Taff's daffs

I write today from the train to Perth – but sadly not the one in Australia! The small commission I undertook a couple of years ago to write a history book seems to have spiralled into a Herculean effort, as it takes  me to Perth and – to quote an old poem – many other parts of Earth. I still find it quite a novelty travelling by rail and actually getting a seat, compare to the overcrowded carriages that I used to commute on. That is not to say East Scotland isn’t crowded, as proved by the snail-paced queues on the Edinburgh by-pass twice per day which are now reaching M25 proportions. A few weeks ago I caught a glimpse of that highly colourful chap, Michael Portillo, doing this very same rail trip, out from the capital over the 100 year old steel bridge, up through Perthshire’s rolling acres , to interview some folks about life during the Victorian times. What I was amazed – and somewhat disappointed by – is that he failed to mention one of the greatest spectacles in the agricultural world, the annual Perth Bulls sales. Back then, upwards of 100 bulls would arrive by train from various parts of the country to join over 1000 other hopefuls of their own breed to be offered for sale each February. From there, many would again be despatched by rail to the docks from where they would sail the high seas to the Americas and beyond.  I know this as, for the last two years, my research tells me so. Currently my job is to document each of these animals, discussing their pedigrees and early show career, as well as that of their owners and keepers.  During this time I have uncovered men of immense skills and talent, bulls taken into ballrooms, animals won on the toss of a coin and tales of amazement and hilarity you could never have made up. I have to say, the job has been as interesting as it has been exhausting and I hope the legacy it transpires into will emphasise this fact. Actually I find it quite worrying that what I am writing will be compelled to reality once it gets filed as the written word. You see, it’s not like a monthly magazine, or a daily newspaper that will tomorrow be lighting the winter log-burner.  Let’s face it, who would question what they found in a large expensive history book? What if I made a mistake? What if I mishear what one of the old guard has told me and document a McDermot as a McDonald or, worse still, an Eric as an Erica? (The latter being common names of cows and bulls from that era, apparently). The more I lie awake over such issues, the more of a cold sweat appears at my brow. Am I the new Wikipedia – just making things up for my own amusement? Does the bored man wearing cheap pin-stripes on the seat next to me with not a care in the world, while he squanders his life playing Tetris on his phone, have any idea of my plight? Will a drove of cattle-head anoraks arrive at my door with blazing pitchforks, demanding the ‘truth’ in the name of bovine honour? In my defence, I can only do my best to relate the stories and facts that have been passed on to me, and then deftly usher the buck to someone else to verify. Which is why I am headed to Perth, to see a man who knows more than I – and offer him a job!

I know I often bang on about how fast the weeks go by but I cannot believe that our winter stint in Scotland will shortly be at a close. By the end of the month, we will once again be back in France, grabbing a few days skiing before going home to lamb the ewes and mow the lawn. Sadly, we will be a few sheep short this year since the antics of a hunting dog brutally stole a couple of the flock. This isn’t the first time it has happened either, as the local chasse (hunt) head out on a Sunday morning to shoot a few wild boar and then sit around getting drunk for the rest of the day as their blood-thirsty canines roam free to further vent their carnal urges. It is as maddening as it is saddening to think that I am powerless to protect my own stock from such atrocity, such is the rural law in our parts. At least in UK the hounds are within control of the crimsonly clad huntsman as they clear up the country’s predatory foxes – but, of course, we are not permitted to discuss that elephant in the room!

Anyway, moving swiftly on, the carriage is now passing the stunning empty beaches of Fife, an area I have come to know intimately since my activities in East Neuk renovating a house. Next week, my last on UK soil for a few months, I am back there to tile a new bathroom during the next phase of the project. I quite like tiling; it is sort of therapeutic – a bit like playing Tetris, only with real things. I feel like writing to Mr Portillo and mentioning that it is a shame all those Victorian builders never had spirit-levels in their day, which would have saved me considerable effort as I  do my best to redress the verticals. If I have learned one thing as a DIY builder, nothing shows up the poor geometry more than square tiles. Hopefully I am still on track to get the top two floors knocked into something habitable before the American tourists arrive in nearby St Andrews for the British Open golf tournament July, although organising my diary to achieve that also seems like a game of Tetris just now.  

I will admit, I am secretly looking forward to getting back to our house, for a little more space and a garden where the dogs can take themselves for a walk. Springtime is my favourite time of year and the one in France starts quite a bit earlier than its Scottish counterpart, where the daffs will already be in bloom and the early blossom considering its advance. On the subject of daffodils, I have a couple of observations. One - I note through the press that supermarkets have recently been advised not to display their daffodil buds within a 100 feet of the vegetable aisle as shoppers have been mistaking them for food. This I find highly amusing, as the bulbs in question are quite poisonous, thus deeming it a mistake they would hardly make twice. How many times should we have to save the idiots from themselves? Let them out of the asylum, I say, so natural selection can have its way.

On another daft-daff note, we spent an enjoyable evening in a restaurant a few weeks ago watching that grand old derby, England versus Wales rugby. In Scotland, it is nothing new to hear the majority of the assembled viewers cheering on the allied Welsh against us Anglos, but did the place really have to put a vase of daffodils on every table in a show of solidarity? I have to admit that, after the splendidly crushing result, I ate mine in a show of defiant belligerence! It was quite nice too and has almost inspired me to write a cookbook on edible flowers. Obviously sautéed daff bulbs will only be on the menu in Cardiff!

Why, why why?

Optimists tell me that spring is just around the corner which I find pretty hard to comprehend, especially as I struggle to even trudge around that corner to the shop, at a 45 degree angle, defying the laws of physics as wind, rain and (today) snow hamper my progress. It only seems a few weeks ago since Christmas, when I made the same journey, stopping at the post office to be greeted by the latest ridiculous round of legislation:- that I am no longer allowed to buy stamps over the counter. Apparently, licking the gum myself is now against the law in case I get addicted. To me, this conjured up images of incredible desperation, with spotty youths gathering behind the tennis courts to lick a book of first class, at a couple of quid a go. A few years ago I would have been stunned by such nonsensical administration but perhaps in my older age I am beyond caring. I must admit that, before I could stop myself, I did mention rather venomously to the post master that ‘no wonder the village post office will soon be closed and replaced by a curry house, putting you out on the street in the snow, you pompous old fart!’ If nothing, I still have a way with words!

And it is words that bring me round to my next tranche of rantings. It appears that my auld allies, the Welsh, have something composite to moan about for once, in that their sturdy, if elderly, patriarch, Tom Jones is under threat. For the last 40 years, the terraces of Cardiff have rung out with a hearty rendition of ‘Why, why, Delilah’, of which, to a man, every home rugby supporter knows the words to all four verses. Well, it seems they will no longer be allowed such liberty. Someone, somewhere, somehow, has decided that good old Tom is actually encouraging domestic violence with his passionate hymn. Apparently, ‘when she sees the knife his hand’ he hasn’t come to carve the Sunday roast at all, so she really had better stop laughing, right this minute! Whilst down that neck of the woods, I listened to a bearded twit on the radio advocating that old riotous songs such as these should all be banned, in a bid to save the human race from self destruction. Other considerations were that in England’s counter tune to this about driving their Chariots around, ‘a band of angels coming after me’ could be seen to depict Hells Angels on their Harleys. And as for the Scots sending Proud Edward home again, well, what a despicable act of racism? Meanwhile New Zealand’s own blood thirsty song about slicing their opponents into tiny pieces with a machete is, of course acceptable, as the Maori tribes are in the ethnic minority, so that’s alright!

Oops, better be careful what I say there. Meanwhile, back in the land of my chosen habitat, the locals are beating ploughshares into swords after a violent attack on their own freedom of speech. Once again we see the sectarian element of a religion grossly over-reacting to a little light hearted dig at their prophet. It was, of course, an abominable and barbaric act, which should be condemned from all sides but – and it is a personal but here – was the correct action from the French to then print yet more propaganda against Allah in the subsequent publication of Charlie Hebdo? France may believe in Freedom of Speech, and quite rightly so, but this is surely the equivalent of Salman Rushdie (remember him) selling copies of the Satanic Verse on street corners in Baghdad.  Monsieurs: petrol does not put out flames – not even at 99 cents per litre!

While on the subject of Muslim attacks, I did have a wry smile to myself, concerning the people near the Severn Estuary. It seems that some student terrorists had managed to hack through the internet into TravelWest, believing they were disrupting the entire travel plans of the Western World. However, when it transpired that the website was actually a local bus timetable, the fiends were left with less credibility than Tony Blair in a confession box.  Although very little disruption was reported, a third of the population of Bristol were a day late collecting their giros!

Meanwhile in the East, it was Putin’s turn to yet again put the boot in (oh the irony of how that rhymes) by coming up with a list of people who were no longer allowed to drive cars. The register included all transsexuals, cross-dressers, fetishists and exhibitionists as well as, of course, paedophiles.  Exactly what these genres contribution to the 30,000 road deaths per year in Russia was unclear, unless perhaps, they were partaking in one or some of these acts whilst at the wheel. A rumour that the entire senior membership of the Catholic church was also included are unfounded.

On a subject more close to home, I am delighted to note that GM crops will now be allowed to be grown on UK soil after a lengthy ban. After years of instilling lies through the media of how giant sweetcorns are going to creep out from the fields under cover of darkness and strangle us in our beds, it turns out that they are actually no more harmful than a tub of yoghurt. Wheat that has been bred to give higher yields and be resistant to disease will not actually make us choke on our morning toast, nor poison the entire dormouse population. To the contrary, what it may do is afford the farmer a slightly better livelihood, and subsequently bring down the cost of food. For those of you who head straight to the organic aisle in Waitrose, wearing the smug self-satisfied grin normally reserved for politicians, please carry on saving the planet with your bug infested vegetables. Having worked in the agrochem industry, I assure you that not all is as clean as it seems. I, for one, will opt for a cheaper loaf and some well-fed pork. Still, you are what you eat, so they say. Not sure what that makes me!

Now that genetically modifying crops has at last become acceptable, one hopes it wont be too long before they start on humans. With some research, in a generation they could breed out all those morons who drive too close behind other cars causing everyone but themselves to have accidents. Scientists could also create some honest taxi drivers, pension salespeople and news reporters. Oh, and terminate anyone who laughs at ‘you’ve been framed!’

Secrets of the seventies

Well, Happy Hogmanay to everyone who survived Christmas in one piece. Of course, nobody will be reading this as you will all be queuing up outside Argos waiting for post-Christmas bargains, or scouring the internet for anything denoted with twenty percent off. In fact, you no longer need to wait for January to go to the sales, as we are bombarded throughout December with special discount shopping days. I blame the Americans – for most things, actually! Seemingly Black Friday was started in USA a decade ago as a marketing ploy to spur Christmas shoppers into action a few weeks into November. But then, as with all things hyped, the whole thing snowballed into a rainbow spectrum of Green Mondays, Red Tuesdays and slightly blueish-mauve Sundays throughout December, all offering super-saver-deals on websites who already claim to be the cheapest in cyber-space - now even cheaper. I am informed that these are all deals that I cannot afford to miss, irrespective of whether I need them or not, or already have three left over from last year still in the cupboard. However, I am quite taken with Groupon, an organisation that offers companies a chance to sell small numbers of their goods or services at cost price, if only so we can get an insight into what extortionate profits they usually take. So far I have managed a round of golf on a Royal course for ten quid including breakfast, 3 nights in a honeymoon suite in a top resort, and a new bed, all at 60% off. OK, so I didn’t need all of these, with the possible exception of the golf, but I am comforted that myself and my occasionally profligate wife have saved enough money with which to irresponsibly spend on drink!

I mentioned last month that I was embarking on a mission to renovate a house in Fife and I am quite pleased with myself when I announce that phase one of the project is now completed. Inevitably I now have the sore knees and backache to prove it. It would appear that the old Victorian property last had a face-lift around 1973, with kaleidoscope carpets, wallpaper that makes your legs wobble and light-fittings made of psychedelically painted glass, all in abundance. After spending 3 days hoying all the above into a skip, I visit a well-known DIY store to find that I am now able to buy exactly the same stuff which has mysteriously hoved back into fashion at highly inflated prices. Who said nostalgia is a thing of the past? Why is it that we can’t just let the chemically induced indulgence into the hallucinogenic haze of the seventies fade away without embarrassment? Like most fifty-somethings, I not only burnt my flares and tank-tops a long time ago, but along with them all photographic evidence of their very existence. There should be laws against this revival before the country spirals back into a life of platform shoes, scampi in the basket and Simca cars and we all die of humiliation! Please mister government, outlaw everything that hails from that decade, except the music (and possibly the Ferrari 308 GTB). Thank you.

On the same subject, I am this weekend stunned to learn that with the latest reincarnation of Doctor Who, the Daleks are also back, but they can now climb stairs! Noooo! That was the whole point of the things. While your kid sister was hiding behind the sofa as the cardboard creatures wheeled down the street with their ray guns and sink-cleaners, chasing some scantily-clad maiden, us boys were standing shouting at the TV, ‘go upstairs, go upstairs! You’ll be safe there until the Brigadier arrives!’ Seemingly the 2015 versions now have some built-in hovering ability. How preposterous! It is nothing less than an outrage, I’m telling you!

While we are on the issue of reminiscence of the seventies, on my way to Fife last week I had a wry smile to myself when I spotted a large sign directing people to Scotland’s Secret Bunker – purely on the understanding that it is hardly a secret if you tell everyone where it is? That’s a bit like screwing a five quid combination-locked box to the wall outside your back-door with a big sign saying ‘KEYS – in case of burglary, insert chisel here!’ Although I have not yet visited the site, which is now a museum, it transpires that an underground fortress, complete with 3 feet thick tungsten reinforced concrete walls and a labyrinth of tunnels, had been built and concealed under a farmhouse near St Andrews in 1972 which would house some 300 personnel, protecting them from nuclear explosion, more than likely caused by the pesky Russians. Although the Cold War never really got much above freezing, the amount of money required to maintain the bunker, let alone build it, would have kept all the towns on Fife’s East Neuk coast in coal for two decades and, believe me, they needed it. And all this to preserve a few Scottish ministers, none of whom at the time had enough government authority in Britain to issue so much as a parking ticket. Rumours that the whole place had been extended last year to accommodate the comely frame of Alex Salmond have been categorically denied.

Of course, after Salmond’s laughable defeat in September’s referendum, for the first time since Mary Queen of Scots, we now have a lady in charge north of the border who, after some churlish begging, actually does have an iota of power over their self governance. So what does she do with it? Immediately p*sses off every rural community by lowering the drink driving limit to 50mg so that your working man can no longer have a pint on the way home from said work. However, this is not strictly true. The new legislation brings it into line with Europe and particularly France who, let’s face it, make all the rules anyway. The difference is, we in France drink beer in small glasses, thus affording us the liberty to have one drink and still take the car home within the bounds of the law, rather than walking or taking the bus. Just as well on the latter point, as the frequency of buses in our local village is about once every three months. Furthermore, walking home down the lane is far more dangerous, what with the crevice-like ditches that line the roads and the chance of encountering a drunken Frenchman behind the wheel with no headlights, but I digress. The point is that, despite their protestations, your average Scot could just drop in to the ‘Thistle and Sporan’ for a half-pint while he warms the underside of his kilt in front of the peat fire, and then everyone’s happy – except, perhaps, Newcastle Breweries. But don’t you Sassenachs go a-gloating too much. You are surely next on the list!

BTW, good luck to the new proprietors of the Rock Cross Inn. Please keep the home fires burning!

Pigeon post

     Once again, welcome to the life of a headless chicken, as I charge around trying to get things done and achieving very little. As I write, I am in limbo in one airport waiting for a delayed flight, en route to another one where the plane will have departed without me, leaving me somewhere in rain-washed southern England without a canoe. Like some game of giant aeronautical dominoes, my late arrival to my next destination will have such a subsequent knock on to my two week schedule that will probably delay my Christmas until sometime in February, as my deadlines shoot by in a wave of nausea. While I inwardly scream at the thought of the month to come, which involves rendezvous with builders, plumbers, sparkies and chippies, who will no doubt collectively take in such a sharp intake of breath it will cause a vacuum around the south Fife coast, I can only take solace in the fact that I actually intend to undertake most of the renovation work on my latest project myself to keep costs down. In fact, I must confess, the only chippy I intend to use will be the one on the seafront which has won numerous awards for its fish suppers! Anyone in the building trade will point out that it is a rather despicable practice that a potential client could pick the brains of half a dozen local tradesmen, gleaning knowledge of materials, suppliers and regulations while having no intention of hiring said professionals to do the work. My counter to this would be quite simple. a:) just about every jobbing builder in Scotland is booked up until autumn 2024, and b) their prices for doing the simplest of jobs are so extortionate that it would be cheaper to hire Heston Bloumenthal to make me a cup of tea than to get local hoods, McKay and McKay, to change a light bulb, let alone fit a kitchen. So, armed with nothing more that basic understanding of French plumbing, for the next couple of weeks I will be holed up in a draughty Scottish seaside house with no heating, in early winter, scratching my head as I try and fathom out imperial measurements and push-fit joints while the wind from the North Sea whips in under the door. That is if I manage to get there at all!

    Meanwhile, Wendy is left in sunny France, clearing up after the entourage of guests and friends staying over the last few weeks, until I give her a whistle to come and join me in Scotland for the winter months. After mentioning last month that at last it had started to rain, it immediately stopped again as we suffered an extended drought for another four weeks which left our sheep so thin that the Red Cross have been considering sending in food aid. In an attempt to cut down our numbers, we have given away Rambo - the nomadic ram who mysteriously appeared in our field four years ago - who has now gone to live somewhere in mid France on a smallholding where his predecessor passed away after dining on a glut of acorns! One hopes he has a strong constitution! In his place we have dusted off Pa, now in his ninth year, to take over the nuptial reins. For a few days we did also borrow Rammy from a neighbour, but he and Pa took an instant dislike to each other and resorted to fisticuffs, leaving the poor old boy with a large dent in his head that subsequently filled with maggots. Not a nice vision, I know, but, with the aid of a little Domestos, we did manage to rid him of the wrigglies so he could continue his tupping season with some dignity. Rammy, on the other hoof, was banished back from whence he came, never to darken our door again.

Besides the sun blazing its way through the autumn, the only other interesting thing I have to report from France this month was an afternoon visit, along with one of our guests, to a palombiere. For those of you ill-informed of such an event, as were we, this is a hide-out built 35 feet up in a tree.      However, be you human or pigeon, underestimate this splendid abode at your peril. As you approach it through the thick woods, you could be forgiven for not even noticing its entrance, cleverly disguised behind a curtain of camouflage netting. From there an elaborate staircase leads you upwards until you enter a room the size of a small bungalow, with fully fitted kitchen including shiny coffee machine and dishwasher, as well as an immaculately decorated bedroom with en-suite. Once inside, we were presented with a glass of something that would take the enamel off a tiger’s teeth and a welcoming from a number shabbily dressed local French farmers, all rosy-cheeked from their recent two hour lunch. Our host, who also doubles up as the local barman, had also been celebrating his birthday! Each one of them was armed… Doing my best to interpret their local dialect, my guest was quite impressed with the set up, especially when the alarm was sounded and all eyes tuned to the skies. Within seconds the hatches all around the house silently slid closed until the only light came in through a dozen slit holes, each one occupied by a twelve bore barrel. Outside, upwards of 30 tame pigeons in the surrounding trees, each tethered by one leg to a long wire, started to dance as the main man pulled on different ones in sequence like a half-drunken campanologist. The ploy worked as overhead a flock of maybe 250 wood pigeons - or they may have been racers, I am unsure - descended on our locale to visit their hopping tethered feathered friends. By then, the only sound you could hear were a dozen safety catches being quietly flicked, as each gun took a bead followed by a faint count of one, two, three… I am not sure if you have been in an enclosed space when multiple shotguns are fired simultaneously? The deafening sound can only be superseded by the triumphant cheer of a dozen overgrown kids in a tree house, when the scout returned with enough dead pigeons to keep the village in pie for another week.

Who stabbed Richard the Third?

Today this house hold is in recovery mode after yet another successful chutney festival event which spanned most of yesterday and part of the day before. In my defence, I will hold my hand up and admit that much of the red wine that I drunk was medically required to help wash down 30+ samples of pickled fruits, spiced relishes and sickly jams which it was my honour to officiate over. Having judged many livestock shows in my past, the task of judging a few jars didn’t seem too onerous but it turned out harder that I had expected, especially when 25 other after-judges got to give their opinions too. I know I didn’t please all the entrants and even Mrs Coryton who took the overall award – for the second year running – didn’t much like her own offering, preferring some of the non prize winners. Thankfully the small print on the entry form stated quite clearly that ‘the judge is always right – even when he is wrong!’

I mentioned last month that Wendy and I were ‘getting hitched’ shortly and I can now announce that I am the proud owner/custodian of a wife, for better or worse. A small band of 40 revellers descended on Scotland’s South East coast for a few days, whose presence collectively made a couple of September days into something extra special that will always be cherished. From some beautiful weather, an exceptional lamb dinner to some rather extreme bare-footed dancing, I believe everyone to a man/woman enjoyed themselves immensely. However, post event, I do have to air this little story in case anyone was wondering why I seemed a little vacant during the proceedings. Although not one of a nervous disposition, I did stand outside after breakfast at the small abode where I spent my last night of singledom considering a few carefully selected words that I was to use at the reception, highlighting certain friends, relatives and absentees. As I stood pondering, I felt a sharp pain  on my leg which turned out to be me pinching myself in an attempt to wake me up, for an event just 10 metres away was unfolding that was so bizarre I had to be dreaming it. On the grass verge outside the old inn a small bearded man stepped out of his equally small car, opened the boot and produced first a giant sword, then a bow and arrow before finally tugging out a skeleton, all of which he laid neatly on the grass. As if oblivious to anyone witnessing this absurd event, let alone a mystified groom-to-be, he chatted away to the mass of bones as though he was at a picnic with his buddies. Eventually, realising I was actually awake I felt the need to speak to him, just to establish that I hadn’t gone barking mad with the pre-nuptial jitters. ‘Is that a skeleton?’ said I, with the only blatantly obvious words I could muster. ‘Oh aye,’ said little man, ‘and it’s got all the same stab-wounds as Richard the Third!’ As though justifying his actions, he then gathered up his bow and sword, slung the rattling boney colleague over his shoulder and sauntered off into the distance, leaving me to scratch my head as I re-ran the sentence again and again through my head. So to those of you who were there to witness the groom’s speech on Sept 27^th, I apologise if it made little sense as I blabbered on about this and that. It. You now know you can blame it on Richard the Third!

Once all the guests had departed, after some well-earned sleep we set off north for a few days honeymoon. Except that, as you have come to expect from yours truly, it didn’t quite go to plan. For we were to stay a night in the romantic setting of St Andrews before heading further west to a country hotel in Perthshire. What I hadn’t reckoned with was a massive pro-am golf tournament being staged in the area, which tied up just about every hotel in a hundred mile radius to bursting point – and I hadn’t booked one. No problem, says I to my beloved, we can stay at our own house. I may have mentioned a while ago that we had purchased a little seaside home in Anstruther, East Fife. What I may have omitted to say was that the whole place is empty, save for a lot of spiders, and needs a complete refit. When I say empty, it did have some very nice 1975 carpets but absolutely no furniture or facilities. Remind me never to play poker with Wendy, or any woman for that matter, as her face when I emerged out of the local hardware store carrying a blow-up bed, a bottle of wine and a packet of Pringles was not easy to read. The words ‘I’ll be fun,’ were greeted with a similar withering look, possibly one of disbelief! Thankfully, after the wine kicked in, she did see the funny side of spending her honeymoon in a tumble-down cottage on a bed that farted every time one of us moved. At least, I think it was the bed!

Eventually, still managing to stay married, we found our way to a beautiful forested deluxe resort near Aberfeldy at which to unwind, and very nice it was too. Except that, over the doorway of the room, a green illuminated light kept me awake all night, as it informed me that the door was also the emergency exit. The fact that the only other way to leave this room, were it an inferno, was through the window next to it – or possibly digging a tunnel - I lay there for half the night wondering why the hell they felt the need to tell me this – in dayglo technicolour? I considered a wiley little health and safety executive – possibly the same man I had seen moonlighting as a grave-robber a few days earlier – demanding that clients be saved from themselves by having their only escape route pointed out to them. Eventually, as any half-sane man would do, I put a chair underneath the sign, nakedly climbed up and took the bulb out. Wendy unfortunately woke up while I clattered at this exercise – rubbed her eyes, and then gave me yet another of those looks that only a wife can use, and one where, no matter how plausible the excuse, no explanation will every hold water.

 Anyway, enough with my recent exploits, at least it is raining here at last in France and the grass has at last started to turn from brown to green, much to delight of 19 starving sheep. As our ram, Rambo, has a number of daughters in our closed flock, this year we did a swapsie with a neighbour so Rambo could be put to extended use elsewhere. In his place, we now have the equally imaginatively name Rammy ‘seeing to’ the girls around the paddock, hopefully to bring us lambs in mid March. I have to say, he is not quite the powerful specimen of the aforementioned macho Rambo, more a sort of long-tailed version of Larry-the-lamb. He may also possibly be gay, because as yet, the only sheep he has shown any interest in is a castrated male! Oh well, it takes all sorts!

Break a leg

Wow, what a great September, for a change. Gotta love those Indians; thanks chaps. But the extended warm weather is not without its problems here in France as the grass fields are as brown a Louis the pointer-dog and any tiny shoot of grass that does poke its way through the rock-solid soil gets snapped up by Daisy the sheep and her pals. Yes, Daisy Death-wish is still with us, albeit in her currently slimmer form, heading for a third lambing. If I were a betting man, I would have lost a bundle on her not making it to a first birthday – but some things defy the odds.

Here’s another bet that has a poor chap hoping. One irresponsibly wealthy person – in London – has bet 800k of his life-savings on Scotland’s not gaining independence. By the time this goes to print he will either be 200k better off or in the dole queue. I have to admit that from my standpoint – and being a house-owner in Scotland, we have a valid one – that the whole thing has been a complete farce and a waste of money for a country which claims to have none. As one wag put it: ‘spending all your money on a saw to hack off the hand that feeds you will not only leave you armless, but penniless too!’ One assumes, despite poor lads and lasses in the schemes in Glasgow believing that their YES vote will mean they get salmon and sturgeon on the menu in their local chippie (can I get a fried mars bar and a poke o chips wi tha’?) that enough people without saltire-coloured glasses on will turn out on the day and make sense of it all. Otherwise, we may be fleeing south like Kind Edward himself with our jimmy hats on fire!

 On the subject of Scotland, we have recently got the keys to a small terraced house in Fife which we put in an offer for back in February. As the delay suggests, it wasn’t the easiest of conveyancing process which culminated in one of the lawyers involved having to search gravestones in a local cemetery to trace a long lost owner who died in 1916!   Needless to say, the property requires some moderate renovation, once I can weed out the cowboy builders and get one to turn up on the right day and stay until the job is finished. Ah, no, hang on, I think Alex Salmond has more chance of becoming Pope than I do with that task!  Meanwhile, I have been trying to get the building insured and stooped to the bottom of the pile by using that service advertised by some prat on TV with a large moustache whom everyone hates. With my eyesight failing a wee bit these days, I left it to Wendy to read the small print, and a good job she did. You see, hidden in that very print are tiny exclusions such as, and I quote: ‘property is not insured for fire damage if it is caused by electrical or gas heating appliances and/or naked flame (eg the cooker). As if that wasn’t enough, the next line reads: ‘property is not insured for damage by storms!’ The place is by the North Sea, FFS, of course there will be storms! That’s like saying your car isn’t insured if you hit something, or you life insurance doesn’t cover accidental death! Thankfully we are covered for terrorism and rioting, obviously prominent in tiny seaside villages in East Neuk? Maybe they are covering their back when we have to barricade ourselves in once the SNP start their ethnic cleansing process!

Having mentioned annoying adverts, can I have a grouse about how TV no longer manages to offer me anything I would be remotely interested in. Years ago, I am sure at least a few adverts took my attention, targeted to the audience of the program that sandwiched them. You know, like selling us wellingtons and woollies during the breaks in a program advocating holidays in Britain. Or crisps, beer, fags and knuckle-dusters at half time in football games. Said programme I was watching was Grand Designs, whose target viewers are probably fifty-sixty-something, perhaps on the sunnier side of the poverty line and a decorum of common sense. Do I really want to buy hair extensions, microwavable chicken nuggets and cheap nappies? Wouldn’t they be far better offering me building materials, luxury cars and fine wines? That’s what they do on the internet, isn’t it? Go online to buy a book on gardening, next thing you have pop-ups everywhere offering you a lawnmower, hedgecutter, some weedkiller and a night out with Charlie Dymock after she’s had a wash. Why hasn’t the same technology reached TV yet? So when I buy a new flat-screen, I can tick the boxes of things that interest me (such as the said Charlie D) and switch off the rest, barring them from my screen altogether. If there weren’t enough adverts on my chosen subjects, it could fill the gaps with some pleasing music and a big sign saying ‘go put the kettle on, and don’t spare the hobnobs!’ Come on Murdoch, get with the programme!

Meanwhile, our own programme has again been a hectic one. In early September we were back in the Midlands for a wedding, of a local from Rock, as it happens. And from then to Scotland to a masked ball, which was somewhat fun. I must admit I hadn’t fully read the invite and got a few disturbing looks when I turned up in my Hannibal Lecter outfit and a nice bottle of Cianti! Then it’s back to France as fast as Ryan can muster, stepping off the plane straight into a dress rehearsal for a show I have been roped into singing in. It is pretty much ten years to the date since I last trod the boards in front of an audience and I have to confess it is enjoyable to be back. Over that time spent in a country with cheap gin and wine, I openly admit my voice has faded significantly and I am well out-classed amongst the talented bunch of 12 artistes, and two great directors, but I will give it my all. Then I have just a single week to remove the rotten tomato stains from my suit before heading back north again.

All things going to plan, by the time this article has hit the information highway I will now be at last living with an honest woman. Not that Wendy has ever told porkies;, just that we have been engaged to be married for over 5 years and, on 27^th September we will have tied the knot in a small hotel overlooking the sea in East Lothian, Scotland, possibly with the rain lashing down and YES campaigners crying in the corner. It will be a privilege to welcome her into the Frazier family – a pretty valuable asset I am certain. The event will be slightly marred by my mother being unable to be there due to ill health, but we will raise a glass, along with a few other close friends and swing the kilts in fine style until we drop. Possibly we may find time and energy to squeeze in a few days away on the west coast before charging back to France to host the 6^th Annual Chutney Festival and all that it entails. This year’s judge is being flown in specially, all the way from my home village of Rock!

Immediately after that it will be time to put the rams with the ewes and last year’s crop in the freezer, prune the garden, mend the roof and generally tidy the place away for winter. Where did that year go again?

Friends of Poo-pooh

Whoopie: at last, after only seven years, I have finally finished renovating the upstairs of the house. Well, when I say finished, I mean completed to a standard where people can live in it. OK, there may still be the odd gap in the skirting where a mouse could sneak in and obviously Spike, our highly talented cat, can still manage to nest in every room behind locked doors but, in general, we now have a succession of usable bedrooms and bathrooms. Just as well, as they are currently all occupied by a coach-load of burly young lads who are all here on holiday, oozing testosterone everywhere and burdening a constant drain on the fridge. I have to admit, it is nice to have guests and this year, due to unforeseen issues, we have had precious few. It may have been a tad easier if they had arrived in ones and twos instead of 12 all at once, but hey-ho, we can cope as long as the septic tank holds out. They are a refreshing bunch, too, many of whom are finding their way on new career paths after a lifetime in education, and relishing what challenges life holds before them. I would like to think I could offer snippets of guidance here and there, but then when I look back on my own dappled career of cattle groomer, computer programmer and then writer, I am not so sure anyone else on earth could take such a diverse route through life, blindfolded or otherwise. Possibly the only real advice I can give is that: when your years come nearer to retirement, be able to look back and say ‘if I had my time over again, I would do it all exactly the same.’  I am almost proud that I can do that.

Anyway, enough with the philosophy, let’s get down to complaining about stuff. For instance, what the heck is the British government on about now? Most of us are aware that autumn is the time of year when bored politicians, just back from their annual month in the sun, sit around creating new legislation to justify their overpaid existence. So why is it that, even though we expect the absurd, their moronity still never fails to amaze? Yes, I am talking about the latest suggestion, that of putting health warnings on alcohol. Are we really expected to save ourselves from ourselves by heeding the signs. Will a skull and crossbones deter us from pulling another cork when we really should be reaching for the Perrier? Exactly. Who is kidding who here? Of course drinking is bad for you, that’s why we do it, surely? Save your money, Mister PM, and give the nurses a well earned raise instead.

Although I am not one to intensely keep an eye on world news, this month I really must mention Captain Ian Baston who was brought to my attention by the BBC. It appears that this honourable chap lost control of a Flybe aircraft during landing when his arm accidentally fell off! Yes, I reckon that would do it? ‘Nobody was hurt,’ said a CAA spokesman, ‘and Mr Baston has sworn he will make sure his arm is well and truly screwed on in future!’  No wonder Flybe has a the nickname Fly?Maybe! Note I have avoided the temptation to make a sic joke about their second-hand planes…

Last month I mentioned that the Tour De France was coming through our local town. Well, despite my disinterest in the sport of cycling, we decided to use the occasion as an excuse for a party and, my, what a party it was. With quite surprising insight, I did a reckie of the route the night before, selected a suitable spot on a blind corner and parked my sheep trailer there. The next day, when 20 of us arrived at noon, the French bystanders were already into their picnics and lining the route when I unlocked the trailer, rolled out the gas bbq, 2 tables, 20 chairs, 20 litres of red wine, a full 5 course meal, including 2 whole legs of lamb which we proceeded to cook under their noses. I have to admit, the locals were generally impressed by the pluck of Les Anglais, and particularly when they got to sample some gigot de agneau. However, some of neighbours were not quite so hospitable, suggesting that we were parked in their own personal space. Non too perturbed, we continued preparing our feast until one quite angry little Frenchman became very irate, threatening to remove us personally and hurling a few insults. ‘You are not friends of poo-poo!’ he repeated time and again, in a mysterious fashion. To be honest, if he wasn’t so intimidating, it would have been quite comical. Still we held fast, and even checked with the local gendarmes that we were perfectly within our rights to remain there. In fact the men in uniform also partook in a few morsels of cooked lamb and a wee snifter. Eventually our friend retreated still muttering about poo-poo but, feeling slightly sad for him, one of our party delivered him a plateful of food and an aperitif, to try and console his grief. It turned out that Poo-Poo was not an insult at all, but a real person. Not just any person either, but one of France’s most famous cyclists who had lived in the town until his recent death, and these were his mates who were trying to get themselves on TV via helicopter coverage of this exact spot. Instead, what made it onto TV was a plethora of drunken English, complete with one wearing a lime green chef’s hat and brandishing a carving knife. C’est la vie, Poo-Poo. Merde Happens!