What price a suntan?

   I have never really prayed for rain, it usually turns up eventually and then continues for too long. To be honest I have never really prayed for anything except possibly for the health of my family. But rain is needed now, here in France, badly needed. We have had nothing since February, nearly four months ago. Crops are failing, grassland burned up, hay bales scarce. My brother on the farm in UK is already rejoicing at the recompense of a poor harvest across France forcing the price of wheat up yet further. Then my colleague calls me, saying corn is so expensive he can’t afford to feed his animals any more and is selling pedigree bulls off as youngsters rather than feeding them through to fruition. The local guy around here who cuts lawns for a living is thinking of packing up because he has no work. I have even given up growing vegetables this year, except some tomatoes, as the cost of watering them twice a day becomes prohibitive, not to mention the time it takes.

   It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good and there will be an excess of fruit on trees this year but there is only so much of that we can process. The lambs seem to be doing well, they don’t really like a wet spring but I am struggling at present to shear the ewes as I cannot catch two of the wilder ones and am unable to build a coral to herd them into as I cannot get posts in the ground. I will have to soon, I know, but I keep putting it off at least until I get some help. We are fortunate we only have 9 sheep on three or four acres, so they still have enough feed; for now.

   With family problems in UK at the moment, I need to spend more time there than usual and have to rely on others to water plants when we are away, which is every other week. When I am here, to be honest it is too hot for hard labour and some of this years building projects will have to wait another year.

   Am I complaining, no not really, I have got a tan and I love the sun, after all that is why we came here. I am enjoying just filling my time writing, more and more words keep flowing as I embark on my 8th novel in as many months.

My only concern is we seen to have evolved into a world of extremes when it comes to weather patterns and in the long run there is going to be a price to pay, by someone, somewhere, sometime.

More confabulations

      Firstly I have to congratulate Mr John Collett who, in last months issue of R&DN, claimed to be goalkeeper in the 1906 Far Forest football team, which by my reckoning makes him in excess of 120 years old. Is he R&DN’s oldest reader, or was this a misprint? I am intrigued to know?

Although I say the above in jest, I do find it sad that once again the integrity in sport has been brought into doubt last month. A world champion snooker player who last year was caught blatantly cheating gets a small rap on the knuckles and then re-emerges to win the title again this year. Wrong surely? International football matches fixed, referees bribed? Motor sport, cricket, boxing, is any sport clean any more? Well I believe the problem lies possibly with Asia and its gambling habit. Yes in UK we sometimes like a little flutter, a few quid on the Grand National or a day at the point-to-point but throughout Asia the online gambling industry is spiralling out of control and largely unmonitored. As a consequence of this, billions of pounds are being made illegally as results of contests are continually being “fixed”. Once again, I can offer a solution to this inherent problem, this time in only two words. BAN IT. There you go, a simple answer would be to ban all gambling on any sport found to be corrupt, shut down all the online gambling web sites and monitor the industry; that would bring the sport back to honesty in twelve months. Sound a bit harsh? Well any other industry that was making billions of pounds illegally would never be allowed to prosper would they? With the possible exception of the world banks perhaps.

            On the subject of banks I hear the UK is looking to phase out the use of the chequebook. Why not? Holland did it years ago as has most of Europe with the exception of the French. Direct payments, online banking, secure card transactions are all common place in every industry aren’t they? Well, no actually, there is one industry that still relies heavily on the cheque book, it’s called Agriculture. It seems the average farmer still mails payments for everything by cheque and expects payment received in the same way. Certainly when speaking to one older member of the farming community this week, one Mr John Frazier, he claims it will throw his business into turmoil. “How could he trust giving out his bank details so that payments could all be made by automated transfer? It is open to fraud surely?” Based on how the banks have behaved over the last 2 years, he could well have a point?   

            I am extremely annoyed this week to read of the case of Kylie Grimes; yet another example of the common senselessness as the lunatics quietly take over the asylum. The above mentioned Kylie gate crashed a party at someone’s house, drank a bit too much and dived into the swimming pool, unfortunately injuring herself in the process. She then sued for damages against the house owner, a case which should have been looked at briefly and then slung out of court. But, such is the power of the underdog in law, the case was dragged through the courts, starting at a low level and eventually ending up in High Court at huge expense, over a four year period. The crazy basis for the law suit was that the swimming pool had inadequate signs to show which was the shallow end, despite the fact that you could clearly see the bottom.  Any sane judge would have pointed out, “if you cannot see the bottom, then your sight is evidently so bad (possibly due to inebriation) you would have little chance of reading a sign anyway.” Furthermore, any sane judge would have also mentioned that as the pool was half full of people standing in the same shallow end, with water up to their waists that, unless it was a party full of extremely tall basketball players, it was fairly evident that this was in fact the shallow end. The icing on this very sour cake was that the girl had been in the pool for at least 20 minutes prior to the accident. So why oh why does the case get awarded to this drunken teenager along with a princely sum of 6 million quid!? Because, dear reader, the legal world is rotten to its very core, that’s why. The law is not only an Ass, it wears a straw hat with holes for its ears and brays like Susan Boyle!

            Wendy and I are now back home in France although I am still making weekly trips back to UK. We arrived here to find the grass as high as an elephant’s eye, but generally the place is in reasonable order except that France, not unlike UK as I write, is in the midst of an exceptional drought. This week I planted out the 40 or so geraniums that were brought inside in the autumn, with the aid of a pick-axe! It got me round to considering, should the world eventually evolve into the globally warmed desert that some beardies are forecasting, I am sure I could offer some tips to Monty Don on my pioneering gardening techniques including (I kid you not) digging new tatties from the ground with a crow bar!

            For those of you who know her, my sister’s situation is improving slightly and she may be home from hospital in another month or so. I did manage a smile this week after a discussion with an NHS consultant when she made the following quote: “Sarah has problems with confabulation and perceveration, both of which are causing her some confusion!” Yes I had to look them up too!

WTF?...just a question

Today a new friend told me of their first grandchild. It made me think. These guys are no older than me; what-ho it could be me next. I raised a glass to wee Elsie, good luck to her, especially when I find out that her uncle was involved in an accident that could’ve cost him his life from a fall from three floors up, but he survived, thank God.

Then a nice day with royals which would’ve been good were it not on TV for four hours prior to anything happening at all. The world loves them and wishes them well, nice dress, shoes etc. A trip to the pub with the dogs should have tapped off a brilliant day were it not for a facebook message, my niece’s boyfriend, the same niece who lost her dad last year, the same one who has lost her Mum this year to a brain mess that will take a long while to heal. Kris’s Dad passes away, a man not old enough to die; leaving a boy of no age and a girl not old enough to deserve any of this so soon in their lives.

This Lord that giveth and take away? I ask you…please try and spread it out over a a few generations…..everyone needs a chance to heal…. Come on?

This is the second prayer I have written in three months, I surprise myself. And yes, you did answer the first one, (ish) as Sarah is recovering to an acceptable level. I will not be so arrogant as to ask whether this my payment? I am sure you are not arrogant enough to say it is, while giving us a royal wedding from the son of a princess you stole so heartlessly.

I write this (as very rarely I do) filled with well deserved drink on a day when nothing bad should happen. Tomorrow I may repent…

Multi Story

Can someone please explain to this poor brow-beaten chap about the phenomenon that is called “multi-tasking”? Because I, being a simple male, do not quite understand why all women claim this to be some sort of god-given benefit. Take our house for example. First thing in the morning we take it in turns to make a cup of tea but this is how it works.

Me: Go downstairs, put kettle on, get cups from cupboard, put in tea bags, get milk from fridge. Wait for kettle to boil, pour in water, stir and take two cups back upstairs.

Wendy: Go downstairs, switch on kettle. Feed dogs, check emails, let dogs out, reply to emails. Switch on kettle again as water has now gone cold. Have a bath, let dogs in, do last nights washing up, hoover the house, do some ironing, clean the windows, switch on kettle again, phone the hair-dressers, take the kids to school*, decorate the sitting room, switch kettle on again. Bring cup of tea upstairs to meet me coming halfway down, dehydrated and gasping for a brew. The excuse for why it takes 30 minutes to make a cup of tea is called multi-tasking, doing lots of jobs at once, despite them all collectively taking much longer than they would do individually. Let me think about it again…nope, I still can’t understand the concept. Maybe I should read that highly sexist book, what is it called? Men are from Mars, Women are from somewhere much much further away than that, but that’s alright because it allows them time to put on their make-up in the rear-view mirror on the way here!

Last month we moved into a small cottage near the river in Bewdley so we could stay near to family for a month or two. I will admit that living in a small town has its plus points; 20 pubs within walking distance for one thing, along with a couple of nice bistros and numerous take-away restaurants. Bewdley also boasts a network of scenic walks which are ideal to exercise our two energetic dogs, either along the river or up toward the Wyre forest. What I do take exception to though is having to carry plastic ‘pooh’ bags everywhere they go. Yes I agree that if your dog fowls the pavement, road or even gravel path, then it should be removed and disposed of sensibly. But what is sensible about collecting animal matter in a plastic bag and putting it in a dustbin? I thought that UK had gone ecco-mental in the last few years? So surely dog pooh is bio-degradable if pushed into the grass or left in a field rather than being sent in plastic bags to the country’s already over-burdened waste sites? If I were a younger man with more time and inclination on my hands, I would be out there right now inventing the bio-pooh bag, made of paper! I would probably get a big fat government hand-out for my services too. Are there no entrepreneurs left in this country? Or are they all to busy being social servants or vehicular-controlling-enforcement-operatives or whatever a bl**dy traffic warden is called these days!

We did catch a piece of nostalgia recently though, on the Severn Valley steam Railway from Bewdley through to Bridgnorth. It is over 20 years since I last went on it and I would Highley (local joke) recommend it as a pleasant day out. The dogs enjoyed it too, spending most of the way looking out of the widow for squirrels, but I was a bit indignant about having to pay £2 each for them to travel. It is not as though they used the facilities and even if they did, we would have been bound to collect in our polite little plastic sacks!

For family reasons I have travelled most days last month to Moseley hospital on the outskirts of Birmingham. Now, despite a few comments I sometimes flippantly submit in this column, I am not racist and am quite acceptable of the fact that Britain is a multicultural society. The fact that last months UK census form was printed in 56 languages gives me no unrest whatsoever. I also understand that Birmingham has become one of Britain’s first cities to have an ethnic majority population; that was always inevitable. My problem is, although south Birmingham houses a mixture of races, predominantly white I would say from a passing observation, I watched a primary school sending its children home one mid afternoon. Out of 100 children, there were no white kids at all, not even one. This fact worries me because I deduce from it that all the white kids must go to a different school and that, for want of another word, is segregation. Now maybe I am misinformed but I can only say what I saw. Perhaps the ethnic kids go home earlier than the others, or later, whatever, I don’t know? All I know is if this sort of ghetto culture is being allowed or, dare I say, actively encouraged in our cities at a junior level then we are taking one step too many towards an irreversible racial problem. A problem that will surely lead on to apartheid and ultimately to civil war? I can offer no sensible solution to this issue but I am just a little too worried that nobody else is brave enough to face up to it or tackle it with the courage and intelligence it immediately requires. The word multicultural means just that, we all live together. This is not South Africa and we should remain proud of that fact.

Yet another new catchword has sprung from the Government and its spin doctors this week, Social Mobility. The “who you know” culture must go, says that bloke who seems to hold an important job in government without being elected. Mr Clegg also states that “getting on in life because you know people” is wrong! Excuse me? So the recluse who never goes out, never speaks to anyone and has absolutely no friends is best placed for the job. Whatever job that may be? Apparently he, or she, should be allowed more social mobility. I have never heard of such tosh. People who get on in life are generally gregarious and have an ability, either natural or trained, to get on with other people. The education they acquire revolves around personal interaction and social skills as well as academic knowledge. That is how the world works, get over it. Unless, of course, you are a government official whose party got little or no votes but you managed to get into office by sucking up to the team that beat you?

*ok we don’t have any kids in the house, so maybe she is taking the pooh bags to the skip!

Who wants to know?

The day we moved into this little cottage coincided with the 2011 census form falling on the new doormat. I opened and had a laugh as did many households. ‘Do you speak English?’ No, can you send me a form written in German? ‘This question is intentionally left blank’….One assumes they had forgotten the question they were intending to ask!

What I find quite confusing is the ethnic question. It seems one can no longer settle for being British. I have always been British and quite proud of it. The fact that I don’t live permanently in Britain is my choice. The fact that I don’t live in Britain also, I believe, exemplifies me from filling in the illiterate rubbish anyway. Am I breaking the law? Well catch me if you can, because if I don’t fill it in, you won’t know where I live!

 When it comes to Rugby, yes I support England because that is where I was born. But does that make me English? I don’t want to be English, I have met a lot of English people in France and I don’t like many of them. My grandmother was Welsh, does that make me Welsh? After all, my brother supports Wales in the 6 nations. But, on the whole, I dislike the Welsh as well. My surname, Frazier, suggests I am possibly from Scottish ancestry or perhaps French. My mother’s maiden name, McCormick, definitely originates from Southern Ireland. Do I have the right to decide what nationality I am? And if so, can I reserve my right not to tell anyone?

Because, to be frank, what the f**k does it have to do with them? I understand that the Doomsday book was necessary so that the new King on the block could work out exactly what it was he had just won. When tracing my own ancestors, I did refer to the 1881 census which fed me dome useful information, I agree. But if I fill in this one, I will give the government a bum steer because I am only living here for 2 months, I would rather be in France and I don’t want to be tagged by nationality or religion. Where is the question, ‘Do you like living in England?’ So I can answer ‘No, I think it is a shithole and the government are a bunch of overpaid tossers! They didn’t ask me that one, did they? Maybe that is the one that was intentionally left blank?

This is what I think will happen. This information will be used for the wrong reasons. Statistics will show that certain areas now have ethnic majorities and this will be used to fuel the uprising that is spreading from the middle east into some of our cities. Britain is sitting on an ethnic time-bomb and once all this information gets collated it will only help it tick a little faster. There, I have said what others dare not to and for that reason I am not about to tell anyone where I live.

Wellies on the ground floor

And so it is that we move house once again. This will be the 15^th house I have lived in. Most people live in two or possibly three all their lives. I suppose that classes me as some sort of nomad. It’s 3am. A cup of tea has calmed my nerves after waking in a cold sweat.

This is a tiny cottage by the river, idyllic you could say, nice and cozy for us two and the dogs. Walkies by the river, no less than 16 friendly pubs to drop into, a few nice bistros and a couple of Indian restaurants. It is also handy for the hospital where my poor sister still lies, allowing me continue my daily visits.

But here is the trap. The dogs are not allowed above the ground floor, we have signed a contract on their behalf to ensure this. I say we signed it, Wendy and I signed it, they didn’t. So poor Louis cannot understand why, after four years of access all areas, he is confined to the kitchen.

And the problem doesn’t stop there. You see this little cottage is in a small town called Bewdley and the little river outside the door is none other than the notorious River Severn. I say notorious, as many will recognise the name because every time we have a period of prolonged rain in middle England, the river Severn (to coin a cliché from the journalists here) bursts its banks, right outside our door. Fortunately, for the good people of Bewdley, flood defences were installed in this town a few years ago which now protect it from the worst of the carnage that flood water can bring. But that still relies on the council getting them in place, in time. My biggest worry is where do they get their weather forecast from? For instance, do they sit and watch “hopeless the weathergirl” blather on in her dimwit way on channel 4 each evening? Or do they get their information from the met-office, you know that over paid bunch of tossers who occasionally look out of the window to tell us its raining. The ones who couldn’t forecast a barn door banging in a gale. Possibly the council use a crystal ball or a time machine to make their predictions? It is all a worry.

Thankfully, this is a three story cottage, so we would expect to be reasonably safe were it that Noah was summoned to the fore at a moments notice. But what about those poor dogs, the ones we signed a contract for?

Let the nightmares begin. All last night I endured that recurring one where I wake up and see two defenceless pooches floating down the high street still asleep in their beds. Perhaps I should complain to the RSPCA? Or at least buy them some wellies and waterwings.

Good honest rant

Anyone who has been to Worcester lately will know, to their detriment, that there is maintenance being done on Holt Fleet bridge at present. So could someone please explain to me why the two traffic lights, one at either end of the bridge, require to be ‘manned’. When I say manned, I mean overseen by a rather unintelligent and bored looking chap watching the queuing vehicles, wearing a hard hat. A hard hat when he is nowhere near the building site? For what purpose exactly? Perhaps it is in case the traffic light falls on his head? Maybe a plane passing overhead might inadvertently drop a wheel or a peanut from the sky? No, we all know the real reason? It is yet another example of health and safety taken to a ridiculous level. The man is employed by building firm, hard hat compulsory, despite him being in no danger whatsoever, these are rules, black and white. Except, of course, if he wishes to wear a turban instead like one of his colleagues. But that is another issue entirely.

While on the subject of mysteries, could anyone enlighten me about the road sign at the entrance to the Birmingham hospital. It reads: ‘No entry, except for access.’ Why else would anyone want to enter if not for access? Access to what? Perhaps I would like to enter, do a little dance in the middle of the road again, and then leave without actually accessing the hospital? At least it is written in English, unlike some of the other signs around that district. Oops, there goes my xenophobic streak again.

I have very little interest in football and even less understanding of the game. However, it seems that the thuggish image it portrays has yet reached another highlight. I open the paper to see Wayne Crooney (names changed to protect the ..etc) has recently punched someone in the face, only to be allowed to play in a match the next day, unpunished. Even more of a dismay, one of the players on the apposing side has recently shot someone with an air rifle. The fact that the team is owned by a Mafia don has either gone unnoticed by the press or they are too afraid to make the connection. What next? The prevalent use of flick-knives for all premiership strikers to be sanctioned by the FA? Perhaps the goalie should be armed with an AK47? Is it any wonder that there is so much violence on the streets? As said, I have little knowledge of the game but did hear a rather amusing joke on the subject, possibly made by a rugby fan: When Ashley Cole shot that student with an air rifle, Didier Drodber rolled around on the ground pretending to be injured. I guess to some this may be funny although somewhat lost on me!

I couldn’t rant this month without a mention of that good old dictator, Colonel Mu-ammar Gadaffi. Possibly, by the time this goes to print, he may be no longer with us, in fact by the time I finish this sentence he could well have been terminated! He makes speeches saying: “my people love me….!” Ahem, and which people are these exactly? The ones he has ordered his army to shoot at per chance. The ones who are fleeing the country? The ones who are rioting to depose him after 40 years of oppression? And to think that after the carnage of the Lockerbie aircraft bombings we, the UK, has since been doing business with this maniac? My online blog carries the heading that “the lunatics have taken over the asylum..!”. I usually proffer this line somewhat tongue-in-cheek but this man really is one lunatic too many. Maybe we should send one of our football players to sort him out!

Having written this column for just over two years now, it would be remiss of me not to mention the annual battle of rugby that our nation has with the French this time of year, the result being 2 wins to one in our favour during that time. Shame I wasn’t in France this year on that winning occasion to wind up my neighbours once more. It is normally the only day of the year when the St Georges flag flies at chez nous and, dammit, I missed it!

Talking of rugby, the flags are still flying half mast in that home of the game, Christchurch, New Zealand. Having visited the city some years ago, with another trip planned this autumn, it was shocking to see footage of buildings and the cathedral falling to the ground. Thankfully, the few friends I have over there are all OK, but it certainly has rocked the country emotionally as well as physically. My heart goes out to those with friends and relatives caught up in the disaster. It is still our intention to go there in September, albeit the rugby games we were going to watch may be rescheduled elsewhere.

I was in France briefly this month to sort of some business. While checking on the sheep, I discovered that our head count has increased by one. A wandering minstrel of a ram has taken up residence amongst our flock, but from whenst he came I have no idea as there are no other sheep around us for miles. I considered keeping him but then, as I listened, I heard the very faint sound of a guillotine being sharpened in the village. Seemingly the death penalty is still in force for sheep rustling in France, especially if you are English, and particularly if your nation has just beaten the home nation at their national sport. So, in by best French, I declared the beast to the local Marie in some sort of bizarre French amnesty. The poor chap was quite confused as I attempted to describe to the creature in a combination of pigeon-French and sign language. “Un grand mouton monsieur” said I, waving my arms, “avec les grand ballons..!” I think he considered phoning me a doctor!

Someone the other day described my rantings as a bit “Clarksonesque”, another of those new adjectives that never found its way in Samuel Johnson’s original Oxford dictionary. I am not sure if this was a compliment or an insult but I was hasty to point out the difference between the great J Clarkson and myself. He is a foot taller than me for one thing. He is also infinitely more wealthy, witty and famous. On the other hand, I do have a little more chance of avoiding slander and libel cases than he does.  For instance, if I was to say that all Mexicans are lazy good-for-nothing so-and-so’s with droopy moustaches or what ever accusation he made on Top Gear, I would be far less lightly to be taken to task by the Mexican government for mentioning it in R&DN. I will not, of course, make those accusations at all. I met a Mexican once, he was a nice chap. Or was he Brazilian? Definitely from one of those peasant filled South American bandit countries anyway.

But herein hangs a point. TV and radio gets scrutinised by all and sundry and the BBC is forced to adhere to something near the truth. Whereas the press…well don’t get me started. How can they continually get away with printing blatant lies and half-truths just to sell newspapers, with no recompense whatsoever? I actually have adopted the attitude of believing the opposite of whatever I read in daily print to be the truth. With the exception of this quality magazine, obviously.

Anyway, I digress. This week, on a trip back from London, I encountered my first four pound sandwich. That’s a heavy meal, I hear you say. But no, this was not in weight but in money. Yes, the meagre sandwich has finally reached the four quid threshold. So it was, and this is where I feel I can name and shame, unlike the great JC, that I pulled into a service station called Welcome Break. Is it any wonder I was ‘Welcome’ when they charge prices like that? And ‘broke’ I surely would be if I visited them too frequently. So let’s make a quick analysis here. Two slices of bread – 10p, a slice of dry cooked chicken – 5p, some lettuce and mayo – 2p. Total cost less than 20p? And packaging, you say? Well I don’t want the packaging thanks, I can’t eat that. Or maybe it tastes as good as the product inside?  What I found really preposterous was that the company who makes said sandwich has the slogan “Good Honest Food!” What the..?  Where is the honesty in charging four quid for a sarnie? How honest is making 2000% profit in this day an age? Yes it had travelled all the way from Cornwall. Bully for it. It could have travelled by first class rail with its own private carriage complete with hand-maidens and en-suite butter-bath and still been cheaper! It is nothing short of an outrage. When cigarettes reached the one pound per pack threshold, I gave them up. Should I now consider giving up sandwiches too? Or at the very least I should revert to rolling my own.