Rathbone's Ramblin'
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Bob Jefferson
- Posts: 6212
- Joined: 11 Dec 2004, 21:16
- Location: Planet Porty
- Contact:
Thanks everybody for all the kind regards.
Anyway, Epykat and Sunnyporty have now had their one to one phone calls....... so much nicer than talking to their answering machines!
I try to keep myself fit, and I do have my blood pressure and cholesterol levels checked at the local Pharmacy every so often. (It's a free service and I never miss a freebee). This turned out to be nothing to do with fitness or having a heart problem. Apparently an embolism can be caused by lots of things, like bumping into furniture or diving the wrong way into a swimming pool....... just bad luck really.Porty wrote:I know from the various stories that you keep yourself fit, don't smoke etc. Do you or have you had your heart checked out from time to time?
Anyway, Epykat and Sunnyporty have now had their one to one phone calls....... so much nicer than talking to their answering machines!
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
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SoupDragon
- Posts: 2201
- Joined: 03 Oct 2006, 11:02
Glad you're fit enough to post online, Rathbone
Must have been really scary.
Not something you can prevent or foresee really but Mr Soupy is still getting his cardiovascular health check at the GP. He let slip he's using up some holiday time next week getting the car sorted, so I've booked him in for an MOT as well!
Must have been really scary.
Not something you can prevent or foresee really but Mr Soupy is still getting his cardiovascular health check at the GP. He let slip he's using up some holiday time next week getting the car sorted, so I've booked him in for an MOT as well!
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mr magnolia
- Posts: 972
- Joined: 11 Jul 2004, 22:07
- Location: close to the edge
- Contact:
At last I got the call from Waterstones: my Christmas present had arrived!!!!
Back in those halcyon days when Harold Wilson was Prime Minister and I was an eager young architecture student I used to spend much of my hard earned grant on copies of Domus, which piled up on the floor beside the copies of Oz and International Times. By the time I was a radical young architect slumming it in a squat in Kilburn and selling copies of Red Mole on Camden High Street, they were in a sorry state and when Mrs R. and I moved out to our country retreat in 1976, they were ditched.
Now they have been reprinted by Taschen as a collected edition, so what better for putting under the tree?
So, a month after tree was put out behind the garage, the call finally comes and off I go to the local Waterstones.
“Sorry for the delayâ€
Back in those halcyon days when Harold Wilson was Prime Minister and I was an eager young architecture student I used to spend much of my hard earned grant on copies of Domus, which piled up on the floor beside the copies of Oz and International Times. By the time I was a radical young architect slumming it in a squat in Kilburn and selling copies of Red Mole on Camden High Street, they were in a sorry state and when Mrs R. and I moved out to our country retreat in 1976, they were ditched.
Now they have been reprinted by Taschen as a collected edition, so what better for putting under the tree?
So, a month after tree was put out behind the garage, the call finally comes and off I go to the local Waterstones.
“Sorry for the delayâ€
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
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SoupDragon
- Posts: 2201
- Joined: 03 Oct 2006, 11:02
Not much of consequence to ramble about recently, so I've spent the time working on this:
It's based on a photograph of Melrose Abbey that I took last year on my way between visiting Sunnyporty in Cumbria and EpyKat in sunny Porty, worked on in Photoshop and then painted in acrylics.
It's based on a photograph of Melrose Abbey that I took last year on my way between visiting Sunnyporty in Cumbria and EpyKat in sunny Porty, worked on in Photoshop and then painted in acrylics.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
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sunnyporty
- Posts: 52
- Joined: 18 Jan 2006, 17:26
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Bob Jefferson
- Posts: 6212
- Joined: 11 Dec 2004, 21:16
- Location: Planet Porty
- Contact:
Scoop wrote:I You are almost as good as Epykat. Beautiful.
. I can do things with paper but it's usually wall size and done with a pot of Dulux. Although it pains me to say it, the other two (Rathbone and Sunnyporty) are the real artists in the family. I have more in common with Lowry and stick men 
Enough of your nonsense - get back to the Play Pen!
Genius. He lived a couple of miles away from my home. Round the corner from Harold Shipman's house.Epykat wrote: I have more in common with Lowry and stick men
I'm gtting really good at this OT stuff, aren't I?
All I really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt!
-Lucy Van Pelt (in Peanuts, by Charles M. Schulz)
-Lucy Van Pelt (in Peanuts, by Charles M. Schulz)
I’ll have to stop getting the slow train. As usual, it was packed, but I did manage to get the last seat, next to the toilet and the door between the first and second carriages.
I was just settling down to chapter 15 of Burmese Days when there was a rattle as the door between the carriages opened and then a thump as the person coming through bumped heavily against the toilet door....... “what the f***?” I looked up. He was in his thirties, fairly tall, over six feet, and extremely drunk. The bottle of wine (a sauvignon blanc) was three quarters drunk. Another was stuck in one pocket. He’d oviously had a few before hand. “What you lookin’ at?...” I returned to my book. He banged at the toilet door. “What the f***?”, he said again.
Then he started to sing..... “When the music’s over, turn out the lights. Turn out the lights. Turn out the lights.” He grabbed hold of the luggage rack and swung round. The wine flowed out of the bottle in a long arc, landing, mostly, in the lap of the woman sitting opposite me. No-one looked at him. He kept singing snatches from the Doors’ repertoire for a couple of stations and then started a conversation with himself about the relative merits of Jim Morrison and Mick Jagger. Jagger, it seems, was a wanker.
He banged at the toilet door again, demanding to be let in. It wasn’t in use, but none of us had the courage to tell him... if he’d only pull, rather than push at the door, then all would be well. Statistically, he should get the right combination in time. He didn’t, and started to pee himself. By this time people were getting up and moving off down the compartment, hoping for other seats to become available at the next station.
A couple of stops further on, he suddenly got off the train and stood on the platform pretending to machine gun us as we pulled away.
Into town. Did what I had to do. Slow train back. Plenty of seats this time.
I was just opening up Burmese Days again when someone plopped down beside me. “Well well. Haven’t seen you in ages” He stuck out his hand and I shook it. Big mistake.
Inadvertently I had given him the Tubalcain grip. He gave me the Jachin in return. From then on there was no stopping him. Did I know what was happening at his Lodge? Of course I didn’t, but that didn’t stop him telling me in lurid and graphic detail. Talk about indiscreet. I know know things about people in our County that I really wished I didn’t. It was even more shocking when he told me with pride that he had been appointed a Steward at the Grand Lodge. If ever there was a candidate for having his throat cut across, his tongue torn out by its roots and his body buried in the rough sands of the sea at low water mark, it is him. By the time we reached my station he had invited me to a ‘do’ at his Lodge later in the month. I simply stared at him. I’m sure he took it as assent.
Which is where my problem comes in....... I’m not a mason. Never have been, never want to be. (Having said that, both my Grandad and my Great Grandad were Grand Masters.... their portraits in full regalia used to glower down on us from my mother’s living room wall). I’m now sure that he will ‘phone me up in a few days..... do I come clean? do I feign sillness or do I just emigrate?....... where is Roger Twongle when you need him?
I was just settling down to chapter 15 of Burmese Days when there was a rattle as the door between the carriages opened and then a thump as the person coming through bumped heavily against the toilet door....... “what the f***?” I looked up. He was in his thirties, fairly tall, over six feet, and extremely drunk. The bottle of wine (a sauvignon blanc) was three quarters drunk. Another was stuck in one pocket. He’d oviously had a few before hand. “What you lookin’ at?...” I returned to my book. He banged at the toilet door. “What the f***?”, he said again.
Then he started to sing..... “When the music’s over, turn out the lights. Turn out the lights. Turn out the lights.” He grabbed hold of the luggage rack and swung round. The wine flowed out of the bottle in a long arc, landing, mostly, in the lap of the woman sitting opposite me. No-one looked at him. He kept singing snatches from the Doors’ repertoire for a couple of stations and then started a conversation with himself about the relative merits of Jim Morrison and Mick Jagger. Jagger, it seems, was a wanker.
He banged at the toilet door again, demanding to be let in. It wasn’t in use, but none of us had the courage to tell him... if he’d only pull, rather than push at the door, then all would be well. Statistically, he should get the right combination in time. He didn’t, and started to pee himself. By this time people were getting up and moving off down the compartment, hoping for other seats to become available at the next station.
A couple of stops further on, he suddenly got off the train and stood on the platform pretending to machine gun us as we pulled away.
Into town. Did what I had to do. Slow train back. Plenty of seats this time.
I was just opening up Burmese Days again when someone plopped down beside me. “Well well. Haven’t seen you in ages” He stuck out his hand and I shook it. Big mistake.
Inadvertently I had given him the Tubalcain grip. He gave me the Jachin in return. From then on there was no stopping him. Did I know what was happening at his Lodge? Of course I didn’t, but that didn’t stop him telling me in lurid and graphic detail. Talk about indiscreet. I know know things about people in our County that I really wished I didn’t. It was even more shocking when he told me with pride that he had been appointed a Steward at the Grand Lodge. If ever there was a candidate for having his throat cut across, his tongue torn out by its roots and his body buried in the rough sands of the sea at low water mark, it is him. By the time we reached my station he had invited me to a ‘do’ at his Lodge later in the month. I simply stared at him. I’m sure he took it as assent.
Which is where my problem comes in....... I’m not a mason. Never have been, never want to be. (Having said that, both my Grandad and my Great Grandad were Grand Masters.... their portraits in full regalia used to glower down on us from my mother’s living room wall). I’m now sure that he will ‘phone me up in a few days..... do I come clean? do I feign sillness or do I just emigrate?....... where is Roger Twongle when you need him?
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
As those over on the Local History forum, who kindly enquired whether or not I'd snuffed it, are now aware.... I'm back on line.
I was sitting quietly on Tuesday filing my current episode of the Marine Gardens saga when the screen went blank.
I closed down, rebooted, and attempted to come back on-line. Nothing doing.
A quick dial to the B.T. status line indicated that there was a fault at our local exchange. Fine, I thought. Get on with something else and come back later.
A bit of retail therapy. A tuna toasty and a piece of white and dark chocolate cheesecake and a latte at Thornton's cafe (I've become very cavalier since my all clear from the hospital following the pulmonary embolism event) and back to try again. Still down, so I decided to leave it until Wednesday.
Wednesday morning, still zilch. Leave it until you get back tonight then. Five o'clock. Still zilch, so I phoned BT.
We've had our broadband from BT for the last four years with no problems, so this was the first time I had contacted their help desk. Excellent. No problems getting through. Friendly voice. Lots of patience and help. All on an 0800 free number. So far, so good.
The woman I was dealing with took me step by step through checking if there was a the fault on the router. There wasn't.... all the lights were on and all the settings were as they should be. I ran a diagnostic check on the computer. Everything fine and dandy. She concluded that it was probably a residual problem at the exchange. She'd get the engineer to deal with it. Give it eight hours.
I gave it eighteen. Still Zilch. I got back on to the help line. Another voice, just as friendly, just as helpful. We went through all the processes again and she gave me a whole load of technical stuff to discuss with Netgear just to make sure it wasn't the router. Meanwhile, she also thought it was the exchange so she would issue a further request to have the line checked. I should allow 24 hours this time.
Netgear were also very helpful. Again the first time I've had to deal with them. Even though the router was well out of warranty, because I had registered it they were prepared to give support without charge. I went through all of the diagnostics again and gave them all the technical info from BT. Their conclusion was that it was a line fault.
So this morning, in I went again. Still nothing doing. I contacted BT. They advised me that it definitely wasn't a problem at the exchange or on the line. They had thoroughly investigated. They could send round an engineer to check out things at my end, but that would cost. I explained that I had passed all of the info on to Netgear and they didn't think it was the router. Ashok, in Mumbai, pointed out that the only way to make sure was to connect another router. If that also failed, then it was definitely BT's problem. If it didn't, then it was Netgear's. I couldn't argue with that and reasoned that buying a new router was going to be cheaper than calling out the engineer.
Lunchtime I bought another router (Netgear again, but an up to date wireless model.)........ Voila, I am back boring the pants off you once more.
I was sitting quietly on Tuesday filing my current episode of the Marine Gardens saga when the screen went blank.
I closed down, rebooted, and attempted to come back on-line. Nothing doing.
A quick dial to the B.T. status line indicated that there was a fault at our local exchange. Fine, I thought. Get on with something else and come back later.
A bit of retail therapy. A tuna toasty and a piece of white and dark chocolate cheesecake and a latte at Thornton's cafe (I've become very cavalier since my all clear from the hospital following the pulmonary embolism event) and back to try again. Still down, so I decided to leave it until Wednesday.
Wednesday morning, still zilch. Leave it until you get back tonight then. Five o'clock. Still zilch, so I phoned BT.
We've had our broadband from BT for the last four years with no problems, so this was the first time I had contacted their help desk. Excellent. No problems getting through. Friendly voice. Lots of patience and help. All on an 0800 free number. So far, so good.
The woman I was dealing with took me step by step through checking if there was a the fault on the router. There wasn't.... all the lights were on and all the settings were as they should be. I ran a diagnostic check on the computer. Everything fine and dandy. She concluded that it was probably a residual problem at the exchange. She'd get the engineer to deal with it. Give it eight hours.
I gave it eighteen. Still Zilch. I got back on to the help line. Another voice, just as friendly, just as helpful. We went through all the processes again and she gave me a whole load of technical stuff to discuss with Netgear just to make sure it wasn't the router. Meanwhile, she also thought it was the exchange so she would issue a further request to have the line checked. I should allow 24 hours this time.
Netgear were also very helpful. Again the first time I've had to deal with them. Even though the router was well out of warranty, because I had registered it they were prepared to give support without charge. I went through all of the diagnostics again and gave them all the technical info from BT. Their conclusion was that it was a line fault.
So this morning, in I went again. Still nothing doing. I contacted BT. They advised me that it definitely wasn't a problem at the exchange or on the line. They had thoroughly investigated. They could send round an engineer to check out things at my end, but that would cost. I explained that I had passed all of the info on to Netgear and they didn't think it was the router. Ashok, in Mumbai, pointed out that the only way to make sure was to connect another router. If that also failed, then it was definitely BT's problem. If it didn't, then it was Netgear's. I couldn't argue with that and reasoned that buying a new router was going to be cheaper than calling out the engineer.
Lunchtime I bought another router (Netgear again, but an up to date wireless model.)........ Voila, I am back boring the pants off you once more.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
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Bob Jefferson
- Posts: 6212
- Joined: 11 Dec 2004, 21:16
- Location: Planet Porty
- Contact:
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Bob Jefferson
- Posts: 6212
- Joined: 11 Dec 2004, 21:16
- Location: Planet Porty
- Contact:
I have had a few Netgear modem/routers and have had a few problems occasionally. I'm not always sure whether it has been my ISP or the router. However, anytime now that I lose my connection I always try rebooting the router or turning it on/off before suspecting anything else. I currently have the wireless model and had a problem with the connection speed at one point. However, as I said it was not obvious if the problem was with my ISP. In any event the problem seems to have been fixed.
Andy Knight
Fear knocks at the door, knowledge answers and finds nothing.
Fear knocks at the door, knowledge answers and finds nothing.
See, you should get a good computer - like mine. Never have any bother with minerathbone wrote:As those over on the Local History forum, who kindly enquired whether or not I'd snuffed it, are now aware.... I'm back on line
. Glad you haven't snuffed it. I can't afford a better hotel.Enough of your nonsense - get back to the Play Pen!
It rained yesterday, which was good.... the first time in six weeks here. I’ve been waiting for a bit of precipitation in order to get the mulch down. (There’s no point in doing it when the ground’s dry).
I also wanted to get on with the mulching because of the therapeutic effect that spreading muck has on my senses.... I was in need following the incident at the Community Council meeting on Monday. Nothing to do with Gossip and Tittle Tattle, I may add, but a straightforward accusation that I was a luddite. Me! The man who embraced a Sinclair Spectrum within weeks of it being issued. Me! The man who invested in an electric screwdriver when all around thought they were merely a fad.
It was all Tim’s fault. He asked for for the number of my mobile ‘phone. I said that I didn’t have one. The hush that descended on the room was palpable. I looked up, and every other eye was looking back at me. Talk about intimidating. And then it began. How could I not have a mobile phone? What did I do in emergencies? How did people get in touch with me? ........ How did I survive?
I explained that I had managed to get from the 1940s to now without the aid of a mobile phone quite successfully. I had run a department with 600 employees and a £20 million a year turnover with no major disasters. No-one had ever said that they had a problem contacting me and I had never knowing irritated anyone on a train. And just think of all the time I’d saved not having to respond to text messages.
There was a collective intake of breath..... and then I made a mistake.
I pointed out that I survived the first eleven years of my life without a television. We got rid of the copper and the mangle for a washing machine with a wringer when I was ten. We never, ever, had central heating and it was fun scraping the ice off the inside of the bedroom windows in winter and even now I have a thing about microwaves.
The motion was proposed, seconded and passed that I was an unreconstructed luddite.
To add insult to injury, I went for a pee after the meeting. There was no-one else in the toilet, other than this disembodied voice from one of the cubicles, cheerfully discussing his personal life with someone else on the other end of his mobile, quite oblivious of the amount of unwanted information he was sending out to the rest of the world. I didn’t wait to hear if he was also engaging in a game of poo-sticks.
So, mulching now completed, I’m feeling a lot happier. The Garden’s looking good as well.
I also wanted to get on with the mulching because of the therapeutic effect that spreading muck has on my senses.... I was in need following the incident at the Community Council meeting on Monday. Nothing to do with Gossip and Tittle Tattle, I may add, but a straightforward accusation that I was a luddite. Me! The man who embraced a Sinclair Spectrum within weeks of it being issued. Me! The man who invested in an electric screwdriver when all around thought they were merely a fad.
It was all Tim’s fault. He asked for for the number of my mobile ‘phone. I said that I didn’t have one. The hush that descended on the room was palpable. I looked up, and every other eye was looking back at me. Talk about intimidating. And then it began. How could I not have a mobile phone? What did I do in emergencies? How did people get in touch with me? ........ How did I survive?
I explained that I had managed to get from the 1940s to now without the aid of a mobile phone quite successfully. I had run a department with 600 employees and a £20 million a year turnover with no major disasters. No-one had ever said that they had a problem contacting me and I had never knowing irritated anyone on a train. And just think of all the time I’d saved not having to respond to text messages.
There was a collective intake of breath..... and then I made a mistake.
I pointed out that I survived the first eleven years of my life without a television. We got rid of the copper and the mangle for a washing machine with a wringer when I was ten. We never, ever, had central heating and it was fun scraping the ice off the inside of the bedroom windows in winter and even now I have a thing about microwaves.
The motion was proposed, seconded and passed that I was an unreconstructed luddite.
To add insult to injury, I went for a pee after the meeting. There was no-one else in the toilet, other than this disembodied voice from one of the cubicles, cheerfully discussing his personal life with someone else on the other end of his mobile, quite oblivious of the amount of unwanted information he was sending out to the rest of the world. I didn’t wait to hear if he was also engaging in a game of poo-sticks.
So, mulching now completed, I’m feeling a lot happier. The Garden’s looking good as well.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
Ah yes!!! I have those memories too!!! Especially the scraping of the ice from inside the windows!!!I pointed out that I survived the first eleven years of my life without a television. We got rid of the copper and the mangle for a washing machine with a wringer when I was ten. We never, ever, had central heating and it was fun scraping the ice off the inside of the bedroom windows in winter
Many a time was spent scratching away!!!Children these days don't know what they're missing!!!
And I don't have a mobile phone either!!!
Why be scared????
Does that mean.........you left home before the fridge arrived? Must have, coz I reckon I was at least 16 before our mother grasped the concept that you could have something which stayed plugged in overnightrathbone wrote:I pointed out that I survived the first eleven years of my life without a television.
. Before that we set the jelly by the front room window (two days before we wanted to eat it ).Enough of your nonsense - get back to the Play Pen!
Paul is creosoting his side of the fence and the nostalgic whiff is taking me back to my childhood........... much as the cups of Tetley and the Malted Milks served by ecm in the boycott bunker took me back to those heady, revolutionary days of 1968.
As is well documented, the 1967 summer of love slowly transmuted into the autumn of discontent and the winter of wondering what next. What next turned out to be 1968.
I was in the Art College drama group in those days, busy preparing our version of Brecht’s Mahagonny for that year’s fringe.
As the mood changed, so did our choice of play. We initially switched over to Brecht’s The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui, but that foundered as no-one wanted to play Hitler, and finally, after absurdly wasting a fortnight on Ionescu’s L’Avenir Est Dans Les Oeufs, we settled on some 20s Russian adgitprop thing which I’ve forgotten the name of. (A load of old tosh for the main part.)
As the Vietnam demonstrations in London grew closer, the fervour grew more intense. For a whole couple of days the student body at the Art College went on strike, demanding ...... well, we didn’t really know what we were demanding. We occupied the canteen, ate all the sandwiches, painted spontaneous banners which were closely copied on those we had seen in newsreels of what had been happening in France and, strangely, sang lots of Jacques Brel songs.
In those days a revolutionary idea wasn’t really a revolutionary idea if it hadn’t been thought up in the Meadow Bar. After downing numerous revolutionary ideas that Spring, it was decided to hire a mini-bus and take a delegation of comrades down to the demo.
For some reason (probably because I went out for a pee) I was given the role of official photographer. I was thrilled, though it wasn’t my usual job: I wrote the music reviews in Student. Ian usually took the photographs, but he couldn’t get away that weekend.
The journey down to London was fairly uneventful. Nobody was ‘accidently’ left behind at any of the stops and we did find a parking place at Walter’s mate’s in Turnham Green. Once all sixteen of us had piled out of the bus we decided to split into smaller groups and to meet the next day in Trafalgar Square.
I went off with Merv, Alan and Steve. After getting off the tube in Piccadilly, we wandered round for a while, mostly drinking guinness in pubs off the back of the Circus. Steve bought a carry-out, but had nothing to carry it in, so picked up a touristy union jack bag at one of the pavement stalls. Then we went to the pictures. (I can’t remember what the film was, but it might have Isadora starring Vanessa Redgrave).
A few more pints after the film and then our thoughts turned to somewhere to sleep for the night, so it was into a taxi and off to the LSE. Smart thinking........ of course the LSE was occupied and anyone could doss down in the corridors and lecture rooms for the night. There was only one problem: Steve’s carrier bag. We could bring the booze in, but the bag had to stay outside. Union Jacks were not permitted. NLF flags - that was different.
Come the morning, it was a case of wandering around again until it was time to meet up with everyone else. We had a good breakfast in a greasy little cafe off the Aldwych and then made our way roughly towards the meeting place. The last of the carry-out was consumed sitting on a park bench in Soho Square.
Needless to say, we didn’t meet up with anyone we knew in Trafalgar Square.
I was busy snapping away with the two ton zenith slr slung around my neck.
When the crowd moved, I moved with it. I eventually washed up in Grosvenor Square, feeling frightened, buzzy and ‘grown-up important’ all at the same time. It was one of those situations where you just had to let yourself go with the flow, or else you would come to grief.
Eventually I bumped into Merv and Alan again. We decided to spend the rest of the day rowing on the Serpentine.
(Merv. rowing on the Serpentine with his revolutionary tie.)
Back on the mini-bus it turned out that I was the only one who had come within viewing distance of the American Embassy. Most of the guys hadn’t even started off on the march, using the time to sleaze round Soho or get pissed in overpriced hostelries.
None of the photographs were good enough to use.
The revolution came and went. We went back to Mahagonny. It played in a little hall off Lady Lawson Street. Seven people came the first night. The average after that was three, but the tea and biccies were good!
As is well documented, the 1967 summer of love slowly transmuted into the autumn of discontent and the winter of wondering what next. What next turned out to be 1968.
I was in the Art College drama group in those days, busy preparing our version of Brecht’s Mahagonny for that year’s fringe.
As the mood changed, so did our choice of play. We initially switched over to Brecht’s The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui, but that foundered as no-one wanted to play Hitler, and finally, after absurdly wasting a fortnight on Ionescu’s L’Avenir Est Dans Les Oeufs, we settled on some 20s Russian adgitprop thing which I’ve forgotten the name of. (A load of old tosh for the main part.)
As the Vietnam demonstrations in London grew closer, the fervour grew more intense. For a whole couple of days the student body at the Art College went on strike, demanding ...... well, we didn’t really know what we were demanding. We occupied the canteen, ate all the sandwiches, painted spontaneous banners which were closely copied on those we had seen in newsreels of what had been happening in France and, strangely, sang lots of Jacques Brel songs.
In those days a revolutionary idea wasn’t really a revolutionary idea if it hadn’t been thought up in the Meadow Bar. After downing numerous revolutionary ideas that Spring, it was decided to hire a mini-bus and take a delegation of comrades down to the demo.
For some reason (probably because I went out for a pee) I was given the role of official photographer. I was thrilled, though it wasn’t my usual job: I wrote the music reviews in Student. Ian usually took the photographs, but he couldn’t get away that weekend.
The journey down to London was fairly uneventful. Nobody was ‘accidently’ left behind at any of the stops and we did find a parking place at Walter’s mate’s in Turnham Green. Once all sixteen of us had piled out of the bus we decided to split into smaller groups and to meet the next day in Trafalgar Square.
I went off with Merv, Alan and Steve. After getting off the tube in Piccadilly, we wandered round for a while, mostly drinking guinness in pubs off the back of the Circus. Steve bought a carry-out, but had nothing to carry it in, so picked up a touristy union jack bag at one of the pavement stalls. Then we went to the pictures. (I can’t remember what the film was, but it might have Isadora starring Vanessa Redgrave).
A few more pints after the film and then our thoughts turned to somewhere to sleep for the night, so it was into a taxi and off to the LSE. Smart thinking........ of course the LSE was occupied and anyone could doss down in the corridors and lecture rooms for the night. There was only one problem: Steve’s carrier bag. We could bring the booze in, but the bag had to stay outside. Union Jacks were not permitted. NLF flags - that was different.
Come the morning, it was a case of wandering around again until it was time to meet up with everyone else. We had a good breakfast in a greasy little cafe off the Aldwych and then made our way roughly towards the meeting place. The last of the carry-out was consumed sitting on a park bench in Soho Square.
Needless to say, we didn’t meet up with anyone we knew in Trafalgar Square.
I was busy snapping away with the two ton zenith slr slung around my neck.
When the crowd moved, I moved with it. I eventually washed up in Grosvenor Square, feeling frightened, buzzy and ‘grown-up important’ all at the same time. It was one of those situations where you just had to let yourself go with the flow, or else you would come to grief.
Eventually I bumped into Merv and Alan again. We decided to spend the rest of the day rowing on the Serpentine.
(Merv. rowing on the Serpentine with his revolutionary tie.)
Back on the mini-bus it turned out that I was the only one who had come within viewing distance of the American Embassy. Most of the guys hadn’t even started off on the march, using the time to sleaze round Soho or get pissed in overpriced hostelries.
None of the photographs were good enough to use.
The revolution came and went. We went back to Mahagonny. It played in a little hall off Lady Lawson Street. Seven people came the first night. The average after that was three, but the tea and biccies were good!
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
I coulda been a contender........... but I bottled out.
Maybe it was the heat of the day, or that long, slow crawl through the roadworks at the Road Bridge, or even the sinister shock of the black Dakota monolith, but by the time Birnam came into view, I just couldn’t do it.
Having trundled the car down to a spot by the river, we made our way through the skirl of pipes to the arena. The pipes were skirling because there were what seemed to be a dozen of them, ranging from young laddies egged on by their mothers, through numpties in ray-ban shades, to auld jocks, all playing a different tune over a different drone. Ambient, it wasn’t.
The stalls around the enclosure were the usual mix of tat, tat and tourist tat, mixed in with ethnic fare, like hamburgers, diet coke and something long and slippery in a bun. The gates opened at 11:00, events started at 12:00 and the parade arrived at 12:30.
Yes, this was the 143rd Birnam Highland Games and World Haggis Eating Championships.
After a cermonial circuit of the field, Epykat, Sunnyporty, the elder Rathbonette and I settled down on the wooden settle just to the side of the Heavy Event Throwing Area. ( We knew it was the Heavy Event Throwing Area because there were signs telling us not to enter.)
As with everything heavy and highland over the last five years, all of the events - putting the stone, throwing the hammer, throwing the weight over the bar and tossing the caber - were dominated by Gregor Edmunds. After his first hammer throw sailed across the grass and came within whistling distance of Epykat’s handbag, the excitement diminished as he proceeded to take over almost every event. (I ended up rooting for a wee ginger lad who looked about seventeen, could hardly lift the hammer and gave up when it came to the caber - give him five years and he could be up there with the best.)
Things started to become ominous with the announcement of the annual Kiltie Dash. “You could do that”, said Epykat. Fortunately, it was only open to people wearing kilts, so I declined.
Then the competitors took to the track in front of us. Some had kilts, but some were simply wrapped in anything tartan. One guy had turned his car coat inside out and tied it between his legs. If I had known, I could have whipped the Massai blanket off Sunnyporty’s couch before we left.
Then it was the climax of the day. The World Haggis Eating Championship. “You could do that”, said Epykat. “No I couldn’t”, I thought. We got up from our bench behind Big Gregor and made our way up to the table beneath the lion rampant. The competitors had to eat a whole haggis and down a bottle of Carlsberg (courtesy of the sponsors). Fastest to eat all the haggis wins. As we stood, the tray of steaming haggi was carried past. They looked fat and greasy. By the time the whistle blew, they looked cold, fat and greasy.
Each of the competitors had a different technique. Some cut their haggis into portions; some split them open and scooped out the contents. One lad cut open one end and squeezed the lot into his mouth like toothpaste. The winner was a diminutive young lass in a pink baseball cap........ I could have done that!
Still, the mince pie supper and can of vimpto from the chip shop in South Queensferry more than made up for my lack of courage with the haggis.
Maybe it was the heat of the day, or that long, slow crawl through the roadworks at the Road Bridge, or even the sinister shock of the black Dakota monolith, but by the time Birnam came into view, I just couldn’t do it.
Having trundled the car down to a spot by the river, we made our way through the skirl of pipes to the arena. The pipes were skirling because there were what seemed to be a dozen of them, ranging from young laddies egged on by their mothers, through numpties in ray-ban shades, to auld jocks, all playing a different tune over a different drone. Ambient, it wasn’t.
The stalls around the enclosure were the usual mix of tat, tat and tourist tat, mixed in with ethnic fare, like hamburgers, diet coke and something long and slippery in a bun. The gates opened at 11:00, events started at 12:00 and the parade arrived at 12:30.
Yes, this was the 143rd Birnam Highland Games and World Haggis Eating Championships.
After a cermonial circuit of the field, Epykat, Sunnyporty, the elder Rathbonette and I settled down on the wooden settle just to the side of the Heavy Event Throwing Area. ( We knew it was the Heavy Event Throwing Area because there were signs telling us not to enter.)
As with everything heavy and highland over the last five years, all of the events - putting the stone, throwing the hammer, throwing the weight over the bar and tossing the caber - were dominated by Gregor Edmunds. After his first hammer throw sailed across the grass and came within whistling distance of Epykat’s handbag, the excitement diminished as he proceeded to take over almost every event. (I ended up rooting for a wee ginger lad who looked about seventeen, could hardly lift the hammer and gave up when it came to the caber - give him five years and he could be up there with the best.)
Things started to become ominous with the announcement of the annual Kiltie Dash. “You could do that”, said Epykat. Fortunately, it was only open to people wearing kilts, so I declined.
Then the competitors took to the track in front of us. Some had kilts, but some were simply wrapped in anything tartan. One guy had turned his car coat inside out and tied it between his legs. If I had known, I could have whipped the Massai blanket off Sunnyporty’s couch before we left.
Then it was the climax of the day. The World Haggis Eating Championship. “You could do that”, said Epykat. “No I couldn’t”, I thought. We got up from our bench behind Big Gregor and made our way up to the table beneath the lion rampant. The competitors had to eat a whole haggis and down a bottle of Carlsberg (courtesy of the sponsors). Fastest to eat all the haggis wins. As we stood, the tray of steaming haggi was carried past. They looked fat and greasy. By the time the whistle blew, they looked cold, fat and greasy.
Each of the competitors had a different technique. Some cut their haggis into portions; some split them open and scooped out the contents. One lad cut open one end and squeezed the lot into his mouth like toothpaste. The winner was a diminutive young lass in a pink baseball cap........ I could have done that!
Still, the mince pie supper and can of vimpto from the chip shop in South Queensferry more than made up for my lack of courage with the haggis.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
Astute readers of the Marine Gardens saga over on the Local History forum will have realised that it has now reached the end of the road.
I have been doing the local history thing every morning (more or less) since December 2006, so I've decided to give myself a break.
It will be back when I feel like it (maybe next month, maybe next year) and probably focussing on the war years.
Meanwhile I might start to ramble again
I have been doing the local history thing every morning (more or less) since December 2006, so I've decided to give myself a break.
It will be back when I feel like it (maybe next month, maybe next year) and probably focussing on the war years.
Meanwhile I might start to ramble again
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.
-
Bob Jefferson
- Posts: 6212
- Joined: 11 Dec 2004, 21:16
- Location: Planet Porty
- Contact:
Re: Rathbone's Ramblin'
When I said I was having a break, I didn't realise it would be such a long break. Now fully refreshed, I'm back.
Actually I was sidetracked by what started out as a wee project to research the history of the Edinburgh Beat Bands of the 1960s, a project which just grew and grew and grew and grew.
One of those bands was The Hipple People. In fact they were the first group I ever saw live, in 1963 at what was called the Portobello Youth Club. Does anyone else remember the Portobello Youth Club and any of the other groups who played there? (The Hipples, by the way, are still together and playing!)
I haven't forgotten my promise to start a Porty in Wartime thread and that will follow eventually. Meanwhile I'm concerning myself with reminiscences of the old Portobello High School...... do other people remember Granny Parnell, Robin Dinkie Dempster, Big Ben Main, Daddy Weaver, Hovis Brown et. al? and is there any mileage in recording those recollections before its successor bites the dust?
Actually I was sidetracked by what started out as a wee project to research the history of the Edinburgh Beat Bands of the 1960s, a project which just grew and grew and grew and grew.
One of those bands was The Hipple People. In fact they were the first group I ever saw live, in 1963 at what was called the Portobello Youth Club. Does anyone else remember the Portobello Youth Club and any of the other groups who played there? (The Hipples, by the way, are still together and playing!)
I haven't forgotten my promise to start a Porty in Wartime thread and that will follow eventually. Meanwhile I'm concerning myself with reminiscences of the old Portobello High School...... do other people remember Granny Parnell, Robin Dinkie Dempster, Big Ben Main, Daddy Weaver, Hovis Brown et. al? and is there any mileage in recording those recollections before its successor bites the dust?
Last edited by rathbone on 02 Sep 2011, 08:42, edited 1 time in total.
I have nothing to say and I'm going to say it.