Way out West (incorporating Way up North)

A funny thing happened on the way...

2012-01-25T22:34:00.001Z

I was walking into Toulouse today, about to cross one of the bridges over the Garonne, when my eye was caught by a glint of metal on the pavement. At the same moment, someone coming the opposite way also spotted it, and stooped down to pick it up. He straightened up and showed me what appeared to be a gold ring.
So far so good, but next he surprised me by handing it to me, saying that his hands were too small. Rather at a loss, I continued on my way, stuffing the ring into my pocket. A couple of minutes later, he came charging after me, and asked if I had any money. I gave him some shrapnel, which was all I had, and he asked for more, about 5 euro was the figure he had in mind.
When I explained that this was all I had, he wandered off again. I can't think that this was a scam, or if it was, I can't quite see how it works, in the meantime I have a chunky, possibly gold ring (it has hallmarks). Can anyone explain?

one is a publisher...

2011-04-16T15:07:00.007Z

I have finally got it together to get off my backside and publish my book. The back story is that several years ago I wrote my small detective novel (I don't mean the detective is small, just that it isn't 500 pages long, as seems to be the fashion at the moment), with the feeble hope of generating enough interest/income to buy off the taxman. Sadly my magnum opus was met with a crescendo of indifference from the publishing trade, and feeling discouraged, I stuck it in a metaphorical drawer and sulked. The advent of the kindle and it's various electronic brethren reawakened my interest, and after a bit of research I decided that I would e-publish it myself. This has proved to be an education in many ways, the process is quite straightforward, but untangling all the kinks created both by my ineptitude at using the word processing software, and by microsoft's obsession with embedding auto corrects and other buried functions into the text has taken me nearly two days of fiddling. Along the way I had to create a cover for the book (I got carried away and ended up with four, one of which will be the cover for book two), and no doubt there'll be other things I have yet to do. Currently the book is available only on the smashwords website at the princely price of $2.99, once it has gone through a vetting process it will also be available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble for the same price,and it'll even have an isbn number. It can be found on: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/53805

This is my cover design for book 2 (I managed not to do books 3, 4, and 5)

If I had a hammer (revisited).

2011-04-11T11:28:00.002Z

Busking has achieved new heights here in Frankfurt, this gentleman has fitted a grand piano onto a trailer, and is thus able to bring his own unique musical talents to his audience. Would that his ability kept pace with his ingenuity, still, he has lovely teeth.

Frankfurt has many curiosities, among all the Euro stuff, and many galleries, I found a hammer museum, if I had found it before I encountered this gentleman, then I might have called for a No.4 Piano destroyer. Street art, never there when you need it.

Hug a hoody?

2011-04-03T14:56:00.002Z

Since I moved to Scotland there have been a number of siren voices commenting 'aye, you'll need a cardi now that you're living in the north'. I have never found it hard to resist the call, the cardi, in my mind is associated too closely with a) slippers (nuff said), and b) with starsky and hutch. However, browsing the sale rack in a fashionable boutique here in Sheffield, I came across a heavy, zip up top that I rather liked, and at a bargain price too. It was only after I had bought it that I realised that I might have bought a hoody. Ah well, I thought, small risk that I might be mistaken for a juvenile, although delinquent remains a possibility.

I then thought, what of Mr Camerons' big society, are we not supposed to embrace the hoody and all it represents?

Well blow me down if, the very first time I wore it out, I wasn't pounced upon and hugged, and not just once, but twice! The first time was a charity mugger, who took my refusal in good part, and the second was a rather stoned back street masseuse who promised to make me happy for two pounds, and also didn't take offence at my polite refusal, giving me a boozy hug to see me on my way.
So, maybe there's something in it after all...

Partridge Family

2011-03-27T13:01:00.002Z

This is one of a small family of partridges that have started hanging around in the garden, the cat is pretending he's not interested... and no, there's no sign of David Cassidy anywhere, either...

anniversary

2010-07-30T20:58:00.002Z

Just goes to show how on the ball I am, on the 24th May I totally failed to notice or commemorate the fifth anniversary of this blogs' conception. So, belated happy birthday, I haven't written about parrots or bananas for quite a while, maybe forthcoming trips to Helsinki and Bremen will give me an opportunity to be less boring.

I will probably have more to say about recent theatrical events when the dust has settled, and certain parties are safely out of the country.

escape from Stalag Luft 69 (apologies to Mike Green)

2010-07-26T19:35:00.004Z

This week finds me working with international extremists La Fura dels Baus, rather bizarrely we are rehearsing the show in Dunblane, before performing at The MacBob at the end of this week.

We are rehearsing in the sports hall (always a favourite rehearsal space) of a school which is run by the Ministry of Defence to educate the offspring of those serving in the military, part of the deal is that I am also accommodated and fed in the same place. It has been a curious experience, the food has been institutional and strangely familiar, how do you make chewy stew that tastes that way? A flavour that instantly transported me back to the reprehensible prep school that failed to prepare me for anything. The skool sausage too, is a curious fruit, a crunchy outer, with a soft interior, tasting of very little, yet oddly addictive. Fortunately, in so many ways, my schedule has prevented me from attending many of these meals, my first couple of encounters convinced me that the (ex) army chef was doggedly working his way through 1000 Winning Ways with Mince, subsequent reports have done little to dispel this suspicion.

One of the difficulties about performing on MOD property is that there are all kinds of restrictions placed on what you can, and can't do, combine this not entirely logical scenario with a spanish company that likes to shock, and you can imagine that there has been friction. Fortunately, in some ways, the total failure of communication between the army and the spanish, has produced an uneasy truce; we have explained at length that there is no smoking except in a special little shed, and finally they have accepted that they cannot even smoke outdoors. I have left the issue of firearms to the festival production manager, there is a unique sensitivity to weapons in Dunblane, and although I'm sure that the school has enough firepower to subdue a sepoy uprising, they are extremely discreet about it, I'm not sure a semi-naked spaniard hurling fake money and waving a revolver would go down very well. The company have taken the ban on flames and pyrotechnics in rehearsal remarkably well. Although we have now discovered that the demonstration of how flames are used in the show was entirely irrelevant, as they did a bit from a different show for the fire officers, we just have to hope that they don't come back.

Dunblane boasts a butcher that has taken the pie to a new extreme; chicken, coriander and orange was just one of their unusual confections, I have bought a haggis pie, I'm not quite sure why, it seemed like a good idea at the time! They also claim to have award winning sausages, I will report back on this one...

liquamen or garum?

2010-06-08T19:36:00.002Z

We thought a salad nicoise would be nice, we have many suitable comestibles collected from the far flung corners of Europe. So, I was pottering about, putting together the ingredients when I had one of those ideas that in retrospect probably wasn't a good one. I'd brought some rather sumptuous anchovy fillets back from my recent trip to Murcia, but, while investigating the box with fish products in, I found a can of anchovies dating from an earlier trip to Spain.

On inspection, I thought the tin might be a little rusty, but, when I pulled the ring, I was taken aback when it rather spectacularly exploded, spraying jets of fermented anchovy up my sleeve (thankfully not all over the kitchen). A bit of scrubbing, and a change of clothes later, I was surprised to dicover that the contents of the can had completely dissolved; all that was left was some rather pungent and murky liquid, which, if I had the will or the vessel, might have formed the basis of a liquamen sauce. I shall bear this in mind in future.

tape?

2010-05-28T16:30:00.002Z

I have recently passed through the shabby portals of East Midlands Airport, on my way to do a show in Spain. My uncomplicated (according to the itinery) journey; train from Sheffield to the brand new East Midlands Parkway station, shuttle bus to Airport, Plane, Taxi, Hotel, was complicated by arriving at tumbleweed central. The station was deserted, and there was no indication of where to get the bus from, I had been escorting an elderly lady, who was panicking about missing her flight to Faro, having been directed to the wrong platform at Sheffield, and so I asked the very bored ticket sales guy. 'Oh, they cancelled the shuttle buses two months ago, you have to call a taxi.' Presumably, as EMA mostly serves Mr Michael O'Leary's shabby airline, the local autorities lost interest in subsidising his enterprise.

My second unwelcome discovery at EMA, was that their airport security considers rolls of PVC electrical tape to be a security risk, as I was carrying four rolls of different colours (in this case used for marking and identifying microphones in my current show), I was not best pleased. Apparently you can use PVC tape to tie people up, although Sellotape is perfectly acceptable in any quantity. Given the need or desire to tie someone up on a plane, electrical tape probably isn't the first thing I'd think of, but what do I know. The thing that rankles, is that this year I have carried those same rolls of tape through Aberdeen (twice), Heathrow (twice), Dussledorf (twice) and there has been no comment. I'm pretty certain that I have carried tape through security into and out of the States, Canada, Singapore, Brazil and Colombia in the last couple of years and it has never been an issue, what's so special about the East Midlands?

hmm...

2010-05-24T21:11:00.002Z

Ok, square this circle, I'm sitting in a Sheffield pub, taking advantage of free internet (I'd sooner pay for a pint than give a hotel money for internet access), on the table next to me are a couple of muscly sheffield lads, their gentle mumbling about football, women and beer drifted past me without my taking any notice. It was the point when they started discussing the latest Harry Potter film as if it was a football match: 'did you see those fireballs, they shouldn't have been allowed, and that Bellatrix...' much teeth sucking. They did seem to think it was real, and had the cod latin off pat too, Sheffield is a mysterious place.

Ah sweet mystery of life...

2010-05-24T19:33:00.002Z

I am presently staying in a modern and rather characterless hotel in Sheffield, en route to Spain. Previously, we would stay at the Grosvenor House, a decaying '60's concrete carbuncle owned by Corus (the Steel company), and owing nothing to its namesake on Park Lane. This hotel is now scheduled for improvement (read demolition), although it has been as long as I have been coming to Sheffield. It wasn't without idiosyncracy, regular visitors learned to ask for specific corners, as some rooms were rendered intolerable by the booze palaces and clubs that used to litter the area. I can't think how many times I've been wakened by the sound of fighting/vomitting/heads being smashed through bus shelters, and it is slightly sad that the old building is now empty, used only as a training facility by South Yorkshire Police dog training school.

The new building is beginning to develop some character, however, whilst sitting on the loo this afternoon I was startled to hear the tinny sound of an argument issuing from the drain of my bath, maybe it was a ghost from hotels past, or perhaps they were standing in the bath arguing, it was a bit strange, but curiously comforting.

belgian style?

2010-05-05T07:47:00.002Z

I don't know if it's just because I'm in a foreign country, but things look different here, I may have commented on the belgian obsession with using the appropriate beer glass for each beer, but I was taken aback to see an extremely pungent and crusty vagrant sitting at his ease on a bench in the middle of a traffic island, although he was consuming a bottle of cooking lager, he was using the appropriate glass to drink from.

On my way to the theatre I pass through a little park, more of a traffic island really, at one end there is a sort of open shelter, about 10 metres long. In this structure another enterprising vagrant has created his/her bed from a proper mattress and a pile of boxes and mats. He/she lies on this platform looking for all the world like the corpse of Lenin, only the occasional movement of an arm giving the lie to this impression.

that was the year that Brussels brusselled...

2010-05-04T14:00:00.003Z

Back in the capital of Belgium for a few days, mostly sitting in a darkened theatre waiting for something to happen. It has been pretty cold and damp here, although I gather that things haven't been so different back home. On my way to the theatre each morning I pass through a rather haphazard sort of ethnic market, mainly moroccan, but with a few lebanese and greek specialists to leaven the mix. What often strikes me is the volume of stuff that is delivered, yesterday it was bales and bales of fresh mint, and the smell as the cardboard wrapped bundles were watered was ever so powerful. Sometimes they deliver coriander instead, the wonder is what anyone can do with several tons of fresh mint.

I was a touch horrified to spot, in our local supermarket: a glass jar of brussel sprouts, I wasn't tempted.

cat on a hot tin blanket?

2010-04-20T21:12:00.003Z

As the April snow whistles past the windows, and the first rhubarb leaves strain from their hollow, I am tempted to say bugger it, I'm not moving.

This is not an option unfortunately, and anyway I have things to do...

In the meantime, here are current pictures of the cat, as soon as the Harris blankets arrived, he decided to check them out, I think he has a belief that he holds the mandate for quality control: re soft furnishings. We washed them over the weekend, and they have all come out splendidly, and proved to be resilient even to the gales we've had for the past few days.

lovely blankets...

2010-04-10T18:19:00.003Z

When the Arts correspondent and I visited the Hebrides last year, we were primed to search the charity shops for bolts of unwanted Harris tweed, and more specifically, she was keen to find a proper handwoven blanket. You know the sort of thing: thick, hairy and above all warm. Our searches last year yielded a source of Harris tweed loom ends but not a lot else.

I find myself back in Stornoway, at the end of a short tour, and, as we had got in rather earlier than usual, I had a longer than customary lunch break. As it has been gloriously sunny all day, I wandered aimlessly around the town, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of sunshine on my skin. As is my custom, I checked out the charity shops, there aren't many, and they are mostly affiliated to various batty versions of the anglican religion. I was startled to spot an hairy blanket in one of the more sensible shops, further investigation yielded another two, which I pounced on. So, now we have three, I'll post a picture when I have the opportunity, needless to say, I am very pleased.

oh dear..

2010-04-06T15:04:00.006Z

A thousand stumbling apologies, gentle reader, no real excuses for ignoring the blog other than miserable weather and a general disinclination to do anything but the minimum required to ensure survival. Now it's spring time; there are signs of life, and above all, the snow has gone.

What has happened since February? you may quite reasonably ask... Well, the deeside household has now officially swelled by one. The cat has been chipped, vaccinated and emptied his bladder in both cars, and today he took possession of a brand new magnetic cat-flap. He has shown little interest in the latter, preferring to snooze on his saltbag, occasionally casting a jaundiced eye on the filthy weather (see ill.), although he went out through it when encouraged.

The last dump of snow didn't really take us by surprise, as the cooncil cassandra service had been predicting doom for several weeks. I was washing up one evening when I saw a small herd of five deer pass the kitchen window, the Arts Correspondent was able to snatch a picture of them investigating the lid of the septic tank on her iPhone, for which I thank her. The word on the street (or in the glen), is that the deer are very underweight as a consequence of the long hard winter. Certainly there is much evidence of ring barking on the shrubs and trees, hopefully the late spring will catch up soon, and there'll be plenty of greenery for all.

les delices de ballater (part 4?)

2010-02-14T16:23:00.005Z

Sheridans of Ballater, our nearest quality butcher, has excelled. It is, apparently, National Sausage Week, and said butchers, makers of the Pork and Irn Bru breakfast hangover sausage, have, somewhere in the tea-raddled corners of what might once have been been a creative mind; created a whole new range of bizzare sausages. In the interest of completism, they have created the all-in-one breakfast banger; with beef, bacon, egg, haggis and black pudding. We demurred from sampling that one, and purchased some of the pork, leek, pancetta and cheese (which we had for lunch, and were very nice), we also thought we'd try the smoked pheasant, parmesan and pork. There were, in fact, too many varieties to try, although I have to say that their plain pork chipolatas are hard to beat.

I finished the day by making marmalade, the seville oranges appeared briefly in the farm shop, and it is always hard to resist them especially when everything is grey outside. I'm glad we didn't go mad and buy a lot, a kilo of citrus fruit has made a lot more pots than I had anticipated. It has been said in other places that it is remarkable how pervasive marmalade can be, despite a certain amount of feline intervention (at floor level, there's no fur in my pots!), I was pleased that I managed to contain my jam, more or less, to the pots, with only occasional sticky patches to remind us of the endeavour.

Sometimes, when I am doing the washing up I watch the sun setting over the mountains, a couple of night ago, there was quite a sunset...

a curious bird is the pelican...

2009-12-15T20:37:00.002Z

There are culinary moments that simply take over, and I suppose that what has become the annual ritual of the Christmas cake is one of those. Several weeks ago, we found the largest bowl in the house, and added all the mixed fruit of various persuasions we could find. Into this we then emptied in all the odd bottles of hooch that seemed to have accumulated after a year or so on tour in Europe.

Today I finally girded my loins and started the cake, if Iwas to point out that the cake contains among its ingredients; four pounds of fruit, six eggs, a pound of flour and 12 ounces each of butter and sugar, you will appreciate that this is quite a hardcore piece of baking. Not for the first time I was wishing for a small cement mixer, as I added the fruit to the cake batter and began to realise that the bowl was never going to be big enough. Thankfully it is a very stiff mixture and the act of folding in the fruit was enough to prevent a tsunami of cake mixture. Sadly, I still have half a bowl of hooch sodden fruit left, so I am going to have to repeat the whole episode again.

I realise that I have left them rather late this year, but no matter, we were still eating last years in June.

it's meaty alright...

2009-12-14T13:56:00.002Z

One of the undoubted benefits of living on top of a hill is that when the skies are clear we have marvellous view of the stars. The downside of this, of course, is that when the sky is clear then it is perishing cold.

We were enchanted, however, to witness the Geminid meteor showers a couple of nights ago, they weren't spectacular and violent, just gentle streaks of yellow and orange as the particles burned up in the atmosphere. In the village below the streetlamps were obscured by a low cloud, I can't imagine they'd have been able to see anything at all. It's supposed to bring you good fortune if you see a shooting star, hopefully we'll have a great deal of it, if quantity counts.

up above the clouds so high...

2009-11-11T10:39:00.004Z

There's a bit of a strange temperature inversion over the Feugh valley this morning, with the result that there is a narrow band of cloud hanging over the village. From where we live, the cloud layer is more or less level with the downstairs windows, so it is possible to look underneath and see the fields, and hear the distant rumblings of another shoot (possibly a tad insensitive on Armistice Day*). From the back of the house and upstairs, you can see over the clouds, and have a view of the hills and the mountains, although there is higher cloud layer obscuring the peaks.

Yesterday I had cause to visit Ballater, in the heart of the tartan and stout walking boots zone, and as I drove back along beside the Dee, I was intrigued by the gathering mist, which collected over the surface of the running water and flowed like a second river. I assume that this is because the river was marginally warmer than the surrounding air, it has got very cold at night, down to -7 degrees for a couple of nights, and the temperature drops very swiftly when it does.

With a perspicacity I wouldn't expect, when I looked out of the kitchen window just now, in the stubble field that currently adjoins one side of our house, I saw a steady stream of pheasants running uphill, away from the guns. I'm wondering if this is a beneficial side effect of hanging out with our neighbours free-ranging chickens, or if it's because, a couple of days ago, I put out a bag of six year old porage oats for them to eat. The prospect of an intelligent pheasant is a little troubling to me. We went to Huntly for the farmers market this weekend, and on our way back as we passed along a back road a large hand painted sign screamed; 'beware of pheasants!' perhaps this is what they meant.

*They did stop shooting at the appropriate moment, allowing a Deer to break cover from behind them and run to safety (not that they would have taken a pot shot at it, but it wasn't to know that, the deer round here are almost as suicidal as the pheasants, just do a lot more damage to the car!).

rain, rain, rain...

2009-11-02T11:58:00.004Z

I suspect that rain might be a popular theme among Aberdeenshire bloggers, we had something in the region of two inches yesterday, and even from our vantage point on top of the hill we could see the already saturated fields gradually filling with water. Spare a moment of sympathy for the inhabitants of Stonehaven, filling pillowcases with sand from the beach to attempt to stay the waters. Our friends rug shop and art gallery was flooded out when the Carron burst its banks, we heard apocalyptic descriptions of paintings floating around in waist deep water. I hope that the rugs at least can be rescued.

Needless to say, on the day after, the sun is shining brightly and the waters are receding.

night clubbing...

2009-10-29T14:54:00.003Z

I have now returned from the delights of Glasgow to the relative calm of Deeside, the last couple of days before I came back I was staying with one of my cousins, and she in turn was visited by her youngest sister. Said youngest sister's current boyfriend has a brother who lives in Turriff (North Aberdeenshire), and they had gone to visit him a few weeks back. Anyone who knows that part of the county will be aware that other than on a friday night, it isn't the liveliest of places, so you can imagine my surprise and faint incredulity when she told me that they had gone out to a nightclub.

Said institution is apparently in some sort of barn in the middle of nowhere, and judging by her description, is veering towards the unsophisticated. However, and this is the critical point, she was pleased and delighted, on arrival, to be offered a plate of stovies*. Truly this is an aberdonian interpretation of a night out.

*Stovies are a mixture mostly of cooked meat, potato and stock, cooked on the stove, there are many recipes and variations, google can enlighten you further, if you need it...

death of china

2009-10-14T22:43:00.003Z

There's a definite sadness when you kill your favourite mug, if you scroll back to the blog about kopi lewak coffee, you will see a pastoral scene: two mugs of coffee and a bowl of madeleines.

Sadly both our favourite mugs have now departed, not as a result of moving house, just the usual fumblings. The arts correspondents mug still retains its functionality, but mine is no more. There is an implicit understanding when one buys a mug from a craftsman potter, that one is buying a relatively cheap functional artwork that is likely to have limited lifespan, doesn't make one any happier when your favourite has died.

If you are looking for lovely handmade mugs, mine came from the Whichford Pottery, the arts correspondents from the craft shop at the Welsh Assembly building. Current favourite mug for me is from the Cromarty Pottery, google is your friend.

more food...

2009-10-14T00:00:00.002Z

My current perambulations up and down the country do offer many hideous culinary offerings, avoid things stuffed with haggis, and above all avoid drambuie sauce! all too common in my experience. I have heard that it is possible to get a Buckfast flavoured icecream, wrong, in so many ways.

Most recent horror I encountered returned to the haggis misappropriation theme: Deep fried crispy haggis won tons, with a chilli/drambui dipping sauce, I wish I'd made it up, I've been having strange dreams ever since I encountered it. It is somewhere up in the pantheon of bad ideas alongside the baked bean pizza, and the lasagne pie. Don't get me wrong, I like haggis, I'm an enthusiastic consumer of sausages in all shapes and forms, but just because it is the national dish doesn't mean you have to eat it with everything.

Fusion food...

2009-08-18T14:20:00.002Z

En passant, over on the southside of glasgow where my digs are, there is a fast food emporium offering haggis pakora. I haven't plucked* up the courage to try them, nor do I think I ever will.

*did you see what I did there?

More reports from the culinary badlands when something particularly revolting catches my eye.

les delices de Ballater?

2009-08-15T12:48:00.002Z

One of the towns close to our new place is Ballater, a gateway to Royal Deeside, and consequently jammed with coaches and tartan at this time of year. It does, however, possess an excellent butcher, creator of many interesting sausages. I fear that the search for the ultimate novelty sausage is overtaking that of the pie in the affections of creative butchers up here (who can forget the Huntly Lasagne Pie?), however, I think that this time they have gone too far and have produced a pork and Irn Bru sausage.

I can only think that they have tried to combine the hangover curative properties of a fry-up and (allegedly) Irn Bru in one disgusting package, one to avoid.

dream a little dream...

2009-08-14T21:52:00.003Z

I'm not much given to dreaming, or perhaps more accurately, I'm not much given to remembering my dreams, however, the other night I had a very vivid and strange dream which I thought I'd share:

I was sitting at a small table on the lawn in an unidentifiable and uncharacteristically neat garden, and writing a story on my laptop. My creative reverie was interrupted by a nose pressing me urgently in the side, the owner of the nose was a large smooth haired white dog about the size of an alsation, although altogether more solid than that breed. I pushed it away, and continued typing, only to be poked once again by the dog, this time I pushed it away more forcefully, absently noting, as it moved away, that on its hind legs it was wearing spangly pink high heels. I returned once again to my writing, and after a brief hiatus I became aware of the dogs activities once again; this time it was digging energetically in the very tidy border next to me, after a few moments it unearthed a limp and evidently dead badger. As I watched with mounting discomfort, it dragged the carcase away from me, and with the precision that I have seen dogs exhibit before, it placed its forepaws on what would be the badgers shoulders and with a quick toss of the head, stripped the pelt off the body, and began to eat it.

Naturally enough this was the point where I woke up, any suggestions will be treated with all the seriousness that dream interpretation merits!

On the road again...

2009-07-07T15:25:00.003Z

With perfect timing, (ie, I am about to start a new contract, the Arts Correspondent's house is currently unlet, and we're both severely skint), we have decided to move house. An opportunity to estate hop into Royal Deeside has presented itself, and a house on a hill with views the length of the Feugh Valley was impossible to turn down. The new place is lovely and part of a genuine community, one which was very keen for us to move.

Where we are now is also lovely, but the inhabitants find it difficult to raise their eyes above the potato horizon, and very rarely smile. I shall miss being so close to the sea, but I guess there are other compensations.

les delices d'aberdeen?

2009-06-08T21:07:00.003Z

We have a local supplier of quality pig products; admirable sausages and bacon, ham etc. This weekend, I feel that they may have blown it slightly. I went to a minor fair at Stonehaven, and they had a stall selling their stuff among which I spotted their new sausage: the pork and crunchy nut cornflake sausage. I am not entirely sure that this is a good idea.

On the other hand, whilst I have been working in Edinburgh, I have discovered the Tollcross Chilli Pie; a traditional scottish pie case filled with chilli con carne, chorizo and all manner of tasty things, a rare instance of a pie invention that is actually a good idea.

The real truth about Kopi Lewak coffee...

2009-05-19T20:15:00.006Z

Regular visitors to this blog will recall that I have twice mentioned Kopi Lewak coffee, possibly the most expensive and pointless variety of coffee that one can purchase. Just as a recap; the beans are harvested from the Sumatran forest floor, but only after they have passed through the digestive system of the kopi lewak civet cat. They are exceedingly rare as the harvesting process is very labour intensive, and presumably rather unpleasant to boot.

While I have been toiling away in Auld Reekie, the Arts Correspondent undertook to investigate this culinary curiosity, and bought a sample packet from Imperial Teas and Coffees of Lincoln (google it yourselves, they do mail order). We ground the beans and made the coffee (pictures to follow), and accompanied by the AC's superior madeleines, we sat in the sun and sipped our coffee. Our unanimous verdict? Not bad, a trifle bland, definitely not in the league of a good colombian or brazilian. So, other than the fact that it's come out of a lemurs bum, was it worth it? No, not really, but at least we never need to worry about it again.

Our verdict reminded me of a dubya joke I heard in rehearsals; GW is in the Oval Office when a general comes in and says 'Bad news sir, three brazilian peacekeeping soldiers have been killed.' To his amazement, GW starts sobbing, tears running down his face, and he asks, 'Are you alright Sir?'
'I guess so,' the president answers, 'just a bit of a shock, remind me would you, how many is a brazilian?'

What are we going to do without him I wonder...

dogs...

2009-05-13T20:00:00.002Z

Just a quick note today, although for transatlantic foecal coffee obsessives I promise a new blog (with pictures!) in a day or so.

I'm rehearsing a show in Edinburgh, nothing particularly unusual about that I hear you cry, and I agree. We're rehearsing on the top floor of The King's Theatre, in what would have been the managers apartment (or Charles Wyndhams shag pad in the theatre that bears his name). I'm not very familiar with Edinburgh, my mother's antipathy having had some effect, so I'm just beginning to find my way around. I'm intrigued by the variety of street activity that I encounter around the theatre; not the staggering belligerant drunks familiar from Glasgow, but a whole spectrum of alternative loonies. For example; every day I meet a podgy pony tailed character, unremarkable other than the fact that he has a fully grown rottweiler (or something similar) slung limply over his shoulder. The unfortunate canine can't be dead, although I have never detected any motion, it doesn't even drool. So, for some inexplicable reason, this chap wanders around Tollcross with a six stone dog draped like an albatross across his neck, he always looks a bit grumpy, but under the circumstances so would I.

On a slightly more enchanting note, we have a show dog, ward of the principle actor, she is of sheep dog type, and generally very well behaved in the rehearsal room. However, for the last few days, as the video artist has been working in blackout, we've been stumbling about in the dark with the aid of torches, and Maggie loves torches, more specifically, she loves to chase the blobs of light. Today her excitement was almost overflowing, as my lighting hire arrived, and I was able to offer her a choice, not just of a very bright blob from a follow spot, but also an image of the moon as drawn by Galileo. She sat on her haunches, watching the faux moon, tail wagging attentively, I hope my audience will be as easily pleased.

oh to be in Yorkshire now that summer's here...

2009-04-02T19:12:00.003Z

I'm back in the south to do a show, one of the rare occasions when my employers play a show in their home town. I've been very slowly retracing my steps from a tour I did in 1992 (see previous blog about Bristol), my next date back then, was a certain theatre, best known for presenting the snooker once a year. Co-incidentally, the then production manager is now my colleague, I don't remember much about him except that he was rather bad tempered, plus ca change...

I went in to the theatre today to do a bit of a prerig, my colleague is en-route from Korea, and we're snatching a bit of time. Although the theatre has been closed for most of the last couple of years for 'refurbishment', re-opening annually for the snooker, of course, it looked much as I remembered, if even less practical. They have a fancy new electronic flying system, which seems mostly to work, and there was a huge lighting rig still up. I questioned this, and was told that they had been doing a special gig just to show off all the new equipment that they had acquired as a part of the refurbishment. I was puzzled; 'some of these lights must be at least forty years old?'
The reply was equally baffling, 'yes, they didn't buy us any new ones.'
Turns out that they had been given a huge hire budget for the gig, so anyone who attended would have been given the impression that they had a state of the art lighting rig, rather than state of the ark as it actually is.

If there's anything positive to be drawn from the current financial state, then at least they've stopped building casinos in this town, the centre has been pretty much gutted in the interest of increasing property values, but that seems to have ground to a halt for now, long may that be the case.

ooh look it's an art critic...

2009-03-06T22:42:00.004Z

In case you didn't know, that's a quote from the sainted Monty Python.

I have had a curious return to the wonderful world of the performing arts, strange enough to make me wonder if someone is trying to tell me something. The show I am doing at the moment features only two performers; one comes on dressed as a skeleton and tells the story of the show you would have seen if you'd been there the night before, the other comes on later, and spends much of the rest of the show dieing on the floor in theatrical agony.

Tonight, to mark my return to work we were joined by a third performer, with his female and far from silent sidekick. From the start, an audience member, seated in the front row, persisted in joining in; laughing artificially at funny bits, groaning along with the agony. He was apparently Eastern European, in a Borat kind of style, and when he was finally asked to shut up, complied, albeit grudgingly. After a while though, he started to join in again, and eventually got up on stage with the performers. He gave us a rather lame and rambling tirade, then he dropped his trousers and defecated on the stage. Scooping up his excrement, he then smeared it all over his face. He was invited to vacate the premises, and did so, pursued by a very quiet and polite british chorus of boos, and get outs. Apparently he is a known miscreant, having disturbed lectures and performances at various Arts venues throughout the UK.

I feel for the performers, they had to cope with a very large and aggressive man, who might have been a loony, instead of someone pursuing some sort of distorted artistic idea. The fact that he might have been some sort of performer (there was a moment in his exit rant when he mentioned Stanislavski, which to be honest is never going to get you very far with an English audience [unless you happen to live in Ealing of course, which rather bizarrely contains a theatre that is still holding a torch for the method]), doesn't remove the utter selfishness of his action, I guess if you have something to say as a performer/artist then you should have the courage to stand up and say it, and not waste our time trying to hijack someone elses audience, just because you couldn't get your own.

I remain confused, and I have to confess that I might have cocked up a few lighting cues, the script wandered a bit too. Definitely one for the show report, I reckon.

Oh, and in case anybody was wondering, my poor mutilated ankle is doing fine, although I am not a great fan of cobblestones.

the mysterious nazi watering can...

2009-03-01T14:38:00.003Z

I'm on a visit down south, I'm returning to work at last, and for various reasons came down a bit early to visit the A.P. and see some prospective employers in Oxford. The latter trip was a tad disastrous as I contrived to leave my new mobile 'phone on the bus, and despite calling it in to the bus company within ten minutes of getting off the bus, it appears to have gone for ever.

I am staying in the ancestral pile, and indeed, sleeping in what used to be my bedroom, and when I woke up this morning I had one of those weird recollections of the past. To set the scene; when I was little, I went to a local prep school (not by any stretch of the imagination as posh as you might think!). I wasn't there for very long and loathed it, they did, however, possess surprisingly well equipped playing fields, a matter of considerable indifference to me. However, there were many opportunities for a devious child to skive and to explore, and there were plenty of things that were much more interesting to do than play football, or cricket.

All around the perimeter of the fields, which felt enormous to an eight year old, but were probably quite small (they've long since succumbed to the pressure of the property speculator, and no doubt they are wall to wall luxury appartments by now), was a selection of thick hedging, into and within which a small boy could insert himself with little effort. It was possible to traverse three sides of the playing area without becoming visible, something that was very attractive to me. Not only that, but treasures could be found or observed, whether it be bumble bee nests, colonies of moths, or lost cricket balls, there was plenty to keep one occupied and well away from the action.

On one such traverse, in early summer I think, I came across an old, abandoned zinc watering can. Unremarkable, save in one respect, impressed into its base, and clearly part of the manufacturing process, was a swastika. Whilst this was the 1960's and the war had long been over, the random selection of ex-military deadbeats that masqueraded as our teachers worked long and hard to ensure that it was kept alive in our memories (apart from the french teacher; Major W***, who mostly rhapsodised about calvados). Thus, my arrival back at the compost heap behind the pavilion (base camp for skivers), bearing an authentic war relic, created a deal of speculation. I couldn't, even when my imagination was at its most fertile, think of any compelling reason why the luftwaffe would choose to bomb West-London with garden implements, pitchforks and scythes might have had their uses for the inevitable popular uprising maybe, but watering cans? Anyway, if you threw a watering can out of a plane it would be all dented, my suggestion of little parachutes was dismissed as being entirely fanciful. The alternate theory, that the groundskeeper was part of a secret nazi sleeper cell, also had little credence, for a start, to my juvenile eye, he was way too old to be able to do anything, and anyway, he was clearly not the sharpest tool in the box. There the mystery stands, and why it sprang unbidden into my mind this morning is another one.

As for the swastika, I suspect that there is an entirely mundane explanation: the watering can was almost certainly manufactured in India, and the swastika was an emblem of entirely different significance before the nazis polluted it.

Geese

2009-02-13T16:04:00.005Z

You're probably all very bored with the very idea of more snow, still, yesterday we had a good fall, probably about six inches in a few hours. The Arts Correspondent, who knows about these things, said it was powdery snow, and thus a good thing. Certainly when we went to visit our neighbours who live a couple of bothys along from the one Lewis Grassic Gibbon lived in (before he moved to Welwyn Garden City, and died), the snow was deep and crisp and uneven all along their track. Safer in the circumstances to leave the car at the top and crunch pleasingly along the path.

I took this picture of snowdrops in their garden, it's amazing that something so fragile can cope with the toughest of conditions.

As I came home in brilliant sunshine this morning, I noticed that one of the fields was absolutely rammed with Canada Geese (the thin brown line across the centre of the photo), it's common at night to hear distant chatter, either as they fly over on a mission to somewhere, or as they roost. More rare, in my experience to see so many on the ground. Mind you, in this weather it is a whole lot easier to spot some of our wildlife, either because it stands out against the snow, or because hunger has driven them inland. We get great flocks of Oystercatchers in the fields some days, for example, and there are always loads and loads of crows.

playtime on the beach

2009-02-11T23:22:00.003Z

We had visitors over the weekend, and I was able to go for a walk on the beach with them, while the rest of the country was buried under a blanket of snow and ice the local microclimate did its mysterious thing.

The spontaneous art tendency has produced these tepees.

cheese eating bucket monster...

2009-02-11T22:47:00.002Z

I had a minor culinary disaster yesterday, a phone call and a lapse of concentration and I created a flambed leek soup, rather than the leek and potato I was aiming for. Happily I had some watercress lurking in the pantry and was able to throw together an alternative. Later inspection revealed that the soup wasn't quite as ruined as I had previously thought, and I set it aside for the morning. As the kitchen is sub-arctic I didn't worry about decanting it into a pot and fridging it, just pushed it to the back of the stove and forgot about it.

When I got up this morning to make the coffee, I was aware of my soup lurking in a soup like way, and continued to ignore it. The cat, I should perhaps explain, is, like the rest of us, beginning to come to terms with his christmas over indulgence. The vet, when I took him in for his booster, was a little terse; 'No, it's not big hair, he's a bit porky.' So the boy is restricted to 60g of griblets per day, scientifically weighed on an electronic scale. As it is still frozen solid outside, his opportunities for takeaways are somewhat limited, so he is reduced to piteous wailing and supplicatory paw waggling whenever he has an audience. As I was waiting for the kettle to boil, I fed the cat his breakfast, which vanished like snow in the sunshine, and wandered back to bed with the coffee. The cat followed along shortly after, to claim a few moments duvet time.

Some time later, The Arts Correspondent went for the top up, and came back looking confused: 'Have you been eating the soup?'

I answered in the negative, but there was indeed a large lacuna in the soup pan, roughly the size of a small tomcats head. The cat drowsed on in innocent sleep (see pic of cat in innocent pose). He does indeed seem to have developed a taste for cold leek soup, the only positive is that he doesn't seem to get wind from it.

blow winds and crack your cheeks...

2009-01-17T20:06:00.003Z

It's blowing up a storm in the shire tonight, my evening has been enriched by a dull clanging from the doors of the cattle shed, the shrill pinging of the cat flap, and occasional waking moments of anguish from the cat himself.

The Arts correspondent has gone to the big smoke for the weekend, naturally all facilities chose to shut down in protest, within ten minutes of our farewell chat (she was on the sleeper) the power failed and didn't come back on 'til past ten in the morning. So, it has been a cautious, quiet day, the wind has been getting stronger, and I wouldn't be wanting to cook anything that depends prolonged heat and power. It's the first time in my experience that I've been harrangued by the cat in the kitchen (wait for the end of the sentence!) and seen his breath forming little clouds of protest. I suppose there's no reason why cats shouldn't huff like humans do, it's just that I've never noticed it before.

Boo!!!

2009-01-16T11:49:00.002Z

I celebrated my new found freedom to drive yesterday by hitting a patch of spilled oil in the rain, on the harbour road into Aberdeen. The not-ungraceful sensation as my car executed a series of elegant pirouettes along the road before slamming against the curb, was one that I wouldn't care to repeat. Unfortunately I bent a steering rod somewhere in this process, and my front wheels ended up with a perfect ballet dancers turn-out. This hampered my progress somewhat, and I had to be towed into Aberdeen, where a painfully expensive repair is currently taking place. Oh well, I was unhurt and the car was fundamentally undamaged.

I phoned the incident (as one now has to call them) into the polis, as there was a very sad, similar accident locally last year, when a mother on the school run hit a similar patch of oil and the entire contents of the vehicle was killed. The local local council now takes these reports much more seriously.

reasons to be cheerful, part 10...

2009-01-09T15:23:00.002Z

Hurrah, I've been passed fit to drive again. I may still be walking like a spavined penguin, but at least I can get behind the wheel and terrorise the locals again. I knew there was a reason why the physio had me doing plies on my last session.
So, what now? I'm not likely to be fit for work for another seven or eight weeks, so a rigorous programme of walking about is planned; hopefully the weather, which although very cold is also very beautiful, will continue to improve.

more good news...

2009-01-06T15:12:00.002Z

I have officially cast off my storm trooper boot at last, not only that, but I can stand up again. This is very handy when it comes to matters like showering and getting dressed. I'm hoping to be passed fit to drive very soon as well, my experiments on the estate (private roads) have convinced me that I can do it with minimal discomfort. I doubt I'll be able to drive for very long, but at least I'll be able to do something.

rather late I know

2009-01-06T15:04:00.003Z

As he has been getting firmly into the festive spirit, here's one last picture of Puszkin wishing you all a happy new year.

He's still wearing his hat, even now.

festive spirit?

2008-12-11T23:35:00.002Z

Puszkin is really getting into the idea of Christmas...

let them eat cake

2008-12-09T11:59:00.006Z

The Arts correspondent and I were travelling down from the Highlands earlier on this year, and stopped at a farm shop and tea rooms somewhere near Dingwall, mainly for what our transatlantic cousins would euphemistically describe as a comfort break, and I would describe as a need for a pee. Our biological requirements taken care of, we checked out the shop.

Hmm, perhaps a tad too much gingham and 'ma grannies hieland hame' type products to qualify as a proper farm shop, but where they did startle us was in the range and quality of their baking. There's definitely another blog on the scottish addiction to tray bakes and cake, but that's not for today. We decided to sample something, as we had another three hours to drive before we got home and we were both rather tired. After ordering our coffees (the arrival of well-made coffee in the highlands is recent and hasn't been sufficiently celebrated in my opinion), we admired the bakery section.

The confection that caught both our eyes was a glossy black crag of a cake, covered in white chocolate sprinkles, the label declared it to be; Chocolate and Beetroot. As we like both of those ingredients, the decision was straightforward, and the cake turned out to be rather a revelation, beetroot acting in a similar way to carrot and imparting a delicious moistness to the confection. Our only criticism was that it was perhaps all a bit too much, it has a cream cheese filling and a dark chocolate ganache, and all in all, is a bit on the rich side. I mentally filed it under 'must research the recipe' and left it to fester.

When I saw that our local farm outlet (and this is not a shop, but rather a garden shed on wheels that lurks in the mud on the corner of a field and sells mainly root vegetables), had some very fresh beetroot, I decided to give it a go:

Excuse the cheesy shape, we bought a camp cake tin and this was an opportunity to try it out.

I reduced the quantities of filling and ganache, and I'd venture that it was none the worse for that. It also keeps very well. Should anyone want the recipe, let me know through comments and I can mail it, or post it up.

winter draws on...

2008-11-21T10:13:00.002Z

It's snowing outside, and the cat has decided that now he only moves from one warm place to another. On the other hand, he doesn't yell at us quite as much as he used to, perhaps he's beginning to understand that 'softly, softly catchee monkey'.

The cows are back under cover, round the back of our house, and there has been quite a lot of fairly high decibel protest. This seems to have quietened down, maybe even cows aren't so dumb that they realise that they're better off out of the snow. One welcome sight and sound that we are getting a lot of now is the return of the migratory geese; great skeins of heavy birds against a sullen grey sky, and the distant sound of their chatter is a cheering sight on a winter day. The Arts correspondent was putting her car to bed one clear and frosty night, and was enchanted to hear the sound of a flock passing overhead

Although we've been having very clear nights, there has, as yet been no sign of the northern lights, we live quite near the University of Lancasters magnetometer, but sadly there has been very little sunspot activity this year. We live in hope, and as they now offer a text alert service as well as the e-mail warnings, there is a better chance that we might get to see them.

http://www.dcs.lancs.ac.uk/iono/aurorawatch/rt_activity/

big feller bockus, you squeeze him, he cry...

2008-11-16T12:21:00.006Z

The Arts correspondent and I were invited to an evening of entertainment at our local school hall, as I am still more than a little confined to barracks, we thought this would be a diversion (and there was to be a raffle).

The principle entertainer was a gentleman of a certain age who sang songs in a powerful and occasionally tuneful baritone, and also told off-colour jokes. The songs were either sentimental, or comic (much shoogling aboot in auchtermuchty, you know the kind of thing), his jokes were so bad that they were funny, and his presentation was so bare faced that you couldn't help liking him, even when he emerged dressed as a policewoman. Rather strangely, his material was all about the central belt, he plainly came from, or lives in Pitlochry, and I did find it a little odd that he made no effort to give his jokes more local content. Still, I seemed to be the only one who found this a bit peculiar, so who am I to judge.

His stalwart accompanist battled manfully with a large accordion, occasionally emerging from the twilight at the rear of the stage to indulge us with solo items from the Jimmy Shand book of tunes. Completing the line up was a singer from Falkirk, who sang Burns songs very nicely (despite the rumpty-tumpty accompaniment), and performed less well with the more sentimental stuff. Finally, there was a fearsome and solid lady Pipe Major and her solemn and equally solid daughter who did scottish country dancing. Said Pipe Major also performed solo, although the accordionist managed to produce an extra-ordinary sound to accompany her, not unlike plucking a live chicken.

In the second half, she performed her 'novelty' numbers; every time I hear the Remembrance day service, I am reminded that the pipes, fearsome and special though they undoubtedly are, have a strictly limited set of notes, and as they butcher the Skye Boat song yet again, I wonder why they bother. A similar caveat might equally well be applied to 'How much is that doggy in the window?', which, when rendered by the pipes is more readily distinguishable by the rhythm than the tune.

No matter, the audience had a lovely time, much money was raised for good causes, and we won a picture frame of unspeakable hideousness in the raffle. That, I suspect, is our duty done for the time being.

the daily battle...

2008-11-11T11:44:00.003Z

Now that winter nights are fair drawing in, the cat has begun to realise that down at one end of the house there is a cosy warm bed, usually with two warm bodies occupying it. This has resulted in some terrible late night tantrums when he is confined to the living room (for those among you who might think we are being cruel I should just point out that he has the choice of a cat basket in the kitchen with a retired cashmere jumper to sleep on, or a persian salt bag stuffed with goose feathers in the living room, both are next to storage heaters).

This being a farm, activity starts at daylight, and we generally stir quite early, mostly to put the radio on and subside back into drowsiness until we actually have to get up. The cat has taken this to be an invitation to interract, and starts to shout the place down at the first sign of life. He can usually be placated with breakfast, but if you aren't quick enough, he'll have a trough, then follow you back to bed. As I am still on crutches, he has time to eat a three course meal, and will still beat me, so the Arts correspondent has been taking on those duties. If, however we don't let him come to bed for a bit, he will try to break down the door.

Once he gets his way, he jumps up onto the bed and curls into an inoffensive ball, purring politely whenever any attention is paid to him. The battle of wills comes once the Arts corrspondent has gone to work and I get up to do my physio exercises, the cat studiously ignores the wierdness with giant rubber bands etc, and pretends that he is not there. When the time comes to evict him, however, it is less easy, he can be gently lifted off the bed and propelled in the direction of the door, but then I have to get up on my crutches during which he scuttles past me and jumps back onto the bed. I then have to kneel down on the bed to evict him again (poking with a crutch has no effect, gone are the days when they scared him), and while I am getting up, he runs past me again. Repeat several times, adding variations like; hiding behind the curtains, under the table, bed etc, and you have my morning. Needless to say, once I have finally succeeded in getting him out of the bedroom, he goes straight to the saltbag, and curls up as though nothing has happened.

For those who appreciate these things, this is one of my favourite National Film Board of Canada animations;

http://www3.nfb.ca/animation/objanim/en/films/film.php?sort=cc&id=17537

or if it isn't playing

http://www.metacafe.com/watch/27652/the_cat_came_back/

I lost my heart to a starship trouper...

2008-10-29T20:39:00.003Z

Those of you who have been paying attention may recall that owing to an inadvertant attempt to fly I am presently grounded in Kincardineshire. Last week I had my first appointment at the Fracture clinic; the nurse savaged off my cast with a pair of scissors that were blunt in all the wrong places, leaving a series of painful scrapes on my unprotected skin. I was quite intrigued to see my foot after it had been incarcerated for a couple of weeks, and was somewhat consoled to see that I still had the requisite number of toes. Less cheered, however, to discover that it looked like a yellow and purple haggis with five toes.

After my x-ray and brief chat with the consultant, I was then sent back to the physio department to discover what options are available. I was greatly relieved to discover that I didn't need a new plaster cast, rather I was to get an aircast. Don't be misled, what I actually have is a vast plastic boot, in a cheery shade of grey, covered in velcro straps. The air part of it refers to the various internal panels that can be pumped up by hand to wedge your lag and foot into a position of safety. The boot also weighs a great deal, as it has metal plates just to make sure. I look as though I am gradually mutating into a Star Wars stormtrouper, bit by bit, and it is so bulky and awkward that turning over in bed is a major event. No matter, according to the Dublin orthopedic consultants, I should be able to put my foot on the ground in a couple of weeks, I can't wait.

I wish I could fly, way up to the sky, but...

2008-10-09T10:25:00.008Z

Greetings and apologies, it's been a turbulent time for me, and blogging has been a casualty.

Speaking of casualties, as I write, I should just be waking up in my Brooklyn apartment around now, sadly I am not, as the result of my climbing a poorly attached ladder in Dublin last week. I can confirm with a fair degree of certainty that the theory of gravity works for me unless and until somebody comes up with something better. I am now in possession of a rather splendid plaster cast, and am confined to the use of one leg for another seven weeks.

I was in Dublin as the first outing for my new employers, and doing a rather good show that is produced by Scotlands foremost theatre company. I was beginning to enjoy working on a show that actually demanded that I use some of my technical skills, and for which I had had to learn quite a bit too. The show is presented in large semi-industrial venues where possible, as the staging is in traverse format and rather idiosyncratic, and in Dublin we were using a hall in a local showground, a complex that includes sports arenas, rock concerts, cattle shows, and fine art all at the same time. It swiftly became apparent that they operated the venue in entirely their own way, we spent a week putting the show in, relit, teched and dressed it, and then had to take the whole thing out again as there was a wedding and honeymoon show booked into the space.

When it came to putting it back in, this was when the rot set in, we hadn't bothered to put the seating banks in first time round, and they were scheduled to go in from midnight. We sauntered in at Eight, expecting to find an arena with eight hundred seats all set up for us, instead we found a sad collection of sagging structural elements, their ends propped up on stacked banquetting seats and, other than the entire space being cluttered up with randomly dumped piles of metal, little sign of activity. It transpired that they hadn't had all the bits that they needed, and the man with the key had gone home (I'm not making this up), not only that, but although the seating system belongs to the venue, the secret knowledge of how to erect it had not been shared with anybody who was present. The motley collection of philipino wine waiters and russian gardeners who had been entrusted with the task were plainly out of their depth, and also adept at swinging the lead.

Our difficulties were compounded by the tech crew we had working with us, on the first time around, we had several HOD grade technicians who were fab, second time we got the grunts, who, as became evident, were happy to cut corners. By the end of the evening I was pretty happy, we had reset all my stuff, I'd been able to check the focus points for the moving lights, and as far as I was concerned I was in a good position for the final dress next day. All I needed was for the seating to be completed, as this was critical to some focusses. So, I was heading up the ladder to the lighting control position to start the switch off, and had just got to the top of the (too short) access ladder, when it slipped sideways and I went flying. I landed squarely on my heel, the bone proved unequal to the pressure, and I have a text book 'humpty dumpty' fracture. I'll cast a gentle veil over my first experience as a hospital patient, 26 hours on a trolley in a corridor with no painkillers for 14 of them was not pleasant, life on the orthopedic ward was intriguing too, maybe I'll come back to that later.

As a postscript, there was a near riot at the venue on the next night, shortly before the preview performance our stage management were fascinated to observe the seating bank (with 400 people on it) starting to subside in the middle. After a great deal of debate, and delay, it was decided to cancel the performance. There have been a number of incidents since, I think everyone concerned is very glad to be out of there. Hopefully they are having a much better time in New York.

call me irresistable...

2008-07-08T22:40:00.003Z

What is it about french cats? The Arts correspondent and I were making an experimental exploration of the joys of camping way down South in the Languedoc, we had borrowed a gargantuan tent from a colleague, and brought our picnic stove and a variety of interesting things to eat. These included a couple of local sausages, cheeses etc, and we'd stopped off at my favourite boulangerie in Toulouse and bought a couple of custard/raisin things to go with our morning coffee.

That we were burgled by what looked like Puszkins skinny french cousin wasn't a great surprise, that he stole and ate most of a custard thing rather than a sausage was more of one, Not only that but the little sod came back in the night and stole the other one, we were most displeased. They taste so much better than they look by the way.

sheep may safely graze?

2008-05-31T09:55:00.003Z

We made a swift visit to Cologne, not for any very compelling reason other than it was there. Naturally we explored the cathedral, which is just as big as I remember it being, we were both rather struck by the slightly more contemporary saints that have been added in certain places, and most especially by this very knowing and camp trio. I don't know what the sculptor was trying to say, really...

more spray art

2008-05-31T09:52:00.001Z

It's from Essen, or possible Cologne, shame that some little bugger tagged over it.

Paris

2008-05-29T13:21:00.005Z

I find it quite comforting to discover that while Paris remains as slick and european as ever, with scarcely a french voice to heard on certain streets. In various corners, however, Parisians are still pursuing various eccentric trades. It all started when I went looking for a shop I had found the last time I worked at the Pompidou; it specialised entirely in cow related artefacts, and I was hoping to find some friesian patterned socks to cheer up the Arts correspondent. As I half suspected, that shop might have been too specialised in its appeal, and has now been replaced by a bar.

What I did find, however were two splendidly eccentric shops, one specialising in the restoration and hire of ivory and historical animal specimens. and in Les Halles, a shop dedicated to the destruction of rats, with a comprehensive window display of specimens killed in the area since 1925. Its proximity to a very nice boulangerie must, I think, be coincidental.

straight to Hull, more Yorkshire spray art

2008-05-10T18:45:00.004Z

I found this was on the same wall in Sheffield where I pictured a sprayed image a couple of years ago (http://lx999.blogspot.com/2006_11_01_archive.html), and although the wall has since been repainted, the same artist has made a return visit, his subject is a bit more morose this time.

baggage

2008-05-06T09:00:00.002Z

Time was, when you participated in a Theatre festival there would always be some sort of official present. Inevitably there would be a t-shirt, equally inevitably the wrong size, made of impossibly cheap material and covered in the names of sponsors that you have never heard of, and finished off with some sort of snappy arts related strapline across the chest. Commonly, when you arrive at your venue there will be a row of carrier bags, one for each participant, containing the afforementioned t-shirt and some sort of quirky gift; a mozart kugeln in Vienna, a recycled pencil in Copenhagen, and incomprehensively, a condom in Bogota.

In the last year or so, however, things have changed, the message is now the bag- it has become de rigeur for any self respecting festival to produce its own celebratory luggage; weird nylon things in Latin America or over-printed cotton in most of Europe. Last week we were clearing out the store, in preparation for an influx of unusable tat (aka: the new show), and as I was clearing, I was struck by the sheer number of discarded festival bags littering the floor. The prize for most creative goes to the former Eastern Europe, and a festival in Prague: hand sewn and finished with patches of coloured fabric providing a series of mysteriously purposeless pockets. Will this madness never end?

By way of a digression, I took Tim the satnav out for its first European outing this weekend, driving from Zeebrugge to Gelsenkirchen, and he performed admirably, guiding me through three countries without any trauma. The only moment of dissent occurred when I switched it on on the ferry, and it announced; 'turn around when possible', either it had developed cold feet about travelling, or it was still determined that Dover is a nicer ferry port than Hull, I think the jury's out on that one.

haar!

2008-04-28T10:47:00.002Z

I'm on a train, or perhaps, in honour of the mobile phone cliche: 'I'M ON A TRAIN.' The novelty of being able to sit here and surf in only mild discomfort (unless you get a table there isn't enough space for me and a laptop, alas I am no longer as svelte as I used to be), hasn't yet worn off, and the carriage full of grumbling pensioners can be ignored with a clear conscience (the buffet car has run out of tea, the horror!).

Yesterday was another one of those slightly bewildering climate adventures, our weather tends not to follow the nationally predicted line, and we awoke to brilliant sunshine and clear skies, proper flip-flop and t-shirt weather. After a morning of blameless pootling about we decided to sort the recycling and head for the dump. Bathed in the sort of warm inner glow that shoving plastic bottles into a bin induces, we decided to reward ourselves with a pint and the sunday paper in one of our favourite pubs on the harbour of a local fishing village. There was a very boisterous, but rather inept darts competition taking place when we arrived, but no worries, we set ourselves up in the sunshine outside the pub. I was sufficiently absorbed by the gastronomic horrors I was reading about not to notice the temperature plummet, until I looked up and realised that visibility was down to about 20 feet, and it was distinctly cold. This was a haar, a cold sea mist that we are quite prone to, and as we drove back to our home, we could see it creeping up the glens towards us. It arrived about half an hour after we did, and the rest of the day was spent shrouded in fog, with nothing but the melancholy call of the lovesick pheasant to remind us that life goes on.

The cat, incidentally, was not impressed.

nimrod?

2008-04-23T14:56:00.004Z

Maybe calling him Puszkin was a mistake, as each morning we have arisen to find yet another green wobbly bit in the middle of the kitchen floor. This doesn't appear to have affected his appetite, as griblets are hoovered up with messy enthusiasm.

There was quite a lot of shouting at around 3.00 am this morning, and there were muddy footprints when I got up to make coffee. I thought nothing much of it, confining my activities looking around rather bleerily in case I was going to stand on something nasty and still warm.

So, some time around midday, I was a bit disconcerted to wander into the kitchen and find a large field vole sitting in the sink, eating fresh mint that had broken off the pot on the windowsill. The cat had thankfully subsided into his customary coma, and was unable to assist me as I popped a cup over the rodent prior to evicting it. As I walked across the roadway outside the kitchen door, I startled a deer about 25 yards away, and it crashed off into the nether regions of the estate. I suppose we should be grateful the cat is sticking with things he can still get through the cat flap.

new tree

2008-04-14T10:47:00.003Z

Last one from Colombia for the moment; one of the things I found strange about Bogota was that there was very little visible life, apart, of course from the hordes of humans. There were very few birds or insects, I didn't even see any rats.

On the other hand, situated as we were, at the end of the Andes (there's a joke struggling to get out there), there were a great many trees. Regular visitors to this blog may recall that I have a fondness for the genus Araucaria (most commonly represented in the UK by the Monkey Puzzle), and I was delighted to discover a variety new to me. Unfortunately it was the wrong season to collect seeds, and I was unable to identify it (kind and more knowledgeable readers might care to comment and inform us all).

A little googling and wikipedia search reveals that the tree is most likely to be Araucaria Angustifolia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Araucaria_angustifolia) also known as the Parana Pine, so there.

colombian spray art

2008-04-14T10:31:00.006Z

These seem to be mostly political, but there's nothing wrong with that and they are pretty good...

new arrival...

2008-04-14T10:12:00.003Z

This is Puszkin, he seems to have taken to country life. At any rate he was out all last night and is now so comprehensively knackered that he can't be bothered to struggle out of the chair. Quite a change from the terrified creature who cowered behind his bed in the animal rescue centre less than ten days ago.

the day war broke out, part 3

2008-03-09T03:24:00.003Z

It's all over, peace has broken out again. Hugo Chavez has been seen on TV shaking hands with the Colombian president (who is also elected, but more self-effacing, so I can't remember his name). Overnight the teeny soldiers who thronged the foyer of our hotel have gone, there are still a few outside, but things have really quietened down.

I did have a bizarre encounter: we've become used to a myriad of different uniforms, and many guns, which mostly look dull, utilitarian and rather depressingly funtional. On the day in question, however, my colleague and I were rather disconcerted to find ourselves travelling in a lift with a very chic soldier, sporting a very highly polished and chromed pump action shotgun. I didn't feel a strong urge to question him, somehow.

rain stopped play?

2008-03-09T02:33:00.003Z

Oops, we had a good start today, this morning was bright and sunny and I was beginning to regret not having any sunblock with me. I ambled downtown towards Simon Bolivar Square, where the preparations were underway for the inaugural fiesta, this is as close as Colombia gets to carnival (although apparently rumba is very big here). We, of course, had been carefully scheduled to have a nice lunch with the head of the British Council, thus keeping us safely out of potential harms way.

Our welcome pack from our sponsors consisted of a plastic water bottle, a small backpack with 'British Council' (or 'mug me now') printed on it, and a few sheets of A4 detailing all the things it is not safe to do in Colombia, among which, had we chosen to follow the instructions to the letter, was going to eat with the British Council.

We were fed in a terrace restaurant, high above the town, and, as has been typical while we've been here, a rainstorm started while we were eating. We were high enough up to be above most of the storm (Bogota is at one end of the Andes), but it was very violent and quite exciting. I felt very sorry for all the hundreds of marchers we had passed on the way to the meal. Once we were done, en mass we spurned the festival minibus (on average it takes three times as long to get anywhere by car as it does to walk), and walked back to the hotel.

There wasn't really very much time to do anything much before I needed to be at the theatre, so, after a confused and ineffective attempt to talk to the Arts Correspondant via Skype, I headed for the theatre. I was greeted by a scene of utter confusion (and you must bear in mind that when it comes to confusion, we're working with pros), the last two days of very heavy rain might not have penetrated the shell of the theatre to any significant extent, but the bods who built the seating rostra and the stage upon sand, hadn't really taken the substrate into consideration, and certainly hadn't bothered to spread the load in any way. Consequently, after our first night full house, the seating was already sinking into the ground by as much as six inches in some places, and after the deluge this afternoon, the whole of the auditorium seating was starting to descend into the ground. I suppose if you use beer mats to spread the load then this is what will happen.

After a good deal of standing around and quite amicable pointing, this evenings performance was cancelled. I left the theatre to the sound of angle grinders, as they dismantled the auditorium preparatory to putting in proper footings for the rostra; if it rains again tomorrow they might need to consider pontoons.

Changing the subject briefly, assiduous readers may recall that I have an active interest in living things, and when I'm away I like to note any oddities or exotic specimens I encounter. Sadly, unless my observational faculties are very dimmed, all I have seen thus far have been a few dogs and some very scabby pigeons. There are no birds in the sky; I saw a small brown moth in a bar last night, and I think I have seen two flies. This leads me to the conclusion that, although Colombia is ranked ninth in the world for atmospheric probity (the UK is 13th, I was paying attention at lunch), this is possibly because the major polluters are concentrated in very small areas, and when they're bad they're horrid.

the day war broke out, part 2

2008-03-06T22:34:00.002Z

Three days in, and we're just about getting our theatre together. We're performing in the oldest theatre in Bogota, built in the 1920's. It is currently undergoing renovations, which broadly means, that we are performing in an empty shell, with mud floors and a temporary stage in the auditorium. The experience of performing in Colombia is strangely similar to that of putting on a show in Rio eighteen months ago, the crews are very willing and hardworking, but simply don't believe the information that they are given in advance. Thus lanterns are substituted at will, and they feel free to improve on the plan when it suits them.

The show we are doing is based around a loose concept of 'unsuccessful rock band' although there are no actual musicians, but we do have woodenheaded and singleminded roadies, bad 1970's rock lighting and a hundred cliches explored. The whole visual concept depends on there being a complete, small, working sound system onstage, this then feeds the main sound system. We haven't yet toured to a venue where this idea has been understood, there are always arguments, and plenty of helpful suggestions; Bogota is no exception.

As for the war, there are plenty of soldiers about, mingling happily with the dozens of private heavily armed security guards, and today there was a very large peace demonstration, other than making the traffic even more chaotic, I can't say that there is a great sense of unease.

the day war broke out...

2008-03-02T22:20:00.002Z

Having transferred across the snake pass to the relative civilisation that is a Manchester Airport hotel, I am mildly disconcerted to see a 'breaking news' report on Sky News saying that Hugo Chavez (Venezualen President), has ordered several battalions of troops to mass on the Colombian border. A little research reveals that the border is more than 2000km long (thank you China News agency), I suspect this is sabre rattling/posturing, and the arrival of an internationally renowned experimental theatre company is only a coincidence.

Having said that, the november 'Axis of Evil' tour was cancelled, and all previous attempts to perform in Beirut have been greeted by local anarchy, maybe there is a connection after all. Doesn't seem to work in Leeds though. More reports from the horses mouth, if there's any internet of course.

Blacklisted!

2008-03-01T12:52:00.004Z

Currently sitting in the foyer of a certain Yorkshire theatre, which demonstrates all the worst aspects of the british theatrical obsession with trying to prevent you from actually putting a show on. We've been performing two different shows (by invitation), both of which have been in the repertoire for at least four years, and have been performed in major theatres all over the world. Only here in Leeds, it would appear, there are whole departments dedicated to finding reasons not to do the show right here. This is a producing house, and the staffing structures are so rigid and hierarchical that it is hard to imagine a chippy daring to touch a lantern (at least not without written permission from all relevant HODs). Similarly, there seems to be a grade of dullness and lack of interest that pervades the system, if you don't work the way they do, then they're not interested.
Trying to get this particular company to do stuff or be somewhere at a specific time is like herding cats, and they are adept at ignoring authority figures, so I derived a certain amount of wry pleasure from watching the house stage manager attempting to get the company back on stage for the post-show discussion. It was only when I suggested that their tray of drinks was shifted onto the stage, that they actually complied.
My final gripe, for the moment, is that the theatre has very good web access, however, it has the most draconian naughty filter that I have ever encountered, so far The Deep North has been blacklisted, as was a download of a smoke fluid toxicity data sheet (demanded by the theatre), I haven't even tried eBay.
More pleasantly, on monday we're off to Bogota to do four shows, and for the first time in my life I'm an actual millionaire, sadly only a peso millionaire, but never mind. My researches suggest that every street corner will be populated by sinister moustachioed drug dealers offering cocaine and handfuls of uncut emeralds for sale, I suspect the reality will be somewhat less exciting.

I love Paris in the springtime, yes, but...

2008-02-07T11:48:00.000Z

Off to Paris to do another one of those gigs when you know that it's going to be horrid, but you don't quite know why. Actually, I dissemble, I had a number of very good ideas why it was going to be horrid; firstly, the venue. The Grand Palais is a vast unheated barn built in 1900 for some grandiloquent expo or other, rather like Earls Court with twiddly bits. As it is a government owned structure plonked halfway down the Champs Elysee, there is a great deal of bureaucratic interest; paperwork has to be produced in quantity and there is much ill-informed supervision.

Secondly, my colleague and friend, who is primarily responsible for the design, was still stuck in Panto mode, and incapable of the kind of concentration that a job on this scale demands. Thirdly, the equipment was all being hired from an external company, and because the project was being produced at very short notice, this put a lot of pressure on the hire company; especially when you consider that there were three forty-foot trailers just for lighting equipment. Fourthly, there is a new corporate colour: White, this means an acre or so of white carpet, all of which has to be protected from dirt until the punters get in (although the stylish french heaters turn its colour pink, as can be seen in the pictures!).

The gig in question was the annual heads of business meeting for a certain German automobile maunfacturer (assiduous readers may recall a previous gig in Tenerife a couple of years ago). Typically this entails a brief meeting (to justify the expense to the taxman), then a big dinner followed by some top class entertainment. The top class entertainment have to be sufficiently anodyne that they won't offend the wives, and sufficiently well-known that the heads of business have heard of them (this is part of the brief, don't blame me). In this case we had T*ke Th*t (please supply your own 'a'), and jolly harmless they were too. I didn't stay to watch the show, the opportunity to snatch three hours sleep before starting the seven hour de-rig was too tempting to turn down, they were ok in their interminable soundcheck though.

comedy tonight?

2008-01-25T13:03:00.000Z

This cartoon was floating around the local touring arts office, and with a little modification and a nod to my former employers I present it for your entertainment. Perhaps a little ill-timed in the face of Brian McMasters big Arts axe, you could maybe play a little game; guess which company is more likely to have its funding removed? (grateful thanks to the anonymous artist).

(click on the pic to get it full size)

On a lighter note, I'm off to Paris, to provide lighting services for a certain boy band. It's a one off gig for the senior management of a noted german based motor manufacturer. They will have a ten minute meeting, to justify the whole junket as a business expense, then it's party time. As the band alone is costing £500K, I shudder to think what the rest of the bill will be. I suppose in a way, this kind of self-indulgence subsidises the arts, but it still sticks in my throat a bit.

Danish spray art

2008-01-07T18:11:00.000Z

A rare example of spray art from Copenhagen:

Quite why anyone would want to stencil an image of John Hegley is beyond me.

local cuisine

2008-01-07T18:02:00.000Z

The cold seems to be affecting the traybakes...

speechless...

2007-12-09T23:13:00.000Z

blinging up the mearns...

2007-11-14T15:11:00.000Z

Just when the giant electric carrots of Sneinton had faded from my memory, I had cause to travel into the nearby town of Inverbervie, and to my considerable horror spotted that someone was in the process of blinging up one of the farm cottages.

I'm pretty confident that the home in question does not pertain to our noble landlords estate, as I suspect that only tasteful christmas decs, perhaps incorporating tartan ribbons among the holly garlands, are likely to be permitted.

Incidentally, the Lairds tartan is really rather nice, a variant on the Black Watch tartan, and mercifully lacking in unharmonious colour ways.

The blinged up house hasn't yet been switched on, but rest assured, gentle reader, that when it is, I'll be there to record it. Here for the record is the house before they switch it on, it's certainly unusual.

news from the warzone

2007-11-12T15:52:00.000Z

We have returned to the land of Grassic Gibbon to find ourselves living in the midst of a cross between Gosford Park and downtown Beirut, if one is to poke ones nose outside the door at certain times of the day then one runs the risk of having it shot off. I think they are having an 'at home' at the big house, since that is the direction that most of the gunfire is coming from. Betweeded yeomen with eager dogs patrol the shrubbery outside our windows, scooping up the occasional feathery corpse, fortunately our landlords guests seem to have a limited appetite for slaughter, if this afternoon is anything to go by, as they ran out of ammunition/birds/interest after about half an hour. The cat has been entirely sensible, and abandoned his ongoing attempts to remove all rodents from the planet in favour of lying on the couch with his tail over his nose pretending to be blamelessly asleep.

You will gather from this posting that we are finally online, more accurately, I am, as Mr Bransons finest modem does not appear to wish to speak to The Arts Correspondents finest Apple, a cause of much friction as one might imagine. Once we're sorted, I think it has a date with a hammer, although maybe if I glued some feathers on it and waved it outside the door for a few minutes, someone might take a pot shot at it.

Our visit to the South could only at best be described as a qualified success, The Arts Correspondents mother is now in possession of a splendid new hip, and normal service should be resumed fairly soon. The local hospital in Wet London, where my AP was due to have a toe ground, took it upon itself to cancel most of its day surgery, and consequently my trip was in part, in vain. It is profoundly to be hoped that they will find a new consultant surgeon who can get out of bed in the morning, and who is correctly able to diagnose Athletes foot (or the absence thereof). I will say no more, as it is still very annoying.

Just before we travelled back up, I had cause to visit the land of the red kites(http://lx999.blogspot.com/2006_03_01_archive.html), as I had a package to drop off at the offices, it is quite refreshing to see that, even though they have become a multi-million pound operation, they are still not entirely without a sense of humour, as this picture of their new car-parking warden demonstrates (I hope).

Finally, even in deepest darkest Bucks a little weirdness can happen, I have been driving past this sign for several years now, as the estate in question is screened by large conifers, I am unable to confirm what activities actually take place there, but I do hope they all have fun.

Ongoing apology, part three?

2007-11-01T17:46:00.000Z

Sorry folks, the useless deadbeat monopolists at BT have continued to scupper our attempts to get online, it only took five weeks for them to connect our line, and in what I'm sure they'd call a spirit of generosity, they placed a broadband connection on (actually, I suspect they didn't bother to remove the one that the previous tenant had). This meant that when we failed to sign up for BT broadband, and instead went for a rival, we had to wait for them to remove their connection before we could go ahead.

Today, we have been told that our broadband is now connected, and wished happy surfing, shame we are both down south, in attendance at our respective parents, who in a rare and pleasing moment of synchronicity have managed to get themselves into hospital for foot and leg operations within a couple of weeks of each other.

I can't pretend I have a monster back log of log entries to upload, but I have a new pastime writing reviews for Remotegoat, so here's hoping that I'll be seeing more exciting events soon...

homeward bound...

2007-10-07T09:08:00.000Z

Roubaix, by way of contrast to the horrors of Swindon, was rather nice, if you can describe a decaying industrial town as nice. In a typically French way, they have decided to approach regeneration through the Arts, there are little (and large) art spaces all over the town. We were in the dance theatre (Le Colisee), a former cinema, it was possessed by an amiable crew, and, two hour lunch breaks notwithstanding, everything was done efficiently and within the allocated time.

One of the other spaces in Roubaix is a former municipal swimming baths called La Piscine, it is now a wonderful and inventive exhibition space, slightly let down by the less exciting art collection on display.

At the back of the theatre was a tiny little park, presumably the formal gardens of the mayoral palace at one time. Nothing remarkable or unusual there, except that it has been colonised by feral chickens. These seem to be doing quite well, very glossy and fat, and it would appear that they have no predators. I should perhaps point out that the cockerels are extremely aggressive, and chase off anything that comes near, they also seem quite able to fly.

I'm going up the road today, hopefully we'll have an internet connection soon, we've got a phone number now, so that's a start.

dem balls, dem balls, dem green balls

2007-10-01T21:12:00.000Z

Hot foot from a flying visit to Nottingham, the Arts correspondent tells me that the green balls of Warwick have now sprouted in Notts. It's gentrification gone mad I tell you.

http://lx999.blogspot.com/2006_11_01_archive.html

may be offline again for a bit, I'm off to Lille to do a British Council showcase, and once I'm back home I still don't think we'll have a phone line. Somehow I can't bring myself to blog in the tearoom of the Grassic Gibbon Centre*; the ambiance of stewed tea and the monotone narration from the exhibition are not conducive to my creative needs, oh, and the coffee is vile too.

*Community web access point.

least we forget

2007-10-01T20:44:00.000Z

In these barbarous times there seems to be a bit of a mission to rehabilitate Margaret Thatcher; tea with the prime minister and occasional moments of gut-wrenching adulation. True, it is very sad to see an old and somewhat confused lady being wheeled out to attempt to prop up flagging political careers. As someone cleverer than me has said; I hope that when they bury her she'll have a bloody big tomb, the number of people who'll want to dance on her grave.

She was that most dangerous of things a conviction politician, she genuinely believed that what she was doing was right, and wasn't prepared to consider that there might ever have been an alternative view. She didn't like trains, so now we have the most useless and outmoded rail network in Europe, didn't like Unions, so we have Murdoch and miscellaneous nazis and pornographers telling us what to think, didn't like coal (or rather the power that the miners had), so now we're dependent on imported fuel. She decimated my industry because she couldn't see the point of it, unless it was opera, in which case you could use it to impress people, even if you don't like it yourself.

As a former food scientist, she was wholly responsible for permitting the relaxation of food standards which lead to BSE and the rise of Bernard Matthews. Finally, as they say, she took us to war, a war that was entirely unneccessary, and would probably never have happened if the government at the time hadn't withdrawn the singular naval presence from the South Atlantic. A lot of people died to give her another term in office.

So, when you're looking at the dubious collection of former estate agents and used car salesmen that are clamouring for your vote, offer up a little prayer to the deity of your choice that the mollusc in a suit doesn't have any real convictions, it's safer that way.

by way of light relief, try this: http://www.fandmpublications.co.uk/pages/maggiequote.htm

not quite as good as the Julie Burchill random recycler, but with a little help from the world, it could be.

oh to be in Skopje now that Autumn's here...

2007-09-30T14:34:00.000Z

It's one of those things that happens to me I guess; on Wednesday I found myself sitting in Vienna Airport waiting for a connecting flight to Skopje, just for a change I was going to a strange theatre (as it turned out very strange), in a strange country, to relight a show I hadn't seen, and designed by a lighting designer I've never met.

We were playing at the Macedonian state opera and ballet house, a monstrous white concrete structure, all brutal angles and angular asymetric windows, built in the 1980's to replace an earlier theatre that fell down in an earthquake. The stage was conventional enough, although entirely designed around the concept of rather traditional opera and ballet productions, and not entirely suitable for the more austere requirements of contemporary dance, which, by the way was what I was being paid to do. The auditorium, however, revealed clear signs of substance abuse by the architects, the seating was banked up in a quite steep asymetric 'v' shape, with more than half of the seats at an angle to the stage. The seats themselves were not antiraked, so large chunks of the audience was sitting on a slant; walking from the stage, which was entirely conventional and free from gimmicks, and up to the lighting control room was a slightly queasy experience. The control room was entered through a parallelogram shaped door, hidden behind a vast concrete slab.

The joint artistic directors, my new employers, who chose to interview me by telephone, rather than pay for me to travel down to see them, have just conspired together to produce a baby, and this seems to have have had a fairly catastrophic effect on their ability to concentrate. Said infant, who is entirely placid and well-behaved, was, nonetheless a somewhat distracting travelling companion.

We were hit by, what for me was a new experience; Puccini politics, our production schedule had been determined and agreed weeks before we went out, however, this was an Opera house (with resident Opera and ballet companies), and the Director was not entirely happy at having his theatre used for something as peculiar as contemporary dance (especially as we use electronic instruments). Consequently, he decided that they should do La Boheme, and decided to call full orchestra and chorus rehearsal during our supposed fit-up period, the fact that he had no actual performances scheduled was a bit of a giveaway. He also cancelled the calls for the technical staff, so even when we did get the stage, there were no electricians in the building. Normally a theatre would use some form of access tower, ladder or tallescope to get to the lighting over the stage, not in Skopje, the only way they had to focus the stage was to fly each lighting bar in in turn, point the lights, fly it out, note where each adjustment needed to be made, fly it in again, adjust, fly it out and continue in this fashion until the production electrician (me), is ready to slit his wrists. This method is known in the UK industry as 'bounce focussing' and is only used as a last resort, as the level of precision required to focus a show properly is almost unattainable.

This was probably the last arts venture for the British Council in Macedonia, as they would appear to have appointed a new head with the specific mandate of closing down all cultural links with the UK that don't make money. Although he did attend the performance, and lasted the whole hour, he wasn't sufficiently cultured to come and say hello, unlike the ambassador. It is customary on these occasions, however horrendous the experience, for the sponsor to show his face, and for us to thank him (it is nearly always a man in a suit). Apparently, if you are wanting BC money to take British culture abroad, then you should look to the middle east, or to africa, the Balkans, now that they are no longer chewing bloody lumps out of each other, are no longer of interest. I can't help feeling that it is very short-sighted to turn our backs on these nations, English is the most popular foreign language, and football keeps this country firmly in the picture. Maybe they think if we don't send them any more contemporary dance companies then this will slow down the flow of migrants from Eastern Europe, thinking about it, this may actually be the reason.

I learned three words of Macedonian, which seemed to be enough (even the stall holders in the market could manage a few words of English), these were; beer, peanuts and motherf*cker,
Most of the venue technicians got by with just the last one. Despite what could have been seen as quite a negative experience, I liked Macedonia, I don't think I'd choose to go there for my holidays, but the people were nice and mostly pretty laid back and friendly

an apology

2007-09-23T13:00:00.000Z

Normal service will be resumed shortly, the new home does not yet have a 'phone line or internet access.

reasons to be cheerful, part three...

2007-08-12T12:15:00.000Z

Ok, I know it is raining, and, to use a favourite word, it is driech, but we have found a place to live, and it is on the right side of Aberdeen. We have to wait a couple of weeks for the current incumbent to pack his bags, but when he has, it's off to our farm cottage we will go.

Last week we had the Turriff show, owing to the foot and mouth episode all the customary livestock was omitted, thus we didn't have the traditional 'escaping bull' moment, as another couple of tons of prime aberdeen angus decides that, no, he doesn't want to circle the ring and instead opts for the open road. This left us with the dubious pleasures of giant vegetables, macaroni art and young gels (and not so young) on ponies, and a stunt motorcyclist who underwhelmed.

We also visited the Pittenweem Art Show, where the former Nottingham correspondent photographed these rather splendid pieces of industrial knitting floating in the harbour.

Here's another reason to be cheerful...

nature notes #257

2007-08-01T16:10:00.000Z

As I stood by the lake this morning, having lost the dog toy in a tree yet again, my attention was caught by a fluttering among the trees on the far side of the water. As it was bright sunshine and mid-morning, I was quite surprised to realise that this was a medium sized bat, methodically hoovering up the insects which are abundant in the warm weather. Somehow I had always made the assumption that bats only hunt in the dusk, this has always been the time when I have seen them before. My researches lead me to the conclusion that it was probably a Daubentons bat, as it was quite large, and of the eight species recorded in Scotland, this is the one that most commonly lives near and feeds over water. I wasn't really close enough to see its ears or nose, which are the most accurate ways of identifying a species apparently.

unlock my heart?

2007-07-26T13:31:00.000Z

Whilst we are searching the less salubrious parts of South Aberdeenshire for somewhere to live, our belongings are inhabiting a secure storage unit on the outskirts of the big town, this is not dissimilar to a 'Big Yellow self-store' as found in southern parts. Each occupier has a storage space, rented by size, alarmed and secured by a padlock.

When we were unloading, and as we wheeled our trolleys full of stuff through the anonymous corridors; the fluourescent lights flicking eerily on as we entered each section, and with nothing but the muted sound of Radio 2 to disturb our thoughts, our attention was drawn to an adjacent unit, whose occupiers evidently don't trust much, or each other perhaps, as there are 'his and hers' padlocks on the door. Nuff said, really.

but is it art?

2007-07-26T12:47:00.000Z

The establishment at The Deep North, where we are temporarily abiding, includes among the inhabitants an elderly black labrador, a retired gun dog in fact. There is also a small lake or large pond, depending on ones point of view. The combination of dog and lake is frequent, and quite enthusiastic (on her part at least), but lately she has developed a new game. She goes diving into the lake, and truffles about in the muddy shallows, her head fully submerged, and her fore-paws raking through the mud. At first the general consensus was that she was turning over rocks in search of crayfish or perhaps some delicious morsels of carrion (labradors have depraved tastes, I will spare you the incident with the not-quite dead yet pigeon). Closer observation has revealed that she is in fact collecting stones, bringing them to the surface and arranging them in carefully chosen places. It is only stones she does this with, sometimes she will emerge from the water with a mouthfull of weed, or a decaying stick, these are contemptuously discarded, and subsequently ignored. Her stone installations, however, are revisited and inspected, presumably in case an art critic has been passing. I can offer no explanation for this behaviour, perhaps, in a household buzzing with creative energy, a little has rubbed off on her.

politics

2007-07-15T12:18:00.000Z

I suppose I'm going to miss the bye-election, my poll card arrived too late for me to register for a postal vote and I'm not planning to drive down from Aberdeen to exercise my franchise!

This has become a very silly election, the parties are all throwing everything they've got at it, with the cons and the libs being particularly desperate and annoying. I think I've had most of a small tree shoved through the door in the past few days. Ealing/Southall being a mainly asian constituency, politics has a different tone. The one certainty is that whatever party wins, the MP will only be interested in representing the interests of his constituents (the only female candidate is a Green, Labour was going to select from an all-woman shortlist, but bottled out when they realised they would lose). Our recently deceased MP was not one of the more assiduous attenders at Westminster and certainly did little in the way of voting.

The con candidate (party member for less than ten days) was at a labour party fundraising dinner a month ago (and made a donation), five labour councillors have defected to the cons in a fit of pique because the party didn't select a Sikh candidate (it was their turn apparently), the cons are suing the libs for plagiarising their election literature. It's all a farce, in less than two years the boundaries will change, and a whole lot of tories will discover that their vote might mean something again!

This makes scottish politics appear to be relatively straightforward by comparison, no doubt I'll be disabused at some point, but for now I'll stick with that naiive view.

The narrow road...

2007-07-14T20:10:00.000Z

Just a quick post to update on the big move; not without effort, we have transferred most of the contents of both our establishments to a self-store on the outskirts of Aberdeen.

The Nottingham correspondent and I will be making the final journey on Monday; a small convoy, accompanied by the muted wails of the cat will be heading North at last. I can't pretend that I have enjoyed packing up a flat that I have lived in for more than fifteen years, but it was and is time to move on. We have nowhere to live as yet, and will be staying at The Deep North until this is sorted out.

Hug a Hoody!!! - the musical

2007-07-06T19:54:00.000Z

There are a great many forgettable old movies, when, at some point in the proceedings a toothy bimbo will propose that the solution to their improbable predicament is to put on a show. This idea will be enthusiastically received by all and sundry until some sceptic will ask: 'where are we going to do this?'

'Why, let's do the show right here,' comes the response, and suddenly the barn/railway station/mortuary will transform into a functional theatre, with painted cloths and colourful lighting as part of the package. This cretinous optimism has found a new home in the dubious world of issue based 'yoof' theatre.

Today I went to talk to a theatre company about doing a lighting design for them, unfortunately they hadn't put any information about the production on the listing, or I would have chosen to continue my mundane task of putting things into boxes. My heart sank when I discovered that my meeting was being held in a youth/drug rehab centre, a sterile environment distinguishable instantly by the vast number of printed notices on every available flat surface. My interview panel consisted of the producer (a podgy middle-aged, hand-knitted beardy). and three yoof. The director was the oldest, was in his early twenties, his bloodshot eyes revealing his liking for the weed, the other two (the author and someone whose function was never explained) were in their mid to late teens. What united this trio was a complete lack of knowledge about what is involved in putting on a show, they weren't able to remember what they were interviewing me about, and their collective attention span was slightly superior to that of a goldfish. Indeed for a moment there I thought I was back working with an opera director again.

They did have a desperate enthusiasm for their project, even though they weren't very sure what it was about. Nor did they know anything about their venue: the local town hall. They claimed a vast amount of support form local and community based organisations, including, they announced proudly, the local police. The cynical part of me (surely not!), immediately thought, the feds are probably delighted, they'll think they know where some of their regular clients are for several days at a time. This is a flawed theory, I did a ghastly d-day celebratory show a few years back, and five eleven year olds were arrested for trying to steal cars during the interval. I can't quite bring myself to believe that there is much of an audience for a show about how hard it is to grow up in Fulham, there's only so much teenage introspection that a person can stand; and I think I've already paid my dues on that score.

While I'm sure that David Cameron would thoroughly approve, and might even be persuaded to turn up, after all there's a bye-election pending, and if he does, then I wish him joy. As for me, to quote Sam Goldwyn, you can include me out.

don't know why, there's no sun up in the sky...

2007-06-29T11:49:00.000Z

I know I'm not the only one whose life was inconvenienced by a spot of rain the other day, but anyway, here's my story. We were driving back from Zurich to Sheffield, the trip across Switzerland and France was long, but uneventful, until we reached Calais; when, after driving for ten hours, we were stuck in a single lane contra-flow in heavy rain for two hours while they scraped cars off the road. When we eventually got underway again, we discovered that we were about 200m from our hotel.

The ferry across was fine, and we had got to the other side of London by lunchtime. To add to the general misery, the M1 was closed, due to an accident of sufficient magnitude to require partial resurfacing. No bother, divert to M25 and up the A1. This was where it all began to go wrong, we got about halfway before the A1 was closed, diverted across country to the M1 again, and got to within about 30 miles of Sheffield before the motorway gridlocked. Eventually, we made it into Sheffield after going across country as far as Buxton, and managed to unload, even though parts of the store was 4" deep in water. I then attempted to return the van, and to recover my car, not realising they were right in the heart of the flooded area. Eventually I gave up, and headed back to Nottingham.

Next day it took me seven hours to get through to the depot, it was weird and slightly eery, driving through a normally vibrant industrial area; smashed and filthy cars washed into the gutter, or simply abandoned; doors open, in the middle of the road. Reminiscent of some sort of post-apocalyptic disaster movie, albeit on a rather more domestic scale.

tube secrets...

2007-06-29T11:35:00.000Z

When I was doing my shows at Toynbee Hall a couple of weeks back, I was using the tube system via Aldgate East tube station. In common with much of the tube network, there is a lot of building work being undertaken. As I waited for my late night train, among the vomitting teenagers and pissed up city workers, I was struck by the tiles on the walls (which are gradually being stripped).

I am sure they have been recorded and preserved elsewhere, but nonetheless, I felt it was worth recording them (rather poorly I'm afraid, it was on my phone). The tiles are about 6 inches square, and a heavy cream glaze. They display a jaunty optimism, and pure decorative delight that is rarely seen these days, enjoy!

vulgar flowers from singapore

2007-06-15T12:28:00.000Z

Apologies for taking so long to post these, colours in tropical countries seem so vivid by

comparison; I found these these growing in the streets around my hotel.

unlikely...

2007-06-13T15:49:00.000Z

I've been doing a few little jobs at the home of the Nottingham Correspondent, and in consequence I have had to frequent the local DIY megastore. While I was looking for filler, my eye was caught by the evostik version of liquid nails (that ever so useful glue/filler combo in a tube). I boggled slightly as some numpty in the marketing department has decided to call it 'better than screwing'. Looking at the picture, I realise it is even worse than I first realised! The filler on the right of the picture is called 'serious stuff', I don't know what the marketing department was on when they dreamt up these names, possibly glue? Who knows!

Somehow I doubt it, although you do have to be an adult to buy it...

that's another bright idea...

2007-06-10T14:43:00.000Z

I had occasion to wander into Tesco today, and yet again I was struck by the overall ghastliness of the experience, it was heaving, Sunday is plainly the day for the family shop nowadays. I have always used a basket, as I like to delude myself that I don't buy that much; and I was very aware of the many trolleys, and the apparent inability of so many shoppers to control them. What I find particularly annoying is thoughtless parking, and using the trolley to block access to a section that you might be interested in (this is particularly common round the 'reduced to clear section' which often resembles feeding time at the pyranha tank).

It did occur to me that many of these little irritations could be alleviated if each trolley was fitted with a little bell, or a hooter. Mind you, you'd never hear the announcements or the piped music.

This is our last night in London, we've been performing at Toynbee Hall, that venerable institution in East London, founded on optimism, and running on a combination of amateurish enthusiasm and sheer good luck. Given the speed with which buildings are being gobbled up in that part of London, somewhere I don't doubt that there's a property developer scheming. If he can only persuade Ken that the tube needs to run through it (Vide: Bishopsgate Goodyard), then we'll all be looking at another 100m office block before you can say 'public enquiry?'

I have a week off, during which the two households are going to miraculously slim down and become one, and more stuff will be packed into boxes. Then we're doing Jarvis Cockers' Meltdown Festival on the southbank, and off to Zurich. Suddenly, as if by magic, in two weeks time my contract will have ended.

more spray art

2007-06-09T14:12:00.000Z

This was the solitary piece of sprayed graffitti I found in Singapore, rather strangely sprayed on the pavement.

The rest of the images are from Strasbourg, where the prevailing theme seems to be small and neat. The pink jelly fish thing is everywhere, although I rather liked the way someone else had subverted the image.

Skulls from the pavement outside the National Theatre (of Strasbourg).

Manga samurai on a wall behind cathedral.

Feet on the pavement.

Cool cat above a bin.

Subverted alien jellyfish.

Alien jellyfish.

new balls please

2007-06-09T13:55:00.000Z

Assiduous readers may recall an earlier post when I referred to the strange green balls of Warwick: (http://lx999.blogspot.com/2006_11_01_archive.html).

I had cause to return to that town last weekend, and the place is covered in them, presumably in anticipation of a drought.

This image strikes me as a somewhat despairing effort to make a rather down-market modern terrace look more appealing.

back down to earth

2007-05-31T20:21:00.000Z

I'm back in the Uk after nearly a month in France, of which the latter half (in Toulouse) was superior to the former (Strasbourg). I'm presently sitting in a hotel room in Birmingham, rather a curious nostalgic experience for me, as my bedroom window directly overlooks the Alexandra Theatre, where I spent rather more than a year as Chief Electrician.

As anyone in this country will be aware, it's rather wet for this time of year. I'm pleased to report that this phenomenon extended as far as the south of France, where my three days of doing nothing were characterised by a continual downpour. This did encourage me to do some proper writing, as I had no internet access either, and the close proximity of two artisan boulangeries and a nice wine shop made it easy to stay in. Three days of rain turned the Garronne river into a foaming torrent, the colour of milky coffee, no mean feat when you consider it is about 500m wide.

The technicians at La Garronne were constantly muttering darkly about 'how the weather must make us feel at home,' as we had had a very dry and warm spring, this didn't quite ring true. My banana plant survived the trip, and is now merrily growing in the Nottingham correspondents garden, even the offset has grown a new leaf. I made a very swift trip to London yesterday, as I needed documents to tax my car, and the bananas are doing well there too. I think we may have had enough rain now, though.

Returning to the Kopi Lewak coffee story, for a moment, Radio 4's irritating consumer affairs programme, 'You and yours', did a feature on said coffee, with what I consider to be a typically sloppy report. For a start they used a correspondent in Australia, when they didn't need to go any further than Lincoln, and they seemed confused about what form of animal the Kopi Lewak is, referring to it as a cat on several occasions. I've known cats that drink coffee, but not many that voluntarily contemplate a vegetarian diet. The Kopi Lewak is a civet, which is often confusingly called a civet cat, but is an arboreal mammal with a penchant for coffee. The prevailing opinion from their vox pops was that it was rather insipid, the Australian coffee merchant who is selling it for some vast ill-reported sum, referred to it as subtle, so perhaps it's one of those rarified flavours that can only be appreciated by a cognoscenti sitting in a darkened room with a tea towel over his/her head, in which case you'll have to include me out. A moment spent googling might have been profitably spent, I fear.

If you want to hear it:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/youandyours/items/03/2007_22_wed.shtml

buy the coffee:

http://www.imperialteas.co.uk/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=35_36

or find out what the damn thing looks like:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civet

More disjointed thoughts later...

I hope that you, gentle reader, have appreciated the adroitness with which I've avoided using the words; lemur, shit and coffee in this blog. Oh, bugger...

Strasblog part deux: C’est une banane…

2007-05-23T08:54:00.000Z

I suppose now that I am no longer there I can contemplate Strasbourg with a little detachment, my very first experience of touring to a foreign theatre was about 15 years ago to another theatre in Strasbourg called TJP (Theatre Jeune Publique), I had an overwhelmingly pleasant and positive experience, and obviously I was hoping that this visit would be the same.

After ten days, the crew at the National Theatre (of Strasbourg) were still very lovely, and by French crew standards extremely friendly and outgoing. They remained, however, slower than a very slow thing. In the event of a fire, a snail that had worked out it would be next on the menu would probably have beaten them to the exit. Especially if it came anywhere close to one of their meal breaks. The evening crew were scheduled to come in at 4.00 to prepare for the evening show, their break was scheduled between 6.00 and 7.00 with an 8.00 show. In practise they would only be available until about 4.30, and certainly not to do any actual work, as the time after that was dedicated to the production of the evening meal. The crew room, occasionally visible past its special little curtain, was fully equipped with an oven, four ring hob and a fridge. Delicious smells would begin to permeate the back stage corridor from about 5.00 and as 6.00 approached, the sound of corks being pulled could be heard. Around about 7.30, someone would amble out to see that we were happy (this was the time I always did my lighting board notes), and some time later they would declare the house open.

We were blessed with a very efficient (if bossy) translator (responsible for surtitling), who was as frustrated with the situation as I was, indeed at one point she got so pissed off that she started rigging lights herself, and was a damn sight quicker and better at it than most of the crew. Where we parted company, however, was over the issue of the tower used to access the lighting for focussing. In common with most French theatres, this was a genie tower, a sort of vertical bucket ladder, that has to be manoeuvred into position, and safety interlocks engaged before the techy can push the button and ascend. What was special about this particular genie tower (apart from its generic slowness), was that, once aloft, the lampy in the bucket could wind a gay little silver handle, and the bucket would then winch out sideyways for a little bit. I thought this was unbelievably camp, as it served almost no useful purpose, other than to slow things down a little more. Somehow, I couldn’t get our translator’s head around the concept of camp, this despite her having lived in Britain for ten years; sometimes the channel is a bigger divide than we realise.

They were mostly very competent, with the dishonourable exception of the Lighting crew, who exhibited that very common French failing of not being able to carry out more than the most basic lighting board operation, or to be able to read a lighting plan. For the future, I think if the company seriously considers taking more shows to France, then they will have to do what everyone else does, and tour a lighting desk.

During my spare time in Strasbourg, when I wasn’t being dragged (mostly willingly) into bars by my colleague, I was able to explore the town, the cathedral is spectacular by anyone’s standard, although the massive frontage disguises a slightly less impressive back end. Inside there is a vast astronomical clock, which apparently has a display of moving apostles once every day. It costs a Euro to watch, and whilst I don’t begrudge them the money, I used to enjoy Trumpton, and don’t imagine the effect would be so very different, albeit more ecclesiastical. There is also a vast photorealist tableau of Christ on the mount of olives, carved from several gigantic blocks of stone somewhere in the 17th century, and featuring what I am quite certain would be recognisable local personalities among the supporting cast of soldiers and citizenry. The soldiers, incidentally, are kitted out in very obviously contemporary armour and weaponry. The cathedral also suffers rather badly from piped plainchant, although the stained glass is spectacular and inspirational, especially to a lighting designer.

There is also a botanic garden, part of the university, and in the literature this looked to be something akin to Kew, with glass houses and rare tropical plants. I was somewhat disappointed to discover a selection of things in pots with labels, rather like an exclusive garden centre, the greenhouses were mostly locked, and the main tropical house felt dingy and neglected, with cracked and dirty glazing, although it did have some very good specimens of relatively common plants. I suppose as an academic environment it was adequate, but seemed to be sadly lacking in imagination. The best thing there, in my opinion, was the outdoor lily pond, not because it was very spectacular, but because it was absolutely alive with frogs, and as it had just been raining they were very active. I had never fully appreciated how accurate Aristophanes’ onomatopoeia was until I heard a pond full of horny frogs giving it their best shot. The minor disturbance that an approaching human caused wasn’t enough to curb their desperate urge to procreate for very long; a moments silence, a couple of sploshes and then the whole reverberating cacophony would start up again, I could still hear them calling to each other as I walked away, back into town.

A couple of nights previously, on my way back from a bar, I had seen a banana leaf sticking out of a bin next to the hotel, a little investigation revealed that this was a very battered specimen of Musa Sikkimensis (a variety with red and green stripy leaves). I retrieved said plant, trimmed off the worst of the damage and now, some ten days later, and having survived the set falling on it in the back of the truck; it has a new leaf and is sitting on my balcony, enjoying the sunshine here in Toulouse, it also has an offset, so if anybody wants one, let me know

Another thing that caught my eye in Strasbourg was a rich variety of spray art, the common factor, if there was one, was a tendency for the images to be quite small and carefully positioned. There was one image of a sort of pink jellyfish that was all over town, otherwise it was apparent that the artists had carefully chosen their sites, and by and large hadn’t interfered with each other’s work. All the images are on my ‘phone, so I’ll have to post them up when I get back to the UK.

a announcement

2007-05-13T20:40:00.000Z

Just so as it doesn't come as an awful shock to some people, 'Way out West' is moving; to somewhere 'Way up North', not quite as far as 'The Deep North', and further on beyond the North Wind. I don't propose to change the name, but, when I get back from my current tour, the Nottingham correspondent and I are going to move to the country, and somewhere in the North-East of Scotland.

Much panicking and careful thought is going on in the two households, no doubt all will be well in time.

the discreet charm of the strasbourgoisie?

2007-05-11T09:59:00.000Z

Every time we come to France I realise that I have completely forgotten about French Theatre technicians. We are playing the National Theatre of Strasbourg, and while the technicians couldn't be more plentiful or pleasant, they all seem to have taken a slowness pill. A show that normally takes about six hours to put in with a couple of technicians, took the best part of fourteen with eight. We have also discovered that the reason that most shows tour their own lighting desks in France, is that few technicians know how to operate the in-house desks effectively. There was a lot of shrugging, head scratching and consultation of the manual going on last night. Still, we managed to put the show on eventually.

very small earthquake, nobody killed...

2007-04-20T09:55:00.000Z

I was woken this morning at about 2.00 am local time by my very first earthquake, it was a most peculiar sensation, a sort of cross between someone shaking the bed and a surreptitious belch. I suppose what woke me up was the strangeness of it, not that it was extreme or terrifying.

We’re all finding it very difficult to get a handle on Singapore; it feels very familiar, yet very strange. It is very obviously a former British colony; the cars drive on the left, there are British 13 amp plug sockets and everyone speaks the lingo. Yet at the same time it has mutated into a sort of mega-capitalist state, where brutal skyscrapers are demolished to make way for yet more brutal skyscrapers and everywhere there are shopping malls, even the theatre we are performing in has its own mini-mall, just in case you hadn’t shopped enough when you come to see a show. Yet the audience seems to be very discriminating and discerning (I’m not just saying that because we are sold out for both shows), people actually seem to know who we are, and despite the fact that we are sharing the building with ‘Phantom of the Opera’ there is a genuine appetite for experimental theatre.

After putting the show in today, we were invited to go for a meal with the festival organisers, one of whom is a vegetarian, and the other suffering from a gippy tummy, thus the three of us were forced to struggle with a five course seafood banquet, which, as a piece de resistance, offered us the local speciality: a vast cauldron of chopped up crabs in chilli sauce. Quite apart from being totally impossible to eat decorously, there was also way too much for us to eat. Our hosts kindly had it parcelled up for us to take away, and suggested that we eat it later. I’m afraid it was deposited in a convenient bin on our way home, it was delicious, but, rather like a kebab, existed only of the moment, and would only have been regretted if encountered in the morning.

Our lazy meander back to our hotel took in Raffles Hotel, because you have to, and we ordered Singapore Slings and tried to look manly drinking them. I can safely report that they were disgusting, and tasted of pink, the only other thing to say about Raffles is that it had rather an interesting shrew which did a couple of laps around the bar before vanishing into the shrubbery.

I felt that this was encouraging, as it was the first piece of indigenous wildlife I had seen, this was followed by two geckos in another bar, and things were looking up.

Our Hotel is not actively very nice, the hybrid Asian/Japanese/European breakfast takes a bit of getting used to; Dim Sum with Bratwurst, Toast and Jam anyone? Singapore is used a lot as a transit point, so there are loads of stopover passengers, mainly elderly Australians, who are casually labelled up and shepherded on and off buses. Everywhere you go, you will encounter troupes of them, each with their colour coded sticker to distinguish them from another party.

Tiny Rebellions

2007-04-19T07:27:00.000Z

Whilst sitting in the gentle spring sunshine on South Ealing tube station, waiting for the non-arrival of my train to Heathrow, I was pondering the somewhat excessive and frequently silly security measures at the airport. After mentally congratulating myself for having put on Velcro fastening shoes I then wondered how embarrassing my socks were going to be, upon inspection, the answer was ‘fairly’, although I was wearing the eminently practical and comfortable Baxters’ bonny socks (see link), one was turquoise and the other bright pink.

Those who know me may recall that I do always wear odd socks, this started as a small rebellion when I was still at school, and I haven’t wavered once since, it depressed me slightly to realise that next year will be the thirtieth anniversary of my tiny revolt. This has only once caused comment, when I was called as a prosecution witness to a car accident, and the defence lawyer tried to discredit my observational ability on the grounds that I had failed to notice that I was wearing odd socks. Needless to say, I was able to set the record straight, and tell the magistrates what colour (purple and green), and on which feet each sock was, without looking down. I did have to put my feet up on the witness box to prove it! Despite all this effort, he got off.

Finally, whilst travelling through London the other day, I was somewhat startled to discover that the Flora London Marathon has an official beer, Fullers London Pride no less. Can anyone tell me why? Fullers has been my local beer for years, and I have been witness, man and boy, to its hallucinogenic charms, what it can’t reasonably claim, apart from being perfectly wholesome (indeed it is very good beer!), is any sort of health and fitness giving properties. A couple of pints before the London Marathon, and they’ll all be wanting a little snooze in the sunshine, rather than slogging their guts out for 26 miles. Oh well, it’s all marketing I suppose.

http://hfweb.co.uk/bonnysocks/products.htm

let them eat...?

2007-04-13T20:29:00.000Z

I have blogged before about the various strange tasks that a jobbing theatre technician has to take in his or her stride. This weeks mission was entirely routine, or it would have been if it had been in the same country. The company I am working for is very family friendly, and there are a number of children from various permutations of the core company members floating about the place.
Next week we are going to Singapore to do one of the small shows, and we are taking one of the kids with us, as it will be her eighth birthday while we are away. So my task has been to locate a suitable birthday cake for an eight year-old that we can order over the interweb.

Thanks to the blogosphere, and creative input from various people we now have cake sorted, check these out and drool...

http://www.thepatissier.com/webtop/index.phtml

http://www.swensens.com.sg/order.html

I think we're going for the icecream cake, as none of the adults could resist the idea of pouring water into the box and seeing it bubble with dry ice.

Thanks to Mia Nue (http://skinny-epicurean.blogspot.com/) and Martin for their contributions.

Embarrassment

2007-04-10T21:59:00.000Z

There are some moments in anybody's life that won't ever go away, no matter how much therapy and alcohol fuelled attempts at oblivion. This particular cringe dates back a few years, when I was participating in the reconstruction of the previous home of the Northern Professors. My capable assistant (one of the former slightly sensible Ladies of Clun) and I had been sampling the local beverages, this involved a healthy two mile walk, which on this occasion had not been enough to sort us out.

A few days previously the Northern Professor had shown me an advert for a company specialising in rare and exotic tomato varieties, unfortunately I remembered at about 2.00 am, country pub closing times being a little flexible, and decided to call and leave a request for a catalogue on their answering machine. Having once been played back a message that sounded like a series of low mooing noises that I knew was me trying to say I wouldn't be in for work next day, I was conscious of the need to be clear and concise for the tape. Imagine my horror, when rather than the familiar click of the message tape, someone actually answered the 'phone. Someone who was more than a little sleepy, and confused. I stammered incoherent apologies, and tried to explain that I thought they'd have an answering machine.

He cut through my babbling with a simple question; 'was it about tomatoes?', when I answered in the affirmative, he grunted and said, 'oh well, that's alright then,' without a hint of irony, and took my details for the catalogue.

They are still going, still excellent, and probably just as obsessed, they're good for chillis too...

http://www.simpsonsseeds.co.uk/