Sunset over...

Salford.

My dad (who sometime ago passed on to to that great offal stall in the sky) used to eat tripe. To the uninitiated tripe is sheep's stomach that can be eaten uncooked with vinegar or cooked with milk and onions. Tripe is flobbery to touch and tastes like, well, stomach. As a child I did not like tripe or pig's trotters. Pig's trotters were another delicacy enjoyed by dad.

Pig's trotters are boiled (he used a pressure cooker) and when cooked look what they are, containers of pig fat. On Saturday afternoons at the kitchen table he sucked chewed and licked this compacted fat from delicate pig foot bones. All grease would be gleaned, it was a matter of honour, almost cosa nostra, and in the deepening gloom dad smacked sticky satisfied lips, 'mmmming' until no morsel of goo remained.

I believe this dish to be still popular in some catholic countries.

I'm currently stuck on a...

nautical theme, well, nautical and biscuit, so here we go.

Hard tack, the biscuit of choice in Nelson's Navy is a well documented comestible made entirely from daub, cement, egg white and absinthe (to drive away the senses). Hard tack is what helped make the Royal Navy, Royal, and don't just take my word for it, Jack Nastyface writing in the 1830's or 1805 depending on whom you rely for your history states more than once,

"Hmmm hard tack, for making men hard. Oops, bugger, that's another tooth gone."

This rock like substance, originally designed as paving was as popular with 18th Century Navies as it had been with the Romans before. What other product was of such versatility it could provide nutrition and be solid underfoot? In 1799 the Royal Navy secretly baked a hard tack Frigate named HMS Troubled Colon that was unfortunately lost one night whilst tied up in London's East End near Limehouse. Many rumours circulated but crumb trails showed it was eaten by urchins. The Reverend N. Strokeboy, Rector of Thrashem Orphanage faithfully recorded for some years afterwards how many of his boys unaccountably continued to gain weight. What became of the ships crew is a matter of some speculation though contemporary paintings of the local scene do show children's faces to be particularly ruddy, though that could equally have been the tuberculosis.

Jack Nastyface wrote two books in the first 40 years of 19th Century, his first and most famous 'Memoirs of an English Seaman' was popular until the turn of the 20th century when it was superseded by that more modern book of seafaring manners, 'Throw another Boy on the Boiler Lads, First Class 'Ave Rung Down Again' and incidentally whose Japanese version was subtitled 'Lets All Have a Jaunty Song.'

Jack Nastyface was close to Nelson at Trafalgar, so close in fact that every night he was able to steal sips from the brandy barrel within which pickled the great man on his long journey home. Life in the navy took it's toll of old Jack and when finally retired in 1838 he was minus the right hand, left leg and right eye that had accompanied him when originally pressed to service in 1791. At his passing out ceremony it was observed that Jack for some time had been retiring in sections and therefore what now stood before the crowd must be the final installment. Even Jack nodded at this sensible statement but then he was drunk and his one good eye was filled with a huge tear.

In retirement Jack Nastyface turned his attention from naval to childhood matters and particularly the subject of his beloved mother whose image he'd carved as the knee piece on his wooden leg. Throughout his life Jack sang in praise of this saint who both bore and named him. However, those early literary skills deserted Jack and his second book 'At Least She Never Called me Shitface Like She did our Barry.' failed to find a publisher.

Hmmm...

snow last night, seizure of booty on beach today, hey it's just like old times. By old times I mean ages ago, or yore.

A ship has run aground on the Devon coast depositing containers packed with BMW bikes, nappies, wine and tons of other stuff. Not surprisingly the good folk of Devon have been on the beach helping themselves. Wey hey! Of course some Devonians a couple hundred years ago made a living wrecking ships, fortunately in no great numbers, but wages were shite in those days so one can perhaps understand wrecking ships to make ends meet. Your modern Devonian is much more sophisticated, as amply demonstrated on the BBC. Customs and Excise has moved on since those days too. Customs staff were out in numbers issuing forms for people to complete. Good advice, complete the form and your bounty is not theft but salvage. Of course salvage can be reclaimed by the true owners but apparently that's an expensive and lengthy business. I suspect the cargo owners will claim off the insurance and no doubt fiddle the manifest.

"No governor, there was the Gucci watches, all 10,000 of em. Oh yeah and big Geoff lost his levver jacket, well, when I say levver jacket I mean he's got more than one. Bish bosh just sign here, fank you verrrry much."

Oh to live in Devon on this bright winter morn. Sigh.

My mention of snow is also a reference to yore, when weather was rugged and winter always bitter. Wikipedia report the River Thames freezing over in 250AD, 923AD and 23 times between the fourteenth and nineteenth centuries. Ah, proper centuries with proper weather. Secretly I'm pleased not to have lived in yore, especially after learning of weevils in the biscuits. Couldn't be doing with weevils in me biscuits.

Snow, shipwrecks, salvage, and all on one day too, just like old times. Sigh.

Damn, where's that biscuit gone. It was there a second ago... why, it's moving, OHMIGOD they're all moving...noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Wow...

snow in Manchester on this Sunday eve. There's more photos on flickr, to the right>

Oh yes...

and another thing, I got a bloody parking ticket for being 15 minutes late. Grrr.

On a lighter note, I've finally completed John Banville's novel The Sea. It took some time with many breaks but, well, it's pretty damn good. Next up is Michael Faber's The Crimson Petal and the White.

Here's a view of some novels I received for Christmas. Lucky old me. They'll be a distraction from my parking ticket woes.

So, there I was...

drinking coffee with friends in the City Art Gallery yesterday afternoon. That's about it really, though I did take this photo of a cafetiere.

I've been thinking...

if no one was present when the tree branch fell, did it make a noise? There is evidence that it did. The impaled dog weeing on the park railings certainly heard a noise. Looking up from it's cocked business the dog paused, midstream so to speak, and was duly skewered. Old Captain Cat, cosy beneath a sea farers rug watched through his harbour master telescope and later told me everything.

Harry High Hat the top alley cat who lives outback of my house said not one animal, wild or domesticated shed a tear for the dog. The charitable blamed a weak bladder, the rest blamed mendaciousness for that dog had history, that dog would wee on anything, as well as on more than one summer occasion a basking Harry. For many, therefore, justice was done yesterday afternoon. A post 'stuck-dog' party held in Crowcroft Park last night for assorted local wildlife was a raging success, or so said Big Trev who seems to know more than he's letting on.

This morning I examined the fallen branch and found strange markings that might have been made over a period of some time with a saw. And Big Trev was seen in the park's tree tops yesterday, chasing squirrels he claimed. One squirrel thought he saw Trev with a saw but couldn't swear to it as at that time he was also busy removing dog piss from his coat.

Yesterday afternoon...

a huge tree branch fell out of Crowcroft Park onto Stockport Road. It was very exciting and I missed the event by only a few moments. Returned later to take the photo I couldn't capture earlier because handy Canon Ixus not in pocket. Grrr. Still, the bent and broken railings are impressive in their own small way. Of course I could be making too much of this tiny incident, however it has been very quiet in Crowcroft Park since the autumn fair departed.

Amanda's microwave...

oven as a shelf. But what a shelf: champagne; coffee; eggs; crisps (potato chips to my American friends); radio; oatcakes; bread rolls; something in foil and a green peg.

Christmas lights...

garlanding my mate Amanda's olde worlde fireplace.

Amanda lives in Old Town which is a tiny hamlet perched above Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire.

Unfortunately for the world of photography I forgot my tripod and so couldn't both widen the depth of field and keep the wonderful Nikon steady. The compromise means only a few centre inches are in focus. Ah well, at least the colours are pretty.

Karen's fish...

whom for the purposes of this blog we shall call Fish, admiring my Ford Focus.














Fish, disappointed on learning of three second mem...

Pre Christmas photo...

of Manchester looking its most European. Not a bad effort, if you ask me.

Ha ha...

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. I've finally managed to post both my Flickr badge and the site meter feed. Once again I am whole, like a conquerer, like a real man.

Hot milk now cools on the bedside table, chapter two of 'Rupert and the Stern Mistress' rests open on the pillow and my newly pressed jim jams are toasty warm. What more could a boy ask for on this blessed Boxing Day, hmmm, hmmm?

Well...

my old template's been changed using this latest blogger beta thang. Unfortunately, I'm so far unable save my flickr badge or site meter. Adding extras to these improved templates seems not straightforward but then exploration of new worlds never is. However, to see further requires we stand on the shoulders of past pioneers and I include here those small furry ancestors after the great wipe out who spent millenia in burrows wondering if the silence was another dinosaur trick. Are we so far removed from those times? To see the stars don't we too only have to look up?

With this ray of hope I will stride forth and solve the issue of adding flickr and other tit bits to my new layout. Therefore, I've only one more thing to say...

"Yeeehaw! Saddle up the wagon Ma, we're off to the badlands."

PS, any helpful suggestions will be most gratefully received for I'm sure those distant hills are in Mordor plus the horse hasn't been well and me leg's been playing me up and most folk really have no sense how tough it is to survive only on beans...

PPS,

where can one obtain a bespoke blog? I asked in a nearby town but an unshaven type spat tobacco juice on Ma...

bugger blogging...

Ah'm gonna git mahself a gun.

Clean up this town.

Starting with Ma's apron.

I drank wine...

last night but not much. Feel side may have been let down. Will redouble efforts this evening. Got to pull my weight, have reputation to maintain. Hey, am in the groove...

Can't remember the name of that winter sport where folk dressed like fat seals speed down iced track balanced on a tiny sledge, might be called loooooooge. Come 4.30pm this afternoon I intend to zip tight rubber suit, rest carcass on said sledge and similar to lump of shuddering blubber push off on mindless ride of drink and debauchery. And to life's great barman these following words, "Hey dude, easy on the debauchery. Jeeze man, trying to show restraint here!" will remain unspoken.

OHMIGOD...

this evening I've been drinking wine and am slipping into the Christmas drinking zone... help meeeee, help meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

No, don't help meeeeeeee, don't help meeeeeeeeeeeeee... I really like itttttttttttttt... hur, hur, hur...

Now, where's that other bottle...

Here's a photo...

of my hand holding one of those round things that get filled with soap and put in washing machines.

The photo is courtesy of a dinky little canon IXUS 60 that I bought because my darling Nikon is too large and valuable to leave in the car.

I recently discussed with Annie Slaminsky my need to name things. It must be a blokey thing because women seem impervious, plus I've absolutely no idea what most of these actual names mean. For instance what is IXUS, hmmm? Or for that matter the 60 it is meant to be a model of? And though I try really hard to keep abreast of names and meanings, pourqoi?

I experience the naming thing in DIY shops too. For me, 4" dowelling is not a good enough description, oh no, I must know the wood type, sap quotient, run of the grain, country of origin, season of felling, was the feller sleeping with anyone interesting, maybe a cousin, were they church attendees, were they good at school, who sat with them in class, were they good at maths, was there scandal involving the local priest? I'm not speaking embezzlement here. Maybe their father ran off with the local priest? Maybe, OHMIGOD, their father was the priest.

Generally by this stage I find it best to leave the wood section and lie down, maybe on a bed, maybe on a Luxurydown Masterest, with quilted headboard and orthapaedic cushioning, bespoke design, from Somerset, from hamlet, from recent scandal... priest on foot across field... dogs... arrests... brother of Chief Constable... cover up... hush hush... medal from Pope...

Bollocks! I'm not resting on a bed steeped in scandal.

I shall sit instead in a darkened room. Let me adjust the blinds... what's this? By Lust Bros of Darkening Crevice?

Is there no end to the torment...

Recently I've been sooooo...

ooooo tired.

In the olden days one could visit their GP for a pick me up, or visit their drug dealer for a pep me up. My GP no longer issues pick me ups and I owe the drug dealer money.

Guess I'm to stay sooooooooooooooooo tired. At least for a while longer.

Red meat, maybe the answer's in red meat. Got to get myself some red meat. Of course could cut out red meat and go straight for the iron supplement. As a child elderly folk would recommend I suck on a piece of coal. In the pit villages of Northern England coal could cure most things, including lassitude. Or so the elderly said though I also recall the place scored consistently above national average for choking deaths. Not the fault of coal though, never the fault of coal. Choking deaths as the elderly were want to say, are caused by a failure of the will to live. Although as a small child I never sucked a piece of coal, small I may have been but stupid I was not. Besides, the Sunday stroll from church to home over the prone bodies of elderly folk, some with hands still clutching throats in my opinion was always a bit of a giveaway. Requiem, the only service that priest ever knew, indeed Father O'Strokechild could conduct a requiem mass with one hand tied behind his back and often did, though only on becoming an adult would I learn bondage is not a stage on the journey to heaven.

So, just as then, coal is not the cure.

Nevertheless I'm soooooooooo tired.

Could suck on a piece of iron, maybe that'll do the trick. As a child I swallowed a ball bearing. Between our house and school lay a scrap yard with one of those huge electro-magnets used for picking up metal. For months I passed that place on the other side of the street, I walked with fear and in response mocking children would daily crowd the opposite pavement, many made crane gestures. It was a time of shame.

Perhaps I need more sleep but then the nightmares come. Twisted metal, screeching, drawn, wrenched, suspended, and through the tangled steel always drops a single piece of coal, dancing and jinking before popping into the mouth of some old crone who was collapsed beneath. And the laughter of children would drown out her choking, then the children would choke, then I choke...

My home is converted to central heating. It's a comfort. That little blue flame, so far removed from...c...c... so far removed.

Some think I should be removed...

but what do they know...

We've been having...

gales in Manchester.

High winds certainly make it hard work for birds. This morning I watched some starlings or thrushes or sparrows or blackbirds (they were mainly medium size and brown) flying backwards, the giveaway being that though moving backwards they were pointing forwards.

As usual, adolescent birds were showing off, doing pretend backstroke, flying vertical with head down, trailing pooh streams, that sort of thing. Other immature ones flew with the wind, really fast, but Manchester's a compact town with tall buildings and vortexes and on those bends many a coot came a cropper. Lots of cats were about, mainly sitting, mainly looking up, mainly looking pleased, mainly licking their lips. Of course older birds just tightened their mufflers, sighed, condemned the folly of youth and struggled on.

It's tough being a bird in a gale. Lucky I was driving a car then, and am not a bird. Hey, evolution, let's hear it for the big E.

(Sound of applause)

No sound of applause? Must be the wind...

Let me just say...

I love photoshop Elements 5.0

I know, I know, it's only software, it has no sentience, indeed it has no personality, but, well, it's a damn good thing.

There, no more will be said.

Actually I will say more for tonight it found 100 photos that I thought had been dispatched, mistakenly, by me into the outer darkness of my huge (by my standards) 140gb G drive that pc world put in the other week.

The G drive is like having a mansion attached to something very tiny. It's large and dark and at the end of a long drive with overhanging trees and gravel underfoot. However, it comes with no above stairs staff. Whilst fiddling with said photos last week, trying them in different rooms, moving them from floor to floor they were suddenly gone. Luckily I'd tied string to the front door and could reverse my steps but what should have been familiar no longer seemed so. That G drive is big and eerie and I thought, bugger, not going in there again.

This week whilst idly fiddling with Photoshop E 5.0 it asked if I wished to back something up (it would be so much easier just to read the bloody User Guide) so the appropriate button was duly pressed and off it bounded like a terrier, tongue lolling, saliva dripping, skittering over marble then up the grand staircase. Bugger me if a short while later it didn't return with my lost photos.

Honest, I shed a tear.

And if the above makes me seem like some trainspotting saddo, well...

Hang on, is that the 5.36 twin carriage chaser to Huge Thigh, calling at Mendacious, Pustule and Birch? Why I think it is...