One Hundred AND EYYYYYYYYTEEE

For me, the end of one year and the start of another is defined by certain things. It’s a poignant signal that the celebrations are over, the working week is beckoning you back and it’s time to put away the chocolate, finish the cheesy balls and eschew the Snowballs.

Firstly, the dozen Christmas songs, most of them over 30 years old, played on an interminable loop on most popular music stations since October, are dropped with almost savage abruptness on Boxing Day…

The World’s Strongest Man – a competition between a particular group of men with no necks and cubic bodies, carrying big stones, throwing tractor tyres and pulling along passenger planes attached to chains. Once upon a time our own Geoff Capes won the accolade for a few years, but it appears to be dominated by Scandinavians and such like these days, although I must admit I didn’t watch it this year. Or the year before. Or the year before that. It’s probably on Channel 5 or Dave or even Sky Noneck Sports by now.

Then there’s the World Darts Championship. A magnificent showcase of the finest arrow throwers across the globe, where the globe in this case appears to consist of the UK, Ireland, Scandinavia and particularly Holland.

Usually this prestigious event is held at The Alexandra Palace in front of a baying crowd of darts fans in fancy dress; for a period of time, the Ally Pally takes on the appearance of a massive Wetherspoons, populated by action heroes, daffodils, drag queens, gorillas, hot dogs and pirates, who are positively encouraged to drink as much as possible at so early a time in the day it could make the most dedicated airport bar drinker wince.

What could go wrong?

This year (last year? It finished on January 3^rd) I had the pleasure of watching a lot of it, due to being locked down with the family. Master Johnny and Willedden ensured our TV screens were almost always showing some sporting event and the darts was a popular choice. No baying crowds for this tournament (Covid), so the players had to make do with recordings of drunk fans singing and cheering, but missed out on the little hand written signs they hold up during play (‘I Love U Sharon’, ‘I’m supposed to be at work’ etc).

To compensate for the lack of an audience, the players had to play up to the fixed camera next to the playing area.

This made for great viewing. Polyester clad darts players fist pumping, pointing down the lens, air grasping after every major ‘out’. Most amusingly, when things didn’t go their way, some of the players did their best impressions of Oliver Hardy after Stan has just covered him in paint.

Rural Spaceman’s 2020

It’s late afternoon on 31st December 2020 and I’ve only just decided to write my review of 2020. No planning, no preparation or consideration, just straight in there. A bit like how the problems of 2020 have been dealt with in the UK, where I live. Like most people across the globe, 2020, like a feisty teenager who raids your drinks cupboard while you’re out, pukes on the new carpet and sets fire to the kitchen, hasn’t been easy. 

2019 had been a challenging enough year for me, where I eventually decided I didn’t need certain negativities in my life and jettisoned them, all the nincompoops, bullies, incompetents and fishwives that caused me so much consternation. It’s been part of the reason my blogging has stalled for quite a while. Returning to it, I perused the list of blogs I followed that were no longer writing, which was a bit sad.

On to 2020, the year I took early retirement, to spend my days with Lady Barton St Mary, planning our trips to see the wonders of the world. February saw me return to performing, something I hadn’t done for over 30 years when I was still at college. A village review in February gave me the chance to write sketches and, due to a late change, invent a character that Lady BSM abhors, namely Roberto, the Liverpudlian knife thrower. Roberto, however, has turned up in several places since, with his own music video and as host of a 50th birthday Zoom party.

Of course, within a couple of  weeks of the review, we were ‘locked down’ with the Covid stuff, something nobody had foreseen. I mean, these things happen in other parts of the world, but not here! This meant many films, plays, musical projects etc were postponed/cancelled. Let’s hope for our sake things return to normal in 2021.

My review is of things I’ve discovered this year, which may be years old, so apologies if you’ve already seen/heard/experienced it. In fact, to keep it simple, let’s start with retirement, then music, film/TV and books.

Retirement

I retired officially on 31st August. I’m hoping to give you lots of invaluable advice on how to spend your time. I’d always thought the best option would be to do nothing for 6 months, by which time one would have a proper idea of what you wanted to do. I’m starting to realise that I’m mistaken. I would now like to spend a year doing nothing, after which I may revise my doing nothing to another 6 months. What I mean by this is you hear people say they couldn’t retire, they’d be so bored. Weirdos. I have loads to do. The responsible stuff like housework and (when instructed) decorating, but also editing the parish magazine. Running. Cycling. Football refereeing. Guitar playing. Ping pong. What’s more, I’ve discovered the computer game Elite Dangerous, something I played on the ZX Spectrum back in the 1980s. I could play this all day without getting remotely bored.

Of course, Lady BSM is taking a similar approach to retirement, but still insists on giving me quarterly performance reviews. Once an international finance director and all that.

Music

First of all, according to Spotify I’ve listened to more music from the 1970s than anything else, but I’m sure that’s down to listening to songs I like to practise on the guitar. No gigs this year of course, but two stand out albums from two old boys, ‘On Sunset’ by Paul Weller and ‘Letter to You’ by Bruce Springsteen. Other mentions have to go to Dua Lipa’s ‘Future Nostalgia’; my single of the year is a close run thing between ‘Village’ by Paul Weller and ‘Rain on Me’ (Purple Disco Machine Remix) by Lady Gaga and Ariana Grande.

TV and Film

Lock down in the early part of the year meant we watched lots of telly, mainly series. Stand out ones included Line of Duty – we spent several weeks wandering around the house, declaring in an irish accent – ‘one thing I hate is a bent copper’… 

If you haven’t seen Money Heist, a sensational Spanish thriller, please do; watch it with subtitles, I know more than one person turned off it by trying to watch it with english dubbing. I also finished watching The US Office, something I was quite sniffy about to start with but ended up loving. Due to a special offer from our phone supplier, we were lucky enough to get Apple TV – The Morning Show is terrific and I’m sure if it weren’t for a pandemic I’d be well into the second series by now. Also, Ted Lasso – I was a bit dubious, knowing how many ‘comedies’ about football (with the exception of Mike Bassett – England Manager) have been duff, but it’s brilliant – not just funny but also full of pathos and a positive message. I’m sure they will make another series, but in some ways I hope they don’t. The whole thing is perfect and doesn’t need a follow up.

Films

Well, as expected, going to the pictures was pretty much a no no, so we relied on the streaming services for our cinematic experience. One film I’d never seen until a couple of months ago was Whiplash – and what a great film it is. Also, check out Jo Jo Rabbit. I also delved into a horror film – Midsommar. In some ways, I wished I hadn’t, by which I mean this film is totally disturbing, being filmed in  bright sunshine, blue skies, beautiful scenery and people – a similar effect achieved by Stanley Kubrick in The Shining. Similarly, I’m Thinking of Ending Things – I watched the whole thing, transfixed, without understanding any of it. The Sunday Times suggests you watch it at least 3 times. I may give it a go, but, blimey, it’s weird in a good way. The Irishman was a very long film, entertaining and approaching history in a similar manner to Tarantino.

Books

Two outstanding novels that I read this year – one by one of my favourite authors and another due to one of those ‘best of’ lists. ‘The Unconsoled’ by Kazuo Ishiguro is a very strange story – I recall after 100 pages, still with no idea what was going on, asking Miss Katherine, an avid reader, what she’d made of it. “I gave up on it after 50 pages,” she said, which was unusual for her. I persisted and I was glad I did. One of the strangest, surreal, mesmerising books ever. Please, have a go and give it a chance.

‘Under the Skin’ by Michael Faber was written 20 years ago and appeared in a list of the best SF books of all time, so I decided to read it, having never heard of Michael Faber. What a great story, from the perspective of aliens who are already part of our world. Thrilling, frightening, disturbing and enthralling. If you haven’t read it, please do, even if you’re not a science fiction fan. It’s very much character driven.

‘Machines Like Me’ by Ian McEwan imagines an alternative 1980s, where the internet is already all pervading and artificial intelligence has reached a level where ‘living’ robots  can be purchased. A really good read.

Also ‘The Outsider’ and ‘The Institute’ by Stephen King. It’s always annoying when people assume he’s just a horror writer. He’s one of our greatest living novelists, honestly. I remember reading ‘Mr Mercedes’, a story that involves a suicide bomber attending a concert for teeny boppers, a few months before the Manchester attack at an Ariana Grande concert.

2021

I recommend 2021. It can’t be worse than 2020, can it? Also, by the summer, we should be on our way be back to some sort of normality, Lady BSM and I can start travelling the world and young people can start the quest to be back in the EU by 2030.

Happy New Year.

Jingle Smells

Wordpretzels. I’ve just spotted this in Lady Barton St Mary’s Christmas edition of Good Housekeeping. The ideal Christmas gift for your loved one (not mine, obviously*) who may find themselves with a flatulence problem. Yes, over the festive period, the added problems caused by excessive consumption of brussels sprouts, real ale, Guinness, Prosecco, Baileys, egg nogs, cheesy footballs, mince pies, Christmas pudding and turkey curry on Boxing Day can be alleviated with these special kaks, hilariously called Shreddies (a very British description for underpants).

No more will your house have the heady scent of pine trees and goose fat interrupted by what appears to be a sudden influx of waste from the local effluent treatment plant. Instead, you can enjoy an afternoon on the sofa watching the circus acts on the telly without thinking you can smell the performing elephants. No more worries about lighting that Christmas candle which could blow you and everybody else to kingdom come.

As the advert says, the garments are discreet as possible, whatever that means – then again, are people in the habit of strolling around in just their underpants at Christmas gatherings? Is it likely that anyone is going to ask, “Hey, aren’t they those special pants that keep your smelly farts in?” – Even worse, the wearer themselves pointing at their carbonised grundies and saying “Hey look! I don’t smell like a blocked toilet any more!”

Anyway, it’s up to you. Just remember, don’t stick around when they take them off, unless you want to risk your face melting in the ensuing gaseous release.

Just one other thing – why had she been reading this particular article?

(*It is in my marital interests to mention this).

 

 

 

 

Darth Vader in my Neighbour’s Garden

I woke up this morning to the sad news that Dave Prowse had died, aged 85.

Dave Prowse was most famous for playing Darth Vader, known in our family as Daft Ada ( I believe it may have been my niece Suzanne that came up with this moniker). He had the physical presence to play the part, but being from the west country, didn’t have the voice, which was famously provided by James Earl Jones. I still wonder what would happened if they’d just gone with Dave’s Bristol accent:

“You cassn’t  know the Powerrr a tha Darrk zide!”

Basically, it would turn the evil Jedi Master into an asthmatic farmer.

To most British people, Dave Prowse first came to fame as The Green Cross Code Man, an advertising campaign to promote road safety, particularly to children. Dave Prowse was 6ft 6ins tall and a weightlifter and a body builder, who could fill the distinctive green superhero suit with distinction. What most people picked up on was how amply Dave filled his costume in one particular area. One scene where The Green Cross Code man runs towards the camera show Dave in all his glory; let’s just say there is more than one’s fair share of bobbage in the nether regions, which made Dave a housewives’ favourite overnight.

Obviously, calling a kid ‘Dumbo’ was acceptable at this time…

But I digress. Dave Prowse was well known to me and people on our estate long before he was immortalised on film.

On our row of houses on the green, we lived one end of the row and Mr Cox – Jon Cox – and his family lived at the other. Gardens at that time were separated by fences that were no more than 3 feet tall, which meant that apart from a few items of foliage, you could see in everybody’s back garden for the entire row.

Now, Jon Cox just happened to be the British weightlifting coach. It was always a bit surreal, even when living in a film town, to see Mr Cox on TV during weightlifting competitions, Olympics, Commonwealth Games, giving advice and guidance to some incredibly well built, strong men. This being the late 60s, early 70s, sport wasn’t quite as high tech or high profile as it is today, which meant that during the summer months, the biggest and the best weightlifters of our nation, if not the world, would train in – yes, you’ve guessed – Mr Cox’s back garden.

One of the biggest stars of the time was Precious McKenzie. Born in South Africa, Precious was on 4 feet 9inches tall, but from memory, 5ft wide. He won 4 gold medals at the Commonwealth Games between 1968 and 1978 (3 for England, 1 for New Zealand). He was a World Champion and possibly has the longest World record for power lifting. I used to watch over the fence as this amazing man, possibly shorter than me at the time, lift these huge circular weights over his head, the iron bar he clutched bowing under the weight. All the time, Mr Cox would be giving him advice, telling him to lift his chin, alter the grip a bit, watch his feet. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lift such tremendous weights. I’m sure I’d either snap something or shit myself.

Other weightlifting figures came and went. Then, one day, sitting in our front room, the sun that had been shining through the window disappeared momentarily. The reason for this was because Dave Prowse had just walked past on his way to Mr Cox’s house for training.

Watching this man mountain train was a sight to behold. To see him train alongside the formidable Precious McKenzie, who barely came up to Dave’s thighs, was even more surreal.

I don’t know exactly when this garden practice ceased, but Mr Cox eventually moved away and I was left with my Star Wars story of Dave Prowse – perhaps it was the fact he spent so much time in Borehamwood and so many people were in the industry that he got the part.

So, farewell, Dave, thanks for the memories.

 

Rural Spaceman – Root 60 – Sick!

Wordpretzels, it’s been a while, but today is a significant birthday. I’m 60 years old. 

That very statement seems completely wrong to me. How can I be 60? Ok, I’m grateful to be 60. Lots of my relatives and friends were never fortunate enough to see 60. For all that, my image of a 60 year old is not what I am.

When I was a child, 60 year olds did the gardening in their ‘old’ suit, usually a 3 piece one with shirt and tie. In the 1960s in July, 60 year olds could be found digging over their veg patch in their heavy woollen outfit, sweating profusely. You didn’t need to see them, you could smell them from 50 metres away. In the 1960s deodorant was something men regarded as effeminate and women had developed a terrible sense of smell in order to survive. At 60, I still have no interest in gardening and leave it to Garth, our gardener, who in turn encourages Lady BSM to take a keen interest in being in the garden.

I am interested in running and cycling. The 60 year olds I remember never contemplated doing such a thing. Anybody in the 1960s and 1970s found in the street wearing tight polyester clothing and moving at a rapid rate would have either been arrested or committed. People only ran for a bus and 60 year olds didn’t run at all.

My fears on turning 60? That I’ll start to collect different types of woodscrew. I’ll regularly watch TV programmes I’ve never seen before, like The Antiques Roadshow or Countryfile. I may be in danger of finding Death in Paradise a thrilling whodunnit; from there it’s only a step away from thinking Mrs Brown’s Boys is a comedy and not a televisual experience that encourages you to self-harm and worry about the intelligence of our nation, as if Brexit wasn’t enough evidence of this.

But becoming 60 is significant in that I’ve been fortunate enough to find myself able to take early retirement. (Almost) Voluntary Work has kindly allowed me to take my leave and today, my 60^th birthday, I was delighted to find they’d deposited a sizable amount of money in my account as a way of saying push off. 

It’s motivated me to return to my blog, to the horror of both of my regular readers. But what to blog about? Well, to begin, I think I’m perfectly equipped to give people advice and tips on retirement, subtitled ‘Act III’, since I have considerable experience and a love of doing bugger all.

In addition, it may be time to reveal extracts of my writing, under the subtitle ‘Extracts from Novels and Short Stories I’ve Never Written.’ 

This includes the short stories ‘Lukey’s Bike’ and ‘The Butterfly’; my time travel novel; a thriller involving a family living with a secret and several other untouched and unwritten masterpieces, all of which have never won any awards or been subject to a bidding war from rival publishers. I never imagined I’d receive so much imaginary adulation or not work so very hard to not produce such revered text.

Of course, this will be interspersed with the usual drivel I used to write about before I stopped, including reasons why I stopped for so long.

Until then.

Rural Spaceman Goes Downhill

I’m just preparing to go on my first skiing holiday with a large group of friends – very exciting, you might think, ‘Be careful!’ I hear you cry, ‘we love you and don’t want you to hurt yourself!’ you’re saying undoubtably. Don’t worry, I may be going on a skiing holiday, but I won’t be doing any skiing myself. I’ll leave that to the others who possess working knees. However, I will have to do some form of exercise, which is why Lady Barton St Mary and I had to go to the illustrious Gloucester Quays Designer Centre, a modest celebration of consumerism, to buy some skiing apparel from one of those ‘outdoor’ shops.

It’s certainly an experience – for some reason, they delight in displaying their anoraks on racks that are only accessible to lock forwards and basketball players – I felt like a 3 year old in an adult world, squinting in order to see the sizes written on the coat hangers 10 feet above me. Sometimes, a kindly shop assistant will help you out with his special pole with a hook (it’s OK, generally they hook the coats down rather than hook you up to them).

Of course, once you’ve managed to get a coat/pair of waterproof trousers from the rafters, you can make your way to the dressing room, conveniently unisex and with a piece of curtain that only pulls half way across the opening to protect your modesty. It conveniently allows others shoppers to see what state of undress you’re in so that they can time their visit to the changing room.

Once there, being stared at in your pants by other shoppers, you quickly realise ski gear has its own unique sizing. I mean, do Posh Spice and Kylie go skiing? Even they’d be in the medium sized section. Slightly bigger human beings struggle to squeeze into an XL. Normal human beings can almost forget it as they search for an XXXL. Look, I know it’s after Christmas and that my body has taken on the shape of what I’ve been consuming (a barrel of lager, several tubes of cheese balls and a chocolate orange or two as my 5 a day) but can’t be that fat. However, as I fought to do up a  large pair of salopettes, one of the poppers flew off and nearly hit the man staring at me through the gap in my half curtain.

Very traumatic. In fact, in one shop it became apparent that I was too lardy to fit into anything. The ironic thing was, all the shop assistants were much larger than me, perhaps a company policy to stop them pilfering the stock they couldn’t fit into.

Anyway, I’m now suitably attired in an anorak the ski clothing company would regard as a small yurt and looking forward to watching my friends glide majestically down the ski slopes, hopefully with all their knee caps facing in the right direction. I’ll look forward to the evenings, when I’m sure we’ll all get together for one sweet sherry and a game of Monopoly before retiring to bed.

The diet starts in February.

Don’t Like The Beatles? Don’t Like Life.

ruralspaceman

It was a real shock. I’d never really met one before, or, at least, if I had, I didn’t know it.

This was approximately three years ago; a lazy, sunny Sunday morning after a party at a friend’s house. A few people who’d stayed the night were recovering after a reviving breakfast, when the conversation got around to music. Somebody mentioned The Beatles. A woman wrinkled her nose.

“Ooo. I don’t like The Beatles,” she claimed.

I stared at her world-weary face in complete shock.

“Sorry,” I chuckled, “for a minute there, I thought you said you didn’t like The Beatles.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” she said, pursing her lips, “that’s exactly what I said. I don’t like The Beatles.”

She meant it. I couldn’t believe it. How could you not like The Beatles? I immediately assumed the role of persuader, a missionary for all things Fab Four. I illustrated…

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Compromise is love and marriage.

Lady BSM and I are in Canada at the moment, in Banff to be exact, but this isn’t a travel blog, more a lesson in how love and compromise works in a long term marriage.

’What would like to eat?’ she asked. I’d already thought about it; I had a craving for Chinese food, not a popular choice for Lady BSM. In fact, not a choice at all. She’s been to China and eaten real Chinese food – the type where your meal is still moving on the plate. She wasn’t keen on that, let alone  the English variety of Chinese food, which she regards as stodgy, highly coloured bowls of mono sodium glutamate.

’Chinese’, I said, assertively.

She smiled.

‘If that’s what you want, that’s fine!’ she exclaimed.

I regarded her suspiciously.

’Are you sure? I know you’re not a big fan of Chinese food.’

She touched my arm reassuringly.

‘Of course. All you have to do is have a look on Tripadvisor and find a Chinese restaurant with 4 stars or more.’

I spent a few minutes pretending to search on my phone before looking up and saying, ‘You’re so much better at this than me. Could you have a look?’

’Certainly’, she said brightly, ‘I’ll find the right place.’

She did. The food was delicious, reasonably priced, with good service and a lively atmosphere. It was one of the best Greek meals I’ve ever eaten.

Another Oven Licence

Wordpretzels, those of you who are fanatical Rural Spaceman followers (both of you, if the medication hasn’t worked)will know that 6 years ago, I told the tale of getting my oven licence.

My concluding line was that I should get the hang of it after 9 or 10 years. No such luck. That was 2012 and since then, one of the ovens caused us lots of trouble, mainly with a faulty door. After several call outs, involving a man who found it extremely inconvenient that, as an emergency call out engineer, we called him out for several emergencies, with a point blank refusal to change the whole oven. Until the 9th or 10th call out, when he came in, stared at the still faulty oven door and marched out to his van again. After several minutes, when Lady Barton St Mary and I worried that he would return with a silenced semi automatic pistol and slot us both in the head, he appeared to tell us they’d ‘replace the bloody thing’. Hoorah.

Until a month ago, when I discovered our ‘new’ (5 year old) oven had melted its knobs and virtually given up the ghost. I must admit, if my knob melted I’d probably give up the ghost too, but at my age that may take a little longer to discover.

Anyway, this was the start of a new quest for Lady BSM to find a new oven. Ominous reminders of various ‘quests’ loomed up in my mind – the ‘K’ word, (not for the faint hearted – the kitchen planner is on the road to recovery and is due to be discharged next year), light fittings, curtains, blinds, paint colours, all carefully researched to the nth degree.

And so it started. Early one Saturday morning, in the darkness, I turned over in bed to witness Lady BSM’s lovely face illuminated by the glow of a mobile phone screen.

‘Do we need a rotisserie option?’ she asked.

I try to stay clear of Lady BSM’s research phase and wait for the preliminary reduced choice list. She looks at me imploringly with her beautiful blue eyes.

‘Which oven should I choose? I can’t decide between Neff or Miele,’ she said. I considered. The best tactic here is to just choose one and gauge the reaction.

‘Oh, Neff, I think,’ I replied.

She gave me a look like I’d pulled down my pants and nail varnished my willy.

‘Neff? Really?’

Success. We were narrowing it down. Time for her to visit the kitchen appliance shop, sans me of course. This continued for a couple of weeks, until one Saturday she set off for the shop with the intention of making a final decision. At 4pm, I received a phone call after refereeing a football game.

‘Hello, please come to the shop! I can’t make up my mind!’

By 4.30pm, I was in the shop staring at shiny metal boxes with various knobs and whistles, a dazzling array of electronic wizardry. After lots of deliberation, opening and closing of oven doors and knob twiddling, the Miele won. We made our way to the sales counter to meet Jacqui, the lady who’d been assisting Lady BSM on her earlier visits. Jacqui and Lady BSM were well acquainted by now, they were like old friends, although Jacqui appeared to be a little apprehensive as Lady BSM approached.

‘We’ve decided. We’ll take the Miele,’announced Lady BSM.

Jacqui clutched her chest, drawing her work tunic into her balled fist.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ she whispered.

Our ovens are now safely installed, thanks to Pete the friendly electrician. They are very well made and extremely heavy, according to Pete the friendly herniated electrician.

Which means my oven licence training will start again soon. These ovens are paralytic like the last ones, but this time they can steam stuff, which I’m sure will require an ology.

However, so far, they seem to be able to tell me what to do in simple steps, don’t make too many shrill noises and produce beautifully cooked food. A bit like Lady BSM, really.

 

Compensation Dilemma 2

Me: Hello?

Caller: (with distinct Indian accent): Hello how are you today?

Me: I’m fine, how are you holding up?

Caller: Pardon? I’m calling from BT internet – there is a problem with your connection and we need to fix it.

Me: I see. What’s the name of your company?

Caller:  BT Internet Services

Me: BT Internet Services? Where are you based?

Caller:(pause as he reaches for UK address to read out): 81 Newgate Street, London EC …

Me: You’re in London?

Caller: Yes. Anyway, if I could be allowed access to your computer…

Me: What’s the weather like there?

Caller: Pardon? Err, well, it’s err, raining… So, if you could…

Me: What’s the nearest tube station?

Caller: What?! You want to come here? You want to come here?

Me: So, what route do you take to work?

Caller: (agitated): Why?! What!!! You want to come here?  You want to come here and suck my dick??!!

Me: Gosh, even Sky don’t offer that.

Caller hangs up on me.