"Authentic"

 

 

The Voodoo Doll.

I have no idea what possessed me to make a small stuffed person.

I need a pattern.

'Can't you just draw one?'

Yes, I could draw one, but I want it to look recognisably humanoid.

If you were to type 'small stuffed person' into your interositor viewing screen the consequence may be having your name added to a list.

I found the shape I was looking for under 'Voodoo Doll':

I printed it on to card, picked up the scissors, stuck my tongue through my thined out lips, and cut it out.

On my return from A&E...

I decided that a sort of banket stitch might do the trick... whatever 'blanket stitch' might be.

I have a vague idea that 'blanket stitch' maybe related to blankets and spend sometime examining all the blankets we possess.

My findings were inconclusive.

I consulted the interwebs, studied various confusing diagrams, and decided I had reached the confidence level required to attempt 'blanket stitch', or some variant thereof

I pined the two halves together - actually I did this before I cut my tongue out - and set about 'blanket stitching'.

I've, up till now, sewed and then unpicked it 4 bloody times now.

To be cont. as sone as I get 'blanket stitch' together a little better than is currently the cas.

 

A 'Very Worthing' Protest.... (Updated)

I received a message from Bamboo Band HQ. We are requested to perform at a consciousness raising event in support of Greenpeace's Anti-Fracking campaign.

I have a vague idea that Fracking maybe a bad thing, especially if one lives in the beucolic biss afforded in the folds of the South Downs.... It would wreak havoc with the golf and may frighten the horses.

I'm against Fracking because it just seems like another dead end in terms of powering the future.

I like windmills. I like great big white windmills. If there's one thing I like more than great big white windmills it's hundreds of great big white windmills standing in the sea with ships weaving in and out of them.

Linda's a Greenpeace supporter and will stop to talk to any of the dreadlocked-crusty-trustifarians that occasionally leave their Hobbit holes in Brighton and come to do Eco-missionary work on the streets of Bognor Regis.

I'm generally sympathetic to their cause, but, having joined more than my fair share of crazy cults, I can spot one when I see one.

We arrive in a car park some short way from the rendezvous point outside Worthing Railway Station. I am in rapture. Teville Gate....

And was dystopia builded here...? As Jonathan Meades said in his series on Brutalism, "the sheer joylessness is thrilling'. It certainly is. I think it maybe because I grew up in the countryside, and thereby developed an unromantic view of the place, that I find this kind of completely urban environment endlessly fascinating. I'd have done the gig right here.

The multi-story car park is another wonder, but the sun was behind it, so I didn't take a picture.

We are early. I didn't known what to expect, but was somewhat relived not to find baying hordes of balaclava-clad Eco-warriors manning the barricades against the forces of repression bent on carving up the planet for the shareholders.

I took a picture of Linda:

I didn't notice the horns.

We went for a coffee in the cafe over the road from the station. It was as 'tradition' a British cafe as one could hope to visit... In fact it was over the top British, right down to the proprietors handlebar moustache.

I drink what I used to call a 'milky coffee', but now know I should refer to it as a 'latte' if I don't want to be taken for an unsophisticated dullard.

I read the Sun 'newspaper'. It's filled with bile about the odious PR Guru Max Clifford's fall from grace. Watch out when your hand becomes the only food left to feed the monster with.

Lord James Bamboo turns up and we decamp to the event.

We look around, can't see much going on, then I notice a small group of middle aged people in kagools shuffling leaflets. Guess who?

The activists activate by doning Greenpeace tabards and hold up a large sign reading "Stop Fracking!". The Bamboo Band twang into action:

We play for two hours solid becoming most animated when ever a train unloads it's passengers.

Then the forces of repression make their move. The station manger tells the organisers that 'the music can't be playing on Southern Rail property'. Southern Rail property seemingly defined by the perimeter of the station entrance canopy. We step outside the perimeter and start playing 'Can't Beat The Bamboo Band'.

I am upbraided by a callow youth of a protester who suggests that it was politically incorrect of me to describe the station master as the 'Fat Controller'. I explain that I am an unsophisticated dullard and know no better.

There's a more convincing protestor type with us now. He is wearing a pink hat and, I'm told, was at one of the really big protests where some nice middle class people got in a bit of a tizzy about the possible intention of a company to maybe consider Fracking in their back gardens.

I don't mean to be cynical. These are committed people that want to stop our planet being exploited for, relitively, short term gains.

Here's the thing though... I worked on an oil rig. My employers were contracted to clean it. It was a German rig, highly efficient, required high standards from the contractors.

I cleaned it to with in an inch of it's life 3 times a week. One of the crew was a Texan. He looked like he was wearing a Stetson, even when he wasn't. 'God damn!', he said at me, 'this is a oil rig sir, an' you makin' it look like a high class whore house'. And yes, he really was that stereotypical.

Why is this relevant?

It's relevant because that drilling rig was in woodlands in the Sussex Downs. Right in the middle of one of those bucolic folds. They were drilling about a mile going down and then about a mile going along.

The site puts out just over 100* barrels a day. If they got the hole right that should increase to 300+*.

(* I may have got these figures wrong, but I think the differential is about right.)

No one, but no one even raised an eyebrow.

Update:

From the Worthing Herald: Worthing Against Fracking

 

Mission Accomplished: The Margate Shell Grotto.

I can't remember when the idea of visiting The Margate Shell Grotto entered my head, but it's been there quite a few years.

 

So, to Margate, the shell grotto, and the paper guide:

• Discovered: 1835
• Number of shells: 4.6 million
• Length: 104ft
• Date of construction: Unknown

The Grade I-listed Shell Grotto opened to the public in 1838 and has remained a privately-owned attraction since.

As yet, no documents that mention the Grotto and pre-date it's discovery have been found: no correspondence, no maps, nothing to date the construction of the Grotto beyond doubt.

So, for the time being, theories on the Grotto's origins are just that: theories, .

We do not know who made it, when or why.

A walk through:

 

I couldn't resist applying some spooky organ music to the film.

Margate's... certainly living through 'interesting' times.

 

Philosophy 101: Fan Mail.

A reader writes...

;-)) Perfect!

 

Baffled by Banished

Mr. Banished left a some what enigmatic comment on my (as yet unfinished) rambling post about the creative possibilities offered by the iPad.

 

I followed the link he supplied and found this picture:

That's Nick Lowe that is...

 

I really have no idea what Mr. Banished is on about:

I really don't .

 

Ignorant Ornithology: The Moth.

I believe this to be a moth:

OSM Ind: R and D Unit: Foot Operated Finger Cymbal Tinger. Proof of Concept Model.

I'm sure that, like me, many millions of people consider their lives poor and wretched things for the want of ability to ting finger cymbals whist their hands are occupied playing a musical instrument.

It's a curse I tell you.

This device sprang into my head the other night so I built this proof of concept model to demonstrate that the idea works.

Side View

From the rear

I had to use cable ties for the links as I don't have enough appropriate Mecanno:

Colour Coded for Operators' Safety

"Does it work then?":

( N.B. It does if I embed the YouTube version of the film rather than Blogger upload.)

Not as well as it might, but this is proof of concept for me.

I wonder how long this will take me to satisfactory conclusion?

Brimham Rocks. Burn Baby, Burn.

The comments on the 'A Photo Opportunity Presents Its Self' found me thinking of Nidderdale and, more specifically, Brimham Rocks.

I was born about four miles away from this odd place.

In those pre-National Trust days the site was owned by a bloke known locally as Essy.

Occasionally, usually when the sun was out, Essy would sit in a small wooden shelter at the end of the track leading to the rocks and collect a small fee from visitors, I think it was about a shilling, for the privilege of wandering about the place.

Most of the time he wasn't there though.

The tribe I belonged to all those years ago would periodically band together and go bilberry picking at Brimham.

I would retun home with my hands and tongue indelibly stained purple .

For many of my growing up years regular motor-bike trials were held there.

Just try riding a motor-bike there nowadays.

I dare you.

During my heavy MTB phase I attempted to ride up to the rocks and was pounced on by a bearded NT jobs-worth driving a Suzuki 4x4 (olive green, natch).

He proceeded to give a lecture on the erosion caused by bicycles.

In my response to his spouting I used the word irony in the correct context for the first, and probably last, time.

A television drama, Tom Grattan's War, used Brimham Rocks for some scenes.
Through the magic of television the protagonists would run past the rocks and down to the beach and restless ocean.

For a while, after the series had aired, confused visitors to the area would stop local inhabitants (like me) asking 'where can I find the beach?'

All us locals would reply by pointing to the East saying 'It's 70 miles that way' then, pointing to the West, "or 70 miles that way'.

Oh, how we laughed one and all in those far off days.

Incidentally, during the filming of Tom Grattan's War, my Granny was put in a flat spin on seeing an unannounced platoon of WW 1 soldiers marching past her *isolated cottage on Stripe Lane.

For a moment she believed the boys had finally made it home.

She enjoyed the series though.

I've witnessed some amazing feats of climbing at Brimham.

More often than not by a guy called Wally.

I would watch carefully where he found hand and foot holds as he danced up the rock face.

When I went for the same holds they seemed to have vanished.

I wonder what happened to Wally?

(I'm not in a rush to find out BTW).

This brings me to one of the reasons for this post.

Mr. Banished mentioned that some scenes from one of The Omen films were shot there.

This reminded me of Burn.

Burn, how can I put this in way that will neither offend anyone, living or dead, or leave me open to being sued?

Burn spent a good proportion of his waking hours either chemically or herbally 'refreshed' and, much to the amusement of those around him, lived in a reality somewhat removed from the actual fact.

Not that we, his friends, were 'unrefreshed' it's just Burn took it to another level, and stayed there.

I am slumped a squalid bed-sit, not mine I hasten to add, I lived in a proper house with windows and running water.

Others, like me, but unlike me, are also slumped around the room.

We were digging Rip Rig & Panic maaaannnn.

The door burst open causing the occupants of the room to dash in headlong animation for the various precious wraps and bags they'd invested their disposable income on.

Bad move BTW.
Leave your stash exactly where it is if you find yourself visited by the redoubtable forces of law and order.

'What, me officer? No, I have no illegal substances about my person, unlike these drug fiends who kidnapped me and forced me, against my will i might add, to ingest their foul concoctions and perform actions so abhorrent to my nature that I shall spend the rest of my days ruminating on the follies I have been exposed to in this room.

Can I go home now, please?'

Anyway, it wasn't 'dem Babylon, it was Burn.

Burn is breathless with excitement.

He has cycled at breakneck speed (about 11 miles as the Burn flies) to deliver his news.

He'd just been to Brimham Rocks and seen the Bee Gees!

The room became strangely silent, all attention on Burn.

'You've fuckin' lost it Burn'.

I can't remember who said that, but it seemed to be the general consensus.

Burn insisted and insisted he'd seen the Bee Gees at Brimham Rocks.

Eventually, in the face of merciless taunting, Burn did 'loose it' and stormed out of the squalid bed-sit which, if memory serves, was actually his.

Oh, how we laughed one and all in those far off days.

One Saturday morning, watching SwapShop with my children, Noel Edmunds (I may be wrong, it might have been that Scofield fellow) announces the first British TV airing of the latest Bee Gees video for their song 'You Win Again':

Blink and you'd miss it, but the Bee Gees were most definitely at Brimham Rocks.

Some time later I ran into a very 'refreshed' Burn (pills by now, lots of pills).

'You were right about the Bee Gees being at Brimham Rocks!'

'Wha' dafuq U talkin' 'bout? Yer' fuckin' mental you'

This is the last conversation I had with Burn.

I don't need anyone to tell me what happened to Burn.

I know without looking.

*When my Granny lived there Swallow Cottage looked nothing like it does in the Estate Agent's ad.
It didn't have a bathroom or inside toilet for a start.

Banana 45

I'm worried about this banana.

It's been in the same position for 3 days (it's a little bit browner now).

I can't bananas.

That is, I can eat bananas, but my body rejects them alarmingly quickly via the same route as they when in.

Doesn't really matter as I'd have been reluctant to eat this particular banana anyway.

Who placed this banana here?

Did someone drop it, then another someone pick it up and place it in its current position,

I may never know.

Truly the world is filled with mystery.

The Photograph.

I was attending to the duties todays Modern Cloak-Room Attendant has to attend to when providing Premier Cloak-Room Attendant Services to, let's say, a charity ball (in aid of something or other).

I was buffing up the Cloak-Room counter top, having given it a good blast of Mr. Sheen (now with added something or other).

Hmmm...  Shiny, also silky smoooooth.

I was interrupted in my shiny counter stroking reverie by a photographer.
The photographer was there to take pictures of the guests.
He had the works with him.
Tin-foil umbrella with a flash bulb in it.
A special backdrop for the subject to stand in front of.
He had some fancy dress clothing for the guests wear  there by adding an element of amusement to the finished photo.
He would then have to sell them the photo.

I set up a 4' table for him and coved it with a green baize cloth.
He put his printer on it.
Here we see him examining his whopping great camera:

All well and good, but back to his interruption of my joy.

"Could you just stand in front of the screen while I just check everything's set up right?"

"No problem, sir".  

I stand in front of the screen, he aims the camera at me, and the flash goes.

The photographer examines the camera's view screen.

"Just one more, please".

"Happy to oblige."

All over.

I continued preparing my work area.

I gave the shiny counter another stroke.

The photographer came up to the Cloak-Room window and handed me a framed photograph:

It came as a bit of a shock I can tell you.
That's naked that is.

Have you noticed how you can look at your self in a mirror, but still never see yourself.

Photographs are different.

It reminded me of my first school picture:

There's, give or take a month or three, 50 years between these two pictures.

I tried to think about what on earth I could proffer in the way of advice to that happy little lad.

I'm still trying.

Pre-New Year Vacuum.

The house guests have gone.
Any food stuff that involved chocolate in its ingredients has been eaten.

There's still some sprouts left if anybody wants any.

The television is full of people from uncanny valley.

I discovered an ongoing tragic drama going on right under my nose.
On the dining table to be exact.

I don't know where these two characters came from:

They stand about on the table waiting to have salt or pepper shaken out of them.

I noticed that, once separated, they looked distressed and seemed to be searching for one another:

Then one of them would see the other:

And everybody lived happily ever after:

I think I may have developed some kind of 'cabin fever'

So That Was Xmas.

Bad light by the bins.

Linda says I have to stop being a Viking now:

Back In The Old Routine.

Three days of Modern Cloak-Room Attending coming up:

I was booked for last Saturday, but due to circumstances beyond my control I gave it a miss.

I'm not sure what went on at the event, but these were left behind:

My granny would have called them 'orthopaedic boots'.

There was also an unusual serving tray left in the toilet-roll cupboard: 

Hmmm, The Wife of Bath indeed.

Obviously the situation required a thorough investigation.
Sadly I was unable to pursue the leads as a female guest, somewhat worse for drink, fell down, and required an ambulance for her broken wrist.
It seems part of my duties require me to do the emergency call.

Later on a male guest, somewhat the worse for drink, fell down, and required an ambulance for his head-wound.

My life is just to exciting!

Beeswax Polishing.

Compulsive obsession seems to be a recent theme in my life whether it be collecting vintage crockery or beautifying rubbish.
I've now got a new one to add to the list, polishing wooden things with this stuff:

It's expensive, but well worth the outlay as it transforms lacklustre bits of timber into silky smooth objects of beauty.

The first items to get the treatment were the wooden box files I've begun staining and decorating:

The picture doesn't do them justice really.

They actually seem to glow.

Sat here looking at them I realise something.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to store in them when they're finished.

All seven of them.

I'll consider that while I'm polishing the rest of the wooden things in the room.

Beautiful Rubbish.

Linda came back from a shopping trip carrying everything she'd purchased in the type of flimsy wooden crate used for transporting soft fruit from Spain to our muddy little island.

Under normal circumstances I'd have broken it up as it would've made perfect fire-lighting kindling in these dark winter days.
I hate doing that though.
I decided to 'work' on it instead.

Needs a bit of tea staining to beef up the colour perhaps:

After which it looked like this:

That's to say, somewhat disappointing.

If in doubt paint it with white emulsion:

Hmmmm.

I have no idea why I've gone to all this trouble, but feel I may be developing some kind of compulsive disorder.

I've decided to store all the old baked bean tins and glass jars I've collected in it for now.

The Appointment to Discuss My Condition Arrives.

It's official.
I have the piece of paper in my hand.
I have read it carefully.
It's quite boring really, except for this bit:

If you have been referred to Neurology for diagnosis of blackouts or funny turns, it would be very helpful if you could bring along an eye witness to the appointment or if not possible a written account of the attacks from an eye witness.

I hadn't realised that "funny turns" qualified as a bone-fide medical condition.
I have 'views' on stand-up comedians and am all in favour of many of them receiving some form of medical attention, possibly long-term, preferably residential.

And now, a prediction.

I predict that no concrete diagnosis relating to my condition will be made at this appointment.

Tea-Stained Box Files.

I have no idea how I've managed to accumulate 9 wooden box files.
I think I may have bought them in Ikea.
I'm usually pretty good at not buying things in Ikea until I get to the market-place bit then it's "Oh look, several items for less than £5!"
By the time that's happened a few times I end up having spent more than I can sensibly afford on superficially useful crap I don't really need.

Which is how I probably ended up with 9 wooden box files.
I suppose they may have more cachet now that the secrets out about Ikea "inadvertently" allowing East German political prisoners to manufacture their exciting modern life-style products.

I have already had a go at decorating two of these redundant box files with varying degrees of success (one 'worked' the other didn't) so I thought it was about time I finished the job.
Nothing elaborate, just a tea-stain and a bit of stencilling perhaps.

This is what they look like before and after treatment:

That's after two coats of tea stain and two coats of wire wool/vinegar stain.

I'm not sure what to stencil on them but here's what it may end up looking like:

This of course is all very well, but a problem remains.

What on earth am I going to put in them when the job's done?

The winter evenings will just fly by.

Netball Goal Attack Death Stare.

Last night was very cold and the moon was one sunrise past fat.
Linda wanted to get the extra blankets from the box under the telly so there'd be a reduced risk of waking up to find out we'd become frozen corpses.

There was an accident:

Linda's favourite vase (which qualifies as a "collectable") was broken.

That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

(No, I'm not suggesting Linda is in any way, shape, or form as unto a camel).

Linda is very cross.

The kind of cross that is evident only in the eyes of an otherwise outwardly calm and still person.

Bit like a coiled spring perhaps?

I imagine the chimney companies representatives sat in their respective homes, watching T.V. or maybe  having a spot of dinner, relaxed, comfortable, and completely unaware that someone with a chainsaw handling certificate was thinking very dark thoughts about them.

Thankfully the drama didn't unfold into a bloodstained crisis 

(again).

Linda spoke quietly to the chimney companies representatives explaining to them that she considered their surveyor to be at fault for not noticing the two chimneys were connected:

I haven't seen the chimney companies representatives for sometime now.

I can hear something that sounds like "FOR GOD"S SAKE HELP US!!!" coming over from Longbrook Park.

Last time I saw Linda she said she was taking a friend out to lunch:

A Series of Events Involving Ukuleles and Ladies Underwear.

Third Sunday in the month again so, Wukulele again.
It only seems like last week I was rambling on about the wonderful Wukulele jam.
Suffice to say it was as wonderful as ever.
I become embarrassingly over-ethusiastic at this event and say and do foolish things that draw attention to me.
I can't help it.
I am embarrassingly over-enthusiastic.
It's one of my endearing features.

Another feature of this event was the first trip out with my NEW TOY!:

Yes, I always look this cool.

It's a Concert sized resonator uke and it's fabulous, fabulous, fabulous!

I've blogged about my financial hard-times but, after the last few weeks, my attitude to the whole situation has changed.

I managed to dig myself out of an impending hole by not actually digging the hole in the first place.

I sold everything that wasn't screwed down, I stopped smoking and if any kind of work was offered I said "YES!".

I'm not being self-righteous about this, I just did what was necessary to get myself out of a situation I shouldn't have let myself get into in the first place.

During the great (long overdue) musical instrument sell-off the one instrument I regretted having to sell was my resonator guitar.

I love the 'bark' that type of instrument has and I missed it.

I began watching resonator ukes on eBay and decided I'd have one just to pat myself on the back a little for being a brave soldier recently.

I have no regrets, this instrument is a thing of joy!

No doubt about it.

I let anyone at Wukulele who asked, or showed any interest in the instrument, have a 'go' with it which is another aspect of that 'embarrassingly over-ethusiastic' thing I have.

Anyway,
Linda and I are on the way home.
Linda sees the sign for the new ASDA (ASDA=WalMart in USA) store near Ferring and suggests, in the way that only women can, that it would be interesting to visit.
A short discussion ensued in which I made several spirited attempts to suggest we shouldn't visit the new ASDA.
The short discussion ended.

We joined the cue of cars trying to get into the ENORMOUS car-park.

Time passed and I eventually found somewhere to park.

I hate car-parks, car-parks are my natural enemy.

I am useless at car parking.

Welcome to ASDA:

The caption on this picture was generated randomly by hand-held technology.

You're bloody welcome to it mate!

Time was I enjoyed visiting supermarkets, I considered them 'democratic'.

Nowadays I just get confused and irritable in supermarkets and embarrassed at the pompous way I considered them to be 'democratic'.

Now, you remember who instigated this trip into mediocrity don't you?

Linda (for it is she) has now amassed enough evidence to come to a conclusion about this latest retail opportunity to spring unbidden from the bowels of boredom.

She doesn't like it.

Now somehow, and I really don't know how it happened, I managed to misplace Linda and found myself wandering around alone.

I found myself in a bad place:

HELP!

I think I'll leave me there.

Lost in a supermarket, surrounded by ladies underwear, and without a ukulele.

That'll teach me to sit and wait in the car in future.