Say When

Just a couple of days to go now until the long-awaited work reunion, meeting up with people not seen for 30 years in some cases, and not since the last reunion seven years ago in others.
...and not since the last Torquay United home game in the case of Ross, the Cornish man...
I made a mix of music from 1978ish-1982ish and stuck it on a disc for some old friends to listen to as they drive down. They have, of course, cheated and listened to it already. They must be buggers at Christmas.
I put 'Say When' by Lene Lovich on it, and forgot how much I liked it.
Lene Lovich played Routes club in Exeter and a bunch of us went to see her. She had a great band, and her album 'Stateless' is a classic. Her version of 'I Think We're Alone Now' is the best of all, I reckon, and there have been plenty.
And if you're thinking the word 'Tiffany', please leave now.
So, it's 1978 or 1979 in the aromatic darkness of Routes, down among the exotic smokers and the skinheads in what the young people these days refer to as the 'moshpit'.
The front few rows of the crowd are composed almost entirely of sweaty blokes with a few beers on board. Then Lene sings 'Say When', which has some dance moves with it, and she's so good and we're so mesmerised that a hundred sweaty, beery blokes - skinheads and all - do the silly dance moves without question.
After the gig an old, grizzled, drunken colleague - a Yorkshireman whose prodigious alcohol intake back then means he must surely be long gone by now - goes to the dressing room to interview Lene. He makes a beery, leery pass at her and gets thumped by her guitarist for his troubles. He emerges dishevelled, laughing and bleeding.....and singing 'Say When'.

Weakly

It's not a spelling mistake, but it does kind of sum up how often I've been blogging lately.
But just when my enthusiasm is waning, an award comes my way.
According to the excellent World From My Window blog, I have received something called a Zombie Chicken, which is nice.
I have no idea where I go to receive this award or what it entails, but it has perked me right up and no mistake guv'nor.
Tomorrow, if I can get online before midnight, I will write something. Really I will....

Odd

IT has been a peculiar week.
Older Daughter is settled in her new home, and Younger Daughter is now in Bristol, too.
University life seems to be suiting her, and tonight she has been playing crazy golf indoors at the Cabot Centre.
That's sophisticated city life for you.
We also lost a very good friend a few days ago and his funeral took place yesterday.
I have never seen so many people at the crematorium, and there were laughs as well as a few tears during the readings and tributes.
Later we had a jar at the Paignton Club in his honour, standing on the terrace in the evening sunshine looking out at the sea and telling stories. And he'll be right there every time we look out at that stretch of water framed by harbour and pier and headland.
Cheers, Graham.

Moose Testicles

I drove a Transit for the first time today.
We picked it up from the hire firm at the railway station this morning. The young man behind the desk had some late-issue Siouxsie and the Banshees going on the stereo at 8.05am which I thought was bold.
We filled the big white van with furniture and assorted gubbins, then headed up the M5 to move Older Daughter into her new abode, a cottage off the Whiteladies Road in Bristol.
The neighbours seemed very nice. They were off to a funeral so we made sure we had shifted the furniture and moved the Transit well before the big black cars came for them. Later in the afternoon they had what sounded like a very jolly wake in a marquee on their lawn, and people were pouring in to join them.
We went to Ikea and bought a wardrobe, then realised we didn't have a hammer to bang in the little panel pins that hold the back on. We debated going round to the neighbours to see if we could borrow one, but thought it might be inappropriate, what with them being in the middle of a wake and all that.
We banged the nails in with a rock we found on the wall instead. It did the job, but split into many pieces in the process, releasing a curious marsh gas aroma which may have come from the primordial swamps when the rock was formed in prehistoric Clifton.
At Ikea we ate lunch.
Older Daughter had the meatballs despite me suggesting they were actually moose testicles in a creamy sauce. Veggie options were limited but Mrs H had the soup and I had some pasta which tasted as if it may also have been formed in prehistoric Clifton.

Speed

THE concept of speed is relative.
For instance, I was running flat-out when Elmer went past me tonight. He was only cruising really, but I never even saw him coming despite his frankly garish Union Jack running vest.
We were on the 320-metre loop down at Clennon as the heavy brass-coloured clouds rolled in over the brow of Penwill Way and a rainbow touched down right on top of the caravans belonging to the tarmac travellers who have set up home in the service lane.
The grass was long and lush, and by the time 18 of us had completed 10 laps each in a pairs relay it was worn flat into quite a pleasing furrow.
To be fair, Elmer and his fellow speed merchants did 12 laps while the rest of us toiled into double figures, but the concept of speed is relative, OK?
Elmer lapped me on the fast descent that comes after about 100 metres, on about my seventh or eighth lap. I thought I was going pretty well, but he flew by.
Later we did a kilometre around the edge of the field as fast as we could. I started conservatively and then passed a few people including Rowdy Robbie, which was a pleasant surprise.
The Caerphilly Kid was out in front of me by some considerable distance, though. I think we should have him and Elmer dope-tested.
Even later, while I was wheeling the wheelie bin down to the pavement Bazza appeared on his bike and stopped for a chat. He was listening to The Beatles on his MP3 player and was heading up to the cash and carry car park for his regular timed session, zooming around and losing weight.
This exercise regime is paying off, for he is a shadow of his former self. The laws of matter and physics surely dictate that all these unwanted bits of Bazza must have ended up somewhere. I must pop up to the cash and carry car park when it's quiet to see if I can see any of them lying around.

Mr Mucus

THREE fried breakfasts in three days - that's not the way to good health and fitness.
But that's just the way it was, and three of J D Wetherspoons' finest veggie fry-ups have found their way into me.
The first came at the Richard Hopkins in Newton Abbot before a round of golf with the Caerphilly Kid and his brother at Dainton. The eggs were a bit too well done, but otherwise it was good. The golf was good, too. The handicapping was generous, which meant I finished between the Caerphilly Kids. My finest moment came on the 17th, where I took four hacks to get out of the bunker, and the fourth dispensed with the formality of putting and rolled straight into the hole.
The second fry-up was on more familiar ground at the Isaac Merritt where the eggs were much better. It was A-Level results day and Younger Daughter had done the business. We celebrated with Mr Fangio and the Caerphilly Kid, who were already there having one of their high-powered business meetings.
The following morning Older Daughter, who had been working the previous day, decided she had missed out, so we went back to the Isaac Merritt for more. The eggs were good again, and Mr Mucus sat down at the table next to us, nursing an early-morning pint. He coughed a lot, sneezed, blew his nose noisily, coughed, sneezed and made that noise that comes with a big snort into the back of the throat.
Feeling a bit queasy, we left Mr Mucus to his pint and shifted to a quieter table. Later Mr Mucus got into a row with someone. It seemed a bit early in the day to be getting into rows, but Mr Mucus was ready for anything.

Cornwall

We went to Newquay, seeing as you ask, for a few days in the rain.
We went to St Ives and Truro, too. We walked the coast path from Porthcothan back to Newquay, and saw plenty of kestrels and a stonechat. There were seals in the harbour at Newquay, too, but most of the wildlife was of the human variety.
Newquay is as lovely and as rough as Torbay in pretty much equal measure. If you want to get hammered on lager and Jager-bombs, go into the centre and rub shoulders with the stags and the hens, then jump back quickly when the Jager-bombs put in a return appearance.
If you don't, don't. Find a quiet pub that does a decent pint instead.
It's that simple, really. People have to enjoy themselves and let off steam, and while you can sympathise with the people of Newquay whose town is over-run with city kids who can't hold their drink, they have to go somewhere.
We also went on the world's shortest brewery tour, at Skinners in Truro. It was pouring with rain so we decided to buy a tour ticket. The tour started with half an hour in the bar sampling beers, which was followed by ten minutes looking at sacks of malt, some hops, a big steamy thing with water in it and some foaming yeast vats. Then we saw the metal casks ready for loading on the lorries.
After a perfunctory 'any questions' it was back into the bar for more beer and the chance to pour some yourself.
I was driving so Mrs H made full use of the hospitality on offer and was quite giggly in the car on the way back.
Later at a pub overlooking Newquay harbour I asked a lovely, lovely barmaid for two Cornish Knockers. I hadn't intended any innuendo but she gave me one of those looks that made me wonder if I should perhaps have ordered something else instead.