Storms are...

a'blowin in from the west driving a high spring tide onto the shores of Cornwall and Devon. A dark night indeed is predicted. Aye. This is how Herman Melville describes such an experience for Cap'n Ahab's ship, the Pequod.

"Towards evening of that day, the Pequod was torn of her canvas, and bare-poled was left to fight the Typhoon which has struck her directly ahead. When darkness came on, sky and sea roared and split with the thunder, and blazed with the lightning, that showed the disabled masts fluttering here and there with the rags which the first fury of the tempest had left for its after sport. Holding by a shroud, Starbuck was standing on the quarter-deck; at every flash of the lightning glancing aloft, to see what additional disaster might have befallen the intricate hamper there; whilst Stubb and Flask were directing the men in the higher hoisting and firmer lashing of the boats. But all their pains seemed naught. Though lifted to the very top of the cranes, the windward quarter boat (Ahab's) did not escape. A great rolling sea, dashing high up against the reeling ship's teetering side, stove in the boat's bottom at the stern, and left it again, all dripping through like a sieve."

Marvelous, rip roaring stuff. Not entirely sure I'd like to experience such a thing directly but it makes for an exciting read.

Spring is on the...

way. Huzzah!!! This weekend a bright winter sun is beaming down on a bitterly cold North West of England. Yesterday I was down by the Mersey and it was pretty damn good cycling past the first daffodillies of this New Year.

Last weekend was also luvverly as the photo demonstrates. It was taken in Blackpool from the Big Wheel situated on the Central Pier.

Gravity waves...

sweep through universe, shock. Buggering around with time, shock. Been watching a BBC Horizon programme on gravity, in shock, shock. Seems gravity isn't a bit like glue and has nothing to do with rendered horse gizzard, a material from which glue was once manufactured. Modern physics insists that gravity does not arise when horses are boiled but is instead the result of heavy objects moving through spacetime. Such objects curve spacetime and gravity is curvature but spookily time slows when closer to heavy objects. The heavier the object moving through spacetime the more curve/gravity the slower the time. It follows that the further one is away from a heavy object, say a horse, the faster time moves. The principle point here is that both spacetime and gravity are not absolutes but variables, that they are relative. Now, gravity waves are produced when really heavy objects, say two neutron stars spin round each other. Neutron stars are unbelievable heavy, heavier even than horses and their masses swirl and twist spacetime throwing out gravitational waves as if from a universal spin cycle set for brushed cotton, which is of course a heavy cloth.

Gravity waves ripple through the universal spacetime causing it to stretch and contract and correspondingly causing time to speed up and slow down. The cosmos is in constant flux and with our fellow tenants we too are subject to these fundamental changes. We too are subject to stretching and contracting and even different time zones. Call me old fashioned but I prefer all my bits to be running in the same race. Imagine the horror of becoming stuck in a getting up for work ripple? Or a Monday morning ripple! It would be possible in this scenario to spend eight hours just getting out of bed for work, out of bed for work, out of bed for work, out of bed for work... and this is before having to go to sodding work!

Ah, but who would complain about being stuck in the astonishing sex with partner ripple, astonishing sex with partner ripple, astonishing sex, blah de blah de blah... Things balance out, the universe gives and the spacetime taketh away. Ying and Yang. Personally could do with life being a little more heavy on the Yang, but hey, that's just me.

I mentioned previously...

the polar bear problem at Nuremburg Zoo. It's a story not prepared to lie down. Hopes that Knut might mature into a pillar of respectable bear life were dashed when instead he became a raving psychopath and known to carry a gun. A spokesperson for Nuremburg Zoo was quoted as saying "Maybe it would have been better if his mudder had just gobbled him up like she did his brudder and sister, Wilfred and Wildreda. That was a messy business I know but then so is armed robbery." A spokesperson for the local bears said, "We tried to give the kid a break but he got with the wrong crowd. Stayed out late at night. Took drugs. Stole from shops. Some say he's the result of childhood trauma but we say the real cause was his mother being unable to count." A spokesperson for the local Education Department caught mid-croissant coughed, "Innumeracy amongst bears? Hey, what you supposed to do?"

Been having trouble with...

my boiler. Gas man arrived and said it was a matter of heat regulation so he replaced the thermostat with an older model. Only remaining issue is the neighbours whining about not being able to park.

Was gonna start the new year...

with a topical blog, perhaps a light subject such as events at Nuremburg Zoo and that mama bear eating baby bears but decided against given it might prove too sensitive for some stomachs, but not for that huge bear'shttps://cdn.zmescience.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/110727-coslog-xiaotingia-9a.photoblog600.jpg stomach! Ha ha ha. Speaking of which, I couldn't locate a photo of said polar bear eating its cuddly off-spring but did find this image of lions eating some type of horned creature, or to be more specific ex-creature.

Whilst on the subject of things eaten I want to mention, for one final time the Christmas bird. That bird was a giant among birds and I'd like to say I'm sorry it was shot, but I'm not, sorry that is. On Christmas morning we rose to open our pressies and discovered the bloody bird had supped all our Christmas booze. In the kitchen I tiptoed over empty wine and gin bottles thinking, "I'm sure we didn't finish that gin." when the sound of muffled singing came floating like an angel's air from the oven. A sea shanty it was, indeed Ewan McColl's, 'Shoals of Herring'. At first I was enraptured, transported, and even joined with a hearty verse or two myself before poking a rifle through the oven door and shooting the fucker stone dead. The bird squawked "You've got me guv." in a mockney baritone, followed by, "I'm a gonner now my ow'ld darlin'. Have a care sweedart," until finally resting its ashen face on the par boiled spuds I'd put in earlier for roasting. A tear almost blinded my eye when the bird chirped, "I'm not finished yet." and together we completed the final three verses with me on harmonies.

10 hours on gas mark 6 and the bird came through for us, as we knew it would. Also, the cheeky get didn't find the wine we'd stashed in the cellar, stupid animal confined its search to the fridge. Pre-Cambrian Birds? What the fuck do they know about modern living.

Next year, in honour of that bird's passing we're gonna eat horse because I read somewhere that birds and horses were once related, way back. Or was that birds and dinosaurs? Bollocks, as far as I'm now concerned something equine's gonna get it, in fact I can already see Trigger in the next field, "Mama, fetch that gun. Yee haw!"

Note to self, will require larger oven.

Went to the butchers...

to order a free range bird for Christmas and he said "Free range, eh?"
So I said, "Yes."
And he said, "We've a new line. Very old breed of turkey. Goes way back, to the dinosaurs. Angry type. We'll need a deposit."
"Does it graze in the wild?" I said.
"It grazes anywhere it fucking well likes." He said.
So I said, "Show me a picture."
And he pulled out a police mug shot with the turkey looking mean and right into the camera.
"Will it go into an average oven?" I said.
"That depends." He said.
"On what?" I said.
"If you've an average oven." He said.
So I said, "You miss the point."
And he said "So did the turkey."
So I said, "How did you kill it?"
And he said, "With a gun."
"With a gun?" I said.
And he said, "Yes."
"What kind of gun?" I said.
"A big one." He said.
"A big one?" I said.
And he said "Yes."
So I said, "It wasn't with a spear then?"
And he said, "No."
We both paused.
"There was a spear involved." He said.
"Was there?" I said
And he said, "Yes,"
So I said, "And was this spear behind the point that was missed?"
And he said, "Yes."
So I said, "That explains the gun."
And he said, "Yes."
"Okay then, I'll have one of your turkeys. When shall I collect?" I said.
And he said, "I lied about the gun."
So I said, "You did?"
And he said, "Yes."
"It's not dead yet, is it?" I said.
And he said, "No."
So I said, "What do I get for my deposit?"
And he said, "A spear and a gun."
So I said, "A spear and a gun?"
And he said, "Yes."
So I said, "You do home delivery?"
And he said, "Sort of."
So I said, "Sort of?"
And he said "It delivers itself."
"Hence the spear and the gun?" I said.
And he said, "Yes."
"When this angry bird arrives I'll be expected to shoot it, or stick it with this spear." I said.
And he said, "You won't have to pluck it."
So I said, "Why?"
And he said, "Highly anxious type. By Christmas it'll have plucked itself."
"Well, thank heavens for small mercies."I said.
And he said. "Yes."
"All I have to do is kill it?" I said.
"Proves it's free range." He said.
"Shall I return the gun and spear after Christmas?" I said.
"No, you keep them." He said.
"Really," I said.
"Really," He said.
"And why is that?" I said.
"It's got relatives." He said.
"Fair enough." I said and left the shop.

Manchester this...

evening, and heavy on the photoshop thank you very much. I've got a loverly little Canon IXUS 60 and took this handheld on ISO 800, then fiddled with photoshop and now it looks like a painting. Excellent!

Was out on my bike again, in the dark. I've bought loads of flashing lights so I wont be killed, put em on my helmet, on the bike, on the bag, on the pedals, on the spokes, on the handlebars, on the seat post, got so many lights I'm bleedin' knackered just hauling round my own weight in batteries. I'm so bright children think it's the Fair arriving and shout "Huzzah!" Birds think it's dawn and begin the morning chorus, a group of fundamentalists recently mistook me for the second coming and formed a new church and now I emit so much light I can be seen from space.

Still, if I get knocked down the buggers won't be able to claim they didn't see me.

"Your Honour, I was driving along the Queen's carriageway minding my own business when suddenly a great light appeared in the east and I thought what the fuck is that! Blinded, I ran into said light knocking (as I came to know him later) Mr Flynn into the canal where he subsequently suffered severe shocks due to an excess of voltage. M'Lud, if I'm guilty of anything it is of saving the night sky from this madman. I rest my case."

Hmmmm...

Cycling in Manchester...

yesterday I came across hundreds of Christian bikers roaring down Deansgate dressed as Father Christmas. Not wholly sure that Santa Claus would approve of such recklessness what with his carbon footprint being so low. I researched some info on the carbon footprint of cows (in the absence of info on reindeer farts) and discovered what a major hazard bovine rear-end exhalations represent.

Thank the Lord those Christians didn't pass through town riding cows or else we'd be totally fucked.


The photo below is of the Dee Estuary from West Kirby, taken last weekend. That's Wales in the distance.

Think I'm gonna receive...

a speeding ticket. Didn't see the cops until it was too late to slow down, they got me with a radar machine. Pah!

Someone at work has a great cartoon above their desk. It shows a big boss looking down on a lowly secretary and he says "Why aren't you working?" And she replies "I didn't see you coming."

Well I feel the same way about speed cops. Why was I speeding? I didn't see the cops. Doh!

Took this photo in West Kirby on Sunday eve.

Photoshop Elements 5.0

is a wonderful object though I'm not sure about the "5.0" bit. Five point oh? Whatever happened to 5, or five? And what's this "Die Hard 4.0" about? Four point oh.

Photoshop Elements plays a more positive role in my life than any Bruce Willis film, as is evidenced on the right.

The image was achieved by fiddling with Photoshop though I can't now remember precisely what I did. However, the trick has brought me joy which I suppose is the main thing.

Came across this particular...

swan on the Ashton Canal, liked the cut of its jib. In the UK all swans belong to the Queen. Grrr. They seem such graceful creatures, but apparently got vicious tempers, snap a man's leg clean off with a single look. Or is that break a child's leg with one wing. Or it might have been never pull a gun on a friend. The point I'm trying to make is, don't cross a cross swan. Oh no.

Autumn is in full swing...

here in the UK. Hmmm. Although I think the place looks pretty, dressed in golds, auburns, russets, reds and yellows, it does not do for me what spring does.

However, Autumn nevertheless provides the opportunity for a bit of John Keats. The same happened last year I know but hey, why deny ourselves a bit of Keats? The photo was taken today on the Marple Canal that skirts the east of Manchester just below the Pennine foothills and above Ashton and Stockport. More pics on flickr over on't right...

Keats opens the second stanza of his poem with a question, "Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?" He then implores autumn to ignore spring and instead appreciate itself, which is a lesson for me too. Spring, perhaps I love it too much, even to the detriment of autumn and winter. Nah, sod autumn and winter, they can look after themselves. Great poem though.


To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breat whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

- John Keats

Was in Derbyshire yesterday...

walking up hill and down dale, testing the knee. On't right is a photo of Edale taken from the north side of Mam Tor. Mam Tor is a large pointy hill that sits astride the ridge line running from Hope in the east to Despair in the West. Actually that's not true because Derbyshire isn't remotely like any place described in The Pilgrim's Progress, though it can be spooky when there's a fog. Hope really does exist even if it has been many years since Caleb was a popular name in the village.

I notice...

it's been over a month since the op on my leg. So, here's a photo of said leg, said almost recovered leg. A fine example of leg it is I must say. This is a leg that's going places, I can tell by the look of it. And what larks me and the leg will having this winter, walking larks, cycling larks, maybe even running larks (but no running until after Christmas larks). We might even be up with the larks, though I'm not wholly sure of this as I have an idea larks bugger off to Africa every winter. Or maybe that's Africans.

In honour of this leg I've bought a winter walking coat. A posh winter walking coat for winter walking because me and the leg are again at one, in the walking sense that is. The other leg? Well, the other leg has always been a hearty soul, has always liked a drink and a laugh and even a merry old song on occasion. The other leg is as tough as old boots. No injuries for the other leg, oh no. The other leg is a sturdy leg, a brave leg, a best foot forward leg. Tough as old boots? The other legs sneers at the thought of boots, scoffs at any reference to sole sheathing, jeers when the subject of foot cover even arises. The other leg is hard, a hard leg, the other leg gets into fights in bars. In fact the other leg came home drunk one evening recently and demanded a rendition of the sea shanty 'Bill Bones Hornpipe' before it would rest. Of late the other leg has taken against the leg. I've half heard harsh whispers, threats, even mention of a knife. I worry about the other leg and am secretly glad the leg is now recovered. It's around this time that feelings of equilibrium should begin to express themselves, five or six weeks after the op the man said, a return of equilibrium, of poise. So no more frustration, no more imbalance, only harmony, sigh. Bugger, the other leg's gone out again. Damn, where is that song sheet...

Bruise update...

Wow! From certain angles this bruise looks like one of those Pacific archipelagos. The sort with shallow lagoons and coral. Or maybe a stigmata that got smudged, though I think of knee stigmata as more an indication of poor aim than pentecostal fervour. But what a stigmata! It's huge, a person would have to be really holy to be visited by something of this order. Either that or my leg was in the way of a sign meant for a local saint, it could even be a multiple stigmata originally destined for the nearby elderly and infirm. Bloody hell, all that suffering concentrated in one place, no wonder it looks a mess. That said, I think it best not to dwell too much on those waiting for the message that's now caught in the Limb of Leviticus. Hmmm, I feel saved already, might apply for a shrine grant from the Vatican, become bigger than Lourdes, lay down a car park and maybe an airport like Knock in Ireland. Of course the neighbourhood would have to go, but hey, sacrifice without pain, what would be the point of that?

I'm sticking with my leg theme...

for a little while longer. This morning a nurse removed the dressing exposing some fine bruises, as shown in this fetching photograph. I'm impressed with keyhole surgery, minimal damage, quick recovery and returned to bar of life in the blink of an eye. What more can a leg ask? And once again the National Health Service comes to the rescue. I didn't agree that they hired a South African firm to do the job rather than it be done in house because I see this as part of the creeping privatisation of a trusted service, however, the job's done and I'm glad about that.

Wey hey!

I'm having a mid...

summer clear out and decided to start with changing the colours on my blog. Hmmm, not sure about the yellow even though it gives the ol' place a summery feel. The leg on the right, by the way, belongs to me and the bandage covers surgical injuries because on Saturday I let a Hungarian rummage around in my knee. Actually, his actions were a little more focused than rummaging and he did a good job because, hurrah, he sorted out my cartilage problem. Or rather he repaired a tear in the meniscus via a procedure called an arthroscopy. I was very impressed though it all felt a little strange at the time.

The procedure started when a Scottish anaesthetist injected a drug into my spine that numbed everything below the waist. Now that felt really weird because it became as if my legs were no longer part of me even though I could see them. When I touched them they didn't feel like me and this was hard to realise because the evidence of my eyes was contradicted by the experience of my hands. Very odd indeed. I suppose it must have been a similar experience to those who suffer from paraplegia.

I didn't like it.

Initially I was offered a sedative, but scoffed, "Sedatives are for wimps" as they wheeled me into theatre. And lo, there I was, ringside seat whilst my Hungarian began to wrench around the table this leg that so clearly had very little to do with me. He cast a professional eye over the leg whilst I cast a sceptical eye over the same object and wondered what it was that had come between us. Just above me and to the left was a flat screen TV showing a knee that was strangely familiar. I liked the cut of its jib, I was amused by its form, I was taken by its sturdy, nay manly pose. That, I said to myself, is some knee. Whoever possesses such a knee must be successful in life and is no doubt a fellow well met, he may even have a girlfriend.

It was around this point that I asked for the sedative.

The remaining time went smoothly. I sang sea shanties and kept a weather eye on the TV which showed round things in liquid and instruments snipping and pushing and pulling and bits floating and other things that had so much and yet so little to do with me. Having exhausted sea shanties and about to move onto songs about herring they suddenly declared it was all over. I was whipped away to the recovery room where a nice chap called Mark checked my vitals before dispatching me to my room where I then lay for four and half hours until my legs returned once more to the fold. I was pleased to see them, would normally have partied but decided that such a thing may have been a touch too prodigal for the poor blighters so we had a cup of tea and some toast instead.

So, there you go. And my knee? Oh it's fine. A lot more subdued which is good because of late it had been getting above it's station, mocking the other one, not pulling its weight. Hah! Well no more. Fetch me the rubbing alcohol mother, the double K's back in town and it's dancing time again!!! Yee Haw!

The...

Festival at The Edge which began on Friday was so deluged the Sunday bit was cancelled. However, I drank beer which more than made up for the disappointment.

I'd like to say I drank beer to compensate for the poor weather but why tell a lie, I drank beer because it was there. And such beer! The beer tent was organised by CAMRA (the campaign for real ale) and there were approximately 30 or 40 different beers, ales and stouts with exotic names too. For instance a pint of Old Gussett is a positive start to any evening, followed of course by a gill of Worker's Mange to be then chased below with a shot of Damp Merkin. Behind the bar were burly men who knew a thing or two about beer, the brewery, name of thebrewer, the particular condition of his weeping skin complaint and why his wife sued for divorce. Yes, real ale can tell a story though it's important not to lose a sense of perspective, it's important not to overstretch, it's important (unless one has simply stopped caring) to avoid drinks named Evacuated Colon and Surge because you never really know what's coming. Believe me, it's best to stay away from them. So I safely remained with the middle range beers drinking pint after pint of Minor Complaint, Enraged Anus and Throb. It was a good night from what I remember though strangely I was unable to sit down for the whole of Saturday. Sigh.

On Sunday In Manchester it was...

briefly sunny. Huzzah!

The UK weather continues, on the whole, to be shit. Lots of floods and worry and misery. However, I spent the weekend, well, Friday and Saturday (Sunday was rained off) at FATE (The Festival at The Edge) in darkest Shropshire where I drank loads of beer and listened to some first class storytelling on the basis that FATE is a storytelling festival. Absolutely wonderful experience and I didn't mind the rain. In fact, being under canvas and listening the rain pitter patter, actually it was more like a heavy train passing, did not phase me one jot. Beer can be a wonderful soporific.