Fake claims

   Grapes harvested, crops being sown, rugby season started, Xmas adverts on TV? Yep, the summer is officially over and it’s time to go and cut some firewood again. Wow, that soon came round, where did the year go? Fortunately this year, my neighbour has felled a lot of large oaks so, with the aid of one of our visitors, we have managed to gather a few tree trunks and cut them up into manageable sizes ready for our ever-hungry fireplace to gobble up. As you may have guessed, this year we have decided to winter in France.

   All this talk of winter does seem quite bizarre actually, because as I write it is 32 degrees and there are visitors in the swimming pool. We have had endless visitors this month and thankfully, for once, they have hit a warm spell. Our most honoured guest is my sister Sarah. For those of you who know her, Sarah is making good progress and, ably aided by her three daughters, her life is starting to gain some degree of normality again. I am sure 3 weeks in the sun will help too although sadly due to doctors orders, she is no longer allowed a glass of wine (when anybody is looking!).

   Meanwhile, Wendy and I are dusting off our supporters shirts ready for our trip down under at the end of the month. When I next write, it will be from 12,000 miles away on the bottom side of the planet, where we will be sampling some rugby and local cultures in New Zealand. For those of you who may follow the Rugby World Cup, England have to play Scotland in week three, both of whom need to win if they are to proceed to the next round. And that, as always, brings a divide in our household which this year will spread to the terraces in Auckland when my better half will be donning her kilt and Jimmy-hat, shouting for the other side. Methinks a draw would be the most peaceful result and would save a bit of sulking!

    We now have a new member in the household. I only briefly mentioned to Wendy a few weeks ago that we had a mouse problem in our pool-house. The blasted little creatures had eaten holes in the pool-floats and our fat lazy black and white feline, which sleeps all day on a garden chair, seemed pretty uninterested in doing anything about it. Perhaps she needed help, or possibly replacing with a thinner one? How about this for coincidence…within two days, some enthusiastic barking could be heard from the other side of the garden where Louis (the Pointless Pointer) was pointing to something hiding in the wood pile. It turned out to be none other that a 5 week old kitten, which had arrived from who-knows-where, possibly looking for a home. So impressed was I with his perfect timing that young Spike is now living in the pool-house and hopefully, quite soon, the mice no longer will be. Anyone got a home fat lazy B&W cat?

   While we are giving away animals, we still have our neighbour’s ram in occupancy, which we don’t want. The burly brute is not content with regularly beating up our own ram and has now turned on us. A few days ago I was alarmed by screaming coming from down the field of the female variety. I bounded down to investigate, just in time to see Wendy fending off the damn thing like some sort of toreador as it repeatedly charged at her with its head down. Fortunately, I made it just in time to defend my maiden with a large bass-broom and gallantly saved the day. It seems that the sheep was just protesting because he hadn’t been getting enough bread to eat, poor thing. I know one thing, if he tries that stunt on me he will be in sausages faster than you can say ‘rosemary and garlic’!

   This week I have witnessed some of our visitors getting that good old-fashioned holiday by-product, a suntan! You remember that? The moment when your skin tingles a wee bit while you eat your evening meal amongst the mosquitoes? Can’t beat it. But it seems that now the entire western world no longer requires the sun to achieve this effect, choosing instead to spray themselves with evil brown chemicals and then stay indoors. Not only that, but this fake tan is an all-year-round thing. It appears that white people no longer wish to remain white in the same way the late Michael Jackson no longer wished to remain his own natural colour. Maybe it is because we live in a hotter climate, but I really find this most bizarre. British women (along with their larger American cousins) spend £340m per year on getting a fake tan so that they can look like Kate Middleton (or in the American’s case, Oprah Winfrey). Why don’t they just go on holiday or at least go outside? It would be much cheaper, more relaxing and far more natural. And now we read that the latest fashion is to fake-tan your children from the age of four? How ludicrous is that? When I was four, I was brown because I played outside in the muddy garden! Maybe this new vogue is just created by those jealous women who can’t afford to buy an African baby on e-bay like Madonna or Angelina (the lips) Jolie? It is definitely wrong and should be outlawed!

   Another growing culture that annoys me, which I am afraid to say yet again stems from America, is those dreadful adverts on TV that ask you if you have had an accident lately. Because it seems that there is no longer any such thing as an accident? Cut your finger, blame the knife manufacturer. Fall down drunk? Blame the drinks company. Run out of money? Blame the government. It is criminal! Walking down Broad Street in Birmingham last year, I was approached by a spotty youth with a clip-board, asking me if I had been in hospital lately. I said, “yes thanks, I was visiting someone”.

   He said: “No, I mean have you (taps his nose knowingly) been in hospital, you know, like hurt yourself or somefing? Because if so, you could make a claim!”

   “Against whom?” I asked.

   “Always someone to blame,” he says cheerfully.

   “Would I be to blame if you were to go to hospital?” I ask him, raising my fist. He then threatened to call the police and said I was harassing him! Apparently, he has rights, but I don’t. Maybe I should put in a claim for him wasting my time?

   Ladies and Gentlemen, my revelation to you for this month is as follows: Accidents happen, get on with life!

They say that time is a healer

They say that time is a healer! Not sure who wrote the quote but Phil Collins did sing it once. And it’s true.

Eight months ago, my sister had a tragic brain aneurism that very nearly cost her life. At the time, full of emotion I sat by her bedside watching the heart monitor and wrote this piece: http://goo.gl/duaOf . It wasn’t exactly a prayer, just a plea, a cry for help to anyone who might listen. I also used social networking to drum up support from her friends, my friends, friends of friends and total strangers! Thankfully they all chipped in. Months and months of hard work followed including vigils, hospital visits, assessments, consultations and family management. The outlook was prescribed as bleak, don’t build up hope, prepare for the worst…. The surgeon shook his head as he told me she would have to be exceptional to pull through, I told her she was. And she is.

Yesterday she arrived here in France, looking gorgeous in her sun dress, and giving me a hug. Yes, she is still a little confused but the progress she has made in the last six weeks since she came out of hospital is nothing short of amazing. We sat and chatted about what had happened, about the doctors and the surgery, her disbelieving some of it, as she sipped her first glass of wine in 8 months. Who knows where it will go from here, but hopefully forwards. She still requires 24/7 supervision, and her daughters have coped with that magnificently, but her independence is coming back and with it that smile and blatant stubbornness that she always beat me with when we were kids. She is sitting beside me now, drinking tea and I am the happiest man in the world. In my blog of 22^nd Jan I said I would pay and I gladly will. Thank you.

Reading and writing?

Get a job, get a career, stick at it. Advice we all give the youngsters, stability equals happiness, steady income, slow growth, get there in the end. Where did I go wrong?

I think I only ever had one job in my life, for about 3 years. The rest of the time I spent working for myself, ducking, diving, diving even further. Whenever I would find my feet in one section, so I would want to expand the horizon, change my focus, reach forward only to see unfinished things piling up behind me, and eventually falling over.

Most writers tend to stick to one genre and many of those one subject. Read it, write it. Again a simple formula.

 So how did I get here again, writing 3 books, reading 4, editing two, all at once, all different. I didn’t set out to write children’s fiction, it evolved after hearing some advice from someone. I found myself half into a series without really knowing my market. If it’s good enough, “they” will pigeonhole it for me. And edit it, for that matter. They didn’t. “We” can’t sell that stuff, they said. “I am not listening” I said. Then, series complete, I moved from the 9-11 year girls market, to 8-11 boys. “They don’t read that stuff” they said.

And so I find myself looking to move on again. Forget children, the majority of them don’t read anymore, or cant? Go adult.

Sex or money, my friend says, of preferably sex and money, with some crime thrown in, that’s what he reads. Sure, in my chequered past, there are a host of stories I could bring to life that would fit into that mould. But that isn’t what I read. I don’t read or watch what I term as ‘trash’. I don’t read newspapers, especially not the ones that peddle that stuff. And to write it, I would have to.

Vampires, warlocks, werewolves, fantasy, that’s what kids want. Again, let someone else write it then, because I don’t do them either, never have.

So, with ten (good) books under my belt and an improved writing style, it is time to take time-out and look at what the market wants. I have an idea what I can write but, as before, I have to consider whether a) I can write it well enough and b) it will sell and c) most importantly, will I enjoy writing it.

Or do I just believe in myself, say fuck-it and write it anyway?

Yup, that's what I think too! Watch this space...

Grilled farmer

I am not entirely sure when the French equivalent of St Swithin’s day is? But, assuming it was sometime in July, it would be an educated guess that it probably rained that day. It has rained for most of July, though we cannot complain since  it was desperately needed. We are now having the Spring we didn’t get in Spring. I have dusted off the lawnmower and summoned it back on duty. The dormant weeds love the warm rain, clambering for sunlight as they battle through the gravel stones with renewed vigour before I can zap them with Round-up. The sheep at last have enough to eat in their field without them breaking out into the garden to eat the grape vines. The lush grass has also brought forward the tupping season so we will have lambs born around Xmas. All good as far as I am concerned. 

Not so good for our guests who unfortunately endured a full week of wet days with temperatures dropping to 12 degrees. Thankfully they were from west Scotland so this still constituted a heat-wave to them; seemingly our downpours are just considered as a light shower where they come from.

There is one thing this damp weather does revive that I could do without, that tiny sadistic malevolent b**t@^d, the mosquito. I have a theory about mozzies, let me share it with you. Mosquitoes make no sound. They flit around, brutally seeking out their prey, usually pale and cleansed flesh, in utter silence. Then, choosing their moment, they stealthily settle, drill a tiny hole, fuel-up on copious amount of red blood, leave some poison in its place and then leave silently too. Then, and here comes the really vindictive part, they organise a fly-by, right past the victim’s ear, screaming out their terrifying buzzing sound which would awaken even the heaviest of sleeper. I am not skilled as an animal noise translator, but if I were, I reckon that buzzing noise actually says “ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-gotcha!” Incidentally, mozzies do not have red blood in their veins so, when you squash one and it leaves a red stain on the wall, that is probably your own blood. What a horrid thought!

While on the subject of translation, I would like to congratulate Google for making me laugh-out-loud this month. On Wendy’s (significant) birthday we chose a nice restaurant to visit for lunch. To enlighten our guests before the event, I pointed them to the website for this establishment. Said guests, not being French-speaking, decided to translate the restaurant’s menu into English using Google’s built-in website translator. The results were listed in English as follows:

For starter: Tricandilles of pig farmer grilled over a wood fire, with fresh salad

For main course: Tournedos of beef fillet on a sofa with morel sauce

Or: Duo of tuna foie gras served with crushed rat

For Dessert: Tarte Tartin with hot young ladies and vanilla ice cream.

I kid you not, I have witnesses. Obviously I enjoyed the dessert the best!

            One thing that a few wet days will do is to send us inside in the evening and then, inevitably, on goes the telly. Generally, during the summer months, we watch very little TV apart from major sporting events, but last month the usual array of hogwash adorned our dusty screen. On Sunday night I was hoodwinked into watching Countryfile, believing it was about farming. That couldn’t be further from the truth, in fact I think there is probably more farming truth in the fictitious Emmerdale that on Countryfile. A token farmer was interviewed who bred Hebridean sheep and Red-poll cows. What? These things are near extinction. Why? Because they are non-profitable breeds, that’s why. Ancient breeds from a by-gone age. Cut to another farmer. Some bloke cutting a field with a scythe. I ask you? A highly irritating presenter (he is standing in for the real presenter who has just had a baby and named it after a Ford car!) congratulates a farmer for turning hay with a pitchfork. Yes, Adam Henson has done wonders for saving some near extinct breeds of livestock, but he is not a proper farmer, is he? He doesn’t need to earn a living from agriculture like farmers are supposed to. He probably even smells nice. So, where are the real farmers? Why don’t we see Andrew Nott cutting wheat with his new combine or John Whiteman complaining about the price of diesel or, heaven forbid, Nick Frazier talking delightedly about the price of wheat or mule-x lambs? Why? Because, despite all the hype, the TV watching masses don’t give a flying-fig about where their food comes from, that’s why. As long as it’s CHEAP. Countryfile? CountryPhony more like!

            Compare this to France. You can’t keep the farmers off TV here, there is always one of them on there, usually complaining and waving his arms. In the supermarket, just about everything is produced from within a 20 mile radius and it is always fresh, because it is demanded that way. At the market last week, there was a stall selling Limousin beef and it looked fabulous, much better than our local Blonde d’Aquitaine product. The reason I know it looked fab was because I could get to see it without queues of buyers obstructing my view. You see, fab it may be, local it wasn’t. Beef from 100 miles away? ‘Non merci’, said the locals as the lonely butcher stood there, his sad moustache drooping in shame.

I couldn’t let this month pass without commenting on that modern everyday phenomenon that is known as ‘phone hacking’. A sticky subject? Well it was for that nice Mr Murdoch who had a plate of sticky foam thrown over him and his nice suit. But he is all better now, since that nasty man who did it is locked up in bad-boy’s prison. What? This Murdoch monster roams the land ruining people’s lives on an hourly basis, controlling the whole world by the scruff of its keyboard, while someone with enough guts to stand up to him gets put in jail for a minor offence. Come on world, wake up and smell the roses! Once more it is left to me to provide a simple solution to phone hacking and sleaze-ball newspaper reporting. STOP buying his daily rubbish! It’s not news, it is lies and confabulations. You really don’t need to read it and, if you didn’t, Murdoch and his henchmen would be finished, overnight. Why can’t the world vote with its feet anymore?

If music be the food of love...

     Growing up on a farm you would expect to be a fairly rustic affair but, although my upbringing was reasonably normal in that respect, music was unusually something that was always there in our old farmhouse. My father complained when radio 2 played anything other than opera or musicals; the Beatles and the Beach Boys were long haired youths! My Mum liked John McCormack and Elvis, normal sixties and seventies parents, almost?

My school days, amongst a mixture of boys and boarding school cultures, brought exposure to all sorts of memories and melodies. I discovered a singing voice that my Mum had given me and used it in anger. I also discovered a love of music that my Mum had given me of which, I am happy to say, we now manage to share. But in those late 70’s days, my world of music was just shared between my sister and, to a lesser extent, my older brother. Those days of growing up were a moving musical feast originating from late night radio to word-of-mouth recommendations and treasure-island-like discoveries. I soon learned to see through the glitter and later the spiky-haired punk to sort the musicians from the media hype, to find the real musicians, while Sarah got hooked on smile and hairstyles. I even prided myself that I was a fairly good impresario myself, listening to bands like Queen and Be-Bop-Deluxe long before anyone else had heard of them. But then, in 1979, came along a guru, not much older than me, who opened a whole new tin of beans. My sister hooked up with a young David George and, between us, we found new music in the late 70’s to die for; the Cure, Ramones, new Bowie, things that were different were our everyday. That was what it was about, being different. I revelled in it, we all did.

Then, as life took over, business overtook daily music, kids took place of nights at gigs or screaming headphones. We parted ways, for no other reason than we were too busy getting on with life; I look back and blame myself for that. Socially we just moved on. But here’s the thing, every time we got back together, be it for an evening or week’s holiday, Dave never stopped introducing me to new music. Not just stuff that he knew I might like, but all sorts of stuff. I have never been a lover of jazz, but he nailed me down to listen to Bob James and Herbie Hancock. When I carried on listening to Genesis, it was Dave who made me sit up and see what Peter Gabriel was now doing with African rhythm. All this at a time when I had traded Pink Floyd for Puccini, discovering my own inherent underlying love for opera?

Time passes and sadly that man, my music guru, is no longer with us. The music gods taking him at the tender age of 51 years.  Fortunately, he has impressed his music love on enough people; his three daughters and most definitely myself, to name but a few. Tonight I watched a fabulous documentary on Gabriel followed by Herbie being interviewed by Elvis (the real Elvis, Dave told me when we first met) Costello.

Cheers Big Man, I drink to you tonight. The musical fires are still burning.

Rainair

It had to happen! I wasn’t the only one to predict it. We had visitors this week from Scotland and Ireland, coming to spend their week’s summer holiday in France with us at Chauffour. Ryanair had magnanimously charged them for suitcases full of unnecessary summer clothes and a set of golf clubs. What it hadn’t charged them for bringing with them was the weather. Rain, rain and more rain; starting within minutes of them stepping off that plane. The golf was interspersed with laborious showers and the evenings with brisk gusts and shivering temperatures. In mid July! I found it quite refreshing after a four month drought. My mentioning, in passing, that it wasn’t like this last week and that indeed it had been positively tropical with recent outrageous heat, did little to quell their disappointment.

At last the sheep can graze during the day without the blazing heat and actually have something to graze on. The dogs can be outside rather than hiding in the cooler bedrooms all day. In fact the cooler bedrooms are also a blessing too, nights of sleep without perspiration and blistering insomnia. Sitting out on the terrace working fully clothed allows my head to clear just a little more as well, when my imagination can create more than just desert scenes.

The guests leave later today and guess what? The forecast is for summer to return. Maybe we have learned a secret. Next time we get a four month drought, import some via Rain-air.

The Nearly Olympics

You must note that this month I have had to brave the picket lines in order to deliver you this column, as you will be well aware of the fact that BBC journalists have voted for strike action. And who can blame them? An expense account of conservative MP proportions, allowing them to travel the world by first class air, staying for weeks in top hotels, possibly accepting a few back-handers if they write in the odd product name (heaven forbid, no?) and only a few hours work per week? A career of making things up instead of getting a proper job? And now, the BBC wants to sack a few of them. How could this be, they are a protected species, surely? Well good old Auntie, it’s high time it cut a few costs if it is to be continually bankrolled by us, the public, despite it rarely showing anything on TV that I am remotely interested in. I can’t remember the last time I listened to the World Service, but I don’t remember that being very interesting either, maybe I was asleep at the time.

Wasn’t it great to see a new winner at Wimbledon last month, good old what’s-his-name, you know that new bloke. Yes him, oh come on, the one from some third world eastern block country? Because that is how it ended isn’t it? The two greatest players in the sport dethroned while our nation bites its finger nails and backs our very own hero for a few days and then goes to the pub before the finish. What is wrong with our sportsmen and women? Why are they so good at nearly winning? May I suggest that, after the Olympic Games next year, London hosts another event. The NEARLY Olympics.  Our teams can line up as favourites in their respective sport alongside other less equipped nations and then compete frantically until the very last second, when they can fall over and come second.  They would then be crowned Nearly World Champions! Team GB would win every event and Prince Harry and Boris Johnson wouldn’t be able to hand out the medals fast enough.

Last year we bought a few sheep and, thanks to nature, we now have a few more, nine in total. What I failed to notice, when we collected our purchases last summer was how outrageously wild two of them were. I should have spotted the tell-tale signs, them climbing the walls trying to escape for instance, a bit of bleu-du-maine ancestry (I know about that breed!) I should have been suspicious of. However, I am very glad to say that our flock has been pretty low maintenance. Lambing time came and went without a hitch, we missed worming time and dipping time due to such dry weather, even ear-tagging time managed to pass us by unnoticed and, as yet, unenforced. But now has come shearing time. Except it hasn’t, because I cannot catch the damn things! I used to consider myself an expert in such matters, so maybe I am just getting too old, but every time I go near these two particular animals they huddle menacingly in the corner, threatening to hurdle my fences and disappear off into the sunset. And that is exactly where they would go too as, if they escaped from our contained oasis, there isn’t other fence between here and Paris. So, in best Baldric fashion, I have a cunning plan! I am considering hosting a Greenham Common re-enactment day to celebrate its 30^th anniversary. Friends, friends of friends, neighbours, neighbours of neighbours, young, old, lesbians, hippies, they are all invited to come and hold hands in our field on the same day, circling the perimeter. They can swap stories and sing songs by Billy Bragg about Tridents and Russians until, and here is the cunning part, one by one, some people will eventually get bored and go home. The circle will get tighter and tighter without the sheep noticing they are contained in the middle. At dusk, now in a 10 metre human paddock, I will tackle the sheep and clip off all their wool. What do you think? A plan so cunning, you could pin a tail on it and call it a weasel?!

In a world where so many species are endangered and constantly falling into extinction, I am greatly cheered this month to see the arrival of a new species onto our planet, that of the Zonkey. Although it has no stripes, this creature is, of course, the offspring of a cross between a zebra and a donkey, born in a zoo in south east China. It is also destined to become yet another designer pet. I have no doubt that a Zonkey will soon be on the wish-list of the rich and fashionable, in the same way that a Labradoodle or a Bug (a cross between a Boston terrier and a Pug) was a few years back. But what of the designer animals of yesteryear, where are they now? Where is the Shoat for instance, that highly efficient sheep-goat cross that was going to populate our farms one day? Did it ever make it out of the lab (laboratory that is, not the Labrador)? Or the Liger, a well documented cross between a lion and tiger, and its friend the Jaguar XK8. In the interest of modern science, I feel that perhaps some of these controlled crosses should be made with humans. A super-race of Boylotts (OK, I know, stop having a go at Susan Boyle and John Prescott every month) could be bred for the army, where they would sing and annoy people to death. The Beckurray could become race of Fennis stars, swerving the ball over the net and into it alternately, at the wrong time. They could even cross-breed two whole governments to make one? Oh no, that one has been tried. What is it called again, oh yes, a shambles. Zonkey? My Ass!