Exclusive! Daily Mail staff in sex horror!

So I was just in the kitchen cooking one of my speciality snacks (you will notice I didn’t say ‘meals’), when I started wondering about cheese-graters.

If someone could please invent a cheese-grater that didn’t remove the skin from my fingertips, I’d buy it.

Anyway.

We were show-jumping this evening, a session with Owen.  At one stage Owen said, ‘What are you feeding Tom, Bren?’

Rocket fuel, obv.

Tom showed no sign that he had been out on Saturday (you’ve read the result, already, yes?) as he towed me all over the show-jumping course.

I honestly expected him to be a little laid back.

Ha!

I was back in control for our second lap and after the third, faultless journey over the course, we called it a day.

Owen had a good time at Broadway this weekend; 2nd, 7th and 8th, but even these results must be no consolation for his Badminton disappointment, one of his four-star horses being unwell, whilst the other didn’t make it off the wait list.

Meanwhile, in other news…

I’m at home tomorrow, but on Wednesday I’m off up to Worcester. It’s a work thing, not a pleasure thing. I have decided to be radical and let the train take the strain; Charlbury to Worcester Foregate Street and return. I’ve got a four-minute walk from the station in Worcester.

I had a really bad night’s sleep last night; less than two hours, and then I was up for five hours, then back to sleep for three more.

It’s safe to describe my state right now as ‘knackered’.

I’m going to use tomorrow to have a burst of activity on ‘Shelved’. I have done no work on the Sitcom for a couple of weeks, but I have done a massive amount of thinking about it.

The bottom line is that I want to rethink the first and last episodes. I think there is a way to make a visual gag in episode one, dovetail in to the last episode of season one, in such a way that the comedy ending of the season becomes lastingly bitter-sweet.

And the headline above?

Well, can you imagine having sex with Jan Moir?

*shudder*

On music, horses, relationships and avoiding clichés

There’s a lovely track by American singer/songwriter James Casto called ‘Perfect Day’, in which James, an excellent lyricist, describes his charming ‘perfect day’ which, inevitably, revolves around the love of his life ^[1].

You might also remember a better-known song with the same title, ‘Perfect Day’, by Lou Reed, taken from his 1972 album Transformer.

Whilst the latter work highlights and romanticises Reed’s relationship with heroin, the former describes the writer’s depth of feeling for another person. So they’re both about a thing, an object of affection.

So I’ve been wondering why no-one has written a song called Perfect Day that describes a solo, self-contained day of self-indulgence?

Is it because companionship is our default position? Even the most miserable, curmudgeonly members of society (and no, I wasn’t thinking of the King of Curmudgeonism – yes, it is a word. I said so! – Van Morrison) have a thing, a person that we love; that we can’t imagine living our lives without.

Music, naturally, has always been a love of mine. And horses (though Tom is temporarily relegated from the top spot in my equine affections. But I’ve decided that I’m going to switch him back to the Bit I was using up until last week, to see if that gets things back to normal).

Anyway.

It is Sunday, but it also 31st January 2010.

On 31st January not that many years ago, Sophie and I drove from this place to Heathrow Airport and, via a series of links, were transported to this place.

It was, not wishing to use a cliché, the start of a journey for both of us, and in more ways than one. Not always an easy journey, sometimes with bumps and potholes, but an enjoyable journey nevertheless.

Happy anniversary Soph.

However, not wishing to plunge in to a dark pool of emotion, let’s take a sidestep over to today’s Independent On Sunday where this newspaper exposes the comedic underbelly of the world of Football Chanting, that strange method of communication that the people on the terraces use when they have something to say.

When goalkeeper Andy Gorams was diagnosed with schizophrenia, Celtic fans chanted ‘Two Andy Gorams, there’s only two Andy Gorams’ to the tune of Guantanamera.

You have to laugh at both the jibbing and the use of music.

When Newcastle FC scored an away goal against FC Zurich, the geordies used Welsh hymn tune Cwm Rhondda to deliver the words ‘You’re not yodelling, You’re not yodelling any more’.

More clever use of music to deliver good humour.

Meanwhile in other news, it has been decided (not by me!) that it is now time for us to get up.  We’re going out for lunch. That bit was my decision.

So it’s time to shut down, hit the bathroom, get dressed and get out there.

Woo yeah baby, we’re so rock’n’roll.

^[1]: You can listen to James’ work on his MySpace page, but how wonderfully self-effacing is the bio on his personal website which says ‘James plays piano like a drummer. And he sings like a drummer. Because he is a drummer’?

James Casto is a lovely guy. If you like what you hear and you drop him an email, he’ll probably write back to you.

Off site parking at Heathrow? A cautionary tale

It is said that there is nothing like a personal recommendation – and this, my friends, is nothing like a personal recommendation…

You know how it goes.

You need to be at Heathrow for an 04.00 check-in, so public transport isn’t going to cut it.

And you don’t want to have your bank account violated, so you choose not to pay on-site parking charges.

No, instead you hunt around for an off-site parking service which will still cost you money, but cost less than the on-site licensed bandits.

Step forward Quality Airport Parking (website: http://www.qualityairportparking.com)

Their website looked healthy so I did the deed; made the booking, paid the money and received a confirmation email.

The first hint that the one thing that could conceivably be missing from Quality Airport Parking’s service would be ‘Quality’ became apparent when we arrived – a sign that said we should ‘Allow half an hour for airport transfer’ was displayed on the wall.

What?

The thought that we were five minutes from the Terminal crossed my mind, but, I reasoned, the sign might be there to take account of day-time rush-hour traffic.

As we were arriving at Quality Airport Parking’s depot at 03.25 I wasn’t particularly worried by a half-hour transfer or the thought of rush-hour traffic…

… right up until the check-in person said that the next transfer coach would leave at 04.00. This, coincidentally, was when our check-in desk opened.

Well, it’s still not a big deal, right? That was only the check-in opening and it was sure to be open for at least an hour and a quarter.

No worries.

Our transfer coach actually left the depot at 04.12 and we arrived at our Terminal just before 04.20.

But let’s examine that for a moment:

Fifty-five minutes?

At that time of day (03.25) it’s possible to drive from the centre of London to Heathrow Airport in that 55-minute span of time.

What does the Quality Airport Parking website say about the whole transfer process on their website?

You drive your car to the allotted airport car park and once your luggage has been transferred onto a bus you will be taken to your departure terminal. On your return, just contact the number on your receipt and one of our many buses will collect you and your party.

Nope, not a single mention anywhere in there about the process taking just a smidge under an hour. Also missing from their website, you’ll note, is the mention of the ‘half-hour’ stated on the sign that you don’t actually get to see until you arrive at their depot.

But the shortcomings with the outbound transfer don’t stop there.

Have a guess how many seats Quality Airport Parking have put for customer use in their waiting room.

I’ll tell you.

Four.

And, unsurprisingly, there were more than four of us waiting for our transfer to Heathrow.

It just seems to me that if you’re going to have regular gaps in your service (and I use that word ’service’ advisedly) of half an hour or so, you’d make sure there were sufficient seats to go around.

Wouldn’t you?

Anyway, we got to our Terminal, checked in and flew out, even though I felt as though we’d been cheated by Quality Airport Parking somehow.

At the end of our time in Munich we arrived back in the UK and, as instructed, we called the Quality Airport Parking depot on our arrival: 22.34.

The dispatcher advised us to walk to the designated bus stop and that she’d send a bus out to us.

We walked, arrived and waited.

We saw a transfer coach from Flightpath Parking.

We saw a transfer coach from Purple Parking.

We waited some more.

We saw another transfer coach from Flightpath Parking.

And another transfer coach from Purple Parking.

We waited some more. Again.

At 23.07 – 40 minutes after our first call – and as a third coach from Flightpath Parking pulled in to the bus stop, I called Quality Airport Parking again.

Let’s just say that the call was frostier than the late night November weather, and involved me telling the dispatcher how many coaches from Flightpath and Purple had been through, and the dispatcher saying that I was speaking to Quality Airport Parking and my cutting retort that there didn’t actually seem to be any Quality going on here.

At 23.15 our coach turned up.

At 23.25 – 55 minutes since our check-in notification phone call – we arrived back at Quality Airport Parking’s depot.

So let’s summarise things in broad terms…

Total time, rounded up, on the outwards transfer: one hour
Total time, rounded up, on the inwards transfer: one hour

Time spent hanging around on the outwards transfer: 40 minutes
Time spent hanging around on the inwards transfer: 50 minutes

Would I use Quality Airport Parking again?

Absolutely not.

Would I recommend Quality Airport Parking to anyone?

Not under any circumstances.

Busy spell

I have to be in west London for an 09.00 meeting tomorrow (Thursday).

Should be back at the yard by mid-afternoon for equine duties.

By 17.00, with both horses exercised, I should be back in the house.

We need to leave the house around 22.45 to attend a midnight (first) screening of the film New Moon.

Before we leave the house we need to pack for a long weekend and also, if possible, record this weekend’s podcast in advance.

When the film finishes – around 02.30 Friday – we’ll jump in to the car and drive to Heathrow.

The flight leaves at around 06.00 and we should touch down in Munich at 09.00, and get to our hotel by 10.30.

We’ll probably need to leave the hotel at around 18.00, to get us to the Olympiahalle in good time to see Matthew Bellamy, Christopher Wolstenholme and Dominic Howard – aka Muse – do their stuff.

I’m not sure what time we’ll get back to the hotel but one thing’s for sure, we’ll both be ready for bed!

Social Networking issues (of a minor kind) and Pink Floyd

Once upon a time I could hide certain bits of information that I really didn’t want promoted.

I was content, like, I suspect, many other folk, to just nod in the direction of the calendar when I entered the kitchen, and leave it at that.

But not any longer.

Facebook (which, as we know, is a tool of the devil) and various other websites proudly boast the previously hidden annual event to all who care. And a surprisingly large number of people seem to care.

Yes, it is that annual event, the one which is less of a big deal than April Fool or Christmas or even Boxing Day.

It is my birthday.

I’m having a break from writing for an hour or so.

I’m sitting at the dining room table listening to 23m 11s of pure gold from Pink Floyd: Echoes, from the album Meddle.

No computer, I don’t want to restart. How many times have you asked me that today, since you needlessly upgraded a piece of Windows software I don’t and will never use? I’ll tell you, shall I? Twenty-six million times, that’s how many. Now bugger off and just leave me alone or I’ll lose my flow (for what *that’s* worth).

Where was I?

Oh yes, Echoes.

The reason I’m indulging in Meddle is because this album was one of my birthday presents from the lovely Soph.

She also gave me a birthday card with such a touching poem and inscription that I almost bawled my eyes out this morning.

Fortunately I had a quick rant about something meaningless on GMTV and swerved around the potential puddle of salt-water.

Perhaps I should tell you about the rhyming text that Soph sent me lunch-time? It made me laugh so much I almost fell off the chair.

Anyway, I digress.

This is (counts for a while and then stares vacantly at a small disc of sunlight on the wall) my fourth, no, fifth copy of Meddle.

I’ve had two vinyl copies and this is my third CD edition.

Why?

Good question. Let’s begin from the unarguable place that no serious music fan can *not* have a copy of Meddle in their collection, OK?

I bought my first vinyl copy of Meddle when I was in school, one of the schools that I didn’t get expelled from.

Geoff Richards and I used to spend hours in his bedroom in his house on the Old Hereford Road in Abergavenny, listening to ELP, Cream, The Nice, Yes and, of course, Pink Floyd.

We’d throw up the sash windows as wide as they’d go, crank the volume on the home-built stereo up to eleven (in an attempt to gain some kind of attention from the passers-by), and shout the lyrics in the most tuneful shouty way we knew.

About 17m 21s in to Echoes – does anyone else get emotionally moved at the segment just before Nick Mason’s brilliant rapid-beat/subdued drumming? Just me then? Oh well.

The school-boy version of Meddle was packed up when I joined the forces and got sent to RAF Swinderby, then RAF Cosford. Who knows what happened to it, because I don’t.

I replaced it with Meddles v2.0 when I hit my first NATO posting. Which was, in retrospect, an entirely foolish thing.

Why?

For three years I lived out of my grey hold-all as I served on every single NATO and UN detachment known to the bastards RAF personnel who sorted out my postings.

No, computer, I still don’t want to bloody restart! Now go and stick your head up a dead bear’s bum, there’s a good little Windows Notification Message.

The reason I almost used a bad word there, describing those former unseen RAF colleagues, is because the RAF boasts that it give its staff a choice of posting.

For example: when I had completed my technical training at Cosford, I got the appropriate form and filled it in:

1st posting choice: RAF Little Risington (Gloucestershire)
2nd posting choice: RAF Kemble (Gloucestershire)
3rd posting choice: RAF Locking (Somerset)

Know where they sent me?

To a bunker beneath the tube-lines of central London. That was nice of them, eh? Especially nice as my billet was at RAF Hendon. The RAF had turned me in to a London commuter. Wasn’t that fantastic! Erm, no.

I realised I’d have to get out pretty quickly so I did the unthinkable, I took on many extra technical courses. I was trained in everything – and I mean *everything*; certain languages, odd pieces of equipment, distinct types of electronics, firearms, pursuit driving, Morse code, you name it, I did it.

And I was rewarded with another choice of postings.

This time I thought I’d be canny:

1st posting choice: Wales
2nd posting choice: Wales
3rd posting choice: Wales

Five weeks later I was on a flight out from RAF Brize Norton to RAF Wildenrath in Germany.

The onwards transport picked up me, my baggage and my only operating arm (it’s a long story, but I’d had six stitches put in to my left forearm five hours before my check-in at Brize) and delivered me to No 14 Sqn, RAF Brúggen, part of NATO’s 2nd Allied Tactical Air Force Command.

I was at Brúggen for 39 hours before my first detachment to RAF Decimomannu in Sardinia , wasn’t that lovely of them?

Where I’m going with this ramble is that somewhere in the Germany-Sardinia-Germany schedule, Meddle v2.0 went AWOL.

Meddle v3.0 got implemented some years later when I hit London as a civilian. I paid an absolute fortune for it, CD’s being a brand new technology at that time. Meddle v3.0 was, sadly, the victim of an unintentional one-way loan to a student at UEA

Meddle v4.0 was procured six months after I moved to Bristol, to work in Social Work. I had an absolute wreck of a car – working in St Pauls in Bristol, wouldn’t you? – at the time, I felt it was safe to leave a handful of CDs out of sight in the boot.

Can you imagine how I felt when my car was torched in a minor street disturbance? Meddle 4.0 (along with other classics) had been melted.

And that brings us, via Geoff Richards, Abergavenny, various excitements by way of the hilarious posting department of the RAF and a few hundred thousand miles of travels, to Meddle v5.0.

And to my birthday, today.

This is my formal thank you, to the friends and relatives who have gone out of their way to wish me well, and show just how generous people can be.

I’m touched.

But you knew that anyway.

Thanks.

Too busy!

Man this is bonkers.

Tomorrow I have to leave the yard in the horsebox at 07.00 and trundle the lorry across Oxfordshire to the M40 then, just south of Birmingham, take the M6 northwards.

The first stop will be Stoke-on-Trent where I’ll pick up Tom. Then we will head southwards but this time I’ll branch off on to the M5 where…

The second stop will be in Worcestershire, to get Tom measured for his erm made-to-measure saddle, and get him fitted for a bridle and martingale. Then we will head across country to…

The third stop, which will be back to the yard, where I’ll unload Tom and settle him in to his new home. When I’m happy that everything’s OK I’ll head on to…

The fourth stop, back home for a quick shower and change and then on to…

The fifth stop, The Jericho Tavern in Oxford, where we’re interviewing the band, just prior to the gig.

The sixth stop will be back home where I’ll just fall in to bed unconscious.

Somewhere this week I have to find sufficient time to:
* finish a storyboard for a film script
* finish a script for a radio play
* finish a rewrite of the first three chapters and
* tidy up the last chapter of Novel #2.

On Tuesday I have a meeting in Oxford, Wednesday I have a meeting in Witney and an evening class back in Oxford.

I’m not sure what, if anything, is happening on Thursday and Friday yet, but looking at the list of writing I’ve got to do, I don’t think filling my time is going to be too much of a challenge!

Too busy, just way too busy.

Sixes and sevens

I thought that around 09.00 I was going to get a text from Hayley who would tell me precisely what time mid-morning and where in Witney I should pick her up from and which garage in Oxfordshire I would have to take her to, so she could collect her new car.

The phone rang at 09.09, Hayley saying she was ready now to be picked up. Half an hour later I was there.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘Bristol’, was her response.

Oh well. A few hours later I was back home tucking in to a slightly delayed lunch.

We watched a couple of episodes of Angel and afterwards, for some inexplicable reason, the couch saw some serious action for an hour.

And now Soph is prepping tea while I contemplate getting dressed – or showering and getting dressed.

But that’s not quite it.

I have a niggling throat and a few aches and throbs in various joints. And a headache which, as a rule, I never get. And I feel just a little…

Odd. Peculiar. At sixes and sevens. And tired, desperately tired.

I had a really horrid dream last night. It’s the second time in six months I’ve had that dream. It wasn’t an exact duplicate, some of the less important details were missing and one or two of the important facts were altered.

It woke me, this nightmare, and it troubled me so much I was unable to sleep again afterwards.

So I’ve been up since a little before 06.00.

I think the bad night-time experience has probably added to my general feeling of… whatever this is.

And I’ve sneezed quite a bit today, when sneezing isn’t normally even a daily occurrence.

But I don’t know if the whole ‘not quite right’ thing is physical, mental or psychological.

I just know that I’m at sixes and sevens.

And according to a certain film on ITV2 right now, I’ve just relearned that Joan of Arc was Noah’s wife.

Tuscany

Tuscany is Very Hot.

The food is very good (though, being a vegetarian, the meat minefield has to be negotiated very carefully).

The locals seem very nice and smile sweetly at my attempts to speak Italian, especially when I’m grappling for a phrase or a meaning and slip in to Spanish. That’s the big trap for me.

I *know* Italian – I studied Latin in school and conversational Italian in later years, but my second default foreign language (after English, obv) is Spanish.

The frustration I feel at not being fluent (or as fluent as I really should be) is almost immeasurable.

Anyway, I’ve just popped in because we’re in a certain town made famous in a certain series of books about a certain type of mythical creature which allegedly thrives on blood and doesn’t do too well during the daylight hours.

Though this latter detail seems to have been taken and stretched wafer-thin, to the point of not actually existing any longer, by certain modern authors.

As you can tell, I’m avoiding all google-traps very carefully because one or other or even both of us might want to write about this charming little town, high on a hill in Tuscany.

Yes, it’s a hill. I’ve lived in Spain’s Sierra Nevada mountains baby. I know a mountain when I see one. And this… is a hill.

In other news…

The Prospective New Horse has passed his veterinary examination. Now I’m starting to get excited!

Gatwick and Horses and Mullets?

We’re in the departure lounge at South Terminal, it’s such a familiar place that I have my favourite seat at Costa.

I am sad, it’s official.

If Valerie Russell doesn’t get a move on her luggage will be offloaded and she’ll miss her flight.

There’s a guy over there who LOVES the sound of his own voice; everyone within 5 nautical miles can hear him. He’s not a passenger, he’s a plasterer working on refitting a shop in here.

He sounds like a caricature of a Sarf Lundun wideboy – just think of how Harry Enfield might translate his Loadsamoney creation to a middle-aged, crop-haired shouty-while-talking loudmouth and you’ve got the general idea.

In the security queue in front of us was a late 20s guy who got hauled out because he had a tin/container in his clear plastic bag that was obviously hugely over the 125ml limit.

Think: large tin of toffee and you’ve got the general idea. And in the tin was…

Hair gel.

Because a chap with short hair (not much longer than military length) needs a vat of hair gel – on the flight.

I said to Soph ‘Good job he’d packed his KY’.

It is possible that I said that a little too loudly and Soph may have hit me.

Oh-oh, Valerie Russell’s boat has metaphorically sailed, they’ve just announced that her luggage has been removed from the flight.

Perhaps she’s in the toilet having a massive poo, poor girl.

Soph’s disappeared. I looked up from cleaning out my wallet (I don’t know how I got diverted in to that one either!) and she’d vanished.

Perhaps she’s gone for a poo too. Or maybe she’s gone to find Valerie Russell.

In other news…

The Prospective New Horse is being vetted tomorrow morning.

I’m trying to stay calm and not get too excited about him, if the vet says ‘no’ then it’s not going to happen.

The prospect of having an extra mouth to feed has woken me up, I’ve started putting feelers out to see who might be interested in paying me to do something.

Initial response: fair, but I need to convert interest in to a piece of work. I’m trying to stay focussed on a commuting circle with ‘home’ in the middle which might limit my choices.

There is a guy sitting behind me whose mullet is so regal the length of hair down the back of his neck is actually fashioned in to a scale model of the train of Princess Diana’s wedding dress, whilst the hair on top of his head resembles a field of corn stubble, the hair on the sides of his head is shaved right to the scalp.

It’s an amazing effect, the stylist/sculpturist  responsible for creating this piece of art noveau should get an award – for services to the comedy industry.

I can’t help wondering what nationality the mullet-wearer is; if he were a Brit he’d have the Mick taken out of him so much that even the thickest of skins would have died of shame by now.

He obviously belongs to a nationality that doesn’t know the meaning of the words ’shame’ or ‘embarrassment’ when coupled up with the concept of hairstyle or personal grooming.

I don’t wish to foster any nationalistic stereotypes here, but I’m leaning towards German. Or maybe Australian?

Busy

Today:

• Rewrite the last two chapters of novel #2 because the ending I am unhappy with has its roots in the penultimate section
• Travel to Stoke to look at a horse
• Meet Hayley at the yard at 5pm so she can see how Vin’s dressage and jumping saddles feel
• Record this weekend’s podcast (won’t be released until the weekend, though)

Tomorrow:

• Mid-morning: Optician check-up
• Evening: Start a run of CuBase evening classes in Oxford

Day after:

• Fly to Italy

Sunday:

• Fly home