Blondin...

the remarkably hirsute tightrope walker was famous for, well, walking tightropes. Blondin's most spectacular high wire stunt saw him tottering across the Niagara Falls his modesty protected only by a serviette advertising Lyon's Tea.

Plunging is the mode by which most have gone over the falls so it can come as no surprise that the first request for 100 years to cross the chasm by cable has caused quite a stir. As reported in The Independent Newspaper one Nik Wallenda having completed the necessary waivers stands brave chested and foot poised awaiting only the bureacratic nod.

Compared to plunging your man Wallenda's method is the very epitomy of sensible as can be seen is this report from 1951. 

"A British barber, Charles Stephens – known as the Demon Barber of Bristol – is killed when he plummets in a barrel with an anvil attached to his feet. Only Stephens' right arm is found."

This is Liverpool...

on a miserable August Bank Holiday. The Mersey, resplendent in grey is lashed by squalls ripping in off the Irish Sea. The photo was snatched  during a moment of calm. In the distance, bottom left, is the tower of a church in Birkenhead and to its right the Queensway Tunnel air vent.

Ah, the English autumn, neither mist nor mellow fruitfulness.

Today...

was cycling down the Mersey from Jackson's Boat to Stockport and took this rather fetching photo of the M60's underside.

A rat scurried by, up to no good I'd wager.

Spring has sprung...

and all the little animals, so long tucked in their beds are up and lively. The country is awash with furred and feather creatures. Rabbits, hares, badgers, hedgehogs, field mice, shrews, moles, herons, I could go on, for they certainly are. Driving has become hazardous, a life and death affair.  Some country roads are like butcher's slabs. All that mess, it can upset the equilibrium. Nature red in tooth and claw, indeed. There's plenty of red, loads of tooth and quite a bit claw though mostly spread like jam. On such scarlet surfaces a person could skid, lose control, crash. One slip and it's  my tooth and claw feeding the freeloading crows.

Should such a thing happen there'd no doubt be a shrine. A simple menhir,  and dedication would do the trick. "Dan smorgasbord Flynn. Giving, even as he was taken away."

Just thinking of the crowds chokes me up.

The universe...

is a funny old place and full of surprises. By all accounts the great black yonder, until now thought to be a place of peace and quiet is instead stuffed with singing stars  all lustily blaring away like there's no tomorrow.

It's little wonder I can't sleep at night.

It is spring...

Hurrah!

Yesterday me and a lonely daff enjoyed the sun that beat down on meandering River Mersey as it rolled past Didsbury.  With bike under bum, a trusty steed indeed and warm westerly breeze the ride was heaven on earth and not in a religious way either, oh no.

A wandering stoat, it might have been a ferret, skipped from the bushes, scratched it's ear, picked it's teeth, took a look around and declared 'Fuck me, it's spring.'

"It is that sir," replied I, stopping so as not to crush the tiny creature beneath freedom's wheel. And not before time too."

The stoat appraised me with a stoney eye. "Why are you dressed in yellow?" It asked.

"The yellow is reflective safety wear used when riding on roads so vehicles can see me rather than kill me."

"But you're not on a road," Said my minuscule yet oblong friend. "This is the countryside, a riverbank in fact."

"Well spotted, " Said I, thinking, who'd have thought it, a pedantic stoat, "But I had to cycle down a road to get here."

"What's a road?" It said in that superior yet stoatish way

Reader, I ran it over, well, tried to run it over but stoats are wily buggers.

"Wanker." It shouted.

"Wanker back." I replied but by then the moral high ground had gone.