Flock all on TV

Oh dear, winter is rapidly approaching and with it that dreaded two letter device designed to suck out our brains and replace them with lemon-curd. This autumn, as I plug in the half-yearly redundant TV, I notice it running an update, bringing yet more new channels to its existing list of garbage that supposedly masquerades as intelligent viewing. Not that I have taken the effort to count them, but I reckon we now have well over 100 stations to chose from, but still more keep arriving. What could they possibly fill these with that could be anything different than the ones already there? Surely not more celebrity master-bakers? Or maybe Britain has pointless talent? Possibly some more ecomentalists grandly designing homes from corrugated tin and matchsticks? No? Ladies and Gentlemen, feast your eyes on a brand new series on ITV3 entitled: The History of Wallpaper! You are joking, right? On it, so the narrative says, Professor Steve Boring from the University of Beige Corduroy tells us all about wallpaper from the 16^th century to the modern day, in hour long segments designed to send us to sleep faster that chloroform. Please, please get the flock off our screens (pun intended) before we all die of monotony poisoning.  

Having had a slight brush with HM customs lately, I find myself having to complete a long and complicated form to back-up my overseas habitation while still maintaining my British status. Except on it, right there on line one, I already have an identity crisis, as I am asked my gender from the following list. Mr, Mrs, Miss, Ms, Mx. Excuse me? What is Mx, you ask? Well, apparently it is a new politically correct term for those who no longer wish to be labelled with a gender at all. Think of it as somewhere in that pillow space between man and woman. Is there such a gender as ‘no gender’? Or is it ‘both’ genders, which sure as hell would be confusing when buying trousers! I wrote MALE in caps, just to be sure.  It reminded me of the Blackadder sketch when Baldric announces that his father was a nun. ‘No he wasn’t, Baldric,’ says Blackadder. ‘Yes he was, sir, because whenever he was asked his occupation, he always said ‘None’! ....Oh, well, please yourself!

Once again this month I have to have a pop at Mr O’Leary, that rather greedy owner of Ryanair. A poor old lady sitting next to me recently on a flight, ordered the following from the menu. ‘Buy any fresh sandwich and add chips for only £2.00 – save 50p.’ When the Mx duly arrived with her order, she held out her two quid, only to be told that the price was £9.50. Rather flustered, she fumbled in her purse and handed over a crinkled tenner, until I nobly intervened. ‘Hang on’, says I.’ It clearly states that the ‘meal deal’ is priced at two pounds sterling?’ No sir, you just read it wrong, the two pound was just for the addition of the chips. On further investigation, nowhere on the shiny menu was the real sandwich price listed. This surely must be illegal. But then, so is charging £7 per flight to pay by credit card when it is the only option available. Is this hood really above the law?

Meanwhile, on the other side of the law, here’s something you don’t hear me say, ‘the French Government, I salute you’. This has come about after reading of a new law, which passed narrowly through its corridors last month, in the banning of Mini-miss competitions. For the uninitiated, these are beauty contests which involve girls as young as seven years old parading in make-up and high heels, to be judged on their looks, and often portrayed on tabloid TV stations. Maybe, for once, Les Francais can lead the way into other countries, particularly Britain and the US, doing away with this despicable practice altogether. If only they would ban Johnny Halliday records, our lives would be almost bearable!

Finally, I have to applaud the regression of progress within the British Government, particularly the Indian High Commission in London, who have reverted back from computers to the good old-fashioned typewriter.  So concerned that all their words and documents are being bugged by Americans on anti-terrorism witch-hunts, the Embassy suspects that all its PC terminals are being monitored by Big Brother, and thus are turning back the clock 50 years to the old metal keyboard and tippex. Allegedly, they have also reinstalled an abacus in every office, inter-office communication is now via baked-bean can and string, along with a flock of mail-delivering pigeons that can only communicate in Hindi.

Steady as a Rock

After a summer of circumnavigating Britain and Ireland, coupled with single handedly installing a new septic tank system, and a complete bathroom, then cooking and cleaning for 6 weeks of guests, we finally have managed to get a few days break. Today we are in Spain. We have no dogs, no Brits, lots of local food and little understanding of the lingo – and it is bliss!

Now it is well documented that, shut away in our little corner of the Europe, I have little regard for world news unless it affects me personally. In my well documented opinion, newspapers have two purposes involving fish & chips and kindling, respectively. Thus I was blissfully unaware that ‘call me Dave’ Cameron had been having a wee scuffle with the Spanish over that lump of Britishness, Gibraltar. Until now, that is, as I can just about see the outline of it from the beach where I write. Even then, it brings no surprise, as Britain tends to be at loggerheads with most of Europe over something or other. It appears that ‘concrete-spike-fishing-gate’ as the press have labelled the skirmish – (is it any wonder I don’t read their illiterate rubbish?) - has sparked something more than a slanging match over fishing rights, which is currently blowing up into such a disproportionate political stoochie that now the Spanish government are proposing slightly more indignant retaliation against our efforts to protect part of its coastline. Not content with imposing a go-slow at customs, causing 8 hour queues through its border, they are now making noises about charging everyone fifty quid each to get in, as well as instigating tax investigations into the wealthy inhabitants of the Rock. (No, not Peter Bill, we are talking the Gibraltar Rock!). Still, their ability to throw four-star onto the flames of international embers doesn’t bother me one fig, as it is not a place that holds much interest to me. Until now, that is. Because the b+stards are now taking it out on me, personally, to which I whole heartedly object.

For just one week we are abiding in a comfortable little apartment in the pretty seaside town of Conil de la Frontera, hoping to get some sleep. What it didn’t say in the brochure is that it backs on to the only main road in the area. This in itself would be of no consequence, were it not also the only access to a massive ‘rave’ discotheque, just a mile away, which goes on until 5.30am every night. As this property is owned by Brits, I am convinced there must somewhere be a Union Jack flying over it, as every Juan seems hell bent on loudly singing what I can only guess are freedom songs as they pass our window. Some even revert to blowing their car horns, just as a note of nightly acknowledgement to their fishing birthrights. By day two of no sleep, I have decided to retaliate myself, as any good internationally proud citizen would, and take the law into my own hands. On our roof terrace, I have spotted a reel of hose pipe which, with a little effort, I have now managed to connect to a tap. Aha. Take that, you noisy louts, I whisper, as I cowardly shower them from above. But does that stop their shenanigans? Nay, it does not. In fact, the revelers are now under the belief it is raining and, as this place is as dry as a British Rail sandwich, they are quite pleased with a little precipitation. In fact one well-built young lady is so excited that she whips off her top and starts dancing in the street while her pals all join in with what can only be considered as Spain’s answer to singing in the rain! Ah – maybe I dozed off and dreamt that bit!

Anyway, now the 4 day long fiesta, which happened to be on in this town when we arrived, has ended, I was hoping that a little normality may resume, and the peaceful status quo be restored. Not a bit. Having kept me awake all night, the local government have seen fit to target our apartment once more, this time by digging up that same said main road. I kid you not, at 7am, a pneumatic drill noisier and less tuneful than Status Quo themselves now hammers incessantly away at the tarmac, right under my window. Exactly what their need for a man-sized hole in the middle of the street is, I have no idea, but once again my cowardice comes to the fore, in case it is especially to put me in and smooth over again by siesta time!

I will admit that I am now getting incrementally more psychopathic and, unless I manage just a few zeds very soon, I may do something my family might regret. Thankfully, at last I did find solace on the near deserted beach, with its calming sound of the rolling waves affording me chance to drift off. Except, now the back of my legs are redder than Tiananmen Square on Labour day, and I am barely able to sit down. As I shuffle shamefully home through the dunes, back to where the workmen are jigging about with their jack-hammers as though they have a bad case of ‘St Vitus Dance’, I can detect a chorus of muffled sniggers as Le Ingles passes by in search of some relief via ice-packs and a padded cushion.

To cap it all, I have one more significant problem. To keep down the weight on our hand-luggage on good old Ryanair, who’s intent it is to charge me a million quid fine if I am so much as a milligram over ten kilos, I decided to leave my laptop at home and work from my tablet. Now for those who believe that a tablet is something that can cure a headache, think in reverse. Every time I touch the screen, pictures, icons and strange words appear and my own stuff disappears off into some sacred hyperspace from whence there is no return. When I do manage to type legible words, it converts them into hieroglyphics which are even harder to understand than the local waiters. To type this article, it has taken me nearly 24 painful hours, to the accompaniment of Carlos the Hammer and his pals, and I have threatened the blasted thing with some swimming lessons on an hourly basis.

Why, oh why, did we leave the tranquility of our cosy farmhouse in silent France? There is a saying: ‘the grass is always greener on the other side?’ And it will be oh so wonderful to get home and find some. Maybe I should check out the local dealer who scares the bejessus out of me from the nightly shadows of the street corner and try one of his roll-ups to see me through?!

 Oh, wait a minute; here comes lunch. An aromatic dish of clams and cuttlefish in inky black rice, accompanied by a chilled bottle of local blanco from Cadiz and some cool music, and once again all is right with the world.

Hasta la vista, laptop.

Fake sheep

Anyone want to buy a swimming pool? OK, possibly not, now the British summer has come crashing to a halt, although it is still blazing away here in France. With a house full of guests, including some close family, the old piscine is a major necessity this time of year – when it works. But, sadly, ours doesn’t. Well, I suppose that depends on the job description, as technically it is still a hole in the ground full of water which you can swim in, but unfortunately, in my hour of need, the water bluntly refuses to stay in it. What started out as a pin-hole in the plastic liner has now developed into a massive rip that can no longer be patched up with my bicycle repair kit and thus is leaking faster than a cardboard boat during the sinking season! Aha, says wily old Andy, what if we attempt to pump the water back out from behind the liner. After some clever installation of a recycling pump, this did have a small effect on maintaining the status-quo for a week or two. But now the whole liner has collapsed inwards and is only a fraction away from total disintegration – and an ensuing five figure bill to replace it. Well, not on my wages it won’t be. Methinks I will fill it full of fish instead, so that the guests can catch their own dinner! If they really want a swim, there is always the lake, as one of them accidentally found out late one evening last week.

On the subject of lakes, Wendy and I had a great trip around Ireland last month. Stunned by its beauty, especially in the west, we were stunned further by the weather which topped 30 degrees as we swum in the Atlantic off the Connermara coast. However, once we reached Killarney and the Ring of Kerry, it was more of a stun-gun that was required, as the hotel – and indeed whole town - was packed full of rather large and very loud Americans. Whilst wedging ourselves in a lift – or elevator, as they insist on calling it – full of them, one pointed to Pooper, our scruffy mongrel, and asked in a deafening Texan accent, ‘Is that a Border collie?’ When I admitted that there was a touch of sheepdog in her chequered pedigree, as one, the whole ensemble started chattering away as excitedly as a classroom full of toddlers. It seems that one of the excursions that were lined up for these gross tourists was to a working sheep farm. For ‘working sheep farm’, read, one enterprising farmer with a few dozen old toothless ewes on a couple of acres, who owns a pair of collies. Twice per day an over laden busload of gullible yanks turn up at his gate to listen to his blarney about lambing in mid winter, and rescuing baby lambs from impossible ledges in the snowy distant hills, even though they are only worth tuppence each. Then, as his piece de resistance, with a loud whistle he commands his dogs to round the up the flock, and gather them into the shed, to rapturous applause. The fact that the sheep are as conditioned to this ritual as the tourists are to be robbed in broad daylight completely eludes their collective trans-atlantic brain cell as the whole party swoons with delight. All this entertainment for a meagre tenner per head, - eg a grand a day in Pat O’Malley’s arse pocket, probably in cash – bargain.

Forget fake tan, fake handbags or even fake orgasms, here comes the next pseudo-product to arrive in our shops - fake meat. Yes, the world’s first test-tube burger hit our streets a few weeks ago to much fanfare from the vegan fraternity, claiming that this ‘humanely’ produced mincemeat will save society from itself. Pioneered by Professor Post, an overzealous Dutch scientist, there are claims that genetically engineered fillet steaks could be grown in large buildings on banks of scaffolding, to feed the starving masses. Hoorah? Hmmm?

Well, firstly, one has to question the necessity for such production? It is here where his theory is as thin as a holstein cow. Apparently in a few years time we will be unable to feed ourselves with meat, because the cost of beef production will become too expensive. I have to say that from my standpoint in the agricultural corner this simply means that supply and demand should just push up the retail price. Eg, beef would become more expensive, so that the poor farmer can make some profit for once. If obese Americans are hell-bent on furring up their arteries with hourly quarter-pounders, then perhaps charging them more money for them may be the solution to a massive social problem. Let’s face it, if society didn’t demand the right to eat cheaply so that they can fritter away their earnings on caravan holidays in the Dordogne, le cheval would never have found its way into Tesco’s lasagne.

Secondly, in the same newspaper that Mr Veggie Reporter wrote this one sided argument, which includes such nonsense as – and I quote: ‘rearing animals for slaughter is a cruel practice’, there is another article on a different page condemning the use of genetically modified crops. Has anyone else woken up to the conflicting dispute here?

We are not allowed to improve our cropping system by use of modern science because that would mean fatcat farmers might make some cash, so let’s all take the moral high ground. But we could genetically manufacture fake meat which would inevitably put farmers out of business. Sounds to me like a win-win for the anti agricultural lobby. Come on farmers everywhere, stand up for yourselves and stamp this out before Frankenstein breaks out the ketchup!

Eulogy for the funeral of John Frazier

Wow, how many people? Well, welcome to Rock church, I am sorry you couldn’t all find a seat.

That in itself, purely by the number of you here, it is a fantastic compliment to this man that I will be inevitably unable to surpass in words.

But – please – let me try.

John Frazier.

What a man.

Perhaps the last of his kind.

As the Pastor said, today is not a day of sadness, but a day of celebration. Celebration of the life of a man who made the most of his.

A man born and bred in the parish of Rock - The second biggest parish in England - he was always proud to say that. I am not sure if its true, but it sounds pretty good.

Nearly the last of the elders of this parish too - when it comes to farmers and custodians of the land anyway.

His compatriots, John Whiteman, Bernard Birch, Aubrey Booton, John Nott Bullockhurst ------ they’re all gone too.

Back in the days when Coningswick had yards full of cattle being fattened for market, we heard one morning that his school chum, John Whiteman, had died –

That day Bernard Birch commented, ‘Jack, it looks like they are pulling out of our pen, now!’

Well That pen is pretty much empty today, as the next generation fill it’s stalls..

John Waldron Frazier.

Born at Fernhalls farm in 1925, the youngest of 3 - known as Jack to a select few -  John’s life was set on course to be a farmer from the outset.

Schooled at Rock School – for those who don’t remember it, it stood next to Timberdine house, on the site of – bungalow now – and later at Far Forest.  He had a meagre education, although he often commended the way they taught him maths, something he was always particularly good at. His mother, my granny Kate, recalled with pride how he won the school prize for arithmetic and she was called in to be told of it.

By his teens, a war had started, and he did his bit for this in two ways.

Firstly, he was issued with a standard Fordson and a two furrow plough, which he then proceeded to drive for the next 4 years, ploughing up pastures, some of which had never been turned over in thousands of years, in order to feed the nation. There are not many acres around here that he didn’t pull a furrow through during that time. Perhaps there may have been a few high hedgerows from where a fair maiden might have applauded the excellence of his cops and reams.

And then there was Dad’s army – the Bewdley Home Guard. The tales he told about those days could fill a book in itself. As a young private, he would spend days and nights defending Bewdley from invasion by the hun who might, at any time, approach up the Severn. A platoon full of boys in uniform, too young to make real soldiers, but too old to ignore a world war.

And, of course, he fought - in the battle of Bewdley.

Maybe there are a few here who are unaware of this infamous event?

In 1941, whilst on the lookout for raids by air, one local spotted what he assumed were parchutists falling from the sky over Wyre hill, and sounded the alarm by ringing the church bells.

With bayonets affixed, John and his platoon were despatched to capture the dastardly German paratroopers – shoot to kill if they had to. It was at least half an hour later when it was discovered that what was falling from the sky was not in fact soldiers at all, but straw that had been collected by a small whirlwind and then deposited from a great height. Oh how the shame must have shown in their red faces!

Farming – he enjoyed farming.

As he moved more into the roll of farmer, John was always a man of vision. Events were progressing and consumer demands dictated new methods of production.

You must remember that this was a fast changing period in agriculture. A time that accelerated farming from being a simple way of life, through a family dependant livelihood, to becoming a business that required brains, discipline, rules – and profit.

Chicken farming at fernhalls gave way to fruit growing, as the steeper fields provided gooseberries, blackcurrants, damsons and plums to a starving nation. This in turn, especially during picking time, offered employment to many from the local area, when Dad would drive the cattle lorry each morning to pick up housewives in their dozens from Stourport and Bewdley to reap the harvest.

New Buildings sprung up to house ventures into pork and beef production, with the barley-beef unit at the newly acquired Coningswick farm being far ahead of its time. Innovative crops were grown too, such as peas, beans and even lupins - as he not only embraced, but experimented with new ideas – all the time recording the results, learning, and moving forward.

Tractors – he liked tractors.

I am sure he would have approved of his final journey behind that magnificent Massey Ferguson 135 – courtesy of Dave Bradley.

All his days, right up until recently, he would be out at daylight on his tractor, tilling the soil with tender care. As machines progressed from simplicity to highly complicated, so he would evolve, adapt and learn.

Nick would like it known, that he is missing his tractor driver now – and a lot more advice besides.

John married Val, a vibrant but tolerant person, in 1954, and they remained happily married for some 59 years. A life sentence, some may say. But she never complained, when sometimes farmlife didn’t go according to plan.

Not just a man of vision, John will always be remembered for his eye for quality, in everything that he produced. Pigs and cattle were the mainstay of the farm for many years, every one of them of the highest quality and confirmation - regularly recording the top price of the day at Kidderminster Market. Up to 10 steers per week and a hundred pigs - all bore the Frazier calibre of excellence that had butchers clambering to sell them in their stores.

In order to extend the reputation of quality - steers were exhibited at local shows – something which soon became a passion. During the 70s & 80s, the name of HS Frazier & Son was engraved on dozens of trophies, which annually adorned the mantelpiece at Coningswick. I believe he won the coveted champion of Kidderminster Fatstock show, a commendable  9 times in 10 years.

Sheep – he loved sheep

In fact, It is probably with sheep that many of you will associate John Frazier.

Again, among this species, he was a pioneer. Initially experimenting with breeding Welsh Mules, a cross between a Beulah ewe from the welsh mountains, and an often short-lived Blue Faced Leicester, he would supply breeding stock to many other farmers throughout the Midlands.

Incidentally, For those of you unaware of a Blue Faced Leicester, they are a rather gangly looking creature, with a penchant for dropping dead for no apparent reason. On buying these rams from Builth ram sale, when asked if the vendor would be offering a luck-penny with the sale, one breeder replied, ‘yes, we give a spade away, with every one!’

And so it was, he turned to the Blue du maine, a new breed which was just imported from France. Within a short time, John soon became an expert breeder of these, exhibiting sheep at shows far and wide and retrieving a haul of cups, rosettes and championships.

As you may be aware, the welsh nation is very fond of its sheep, so it will be of no surprise that the Royal welsh show is the biggest sheep show in the world. To win a breed championship there is the pinnacle of any breeder’s career. John Frazier did that, on no less than 5 occasions.

In order to find the very best, the ultimate top sheep, -– a finale is held on the last day of this event, where all the champions get to fight it out for one trophy – the best in show, if you will. The holy grail of sheep breeding.

In 1992, John was a very proud man when the name of HS Frazier & Son was immortalised on that very trophy – a feat that only a few have ever achieved.

His prowess with this breed brought him invitations to judge shows, far and wide, from Bristol to Belfast - Carlisle to Cardiff – Edinburgh to Essex. In fact he has judged at shows in just about every county in England, again an accolade that few can boast. He was also the first - and I believe ONLY - breeder to ever sell a blue du maine sheep back to France. A deal that was done – bizarrely - in a Parisian nightclub. That is to say, he was in the nightclub, not the sheep.

Still on the lookout for yet more quality, the arrival of a new breed took his eye, that of the Beltex - a hybrid sheep from Belgian. Instantly taken with the carcase capabilities of this breed, a nucleus flock was set up at Coningswick - which was soon to set the breed alight. Yet more trophies poured in, as well as top priced animals being sold to breeders far and wide. To this very day, the name of Coningswick lives on in hundreds of pedigrees throughout the land. A testament to a man with a clear vision for quality.

He was once interviewed about his sheep breeding success, and asked what he looked for in an animal.

His reply was simply this: ‘If I can breed a sheep with an arse as big as my missus, that will do for me!’

I think Val might have been out of earshot on that occasion!

Whisky. He liked whisky.

To all of you here, that is no secret. Many of you will have shared a dram with him over the years, be it at livestock shows or in the Bliss Gate or Rock Cross, listening to his stories.

Macallan, that was his tipple.

He was also an avid collector of things. Guns, tractors, walking sticks and books, but primarily whiskies. In fact his unique collection runs into literally hundreds of miniature bottles from extreme areas and unobtainable eras.

That is why, directly after this service, you are all invited back to the Rock Cross, for some light refreshments and to raise a glass to the old bugger.

This was a man who, after all, coined the phrase.

WIN OR LOSE, WE’LL HAVE SOME BOOZE.

Thank you

Tea for one

As a child one considers all sorts of careers that may lie in one’s future. I’m not sure when my youngest son, Jack, decided on his chosen path but I congratulate him on securing his first job, as a graduate quantity surveyor – whatever one of those is – after getting a 1^st class honours degree. Well done, fella.

My own decisiveness never quite came to me so young, other than that of being a farmer, and I sort of stumbled through one career into another for most of my working life, each one slightly more bizarre than the last. Cattle hair-dresser, computer programmer, fiction writer, they all happened as if by accident and none were a real surprise; but in all my wildest dreams I never considered that I would be negotiating with the Ukrainian Mafia. Yet, today it seems that is my very task. Having been gazumped on a property deal right at its closing stage, I then get a phone call from Don Mishkof Corleone making me an offer that I cannot refuse, no questions asked. ‘Consider it that I am doing you a favour,’ he said, in the voice of a Bond villain. I will admit that I was somewhat disturbed by the call, and thankfully the lump under the duvet when I crawled into bed last night was not a horses head, just my beloved, snoring quietly. Should I accept this man’s offer? I have checked out his credentials and he is definitely a cosha baddie, complete with Limmo and facial scars, and what he wants with a small beachside apartment in Bulgaria is probably something highly dodgy. But business is business, so I suppose I most go ahead, particularly as he didn’t seem keen to take no for an answer. If this column never appears again, you will know that I have been sent swimming in the Black Sea in a concrete waistcoat during the sinking season!

Maybe it is just good fortune – or luck, as some people refer to it – swinging my way for a change. Lord knows, we could do with a touch of that. I must be the only person in the world who chose to take 5 days holiday by the Bay of Biscay last month to endure constant rain. 6 inches in one day, no less! Meanwhile, back home at Chauffour, less than 3 hours away, the sun blazed away continually, frying the sheep in their woolly jackets. We did get a few nice days, eventually, when we could run the dogs on one of France’s few dog-friendly beaches. This in itself was a tad traumatic as the local authority had also designated it as ‘playa naturism’, although, in my mind, these two hardly go together. So we did get into a few scrapes as Pooper, our unkempt terrier, has a habit of surprising sunbathers by licking their ear as the sleep. This in itself would be alarming enough but when said sleepers are totally naked, it tends to freak them out a little. The screams from one poor chap are still echoing around the hills of the Pyrenees as we speak, as he ran towards the ocean in a dangly fashion. Needless to say, we will not be allowed back.

When we did return home, however, the rain followed us up the autoroute and hasn’t stopped since. Week after week it pounds the petals off the roses, encouraging the grass to grow like bamboo which requires mowing 3 times per week. The poor lawnmower will need at least a couple of pit-stops if it is to make it to the end of this season. We do have a great crop of tatties though, if only I could wade through the swamp to get to them. And yet, it seems, that we are the only ones to be enduring such torrents. This week I spoke to a few colleagues in Scotland who claimed to have had a month of dry weather and could do with a little rain to dampen the dust! Well, be careful what you wish for, as I set sail for Edinburgh next week and may just bring some with me.

I am actually in UK for a couple of weeks, and then a further one in Ireland, so the law of sod will dictate that the sun will beam on SW France while I tramp around the Grande Britannia in my Kagool. Those in the know say that ‘timing is everything’, and it appears mine is a little out of sync this summer.

Having built it up over the last couple of months, I have to report that our annual party was not quite such a blistering success this year. Guest numbers were well down, due to other commitments or general lack of interest, and this was just as well, as we were all ensconced indoors while the skies rained down and the cold east wind chiselled its way in from Siberia. Our only saving grace was the large open fire roaring away in the garage as we stoked it up with expired Ikea furniture in order to keep warm. They did manage to much their way through a 4.5kgs shoulder of mutton though, which had slowly sizzled away on the bbq for 12 hours. And delicious it was too, although I say it myself.

During the event we had a giggle when Wendy’s phone rang. On answering it, an old lady’s voice asked if we could bring her a cup of tea! Initially considering it was a wind-up from one of our friends, she soon ignored and ended the call. The problem is, however, that it was genuine. Somehow, a dear old lady has got Wendy’s mobile number programmed into her phone and continues to call, every day at 3pm, demanding her tea and a biscuit. We have no idea who she is, or from where she is calling, but we do feel a tad responsible for her daily disappointment when her afternoon sustenance fails to arrive. Recently I have gone to great lengths to try and track the call so that, if only once, we can obey her wishes and send a bob-a-job boy-scout round with a cuppa. But there is the problem. Although the world and his dog can manage to obtain my mobile number and constantly call me trying to sell me things, when we want to do a little good in the world, the information is more classified than the president’s nuclear launch codes. On the off-chance that someone reading this has their granny secured in the attic with a new cell-phone, please oblige us by firstly taking her a daily brew and digestive, and then deleting our number. Thank you so much.

A load of crap?

Wow, what a month that was. Technically, there is no such thing as half a hole although you can, of course, have half a whole hole. Well I have to say that the one which was dug in our garden to contain all our effluent is more like a hole and a half. 6000 litres? That’s a whole lot of crap, especially from just two people! You see, this is French bureaucracy once again evolving from the Middle Ages into total ridicule in just one single round of administration.

Since we have been in this house, I have extended it and modified it, this way and that, until we have now ended up with 6 bedrooms to accommodate our deluge of guests who descend on us from time to time. So, says the French government, if you have 6 bedrooms, each one of them will create a thousand litres of effluent and thus you need a septic tank which could viably cope with an entire commune. 1000 litres each, I hear you ask? How much food and drink do they consume in a few weeks? Even with my liberal servings, that doesn’t equate to the output of any normal human being.

Despite my protestations that, were the numbers living on our house spread out equally through the year, we would technically be only 2.35 head, this cut no ice with the local authorities, who have been here three times now, measuring and checking that we have installed our full capacity. Along with the vast underground tank comes 250 metres of 4 inch tubing, a grease-trap, inspection hatches and ventilation shafts, together with a rather hefty bill approaching five figures. The irony of this is, after all this cost, every Frenchman who visits for dinner will still pop round the corner and pee on the lawn!

But then during this installation, another problem arises: that of public holidays. In UK these are generally confined to Mondays, but this is France so ours are on Wednesdays instead - and possibly Thursdays - just to be awkward, and the month of May seems to be chock full of them. Exempt of the National status, I toil away with my shovel and barrow through these significant events - which include carnivals, village fetes, kick-the-beggar and various other general frivolities to celebrate pre-historic French victories – and when they are over, on Friday, I make a desperate trip to the builders merchants, only to find that they have taken a PONT. For those with a smattering of school French, you will recognise this word from the rhyme ‘sur la pont, d’Avignon’. Yes, a bloody bridging-day from holiday to weekend to extend their drinking frenzy. Hence, everything is closed, making it impossible to buy so much as a u-bend!

Hampered by this significant inconvenience, I am now under pressure to complete a bathroom that I can then connect up to our yet-to-be-completed hole in the ground, prior to more guests descending on us in time for Whitsun and our annual bash. It could get messy, in more ways than one!

On the subject of the aforementioned gathering, I am quite startled to discover that this is our seventh one in this house. Yes, for seven years, I have been masquerading as a DIY, plumber, builder, roofer and general labourer as each year more money gets poured into the pit that is our renovation project. The fact that the original plan was to complete it in five years can only partly be blamed on myself, with constant bank holidays, spiralling prices, ridiculous red-tape, my increased writing commitments and human procrastination all sharing the remainder of the excuses.

Once again we will welcome back my sister Sarah, who has made a remarkable recovery from her head injury a couple of years ago. Other guests - which include one friend who has just starred in a Bollywood film and will be on her way back from seeing it featured at the Cannes Film festival - will hopefully be able to enjoy a bit of home-reared lamb and fresh garden produce in the May sunshine.

Except, we haven’t had any! For some reason summer this year has, as yet, failed to get its sandals on, as grey skies prevail, much as they have done in UK. This damp climate not only brings the problem of keeping the lawn maintained, with twice weekly mowing between the showers, but also confines us to indoor TV evenings to shelter from the chilly northerly winds. So, a cunning plan has since been tagged on to the end of the already over-saturated renovation project, to add a fourth terrace to the property – completing the circle, as it were. Utilising the machinery that arrived to dig the cavernous hole mentioned previously, I have now managed to excavate on the more sheltered east side of the house, removing brushwood and trees that were once occupying that space. Hopefully, within a few weeks, even if this weather does persist, we should be able to christen it with Pimms on the East Lawn in casual summer dress - with maybe a quick game of croquet thrown in. What, ho, Chaps!

I must admit, I can’t wait to get back outdoors, to avoid me destroying the TV set with a machine-gun on Wednesday evenings. I am, of course, referring to the return of that programme run by Mr Smug himself, Lord Alan Sugar-lips. Each year an even more self-righteous bunch of imbeciles line up to become his Apprentice, and this year surely takes the biscuit. Why anyone would possibly employ any of these slimy individuals is beyond comprehension, as they bicker and snide with each other with absolutely no sense of business acumen whatsoever? In one episode, team ‘Intolerance’ went to sell kegs of beer at a wine festival! That’s like popping up with a pork curry at a Bah Mitzvar? On another occasion, they are not even able to assemble IKEA furniture. Er. Well, come to think of it, perhaps that is a slightly more challenging task. Anyone seen my Allen Key?

Angerportia

Having recently written about discovering new words, I would now like to make one up - angerportia - the hatred of airports, and I suffer from an extremely acute dose of it! So how delighted I am today on arrival at one of Britain’s most miserable hotspots in the airline world, Bristol airport, to hear those immortal words ‘your plane is delayed’! For two fucking hours!

So far I have been here for two minutes, having got soaked on the way from the hire-car return depot, which is situated somewhere near Cornwall, and already I am a screaming psychopath whom every one gives a wide birth to. Why do airport security staff have to be so belligerently unfriendly? What is it about the job application that attracts the most unpleasant people in the land to apply? These failed traffic wardens seem not only out to make your airport experience as unbearable as possible with their barked orders and scowls that would curdle milk, but I am sure they go out of their way to make grown adults cry with fear or rise to the occasion with reactive aggression just to get their kicks. Oh how I would love to have delivered one of those!

In a bid to further inconvenience travelers, I note that this airport, along with a few more in England, have recently seen the need to charge for baggage trolleys. Now this I would understand, were it a returnable fee to encourage users to return them as they do in some supermarkets, but they don’t. This is a non-refundable fee of one pound or - get this - 2 euros! Yes, yet another wonderful display of discrimination against anyone non-British. No wonder the rest of the European economy is in such a mess with exchange rates like that? But then I got around to some smart thinking to brighten my otherwise miserable day. If I have paid for this trolley, that means they don’t want it back - SO I CAN TAKE IT HOME! Well I can’t today as I am flying to France and the old wobbly three wheeler wont fit in my hand luggage. But I will next time I am here. In fact I might buy quite a few. At a quid each I could get perhaps 50 if I save my pennies, and then fasten them all together and tow them home back up the M5. To research my cunning plan yet further I find that I could probably get a fiver each for them on ebay, which is an even bigger profit than the airport is making on exchanging one pound for 2 euros! Another idea would be to flog them to Tescos, or Lidls. Or perhaps other airports who don’t have enough. Watch the NASTAC index for trolleydeals.com to make it into the Footsie 100, very soon.

Anyway, back to the indoors of this godforsaken hellhole. I now need a seat for 2 hours, but there are none - save a few wooden church pews that would cause your coccyx to disintegrate were you to sit on them for more than 30 seconds. Not only that but there are no tables either; well, unless you want to sit amongst the debris that the last 8 fat families have troughed from, while their kids write graffiti in ketchup all over the Formica using words I am quite glad I don’t understand. At the bar I ask the bored 12 year old barman if they are short staffed, as his 3 colleagues watch me suspiciously. No, he says, looking round at his buddies. When I suggested that that may like to clear the tables he looked at me as though I had 3 heads, and then smirked. I must admit, I didn’t hold out much hope for a positive reply and was awaiting the excuse that he wasn’t qualified to do such highly skilled jobs, or maybe he hadn’t time as he had some homework to finish. However, it appears that someone was already allocated to the task, a lonely woman, but she was on her break. After an hour I did the job myself, just so that we could sit down. This got me a telling off from said lady, because I wasn’t qualified, obviously. ‘You trying to get me fired?’ she asked. ‘No Mamn, if I had anything to do with your employment, you wouldn’t have gotten the job in the first place, as I would have trained your bar-monkeys to do it in their spare time!’

Next I get chance to use their free internet wifi, except that, before I can get online, I now have to register all my details on their database so they can sell it to every marketing company in the world in exchange for a whopping 30 minutes free use of their service, after which I will be charged £75 per minute. So blessed am I with this free time so I can check my emails and post on Facebook to people I have never met about how much I hate Bristol, England, UK and possibly the whole of planet earth. This inevitably gets me into heated arguments with some bearded man from Temple Meads who swears at me using symbols and acronyms that I unable to decipher. Just when it is getting meaningful I have to log off, for fear of spending my life savings in this futility.

Ok, so only one and a half hours left. What to do? I wonder around the glitzy duty free shops which are more expensive than Fortnum and Masons, as smiley staff grin at me with perfect teeth, and call me sir. I can’t help thinking that maybe they should apply a little role exchange in this place, putting these glamorous supermodels in charge of the security where they could be pleasant to people who need it. Then the power-crazed hideous aggressive bastards from security could take their jobs in the shops and nobody would buy anything and be ripped off! A win-win all round, I say. Maybe I will write a letter to someone and suggest it. Or perhaps post it in Facebook and see what my bearded Bristolian friend thinks.

Finally I take to reading the newspaper which is filed with a thousand pages about how wonderful Maggie Thatcher was, and that we should all pin pictures of her on front doors as a mark of respect.  Except that when our doorbell went ding-dong we would all be arrested for taking the piss! The witch IS dead, long live the witch.

Well, old iron knickers, although I will admit I was a fan of yours at the time and do have some respect for the way you stood up and stamped on socialism, I have to say that it is you I blame now, for allowing the masses to sell their Dad’s council houses and fritter the profits away on foreign holidays, thus cluttering up our airports with their screaming tattoed children and designer luggage - when all I want to do is sit in silence!