Just watching Red Nose Day and I am asking myself: who is that woman with the terrible dress and the shape of a hungry Somalian orphan who mainly seems to be responsible for making high pitched noises, standing next to Jonathon Ross?
Thanks to a hint from London Leben, the best girlfriend and I recently visited the wonderful London Canal Museum. After an hour of anoraky fun in this most splendid of museal institutions it was time for lunch, but this being Kings Cross, we weren’t very hopeful to find something suitable. Surprisingly we came across a decent looking place on York Way. The Fellow looked like a decent boozer from the outside and the inside wasn’t bad: this must have been a traditional pub that received a bit of brown paint to tone it down a bit, but it still had character and cosy sofas. A good range of real ales and an appetising lunch menu promised a nice hour spent with The Guardian and some lunch beers. Even though my pie was tiny and I had to do some major expeditions into the sauce to find my beef the chips were world class, and the best girlfriend’s steak tartar was apparently spiffing. The music was good, the punters happy, so thumbs up for that. The only big let down was the staff. Even though the best girlfriend and I were smiling and making supportive noises, our waitresses refused to smile and utter more than monosyllabic responses. Same with the bar staff. Shame about that. Otherwise a promising place.
..I have just watched 3 episodes of ‘Two and a half men’. And I loved every minute of it. It must be genetic.
Now back to Radio4.
Hi all, my ISP has finally delivered and I can finally blog from home, so hopefully the infrequent posting is finally coming to an end.
So what’s it all about this March at the Outhouse?
Well, fairly essential stuff. The best girlfriend ever two days ago sustained the mother of all ankle injuries: a trimalleolar fracture pretty much seperates your foot from the rest of your leg. Ligaments, your tibia and fibula and the rest of your support structures say good bye and leave your foot hanging in an extreme awkward angle. Needless to say what follows are some extremely painful procedures to reduce the fracture and some major reconstructive surgery, culminating in a 6 weeks limbo without weight bearing and no guarantee of fully regained mobility. With other words, the mood is rather sombre at chez Fordiebianco. Nevertheless a challenge is a challenge, and we here at ‘Message from the Outhouse’ are embracing the idea of a 100% male-led household. There is nothing a man can’t do if he focuses properly. Even it’s arranging daffodils and lillies in a pleasing manner.
Additionally to this it’s now 13 months since we left the friendly shores of New Zealand. While there are infuriating aspects to life in Kiwiland for Europeans (the complete lack of respect for the environment , political dominance of a weird white right wing agro-business lobby, the non-existence of public transport, the reliance on gasguzzling cars, etc) Kiwis also have one of the most classless societies, a genuine optimistic, can do spirit, a refreshing friendliness and one of the most gorgeous countries to live in (all of the positives don’t apply to Auckland, of course). Sometimes I think that England could benefit from a little Kiwi spirit.
And why do these Antipodeans have some unbelievable good musicians?
For some weird reason musicality must be a genetic trait, otherwise those 4 million souls wouldn’t be able to breed so many excellent songwriters. While most readers in my age bracket might have heard of Crowded House and Spilt Enz, there is so much more to New Zealand’s excellent musical output. Listening to artists like Goldenhorse, Brooke Fraser, Che Fu, Dave Dobbyn, Anika Moa, Don McGlashan, Bic Runga or even Ladyhawke it becomes evident that these Kiwis sing some sort of Fado of the South Pacific: Haunting, reflective and often sad songs that easily conjure up the landscape I lived in for more than half a decade. Brooke Fraser’s ‘Arithmetic’, Dobbyn’s ‘Loyal’ or McGlashan’s “I will not let you down’ evoke at times bizarre landscapes that one encounters when living on these two islands. A good start to experience a taste of kiwiana is to head over to last.fm and put ‘kiwi’ into the tag search box, sit back and let the music of Aotearoa dazzle you.
As for me, there is the washing to do.
Later.
Image courtesy of Florian Seiffert (F*) on flickr.
Hello Dear Reader,
I have to apologise profoundly for having a 16 day hole in your favourite (ha!) blog, but unfortunately since my latest move to beautiful South-East Essex (Euphemisms anyone?) my new ISP hasn’t managed to hook me up to the net yet. Blogging from work, while theoretically possible, is a bit of a no-no due to a lack of actual time to get my thoughts on wordpress, so this reaches you from the Intercontinental in Cologne. One of my favourite Hotels in the world, this Interconti has always managed to combine a seemingly effortless attention to my needs with a simple, understated elegance and a dash of luxury. Compare that with the lacklustre presentation of the Interconti in Wellington. My personal highlight in the Interconti franchise is nevertheless the Sydney branch as the view from their rooftop bar is unmatched in the world.
Aaaanyway, enough about hotel reviews: while I was sitting pretty in my room, working away, around me the world literally took a left turn. I don’t know how many of you have ever experienced those 5 weird days between ‘Old wife’s thursday’ and ‘rose monday‘. It’s not easy to describe, but the easiest way would be: All shops and companies are close apart from doner stands, public transport, cabs and bars. All social inhibitors are removed, as are the moral ones. Snogging and even shagging outside one’s emotional, social and class boundaries is positively encouraged, dancing and singing along excruciatingly bad music is obligatory and if you don’t wear at least a whiff of a silly costume you’re a societal outcast.
While this sound all pretty incoherent and positively orgiastic, the citizens of Cologne pretty much carry the burden with panache and style: there are few of the drunken and violent outbursts that are so characteristic of a weekend in England and the spirit is one of good-natured debauchery.
There are – of course – downsides. I don’t think I’ve had my bottom that often fondly fondled by variou members of the public not beknown to me within two hours of standing in a bog-standard bar. Not that I particular mind having my bottom fondled, but I prefer the best girlfriend ever for that role and not a neverending collection of ladies (and gentlemen) in various stages of drunkenness.
This shows you the downside of carnival: If you’re not ready to embrace tipsyness, kissing strangers and costumes (and did I mention the music?), the whole shebang can be excruciating.
Or maybe I am just getting old.
Messaged from the Outhouse 