Friday, 29 January 2010
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
I've always been fond of inanimate objects. As a child I could form quite close relationships with stuff I'd find out playing... unusual stones, bizarre ornaments and interesting pieces of wood. It didn't get as serious as a 'conversation'... but I may have occasionally spoken to them. It's probably a good thing I grew out of it, but to this day, I still love objects that come with stories.
Take this jar of pickled onions. Brought round by my parents friends Fred and Linda to go with some cheese. Fred's originally from Ross on Wye, just across the Welsh border, cider country, and he prunes a mean apple tree. He's also an accountant. Linda's financial too. I've known them since I was a kid, but that's more or less all I knew about them... until two weeks ago in Wales.
Over dinner... actually before dinner, during dinner and for quite a long time after dinner... we drank too much wine. The chat flowed too. Turns out, in the early 70s Fred worked for Huntsman, the very exclusive Savile Row tailor, as bill chaser to Royalty and some of the eras biggest stars.
Linda used to hang out with the largely forgotten, then huge, Badfinger. Clearly, in the parlance of the times, these kids were rather groovy.
Which Fred says he declined... Yes, in about 1971, Fred knocked back David Bowie. A year later Ziggy Stardust came out.
So, Bowie never got his hands on Freddy's onions... but I did. We forgot to eat them with the cheese, so I brought them back to Glasgow. In return, here's a song that definitely was written for you Fred... and, by the way, your onions are lovely.
Friday, 22 January 2010
Friday, 15 January 2010
Friday, 8 January 2010
Monday, 4 January 2010
We hadn't been there long when a car pulled in beside us. It lingered then left. Soon after a van pulled in. I became paranoid we were in some Lancashire dogging hotspot and uttered the immortal line... "Quick, start acting normal"... You should try it, in the dark, on Christmas Eve, next to a landfill site. I pretended to read my tattered road atlas, then panicked that this act might be some sort of secret dogging code. I was only able to think of one other 'normal' activity, so got out of the car 'to stretch my legs'.... immediately plunging knee deep into a slushy hole. From inside the car I could hear "Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time" playing on the radio for the 44th time that day.
The wine came from Tanners. It's still a baby and tasted immortal.
The native oysters were bought from Vin Sullivan and tasted divine.
UPDATE: Should probably have mentioned the problem with the car was that one of the wheel bearings went... nothing to do with the exhaust. Age is alas taking it's toll on my 'future classic'.