"ART FOR ART'S SAKE"

More wisdom from the 'Cod's Head'.

2012-01-23T11:27:00.000Z

Thinking that you have all probably had enough of me for a bit, and that it was about time we had another subtle contribution from our friend Brian at ‘The Cod’s Head’, I dropped in for a half of the ‘Betty Stoggs’ and a packet of ‘Burt’s Crisps’, with my little pocket recorder in my jacket. This is a transcription of an early evening ‘conversation’ at ‘the Cod’s Head’.

“Dining out again are we Squire? Ha, ha, ha!”

(I am not one of Brian’s regulars, as you might gather, not one of his best customers, but he is pleased to let me record his witticisms and bon mots, for what he calls posterity, at which, his little audience grins appreciatively.)

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll tell you what; if things go on like this there’s not going to be a lot of dining out in this country. Not going to be a lot of dining out anywhere in Europe either is there? Restaurants going bust all over the place, and nearly every pub in Cornwall is up for sale. Some of em been on the market for years. You ask Jim here. Is that right Jim?”

“Oh yes, true enough Brian, true enough. Very difficult to find a buyer for a public house in the current climate, very difficult indeed, very difficult”.

(James Trevithick, a Truro estate agent, deals mainly with commercial properties.)

“I’ll tell you what, If that Alex Salmond has his way we’d all be a sight better off. Am I right? It would do this country a bit of good if we could get the Scots off our backs. If Scotland is such a great place what are so many of them doing down here in England? Answer me that! Doctor Johnson said that the best prospect that a Scotsman would ever see was the highroad to England, and he should know, right? The Houses of Parliament are stuffed with em, stuffed with em! The last government was full of Scots and now we even have one for prime minister! Am I right? Mind you, I don’t blame em for coming down here, if you was born up there you would wouldn’t you? Nobody would choose to be born Scottish if they had the choice would they? Course not, course not! Bloody obvious innit?

“Good evening sir, what’ll it be? - - - - Anything else? No sir, we don’t do bar food, we have crisps, pork scratching, nuts, or a pickled egg. Right then, that’ll be six pounds thirty Squire.”

“Where was I Jim? Oh yes, Scotland and that bloody man Alex Salmond! Billions! That’s what Scotland costs us every day in subsidies, billions, AND they get free university education, AND free prescriptions, AND free care for the elderly, all paid for by us down here in England. It’s anomalous, that’s what it is, bloody anomalous! I for one will be glad to see the back of em. Not that there aren’t some decent Scotsmen about of course, and as I say, it’s not really their fault being Scottish is it? Nobody asks to be Scottish for Christ’s sake do they?”

“I’m not the only one mind you. I read in the paper yesterday that if there was a referendum in Scotland and England, the Scots would vote to stay in the Union, while the English would vote for em to leave. Am I right?” I reckon that if we get rid of em we should make em pay back some of the money we’ve spent on em over the years. They can keep the oil; cheap at twice the price. The oil and gas are running out anyway. Do you ever listen to the radio? Can’t hear an English voice on there half the time can you? If it’s not a totally unintelligible Scots accent, its Welsh, Pakistani, Caribbean or some such. We’d be better off shot of the lot of em, Northern Irish as well. They’re all a drain on this country and..”

“Yes sir, thank you sir”

“Alex salmond? Don’t talk to me about Alex Salmond, he says he can keep the pound if he gets independence whether we like it or not! Keep the pound! I ask you! The bloody cheek of the man! Typical Scotsman, too bloody mean to fork out to join the Euro Zone. Why don’t they invent their own currency then? I’ll tell you why not, I’ll tell you why, because it wouldn’t be worth a sou, thats why. I’ll tell you what Salmond is, a Scotsman on the make!

“What’s a sou then Brian?”

(That question came from the truculent youngster Dicky Burley, who smirked at the cleverness of his own remark.)

“A ‘sou’, Mister clever Dick, Mister Dick clever, is a virtually worthless old French coin. Am I right Jim”

“Indeed you are Brian, indeed you are, it comes from the French word ‘sol’ which in turn comes from the Latin, ‘Solidus’. In fact, there is some doubt that there was actually ever such a coin as a ‘sou’ which was probably merely a slang term for any small coin”.

(This explanation was greeted with quite a long silence.)

“Well I’ll tell you what! I tell you what! We should have got rid of Northern Ireland years and years ago, when the Irish got their independence. Am I right? Years and years of bloody conflict over a god forsaken, cold, wet, windswept scrap of land full of bigotry and superstition. Just think of the cost of all that in lives and money! Let’s give Scotland back to the Scots I say, whether they want it or not. The ones down here should be encouraged to go back, and take their kilts and bagpipes with em! And, while we’re at it, Wales and the Falkland Islands can bugger off as well. Perhaps after that we shall all be dining out again in England!”

“I don’t know how many of you have been to Scotland, but I have, and I can tell you that they are not called dour for nothing! Talk about unfriendly! You won’t find a friendly pub like this North of the border. Doctor Johnson also said that seeing Scotland was like seeing a worse England. It’s a land of oat cakes, Calvinism and sulphur! What do you recon Jim?”

“Well, I’ve tried to like Scotsmen all my life Brian, but I confess I have had to give it up as a bad job. I went there once on business; never again! It rained the whole fortnight and if I went into a pub it would go so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and never a smile. The further North you go the worse it seems to get. Not only that, but I have a Scots mother-in-law.”

“Enough said Jim! I’ll tell you... Good evening Squire! What can I get you?”

Thought for the week: “I prefer to sail in Italian ships. There’s none of that nonsense about women and children first.” Noel Coward.

Getting on.......

Pip-pip,

The Leg.

More Dirty Brushes

2012-01-05T15:39:00.000Z

Self Portrait, oil on canvas, 76 x 76 cm Stage 4.

Sun shining brightly for the last couple of days here in Cornwall,

while a wonderful wind blows away the poly-tunnels.

Dirty brushes

2012-01-01T16:50:00.000Z

Hello lovers of art n stuff.

Having actually put brush to canvas I thought I should make the most of it and post the work as I go along. It seems to me that nowadays people are more interested in what the artist likes to have for breakfast, and how he sets about his work, than they are about the work itself, so enjoy, ha, ha, ha! In the highly unlikely event of me being famous one day, perhaps art lovers will make a pilgrimage to my bathroom to see where I cleaned my teeth – etc! The work, a self portrait, is 30” x 30”, oil on canvas.

By gum!

2011-12-21T18:15:00.000Z

That’s the trouble wi' Blog Posts, they all comes together in clumps, one after t’other, and not a bit spaced out proper.

This is me kitchen, wi' me 'scoot about' stool. I'm still getting used to the lectric cooker and burn a few things, specially boiled eggs.

A real nice friend of mine, wot lives in France, said “why don’t you show me some photos,” of me new place like, now I’m divorced and all, so here they are:

These are of me sitting room like. You has to click on em I think if you want to see em any bigger.

An this one's tut view out't big window.

Pip, pip en all, en Merry Christmas,

The Leg.

Jingle bells etc.

2011-12-12T11:32:00.000Z

Here we go then, another Christmas rushes monstrously and headlong towards us, casting tinsel and tat in all directions, so it's time for this blog to send the Seasons Greetings to all its merry readers.

Nothing much to say about Christams that I haven't said already many times, so here is a copy of this years lovely Round Robin from a dear friend of mine. I hope it cheers you up as much as it did me.

Dear lovely friends,

Two thousand and eleven has been an eventful year in the Leg family. January found us in our lovely Trossacks as usual and this year the lovely deep white snow was deeper than ever – “deep and crisp and even” ha, ha!. “Our” little cabin is so cosy with its lovely old wood burner, so it was just jolly bad luck that we were unable to find out where the logs had been stored, and of course the snow was so deep that it was impossible to look for them. (Hannah got lost just outside the back door for the most of one morning). We were not downhearted though and jolly fun was had by all (except for poor little Woofie, who we never did find) and I expect we might get a small bill to replace the furniture we had to burn. What a good job we brought all those tins of baked beans after all! The ‘loo’ is outside of course and we couldn’t quite get to it, which was a tiny inconvenience. I am always amazed at how we all manage to fit in each year, but fit in we do!

Do you ever wonder why there are not more ducks on Radio 4?

Easter was lovely fun as usual at Chez Nous! The grandparents arrived early this year, which was really no trouble at all. The sweet new puppy amused everyone with his antics and kept me busy mopping up ha, ha! The children got over him eating all their Easter eggs in the end, but gosh, what a lot of shoes the dear little chap manages to spoil! (John got quite cross, not like him at all!!) The grandparents stayed on a few days longer to “make the most of our grandchildren,” so John’s back has given him a bit of bother ever since. The put-you-up is a rather old model - and a bit small. Easter is such a very special time for us…

We all think Marcus did jolly well with his CGSE’s. He manages to cope with his dyslexia terribly well all things considered. The school fees keep going up of course, but it is a lovely old school and a line has now been drawn under the little “incident” that the ghastly media made such a silly fuss about. Apropos the jolly old school fees, John thinks we can still manage to run both cars if he gets the promotion he expects next year. Hanna is still having a tiny bit of trouble with her weight, but the doctor says that her skin is clearing up nicely. It certainly doesn’t seem to be getting any worse, but you know what girls are like!
Our usual three weeks en famille in “our” little Haute Maritime pavilion was bliss! SO lovely to get away from it all!! This year we took delivery of a lovely new Bosh dish-washer, so my chores will certainly be cut down a bit!! John says that they must have ordered one for a different voltage but I am sure that he will get it working next year if anyone can! He is so clever with anything electrical. I always say that a change is as good as a rest, and that doing housework and cooking in France is so much more fun than back home. John says that I am jolly good at improvising (praise indeed!). Everyone round there puts the washing out over the bushes. Hanna’s sunburn cleared up nicely, leaving her skin looking a whole jolly lot better to my eyes.

A bit of a jolly old “Stop Press” announcement:
Announcing our impending divorce came as a bit of a shock to many of our lovely, lovely friends. Mummy said she was surprised I hadn’t left him years ago but I don’t believe she meant it. John’s parents have been terribly kind and say they don’t think his new woman is a patch on me, and that my pastry is far better. I have always been praised for my pastry. Well, it’s his loss I say, and he will soon find out what SHE is like! Hanna says “jolly good riddance to bad rubbish” and is on MY side, but Marcus is still not speaking to anyone and stays in his room. I think they will both get used to the comprehensive soon. I hear that lots of pupils get jolly good grades and even go to university from there. It might actually be better for poor Marcus as he might not feel quite so “challenged”.

Well, here we are then, all looking forward to yet another jolly old Christmas. The grandparents will be with us as usual and there will be a bit more room this year so that’s one good thing! Hanna is to get her I Pod after all thank goodness, and Marcus is going to be given a “Wii”, whatever that is, so I expect it will be business as usual at Chez Nous, with us all having a lovely time.

Doodoo (the puppy) is really quite big now and needs lots of walkies, so that gives me lots of lovely exercise – whatever the weather, and Christmas will be no exception. The vet says he will probably grow out of chewing shoes, furniture and handbags, so that’s another thing to look forward to, but I had no idea that dogs could be so expensive in vet’s fees! Well I must get on now as I am determined to make my own Christmas pudding again this year. Christmas is such a very special time of year for us…

Lots of very special love to you from Hanna, Marcus and Doodoo, and best wishes for a lovely, lovely 2012!!!!

Lots of love, Janie xxxxxxxxxxxx

Well, thats all for now folks, see you in the New Year!

Pip, pip,
The Leg.

Back from French France

2011-10-26T21:49:00.000+01:00

103 HOPTON ROAD SW16, the house where I was born and lived until 1951.

In the basement was the coal cellar, with paint tins, spiders, stoneware egg crock, broken things and coal. It had one bare, dim, light bulb dangling from a wire, and dangerous stairs. The coal was delivered by a black faced man, a horse and a cart, and my job was to count the sacks as they were emptied down the chute outside.

My parents, along with my brother and I, had the ground floor which had a ‘front room’, parent’s bedroom, kitchen, scullery, and outside water closet. The bedroom and the ‘front room’ were carpeted in thick black Wilton that mysteriously arrived one day from the garage where my father worked as a mechanic. I believe it was used to carpet the floor of new Chryslers. In the kitchen was a table and chairs, a gas range and a fireplace; every room had a fireplace and I was bathed in a galvanised tub in front of the kitchen fire. Monday was wash day and mostly it seemed that the kitchen and scullery were draped in wet sheets and clothes, so this day I still can’t bare the sight of wet washing.

My grandparents lived on the first floor with ‘Pandy,’ their black and white cat. They had a ‘big kitchen’, big enough anyway for my granddad to pull me around the table on a rug, which I guess kept the lino polished. I learnt to play cards in that kitchen, and it’s a skill that has served me well all my life. I also learnt how to eat a kipper up there and I liked to watch my grandma making perfectly delicious fish cakes. I have tried to make them many times since but it’s no go! Their sunny ‘front room’ had big sash windows that led out onto a small balcony but I wasn’t allowed out there because the blast from a doodlebug had caused it to be ‘condemned’. My grandparents saw a lot of me, because my mum and dad liked to be sociable, as well as being ‘film fans’.

Up in the attic were two rooms. During World War Two, my grandfather made rum from industrial alcohol, in the smaller front room, and then did his carpentry in there once peace broke out, while my brother John and I shared the ‘L’ shaped, back attic bedroom. It was a magical place with sloping ceilings, a view down onto the rear garden, and a fireplace that made the room glow red at night. By my bed was a wooden chest of drawers on which rested a fretted wireless set and a nightlight in a saucer. There were no lights on the stairs, so to go to bed in winter I carried a blue enamelled candlestick, which threw huge frightening shadows here and there in the blackness of the staircase.

At the end of the back garden path, set in the fence, was a tall wooden gate that lead into the alleyway, a favourite haunt it seems now, of perverts and paedophiles. This was my route to ‘Sunnyhill Road Primary School’, which is still there (I Googled it). On my way to school I lobbed hand-grenades over the high fence that lined the gloomy alleyway and heard their delayed explosions behind me. In summer, I could chew the shiny tar that melted on the road, and then in winter, suck icicles that hung from the toilet block gutters.

OTHER THINGS REMEMBERED: My brother’s collection of shrapnel, the air raid shelter in the back garden, the steel shed that rained rust on your head, a blackberry plant growing against the fence, the swing, my tricycle, an ant’s nest by the front door, shelling peas on the back doorstep, an old sink with tiny creatures that jerked about in the water, mint, rough grass, the sound of the lawn mower, visitors at night playing cards downstairs and laughing, mum looking beautiful in a black sequined evening gown, Francis, the freckled girl next door, and the smell of granddad’s pipe and matches.

FRANCE WAS A DELIGHT AS ALWAYS, but I only managed four pieces of work, laziness you see.

Window in Dirol

Not yet Autumn

The Aarchaeologists

Pupa

Joke for the day: "The barman says: 'Sorry we don't serve neutrinos.' A neutrino enters a bar."

Not again!

2011-04-18T10:56:00.000+01:00

"Red Can Bouy, Truro River".

OLD MEN BATTLE ON.

1^st Old Buffer: Good lord! Look at the state of his hair! Uniform Unbuttoned too!

2^nd Old Buffer: Youngsters have no idea about war nowadays

1^st Old Buffer: No they don’t, no idea at all. Men were slaughtered in their thousands in our day and they didn’t make a fuss about it. No such thing as traumatic distress orders then eh?

2^nd Old Buffer: Certainly not! The men didn’t catch stress orders in our day – men were men! We did what had to be done and we got on with it. I remember sending men over the top without any ammunition at all – run out days ago – but over they went, just like that!

1^st Old Buffer: Damn right they did! Shot at dawn otherwise, knew what discipline was in our day. Slaughtered in their thousands and not a mention of it in the newspapers back in Blighty, happend all the time, par for the course. Nowadays just one chap has to get blown up and the whole regiment’s in tears and the newspapers are full of it for days – disgusting! By the end of our little bash the regiment hardly had a whole man left, mostly bits and pieces.

2nd Old Buffer: Disgusting! No backbone!

1^st Old Buffer: Quite - no backbone!

2^nd Old Buffer: I was blown up you know.

1^st Old Buffer: Were you really? So was I!

2^nd Old Buffer: Had my leg blown off! This one’s wood.

1^st Old Buffer: Good lord I never knew! My hair was blown off, clean off, worn a wig ever since. Chap standing next to me had his head blown off by the same shell! We never bothered to look for it you know, far too much going on.

2^nd Old Buffer: So you didn’t even try to find his head then?

1^st Old Buffer: No - my hair. No point in looking for a chaps head was there? We never had time to look for my hair. Got a silver plate there now with this wig on top. Had the same wig for seventy eight years – damn fine wig from the Army and Navy. Can’t get em like this now.

2^nd Old Buffer: Good lord! I never realised. Chaps don’t even get gassed these days – Convention and all that rot. We were gassed all the time as I remember.

1^st Old Buffer: Oh God yes, gassed all the time, gas, flamethrowers, land mines, booby traps.... kept us on our toes.

2^nd Old Buffer: One did feel for the horses though.

1^st Old Buffer: Ah yes the horses! They went through it all right, lying there in the smoke and shell-fire with their guts out all over the road, or what was left of it. I always felt sorry for the poor dumb creatures myself. Had to dispatch a good few of em in my time. A fine loyal chap, the horse, very much like your Ghurkha. Damn brave chaps the Ghurkhas. Used to go over the top in the dead of night and bring back heads. I had em stop that and bring back just the ears instead. We had far too many heads knocking about to be pleasant. My horse went right through the whole thing you know.

2^nd Old Buffer: No, I didn’t know that!

1^st Old Buffer: Yes, ‘Lightening’, my daughter named him that because he was rather slow. Came right through the war with two legs still intact, marvellous chap Lightening, stand any kind of bombardment you cared to throw at him. Stone deaf ever since the one of our nine inch guns blew up at Bladders. Gun crew wiped out as far as I remember. I still have Lightening’s wooden legs over the fireplace in the library.

2^nd Old Buffer: Oh, is that what they are, I thought they were stuffed fish! A bit knocked about those legs. My gramophone caught it, practically a direct hit.

1^st Old Buffer: My God! Young chaps have no idea! Going about with flak jackets or whatever you call em – bunch of nancies! They croak too – always whinging on about “conditions” or lack of equipment. Can’t think why they join the army if they don’t want to get shot at. Ought to be blasted hairdressers instead. If a man lost his nerve in my regiment we shot him as an example to the others. Nowadays he’s sent back to Blighty for counselling, whatever that is! Can’t expect discipline in the ranks if you don’t shoot em.

2^nd Old Buffer: Ridiculous! Can’t cure funk with counselling, just makes the rest of the men wobbly. Lost count of how many of em I shot myself. Still got the old revolver in my desk drawer. You never know when you might need to put something out of its misery. Here, let me get you another...

Do you ever wonder why you seem to be out of step with the rest of society? The House of Commons voted overwhelmingly in favour of military action in Libya. The idea was presented as being strictly limited to a ‘No Fly Zone’, not as ‘regime change’. Are our politicians so naive that they actually believe such a ridiculous notion, that taking action would not in fact mean taking sides in a civil war? How did they think a ‘No Fly Zone’ was actually going to work, and how did they think it would prevent the use of tanks and heavy weapons? The fact that action was taken without any consideration of how long it would take to be successful, of how success would be defined, and of how we might withdraw, surely reminds us of the last two conflicts initiated by our leaders.

Perhaps someone will remind us who it was said; “What we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history”, (or something to that effect). Someone might also explain to us why successive governments have been so keen to get involved in foreign conflicts and invasions. (Keep your hair on Leg, Ed.)

Try ‘Aldi’ for good inexpensive wine and for an excellent choice of ground coffee, all 100% Arabica. There is a great Aldi in Truro almost next to the nightmare Sainsburys. Not only do you save money but I personally find it a pleasure to shop there. The store is always quiet when I go, I can always park close to the entrance, the check-out is fast and the stock interesting and of good quality. Remember to take a £1 coin for the trolley.

Happy shopping!

Pip, pip, The Leg.

It's been a while....

2011-04-01T11:40:00.000+01:00

Hello there,

From the window of "The Cod's Head"

Well it seems a long time since my last post, and it is! All kinds of stuff has gone on in my private life but this blog is not a diary and it is certainly not all about me. What I want it to be about is the things I see and hear that people like yourselves might find interesting, informative, or just plain entertaining. It is your comments that bring this blog to life, so please see if you can take a few moments to share your thoughts with the rest of us.

(Good to have you back! Ed.)

THE 500SL .

Yeah, yeah, I remember it now! While waiting for my tin of porridge to warm up for an early breakfast, about nine fifteen I think it must have been, tying a sheep-shank into each of my shoe laces because they are too long for the shoes and liable to trip me up, and listening to my favourite Monday morning programme, you know, Andrew Marr with three guests who spoke mainly on the the nature of the universe and of how a person nowadays can’t call themselves educated unless they also have a decent knowledge of science, on my new push-button digital wireless, which actually cost less than I expected as I bought it “refurbished” on the internet while in fact of course it was actually brand new (how do they do that?), into my vacant mind came an event from many years ago, a remembered event to do with a chance meeting.

In fact, the event was nothing to do with me at all. It was his event. I was idly staring out of the window of the ‘Spaniards Head’ in Shoreham-by-Sea, at the smoke and steam rising from the power station chimneys, and wishing that my life had a little more colour to it, when a brand new, Ivory Mercedes SL500 with he top open, pulled into the car park. “Wow!” I said to myself. You would have said “wow” too. The driver pushed through the lounge door and strode loose-limbed to the bar.

He was in his early thirties and very black, blue-black, slim and fit looking, wearing this expensive, tan leather jacket. I was intrigued of course and wondering how I might get to speak with him, when he glanced over at me, smiling, and asked: “How do I get served in here?” “Oh, we’re a little slow around these parts” I replied, “amazing car!” His smile broadened, “Yea man! I just picked it up, always wanted one, and now I got one right?”

He was served his drink and came over to my table. We were the only people in the lounge bar at that quiet time of the morning and the landlord wa busy bringing bottles up from the cellar. “The name’s Andy,” I told him that my friends called me PJ and we both smiled. “There must be a story behind that car of yours” I said, “If you have always wanted one, and now you got one?” So he told me the story.

“I was in the ice-cream van business and I had twelve vans on the road once, in the good old days, but it all went sour with the competition, then the game was finished. The business had been going bad for a long while with turf wars over pitches – Mr Whippy whacking Mr Softie ha, ha! - - “

Andy grinned at his own joke and we quietly drank our beers for a while.

“My wife was helping out by doing a couple or three part time jobs, waitressing and stuff, and I was working all hours, but we seems to be on a treadmill going nowhere. We had some terrible luck mind you, but if I tell you about all that you’ll recon I’m just not willing to take the blame for my own mistakes. Oh yes! I made some big mistakes! On top of that three vans got trashed and the dog run over. My wife was on medication in the end, you know, depression, but the pills didn’t seem to do much good. I was depressed too to be honest, but we had good reason to be. Our home was being re-possessed and the business was bust. I realise now what a good job it was that we had delayed starting a family. Our misery seemed to feed on itself. Our friends kind of gave up on us in the end, while we were too exhausted and skint to go out anyway.

I don’t know which of us brought it up first, but we started to talk about killing ourselves, you know, the suicide pact kind of thing? We owed so much money we could see no way out, and some of the people we was in debt to were not so very nice if you know what I mean, threatening this, and threatening that, stuff through the letterbox, like a bullet in an envelope? It was November when there is almost no business anyway. The days were dark and it seemed as though it would rain forever. We were just right down man! - - - Well anyway, we made our minds up to do it, to make an end of it all, you know, pills and booze. The thing is, when my wife killed herself first, I had to help her you see, I suddenly felt a bit more cheerful. I just didn’t feel like dying anymore and so I started to make plans instead. I got all the money I could fiddle and scrape together by selling this and that, and after the funeral I just left! Wow man! I felt so free and light on my feet if you know what I mean. I just walked out and left everything behind.”

He stared out of the widow for a bit, watching the steam as it rose and then vanished above the power station.

“Well, that was nearly two years ago now man. I feel sorry about her of course, but I don’t think she would like my new lifestyle much, she was much more of a ‘home body’, you know. - - - OK, must go, on my way to see a man about a boat. I just fancied a quick pint. Take it easy now.”

I had wondered what he was doing in this part of the world. Looking for a boat huh? The SL pulled lazily out of the car park and I watched it out of site.

Pip, pip, The Leg.

Orchids and mince

2010-11-14T11:59:00.000Z

Dear Readers,

I hear that George W Bush is a bit discombobulated to discover that he now has to pick up his own dog shit – poor man.

The Thai Orchid…

Loose ended this evening and in need of some tasty nosh, Montaigne and I bombed down to the Thai Orchid in Falmouth, that well known haunt of Lesbian Fundamentalists and Estate Agents. Nothing is like it was, mostly worse, but this restaurant gets better at every visit, except I have decided that, after drinking it on and off for years, Singa beer is actually filthy stuff after all. Perhaps the bottles don’t travel well. It seemed delicious in Chang Mai.

I sat opposite Montaigne with my back to the room. I always choose this position because it allows M, or any other companion, to flirt with the other diners and I have no fear of attack from behind. An uncle of mine had a friend who might have been a colonel in the SAS and he would never sit with his back to the door. Such things are nothing to me, having once followed a postal course of Kung Fook.

Should a band of Ninja Warriors be so reckless as to burst in and fling themselves upon me, I would simply bend forward, allowing them to fly over my shoulders and thud into the wall, directing their flight over the head of Montaigne by merely raising an arm, the right or left arm depending on the angle of attack. Montaigne and I would calmly continue with our meal while the waiters removed the stunned assailants.

Alternatively, if a couple of armed Yakusa hit men, bent on the ritual assignation of Montaigne, who’s essays we all know are an anathema to the Japanese Mafia, should silently approach with weapons drawn; then, on a nod from M, I would instantly make my hogoshakimooshi, a reverse somersault from the sitting position, disarming them with my feet as I did so. So far no such persons have been foolish enough to challenge my training.

M and I dined well on hooded cobra red curry, and sticky rice, without interruptions and in spite of the Singa beer.

Talking of things Oriental; you have probably already heard that China is taking up cricket in a serious way, like they do most things! I guess it won’t be many years before they thrash us at Lords. In the mean time, Rangoon is celebrating the release of Aung San suu Kyi (Born in 1945!). For how long one wonders… I was in Paris when it went wild with excitement at the election of Francois Mitterrand, but when it was revealed that he could'nt perform miracles after all the joy gave way to miserable disillusionment. The euphoria in England when “New Labour” was elected on a landslide soon turned to bitter disappointment.

Food tip of the day: Never eat mince. If you must eat mince, if your wife has been conned into buying a bag of the stuff from a local farmer’s wife, or you actually buy some from a supermarket, get ordinary mince not the low fat stuff which is mostly heart, placenta, spleen, udder, and other less enticing bits of animal. Low fat mince always smells like dog food.

Fry lots of onions first with shredded streaky bacon, garlic, herbs, seasoning, and pot vegetables like peppers, celery and carrots, add any kind of booze (no not spirits!) and a tin of chopped tomatoes to disguise the taste, then cook it slow for at least three hours spooning off the fat. The next day you can throw it all away or use it for simple dishes like cottage pie or an English style Tagliatelle Bolognaise, not spaghetti please!

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

Season of mud and mournful uselessness.

2010-11-04T12:18:00.000Z

Absent mindedly wielding my strigel in the bathhouse this morning, I was totally underwhelmed by this week’s “In Our Time”(09:00 BBC Radio4). Two lady scientists were desperately trying to convince Melvin and us, that during the upsurge of modern science in the Enlightenment, the wives of famous scientists played a much larger role than hitherto expected. There may well be some truth in their argument but the lack of written evidence and the emphasis placed on tenuous deductions made the programme sound more like “woman’s Hour”. What next? Will we discover that Mrs Mozart composed most of the music and that Amadeus mimed while she played the piano off stage? Did the theory of relativity come to Mrs Einstein while she was changing the beds, who knows…?

This far flung corner of the Empire is in the grip of damp and darkness once again. Apart from the obvious disadvantages, one problem with the Cornish climate is that it makes people depressed. Old gits stare miserably into their flat pints of mild ale and can barely manage the lifting of a head to stare at a stranger. My favourite nurse at the surgery was so downcast yesterday that, as she delicately removed the fifteen staples from my knee, a tear moistened her sad eye.

Pip Pip,

the Leg.

Bloody Foreigners!!

2010-09-29T21:47:00.000+01:00

Some pictures of Porthleven from my sketchbook, and something else....

For my birthday in July, I was given a book with the challenging and ironic title of "Bloody Foreigners", the story of immigration into this island since prehistoric times. I have to share with you the following extract from the 18thC, in the context of how liberal England was at that time.

The licence to be dandyish attracted one of the century's oddest

immigrants: Charles Genevieve Louis Auguste Andre Timothee

D'Eon de Beaumont. The unusual mixture of masculine and

feminine names was neither an accident nor a sentimental whim:

the child, born in Burgundy in 1728, was of uncertain sex. In a

bizarre compromise he was baptised as a boy, dressed as a girl and

dedicated to the Virgin Mary as both.

From the age of seven he/she

was educated as a boy, eventually graduating as a doctor of law. A

use was then found for the ambiguity of her/his appearance; she

was sent to St Petersburg on a secret mission to the Empress

Elizabeth disguised as a woman. When he returned to France, it

was as a captain of dragoons. He came to London in 1762, where he

lived lavishly and in public as a man. Challenged by the Count de

Guerchy to prove that he was not a woman in man's clothing, he

refused to satisfy the curiosity of the authorities.

The public, too,

was anxious to know the truth, and there was heavy gambling on

the subject. In 1774 the case was resolved against him, and he was

ordered to wear women's clothing. A subsequent case was brought

by an incensed (and out-of-pocket) gambler. Again the jury decided

that Beaumont was a woman. She cut quite a dash, no doubt, in her

ringlets and perfume, though she had not forsworn macho

adventures: in 1787 she fought a duel, with swords, in her women's

costume. This earned her some useful celebrity, and for a while

afterwards she gave fencing lessons. In 1796 she was wounded and

retired, but she survived until 1810. She had spent the last thirty-six

years of her life as a woman, so it was something of a shock when

it was discovered, on her death, that she had been a man all along.

The examining doctor admitted that her throat was 'by no means

masculine' and that her breast was 'remarkably full', but there was

no mistaking the more obvious evidence: 'The male organ', he said,

was 'in every respect perfectly formed'.

He was buried in St

Pancras. He had been painted twice: once in a dress, once in

military uniform. In 1868 his gravestone was lost during the

construction of the railway line out of north London.

Happy days!!!! The Leg.

A new post from 'The Cod's Head'.

2010-09-25T21:39:00.000+01:00

Anybody been to Birmingham lately? Trolled up the M5 to see an old mate of mine who I have been promising to visit for twenty odd years. Had a great time and a good chin-wag, but I have never seen so many traffic lights all in one city before. The town planners and highways department must have had bets on how many they could fit in. I love the M5 don't you? But why so many huge, pink, inflatable persons strapped to car roof racks? What's going on here?

Nice to get back for a pint in the 'Cod's Head' though. Brian the landlord was on good form and was enthusiastic about recording another "guest" post for the blog. What a truly nice and genuine person he is! He refused to have a jukebox, karaoke or fruit machine imposed on him by the brewery so he may not last long. Enjoy these words of wisdom from out favourite landlord while you have the chance. (The Leg will not be held responsible for views and opinions expressed by guest contributors.)

"Lovely! - - just look at that pint, perfect! Now where was I? Oh yes, the Pope! I tell you what it is my friends, I make no judgments on how people live and what they do in their own homes, as long as they keep it to themselves and it doesn't harm anybody else. Queers and druggies and socialists should be free to hold to their beliefs and lifestyle. I fought tooth and nail to try and stop the smoking ban and I don't even smoke! I believe people should be free to kill themselves if they want right! I don't see anybody wanting to ban horse riding, rugby or skiing do you? No! bunch of bleeding hypocrites! - - "

"Turn left and straight through squire."

"The Pope right? I don't care what kind of beliefs people hold or what kind of religion they are addicted too, but what I can't stomach are the pushers, right? - dealers in belief and superstition who try to get nice ordinary people hooked on the stuff, and the Pope is right there at the top. Your Pope is your main man for dealing. Am I right? Priests and imams, rabbis and so on, always prey on the weak and vulnerable, promising them this, that and the other, and eternal life would-you-believe? There you are right? lying in a hospital bed, weak, in pain, frightened etc, and along comes this smiling little round chaplain peddling his cure all."

"Course, you have to be polite don't you? I thanked him for calling and told him I wasn't really a believer, but he turns round and says he would pray for me anyway. What a blooming cheek, so I turns round and tells him not to bother and that I don't think much of his blinking god anyway."

"No darling, we don't do sandwiches or anything like that - pickled eggs, crisps, Cheezy Snax or pork scratchings - no? alright love."

"What I say is this - if people want to be poofters, drink alco-pops, or worship invisible, all-powerful beings, it's up to them right? but I got no time for the ones who make a living out of other peoples weakness - right? You won't find any alco-pops in this pub. Never mind all the trouble they cause and millions of deaths and all, it’s the blooming con of it that gets me! Pray for me? blooming cheek!"

"I don't see a red carpet welcoming some drug baron from Mexico do you?"

Let's Hope Brian will manage to hold the brewery at bay.

Pip, pip,

The Leg

A Roller for the Arabs.

2010-08-25T22:27:00.002+01:00

It’s a relief to see real Cornish weather after that amazingly glorious June. Absent mindedly shaving my nose this evening, I had a yearning for Steak, Ale, and Kidney Pie, so casting caution to the sodden winds, I drove to the dear old 7*s - yet again under new management. (The Cod’s Head can only manage pork scratchings and pickled eggs for supper.)

The new couple had a successful pub before, so I can’t think why they moved to this one. “She” is very friendly but ”he” has some kind of personality problem, illustrated by his “car”, which is a large, bright red, four-door pick-up truck called a “WARRIER”; chunky and aggressive, with lots of chrome bars and hard-cover over the “pick-up” bit. Of course it also has enormous wheels. If he also sports a pit-bull, he hides it well. To put it politely, he is a trifle laconic behind the bar. (Too many "also"s, Ed.)

The Steak, ale, and kidney pie turned out to be very tasty, and just the thing if you happened to have a salt deficiency. I ate the whole thing! Of course, you can’t expect a “real” pie these days. The oval pastry top is bought from the wholesaler’s and always cooked separately while the filling is microwaving (can you visualise my pie micro waving?). It’s a shame because the pastry never gains that interesting taste and texture acquired by the gravy bubbling up on its underside. Nevertheless, tasty it was, with meat of a fine quality, and it went well with new potatoes, broccoli, cabbage, and half a pint of Proper Job. (How do you unwrap soft butter portions without getting it all over your fingers? Salt cellars don’t ever work here of course because of the damp. You have to unscrew the top.)

On finishing my pie I didn’t fancy getting wet again as I had hardly dried out from the earlier soaking I got crossing the road to the pub, but I felt the urge to return to let my loyal readers know the good news about the 7*s.

St Mike's Mount, wet, wet.

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

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Is this really a Roller? Yuck! £265,000.00 without delivery or number plate.

Old Spot, roast dinner... Dame Edith....

2010-08-17T21:07:00.001+01:00

BRIAN, LANDLORD OF THE “COD’S HEAD”.

You will have noticed that Brian is an obvious anagram of brain. (get a grip. Ed.)

“There’s no loyalty about these days, everybody out for themselves. If you want loyalty, get a dog, that’s what I say.

Yes my love? - - - - - there you are.

Look at those Kenyan MPs right? awarded themselves a huge pay rise while their people are starving; getting almost as much as ours they are, and our MPs are the highest paid in Europe. In Kenya they get ninety four thousand ponds a year, and that’s after tax!!!!; - - basket case Sub-Saharan Africa, - - robbing each other blind when there not chopping each others limbs off. Their prime minister gets twenty nine thousand pounds a month, a blasted month!!!! Twenty nine thousand pounds!!

Take Afghanistan right? Where’s your loyalty there? Nowhere that’s where! Buggers changing sides as it suits em and then shooting unarmed British soldiers trying to help train em to look after themselves! - - Should have left that place well alone. East India Company and the British army got well thrashed in Afghanistan three or four times, AND the poor bloody Russians. Let em sort themselves out. They have to have their own revolution if they don’t like their rulers, not up to us is it? Am I right?

Used to be able to leave flowers or eggs outside with a punnet for the money, now the kids’ll nick it; not just kids neither!!! You have to watch casual staff like a hawk nowadays.

Yes Squire? Cheezy Snax and a pickled egg - - - and one bag pork scratchings. Anything else? That’s one pound ninety five.

You can bet they wish they were still in the British Empire! Standard of living has gone down since we left Africa. At least India is doing well, but then they was already half-civilised before we got there right? They was in the Stone-Age in Africa. Poor buggers, never had a decent pint of ale in their lives, let alone a square meal. I hear a lot of em are turning back to cannibalism now there’s no white man to stop em. No point in wasting them chopped off limbs, right?

Yes thanks Squire, I’ll have a half with you.”

I wouldn’t mind trying human flesh would you? They say it tastes like pork… On a roast dinner like….

"A great many people now reading and writing would be better employed keeping rabbits." Edith Sitwell. (This could equally well apply to a great many people painting pictures, playing instruments, and doing arts and crafts in general).

In the humble opinion of yours truly, there is far too much art all round. It would suit me if there were half the amount of it but twice as good. The Long List for the Booker Prize could be half its previous length – one would hope.

How pleasant it would be to walk into a restaurant and be surprised by the quality of the art hung upon the walls, instead of having to eat a possibly delicious meal while having to avert one’s eyes for fear of nervous indigestion. I don’t care how ‘modern’ or how traditional the work is, I just don’t want to suffer the incompetent daubings of one of the customers or of the owners wife. What’s wrong with a blank wall anyway? It’s peaceful and calming to have somewhere to rest the eye while thinking of a suitable repost to your companion, or to just savor a sip of pudding wine. (What a pretentious load of elitist rubbish! Ed.)

Edith Sitwell - Roger Fry

Of course, the pithy remark of the old Dame might just as well apply to me! (It blinking well does! Ed.)

Pip, pip,

The Leg

Pour me another.

2010-08-12T22:27:00.002+01:00

METEOR SHOWER HUH?

Mereor Shower 19th C.

Bloody idiot astrologers! I can’t remember ever seeing the odd shooting-star down here in Bloody Cornwall. How could we possibly see anything tonight through eight hundred feet of cloud and in a downpour? “Go out in the garden.” he says, “Sit in a comfy chair with a glass of white wine and watch the sky.” He says!

On today’s news, David Cameron, (our prime minister by-the-way, for those of you under 25) is reported to have said, allegedly, that he deprecates young people consuming cheap alcohol in public, and that he wishes to prevent town centres “becoming like the Wild West”. I for one would be delighted if town centres became like the “Wild West”! I can just picture hooded youngsters, careering through the streets on their whining motor scooters, firing their six-shooters into the air, and knocking out the neon signs (especially in Redruth or Truro). I want to be in the bar when one swaggers in, his shaven head glowing blue in the moody lighting, and orders a Mexican beer with a little piece of lime in the neck of the bottle. I want to see the confrontation and the shoot-out. I want to see the Goth Girlfriend weeping over his bleeding body. Come off it Cameron!!!!!

AND.... for those of you who missed it:

The National Theatre of Brent's Iconic Icons 2. Tracey Emin and How She Done the Bed

ON: 'Listen Again', BBC Radio 4.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/radio/bbc_radio_four

Some advice to artists from the man (Pablo Picasso) “Take your art seriously, but never yourself”.

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

PS. Don't forget to leave a comment below! Comments are often more interesting than the post.

Not a good week for Eugene.....

2010-08-09T12:55:00.001+01:00

Popped into the Cod's Head for a quick half and Eggy was on a bar stool staring gloomily into his pint. After our initial greeting I settled down with a foaming mug. I asked him if he had any ideas for a new post for my blog, and turned my pocket recorder on.

"No I haven’t boyo, my mind is a total blank. It's been one of those weeks see. Awful it was."

"What happened Eugene?"

"Well, I don't want to bring you down like, but it started on Monday morning. Steve rang and asked me if I would like to help him out see? --- Would I like to deliver a car to that car auction place in Redding on Thursday. Said he had to deliver two and couldn't drive them both at the same time see, and anyway, he didn't much like driving a left hand automatic. Obviously some kind of foreign car I assumed, didn’t bother me.

Another pint here Brian!

I said I would coz I could do with a few quid. ----- So, I popped down here to get the documents and stuff and we had a pint each. Then we had a few more jars and I went home to finish painting the kitchen dresser. Thing was, I had not meant to be gone more than half an hour, and the dog had knocked the tin of paint off the table. I had left the lid off see. Bloody dog was always chasing the cat and knocking things over. Blue gloss paint everywhere there was! Dog had trodden it all through the house; blue paw-prints, on the rugs, on the carpet on the stairs, and even some on the sofa. That’s apart from the big pool on the kitchen floor.

Just as I was about to start trying to clean it up before the missies came back from shopping, in she bloody came! I needn’t tell you how ballistic she went. Gloss paint is the very devil to clean off a carpet or upholstery. ---- Still not right now.

Then Tuesday the dog kept being sick all the time because of the paint remover I had used on him. He kept licking it off see. The missies said I should take him to the vet but I told her it was too expensive and that he would be fine.

On Wednesday morning the kitchen was full of dog poo and the dog was dead! Missies went mad! Screaming and shouting at me that I was a murderer, that I had never liked the dog, which was true, and that I killed it deliberately. . I said the dog was insured and that she could get another one and that made her even madder.

Then Thurday morning I walks to the garage to pick up the car. Turns out it’s a pink 1963 Cadillac DeVille Convertible, that once belonged to Liberatchi. Remember Liberatchi, the pianist? Well, he left it to a friend it seems and recently the garage conned it off him, poor old bugger. Told him they would do him a favour and take it off his hands. Been in a barn down in St Just for years, but almost mint condition, except for perished white-wall tyres and a knackered battery. Steve reckoned it was worth a few hundred thousand pounds, having belonged to Liberatchi and that.

So anyway, I gets in, roof up coz of the rain, and she starts up beautiful, beautiful! Seven Litre Vee Eight, with a three speed automatic gearbox! I know that my mate Griff would like to see this, and I want to show it off a bit see? So I goes and drives it up to Longdownes first. I was just going through that narrow bit by Pulnnugo farm when a bloody great tractor with a trailer load of spuds comes round the bend. Well, the brakes were not that good on the old bus see, so I tries to go between the tractor and the hedge like. No good! (Nb, to those not familiar with Cornwall, hedges are made of granite). Have you noticed how big tractors are getting nowadays? They can hardly fit down some of these lanes.

(Eggy takes a long pull at his pint)

Turns out it's crushed on both sides. Terrible sight it was. Worst of it is, the garage didn’t get full cover for it so it was only insured third party, fire and theft! Steve's not speaking to me. He says the garage won't give him any more work delivering cars for them, or even cleaning them, and he relied on that to supplement his old age pension.

The missies not speaking to me over the dog and I still got to paint the dresser. Come on, lets have another one while we’re still alive!”

Take care all you good people, and be kind to yourselves.

The Leg.

PLANET NEWS

2010-08-08T22:12:00.000+01:00

NATURAL DISASTER:

The news of extreme flooding in Pakistan and Ladak (Two completely dissimilar places) seems just another example of nature being more powerful than us humans realise, along with drought and fires in Russia, and repeat famines in Africa. Why don’t we realise it? Why is the collective memory so bad? The last lot of devastating floods in Pakistan have obviously been forgotten, along with volcanoes, earthquakes and droughts elsewhere in the world. Noah could tell us a thing or two!

Could it be that these natural disasters (which after all, are only natural) are not the problem, but that the problem arises due to the extreme overpopulation of a small planet?

HOTTER THAN AIR:

In 1898, de Selby, along with his experiments in light compression, was beginning to develop a working “Rage Engin”. De Selby it seems, had discovered how to harness the energy of anger. His prototype was small of course, as he had only limited amounts of anger at his disposal, but the possibilities are endless. One can easily imagine cars powered by road rage, or “frustration anger” as he called it, or picture giant airliners taking off, fuelled by the collective rage of the incensed passengers as they are delayed and harassed by various surly officials, their luggage refused or charged extra for, filthy food, overpriced shops, seat numbers muddled, feet trodden on, and then finally being squashed into a tiny seat with their knees up under their chins, babies howling, children crying, passengers pushing and shoving, their seat being bashed by the passenger behind and the stale air either too hot or too cold.

Unfortunately for us and the planet, de Selby’s laboratory was raided, his apparatus smashed and his notebooks stolen. It is believed that this act of destruction was perpetrated by international oil companies who had seen the threat to their monopoly business interests.

TAKE CARE YOU ALL AND AVOIDE THE BEAR TRAPS.

Pip,pip, The Leg.

Brian speaks from the Cod's Head ...

2010-07-31T20:52:00.000+01:00

ANOTHER GUEST BLOG FROM BRIAN, THE LANDLORD OF THE CODS HEAD.

Few changes have taken place at the Cod's Head since my last post on the subject, except that a new variety of "Cheezy Snax" is now available at 65p a bag. Brian has had a nasty cold but is now feeling much better thanks to "Lemisuks".

The following is transcribed as best I can from a noisy recording, and without too much censorship.

"Wimmin!! - don't get me going on about wimmin!! - - -

Don’t get me wrong old man. I love wimmin, always have loved wimmin. Lived with em all my life, wimmin! You can't live with em and you can't live without em, am I right? But you can never enjoy a moment's peace with wimmin around can you?

"Someone is doing nothing in this pub! Someone is just sitting about reading the newspaper when the shelves need filling!"

What they don't understand is that a man does a lot of thinking. He doesn't just bustle about looking busy and important, he conserves his energy by working out the best way to do things, right? Men don't live as long as women because they have to work a lot harder in actual fact.

And wimmin are horrible! I mean horrible to watch. Have you ever watched a woman eating one of those fruit yoghurt pots? Its disgusting; especially the way they sometimes suck half the stuff off the teaspoon, take a glassy eyed stare at it, then suck the rest off, probably while reading a magazine. Horrible to watch them spreading what looks like mayonnaise on themselves. Why is it do you recon that wimmin love any kind of yucky, creamy stuff - "BioActiveYoggy", Crème Caramel, Crème Brulee, Pannacotta, Tiramisu etcetera? And the stuff they put on their bodies, hair and faces!!!!

Yes Sir? - - Is that with ice and lemon? - - Old Peculiar - - no sir, no plain ones, only flavours, or there's pork scratchins - - Right - that'll be six pound twenty then squire - - - - thangyouverymuch!

Where were we? Oh yes, body lotions, creams and gels; did you know that in Britain, one point nine billion a year is spent on anti-aging cream and hair products, and it's not me buying it, or old Harry over there. Do you know, in the bathroom upstairs - - there's 38 plastic bottles of gloop altogether, - in all shapes and sizes. One point nine billion pounds a year!

It's my opinion that wimmin have weak brains. That’s why there are so many wimmin's magazines on the shelves. I tried to count em once, got to sixty seven and was getting a funny look from a large bossy looking woman. All full of articles and ads to get em to buy more gloop and more clothes.

Course - - wimmin have smaller brains than men, brains actually weigh less, everyone knows that, otherwise the world would be full of great female architects, famous wimmin scientists, Judges and whatnot. Of course there are a few of em, but if they haven’t made it by now, after three million years, they're never going to are they? Am I right? Course, they blame men for the fact that they don't get on - "Glass ceiling!" they cry. Well you can bust through glass! - right? Maggi Thatcher proved that, am I right? I think we're dominated by wimmin rather than the other way about don't you?

Equality? No such bloomin thing. Women get all the best deals if you ask me. Toilet seat up - toilet seat down? Women want it down, men want it up, so what's wrong with them leaving it up for us for a change? My brother was taken to the cleaners when he got divorced. She got everything and he had to go and live in a grotty bedsit. Still had to pay the mortgage mind you, for the house she was still living in with her new boyfriend! They expect you to open doors, buy the lunch, pay for dinner, bring flowers and chocolates, reverse back so they can pass, and think they are doing you a favour if they go to bed with you.

I tell you what - I'm coming back as a woman next time. - - - -

- - One point nine billion??!!"

Thought you might like this drawing - Raphael

I love the bum fluff on the chin!

Pip, pip, The Leg

69th post...

2010-07-26T22:16:00.000+01:00

Mew Stone and Long Rock.

Photograps by Cornwall Cam. (See list of websites)

Hi World.

Did you hear on the wireless six o'clock news this evening that MPs have been told that they are no longer allowed to sleep in their offices overnight? Not enough fire wardens on at night apparently. MPs are obviously so drunk and dangerous that they are likely to toss a lit match into their waste paper basket.. I fear they are too dangerous to be allowed any where near the Palace of Westminster as they will no doubt pass a load more legislation.

83% of voters believe that the county would run better without a parliment at all, which makes one wonder why they bother to vote.

While talking of things dangerous; have you noticed how dangerous it is to make jokes in an e-mail? Sarcasm and irony are so easily misunderstood, especially by one's nearest and dearest it would seem. A bit like most Americans, there are people in England whose sense of humour is still stuck in the third form dorm, or behind the secondary school bike shed, and no amount of explanation will get them to twig irony. "A joke? What's funny about that then?". The more you explain the worse it gets.

De Selby* devised a system for signalling when he was being humorous and it goes thus:

Irony is given a ~ symbol after it, sarcasm a # (or the word "not"). Satire he gives an SS to. A simple joke or tall story is J+.

To avoid offending the less subtle members of our species, I recommend the use of this system for your e-mail in future. Ideas to improve it on a postcard please.

*See "The peoples Atlas".

Pip, pip, The Leg.

Eden Project

Life Story

2010-06-11T11:22:00.001+01:00

Another Guest Blog, from a customer this time of “THE COD’S HEAD”.

Eugene Emrys is a bit of a local hero, being a one- time stalwart chairman and groundsman of the Cold-Wind-Cross rugby team. Not Cornish of course but welcomed as a fellow player. Eugene is better known in the Cod’s Head as “Eggy Emrys”, or just plain “Eggy”; due to his inordinate fondness for pickled eggs. He is retired now and living on his own, but his last job was breeding geese, ducks and chickens.

I interviewed Eggy in the comfort of my studio over a couple of jam-jars of Madeira and Calvados, my best jam-jars you understand, the ones with hardly any paint on them. Not knowing how to start him off I suggested that he just told me the story of his life.

“Lost opportunities, that’s how I would sum up the story of my life, lost opportunities! Lost opportunities… - - I let them all escape from my grasp you see. Take women for example. I always let the good ones go. Known some lovely women in my time I can tell you, good women if you know what I mean, but I let them all go one way or another.

Megan Pritchard was my first love, not yet quite a woman but definitely “good” if you see what I mean. She was the eldest of twelve that went right down to the baby. My problem was that she was rather religious. The family was Catholic, which was unusual for round there, and she told me once that she had asked the priest if kissing with tongues was alright. I can’t remember what his answer was now. Her father was abroad most of the time as a foreign correspondent for the BBC, and not sending enough money back home, while her mother wore herself out looking after the brood and pleading with the money lenders for more time.

While we were sweethearts, her younger brother was shot dead in a hunting accident in France and I made the terribly cruel error of suggesting that she should not be too upset because she still had five more brothers left. - - I never got very far with Megan and I was somewhat miffed to discover that, after I had “let her go” so to speak, she was having a rollicking good time with my best friend Dafydd. We had all met each other in the first year of "Tech" see.

My life is a bit of a blur after Megan, and I can’t remember another good-en ‘til Gwen. Gwen was at "Tech" too but I had left a couple of years earlier. She was living in a draughty attic room in a tall Victorian house that was occupied by other students in similar poverty. There was no heating in her room except for a small paraffin stove with a brick on top and we spent most of our time together in her single bed, trying to keep warm. The only piece of furniture she possessed was a wooden chair that she had painted in stripes of a hundred colours.

She was skinny with short blond hair, totally honest, loyal and loving, and she believed every word I said. I often think of her and wonder why I didn’t stay with her forever. If I had been neglecting her while enjoying the charms of a “bad” young woman I would tell her that I had been on another “mission”. She believed that I was working for an American space agency and that I was a part-time astronaut, a job that often took me away for weeks at a time.

And that how it was you see. I went on like that, always assuming that there was a better one round the corner. I got married soon after that, but I chose a real bad one that time, almost the opposite of Megan, including the fact of being dark-eyed and raven-haired, beautiful but vain and insecure. She needed that constant reassurance of her attractiveness to men. I divorced her eventually, after six years and after much suffering on my part. Serve me right? Yes of course it did. It always has served me right, served me jolly well right!

It’s all a bit vague now. It’s all so blurred, but I can still remember the highlights. I had moved to England and met Kate, no, come think of it, Kate was definitely not a good-en! Fabulous and exciting yes, but good, no! She was forty two and I was twenty four Ummmm….. let me see…….Ah yes of course, for twenty years I had an on and off love affair with a teacher. I adored her in my way, but when we fell out, as we did from time to time, I left her for pastures greener. They never were of course, greener that is. I drove her away in the end you see, by my selfishness mainly I expect, - and not listening.

In the mean time, there was Penny, another loyal and honest woman who bored me to death. I had decided at that time you see, that as I found all women a bit boring after a while, I might just as well stay with one of them forever as keep changing them. I loved her too of course, moved to Cornwall and lived with her for years until……. I drove her away as well in the end by acting the cad.

There’s been others I have met of course in that passing of time. All of them too good for me I wouldn’t be surprised. Well, women are just an example you see. It’s been the same with jobs, and friends and whatnot, all lost opportunities. I could have been a musician, a sailor, a pilot or even an estate agent if I had taken up the opportunities that came my way, and worked at it. All too late now of course, all too late now. Not that I’m complaining you understand, it’s all been amazing really.

I’ll give you another example. I was at Plymouth docks once, sitting on the ground, rucksack beside me, waiting to catch the ferry to France. I had been looking at this amazing modern yacht moored nearby, carbon fibre I think it was, when a young chap wondered over to me and asked me what I thought of it. Then he asked me if I would like to join the crew for a trip to the Caribbean. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather! That’s the sort of question you only dream about. Like a fool I said no. I had just become smitten by a French girl you see, and didn’t want to lose her. Well there you are. I still wonder why he asked me. Perhaps someone had been taken ill and they were desperate for a pair of strong hands. My hands were strong in those days.

I could go on but you get the idea. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a pint in the “Cod” after that Calvados and Madeira of yours…”

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

Brian, landlord of the Cod's Head..

2010-06-06T10:49:00.000+01:00

Work in progress: Please suggest some sensible titles for the pieces folks. Click on images to enlarge.

Brian is this weeks guest blogger once more.

“No, life has NOT become more dangerous my friends, and I’ll tell you why. Where are all the sabre-tooth tigers? Where’s your black death? See what I mean? If the world is so much more dangerous than it used to be, how come there are hundreds of times that many more people in it then? How come that in the last few thousand years the world population has grown and grown to the point where we’re eating our own rubbish? - grown to the point where we eat our own rubbish!

Do you know how much rubbish you eat in a year without knowing it? Fourteen kilos, that’s how much; - fourteen kilos of rubbish and about three thousand insects. - - The sea’s full of plastic bags. What we aught to do is make life a lot more dangerous, keep people on their toes, sharpen em up a bit.

Half the world’s starving coz the world isn’t big enough for em all right? You can’t make the world any bigger so what’s the answer then? I tell you what the answer is; make the population smaller, obvious right? What we need are more hazards, not less. Take away all the traffic lights and road signs for a start and put in a few pits and boulders. Make driving more fun too.

Stop all that aid to top up the Swiss bank accounts of African politicians and generals, and let em have a revolution if they don’t like their government instead of lettin em come here to whinge on about how hard done by they are.

Yes squire….. and one for Ted?

They’d starve for a bit of course, but if the population was reduced enough, was reduced enough right? There’d be plenty of food for the next generation, right! Do away with foreign aid and traffic lights for a start. No more free medicine for the third world right? Only keeps em alive to breed and starve later. Am I right?

Proper Job? three twenty - no squire, just pickled eggs.

No it’s not cruel is it? If it’s cruel, it’s cruel to be kind right? I’ll tell you what’s cruel, interfering with people’s lives and getting em to survive and live longer without giving them the education and the sense to have less offspring. We should never have walked out and left em to it of course. If the world was still coloured pink we wouldn’t be in such a mess right? - - HAVING left em to it, we should keep right out of it and let em get on with murdering each other.

See - - sterilisation and contraception isn’t working is it? How you going to sterilise half the world? Much easier just to stop all the aid. Stop all the aid and let nature take its course, - survival of the fittest right? No, life hasn’t got more dangerous has it? Risk adverse, risk adverse, that’s what we’ve all become. I can’t sell you a pork pie because I’m not allowed to. We used to have a nice little glass cabinet on the counter for pork pies and scotch eggs. That’s another thing! Do away with “use by” dates. What’s the matter with peoples’ noses nowadays? A good piece of cheddar ‘snot ready to eat until it’s well out of date, am I right?

Yes my love? --- -- four sixty five.

And building regs, health and safety, speed limits, MOTs, life guards, - get rid of em and we’d all be better off and save billions. We could get rid of traffic police, wardens, and whole government departments. The police aren’t much use anyway are they? Much better to keep a shotgun by the bed, that’s what I do, and a nice big hammer by the front door, see look - over there. I’d like to see some punk trying to get in at night and rob this place! I phoned them only the other night about some kids outside here at one in the morning, shouting and being sick. They hadn’t even heard of this village, never mind the pub! Said they were too busy to send a car out but would make note of it.

Save billions!”

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

Life in the Fast Lane

2010-05-29T15:30:00.001+01:00

THE COD'S HEAD

Brian, landlord of the Cod's Head, was happy for me to record another blog as he feels he is "spreading the word".

“Look, I’ve got a car right? Not much of a car I will admit, but it’s mine right? So who is going to give up their car? Would you give up your car? Would you give up your car just so that other drivers can have more room on the road? Because you can be sure that you’ll be the only one. You’ll be the only one to give up his car voluntarily.

I tell you what, take speed cameras. Speed cameras are not there to stop you speeding. If everyone stopped speeding they’d collect no money would they? If nobody drove too fast they would have to think of another way to get more money right? Did you know that we have twenty seven CCTV cameras for every one in France? For every one they have in France, we have twenty seven! We’re a surveillance society my friends! - - It’s like MOTs. We never used to have MOTs and who ever heard of anyone being killed because of a cracked number plate? I’ve never heard of it have you?

Proper Job Squire?

Take my car. What’s the point of having a motor that can do a hundred and twenty five miles an hour if the top speed limit is seventy? I tell you what, do away with the speed limit and you would get less accidents. It’s slow driving that caused crashes, not your BMW doing a ton in the fast lane. If a car’s built to do a hundred and thirty it’s obviously safe for it to do a hundred and thirty, am I right? My car failed its MOT with Charlie because it had rust on one sill, so I had to pay to get it welded. How is rust on one sill going to cause me to crash my car?

No sorry, we’ve got pickled eggs…. No?

See, that’s what it’s like now. We used to do pork pies, keep em in a case on the counter right? Not any more you can’t; Health and Safety! Close me down they would, quick as a wink, take away my licence. A pickled egg could kill you just as quick as a pork pie - - or a crisp. Thousands of people die every year from toasters right? But you don’t hear em wanting to ban toasters do you, or microwaves? Fireworks are just the same. Every year there’s an outcry coz some idiot burnt hisself. Ban fireworks!

Anyway - - it’s not your car that causes global warming, it’s volcanoes, but they can’t ban volcanoes can they, so they want us to drive lectric cars that are gunna need dozens of more power stations, all spewing out more carbon. No such thing as climate change…. Climate has been changing for millions and millions of years right? That’s what it does climate, it changes; nothing to do with cars – or planes. - - - What about breathing then? All the animals on this planet are breathing right? That’s all carbon. Who is going to stop breathing?

Pint?”

Pip, pip...

New Habits...

2010-05-29T00:04:00.001+01:00

Porthleven Nosh

Loose ends are just the thing for soaking up “treats”. My last good treat was to bomb over to the Lizard peninsular and the ancient fishing harbour of Porthleven. Of course it’s getting pretty touristy now, but still largely unspoilt; and they still catch fish!

You might know Pothleven well, and you might too have discovered how good the cooking is at the kota restaurant. You go there for the fish of course. I went there a couple of years ago when it was quite a different kettle of crabs; homely, with pretty tablecloths and serving steak pie, place and chips etc. Now it’s certainly not minimalist modern, and it retains its “cottage” air, but the tables are polished wood and the cutlery tasteful. The main difference is in the food. I was there last week sharing a table with my old friend Michael de Montaigne. He always has something interesting to tell me while I wait for my starter.

I decided on the marinated wild salmon to begin with, followed by John Dory fillets on a bed of creamy asparagus risotto. The whole thing was totally delicious.

The Salmon came shaped as a “timbale” with herbs and the marinade. The raw fish had been cut into small dice which gave it plenty firm bite, while the flavour was fresh and clean. On the side was a spoon of horseradish cream topped with the black pearls of caviar.

The risotto was moist and tasty without being over creamy, while the asparagus inside was crunchy and full of flavour. The John Dory was perfectly cooked of course and very fresh.

My pudding was two chocolate and banana beignets with home made walnut and coffee ice-cream, and a pot of chocolate moose, fabulous with a glass of luscious Botrytis Semillion. The little touches, like the choice of home made breads and the friendly, informal but very efficient service, made the evening special. The food was not plonked down with “There you go!” or “Enjoy!”, but served with a simple smile. What a meal!

Do go and spoil yourself at the Kota, but book first! If you don’t mind eating with kids, babies, teenagers and the other drawbacks of family life, go early from 5:30 to 7:30 for the “Early Bird” deal, and you can have a two course meal of selected dishes for £12. (or was it £15?) Last food orders are taken at 9pm, so this is definitely not a late night eatery. By the time I left at about 9:55 the place was empty.

Pothleven itself is one of the prettiest little fishing harbours in Cornwall, and I am told that there is a good beach nearby too.

"Click" on photos to enlarge!

Kota Restaurant,

Harbour Head,

Porthleven,

Cornwall

TR13 9JA

www.kotarestaurant.co.uk

01326 562 407

Pip, pip….

More from "The Cod's Head".

2010-05-19T22:58:00.000+01:00

Guest Blogger Brian,

Landlord of "The Cod's Head".

I got chatting to Brian, the landlord of “The Cod’s Head”, the other lunchtime, and talking about blogging and Twitter and stuff I eventually asked him if he would like to write something for my blog as a “guest” blogger. Brian said he didn’t think he could do that as he had to leave school early to help run the family pub in Norfolk, his dad having run off with the barmaid. I suggested he might let me record something on my pocket voice recorder and he agreed. Later that evening he was chatting to a few of us regulars so I switched it on…

“I think it must be the Empire what made us what we are, us English right? Being English and having an Empire gave us a special view of the world, to people not English, ifyouseewhatImean….. Having an Empire makes you realise that most of the world is really sort of English, and not as foreign as it is for other people right? That’s why we can travel anywhere we go and feel at home. We can travel anywhere and feel at home because it’s really ours anyway, but now of course it’s lived in mostly by foreigners right?.........

Not being English, being a foreigner, must be very strange and difficult I should think. I mean we can go anywhere we like and be English right? But they always have to be foreign don’t they? Wherever they are, they’re foreign right? They don’t really belong anywhere do they!....

Being British is not so bad of course, not as bad as being actually totally foreign. Being British was part of it. All kinds of Scotsmen and Welshmen and even the Irish went out to help us rule the Empire right? But you wouldn’t actually choose to be a Scotsman would you? Not unless you were Scotch already of course. That’s why they all come down here to England right?..... And being Welsh must be bloody miserable. I mean, being stuck with that ridiculous accent for starters right? I mean, I know we have funny accents here in England, like those whinging Liverpudlians, or the moaning Brummies, but at least it’s an English sort of an accent. Am I right? The Cornish people round here have an accent right? But it’s a real, strong, English accent right?.......... Strong people the Cornish! “Quiet but violent folk” they say. Me, me I come from Norfolk, but you wouldn’t never know it now because I gave it up, gave up my accent over the years, working all over England, and abroad.

I mean…… you just imagine what it must be like to be a foreigner and having to come here to England to try and make a living. I can’t think why anyone would do that, not unless they were desperate. Unless they come here from some country that was total crap right? Fancy being a foreigner in England… I mean, you wouldn’t want to be foreign anywhere would you, but specially here, where we’re all English. Look, you’re English right? You can go to somewhere, really, really foreign like say Ethiopia, Ethiopia right? You can go to Ethiopia, not speaking a word of Ethiopian or whatever it is they speak, but you can go there and do alright, make yourself understood because you’re English. You can get by all right with sign language and stuff right? But if one of them comes here on holiday he’d be totally lost right? If he didn’t speak a word of English, your Ethiopian would starve to death here……. I don’t think an Ethiopian would come here on holiday at all, not if he didn’t speak English. That’s because of the Empire that is! That’s what in means to be English. I mean you’re never going to be a foreigner are you?

Now look, don’t misunderstand me. Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying right? I’m not talking about race here am I? I’m talking about being English, not race. Your black man can do whatever he likes as far as I’m concerned, as long as he does it in Africa or wherever, and it’s often white people who are just as foreign anyway right? And most of them don’t even know it! Take the Italians. Italians think they are the bee’s knees. Am I right? The Italians think they’re the bee’s knees because they don’t know any better do they? They’ve never been English see. They’ve never had an Empire because they don’t know how to do it. The Romans, the Romans, they had an Empire because they were more like us then see, but Italians aren’t Romans are they? Not with their bleeding winkle pickers and shiny suits and scooters there not……..

I’m not a racist….. As soon as you start saying anything about England some people call you a racist. I’m not having that! There all the same as far as I’m concerned, Italian, Jew, Ethiopian, whatever! They’re all foreign, but that’s not there fault is it? They can’t help being foreigners. They never had any choice in the matter, right? I like foreigners me. Me and the misses go abroad all the time;

Seychelles

last year. We love it. Wherever an Englishman goes, there he is, right? But take this pub, take this pub, you won’t see anything like this in the Seychelles, not anywhere!....

Yes squire, I will have a small one with you – cheers!”

I have only edited out comments from the “regulars” and calls for more beer etc.

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

Ladyboys ahoy!

2010-05-12T21:48:00.003+01:00

Well, well, ‘The Cod’s Head’ was chilly this evening when I popped in for a quick one before I cooked tonight’s dinner. No fire in the grate and only one punter; a powerful looking young man of middling age drinking Guinness. It seems that the landlord/tenant has given his notice into the brewery and will be leaving at the end of July. “We are not making any money, the brewery is but we’re not”. Hence the lack of glowing coals presumably. The very cold Guinness didn’t make it any warmer, so after a couple of those I had a straight Jameson’s, to keep my drinking Irish and my brain warm.

Shall I tell you how I cooked the oxtail for tonight with flageolet beans, and how delicious it was? No? I will leave it to your imagination then, and anyway, you might detest oxtail. I will just mention that I cooked it yesterday for four hours and served it this evening with purple sprouting broccoli and new potatoes. (Forget I ever mentioned that!)

Why I am writing this is that just before I left ‘The Cod’s head’, three tall transvestites swooped in through the door marked “Public bar”.

(I have to remind you here that the two ancient, black painted doors, both have brass signs on them saying “PUSH”, but one also has the sign “Public bar”, and the other one “Saloon Bar”. Due to “modernisation”, both doors now lead into the same long bar where the dividing wall has been removed. (This reminds me of Alan Bennett, when he described his neighbours habit of demolishing interior walls; “It’s called “knocking through””). When the alterations were first made, a local dignitary, who always used the “Saloon bar,” was confused one day when the “Public bar” door was opened wide for him by a polite person. He came inside, hesitated, went out, and came back in through the other appropriately signed door. Oh I do so love the English class system don’t you?)

So, to return to our transvestites, transsexuals or cross-dressers, who entered boldly with élan and a few subtle flourishes? I had to stay now of course, at least until I knew what drinks they would order and how the ex rugby-playing landlord would react. His shiny red football shirt clashed a bit with the ladies’ frocks, but he hardly blinked I am pleased to say. The chilly pub was transformed with laughter from these three; so full of vitality, vim and vigour. The blond with the shining eyes and long legs, the sultry brunette with the long dark lashes, and the short haired blond with the muscular arms, delighted me. I was loath to drag myself away, drive home and light the stove…

Did I tell you about my new stove? No, well another day…

Pip, pip, The Leg.

A couple of ways to be good to yourself

2010-05-03T10:51:00.004+01:00

Conscious that artists tend to egocentricity and can be a bit too “full-of-themselves”, I try to avoid talking too much about myself and my own doings on this blog, but rather pass on any strange and interesting events, theories, or prejudices I might come across. I of course am packed full of prejudice, half baked philosophy and well done toast.

Adjacent to the tennis courts at Sunny Corner, on the little road to Malpas, there stands a lock-up kiosk that, when open, provides hot drinks, cakes and toasted sandwiches. I am telling you this because the coffee they make is the best for miles around – probably, along with slices of the most calorie packed of home-made cakes. To put the icing-on-the-cake, the gilt on the gingerbread, to make the experience even more perfect, a Cornish-ice-cream-van is usually parked nearby. Do you know about real Cornish ice cream? A vanilla cone and a piping hot coffee go together like iced oysters and sizzling chipolatas, fabulous!

And the view! Did I not mention the view? To one side the tennis players cavort in an assortment of gear, while opposite, the Truro River meanders up through mud banks dotted with wading birds towards the cathedral and the city. Past the tennis courts a park with gardens lies between the road to Malpas and the river, while across the road, in shady tranquillity, you can find the large duck-pond, with bushy islands, and surrounded by huge exotic trees and overgrown shrubs.

The road to Malpas is a dead-end, a “no-through” road. It winds along the left riverbank, past rotting boats and Scots Pine, until it arrives at a ninety degree bend in the river where the Heron Inn commands a view over the moorings and this wide section of the river where it flows on down past the heronries and the great laid up cargo ships, to Falmouth. At the Heron, you can eat the best crab sandwiches in Cornwall – probably! From here you can catch the tripper/shopping boat to Falmouth, and back.

I pass on this information to those of you who don’t know it already of course, but who might just take advantage of it one day.

PS. Whatever you do don’t but the “soft” or “whippy” ice cream. This is not “real” ice cream at all, but a synthetic concoction of “ice cream” powder and water, whisked and frozen in a machine in the van. It’s mostly air and not fit for the gulls. You need to ask for the “hard” stuff, the proper Cornish ice.

Pip,pip....

Blood On The Walls

2010-04-27T22:05:00.003+01:00

Showtime madness at artist’s "surgery" exhibition.

Blood on the walls is not normally expected at a ‘private view’, even if it is held at a doctor’s surgery. It is a large, modern building, light and airy and with plenty of wall space and a capacious car-park, and the ideal venue for exhibiting artworks. Unfortunately, some of the guests were perhaps over stimulated by the paintings and excited by the jazz piano of “Mad Max Turnbull”. Fighting broke out in two separate incidents, between guests competing over who should buy a particular artwork, or who had “bagged” it first. Luckily, this fracas resulted in only one fatality and two serious injuries. Other guests and two doctors were also only slightly injured while trying to part the protagonists.

Peter Wright would like to extend his heartfelt thanks to all who made the evening so very special. Special thanks must go to pensioner Mr L Lewis, who used the fire hose to great effect in finally subduing the violence.

There were 69 artworks on show including four amusing sculptural pieces featuring the usual explicit acts of bestiality. All the work was of recent vintage and fiercely experimental. The artist, Peter Wright, is well known for his unconventional treatment of provocative subject matter, which often displays the abstracted viscera of dumb beasts and the flayed torsos of Chinese criminals.

The artist said that it had been a most successful evening, during which ten pieces were sold and only three destroyed. The renowned art critic and connoisseur, Nick Saatchi was heard to say that he had never seen anything like it. Another well known guest, Ooaah Ngoma, said it was a “triumph!” In hindsight, it was perhaps unfortunate that a tray of surgical instruments amongst the gourmet finger-food had been overlooked. Concerned relatives should contact the surgery in the first instance.

Pip, pip, The Leg.

The Cod's Head

2010-04-16T23:13:00.004+01:00

Nelson's Dockyard, Antigua, gouache, 34x34cm.

On my way from the Mill, to the Cod’s Head, driving up the hill towards the crossroads, I let the car slow down as I come up behind jack Pollock pushing his bike. I have never seen jack ride the bike, rather he leans into it, a grey woollen hat pulled well down over his bowed head, and walking slowly with his back bent, as always. Quite a thin man, and not tall, he wears his grey clothes loose and hanging, as though they might have fitted him once but not now. There’s no point in giving him a salute if you met him on the road. He moves as though blind to the world, deep in his own thoughts perhaps. He moves purposefully, steadily, as though he has somewhere definite to be, as if the air is thick, as if he is walking through treacle.

Pint in hand, I ask the landlord of the Cod’s Head where jack lives. He tells me he doesn’t know, but that he’s heard that Jack used to live in a big house about twelve miles away, that he was comfortably off at one time and that he might have a son somewhere.

I have to wait for the lane to widen before I can overtake Jack with any polite consideration, and so I have time to observe. The strap of a flat canvas bag slants from the inside shoulder, pulling in his threadbare coat. He wears boots, probably black, and his grey trousers are tucked in to uneven socks, as though he intends to ride the bike at some time or other, but not just now, and certainly not uphill. I think I remember a scarf or muffler, but I can’t be sure. The bicycle is old of course, probably black, but it does have a pump attached to its frame, and this seems to imply some kind of maintenance, some kind of order in his scheme of things.

Setting off home, the lonely light of the Cod’s Head in my rear view mirror, I know that he is Malloy, not Jack - or is he Jacques Moran (Jacques/Jack) - or perhaps he is the unnamed hero of The Third Policeman?

Pip, pip.... The Leg

Lucky Easter Bunny

2010-04-04T12:24:00.005+01:00

Can't believe it! This blog says I have made 53 posts. About time I got a life then! Talking of life...

It's Easter again and doesn't it seem to go on a bit more than it used to? It seems to me that a lot more is made of Christmas and Easter than ever before. Too tired and warm to get my arm out of bed to turn the radio off, I listened in and out of the Easter service this morning. Must have been a Holy Roman Catholic church I should think, what with all the "responses", bell tinkling and a more-loony-than-usual sermon.

A very-important priest repeated over and over again the same message; that "Jesus died to give us life", "save us from our sins", "so that we may be forgiven our sins". Jesus was born of the virgin Mary, he was the son of God, he died on the cross, was buried and then got up, walked about a bit, then rose up into Heaven; oh yeah? OK for medieval peasants I suppose...

From the way the preacher spoke I assume that his congregation all had learning difficulties.

As it's Easter there is roast chicken for lunch today. I shall think myself a child again and enjoy it as a rare and expensive treat, with a grown-up glass of wine as well of course.

Pip,pip.

2010-03-28T21:38:00.004+01:00

Barmy world huh? So the bloody Church of England Archbishops and other frock wearing clergy don’t like our so-called secular society. It’s about time we chucked em out of the House of Lords. Who do they represent? Certainly they don’t speak for us Jedie!! Get real you overindulged loonies!

The 7*s is our only village pub, so it needs nurturing and frequent supportive visits. We can gloss over the cuisine for the moment and instead be rapturous about the real ale and the real fire. The Landlord is doing his very best to make it a viable business. He and his son work really hard to make go of it. I haven’t been to a karaoke evening myself, but I hear they are popular. He also has local talent playing music now and again.

The real customers are a real mixture, from the local laird to the rabbit man (he is also the rat man and the mole man). We have, amongst many other professions, an ex RAF Tornado pilot who plays the trumpet, an ex helicopter pilot who flew in Iraq, an ex Boeing 737 pilot who has nearly destroyed his liver, a creepy ex police inspector (what’s with all these “exes”? ed), a nice elderly man with a pony tail who delivers cars, farmers of course and farm workers, a window cleaner, a sitting MP, a biological chemist, a very nervous undertaker, a mad Irishman, a real Scotsman and a butcher.

DRAWINGS FROM MY SKETCHBOOK:

PIP PIP.

Island in the sun......

2010-03-24T21:04:00.004Z

How time flies------ a couple of photos taken while flying around in one of those noisy buggers. Fixed wing pilots don’t like em at all of course.

“Did you know that helicopters can’t really fly at all?

- “no, really?” -

- “Yes, they can only leave the ground because they are so ugly that the ground repels them!”

Madly printing invites and letters, framing stuff and making complicated arrangements for the PV show on the 23^rd.

Take care you all,

The leg

Nothing in particular....

2010-03-05T22:51:00.003Z

"Three Signals". Gouache, 2010.

…so bloody cold and dark tonight – the street empty of souls.

The Seven Stars was like a waiting room, a waiting room for what or for where? Were these expressionless, dun coloured people on their way to the “other side”? Why do they bring their small dogs with them?

Bad news is bad news. Interrupted by Bob the landlord in my vacant minded survey of the optics, my choice was fall-stalled by the information that “all wines are three pounds tonight. It’s our anniversary. We have been here a year now.” “Oh right” I said. Thinking that white wine might be better with the fish and chips I was hoping to eat, I asked for one that they had just run out of. I had to have the Chardonnay, which I knew to be horrid. It was worse than I remembered, and, it cost me three pounds! I hate myself for being “bounced” into things don’t you?

I shall gloss over the fish and chips, except to say that I did eat all the chips. Oh, and I did wonder about the segments of dead fish inside their heavy casing of “crumb”. I though about them being dragged up from under the dark waves. Did they lead a blameless life down there?

Do you know why tartar sauce is called tartar sauce? It’s a long and tortuous route from the steppes to that white acidic gloop in a sachet. I believe that the Tartars, a nomadic breed, having little time to prepare food before a raid, would put meat under their saddle, where the pounding it got during a ride across the tundra, along with the horse sweat, made it tender enough to eat without a cooking fire, nice. The French of course turned that into “cusine”, by mincing some fillet of beef and serving it raw with finely chopped shallot, pickled cucumber, capers, parsley, and a raw egg yolk – steak tartar!. Somehow I don’t think the Tartars ever ate tartar sauce. I once prepared that dish for a couple dining in a hotel where I worked as “second chef”. It was sent back to the kitchen because it was “raw”, so the number one chef and I enjoyed it. Come to think of it, that’s the only time I have eaten it.

Smudge is so mysterious, not a bit like Fred, the younger tabby. He tormented my studio door at tea-time, until I rose from my siesta about seven o’clock to feed them both, then he eyed me with large, round, yellow eyes, staring out from his black furriness, until I opened the door for him to trot out into the night......... I love that cat!

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

SPRING?

2010-02-28T11:26:00.006Z

The Painting is called “Telegraph Hill, Antigua” 17 x 19 cm Gouache.

Hello you lucky people!

I feel I have been neglecting you lately and that will never do! Friendships needs to be worked at I am told.

An evening of art and music is planned for Friday the 23^rd of April.

“PICTURES AT AN EXHIBITION”

(By invitation only)

A unique preview; a party style evening of visual art and musical entertainment to be held near

Hayle, Cornwall

From 7:00pm to 9:00pm

On Friday the 23^rd of April, 2010.

“Pictures at an exhibition” was composed by Mussorgsky in 1874, based on drawings and paintings at an exhibition, by his dead friend Victor Hartmann.

On show, for one night only, will be a totally new series of artworks by Peter Wright, including works in oil, collage and gouache (as well as a selection of previously shown work).

Interpreting the artworks via jazz piano, we are privilege to have the renowned Max Turnbull.

Drinks and a finger buffet will provide sustenance for gourmands and chocoholics.

To apply for an invitation e-mail Peter Wright at:

pwartworks@btinternet.com

Pip, pip,

The Leg

The Ghastly Caribbean!!!

2010-02-18T23:06:00.007Z

What a discovery!! chocolate-ginger confectionary savoured with sips of Calvados. The sweet and spicy ginger pieces coated in dark chocolate are a perfect contrapuntal experience with the very dry, yet musky, fruity, alcohol hit.

Back to the main subject! Here in damp and beautiful Cornwall again after a couple of fortnights in Pirate Seas, I can enjoy once more the pleasures of real ale and a thick duvet. The Island of Antigua (pronounced An-ti-ga as you well know!) is a dreadful place and best left to the hordes of cruise tourists. Apart from Factory Road there is nothing worth seeing and I always have a thoroughly miserable time there, and I had to put up with four ghastly weeks there this winter. I find I have to endure these “tropical paradises” so that I can make my poor attempts at “art” in an uninterrupted environment; no phone calls, no visitors, letters, e-mail, domestic arguments, demands or invitations.

Apart from lobsters and red snapper, mahi, mahi and wahoo, goat, strange vegetables, golden rum and exotic fruits of all kinds, there is little of special interest to excite a gourmand. After a few months on the island one might feel the need to resort to the French or Italian restaurants that can be found near Nelson’s Dockyard.

Talking of Nelson’s Dockyard; at the “Slipway” you will find Catherine’s café, an up-market but casual and relaxed, French restaurant; where on a Wednesday night you may eat to the erratic sounds of a four piece jazz band of no mean musical ability. Lead by the world famous Roland Prince (who I suspect has blown his mind with illegal substances) his partner Valerie (the nominal white musician) on electric base, a trumpeter who sits down to play and who never moves an inch, and a totally laid-back drummer who turns up an hour late, then rotates his head in all possible axis in the ecstasies of musical improvisation so elastically that one fears for his spinal chord. Roland has dreadlocks down to his knees and a divided beard ending at his waist. Now cadaverous, gentle, kind and unassuming, Roland was once a handsome and well covered West Indian with a deep and sexy voice (which he retains to this day). Valerie, his partner for many years, is still slim and generously warm hearted, even if her voice has gone a bit.

I could go on (No please don’t! Ed.) but I have had complaints from readers. The sight of too much text seems to put some people off.

Best wishes to all my loyal friends and enemies, pip, pip,

The Leg.

View from the studio Jan 2010

2010-01-10T21:54:00.001Z

A polar bear tried to get into my studio last night, its clear, deep paw prints were in the snow this morning.

No chance of getting out at all. The cat is stuck across the driveway after trying to slither sideways into the granite walls of my studio. It had better clear up before Monday week and my take-off from Newquay. I fly to Antigua from Gatwick the next morning, and I need fresh medication, art materials and currency before then.

Best wishes to all my readers, may they break no bones before the thaw.

Pip, pip,

The Leg

A New Year...

2010-01-01T23:37:00.003Z

"Hand Signals" 70x70cm

The Artist’s Dilemma (one of them anyway).

It’s the Object/subject thing. The subject of the artist’s attention is an object while being studied. The work of art is an object. The artist is a subjectivity, or a self-consciousness. If the object studied is a person, then the artist will, at some time or another, be confronted by a ‘look’, and become aware of the other’s subjectivity, or something like that. (Intersubjectivity).

How does he confront his object/subject? With what kind of humility does he approach his study? When does the object, which is separate from the artist, become a subject? What kind of subject/object connection is made?

It matters not if the artwork is a made thing, or simply remains a concept (conceptual art), as the same dilemma arises. If a painting is non-representational, and is meant not to refer to anything outside of itself, it will still contain the subjectivity (and the objectivity?) of the artist. The paradoxical situation of what the French Existentialists referred to as the being for, and the being to, being interchangeable according to a viewpoint, can be paralyse creativity.

At one moment, the work-in-hand is part of the artist, and the next moment it is a separate object in its own right, standing alone. Observing his own work, the artist becomes aware of the work’s subjectivity, and of his own. These relationships are multiplied by the addition of the viewer…

This all hardly matters to the amateur, who usually has no idea of what they are doing in any case, but it can heap confusion on the artist. The creative act is a mysterious process. Where does it begin or end? Something is made that did not exist before. Where did it come from? Does it have any purpose?

Humans seem to be compelled to make art as soon as they begin to think. Early cave paintings of the Stone Age (Palaeolithic) are as sophisticated as anything made today, bearing witness that the species has changed very little in its thinking over the last thirty thousand years or so. Why compelled? Is it to reassure ourselves that we do actually exist? Is a work of art evidence of our own consciousness? Why do we get so much pleasure/pain from art, both making it, and experiencing it? What exactly is the nature of the experience of the viewer? What is the relationship between the artist, the work of art, and the audience, and can any of the three exist without the other two?

Pip,pip,

The leg

The Other and the Look

The Other (when written with a capital "o") is a concept more properly belonging to phenomenology and its account of intersubjectivity. However, the concept has seen widespread use in existentialist writings, and the conclusions drawn from it differ slightly from the phenomenological accounts. The experience of the Other is the experience of another free subject who inhabits the same world as a person does. In its most basic form, it is this experience of the Other that constitutes intersubjectivity and objectivity. To clarify, when one experiences someone else, and that this Other person experiences the world (the same world that a person experiences), only from "over there", the world itself is constituted as objective in that it is something that is "there" as identical for both of the subjects; a person experiences the other person as experiencing the same as them. This experience of the Other's look is what is termed the Look (sometimes the Gaze).

While this experience, in its basic phenomenological sense, constitutes the world as objective, and oneself as objectively existing subjectivity (one experiences oneself as seen in the Other's Look in precisely the same way that one experiences the Other as seen by them, as subjectivity), in existentialism, it also acts as a kind of limitation of one's freedom. This is because the Look tends to objectify what it sees. As such, when one experiences oneself in the Look, one doesn't experience oneself as nothing (no thing), but as something. Sartre's own example of a man peeping at someone through a keyhole can help clarify this: At first, this man is entirely caught up in the situation he is in; he is in a pre-reflexive state where his entire consciousness is directed at what goes on in the room. Suddenly, he hears a creaking floorboard behind him, and he becomes aware of himself as seen by the Other. He is thus filled with shame for he perceives himself as he would perceive someone else doing what he was doing, as a Peeping Tom. The Look is then co-constitutive of one's facticity.

Another characteristic feature of the Look is that no Other really needs to have been there: It is quite possible that the creaking floorboard was nothing but the movement of an old house; the Look isn't some kind of mystical telepathic experience of the actual way the other sees one (there may also have been someone there, but he could have not noticed that the person was there). It is only one's perception of the way another might perceive them.

Wikipedia

MERRY STUFF!!!

2009-12-14T11:51:00.002Z

Photo from http://www.cornwallcam.co.uk/

Here we all are, with Christmas in the offing, the season of hideously bad taste, over eating, and family rows. Relentlessly, every year until we die, Christmas takes over willy-nilly. Driven out of my usual haunts and hideaways by the gruesome Christmas music and the shrill Christmas parties of one sort or another, I hole-up in my studio until it passes, making quick forays for sustenance and grownup company.

‘Season’s Greetings’ to all my readers and my best wishes for your coming year.

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

PS I am amazed to discover that this is the 51st posting of mine on here! "About time you got a life" I hear you cry?

More on the Earth

2009-11-27T14:50:00.002Z

"Signals", 60x60cm, tempura and oil on canvas.

Donut Earth, the history,

by popular request.

As early as 1808, Captain Cleve Symnes of Ohio announced: "I declare that the earth is hollow, shaped like a donut, and is habitable in the interior. It contains several solid concentric shells, placed one inside the other". He undertook to explore the interior of the Earth but was unable to raise the necessary funds.

Later, in 1870, Cyrus Reed Teed, founded a religion called 'Koveshim' based on this theory. In 1914 the idea took root in Germany where Herr Bender brought it to completion by proposing that we were already inside the Earth; in fact, we are just a small bubble inside a Universe of solid rock. A phantom Solar System is suspended in the middle of the bubble, and gets obscured every night by a cloud of bluish gas (See: de Selby, the Peoples Atlas 1921).

Hitler himself adopted the theory and sponsored a scientific expedition to a small island in the Baltic to prove it using infrared rays. Unfortunately the expedition failed. It is estimated that today, 1.7 million people (mainly in Germany and the USA) are followers of Koveshim.

Pip, pip,

The Leg.

Friendly gales

2009-11-20T11:48:00.004Z

Wonderfully wild gales are blowing across the peninsular. Last Saturday I had to take some paintings to an exhibition in Perranporth and the larger ones tried to be kites. The sand blew horizontally across the beach, stinging the very few people brave or daft enough to be taking their dogs for a crap. The car was covered in a film of shimmering salt so I had to treat it to the car-wash on Sunday.

The cats are not pleased with this weather and mope about. 'Outside' looks bad through the cat flap so they ask me to open a door. On seeing that it is no better that way, they survey other doors and windows until, by and by, their dainty needs finally force them to go out. When the large black one came back inside he found my lap was a handy place dry himself.

If it is any consolation, 'global warming' is not due to an increase in CO2, but gravitational surges. (Regular readers of this blog will know that the Earth is in any case donut shaped, not globular.)

Undeterred, the 'Truro Festival of Lights' was as odd as ever.

Have fun and hold tight!

Pip, pip,

Not again!!!

2009-11-02T00:01:00.007Z

Hello you good and patient people!

I shall not trouble you with titles and sizes etc, but here is some work in collage that I managed to produce on my recent trip to France.

But let's get to the chase; the 7*s!!!!

The 7*s lived up to its own slightly surreal reputation tonight. Almost empty at eight: thirty, there were perhaps half a dozen drinkers, including a beautiful, tall young couple eating a very late Sunday lunch, and a cowboy in Stetson and pointy, tooled boots. It reminded me of 'Midnight Cowboy' until I heard his Cornish accent, and his name; "Seth". I realised then that I was in that famous novel by Stella Gibbons.

The pub has a new 'chef,' as I might have mentioned before, and as it was Sunday evening, instead of throwing away the leftover roast potatoes and parsnips from lunchtime, they were presented in a dish on the bar. What a good idea! He is a nice young lad who seems to have settled in and who is eager to please.

Ms Gibbons would have been delighted with the 7*s. Seth was a man of few words (like most Cornishmen of course). But he had the perfect physique for films, if only there was a talent spotter from MGM drinking 'Proper Job' with a dash of lime in the 7*s this evening.

One of the landlord's sons is a powerful rugby man, and tonight he asked us if we thought he had broken his arm! He could move his fingers OK but was quite unable to rotate his wrist when asked. What with that and the swelling and deformation it seemed to me quite likely that he had broken his radius. We drinkers persuaded him to go to the fracture clinic at Treliske in the morning.

Apparently he had made a "sweep" at an opponent's neck, but the chap had put his arms up to defend himself and our hero had hit his elbow. I may have completely misunderstood all that, in which case I apologise without reserve.

Pip pip etc, The Leg .......

Work work work

2009-10-30T19:45:00.006Z

The Lot at Fumel, 1

Dr Perdrix of Fumel

Sunday Morning Market

in Fumel 2

OK, OK, so some words and pictures of my recent trip to SW France: Spent most of my time on the river Lot, and made a good deal of new work. The apartment was owned by an American couple in their 60s. It had a long veranda or terrace overlooking the river, is well equipped inexpensive and highly recommended. If you want the e-mail address just ask via 'Comments' below.

The Lot at Fumel 2

The work here is a taste of my French stuff. To see MUCH more, go to website at www.peterwrightartworks.co.uk

Take care you all, and stay cool at all costs!
Pip, pip, the Leg.

River Life

2009-10-14T21:15:00.004+01:00

By gum! this French trip went well. What shall I bore you with? I know, I shall write about the rivers. I stayed mostly by the river Lot, which rises in the Cévennes, flows West for 480 Ks, and eventually pours itself into to Garonne at Auguillon. You will probably know it best from the famous medieval, three towered bridge started in 1308, (Pont Valentre) at Cahors (a fabulous town full of architectural delights, including the Romanesque cathedral, the roofs of which look lovely reflected in the river.

The place I liked best on this river however was Villeneuve-sur-Lot, only a cannon shot from Fumel where I stayed for a week or more. In the afternoon there I chatted to the line-fishermen on the bank, in my hideous French, about the place and the fish. The guy with the very short legs in blue trousers (many rural Frenchmen seem to have short legs) Told me that the Emperor Charlemagne had stayed there for a while he liked it so much. He was fishing for 'Sandre' I think he said (the fisherman with the short legs, not Charlemaigne), but they seemed rather too small to me and probably full of tiny bones. He tossed them one at a time into his bucket where they swam round and round together until supper-time.

Later in the evening, after a nap in the car, and getting on for dinnertime, I went into the center to find a meal. Nothing seemed very likely but I was probably in the wrong part of town. It seemed to be the immigrant quarter with only Indian and kebab restaurants. I opted for a large, almost empty brasserie, but as I parked up, two sports cars drew up alongside, each with four young women who danced across the road to my Brasserie where they shared a table out on the terrace. I sat outside too at first but the waiter kindly suggested that I go up the stairs inside the salon if I wished to eat. The meal was incredible! The starter I chose was a salad with foix grass, smoked duck thigh and confit of chicken gizzards - fabulous but so rich and filling that I could hardly look at the over generous helping of scallop and king prawn brochettes that followed- not like me I can tell you!

By the time I had finished my meal the place was throbbing! I had hit the centre of the gay scene in the region! It really was gay too, in the old meaning of the word. There was hardly a mixed sex couple in the whole place, upstairs or down. If only I had been a fortnight younger I would have stayed for a few drinks….. They were all young and full of life and the place was jumping with music, light and chatter. I drove back to my quiet rooms grinning foolishly about the irony of aging. Just as I am beginning to understand the world a little, I find myself too old to cope with it. How refreshingly different it was from the rather dark and seedy gay clubs and bars one comes across in England! (by accident I hasten to add!) Perhaps it has something to do with the climate.

If you are really good, I might tell you something more about my encounters with the wonderful people of South West France. If you are really, REALLY good, I promis I won't

Pip pip,

The Leg

Chop House and Nylon.

2009-09-15T21:33:00.002+01:00

Evening on the terrace.

The new landlord (tenant) of the 7*s has a wife and at least two adolescent sons, so to keep them employed he has sacked the woman who used to cook me the pub's best steaks and chops. He has also sacked Jake, the only real barman. Could almost forgive all that if he didn't always wear garish, shiny,nylon rugby/football shirts and track-suit bottoms. It shows such thoughtless disrespect for his customers don't you think? I am sure he showers frequently, but he never looks clean (Not only that, but the wife flirts with the customers.) So, it's frozen chips and frozen veg now with your steak. Might need to look further abroad for my 'local'. Quite like the Punch B & L, but perhaps it's a bit too impersonal. Shall have to try the food there.

Pip, pip,

The Leg

2009-09-06T19:09:00.003+01:00

Andalucia was hot! Too hot to get on with much work, but here are a few pieces that did manage to beat the heat, TV and shrieking teenagers.

Cordoba.

Evening Meal in Andalucia.

Pip, pip - The Leg

Andalucia

2009-09-02T22:32:00.003+01:00

Having just spent 2 weeks in a small Spanish cottage with three women (two of them seventeen, blond, and stunningly beautiful), I now have more sympathy and understanding for misogynists. The two girls had those perfectly proportioned bodies with flawless skin, that makes older women smother themselves in expensive magic potions to “prevent” aging (because they’re “worth it”), submit to the surgeon’s unnecessary knife, or torment themselves with bizarre diets. But, apparently, being young and perfectly beautiful is not good enough even; you still need to anoint yourself with various chemical concoctions, shave your legs etc, use four different shampoos and conditioners, and improve on your flawless face with a bagful of cosmetics. From personal observation I know that one of the girls has fourteen assorted plastic bottles of gloop in the bathroom.

The location was perfect, the sunshine relentless, the sky interminably blue, and the pool delicious. It was August, it was hot, and the advertised air conditioning was crap! One tiny unit for the whole place, that only stayed on for half an hour at a time before it gave up, was inadequate to say the least. We gave up trying to use the AC after the fist day. All the bedrooms had ceiling fans thank the gods; otherwise we would all have had to sleep outside by the pool. During my siesta I just lay on my bed and perspired.

I have been accused from time to time of pessimism (my friends mean rationalism of course), but on this trip I had made the mistake of allowing hope to triumph over my experience of family holidays, and thought that I would get a good deal of painting and drawing done while the others splashed merrily in the pool or went sightseeing and shopping. Ah, but I had not taken a couple of factors into consideration; the heat, the cries and shrieks from the pool, and the unavoidable television, morning, afternoon, and evening. The young don’t read books apparently, or if they do, they soon find it a chore. Monopoly on this trip was much noisier than I remember, and so were all other games or did it just seem so because young females (and some older ones too) can have such loud, shrill voices?

The hire car had air conditioning, but it also had a manual gearbox (to save money I was told), and now all cars seem to have five or six gears, my first car only had three!). I can still remember how to change gear, even after driving an automatic for the last twenty years or so, and have often done so when my own car was in for service, but the combination of trying to read Spanish road-signs, spot traffic lights, ignore the giggling in the back, drive on the right, AND remember to use the clutch and change down into second at a roundabout, was a little too much sometimes in the first few days. The cry “you’re in the wrong gear”, although meant kindly I am sure, was not actually very helpful, so I did stall the car a couple of times – at least!

I did actually manage to get some work done, and I used the beautiful pool twice a day. The views were totally breathtaking, the Spanish people admirable, the evening temperature perfect, the coffee strong and dark, the beer refreshing and the food edible. The red wine in bars was usually good, and even better when it was served with chunks of ice “(ice in red wine?” I hear you cry). The white was best left alone.

Shall I mention the dogs? You know – the ones that bark? It seems to me that the more beautiful a place is (India, Sri Lanka, Thailand, the Caribbean) the more you need to try and ignore the ubiquitous barking dogs. When one starts they all feel the need to have a go and soon the whole world is barking. It peters out after a while and you relax, enjoying the profound silence and your cool beer, but dogs don’t like silence, it’s boring, so after just a couple of minutes one will start again. No, I had better not mention the dogs.

Go to Spain. Go to Andalucía and be awestruck – but not in August.

Who said so?

2009-08-06T22:41:00.003+01:00

Hello once again!

What is the issue? Words can drive you crazy yes? especially when they are almost meaningless. I have had problems with “at this moment in time”, “being perfectly honest”, Let’s make it perfectly clear”, etc. But now I am getting pissed of with “issues”.

Harriet Harmon was on the noble Woman’s Hour this morning, trying to explain her self-promoting aggrandisement in the absence of our Right Honourable Prime Minister, and her speech was peppered with “women’s issues”, “gender issues”, issues of justice, issues of policy, issues of issues even! Issues are becoming an issue for me.

Does anybody you know actually want to go digital? Have you seen the 100 channels available in America? I have a perfectly good B&W portable TV that is now useless because “they”, have turned off the analogue signal. Did anybody ask you if you wanted to go digital?

Who is going to pay for the replacement radios when they turn that signal off? I have four perfectly fine radios in the house, including an ancient and reliable FM tuner that is part of my Hi Fi system. My car has a built-in Jaguar radio and would like to know who will pay for that to be replaced. The reception on all these receivers is near perfect and in the car, Radio 3 FM sounds better that a CD, almost like being at the concert. It makes me feel like killing somebody, if only I knew who to kill.

Succulant lamb chops in the pub tonight! This time of year they have put on a bit of meat, so much more satisfying than the insipid “Spring Lamb”. I was served three large chops with plenty of crisp, tasty fat and juicy pink meat clinging to the bones. The plain new potatoes were a good foil for the rich meat but the gravy was totally weird. I think it had a lot of dried mint in it and was coloured with some kind of black and tasteless material. The carrots were overcooked as usual and the cabbage burnt around the edges, but that did not diminish the pleasure of munching on real Cornish lamb. I swear I could distinguish the various weeds the animal had grown fat on.

Our dear pub seems to have been discovered by visitors. Families of holidaymakers order strange drinks like “rum and coke”, “shandy”, “orange juice”, and foreign food such as “scampi and chips”, and the pub “curry”. I wonder how they found it……

Pip,pip, The Leg

I love the BBC!! no, really I do!

2009-07-26T18:38:00.004+01:00

A Letter to 'Feedback' at BBC radio 4.

I wish to complain about the damage being done to my portable wireless set by “Something Understood” (Radio 4 Sunday night and morning). A few minutes into the program and the speaker exudes a syrupy, viscous fluid that seeps onto my bedside table and into the drawer below. If I don’t turn it off quickly enough, I can feel my brain dissolving in oily soup of platitudes. (I should add that I don’t actually have a bedside table, as such. I am speaking here more metaphorically than accurately, in keeping perhaps with the nature of the program I am complaining about. If I had a bedside table, the drawer would contain pills, indigestion tablets, various half used tubes of stuff, ball-point pens that don’t work, a pair of nail scissors that don’t cut very well, an old crepe bandage, various rubber bands, dead batteries and some foot powder. All this and other oddments would be coagulated, cemented, stuck together, fused into a filthy mess by the oozing wireless set.)

Mark Tylly is surely an admirable presenter, and for all I know, a pillar of his community, lover of animals and a member of his Neighborhood Watch Committee, but his unctuous voice and portentous delivery is not doing my radio any good at all; nor is the ‘significant’ music and poetry. How does the producer manage to find so much sugary ‘sacred’ stuff each week? Perhaps the title of the program should be “Something Misunderstood”, as the rambling search for some spiritual meaning never manages to find one. Mark Tully has something of the poet’s voice combined with that of a vicar. (Do you ever wonder how Christ’s Vicars acquire that kind of sound? You know the one I mean; it combines a smug, singsong righteousness with an holy dying- fall. Do they attend special elocution lessons at their seminaries? If so, where to poets go to learn their weird delivery? Why did dear old Roger McGough, ‘Poetry Please’, develop that peculiar paused and breathy speech-form? Does he think it makes the poetry more significant, more spiritual? Does he talk like that all the time, even in bed or at breakfast? He sounds as though he is talking to a group of four year olds.)

I am sending a sample of the fluid local laboratory for analysis, in the hope that I might have discovered a useful new kind of anesthetic.

Pip, pip, The Leg.

The Case of the Offending Turd

2009-07-17T23:31:00.004+01:00

A Salesman’s Curiosity.

There are times when natural curiosity becomes a compulsive disorder. For about ten years, on and off, after leaving art school, I made my bread and butter, brought home the bacon, kept the wolf from the door and a roof over my head, by selling things door-to-door, on the knocker, and it was while I was selling vacuum cleaners that I had my education “finished”.

I want to tell you just one story from that time. It is a tiny but illustrative event involving two vacuum cleaner salesmen; colleges of mine on the knocker. They worked together because Morrie couldn’t drive, and was too tubby to carry the machine, while Nicky was fit, had a driving licence, but was intellectually challenged.

Morrie was 63, and lived in a Jewish block of flats in Hove, with a terrifying wife. He had been “struck off” from his career for “professional misconduct”, but his wife decided that if they could not keep up the same lifestyle, they would at least keep up appearances. To this end, on a Saturday after “payout”, she would not let him in the door if he did not push £60.00 (In 1969) through the letterbox first. It was Morrie, who, in the bar of the Landsdown Hotel, one Saturday lunchtime after “payout”, .told us other knockermen the entire tale,

Nicky was 25, and addicted to buying things that he had no intention of paying for. “Send no money!” he would quote gleefully from an advert. He had collected quite a number of court orders and fines already, and in a few more years, he would go on to do some time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He was a blond, blue eyed, innocent looking young man who had survived so far due to his skill at mimicking “benign incompetence” in front of magistrates. Nicky laughed a lot. I had known him a few years earlier because we had briefly been at art school together. Nicky had been asked to leave after the first year as he could only draw faces, and because he was considered “dead wood” by the staff. One morning during the photography class, in the dark room, he had poured a pint of glue into his friend’s rucksack of brushes, paint, drawing instruments etc, in revenge for his friend deliberately denting his trumpet.

The machine we were selling at that time was heavy, very powerful, and boxed with many impressive attachments that made it good for demonstration, including a “paint sprayer” that fixed onto the blowing end. It was made in the North of England specially for selling door-to-door. Its main drawback was the large motor and the sheet steel casing, which made it too heavy for most normal women to carry, while its other problem was its name - “Bilok”! We usually lied and said it was made by ‘Belling’, a well known manufacturer in those days. The model we sold was called the “Elite” (pronounced E-lite by Nicky).

Morrie and Nicky had managed on this particular evening to get into a "nice" house to demonstrate the cleaner in front of a young husband and wife. They were a ‘normal’ couple of likely punters, living in a conventional suburban cul-de-sac. Nicky and Morrie worked as a team. They both knocked doors, making appointments or getting straight into the house if they were lucky. Nicky did the carrying and demonstrating and Morrie did the sales pitch (the ‘close’) and the paperwork. When Nicky had completed his demonstration he asked the couple if he might use their toilet. He therefore disappeared upstairs while Morrie continued his charm offensive.

The lavatory could be heard flushing, and after rather too long a time, Nicky reappeared, grinning manically. He kept making faces at Morrie and pointing up towards the ceiling. Morrie tried to ignore him of course as he had more important business to attend to, and because it would have been difficult for one or both of the punters not to have noticed Nicky’s antics. He hoped that Nicky would soon grow tired of sending signals and let him get on with closing the sale. It was making him nervous.

Nicky didn’t give up grinning and winking however, so Morrie assumed that there must be something of huge interest to be seen upstairs, and his imagination got the better of him; perhaps it was pornography, kinky underwear, or something even more exiting that he could not even think of. It all became too much for him at last, so he too asked if he might use their lavatory.

Morrie told us that as soon as he opened the bathroom door he knew he had made a mistake. Nicky had had a crap, and in the WC, the huge result lay coiled and jammed across the pan. It was massive, and had refused all Nicky’s attempts to flush it away. Morrie, after trying the flush again, had a go at breaking it with the loo-brush, but only managed to get it stuck with one end in the bend, and the other rearing out of the water. After jabbing and flushing a few times, interspersed with waiting for the cistern to fill again, he admitted defeat and returned downstairs, knowing that the young couple would assume it was he who had left their toilet in such a state. He found Nicky, hugging himself and incandescent with glee!

Whether or not Nicky had deliberately put Morrie in the firing line we shall never know, but at least Morrie had that enviable Jewish ability to tell a hugely funny story against himself. I am unable to tell you if a sale was made that evening, but I hope it was.

Pip, pip,

The Leg

2009-07-11T12:45:00.003+01:00

OK you dog lovers out there! You may have acquired the idea that I am not over fond of dogs, and you may be right, but just for you, I am posting a special doggy edition of this blog today.

In California USA, they have an annual Ugly Dog Contest and I have here photographs of the winner and the runner-up. Aren’t they beautiful? No not really! But the thing is, dogs give you unqualified love and devotion, even if they are ugly. So, for those people craving unqualified love and devotion from dumb mutts, here is Miss Ellie and Pabst!!!!

At last we are having appropriate summer weather here in the Far West; rain and mist.

A science teacher has appeared in court charged with the attempted murder of one of his students.

Peter Harvey, 49, is accused of attacking 14-year-old Jack Waterhouse at All Saints' Roman Catholic School in Mansfield on Wednesday morning.

He was remanded in custody by magistrates to appear at Nottingham Crown Court by videolink on July 27.

The poor bloke has my sympathy! I am only surprised that more teenagers are not killed or beaten-up by teachers and parents.

The charge of ‘attempted murder’ puzzles me though. How can anyone know or assume that he was attempting to murder the brat? If he had gone into school carrying an AK 47 one might conclude that he had murder in mind.

Pip, pip,

The Leg

Dog Bins & Pop Kings.

2009-06-27T12:44:00.006+01:00

How useful, looks a bit small though.

All this dry weather of late has been causing some consternation and confusion down here in the far West. We are just not used to it. There have been a few grey days though, when, as is more usual, all the roads became clogged with tourist cars. If the sun isn’t shining our visitors get in their cars, 4X4s and camper vans, and take to the roads to pass the time. Marks and Spencer’s is a favourite destination as they can compare it with the one back home. “Oh look Harry; these are exactly the same socks as you bought last week!” Any kind of shopping is good, but just sitting about in traffic jams is obviously the best relaxing entertainment. (You are still using semi-colons I see! Ed.) One nice thing about taking your holiday in the UK is that you can take your dog with you. I can remember our family driving from Streatham all the way to Falmouth in the Austin Seven; dog and all. The dog was always sick if it didn’t have its head out of the window. There was’nt anywhere to put your dog in those days; no “Dog Bins” then!

One advantage of the dry weather is that I can drive through the back lanes to Redruth without getting the cat lagged up with mud from the ‘Grundie’s’ farm. The lane past their farm is always wet though. It is either a permanent spring, or a main-water pipe that has been leaking for the least twenty years or more. Talking of cars; the pretty cat had to be let go after seven years in my employ. It was beginning to cost just too much in repairs to justify its petrol, so I advertised it in the local paper, “Cheap to a good home”. Her replacement is another S-Type, but male this time. He’s a later model with much improved handling and superior six speed automatic gearbox that doesn’t hesitate for a couple of minutes before letting you have a gear, and it’s a diesel! My carbon tyre marks are now a little smaller and he does twice the mileage of the old girl. Amazingly, in spite of being a diesel of a smaller cubic capacity, there is more muscle. He is faster and sportier than the earlier petrol version; he flies!

So, the “King of pop”, Michael Jackson, has died at the age of fifty. Not old I guess, but not in the same league as other young musicians who died while their careers were still full of promise yeah? Me, I am amazed that he lasted so long! He wasn’t just weird, he was scary! Let’s hope he rests in peace, yeah? He didn’t get much of it while he was alive.

Pip, pip, The Leg.

One thing after another

2009-05-25T21:50:00.004+01:00

Ahhh, ha, ha, ha, HA, HA, HAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

$
$

It was Doris, my caretaker lady's 60th birthday today and I was invited to her party at the Labour Club in Falmouth. The party was a ghastly experience! I tried to smile, but it was a dreadful place to be on a beautiful sunny afternoon, especially in the company of the intellectually challenged and culturally deprived (not including Doris in that silly, sweeping condemnation of course). Her husband Norman was rat-arsed as usual, and wanting to talk. The 3 piece band was able to play 'Irish' music or County and Western, very, very loudly.

$
$

I nearly passed out from exquisite boredom after eating a couple of egg and cress sandhogs and drinking a J2o. I manged to escape for a short while, to go and have pot of tea overlooking the harbour, then back again for more speaches and more VERY loud music.

$$$$$$ Later.......

After a late but good afternoon nap, and refreshed by a coldwater wash, I went out with my friend Montaigne for dinner at the Dog and Bullet. Very busy it was, but a table under the light, by the window, was vacant. The rack of lamb was finished, as was the seared scollops with crisp pancetta, so we enjoyed a rump steak with new pots and veg. No wine, just a J2o.

$$$$$

We shared the bleeding steak and, as the night was still not old, made for the local 7*s, but as I approached the establishment on foot, I could hear shrill, female 'singing' of sorts, amid shrieks and piercing cries of laughter. A Large banner over the entrance said "SUNDAY - DISCO AND KARAOKE NIGHT!!" I returned hastily to my patient blue cat, and slewed back to the ranch for a proper drink in the good company of my black cat and my mate Montaigne.

$$$

Pip, pip,

The Leg

My moat needs cleaning too!

2009-05-17T11:39:00.002+01:00

Not perhaps the biggest aspidistera, but not bad huh?

They still don’t get it do they? “The money has been paid back, but I have done nothing wrong.” As Simon Jenkins points out so succinctly in the Guardian, it’s not really about the expenses; the public fury is about ID cards, speed cameras, imprisonment without trial, smoking bans, CCT, data bases of innocent citizens etc. etc. It’s about the excuses, the lies, and about the obvious feeling amongst most MPs that the revelations are “unfair,” “unjust”, and “inaccurate”.

Bad for parliament it may be, but it’s great for democracy. I am personally delighted to see our masters in such disarray. Perhaps it will remind them that they are the servants of the people, not the other way about. For the last decade or more, there has been continual pressure from our government to curtail the rights, freedom and privacy of the individual. Bold initiatives, drip, drip methods, and sly moves, have all been used to gain more and more control over the life of the citizen. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan , and the consequent threat of terrorism have been used in a most deceitful manner to justify draconian legislation. I think I read somewhere that over 3,000 pieces of legislation have been passed by New Labour since it came to office, and they are proud of it! We are progressively hedged about in all directions by pettifogging rules and regulations.

We are angry because our politicians have been taking us for a ride, because they assumed we were all fools who would swallow anything. We are angry because we have discovered that we are fools, and that we have been taken for a ride. We are angry with ourselves for being so blind and complacent. This disillusionment can only be a ‘good thing’ for our democracy because it has woken us all up. ‘You can’t fool all of the people all of the time’.

Is it not encouraging though, that we live in a country that is shocked and angry about a tiny bit of expenses fiddling? How much corrupt money are we talking about over say the last ten years? one million pounds at the most I should think; probably peanuts compared to most other countries. We are not so angry about a bath plug, or even the cost of cleaning a moat, that stuff is just laughable; no, we are furious about their attitude, and our own foolishness.

Pip, pip,

the Leg

Cars??????

2009-05-05T22:39:00.004+01:00

The 7*s fed me again tonight, steak night. Juicy, dark red steer beef again. By-the-way, never buy a beef-steak from a supermarket, or even a butcher who tells you he doesn’t know the sex of his meat, it’s bound to be cow.

I have to write this in 14 pt because I forgot my glasses gain. Don’t worry any; I shall shrink it before you read it.

Far too many dogs there again tonight; one this time I think. (What’s with all these semi-colons? What you think you are, a Pulitzer prize-winner? Ed.) Fuck off Ed! Other dogs lay decomposing under the tables and phony oak settles. The large flat-screen was showing yet another “big match” and from time to time shouts went up from some of the mesmerised clientele; “YES!!! Go on my son! Yes, YEEEE EESSS SSSSS!!!!!!!!!!” or conversely; “pillock! Why didn’t he let him score? Why didn’t he let him score? Pillock!, what a pillock! Did you see that?” Too much for my digestion I suspect. The landlord had a jumper on so vivid, so crudely coloured in bold stripes, and with such large numbers on the back and front, that it was in competition with the shouting. I think he’s called Bob, by-the-way. What with all that and the mindless football chants from the TV set, I think I shall have to make the journey into town for a decent meal on my own next time.

According to my wireless set; a million Chinese die each year of tobacco related diseases. Now, I am pleased that we get the facts about the dangers of doing things, as I suspect you are too, but I don’t like to be forbidden by anybody, of doing those things if I wish. Health experts tell us that smoked food might give us cancer, as will most processed food, like factory made pies, biscuits, cakes, tinned meats, sausages etc. (I don’t eat much of that junk anyway do you?) They tell us that red meat will harden our arteries, salt will give us strokes, fruit juice will rot our teeth, fat will just kill us, and drink will make us kill other people, all we have left is boiled chicken with the skin removed, brown rice, and raw fruit and vegetables, oh, and oily fish. Don’t forget the oily fish. That’s all OK as long as I am still free to damage my health, and if I want to smoke in a pub I should be allowed to smoke in a pub says I. (You will know that I don’t smoke, but that is my choice, nobody else’s.) I have to put up with dogs, children, and noisy idiots in the pub, why not smokers? The Chinese do things differently. In one city (according to my wireless set) all government employees are forced to smoke a large quota of the cigarettes manufactured locally, so as to help the local economy.

By the time I left the inn tonight, fights had broken out between opposing supporters, the bar had collapsed under the weight of panicking fans, killing the landlord and most of the staff (all one of them),women and dogs were being trampled underfoot as people tried to hurl themselves from the windows. The wood-burning stove was knocked over, scattering flaming logs and red hot coals over the upholstery and curtains, and amongst the fallen. As I pulled away, I could still hear the screams, and see the flames in my wing mirror.

Hay, did you know that boiled chicken causes impotence in men, and sagging breasts in women?

Aston martin of course!

Wet Spring Garden

2009-04-29T18:40:00.002+01:00

Hello,

I have just been trying to commit parts of my garden to my visual memory folder, as insurance in case I go blind one day. There is no reason why I should go blind more than any other person, but you never know!

The garden is so overgrown now that it needs more than a man cutting the grass five times a year. I need a team of enthusiastic young people with machetes, axes, saws and flame throwers. I could mark out trees, shrubs and general areas for them with white paint. My friend Harry came round to tell me about his garden problems so I suggested he had a look round mine while I made the coffee. I thought that if he saw how out of control mine was, it might cheer him up. In the end I went to look for him, and found him bewildered in the spinney.

Harry’s wife has dogs and she makes him take them for walks in all weathers. She used to love Harry once I expect. He doesn’t call on me while walking the dogs of course, so I don’t get to talk with him that often. I just wave to him as I drive past in the downpour. If you walk dogs around here you have to kick the animal/s into the gutter and press yourself into the hedge if you hear an engine. The narrow, winding lanes make dog walking a treacherous job. The Cornish hedges are too high to see over while the lanes are overhung by trees and sometimes bordered by a rushing leat. Right now the hedges are full of wild flowers: primroses, violets, campion, stitchwort and bluebells. It must have been heaven to walk the lanes a hundred years ago, when it was safe and quiet. Soon the cow parsley will flood everything in a white froth, making the byways narrower than ever, so that both sides of your car get brushed at the same time.

The garden looks particularly beautiful today in this light rain. There is a wooden bench by the ‘Buddha pond’ that is adorned by so many large, round, patches of lichen that they will all join up soon to make it a light, green/grey bench. Lichen grows everywhere; on the stones of the walls, on the Japanese stone lantern, and on all the trees, where it sprouts out from the trunk and branches in soft, grey, antlers. Ferns are uncoiling in the mossy banks and under the shrubs, while strings of pearls shimmer on the spiders’ webs.

Be good to yourselves.

Peter-the-Leg

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The 7*s Revisited

2009-04-21T22:37:00.003+01:00

"Sanding the Rails"

More Tales from the 7*s.

We have yet another pair of managers in our local pub. I haven’t learned their names, but of course they haven’t learnt mine either, so that’s OK. My fist encounter was before I flew off to the sun, and I was so disappointed by the music and the track suit that tonight was only my second visit since their take-over. It was steak night, and they stop taking orders at nine. I got there just in time.

‘He’ was still wearing the same tracksuit – suit? I recognised the thin white stripe that contrasted so elegantly with the navy blue material – material? There was no sign of ‘Her’, but Karl, who has seen five managers come and go, was still barman, and agreed that there was a steak left. Karl and the lady chef have been an ‘item’ for some months now (or is it years?), which means that my meal is bound to be overflowing its plate. I detected that the meat was not of its usual fine quality and wondered if it had anything to do with the ‘credit crunch’ or was simply a cost cutting measure by the new management. The Rioja was just the same though, thank god.

"The Bar at OJs".

The meal was fine, and I was enjoying my book until an ear-splitting shout, from the many throats around me, made me wince. There was a football match on the telly of course. (I have just checked my e-mail and Yahoo tells me that it was Arsenal V Liverpool. I am none the wiser.) The other drawback was the spaniel, that thought it was such an endearing creature, and so loveable, that I could not possibly refuse it ‘titbits’ from my plate. A quick, back-hand, smack on the nose did not disabuse it for long and for the rest of my meal I had to put up with its fawning antics, as well as frequent, deafening roars. There seemed to be an awful lot of goals being scored. Being a nation of dog lovers, means it’s not a good idea to punch or kick dogs in a public place. Even shouting at a dog can get you glared at. I have a suspicion that the spaniel belong to the managers…

I didn’t order the second glass of wine, but said my goodnights to Norman and Little Phil, and slipped out into the balmy night.

Pip pip - The Leg

Return from Paradise.

2009-02-19T23:25:00.005Z

'Sugar Mills' gouache, 57x39cm'

Already I have been back from Antigua for over a week, but what with funerals, jet lag, and social commitments, It is only now that I find myself with a suitable chunk of mind-in-the-right-place kind of time.

'Sanding the Rails' gouache, 39x39cm.

The pictures on this page didn’t start getting painted until I had been on the island for ten days or so. It always takes me a while to adjust to the tropics and get over the horrors of modern travel. (That is not to suggest that travel didn’t have worse horrors before the invention of heavier-than-air flying machines with their attendant regulations, cramped conditions, evil food, and nightmare terminals. I heard a rumour that African slaves had some rather uncomfortable transport to the Caribbean in former times.)

'Goats in the Cactus' gouache, 39x39cm.

Mongooses, goats, pelicans, hummingbirds, tree frogs, as well as the natives and other fauna, are a delight to the ear and eye, making the heart light and joyful, while tall skeletal cactus, various palm trees, mango, breadfruit, orange, lime, lemon and grapefruit trees, banana, bougainvillaea, and the ubiquitous wild tamarind, are the living background.

I will save my shocking revelations of island life for future editions of this blog – WATCH THIS SPACE!! (I know that some of our readers find that the sight of too much text turns them off.)

Pip pip, The Leg.

Antigua

2009-02-19T23:25:00.002Z

Antigua

Dear friends,

What an evocotive drink is Calvados! You will all be pleased to hear that I keep a bottle in my studio. Tired of my own company again I let the Jag take me to my local.

No idea where they come from, these women in their black uniforms (with white blouses). If you ask they’re expertly evasive. The Seven Stars is not what it was – “thank goodness” did I hear you cry? I might want to smoke a cigar at the bar one day; I doubt it but I might. Giving a new Merc SL a road test yesterday I was horrified to find that it beeped at me until I buckled up the seat belt, and then beeped again if I left the key in the ignition!! Defiantly not going to buy a nasty bossy car like that! Just a bit too German for me. This whole world is getting far too bossy for my liking! (Now this computer is telling me that it is not happy with my grammar!!!!!!)

Norman came in towards the end of the evening – just after England snatched defeat from the jaws of victory yet again in Antigua (TV in the back bar) .Who in their right mind would want to go and play cricket in a crappy little island like that? – And, he was in poor form. Locked out of his house he had to come to the pub for a drink. I commented on the unusual amount of air crashes we have had recently (when I say we I don’t mean ‘we’ at all). Norman (retired airline pilot) says it’s the fault of gravity and that he blames Tony Blair.

The Norwegian bloke was painstakingly writing a postcard. “You’re working hard this evening” I quipped. “Yes, I am finding it hard to write is Swedish nowadays.” “Ah yes,” I replied, “I have that trouble as well.”

The ordinary women in their sexy, shiny, black patent leather belts and boots, left the bar en mass, and filed out laughing into the night, leaving the Seven Stars to contemplate its collective navel - - so I left too.

Keep on keeping on,

I love you all,

The Leg.

A new link

2009-02-07T14:19:00.000Z

See new audio link I have added, sent to me by Dave O.

Not snow?????

2009-02-06T22:48:00.005Z

Giant Blue Agave

Well, well, we actually had snow! It does manage to settle here in Cornwall now and again, and when it does we are as surprised as the rest of the country. Unable to take the Big Cat out for a couple of days, I had to grunt around in the Hummer, and boy is he thirsty! The house-mums are looking smug as they ease their 4X4 behemoths out into the icy streets, taking the neighbour's kids to school along with their own.

Palms by the drive.

Still struggling with 'Parents' painting. I am waiting for it to dry for a bit now. At this stage I am using pure artists quality colour and its slow, specially the titanium white which is ground in walnut oil. Linseed oil is quicker at oxidising (drying) but gives a slight yellowing to the white. In the first under painting I add white household undercoat or primer to the paint and it is often dry in a few hours.

Pip, pip and toodle-oo - The Leg

Parents - or not - as the case may be.

2009-01-28T12:06:00.003Z

Fabulous sunny morning! The good people look about them amazed.

This painting of my parents is being difficult. I am wearing two hats as I paint. On the one hand it is a painting of my mother and father, and on the other hand, it is of a young, unknown couple on holiday somewhere, long ago. I find it calm yet intriging.......

Leg.

Busy dying...

2009-01-22T22:16:00.004Z

'Parents' stage 1.

Yeah! we're all busy dying (when we ain't being born nuff nuff!) me n you n the grass man!

In the mean time, kinda simultaneously, we pass the time nuh? painting pictures or making stuff in my case? Na!!! mostly wasting time - messin about on the PC or chucking wine down my throat yeah? or trolling about in the big cat, or noshing some wicked thing?

'Falling Figure No 1.'

Bambi, he just too busy to be dying slow, so he gunna do it all-of-a-sudden when he slow down!

Take care brothers n sisters,

Leg.

Bambi

2009-01-21T22:10:00.002Z

Well, hopes abound then huh? Brackie Obama, or “Bambi” as we used to call him at school, is now “installed” astheysay. What a convincing win for democracy! Even crabby old cynics like me have been impressed by the voters of the USA, so let’s hope that black people, terrorists, Islamic extremists and other haters of Western democratic countries don’t think Americans are all red-necks, right wing Christian fundamentalists, unthinking supporters of Israel, or paranoid, xenophobic, war-mongering haters of Islam, socialism, or any kind of economic competition. I guess nobody in their right mind envies Bambi his new job (Except Hillary of course!) We shall have to wait and see…

Bad news at the 7*s! Pete and Natalie have to leave in two weeks. They do have another job to go to at a more boring but busier pub near Truro called “The Victory Inn”, at Three-Mile-Stone; much weeping and wailing all round. The owner has at least three other pubs (one of which is “The Victory Inn”), and he has decided that our little 7*s doesn’t merit two full time publicans. Now he tells us!

Fetching my boots from the soup yesterday evening, I trolled over to the 7*s to escape the venom of the Poisonous Princess, only to find it taken over by ‘families’ and the WI. It was steak-night you see, and more of a “Happy Eater” than a village pub. The Smoking ban has proved a disaster for the drinking man. I don’t like cigarette smoke but it did act like a fumigant as far as children and respectable women were concerned. Why is it that women wish to invade golf clubs, working-men’s clubs and other male environments, are they so facinating? Do women ever wonder why men don’t try to muscle in on Women’s Groups or the WI do you think?

On the plus side, a tea and coffee shop has opened where the old Post Office used to be (now moved to the corner shop). No Espresso machine, but a wonderful choice of freshly ground coffee on offer at £1:80 per cafetierre (I took home some Old Brown Sumatran). A nice selection of China and Indian leaf teas at £130 per pot, and some delicious home made cakes, puddings, tea cakes, pastries etc, along with a couple of savory items for lunch, are available from 9 till 4. The only drawback I can see so far is the incompetent work of ‘local artists’ for sale on the walls, mostly insipid watercolors or garish acrylic efforts. One sees a lot of this sort of thing in Cornwall and one gets used to averting one’s eyes.

No comment on the economy in this post you might notice!

Pip, pip, The Leg.

MADE IT!!

2009-01-08T22:09:00.002Z

Amazing, made it through another year!

While feeding the carnivorous plants this morning, I got to musing, as-one-does, as to whether or not porridge was the best thing for breakfast - - or muesli - - - or cold curry from last night, mince pies, chocolate cake, fish pie, cheese, fried eggs, toast, b&b with marmite, pastrami - - or should I heat up the parsnip soup. Before you mention it, yes I do realize that one third of the world wakes up hungry and with no choice at all. That is quite beside the point, and no use in helping me to resolve the problem. So, I turned off my tape of football chants, put on warm clothes, and drove 8m to my secret deli/café in Falmouth where they make divine coffee and serve freshly baked pastries and breads. I had a fabulous Americano (no milk) and almond croissant. The coffee was rich and hot, and the croissant lightly crisp on the outside, flaky, and with just the right amount of succulent, fudgy, almond stuffing.

Enough about food already!

If you want to know why I keep making Self-Portraits – it’s because I am always to hand. I have been told already that the one above is cruel – to me that is, and not that I am looking like a cruel person, although, that may well be the case also….. In other words, it’s not very flattering, but what on earth would be the point of that? It’s probably the main reason that I don’t paint portraits of other people very often. I make them cry. The reason I paint at all is because I can’t think of anything better to do, and it passes the time……..

Thats enough of that too thank-you-very-much. ed.

The Ball and Nun.

2008-12-26T21:59:00.001Z

Sigh---- Last post was supposed to be last one of 2008, but I had to tell you about my Boxing Day trip to the seaside.

There is a splendid bay with sand dunes called Porthtowen (towen means sand dune), which is excellent for surfing, or so I am told. Today was sunny but freezing so only 3 hardy nutters were actually in the water in their rubbery black wet-suits. Waves were high and the foam flew from breaking crests before they crashed on to beach and rocks.

There were loads of dogs there though, all taken along by their owners to have a good shit on the beach, and to run up and down barking or having a jolly snarling fight with each other (after sniffing arses of course). One interesting lone male, perhaps preparing for a trip to the Himalayas, was dressed in heavy climbing boots, thick trousers, anorak, woolen headpiece with long earflaps and white goggles, had a novel way of exercising his devoted hound. He had fixed a length of cord to a heavy rubber ball so that he could whorl it around his head and then let it fly out over the dunes for his dig to fetch.

Between him and the dunes were gathered groups of dogs and people, so the bolus whistled eerily over their heads as it left Mr Goggles. I sat and watched, toasting my front in the feeble rays of a Boxing day sun, as the dog tore after the ball and dashed excitedly back for the next go. This went on for half an hour or so until, getting careless no doubt, Goggles misjudged the release of the ball and its flight was interrupted by the head of a nun. (There were two nuns enjoying the sunshine, without dogs.) Traveling at some considerable velocity, it struck her with force, and the sound of the impact could be heard from where I sat. She went down instantly.

I decided that my ambulance training had lapsed, and that in any case her God would no doubt take care of her better than I. An ambulance was called, which arriving within 45 minutes (by which time she had begun to moan so one assumed she would live), carried her off to casualty.

The sun was low by then and it was getting colder, so I left the beach in search of tea and toasted teacake.

This really is the last post of 2008. I am sure nothing else of interest will happen before then.