The wind in your face

I don’t visit London very much, if I can help it. Who would, really, except tourists, politicians or those seeking their fortune? My reason for being there this week is that my children chose to live in the metropolis, for reasons I am sure make sense to someone in the twenties, but defy my desires. At least they don’t go running everywhere like most folk seem to. What is it that persuades normal folk to go jogging round London? Folks jog to work, jog back again, to the shops, the garage, church and the bakers, all timing themselves and treading air on the spot at traffic lights. Honestly, it’s like a scene from Chariots of Fire, everywhere you look. And try and take a walk along the banks of the Thames at your peril. What with dazzling Nike shoes stepping on your toes and eco-warriors on push-bikes, the capital’s footpaths are now a highly dangerous place for those who actually WALK anywhere. After a few attempts, I settled for sitting in a pub and yelling at anyone who passed by at more than 1mph to pay proper road tax – what with them wearing out the tarmac with all that lycra. It’s not right is it? But, as I found, it is no use trying to tell them as they are all listening to radio 4 podcasts on their headphones, in case they have – god forbid – to speak to anyone? Come on London council; Never mind your Boris-Bike, put a tax on Green Flash Pumps - or whatever their modern day designer equivalents are – so I can walk my dogs in safety.

Speaking of the dogs, ours have once again circumnavigated Europe this month, getting to stay in constantly new surroundings and a few swish hotels. Not that we always own up to having a dog in the room because they charge for that – fifty quid in places. So my wife-2-b and I have been known to smuggle them up the back stairs and hope they remain quiet through the night and don’t disturb too many other guests. Mind you – what with London traffic, the viagratic couple in the room above and Madam’s snoring – I think it is me who should be looking for a refund! Oooh, to be back home in my own comfy peaceful bed.

I’m not the only one, when it comes to that desire, as my hardy old Mum is still in hospital, battling for full recovery and giving the nurses hell. On that front, I would like it known that my last month’s rant about the NHS didn’t apply to the fab nurses on the Cookely Ward in what was formerly Kidderminster hospital who have, and continue to be, excellent in their quest to get her sound once more, and send her home. I am pretty sure the ‘physioterrorists’, as she calls them, will be as glad to see the back of her as she will be of them!

I know its old hat now, but I am too late to mention the football? Ha, what a laugh. Well it would be if it wasn’t such a waste of money. I am not sure anyone has tallied up the cost of dispatching team England to the southern hemisphere only to have them re-dispatched just as quickly, without even getting their shorts dirty. I tell a lie, they probably will have a few grass-stains on their white clothing, what with them spending most of the time writhing around on the ground as though they have been shot. They should be – in my humble opinion! And all those nerve wracking penalty shoot-outs? What I can’t understand is why they don’t have bigger goalies? If I was a team coach, I would go to America and pick somebody from the queue at MacDonalds for the job. Let’s face it, a six foot wide goalie would surely narrow the odds.

While on the subject of sport, does anybody actually understand cycling? By the time this goes to print, a hundred or so brightly clad men will have hurtled past our door in France at a helluva speed as ‘Le Tour’ comes through town. One will be wearing yellow, I get that bit. But what about all the other guys wearing more coloured shirts than Frankie Dettori. In a bid not to look too much of a novice, I Googled some cycling terms to broaden my knowledge and found the following statement on good old reliable Wikipedia (and I quote)  ‘paceline: a group formation in which each rider takes a turn breaking wind at the front before dropping to the rear position, and riding in the others' draft until at the front once again’. That’s not very nice is it, following that? I can’t say I have watched much of the tour on TV though, as the commentary is so boring. On the first day while the guys were in Yorkshire one said, ‘here we are in Skipton, home of the Skipton Building Society! Really? How fascinating – not. Well we will be watching in a place called Tombeboeuf which directly translates as ‘fallen beef’. Maybe one of the riders will crash on that corner, giving Mr Phil Liggett a story that he could regale time and again to yawning dinner guests for the next ten years. Oh how the winter evenings must fly by in his house!

Having been home to France, done a week’s work and then flown back to UK again, today I find myself in Birmingham and I have to say I am highly impressed. Most of the new developments are refreshingly well designed and affordable, the streets clean and the nightlife exhilarating but safe.  How is it that Britain’s number two city is so far removed from its first? My pal has city centre apartment overlooking the canal, where I am watching holiday makers leisurely cruising by in long barges with all the time in the world. Strange really, how some people seem to have so much more time than others. When I moved to France 8 years ago this month, I always envisaged that my pace of life would slow down a wee bit too, and yet, as each month passes, I get later and later finding time to write this column! Sorry Ed.

We didn't start the fire

Someone clever once said, you never stand still, you are either going forwards or backwards. Well that is certainly the situation this month, as we cross the channel twice in as many weeks. Firstly, I would like to say congratulations to the National Health service for their intelligence and  care, but sadly I can’t. Instead, I find myself flabbergasted about the fact that they only work 5 days per week, and that their food isn’t fit for a hungry pig to roll in, let alone eat, and that they are so obsessed by health and safety rather than health CARE that the whole organisation is rotten to its shoelaces. Isnt it time someone with a little more business nous took over the reins? Stick Richard Branson in there, he knows how to make things work. Start by firing everyone and then only re-employing those with a smile and a decorum of common sense. Yes nursing and hospital work is not nice and I wouldn't do it for all the noodles in China, so I dont. Those who do find themselves in that profession, I would sympathise with you, except that it is your chosen career. If you don’t want to look after sick people with all your heart, then please do something else instead of hiding behind the smokescreen of self-preservation and health and safety gone mental. While my Mum has been in hospital, she developed a blister on her foot, so now they wont allow her to attempt to walk in case it bursts and they have an ‘incident. How outrageous. You are nurses, bandage it! Doctors and staff are continually late as they are no longer allowed to wear wrist-watches at work. What the…? TV costs £10 per day, so patients cant afford to watch it to break up the boredom of four walls. Not that they would hear it above the sound of never-answered phones and fellow patients buzzers being ignored. Flowers not allowed on the ward? Grapes not allowed. Visitors not allowed to sit with patients while they eat - for hygiene reasons. The list of ridicule is endless – and it stinks. Ah yes. Didn’t someone mention that we should bring back good old cottage hospitals? Now that is a great idea. Except we can’t, can we, because they have all been sold to greedy property developers and bulldozed to the ground?

Having recently ranted with rage about the security checks at Bristol airport, I have to report today that something radical has happened. They now have erected a little stand once you have passed all your checks to ask if  your trip through security was a pleasant experience, with a selection of buttons to press to endorse the fact. Much though I wanted to scream at it and press the ‘disgraceful’ button, I have to admit that on my most recent trip it was a lot less intimidating than usual. Why is this? What has happened? Is it because they are being monitored that they feel obliged to be nice to passengers? Or did they read my rant from last year? Or just maybe, passengers are getting fed up with the place and using different airports instead. Either way I am annoyed now, as there wasn’t one there when I wanted to scream at it last year. My prediction is that the machine will break down within the month so the staff can return to their old ways. Or maybe someone will break a fingernail while pressing a button so that Health and Safety can close it down and cordon it off with Danger Keep Out tape like they have with the kid’s playground at Worcester Royal Infirmary.

Anyway, my writings this month are rather novel in that they come to you from 20 miles under the sea. No, I have not joined the submariners service, just that I am sitting on the rather pleasant and painless train journey that connects the motherland with my chosen habitat. I have to admit, I am not looking forward to being in UK again, and instantly ready to complain about the gross overcrowding problems of the south east, particularly highlighted by the World biggest car-park which calls itself the M25. Somewhere in the middle of these feelings, I have to confess to a pang of guilt. Let’s face it, England is my country of birth. 100 years ago and again 30 years later, brave and patriotic men fought to defend its shores from invasion, so that they and their children could live out their lives in peace and harmony. Even this week, that patriotism still remains as the nation awaits the greatness of our group of eleven heroes, suffering the heat of south America, diving for their country in the name of football.

So when was it that the slogan of ‘what makes this country great’ got replaced with ‘how the bejeezus did we come to accept so much crap in our daily lives?’ As Billy Joel once stated, ‘we didn’t start the fire..’ but does it really take a stint of living outside the tent to actually see the problems without wearing good old St George’s rose-tinted specs? Well, here is another verse to add to Billy’s classic song, which includes a few unacceptable things that we thankfully don’t put up with in France, and highlights the reason I and many others chose to leave.

Potholes, Microwaves, Ready meals, Road-rage

Rude staff, Car-flags, Road-works, Plastic bags

Service-stations, gutter press, track-suits, Political correctness

Car tax, Celeb TV, ludicrous Health and Safety!

We didn’t start the fire, but it’s about time we dialled 999 to put it out!

Men in tights

This month I have to report yet another absurdity in French law; that of my French driving licence. Last week I went to collect a mini-digger from the hire-shop to find that I didn’t need a licence to drive it, but I did to tow the thing home. Unknown to me, my ‘permis-de-conduire’ does include the permission to tow a trailer but that part of it expires every two years and I now need to take a medical - cost 43 euros - for the privilege of renewal. The daft part about this is I can still ride a powerful motorbike, drive a high speed car and even a 32-tonne truck with my failing eyesight and dicky-heart with sky-rocket blood pressure, but a 1 tonne trailer? Non monsieur! However, the same week, I drove onto the autoroute and found it chocka with dangerously weaving caravans, all on British plates, and re-considered. Perhaps Mr & Mrs Bearded-bank-holiday-maker really should also have a medical health check every time they pull their 14 foot Sprite out of storage, possibly with a mental health inspection and an annual driving test to boot!

Incidentally, a new law over here has just been passed stating that drivers on UK plates caught on speed-camera in France after November this year will get their subsequent fine through their British post-box, enforced by the local police. Is this a step towards a bit more unity between our two loggerheaded nations? Well no, actually, because Britain has not opted to adopt the same EU law in reverse because they consider it racist. This means while Mrs Davies is being hauled into court in Manchester for doing 51kph in a Parisian suburb, M. Yves St-Maniac can rip through the Yorkshire Dales at breakneck speeds, texting on his phone, drunk, with no seatbelt or insurance - without recompense. Suits me chaps, let’s see how fast I can get our French registered Audi up the Bewdley by-pass! Allez-zi!

It appears we have our very own version of that flagship TV show, Rabbit Watch now running into its fourth week here at Chauffour. Starring Louis (the pointless pointer) as Bill Oddie and Pooper (scruff-bag terrier) as Kate Humble, the day-long episodes involve 2 dogs sitting at the patio window, waiting for a solitary half-grown rabbit to periodically venture out from its new home in the polytunnel for a bite of grass. When the poor thing appears, what follows is like a scene from Charge of the Light Brigade, as the two of them go ballistic, clawing the door open and giving tongue. With well-formed ears like that, evidently the rabbit isn’t deaf and hotfoots it back indoors to the safety of the wood pile as soon as it hears the door click open. Louis then spends an entire hour barking loudly at the giant pile of firewood in a vain hope to talk it out of there until they both get bored and retire back to their vantage point on the sofa to repeat the whole process. To begin with, this was mildly amusing but now, as Louis, the stupidest dog in canine evolution, has magically learned to open locked doors it is becoming a tad tedious! Seriously, when he is not barking at said rabbit, he goes looking for it inside the house, systematically opening all the bedroom doors upstairs until he manages to get locked inside one of the rooms.  Thankfully he isn’t gold-medal material at canine hide-and-seek, giving his whereabouts away by the telltale trail of muddy footprints that follow him onto the duvets!

While on the subject of footprints, what is it with animals and wet concrete? Over the last month I have extended some of our terracing around the house, only to have my painstakingly smooth efforts pitted with paw-marks as the dogs, cats, squirrels, birds, even the bloody rabbit, all decide that they simply HAVE to walk over that bit of ground within the hour, despite never having travelled on that path before. Honestly, it’s like a geography field-trip in the Wyre Forest out there!

As spring rapidly advances into summer here in our rural little French spot, my time seems to evaporate with the sun. Mowing, pruning, sheep-shearing, fencing and building all seem to take the place of the few excess hours I thought I had left during which to write. Subsequently, I am months behind with my latest project. What was it that Douglas Adams once said: ‘I love deadlines, especially the whooshing sound they make as the fly by!’

But to add to my workload, this year I have been persuaded back onto stage, after a ten year absence. Yes, I will be partaking in a three night show in September called ‘Musical Box’, singing along with 30+ classics from old musical shows such as Kiss Me Kate and West Side Story. Although only doing three solos, as part of the 14-strong chorus I have to learn every word of every song, all 32 pages of them, so I can harmonise in the right places. This in itself is never an easy task but coupled with a forty minute each way drive to rehearsals, twice per week, it’s a miracle I get any sleep at all as the tedious tunes revolve around in my head like a badly tuned merry-go-round. Anyway, nearer the date, I may be forced to mention this once again, in a hope that someone might turn up to watch it. Oh, and to make matters worse, I might have to suffer the indignity of wearing tights during a Shakespearean number!

Anyway, as the ever-PC Clarkson would say, ‘On that Bombshell.....’

That's easy for you to say?

I know nothing about whisky, other than I enjoy one dram as much as the next one, and I wouldn’t have known a Glenglassaugh from Glenn Miller. But since I inherited my father’s collection of miniature single malts I have started to take more than a passing interest in the amber nectar, while I catalogue hundreds of obscure bottles from distilleries with impossible names like A’Bainne or Pityvaich.  As I pour (no pun intended) over names, dates and intriguing locations, I have started to identify a few that are missing and tried to pick up the mantle of completing the collection via the internet – a tool that father never had at his disposal. Just as well in some cases, when I do a Google search for ‘Ladyburn 15 year-old’ and it comes back with a list of illegal brothels in Thailand!    Eventually I track down a Macallans 1961, the holy grail of rare bottles of which only 369 were ever made, missing from my collection and coming up for impending auction. Excitedly I register on their website. Sadly last Wednesday my courage , besides my soon to be wife, would not allow me to hit the button enough times to reach the three hundred quid it made, let alone £5000 that its full-bottle brother achieved. I am consoled with the fact that it was probably fake anyway, because who is ever going to check? The mischievous streak in me considers running up a 1961 label on photo-shop and gluing it on to a tiny bottle of petrol. Or better still, making up some names of distilleries that sound like someone trying to speak with a clothes peg on their tongue and selling them on ebay!

Strangely enough, it is unpronounceable Scottish names that are occupying most of my waking hours as it is, while I cement together the tome that will be the History of Aberdeen Angus cattle which, after 18 months work, is nearing a first draft. What in heaven’s name was it that drove breeders to call their animals things like ‘Proud Gairloch Ericina of Murdochcairnie?’ Didn’t they know that somewhere, some poor clerk would have to write them down in a book one day? Even now I have had to check the spelling 4 times in case Mrs McDreary from Lochnagoldfinch finds a spelling mistake and condemns my work with accusations of illiteracy.

They do that, though, those purists. That is something I have found out first hand with my travel-guides, when sad vindictive retired school-teachers are allowed to write reviews of my work on Amazon and hide behind cowardly nicknames such as Biblioprefect or LiteraryMother, condemning my book on Bordeaux to a one star rating because I had missed an accent off the name of her local restaurant.  There are probably similar ones who scrutinise this column with literary tooth-combs. To you I say, stick to reading the Observer!

Apologies for having a go at you, dear reader, but I am a little grumpy today having sat up half of last night to watching the golf on TV. On that subject, I have one observation to make. ‘Dear Mrs Watson, no matter what you were smoking, drinking or injecting at the time, naming a child Bubba is seriously, seriously wrong!’

I will admit that since finding a bit more time to play in the winter in East Lothian, I have got right into golf again; so much so that Wendy has got me tickets to the Ryder Cup this year in Gleneagles. This in itself was a complete mission because, although it is held in tranquil Scotland, the event is run by paranoid Americans. To get anywhere near the place, we have to fill out ten page immigration forms, submit passport details and solemnly declare, so help me god, that we are not terrorists. And it gets even worse for the locals. Poor Mrs McDreary will be ring-fenced into her home in Auchterarder village for a whole week in September. She will only be allowed in and out of her front door via a retina-scan and strip-search to fetch a loaf of bread, in case she takes it upon herself to murder anyone in obscenely loud check trousers and an idiotic name!

I am quite looking forward to it though, since Wendy and I have extended our love of live sporting events from rugby to other disciplines. As well as Wimbledon, this year we are also hoping to go to the snooker world championship, possibly the last year it will be in the quaint Crucible theatre in Sheffield before that vile promoter, Barry Hearn, gets it moved to Las Vagas or somewhere equally squalid. Mark my words, it won’t be long before he reduces snooker into a vulgar circus like everything else he promotes in a bid to attract the lowlife who currently frequent darts championships.  As we speak, John Parrot and Steve Davies are being measured up for over-sized baseball caps and the lovely Hazel Irvine fitted with Double D-cup silicone, while the lady referees will be clad in leopard-skin lycra hot-pants and stilettos. Commentary will be provided by Ant and Dec or Will.i.am and the scoreboard will be replaced by bimbos on roller-skates to an audience full of Bill Werbeniuk lookalikes! Incidentally, when that pillock John Virgo starts squealing ‘where’s the white ball going...!!!’ am I the only one who wishes it was ‘down his throat?!’

Finally, I cannot resist once again having a go at the BBC’s woeful Sunday night farcical look at the countryside who have descended to a new low in giving away ‘wild flower seeds!’ Any farmer, gardener and even city pedestrian will recognise that, in general, wild flowers are weeds. How can distributing 200,000 packets of weeds possibly be a benefit to anybody other that the makers of Round-Up? Thanks Ellie, I’ll look forward to planting my ragwort, sow-thistles, creeping buttercup and stinking mayweed – in your vegetable patch!

Meanwhile, our very own vegetable garden is now well populated with onions, potatoes, courgettes and beans, desperately awaiting some rain. Yes, after half a metre of rain in three months in France, we are once again as dry as our empty swimming pool. Never happy, are we?

Coq-au-vin

At last it is spring, when the days should be getting longer. So why do mine seem to get shorter? Maybe it’s my age. No sooner am I out of bed at daybreak, running around like a headless chicken, gardening, lambing, building, pruning, tidying and scheming, than the sun is going down and the gin beckoning. As I flop down to watch the golden glow disappearing on the horizon, my mind is a whirl with all the things I haven’t achieved that day, while tomorrow’s list spills on to extra pages. I am sure it never used to be like this – this hectic life of mine. I know, I shouldn’t complain, especially as it is 22 degrees here in France today, with the grass growing and the colourful blossom out.

While on the subject of headless chickens, why is it that while we are away in Scotland for the winter months, a whole zoo full of animals immediately move in? For the last three years, we have come back home to more cats than we left behind, and this time two toms have moved in, spraying their nasty smells around the garage and howling all night. That wouldn’t be so bad but we also have another unwelcomed resident, one red-crested cockerel which has taken to living with the sheep and waking up at 5am. In fact, I think it has palled up with the ram and the toms in some sort of male orientated sit-in, each one trying to outdo the other with its nocturnal din. Well be warned, incomers, amongst tomorrow’s list of jobs is to search out a couple of bricks with which to dull the tom’s enthusiasm, and then dig out the large pan from under the stairs ready for some coq-au-vin.

As it happens, pots and pans are one thing we are no longer short of, having cleared out Wendy’s mother’s house into my mother’s back bedroom a few years ago, and then eventually cleared that out and delivered it all the way to France. Not that it was an uneventful journey, towing a sheep trailer from which the newness had worn off long ago. By Oxford, we lost a wheel, and limped along on for a hundred more miles until I could collect a replacement. Then, just outside Rouen, the entire suspension collapsed, hanging on by one thin rusty bolt and threatening to upturn the whole thing every time it passed a pothole, despatching my whole cargo of junk all over the autoroute. Thankfully, with the aid of some rope, it did manage to stay together for the 1200 mile journey, at 40mph, which took two whole days.

After a glass of wine and well earned sleep, I take to unpacking the splitting cardboard boxes for which I had risked life and limb, to find them all full of completely useless stuff left over from 1973. We now have a very fine collection of pyrex dishes in avocado green, assortments of mis-matched tablecloths and a full set of cookery books by Fanny Craddock.  To compliment these, 300 vinyl albums weighing approximately seven tonnes also made the journey, which include such masterpieces as Edgar Broughton’s greatest hits (did he actually have a hit?) and the somewhat ironic Aerosmith’s Toys in the Attic, all from much the same era. Even that would have been an almost acceptable risk to take with my antique trailer, were it that we had a record player to air them on. I have to admit, albeit secretly, that I do get a feeling of ecstatic wistfulness  when I run my hand over the well worn cover of Led Zepplin’s Houses of the Holy, or a mint copy of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, that makes me want to root through the cupboard for my flares and headband. Who said nostalgia is a thing of the past?

Anyway, with that lot all safely tucked up in the loft for another decade, it’s onwards towards my next project, the extension of the house into our barn. Were I to stop and consider this for too long, it too might prove to be a rather futile exercise, as this house is surely big enough for two of us already. In fact, I am struggling to justify the mammoth task to myself, with the only really valid reason to convert the barn to living space I can come up with is that I am doing it ‘because it is there!’

However, straining at the leash as I am to get my teeth into it, there is one more pressing job to be undertaken, that of a seat with a view for the missus. Not just any seat, but one under water. You may recall that for most of last year our swimming pool was leaking water faster than the Titanic and a decision was made to invest in a replacement liner for it. So while the water is out, I have been instructed to build a metre wide platform in the shallow end where Wendy and her pals can sit in six inches of water and partake in their early evening G&T with their feet dangling in the depths. Having taken specific measurements for depth, and width, I now have to consider of what material to construct it and my choice of steel re-enforced concrete has been met with some rather stern retorts! If you don’t hear from me again, try looking for me in the deep end wearing wellies filled with the same material!

Proclaiming Independence

Rain instead of snow this winter? I know which I would prefer: at least you can move snow with a shovel and stay in your sitting room without wellies on. For those poor folks in the south, my heart goes out to you. But can we really blame global warming for all this watery mess? So-called experts say we can, and they should know, shouldn’t they? Although, apparently, the Ozone is only one theory among many, with others putting the blame on local planners, builders, government, otters or the Russians. One rather twisted MP for the UK Independence Party even blamed the flooding on gay marriages! But in Scotland, of course, there is only ever one direction to point the finger of fault – directly at the English. Today I got a whole newspaper through our Scottish letterbox telling me to vote ‘Yes’. In it Mr Salmon and Mrs Sturgeon (Scotland’s fishy ministers) promise me the earth in return for a cross in their box, come September. According to this rag, I will get tax bonuses, better schooling & housing and infinitely better weather without the Sassenachs in charge of Scotland’s well-being. All of this I dismiss as blatant lies until, on page ten I note that The Proclaimers are inviting me to share their ‘yes vote’. Well, that instantly swung it for me. If an Independent Scotland means I will have to listen to those two monotone morons droning on, I am off down the A1 faster than Richard Hammond on-fire!

Actually, we will be off down the A1 again quite soon, back to the land of milk and honey that is South West France.  Except, even that haven hasn’t managed to escape the rain this time, with local towns flooded and our sheep paddling about up to their bellies. Hopefully it will have dried up a bit by the time the lambs start dropping and the grass will be up to our knees once more.

Talking of Hammond, it was quite nice to see BBC Top Gear’s Three Stooges in Worcestershire last month, tearing up Shelsley Walsh, even if it was in a shamelessly irresponsible way. Preceding that we got the weekly drivel that is Countryfile in the home district too, depicting the ‘northern blonde-bird’ irritatingly twittering away in Wyre Forest! The things you see without a gun! I did enjoy seeing Witley Court on our national screens though and am sure the publicity will do it no harm. It reminded me of a tale that my grand-father once told me. Seemingly Herbert (Piggy) Smith had a number of outstanding invoices for chickens he had been purchasing from HS Frazier. By this time, Smith was short of money and instead of paying up, invited Grandpa to dinner. In his best tweeds, he was met at the door by a butler and shown into a massive dining room with a table as large as a football pitch. Old Harry was seated at one end while Piggy Smith was at the other, so far away he was even out of shouting range. While he ate his bangers and mash in silence (served on a silver salver), he was convinced that at the far end of the table, Smith was eating something far more sumptuous.  He left that evening, still with his debt unpaid, and a few days later, the whole place mysteriously burned to the ground, leaving Smith a rather handsome insurance payout. Father remembers, as a child, being bundled into the back of the car that night and driven to Great Witley so they could watch the flames. The things they did before television!

This month has been one of travelling for us, firstly to the snowy alps for some après-ski, then Stirling for the annual bull sales for some beefy business. Following that, I found myself in Makem Country and I was pleasantly surprised what lovely beaches Sunderland has - well, apart from the evening storm throwing waves at me over the seawall. On a sunny morning, I took the dogs for a long walk along Whitburn cliffs which, incidentally, the sea seems to be eroding at an alarming rate. If I possessed one of those spectacular sea-facing houses (which I suspect are all owned by football players), I think I would have it on the market before it slips silently down into the depths by the end of the decade. Anyway, I am used to walking the dogs along the coastal path in Scotland and generally I say hello, and even pass away a few minutes of idle conversation, with total strangers that I meet on the way. So I was quite surprised, and even upset, that whenever I so much as nodded to people along the Wear coast, not even one returned my acknowledgement, let alone a greeting or a smile. Is this typical of folks from the North East, or was I not addressing them correctly? All I said was ‘Howay, man, marra, let's gan doon the pub for some beltas scran?’

Then, just last weekend, we found ourselves invited to a weekend at that home of decadent opulence, Gleneagles Hotel. Oh my, how the other half live. The bedroom was bigger than our own apartment, and the bathroom could have housed and hosed the entire Scottish rugby team (except we are not mentioning that sore point, bless them). Also included in our overnight stay was full use of the spectacular spa facilities. Having glimpsed at the brochure, I determined that they were situated not too far from our room so instead of heading there fully clothed, I donned the fluffy white dressing gown provided, and padded down in my bare feet.  What I had failed to ascertain was that, in order to reach said pool complex, the route went directly through a dining room and then a shopping arcade! With every barefoot step, while wealthy visitors giggled at me from behind their hands, my face grew redder and near exploded when I bumped into one of my customers. Not just any customer either, by Lady Double-Barrelled Title from one of Scotland’s largest stately castles, whom I had recently interviewed for my latest book. Despite my best attempts at hiding my face, I am pretty sure she recognised me, even without my clothes on! On the way back, in a desperate effort not to meet more rich and famous clients, I took a detour through the kitchens and back corridors, now dripping with saline, and got hopelessly lost. After twenty minutes, I eventually found a lift which took me from the basement back to my room, only to find that my key-card no longer worked and I was locked out. Honestly, you couldn’t make this stuff up. So here I now was, sitting outside my room, wearing just a dressing gown, for twenty minutes until a smug porter arrived with a new key and frown as wide as the Forth Estuary. To cap it off, I inevitably bumped into Lady DBT at breakfast who raised her eyebrow at me before admitting, ‘I thought that was you in bare feet outside Prada!’ If you listen carefully, I am sure you can still hear them laughing! Oh, the shame. Thankfully I can never afford to go back again.

Finally, I would like to wish you a belated welcome to the Chinese Year of the Horse! How ironic that Tesco had one of those just last year?

No shit, Sherlock?

Unfortunately I never got chance to study literature at school. For some bizarre reason I had to make a choice between that subject and geography and, not keen on getting lost in the world, coupled with the offer of rainy day field trips to the Brecon Beacons, Geography narrowly won the day. Ironic really - when I consider my current profession.  Stupid too, having to make such sacrifice – but then my school did things like that. Art was another thing I am sorry I missed, in favour of history or rugby or some other essential. As a result I wouldn’t know a Goya from a Gammon-steak and for years I thought that Hertz Van-Rental was a Dutch painter! Anyway, my reason for broaching this subject is that, although I never analyzed works by Arthur Conan Doyle, I am pretty sure his words were highly intellectual and contained meaningful stories about good and evil, right and wrong and possibly large dogs in deerstalkers. So how did the BBC end up with such a load of bastardized piffle as the current Sherlock Homes series, which bears about as much relevance to the traditional stories and characters as my cat does to a dancing walrus!  In it we see Benedictine Cucumber-patch generally making a complete arse of himself in something that would more befit a comic Carry-On caper rather than a detective story. I half expected Sid James to make an appearance, or Norman Wisdom to come on and fall over. Maybe I have been misled, but isn’t Sherlock supposed to solve crimes? Perhaps he could start with the biggest crime so far this year – that of the BBC allowing this twaddle onto our screens.

I don’t want to speak too soon but, for once, this winter has been a bit kinder when it comes to the ‘big freeze’ issues, possibly making some newspaper sensational headline-writers redundant in the process. Not that nature has been completely nice, with its blowing down of age old trees and a gallant attempt to drown us all.  On this latter issue, I would like to make an observation regarding Britain’s coastline, with particular reference to sea-walls, and it is this. ‘If the wind is blowing up 20 feet high waves and you have a notion to walk on the harbour wall to take photos, don’t expect to live long.’ And furthermore, please do NOT expect to be rescued from the bottom of the ocean by the coastguard with your Nikon round your neck. Remember, stupidity is still the number killer in the world.

Well, by the time this gets to print, we will be hopefully high up on a mountain where no floods can reach us, possibly in a cabin buried under snow. It has been a few years since I had skis on, a fact that was quite telling when I found that my ski-suit appeared to have shrunk since its last use. In a vain attempt to get it back on again, I have now joined the local gym, something I haven’t done in years either.  In fact it is so long since I have been in one of those mirrored environments, that I now have no idea what half the machines do, nor how to work them. Gone are the days when you could just hope on a cycle-machine and pedal away a few pounds. No, now it has gone all hi-tech. Apparently I can simulate going uphill, downhill, forest-track, velodrome, even Boris-bike death-wish rides. In front of me, gadgets, TV screens and gobbledegook words tell me how many calories I am using, how close my heart is to exploding while my pulse defies medical science, how hot I am and what a fat-boy I have become.  Meanwhile, my own personal wafer-thin health-and-safety executive hangs around in her lycra, making sure I don’t die on the premises. I was quite surprised she didn’t make me wear a cycle helmet! Gleefully she informs me that, if I am going skiing, I should do some ball exercises! I’ve no idea what they are and I’ve been too scared to go back again to find out!

As we are heading to colder climes, the subject of winter-wear raises its ears above the parapet once more. Last summer, on possibly the hottest day of the year, I purchased an excellent winter coat, at a discount from a down-on-his-luck trader at an agricultural show. Wendy was with me at the time and I tried to persuade her to do the same. But no, she didn’t need a new coat – then. Strangely though, now it is minus 5 outside, she does. So off we go to the January sales, northwards into deepest Scotland to a shop called the House of Bruar. Those of a country pursuit persuasion may have heard of this place which is like the clothing equivalent of Fortnam and Masons.   Prince Charles shops there, apparently.  And Donald Trump. Not unlike F&M, they don’t lower themselves to such vulgarities as winter sales. I should have been put off by their slogan on the door which said, ‘.. if you have to ask the price, then b*gger-off to Primark!’  We now have a ‘his and hers’ country look. His: cheap and practical – hers: looks good with heels! Sadly, the winnings from our subsequent day at the races didn’t even manage to pay for the fuel to get there, let alone the jacket.