It is one of those Dad conversations that I wasn't quite expecting when he sat me down and told me he was in the Mafia.
There is no Italian, Sicilian, New Jersey-ian in my Dad. He's Plymouth-onian. Even the accent isn't right when he says "I'm gonna chisel your knee-caps....my lover."
It has come as a bit of a shock to discover his weekly meetings with "the boys", wasn't just about beer and women but about controling the boroughs crime. Apparently you need to get the balance right in terms of how much crime you create and deal with at the same time. You have to keep crime at a level that still creates employment for those that fight it but not too much that they actually solve crime.
If there was no crime a huge industrial employer would be lost. Crime provides jobs. Without crime there would be fewer police, fewer lawyers, fewer judges, fewer insurers, no prison wardens, no hand-cuff manufacturers (may be just the kinky kind). Tailors that supply uniforms, cooks that supply food, car companies that supply...cars would all loose orders, people who build and maintain all the buildings involved. Florists, where would they be if there wasn't a stab victim to remember outside KFC?! It's all about the chain. The chain of crime.
Crime affects us all sometimes directly but more often indriectly and we all end up paying for it, if not emotionally then, financially.
So my father helps to police the borough. He does this by meeting old men in a pub on a friday. These old men are pillars of the local community. Lawyers, judges, police, landlords, businessmen and do-gooders. How exactly they create and solve crime is a mystery I'm yet to uncover. So far I've only been invited to social functions that include a buffet and a pub lock-in but no discussion on the borough takes place. IT'S NOT THE MASONS. Let me just make that clear. However something is going on in the criminal underworld of Bargoed and the wider Caerphilly Borough. There's a battle brewing and I intend to find out how it's won and lost.
JC
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Monday, 9 August 2010
Too long away from the pad
This annoys me every few months. I stop writing and then when my diary is at its fullest I wish to pepper this page with waffle. Expect an explosion on words here very shortly.
Sunday, 28 February 2010
Scotish Ceilidh
Scottish Ceilidh
Amy: James, have you ever been to a Scottish Ceilidh?
James: Ceilidh? What the? How do you spell that?
Amy: I don't know...but it's dancing.
James:Oh...no then.
Amy: Right, we're going for Burns Night.
A céilidh is a traditional Gaelic social dance event originating in Ireland and Scotland, but now common throughout the Celtic diaspora. Before discos and nightclubs, there were céilidhs in most town and village halls on Friday or Saturday nights; they are still common today.
With a vague idea that it was like country dancing Amy & I joined her friends in Hammersmith for a Burns Night Ceilidh special. We'd decided that there wasn't a strong need for traditional dress, so I avoided the kilt and sporran. More out of a fear of making some sort of fashion faux-pas and offending an entire clan of London based Scots by wearing the wrong type of tartan. I didn't fancy mocking the situation by going half heartedly dressed in traditional Scottish attire. My friend Grover however, thought it amusing/traditional to wear a tartan flat cap with fake ginger hair spouting from the back. We're not sure if the "Jimmy" cap was welcomed or not as we were all moving far too fast around the place to have a conversation about it.
The Ceilidh is a night of Scottish dancing. These dances follow a strict routine which thankfully is easy to pick up. To help the novices along the moves were called by the live bands leader who would shout the moves and count you in time. He also would make the occasional comment on the state of Hammersmith's attempts to "Strip the willow" (a dance move, more later).
This particular Saturday night Ceilidh was being held in the Hammersmith & Fulham Council Town Hall in the heart of Hammersmith. From the outside it was a classic 1960's panic build made entirely of grey concrete. The interior was like any secondary school that had not received funding for building repairs since the 1960's also, so most then. The Grand Hall was massive. Imagine your school hall, wood floors, random doors where the canteen was hidden, stupidly high ceiling where lights would remain off because the bulbs had blown long ago and it would require a cherry-picker to replace them and strange curtains.
At one end of the room was a raised stage with a ceiling to floor curtain, drawn to hide the depths of the performance area. It wasn't needed as the band had plenty of room on the stage in front of it. What worried me was directly opposite was another grand curtain that hung from ceiling to floor but appeared to serve no purpose. There was nothing behind it except a wall. It seemed an immense waste of public money to hang a curtain in front of a wall. The drunker I got the more suspicious of the curtain I became.
We followed the traditionally dressed down the Kings Road towards the dance. Sure enough there was plenty of kilt action by both ladies and gents although the ladies wore their kilts dangerously shorter than the men. Knowing what could be revealed by the men later on it was very sensible of them to wear them long.
The place was rammed when we got in. There must have been around 500 people, all ready to dance badly. Our tickets granted us access to a meal before the dance which was Haggis Neats & Tatties. I love Haggis and always try to grab some when I'm up at the Edinburgh Festival. Tonight's dish was classically prepared in a vat the size of a house and dished out with the grace of a dying swan but with a smile. I didn't mind. It tasted great and supplied my body with plenty of salt that I was sure to sweat-out later, while dancing. There was just one worrying moment when I came to be served. The catering staff asked if I wanted meat or veg. Knowing that a Haggis is far from being vegetarian this confused me. I was staring at a vat of haggis unclear as to my option. Strangely they had produced a vegetarian haggis option as well. Why? Surely a vegetarian wouldn't have the energy, with four hours of drinking and dancing ahead of us, to be at a Ceilidh. They may as well have stayed at home. Obviously I chose the meat option. I'm quite happy to consume goats testicles etc.
No sooner had we finished our scran than the music started and the crowd ran towards the dance floor. I'd barely started my reasonably priced bottle of London Pride before I was dragged to join the melee. I was seamlessly thrown into a line. Across from me were complete strangers, who looked just as clueless as I was as to what was about to occur.
Scottish dancing is like any traditionally Celtic based dancing. Lines of people face off and to the rhythm, throw each other around in time (if good) to the music. Various names are offered to help in understanding the dances all of which offer no clues as to the dance moves. Strip the Willow and Gay-Gordons were two names I remembered. The Welsh dancing I did as a child put me in good stead for the evening.
To survive you needed to realise and accept that you would not be dancing with the people you came with. You may start dancing with your best friend but the dances were designed so that you danced with everyone. There were 500 people. So that was a lot of changing. Out of politeness I spent most of my evening introducing myself. I must have met over 100 women. However it was all so swift that we'd have a brief chat then she'd be onto the next partner. I'd noticed that some ceilidh's are advertised as singles nights. Speed-dating while dancing. If you like the idea of meeting your future partner, when you look exhausted, have a hint of sheeps testicles on your breath and have no co-ordination all while doing Gay Gordon, I'm sure it's the place to be. You certainly meet a lot of women, albeit very briefly.
At half-time the organisers piped in the sacrificial Haggis to much cheering and shouting. I myself can not stand the sound of bag-pipes. Mainly through exhaustion I decided not to vent my distaste for the squealing. Then a poem was delivered and toasts were made. Even though I am half Scottish and have grown-up with a mother speaking the harshest of Scottish accents, Glaswegian, I could not tell you what was said. It was all well received though.
Now the Scots are known for their drinking but where do they find the time? There was only enough time between dances to work out where you were, in relation to the big scary curtain so as to scamper back to your table and take a swig of beer. The caller clearly didn't have an eye on making a profit at the bar. I only had time for two drinks all night and I'm not sure I finished those! It was only at the end of each dance did you realise how sweaty you were. Baring in mind we'd all dressed for winter some of the night was spent hastily undressing. I recall tights, shirts and bras all being discarded. I guess those with the kilts had no such drama.
It simply was a fantastic night of dancing. You don't have to be an expert or even an amateur. You just need not to care if you get it wrong or make a fool of yourself. You're unlikely to see any of your random dance partners again. The main thing is that although you can't wear pants under your kilt, you must always dance with a smile. It's definitely an ice-breaker but not something you'd take a first, second or tenth date on as you'll hardly get any dancing time with each other.
I hope to go again....and I will wear a kilt.
HDM
Amy: James, have you ever been to a Scottish Ceilidh?
James: Ceilidh? What the? How do you spell that?
Amy: I don't know...but it's dancing.
James:Oh...no then.
Amy: Right, we're going for Burns Night.
A céilidh is a traditional Gaelic social dance event originating in Ireland and Scotland, but now common throughout the Celtic diaspora. Before discos and nightclubs, there were céilidhs in most town and village halls on Friday or Saturday nights; they are still common today.
With a vague idea that it was like country dancing Amy & I joined her friends in Hammersmith for a Burns Night Ceilidh special. We'd decided that there wasn't a strong need for traditional dress, so I avoided the kilt and sporran. More out of a fear of making some sort of fashion faux-pas and offending an entire clan of London based Scots by wearing the wrong type of tartan. I didn't fancy mocking the situation by going half heartedly dressed in traditional Scottish attire. My friend Grover however, thought it amusing/traditional to wear a tartan flat cap with fake ginger hair spouting from the back. We're not sure if the "Jimmy" cap was welcomed or not as we were all moving far too fast around the place to have a conversation about it.
The Ceilidh is a night of Scottish dancing. These dances follow a strict routine which thankfully is easy to pick up. To help the novices along the moves were called by the live bands leader who would shout the moves and count you in time. He also would make the occasional comment on the state of Hammersmith's attempts to "Strip the willow" (a dance move, more later).
This particular Saturday night Ceilidh was being held in the Hammersmith & Fulham Council Town Hall in the heart of Hammersmith. From the outside it was a classic 1960's panic build made entirely of grey concrete. The interior was like any secondary school that had not received funding for building repairs since the 1960's also, so most then. The Grand Hall was massive. Imagine your school hall, wood floors, random doors where the canteen was hidden, stupidly high ceiling where lights would remain off because the bulbs had blown long ago and it would require a cherry-picker to replace them and strange curtains.
At one end of the room was a raised stage with a ceiling to floor curtain, drawn to hide the depths of the performance area. It wasn't needed as the band had plenty of room on the stage in front of it. What worried me was directly opposite was another grand curtain that hung from ceiling to floor but appeared to serve no purpose. There was nothing behind it except a wall. It seemed an immense waste of public money to hang a curtain in front of a wall. The drunker I got the more suspicious of the curtain I became.
We followed the traditionally dressed down the Kings Road towards the dance. Sure enough there was plenty of kilt action by both ladies and gents although the ladies wore their kilts dangerously shorter than the men. Knowing what could be revealed by the men later on it was very sensible of them to wear them long.
The place was rammed when we got in. There must have been around 500 people, all ready to dance badly. Our tickets granted us access to a meal before the dance which was Haggis Neats & Tatties. I love Haggis and always try to grab some when I'm up at the Edinburgh Festival. Tonight's dish was classically prepared in a vat the size of a house and dished out with the grace of a dying swan but with a smile. I didn't mind. It tasted great and supplied my body with plenty of salt that I was sure to sweat-out later, while dancing. There was just one worrying moment when I came to be served. The catering staff asked if I wanted meat or veg. Knowing that a Haggis is far from being vegetarian this confused me. I was staring at a vat of haggis unclear as to my option. Strangely they had produced a vegetarian haggis option as well. Why? Surely a vegetarian wouldn't have the energy, with four hours of drinking and dancing ahead of us, to be at a Ceilidh. They may as well have stayed at home. Obviously I chose the meat option. I'm quite happy to consume goats testicles etc.
No sooner had we finished our scran than the music started and the crowd ran towards the dance floor. I'd barely started my reasonably priced bottle of London Pride before I was dragged to join the melee. I was seamlessly thrown into a line. Across from me were complete strangers, who looked just as clueless as I was as to what was about to occur.
Scottish dancing is like any traditionally Celtic based dancing. Lines of people face off and to the rhythm, throw each other around in time (if good) to the music. Various names are offered to help in understanding the dances all of which offer no clues as to the dance moves. Strip the Willow and Gay-Gordons were two names I remembered. The Welsh dancing I did as a child put me in good stead for the evening.
To survive you needed to realise and accept that you would not be dancing with the people you came with. You may start dancing with your best friend but the dances were designed so that you danced with everyone. There were 500 people. So that was a lot of changing. Out of politeness I spent most of my evening introducing myself. I must have met over 100 women. However it was all so swift that we'd have a brief chat then she'd be onto the next partner. I'd noticed that some ceilidh's are advertised as singles nights. Speed-dating while dancing. If you like the idea of meeting your future partner, when you look exhausted, have a hint of sheeps testicles on your breath and have no co-ordination all while doing Gay Gordon, I'm sure it's the place to be. You certainly meet a lot of women, albeit very briefly.
At half-time the organisers piped in the sacrificial Haggis to much cheering and shouting. I myself can not stand the sound of bag-pipes. Mainly through exhaustion I decided not to vent my distaste for the squealing. Then a poem was delivered and toasts were made. Even though I am half Scottish and have grown-up with a mother speaking the harshest of Scottish accents, Glaswegian, I could not tell you what was said. It was all well received though.
Now the Scots are known for their drinking but where do they find the time? There was only enough time between dances to work out where you were, in relation to the big scary curtain so as to scamper back to your table and take a swig of beer. The caller clearly didn't have an eye on making a profit at the bar. I only had time for two drinks all night and I'm not sure I finished those! It was only at the end of each dance did you realise how sweaty you were. Baring in mind we'd all dressed for winter some of the night was spent hastily undressing. I recall tights, shirts and bras all being discarded. I guess those with the kilts had no such drama.
It simply was a fantastic night of dancing. You don't have to be an expert or even an amateur. You just need not to care if you get it wrong or make a fool of yourself. You're unlikely to see any of your random dance partners again. The main thing is that although you can't wear pants under your kilt, you must always dance with a smile. It's definitely an ice-breaker but not something you'd take a first, second or tenth date on as you'll hardly get any dancing time with each other.
I hope to go again....and I will wear a kilt.
HDM
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Selling dead trees leads to hospital visit
Helping the family Hammond shift a few Christmas Trees was a very pleasant way to spend the weekend. With the glass-house all decked out in Christmas lights, mince pies from Granny and hundreds of trees suspended from the roof, I'd expected a warm, friendly weekend with family and complete strangers. However, I didn't expect it to lead to yet another visit to A&E.
Ordinarily I am not one to engage in Christmas until after my birthday on December 11th. However The Ranch is a fantastic place to visit and I was quite up for some manual labour. I've never seen so many Christmas Trees strung-up looking to lure a new owner, only to perish in a few weeks time. It's a strange thing to get picky about but people were very much concerned that the trees didn't lose their needles before Christmas. I assume Boxing Day they can drop away because no one is sober enough to care then but the panic people had about needle dropage was strange. I felt it improper, seeing as we were trying to sell these trees, to inform them that they were dead. Having been severed from their roots a few days ago, no amount of watering would preserve them further. They were dying and people were prepared to pay £65 to watch them die, slowly, over the next three weeks.
People have absurd requests when it comes to trees. They are all looking for their perfect tree and for most people, sadly, that means a tree which is symmetrical throughout. Something that nature is yet to produce and surely never will. If you want a symmetrical tree, you need to buy a fake one from Argos. Real trees are...were living entities and like humans come in all sorts of annoying shapes and sizes. Just ask any woman who's been dress shopping. No dress in any shop, anywhere in the world fits a woman perfectly. Every woman's shape is different, every tree shape is different. You purchase the one that's close enough. It's a compromise. Now buying a Christmas Tree is the same adventure. We don't grow trees with the corner of a two bed semi-detached bungalow's front room in mind. You need to pick one that you're quite happy to watch die and have got a plan on where to put it on January 1st.
I understand that choosing the right tree is a very personal thing. It has to be, as every home is different. Every bauble placement will be controversial and every set of lights will have a bulb broken and some people have the same dislike for tinsel as they do the Nazi's . There are however some things that are not personal and to spend over an hour deciding them when they are already decided for you is a waste of your weekend. For instance. Unless your tree is going to stand in the middle of your room, you only need three good sides. The amount of people who turned down a tree because one side had less branches, or too many branches, or was not bushy enough or too long, too short...the list goes on. What difference is it going to make? You're going to cover the tree in loud, sparkly tinsel, lights and baubles and then shove it next to the radiator, TV, sofa, table, wall...delete as appropriate. No one is going to see the "crap" side! This all stems from people wanted to impress their family and friends with their tree but these people have failed to notice the true icon of the living room during Christmas...the television. When anyone comes to your house to stay at Christmas they will politely say the tree looks wonderful and will always enjoy your food but in reality they are judging you on your television not your Norway Spruce. You could have a gold plated Christmas Tree with Kelly Brooke as the fairy on top but unless you've got a 52" flat-screen plasma surround sound with SKY plus you won't be getting a reciprocal invite next year.
One strange couple wanted their tree washed. Apparently they had found a tiny amount of mud on one of the branches and had decided they wanted to wash it off. This of course was to protect their beige lounge carpet. What was astonishing was that they couldn't understand that this was a bit weird. Of course the tree has mud on it. When it was chopped down it fell to one side and landed in the undergrowth then presumably was dragged from the Forest to the selling point. During this process I am sure a bit of mud accumulated on the branches somewhere. So we made them wash their own tree, to much amusement of the other customers. Of course what they didn't seem to understand is when it comes to packing the tree in the netting I would be dropping it on the floor. A floor that was covered in soil, sawdust and parts of previously packed trees. Being wet, this new debris would attach itself to the tree in greater quantities than the "mud" and give the tree a bread crumbed affect. Hey-ho they paid £65, they're the mugs.
I must admit that I have never been too fussed about the style of tree that I would cover in baubles. For this reason it amazed me when people would spend over an hour discussing and choosing their tree. In a way it is because they had too much choice. There were over 200 trees in the glass-house with another 50 still growing in the field outside should people want to chop one down or dig one up and put it in a pot. Also none of them were wrapped. So you could look at them in all their beauty. Perhaps though it was part of the fun of choosing. I know that those who came to Spithandle Nursery quite enjoyed the welcome, the tea, the music, the decorations, the lucky dip and the vast choice of trees but it didn't half make them picky. Imagine going to Homebase or B&Q for your tree. Yes, they would be cheaper but that's because they are rubbish. Plus you wouldn't actually know what your tree looked like because it was already wrapped. No, I didn't like the "choosy" people. I liked the people who embraced the weird shapes and sizes of the trees and understood that although a little decision making was required, in the end it didn't really matter.
At Spithandle there is more on offer than just choosing a tree. For children there is a lucky dip (sweets) and pony rides and for adults there were hot drinks and mince pies & biscuits. These were free and all we asked is that you kindly donate to the charity Action for Children which is the charity that Amy is running for in the London Marathon. Considering what people got from the experience I think many of them were rather tight on their charitable giving. They had something to drink, to eat, to keep the children happy. They had over 200 trees to choose from and we wrapped them and carried them to their cars. There was music, good cheer and on the Saturday Father Christmas turned up (I had brought my Father Christmas costume and throughout the afternoon I amused shoppers and scared children with a slightly underweight Saint Nick who for some reason spoke like Roger Moore. Apparently it was very funny so I kept it up for four hours.). For all this, I think in general they gave poorly for the experience. You'd get none of that at Homebase. Of course some people were very polite friendly and happy to give and we thank them for that but for those who just took a tea, mince pie, allowed their children to take a few too many sweets from the lucky dip and thought they were riding a donkey instead of a horse...you're not welcome back next year. For those people and to be fair there weren't that many, next year come buy your tree and then fuck off.
Buying a Christmas Tree is rarely an impulse buy. You know when you're off to get one. So if that's the case why don't people clear out their cars to allow room for the tree they plan to take home. When buying a tree there are two size constraints. The first is whether it will fit in the living room. The second is whether it will fit in the car. I believe these should be the other way around as most people clearly only thought about the house and forgot the car.
After the drama of selecting a tree comes the trauma of getting it home. The tree is constantly shedding needles. Carrying it home delicately is vital to ensuring that there are more needles on the tree than in the car boot. So with that in mind I was amazed to find people turning in up in hatchbacks and coupes hoping to take home a seven footer. I must have carried over a hundred trees back to peoples cars and every time I was greeted with a new challenge. I'm can't believe that christmas-tree-car-shoving didn't appear on The Crystal Maze and should the Generation Game make a timely re-appearance on BBC One the "art" may actually replace the sausage making machine game. It wasn't just that people had brought small cars. It's that the cars they brought were full of other stuff. Recycling boxes, bikes, pushchairs, grocery shopping, rubbish for the tip. One guy opened the boot of his Mazda two-door sports car to reveal golf clubs! It wasn't just "stuff" either. Selecting a tree was a family experience, although I'm not sure you need to bring your dog. Most came in couples so the back-seat and boot option was on. Those with kids, the dog and the shopping struggled a little but we managed to get every tree in, on or sticking out of every car. I couldn't understand why most people hadn't thought this through. It's not as if it was an impulse buy. The nursery was two miles from anything. There's no way you would have been driving past and thought "you know what, lets get a real tree". My favourite challenge was that of a two door sports car with soft-top. The roof retracts into the boot. The boot hasn't been cleaned out so there's rubbish, de-icer cans and random magazines taking up valuable room. The back seats fold down but there is only a 6 inch gap to slide things between the boot and the small back-seat area. It's raining...hard so we've ruled out putting the roof down. Oh did I mention she'd brought her dog which was sitting in the back and her elderly father in the front passenger seat. After recommending that she didn't try to shove it through the gap...she probably did but I don't know how she did it as after ten minutes and through her embarrassment she shoo-ed me away, so I left her to it. I can only assume she tied her father to the roof.
I am by no means an expert on Christmas trees. However within an hour of selling them, I was. The public assumed I knew something about them because I was selling them. I was pleased to continue this charade. I knew my non-drop from my spruces and jokingly informed people that there was a tree out there for everyone. Of course when I say "out there" I mean at this nursery and not at some rivals.
To keep with tradition I couldn't let 2009 go by without a visit to casualty. Those of you who know me best will be able to list all the broken bones and stitches I have required over the years. I have certainly got my monies worth from the NHS. This injury was new to me though. I managed to scratch my eye on one of the pine needles. The discomfort was instant but I was able to soldier on. However my eye kept wanting to close. It was if I had something in there but on inspection I could find anything. Waking up the next day my eye was watering and my vision blurred. I continued to work but staring at the computer and TV screens on my desk with my one good eye became tiresome and gave me a headache. So I left work and went to Kingston Hospital's Eye unit. The place was packed with patients. Clearly a lot of people had shoved a Christmas Tree in their eye over the weekend. The receptionist, who seemed to be behind two inch thick bullet proof glass, informed me that there would be a long wait, about three hours. I kind of guessed that was going to be the case but I was pleased that it was on works time and not my own. So I set off around reception reading all the posters, pondering which newspaper I would read and had a chat with the coffee lady to see if she was staying. She was dispensing drinks from a coffee cart and looked poised to move on to another part of the hospital at any time. I didn't want a coffee right now but I knew the buying and drinking process would kill some time after I'd read all the posters on eye diseases.
I was only there twenty minutes when the nurse called me in for a check-up to see how bad I was and decide where to put me in the three hour queue for the doctor. She squirted anesthesia into my eye which meant I couldn't feel it. It was strange. I don't knowingly feel my eye, it's just there. When I was supposed not to be able to feel it because of the anesthesia I actually felt the loss. Confusing I know, but I don't consciously breath. My body just makes it happen but as soon as I think about breathing it becomes all erratic. So a numbed eye is like that. You shouldn't feel it anymore but you do.
Anyway the nurse then looked in my eye and discovered that I'd scratched my cornea. The bodies natural defense for this is to close the eye to start repairs. The nurse also discovered a small amount of debris which she took out with a cotton bud. I have to admit at this stage that I was feeling a little unwell. I'm not a fan of anything in my eye. I didn't faint but I did feel sick. Then an eye test and thankfully I am still 20/20 in both eyes. This discovery coupled with the removal of tree from my eye meant that there was no meed for me to see or be seen by, the doctor. Excellent. All I had to do was squirt some gel type stuff in my eye every four hours and the eye would be fine in a week. I was quite relived it wasn't worse but not looking forward to putting stuff in my eye all week.
Next year I think the visit to casualty will be back to familiar territory with a broken bone or two and when I'm selling trees I plan to wear goggles.
HDM
Ordinarily I am not one to engage in Christmas until after my birthday on December 11th. However The Ranch is a fantastic place to visit and I was quite up for some manual labour. I've never seen so many Christmas Trees strung-up looking to lure a new owner, only to perish in a few weeks time. It's a strange thing to get picky about but people were very much concerned that the trees didn't lose their needles before Christmas. I assume Boxing Day they can drop away because no one is sober enough to care then but the panic people had about needle dropage was strange. I felt it improper, seeing as we were trying to sell these trees, to inform them that they were dead. Having been severed from their roots a few days ago, no amount of watering would preserve them further. They were dying and people were prepared to pay £65 to watch them die, slowly, over the next three weeks.
People have absurd requests when it comes to trees. They are all looking for their perfect tree and for most people, sadly, that means a tree which is symmetrical throughout. Something that nature is yet to produce and surely never will. If you want a symmetrical tree, you need to buy a fake one from Argos. Real trees are...were living entities and like humans come in all sorts of annoying shapes and sizes. Just ask any woman who's been dress shopping. No dress in any shop, anywhere in the world fits a woman perfectly. Every woman's shape is different, every tree shape is different. You purchase the one that's close enough. It's a compromise. Now buying a Christmas Tree is the same adventure. We don't grow trees with the corner of a two bed semi-detached bungalow's front room in mind. You need to pick one that you're quite happy to watch die and have got a plan on where to put it on January 1st.
I understand that choosing the right tree is a very personal thing. It has to be, as every home is different. Every bauble placement will be controversial and every set of lights will have a bulb broken and some people have the same dislike for tinsel as they do the Nazi's . There are however some things that are not personal and to spend over an hour deciding them when they are already decided for you is a waste of your weekend. For instance. Unless your tree is going to stand in the middle of your room, you only need three good sides. The amount of people who turned down a tree because one side had less branches, or too many branches, or was not bushy enough or too long, too short...the list goes on. What difference is it going to make? You're going to cover the tree in loud, sparkly tinsel, lights and baubles and then shove it next to the radiator, TV, sofa, table, wall...delete as appropriate. No one is going to see the "crap" side! This all stems from people wanted to impress their family and friends with their tree but these people have failed to notice the true icon of the living room during Christmas...the television. When anyone comes to your house to stay at Christmas they will politely say the tree looks wonderful and will always enjoy your food but in reality they are judging you on your television not your Norway Spruce. You could have a gold plated Christmas Tree with Kelly Brooke as the fairy on top but unless you've got a 52" flat-screen plasma surround sound with SKY plus you won't be getting a reciprocal invite next year.
One strange couple wanted their tree washed. Apparently they had found a tiny amount of mud on one of the branches and had decided they wanted to wash it off. This of course was to protect their beige lounge carpet. What was astonishing was that they couldn't understand that this was a bit weird. Of course the tree has mud on it. When it was chopped down it fell to one side and landed in the undergrowth then presumably was dragged from the Forest to the selling point. During this process I am sure a bit of mud accumulated on the branches somewhere. So we made them wash their own tree, to much amusement of the other customers. Of course what they didn't seem to understand is when it comes to packing the tree in the netting I would be dropping it on the floor. A floor that was covered in soil, sawdust and parts of previously packed trees. Being wet, this new debris would attach itself to the tree in greater quantities than the "mud" and give the tree a bread crumbed affect. Hey-ho they paid £65, they're the mugs.
I must admit that I have never been too fussed about the style of tree that I would cover in baubles. For this reason it amazed me when people would spend over an hour discussing and choosing their tree. In a way it is because they had too much choice. There were over 200 trees in the glass-house with another 50 still growing in the field outside should people want to chop one down or dig one up and put it in a pot. Also none of them were wrapped. So you could look at them in all their beauty. Perhaps though it was part of the fun of choosing. I know that those who came to Spithandle Nursery quite enjoyed the welcome, the tea, the music, the decorations, the lucky dip and the vast choice of trees but it didn't half make them picky. Imagine going to Homebase or B&Q for your tree. Yes, they would be cheaper but that's because they are rubbish. Plus you wouldn't actually know what your tree looked like because it was already wrapped. No, I didn't like the "choosy" people. I liked the people who embraced the weird shapes and sizes of the trees and understood that although a little decision making was required, in the end it didn't really matter.
At Spithandle there is more on offer than just choosing a tree. For children there is a lucky dip (sweets) and pony rides and for adults there were hot drinks and mince pies & biscuits. These were free and all we asked is that you kindly donate to the charity Action for Children which is the charity that Amy is running for in the London Marathon. Considering what people got from the experience I think many of them were rather tight on their charitable giving. They had something to drink, to eat, to keep the children happy. They had over 200 trees to choose from and we wrapped them and carried them to their cars. There was music, good cheer and on the Saturday Father Christmas turned up (I had brought my Father Christmas costume and throughout the afternoon I amused shoppers and scared children with a slightly underweight Saint Nick who for some reason spoke like Roger Moore. Apparently it was very funny so I kept it up for four hours.). For all this, I think in general they gave poorly for the experience. You'd get none of that at Homebase. Of course some people were very polite friendly and happy to give and we thank them for that but for those who just took a tea, mince pie, allowed their children to take a few too many sweets from the lucky dip and thought they were riding a donkey instead of a horse...you're not welcome back next year. For those people and to be fair there weren't that many, next year come buy your tree and then fuck off.
Buying a Christmas Tree is rarely an impulse buy. You know when you're off to get one. So if that's the case why don't people clear out their cars to allow room for the tree they plan to take home. When buying a tree there are two size constraints. The first is whether it will fit in the living room. The second is whether it will fit in the car. I believe these should be the other way around as most people clearly only thought about the house and forgot the car.
After the drama of selecting a tree comes the trauma of getting it home. The tree is constantly shedding needles. Carrying it home delicately is vital to ensuring that there are more needles on the tree than in the car boot. So with that in mind I was amazed to find people turning in up in hatchbacks and coupes hoping to take home a seven footer. I must have carried over a hundred trees back to peoples cars and every time I was greeted with a new challenge. I'm can't believe that christmas-tree-car-shoving didn't appear on The Crystal Maze and should the Generation Game make a timely re-appearance on BBC One the "art" may actually replace the sausage making machine game. It wasn't just that people had brought small cars. It's that the cars they brought were full of other stuff. Recycling boxes, bikes, pushchairs, grocery shopping, rubbish for the tip. One guy opened the boot of his Mazda two-door sports car to reveal golf clubs! It wasn't just "stuff" either. Selecting a tree was a family experience, although I'm not sure you need to bring your dog. Most came in couples so the back-seat and boot option was on. Those with kids, the dog and the shopping struggled a little but we managed to get every tree in, on or sticking out of every car. I couldn't understand why most people hadn't thought this through. It's not as if it was an impulse buy. The nursery was two miles from anything. There's no way you would have been driving past and thought "you know what, lets get a real tree". My favourite challenge was that of a two door sports car with soft-top. The roof retracts into the boot. The boot hasn't been cleaned out so there's rubbish, de-icer cans and random magazines taking up valuable room. The back seats fold down but there is only a 6 inch gap to slide things between the boot and the small back-seat area. It's raining...hard so we've ruled out putting the roof down. Oh did I mention she'd brought her dog which was sitting in the back and her elderly father in the front passenger seat. After recommending that she didn't try to shove it through the gap...she probably did but I don't know how she did it as after ten minutes and through her embarrassment she shoo-ed me away, so I left her to it. I can only assume she tied her father to the roof.
I am by no means an expert on Christmas trees. However within an hour of selling them, I was. The public assumed I knew something about them because I was selling them. I was pleased to continue this charade. I knew my non-drop from my spruces and jokingly informed people that there was a tree out there for everyone. Of course when I say "out there" I mean at this nursery and not at some rivals.
To keep with tradition I couldn't let 2009 go by without a visit to casualty. Those of you who know me best will be able to list all the broken bones and stitches I have required over the years. I have certainly got my monies worth from the NHS. This injury was new to me though. I managed to scratch my eye on one of the pine needles. The discomfort was instant but I was able to soldier on. However my eye kept wanting to close. It was if I had something in there but on inspection I could find anything. Waking up the next day my eye was watering and my vision blurred. I continued to work but staring at the computer and TV screens on my desk with my one good eye became tiresome and gave me a headache. So I left work and went to Kingston Hospital's Eye unit. The place was packed with patients. Clearly a lot of people had shoved a Christmas Tree in their eye over the weekend. The receptionist, who seemed to be behind two inch thick bullet proof glass, informed me that there would be a long wait, about three hours. I kind of guessed that was going to be the case but I was pleased that it was on works time and not my own. So I set off around reception reading all the posters, pondering which newspaper I would read and had a chat with the coffee lady to see if she was staying. She was dispensing drinks from a coffee cart and looked poised to move on to another part of the hospital at any time. I didn't want a coffee right now but I knew the buying and drinking process would kill some time after I'd read all the posters on eye diseases.
I was only there twenty minutes when the nurse called me in for a check-up to see how bad I was and decide where to put me in the three hour queue for the doctor. She squirted anesthesia into my eye which meant I couldn't feel it. It was strange. I don't knowingly feel my eye, it's just there. When I was supposed not to be able to feel it because of the anesthesia I actually felt the loss. Confusing I know, but I don't consciously breath. My body just makes it happen but as soon as I think about breathing it becomes all erratic. So a numbed eye is like that. You shouldn't feel it anymore but you do.
Anyway the nurse then looked in my eye and discovered that I'd scratched my cornea. The bodies natural defense for this is to close the eye to start repairs. The nurse also discovered a small amount of debris which she took out with a cotton bud. I have to admit at this stage that I was feeling a little unwell. I'm not a fan of anything in my eye. I didn't faint but I did feel sick. Then an eye test and thankfully I am still 20/20 in both eyes. This discovery coupled with the removal of tree from my eye meant that there was no meed for me to see or be seen by, the doctor. Excellent. All I had to do was squirt some gel type stuff in my eye every four hours and the eye would be fine in a week. I was quite relived it wasn't worse but not looking forward to putting stuff in my eye all week.
Next year I think the visit to casualty will be back to familiar territory with a broken bone or two and when I'm selling trees I plan to wear goggles.
HDM
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Comedy Improv
Comedy Improv. Yet another adventure that I'm on, that is difficult to explain to people.
It is literally making-up comedy sketches from nothing, in front of a live audience. Sometimes it fails but 89%* of the time it's hilarious. Six or so Improvisers take suggestions from the audience or pluck inspiration from the air, to create fasinating characters and platforms. It's like performing a theatrical farce but you have no script. You don't know how it will start or end.
One term, that is flying about, is "throw-away" theatre. Where what is performed on stage can be viewed only once, in that exact moment and often never re-created and so is "thrown-away". That part is true but I don't like the term as it may also suggest that Improv is rubbish which it certainly is NOT.
Improv is the most free act of performing I have ever seen. There is no script or lyrics or rhythm to stick to. It is un-planned and un-rehearsed. You need a quick & open mind, confidence, commitment, imagination, comedy timing and balls-of-steal. Attempting to perform an hour long show, to a paying audience isn't easy but it is immensely rewarding.
When some people think of Comedy Improv they think of "Whose line is it anyway?" and for a quick explanation that may be fine. However that program mainly deals in quick games that provide quick laughs usually surrounding bodily functions or embarrassment. That's OK for that programme but there's a reason it's only 24mins long. For live Comedy Improv you need to create characters and scenes that the audience can believe in and care about so they can join you on your adventure. You can also chuck-in a few of the "games" as you go along...anything is an offer on stage, in Improv.
In the last 12 months I have performed in London and at The Edinburgh Festival and enjoy it far more than when I did stand-up comedy. You can still catch me performing once or twice a month in London. It is a nice little hobby. Something to stretch the mind. I have been lucky/talented enough to have been asked to perform in other troupes and look forward to meeting and playing with new Improvisers. Currently you can catch me with the Spontaneity Shop's "Dance Monkey Dance" troupe and "Improbubble".
Wow, what a time I've had getting-up on stage in front of complete strangers and making-up characters and scenes that have people in tears of laughter. The greatest compliments I've received, regarding my performance, is that people just can't believe we've made it up. They say to us after the show "you must have scripted that, it was too good" but we don't. We don't script anything, we're just great Improvisers.
I like not knowing what is going to happen, before, during and generally after a show. It is an exciting hobby. It is as dangerous mentally, as Cheese-Roll-chasing is physically but with the same hilarious consequences.
Catch me where you can.
HDM
* 89% a statistic plucked from the air, made-up...Improvised.
It is literally making-up comedy sketches from nothing, in front of a live audience. Sometimes it fails but 89%* of the time it's hilarious. Six or so Improvisers take suggestions from the audience or pluck inspiration from the air, to create fasinating characters and platforms. It's like performing a theatrical farce but you have no script. You don't know how it will start or end.
One term, that is flying about, is "throw-away" theatre. Where what is performed on stage can be viewed only once, in that exact moment and often never re-created and so is "thrown-away". That part is true but I don't like the term as it may also suggest that Improv is rubbish which it certainly is NOT.
 |
| From Comedy Improv |
Improv is the most free act of performing I have ever seen. There is no script or lyrics or rhythm to stick to. It is un-planned and un-rehearsed. You need a quick & open mind, confidence, commitment, imagination, comedy timing and balls-of-steal. Attempting to perform an hour long show, to a paying audience isn't easy but it is immensely rewarding.
When some people think of Comedy Improv they think of "Whose line is it anyway?" and for a quick explanation that may be fine. However that program mainly deals in quick games that provide quick laughs usually surrounding bodily functions or embarrassment. That's OK for that programme but there's a reason it's only 24mins long. For live Comedy Improv you need to create characters and scenes that the audience can believe in and care about so they can join you on your adventure. You can also chuck-in a few of the "games" as you go along...anything is an offer on stage, in Improv.
In the last 12 months I have performed in London and at The Edinburgh Festival and enjoy it far more than when I did stand-up comedy. You can still catch me performing once or twice a month in London. It is a nice little hobby. Something to stretch the mind. I have been lucky/talented enough to have been asked to perform in other troupes and look forward to meeting and playing with new Improvisers. Currently you can catch me with the Spontaneity Shop's "Dance Monkey Dance" troupe and "Improbubble".
 |
| From Comedy Improv |
Wow, what a time I've had getting-up on stage in front of complete strangers and making-up characters and scenes that have people in tears of laughter. The greatest compliments I've received, regarding my performance, is that people just can't believe we've made it up. They say to us after the show "you must have scripted that, it was too good" but we don't. We don't script anything, we're just great Improvisers.
I like not knowing what is going to happen, before, during and generally after a show. It is an exciting hobby. It is as dangerous mentally, as Cheese-Roll-chasing is physically but with the same hilarious consequences.
Catch me where you can.
HDM
* 89% a statistic plucked from the air, made-up...Improvised.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Too much to mention
I will be updating very shortly the events of the Hercules DeMontford. It has all been too much with my new job and moving in with my girlfriend.
Tinkering away at the computer has had to take a back seat. The tales will flow shortly. Sign up for updates.
HDM
Tinkering away at the computer has had to take a back seat. The tales will flow shortly. Sign up for updates.
HDM
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Dad buys stuff in his retirement
In his well earned retirement my father has decided to surround himself with gadgets and toys that at best he may only tinker with at least once a week.
He has long been an accomplished drummer and photographer. These I would say are his main hobbies. Owning three drumkits already and with drums changing little in the 2million years that they have been around means his pension hasn't gone on new kits. Photography however just keeps on developing and the tech companies out there just keep producing new shiny kit that a man in his retirement doesn't really need to save up for anymore.
So three SLR's have come and gone. One of which I have received with much gratatued. He has now settled on a 12 mega-pixal SLR costing a stupid amount of money but it doesn't stop there. No as he constantly informs me it's the lenses that make a camera. You wouldn't believe the money you could blow on a lens. His latest aquastition is two foot long. From his back garden in Wales he can now take photos of the birds, in France.
The pictures from it are amazing. His collection of lions after a kill in Africa, would rival any professional nature photographer. While on safari he actually had to encourage the Zebras to "go back a bit" because they were too close. My father's eyesight is not at it's best but you can't miss when the lens is longer than your arm.
With camera advancements slowing down my father has now decided to branch out musically. A professional drummer (as in he's done paid gigs) he also plays the guitar and harmonica. Onm the face of it I have been a huge dissapointment to him as I can play no musical instruments. Although I am a good strong singer. For last Christmas my father bought me a bass guitar, a fantastic present but perhaps twenty years too late. I still plan to learn how to play the bass and to perform a few times in a real band or at least in a band, on stage at some point. My Dad's recent instrument can be tuned 67 different ways...he's bought a Banjo and starngley he can actually play it. With no lessons whatsoever.
So expect some Banjo action next time you see DeMontford senior.
HDM
He has long been an accomplished drummer and photographer. These I would say are his main hobbies. Owning three drumkits already and with drums changing little in the 2million years that they have been around means his pension hasn't gone on new kits. Photography however just keeps on developing and the tech companies out there just keep producing new shiny kit that a man in his retirement doesn't really need to save up for anymore.
So three SLR's have come and gone. One of which I have received with much gratatued. He has now settled on a 12 mega-pixal SLR costing a stupid amount of money but it doesn't stop there. No as he constantly informs me it's the lenses that make a camera. You wouldn't believe the money you could blow on a lens. His latest aquastition is two foot long. From his back garden in Wales he can now take photos of the birds, in France.
The pictures from it are amazing. His collection of lions after a kill in Africa, would rival any professional nature photographer. While on safari he actually had to encourage the Zebras to "go back a bit" because they were too close. My father's eyesight is not at it's best but you can't miss when the lens is longer than your arm.
With camera advancements slowing down my father has now decided to branch out musically. A professional drummer (as in he's done paid gigs) he also plays the guitar and harmonica. Onm the face of it I have been a huge dissapointment to him as I can play no musical instruments. Although I am a good strong singer. For last Christmas my father bought me a bass guitar, a fantastic present but perhaps twenty years too late. I still plan to learn how to play the bass and to perform a few times in a real band or at least in a band, on stage at some point. My Dad's recent instrument can be tuned 67 different ways...he's bought a Banjo and starngley he can actually play it. With no lessons whatsoever.
 |
| From Dad buys a Banjo |
So expect some Banjo action next time you see DeMontford senior.
HDM
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