Sunday, 27 February 2011

liminal collies

Deborah Harvey told me that Ronnie Goodyer, over at Indigo Dreams, is putting together a book about Border Collies in aid of Border Collie Rescue. She thought I might have some collie pictures lying around, and she was quite right. And while I was thinking about it, I wrote this poem, about the now long-dead Bessie, who features (reluctantly) in this picture.


So much life behind those loopy eyes,
I thought, and bodged the hole you'd dug right through the door,
The night they let the fireworks off and I was out.

Always the mad, bad friend, the one that dragged me cringing
Through adventures that I'd never have had if it hadn't been for you.
There's me, mopping up the mess and picking up the pieces,
Accepting your so-rueful and bewildered "Had to do..."

And weren't you in a frenzy in the van, though?
I put a porthole in the side of it,
To stop you dribbling on my shoulder leaning out.
Nose in the wind through the whole damned celtic twilight zone,
From Mallaig down to Bantry, never missed a smell.

How the hell did we get mixed up in those armoured cars?
Driving into Derry, the soldiers hanging out of hatches,
Swinging their guns aside, going "Wuff. Wuff."



Monday, 21 February 2011

dawn chorus

There are signs of spring all over the place, and I can hear blackbirds over the sound of the radio in the medium-sized hours of the morning- three o'clock, or so. Here's a little sample; robins and blackbirds, and the city starting to wake up.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

cries in the dark at night



I was so deep asleep that I took a while to work out where I was when I woke up. And then a little longer to realise that the screamings outside were foxes, doing what foxes do at this time of the year. By the time I'd got the PDA recording, they'd almost finished, but here's a little sample of the sound. Saounds vaguely like a tawny owl, doesn't it?

Wednesday, 26 January 2011

the big game of cycling

Others, I am not the first,
Have willed more mischief than they durst...

Here in Cycling City, we get the occasional 'robust debate' about bicycles and cars, chiefly on the Bristol Evening Post website, a habitat that has proved congenial to all sorts of pond dwelling creatures; here, for instance, is a look at a 'discussion' that went on last year about cyclists.

A recent newcomer to this discussion was Kayla Maratty, over at the Bristol 24-7 website. In a piece entitled 'My homicidal tendencies towards cyclists aside, the tuition fees fight goes on’, she says

"Part of me would take great pleasure in mowing them down when they choose to cycle in the middle of the road or are determined to peddle all the wayup Black Boy Hill. But obviously I would never do that; I can get by just on the thought of it to restrain my road rage."
It is refreshing to see a bit of honesty about how some drivers feel about cyclists. I weighed in with some encouragement:

I find that revving the engine aggressively and then passing them so close that you ping them with your wing mirror is rather fun, and helps you feel better about yourself.
They'll probably pass *you*, two minutes later, when you get stuck in another static queue of traffic , but hey, live for the moment, I say!
(sadly, my comment was deleted. It's per-litickle kreckness gone mad I tells you)

Kayla's article was removed not long after, at her request, because she found the responses upsetting. The editor characterised the behaviour of the commentators as 'bullying'. You will be unable to make up your own mind about that, of course.

Well, it did get me thinking. And what I thought was, let's have a look at cyclist-hunting as a blood sport. Because, deep down, you know we all have a violent self that revels in meting out destruction and pain.

And the more I look, the more sense it makes. I mean, you can't hunt foxes with hounds anymore. It's far too expensive. Oh, and against the law. Sort of.

Shooting? If you want to go bagging pheasants, say, it would cost you about £30 or so per bird, and you would expect to pay £400 upwards for a day's shooting.

Stag hunting is even worse. You'd reckon to pay around £150 for a day's shooting, but, when you pay extra for every point on the stag's antler's, it'll cost a lot more; the lucky chap who shot the Emperor of Exmoor would expect to have paid £1600, but you could be charged up to £10,000.

If you decide to go freelance, as it were, and go out hunting while the gamekeepers lie a-sleeping, then it could be a lot cheaper. But if you got caught, then it would probably cost you about £2,500 per deer, with the chance of three months imprisonment per deer killed thrown in for good measure.

Let's face it, the wise money goes elsewhere. Cyclists are plentiful and easily bagged. And, like deer, they're big enough and usually intelligent enough to show anger, fear and other such emotions when they realise that they're about to be bagged. Which adds to the sport.

And how much does it cost? Well, if you knock one off and injure them, you might expect to pay, say, £10 for a quick respray of the scratched bit of the car. Though if you choose to stop and talk to the cyclist, then you may even end up getting them to pay for the damage, though you can't rely on it; chances are the cyclist won't be insured. The police tend to be sympathetic. Just remember the mantra: "Sorry, mate, I didn't see you". Works like a charm.

If you manage to kill them, then the worst case scenario is that you may find yourself charged with 'causing death by dangerous driving'. There is an outside chance that you will even be convicted, though with mitigating factors thrown in, and obviously with the cyclist being unable to put their side of the case, you may end up with a bit of community service.

You see? -a bit of a no-brainer, isn't it?






Friday, 7 January 2011

nightingale and bombers

I was looking for this recording online, and had some difficulty finding it. So when I did, I recorded it, and here it is.

Recorded on the night of 19 May 1942, when BBC engineers visited a wood in Surrey to record nightingales singing. The microphones also picked up the approach of the Bomber Command force heading for Mannheim, a raid by 197 aircraft including Wellingtons, Stirlings, Halifaxes, Hampdens, Lancasters and Manchesters, of which 11 failed to return


Monday, 3 January 2011

dropping off the radar

Funny thing; last time I wrote about Wavid Dalliams and Latt Mucas (to Spoonerise the chaps in question) the post in question became mysteriously invisible to Google. And a similar thing happened today, when I wrote this; earlier today, it was very near the top of the first Google page if you entered a few key words; now it is nowhere to be seen unless you enter some very specific terms.

Just saying. If you fancy linking to the post in question to see if it will become more visible, then who am I to say no? I'm not entirely sure I know what's going on here, but it seems odd that a voice from within the 'trans community' should be nobbled when it is critical of a self-appointed spokesperson for that community....



Sunday, 19 December 2010

the transsexual agenda


Normally I admire the Christian Institute (one bloke and his cat, in Brentwood) for their commitment to spreading the message of truth, sweetness and reason. But I feel a bit left out after reading one of their recent posts about LGBT liaison officers in the Gwent police force, who are (says our correspondent (or maybe the cat)) tasked with "promoting the homosexual agenda to other officers".

I am disappointed that they are not promoting the transsexual agenda too, I must say. Still, I'm working on it. Well, it is an agenda, after all. My cunning plan is to turn everyone transsexual, by putting stuff in the water supply. But it's a bit of a secret, so don't tell, will you?

Another cunning plan I've been trying out, inspired by James Russell, author of a very good book on all things cider-related, is mulled cider. As you see from the picture above, I'm not the only one; this was in the Cotham Porter Stores on a cold and frosty evening a few days ago.

At home, I have been heating up cider with brown sugar, rum, cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and cloves (a musical combination, there ). Very warming, on these cold winter nights, let me tell you. But be careful, it might turn you transsexual. Or something.