w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

Someone recently posed the question "Why was Pomagne invented?" – I had the answer.

Me and my mate always wanted a boat, for fishing. Old Tom had a 16' clinker-built rowboat, from Stromness in Scotland, on a mud berth in Langstone Harbour. Through neglect, it eventually foundered on a groyne and sank.

We paid a tenner to salvage it and proceeded to rebuild it from scratch and at minimal cost. Everything we used was begged, borrowed or 'liberated'. Using a now late and lamented fisherman's yard and knowledge, we learned how to construct pipe 'stoves' to boil and soften lengths of timber, to replace the ruined ribs ("cos there's no straight piece of wood in a proper boat").

Two killicks made their way over Harry's wall – the donors hopefully having checked that he wasn't about when they were dropped in. Warps were gifted to us, a cable roller for the anchor was crafted in aluminium for us and spare screws, nails and timber were left with Harry for our use. A hand-pump was salvaged from a yacht which had sunk nearby.

Everyone who called by to check on progress was convinced that when she was re-launched, she'd sink because the wooden hull was gradually drying out during the summer.

As virtually everything had been freely acquired, we decided to call her Bak'sheesh, which means 'gratuity', or 'free'. A good friend carved a snake, with her name, from a beautiful piece of hardwood and we were ready to launch.

A quick coat of anti-fouling was slapped on and she was trolleyed into the Solent – not a drop of water entered her! And the Pomagne? Well, we'd been given a bottle and weren't going to drink it, were we? So it was poured over her bow in a proper christening.

Soon after, a violent storm snapped her new anchor cable and she was smashed against rocks on the other side of the Harbour. One day, she'll be replaced, but it could never be the same…

Labels: Baksheesh

At last, I’ve finished that blasted book, “Stonehenge” and no, I’m deliberately not linking to it because it was dreadful. And I wouldn’t want to be blamed for you getting stuck in it.

I don’t believe I’ve ever let a book ‘beat’ me, but this one came damned close – having started in August and having just finished.

I learned nothing and disbelieved just about every concept within the novel.

Whenever anyone starts repeating the rhetorical question “Y’know?” in conversation, after the third time I start to mentally count the usage and I almost wished I’d done the same for the author’s repetition of the word “heartbeat”, to describe a short period of time.

Aaargghh.

There was even consideration of someone “marrying” – in a novel allegedly describing events in 2000 B.C?

Are there any historians out there who would be prepared to support the idea of that happening, pre-Christianity?

Please – suggest anything that I could read to wash this junk out of my brain …

It's blowing a hooligan here - guess I'd better stoke up the fire and pour another beverage.

Hope you're enjoying wherever you are?

One of the young ladies in the office just asked

"When you've done something wrong and no-one will speak to you, is it Cornwall you're sent to?

Maybe that's why Scaryduck's disappeared ...

Ou c'est qui se passe.

A manic week which I barely remember (and not for fun reasons, regrettably).

No time to post and little time to comment.

What would this good boy like from Santa? Some time just for me, please.

Friday afternoon, Poets day and a mad 180 mile round dash to see a tribute band, ffs! Followed by Saturday on the M's 23, 25, 40, 42, 6 and A38 to return NoD from Uni for Christmas.

I'm gonna change my name by deed poll to Texaco or something.

But The Jamm were worth the haul down to the Wedgwood Rooms in Portsmouth, doing an hour of Paul Weller with a five-piece band, then reverting to a trio for The Jam(m) proper.

"In the city", "A-bomb in Wardour Street" and "English rose", all massive favourites of mine, got belted out with frightening energy and flair and to the universal approval of the 500+ audience. Blimey, there were even people pogoing!

If you've ever got £8 burning a hole in the proverbial and these guys are on near you, go see - you don't need to know who they're tributing to be able to appreciate.

I wasn’t the only guy there, that night – lots of people had paid big bucks to watch her ‘perform’. And although this famous local diva was notorious for failing to show up, we all prayed individually to have satisfaction this time around. So, crouched in our personal darkness, we craned forward, hoping to be the first to catch a glimpse of her.

It was an almost bestial atmosphere …

Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw the stagelights * reflecting off of her enormous white belly, as she glided into the arena. Circulating haughtily around the assembled audience, she seemed to spot me among the throng and headed towards me. Her huge mouth hung slack as she approached but passing me by, she just ruffled my hair. I was close enough to reach out and caress her body but her sheer size rendered me catatonic and I almost forgot to breathe.

Disappearing behind me, she suddenly turned and floated past me again, back into the spotlights. There, without warning, she was joined by another female and they began a slow, sensuous dance, narrowly brushing each others’ body like a choreographed air-kiss.

But none of us could stay watching forever, so in ones and twos we drifted back to our boats, where we stripped off our kit and sat recounting the memory of what we’d witnessed.

Yep, manta rays are pretty awesome creatures.

Now I’m as shameless as an un-nominated Jonathan Woss at an awards ceremony, so hie thee to Uborka and recommend me for December’s “Post of the Month”.

To receive blogging’s equivalent of the “Christmas single” in my first year would only be fitting, don’cha think? And besides, Scaryduck’s already got more plaudits than Ant and Dec.

* Bright light attracts clouds of plankton, which manta feed on. Here endeth the marine biology lesson

via Blue Witch

Easiest 25p I've ever raised (and I regularly rattle tins for MND) - just click on the Easyjet link on the right of the page.

The British Racing Drivers' Club is celebrating its 75th year. On Sunday, I was fortunate enough to attend an exhibition of motoring photographs which were being sold to boost its Benevolent Fund. Some of the b&w ones were especially stunning. There were some famous attendees, including Damon Hill, David Coulthard and Martin Brundle, whose Le Mans-winning Jaguar was on display, together with John Surtees' MV Augusta motorbike. Beautiful examples of motoring machinery (can't you tell I'm a petrol-head?)

I managed to meet the Sirs Jackie Stewart and Stirling Moss and had a brief chat with the quite diminutive Murray Walker. Years ago, emigrating friends were distributing stuff they didn't want to take with them and I 'inherited' an ep of Murray narrating about two top motorcyclists of the day. Returning recently from a holiday with those friends, I remembered about the record and burned a copy, to send as a jokey Xmas present. I was telling Mr Walker about this and he reckoned the ep was probably worth a few quid.

So my mate's getting a CD copy and I'm keeping the vinyl.

Well, retirement's not that far away now ...

Canned Heat - On the commode again

UB40

The Stranglers

Where did those 48 hours go?

On Saturday, we hosted a Christmas dinner for 6, with prawn cocktail/pate starter, full turkey/stuffing/roasts and pud/cheeseboard, to cater for the sweet and sapid equally.
Plus a drinks bill which saw Thresher’s share price rise by 2 points.

Post-prandial games included mouth-to-mouth grape-sharing which, involving as it did a tall blonde, redolent of the port which she’d brought to our table (and which we were surreptitiously swigging between courses) was most enjoyable. The game itself has no points or prizes, but is its own reward. Oh, Mrs D. was omnipresent, as ever. Hmmm.

So after a 3.30 a.m. tip-out and a desultory clean-up (following the mandatory BLT Sunday brunch), we headed for the howling South Coast to see the double-header at the Brighton Centre.

And the First Commandment reads:

All human flesh and blood is sacred.
Until there is no more food.

I last saw the Stranglers in ’77. I arrived home, in a green rat-logo’d t-shirt dripping with the exertions of pogoing, to find A Policeman investigating the theft of my mate’s bike from outside my house. Yes, on the very night it was reported. Mr Bliar, you couldn’t even spell “tough on crime”, let alone deliver it. Back to the gig.

The original Stranglers emitted a visceral malevolence with the original frontman, Hugh Cornwell, looking like a stalker who’d finally screwed up the courage to confront his victim. They Definitely Didn’t Dance. “Ugly” unveiled the barely-disguised contempt for wealth and beauty:
“I’d like to see a passionate film
Between the two ugliest people in the world
When I say ugly, I don’t mean rough-looking -
I mean hideous”

This time around was very different - by comparison, the new vocalist was positively camp. My brother had warned me of the sea-change and I was tempted to follow the program instructions for a Nigel Kennedy concert, which advised that if you didn’t like what you were seeing, close your eyes and listen. But I wanted to drink in this new line-up and as they were only on-stage for 30 minutes, was generally glad I did.

With the second song (of about ten) being a Kinks’ cover – “All day (and all of the night”) – I was disappointed that they missed out so many of their own classics – “Hanging around”, “Nice and sleazy” etc although they did do “Grip”. The new track from the up-coming album “Norfolk coast” (the first for seven years) got premiered – “Big Thing Coming” is blummin’ good. But the Jacksonesque crotch-grabbing was off-putting (especially on “Peaches”, which is sordid enough in its own right to not need the theatrics).

Jet Black is no longer – more a statesmanlike grey – and gravitas has certainly kicked in over the years, but he effortlessly drove the crew on with some very understated drumming. Dave Greenwood – one of the finest keyboard players still circuiting – performed a ventriloquist-type trick by necking a pint while playing a brilliant riff single-handed. And Jean-Jacques still eclipses the Simonon’s, Bruce’s and Entwhistle’s of the world, with his frenetic, sawing bassline totally undiminished by the passage of years.

"No more heross"? It's "No more heroes" ffs.
But for that vocalist, the billing would have been reversed…

Sunset through the pollution of Birmingham provided the backdrop to UB40’s set and they drifted on stage through the smoke like ring-wraiths. It was the first time I’d seen them live and they were truly mageffingnificent. The “One in Ten” are a ten-piece band with a horn section of four and rocked solidly for two hours. Any disappointment with the first band was totally washed away.

There were lots of tracks from the new album “Homegrown” plus all of the crowd-pleasers – “Rat in the kitchen”, “Red, red wine” and of course, “One in ten”.

The final encore concluded with innumerable choruses of “Swing low, sweet chariot”.

Spokesmen for their generation? Define "generation". They had us eating out of their hands. Almost as much fun as grape-sharing …