimest soul/jazz sides ever. Check it out baby...
PS. Did you know that Gil Scott-Heron's father used to play for Celtic? Strange but true. Maybe that's why he was in Glasgow.
JP.
Jackson Priest wrote: Oppositely, I was at a Primal Scream after-show party a few years back (I used to lead an incredibly glamorous life), when Mani, he of Stone Roses bass-playing fame, came up to me and asked me if I was "sorted." My ears were ringing too, and my brain wasn't functioning particularly well that evening, and in confusion I replied, "Yes thanks - I've got the car parked just down the road."
- Classic!The mayor was fashionably late and I was on tenterhooks. In fact, I had been on tenterhooks since the downpour the previous night. It's not easy being the environmental convenor on the community council.
Here we were, our first Environmental Open Day and the nature reserve was a muddy quagmire, the rare breed sheep looked bedraggled and the rural story teller had rung up to say he was caught in a flash flood somewhere in Oxfordshire and wasn't sure when he'd get here.
But somewhere between introducing the mayor to the Bat Group and shuffling him on to the Friends of Stream Woods, the sun came out, and within half an hour the mud had been baked to a respectable imitation of crazy paving. He made it to the top of Windmill Hill with no mishaps and planted the commemorative tree (native species of course).
This was the culmination of a year of encouraging, cajoling and threatening people. Here we are, a rural community deep in the countryside and most people in the town only know the route to the station or the drive to Tesco. The idea was to get all of the local environmental groups to set up a 'gazebo' in the fields around the town and set up a 'nature trail' (with a quiz) which you had to follow to visit each of the 40 stalls and win a major prize.
It worked. We had over 3,000 people walk the five miles or so between 10am and 4 pm. All of the roast ox was consumed by the end of the day. We ran out of tea bags and no-one stole the sheep.
Even the story teller turned up by lunchtime and sat on his bale of straw in front of the pumping station telling tales of the Green Man and explaining the significance of Beltain.
I felt so good, I might even try doing it again next year.
Here we were, our first Environmental Open Day and the nature reserve was a muddy quagmire, the rare breed sheep looked bedraggled and the rural story teller had rung up to say he was caught in a flash flood somewhere in Oxfordshire and wasn't sure when he'd get here.
But somewhere between introducing the mayor to the Bat Group and shuffling him on to the Friends of Stream Woods, the sun came out, and within half an hour the mud had been baked to a respectable imitation of crazy paving. He made it to the top of Windmill Hill with no mishaps and planted the commemorative tree (native species of course).
This was the culmination of a year of encouraging, cajoling and threatening people. Here we are, a rural community deep in the countryside and most people in the town only know the route to the station or the drive to Tesco. The idea was to get all of the local environmental groups to set up a 'gazebo' in the fields around the town and set up a 'nature trail' (with a quiz) which you had to follow to visit each of the 40 stalls and win a major prize.
It worked. We had over 3,000 people walk the five miles or so between 10am and 4 pm. All of the roast ox was consumed by the end of the day. We ran out of tea bags and no-one stole the sheep.
Even the story teller turned up by lunchtime and sat on his bale of straw in front of the pumping station telling tales of the Green Man and explaining the significance of Beltain.
I felt so good, I might even try doing it again next year.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
The youngest Rathbonette has gone back to University, which means I can turn the default home page on Safari back from Goldy Lookin Chain back to Porty On-line and I no longer have to shout "Turn that bloody stuff down, I'm trying to get to sleep" at quarter hour intervals between 11pm and 2am.
This imminent Final Year lark has had interesting side effects. The late nights have reduced from seven a week to four, the number of pieces of metal has dropped from six to just a pair of earrings and some skillful make-up covering the piercings, and she has actually been getting down to some preparatory work for her thesis. She's decided that she's going to do a dissertation on The Changing Role of Women in the Media during the 20th Century. I have pointed out that as a subject it's both too broad and too narrow in its scope, but, as she says, that's rich coming from someone whose own thesis was on The Role of Dialectics on the Development of Urban Design.
Her parting words were to the effect that this was the crunch and she fully intended to get to every lecture and tutorial this term.
Not like that in my day. By third year we had worked out a rota which meant that each of us (except for swotty Neil) took it in turn to attend lectures and take notes while the rest of us went off down the Meadows and played football. The collective approach proved invaluable in later life and it also allowed us to look forward to the occassions when Robin had to take the notes - especially in Social and Moral Philosophy. Robin always got to the heart of the matter. The lecturer might think that he had a complete grasp of Kant's exegesis on the teleological suspension of ethics until Robin asked whether that would apply to a dog as in his observation, dogs had as much autonomy over their actions as humans. Robin's lecture notes gave one a wider perspective on the subject. Swotty Neil got a First and the rest of us didn't.
This imminent Final Year lark has had interesting side effects. The late nights have reduced from seven a week to four, the number of pieces of metal has dropped from six to just a pair of earrings and some skillful make-up covering the piercings, and she has actually been getting down to some preparatory work for her thesis. She's decided that she's going to do a dissertation on The Changing Role of Women in the Media during the 20th Century. I have pointed out that as a subject it's both too broad and too narrow in its scope, but, as she says, that's rich coming from someone whose own thesis was on The Role of Dialectics on the Development of Urban Design.
Her parting words were to the effect that this was the crunch and she fully intended to get to every lecture and tutorial this term.
Not like that in my day. By third year we had worked out a rota which meant that each of us (except for swotty Neil) took it in turn to attend lectures and take notes while the rest of us went off down the Meadows and played football. The collective approach proved invaluable in later life and it also allowed us to look forward to the occassions when Robin had to take the notes - especially in Social and Moral Philosophy. Robin always got to the heart of the matter. The lecturer might think that he had a complete grasp of Kant's exegesis on the teleological suspension of ethics until Robin asked whether that would apply to a dog as in his observation, dogs had as much autonomy over their actions as humans. Robin's lecture notes gave one a wider perspective on the subject. Swotty Neil got a First and the rest of us didn't.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
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mr magnolia
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I'm disappointed to note that the current younger generation still play music loudly on old-fashioned things like 'speakers'. I am hoping that the magnoliettes will be part of the wired-for-sound generation and walk around with little wires coming out their ears and no effect on my own noise input. This may obviously be a vain hope?rathbone wrote:... I no longer have to shout "Turn that *** stuff down, I'm trying to get to sleep" at quarter hour intervals between 11pm and 2am.
Every Day Counts
Is this a nature or nurture thing? Since COC has also removed all but two of her metal bits and is now frantically experimenting with brown eyebrow pencil to cover the telltale scars one has to wonder if it was all a genetic thing (both of them having some genes from the same pool - by the way, Jackson Priest thought we were marriedrathbone wrote:......the number of pieces of metal has dropped from six to just a pair of earrings and some skillful make-up covering the piercings.
) or is it just the laid back way we've brought them up - refusing to acknowledge that we give a toss about their inability to get through an airport check in without setting the metal detectors off? Oh how they'll laugh as they lie under the laser trying to remove the tattoos when they're 40......and so will we Brace yourself Mr Magnolia - ours were once as cute as the Magnoliettes!
Enough of your nonsense - get back to the Play Pen!