hirez: (irradiated)
The last few days have been something of a voyage. As if the (what I assume to be) Noro bugs stripped back the layers of experience plastered to the walls of my digestive system like wonky tree-rings and deposited me in the headspace of a sickly eight-year-old huddled under a blanket in dad's big chair in the kitchen, waiting for my four-hourly shot glass of water.

Then, I would dream (or probably hallucinate. It's hard to tell when you're eight and Operation Julie has yet to start.) about knobbly bottles of Lucozade and the promise of egg and chips when I was successfully keeping in water. Now, as mentioned, I hallucinated the GWR timetable and had to make do with a tin of R Whites lemonade for breakfast on Tuesday.

Since it seemed obvious I should now engage in a form of conceptual/gustatory time-travel, I have been thriving on bacon sarnies, ramen, marmite-and-stuff sarnies, tea and Irn Bru. I am in no particular hurry to move forward to the grub-90s, where there is sushi, and anything further afield feels exactly as relevant as Jay Rayner writing about shinning to the top of a palm tree in Eastbourne where the staff perform a vegetarian 'gastro' 'pub' by shying the ingredients of as-yet-unnamed courses from the tree opposite.

I have mostly been listening to Icelandic psych/space rock, Finnish tiki-core and surf-punk from Calgary. I would have liked to have posted more this month.
hirez: (Riiight)
For whatever reason, we tend not to 'do' Sunday Pub Lunch when visiting Ma. Mostly because when I was growing up Ma & Pa really really didn't care for that sort of thing. And, later, I'm not sure I ever got quite used to trooping into some random boozer, having Pa go 'No, I really don't think so. Do you?' and then all trooping out again.

Thus I never really understood it, and tend to view the whole set of weekend-lunchtime drinkers and their odd behaviours with a similar attitude to some telly naturalist encountering some recently-discovered tribe. Or that Theroux bloke goading some American fascists or MRAs or something.

Of course, now my own drinking is confined to the weekend, I have become the thing I hate. Well, apart from last week in Bath. And the previous weekend in Southwold...

... Anyway. This is probably the best reason I have for only just getting around to visiting The Plough, which is only one field away from Ma's house. The bit you probably don't get from the website is that, modulo the prices and the plugs, it's largely unchanged since I don't know when. A lounge and a snug bar. Outside bogs. No taps for the ale and cider - it's all out of barrels behind the bar. And indeed the bar itself is more of a cubbyhole, so you have to ask the nice person what they've got on. There is a big board, but that's hidden in the corridor that is apparently the back bar.

See also:

Apr. 2nd, 2012 02:01 pm
hirez: (Cooper-Clarke)

(Via [livejournal.com profile] jarkman
hirez: (Q-309)
A couple of years ago, some splendid type was good enough to pick 'The nine symphonies' (Yer Beethoven, innit. von Karajan, Berlin Philharmonic, Deutsche Gramaphon - top quality gear. None of yer motorway services spinny rack two disc set of popular classics mauled by a squad of bored sessioneers) off my Amazon list.

As is traditional, I had put it there as a note to self for when I was flush, rather than expecting anyone else to fall for it.

Anyway. I hauled the wrapping off the thing and stuffed the first CD into the computer that is connected to the good quality amplifier and good quality speakers in the room where I spend most of my listening-to-things time.

God what a disappointment.

'Rock' music can cope with fighting for audio spectrum with a set of PCs generating a deal of white noise. Beethoven? Not happening. If it's all up loud enough to be able to appreciate the quiet bits, then the movements where it all kicks off properly are comfortably loud enough to be heard at the end of the road.

I could probably get away with that in NW3, although some clever bugger would come round to shove a note under the door about being in thrall to the traditionalists and would I care to play some Webern? (Ans: No. Sorry. Stockhausen, on the other hand... Which itself is a weird backreference for having listened to lots of Neubauten, Kraftwerk and dreadful electronic skronk from the Bleep Shop.) However, the residents of BS16 would rise up and call me a Cotswold ponce.

Anyway. Since it is quiet due to being cold outside I tried that first CD in the downstairs rig that has never been turned up over 30%. Oh good heavens yes. I think I might have been reading a book, but buggered if I remember a sentence.
hirez: (Laser goggles and raybans)
If you're stuck inside a Len Deighton book, I suspect being woken regularly by having a bright light shone in your face is no fun at all. If you're me, it appears to be a tolerably good way to start the day.
hirez: (Pie!)
Jabbering about lunch is one of the web2.0 things that people are supposed to do. Or was it taking pictures of your lunch? I forget.


If you are in Bath of a Tuesday or Thursday, the hot roast in a baguette from Thyme will likely put you in a meat coma, fit for nothing but curling up under your desk and farting quietly. Imagine something that looks vaguely like a large doner, but filled with steak (or roast other stuff, depending on day), roast spuds and a slathering of fried onion instead.

When on the way back from some misbehaviour the other evening, I had cause to be at the M4 end of the M32. In the middle of the multi-lane roundabout where motorway rules still apply (Not unlike the M50/M5 interchange at Strensham) there was Tyres-from-Spaced, having it seriously chiropracter to the sound of the passing traffic. There were about a half-dozen people in as many cars, staring at him with blank incomprehension and ignoring the traffic lights.

It was really rather odd.
hirez: (dissent)
Surface Detail. really jolly good. It's been a while since I read [spoilers], so I didn't spot that [spoilers] was [spoilers]. Had to have a sit-down and think about that one.

Farting Skies. Oh, just piss off will you.

I first read The list of seven in the early 90s and adored it because, well, who wouldn't - Conan Doyle, proto-steampunk, zombies and fine conspiracy theories. I didn't know there'd been a sequel until recently - I don't think it was published over here. It shows. A late-Victorian hooray would not refer to London in terms of blocks. I shall continue reading in the hope that it bucks its ideas up.
hirez: (muddy)
There was a gathering of the clan the other week. Fun, but hard work because I'm used to large family events involving about four people, rather than a full village hall.

Anyway. The photos have made their way to Picasa, as is the nature of these things. And I have to admit to a strange sort of geek pride because my extended family has a splendid selection of domain-names. We're a good-looking and talented bunch, that's for sure.
hirez: (psyche-out (ii))
It's going to be interesting to watch the reactions to this Mosley malarkey.

On one hand, it would be somewhat cheering to have the NoTW shut down because that entire edifice contributes root(fuck-all) to the sum totals of human knowlege or happiness. On the other, case law proscribing press freedom would be a bad thing. On the other other, way to shoot yourselves and the rest of your trade in the foot you useless tabloid lackwits.

See, to anyone sensible, it just sounds like a B&D scene. The participants sounded like they were having fun. Safe, Sane and Consensual. Your Kink is not My Kink but, etc...

The problem I have is that the hysterical and disapproving tone of the NoTW has become a commonplace. It's a bit bloody disturbing to take a mental step back and examine one's own reactions to other people's sex lives. To be honest, I've held some less-than-splendid attitudes over time. Which given the sorts of things I've gone and done is a bit bloody rich. I've also let other people bang on where I should have called them on their statements or more properly just told them to fuck off out of my general area.


hirez: (Default)

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