I’ll have you Copper…

Tomorrow history is made.

Not something like the creation of a cure for a terminal disease. Nor (hopefully) some catastrophic event where millions of lives are snuffed out in a moment. Nor is it something like finding a teaspoon on Mars.

No.

Tomorrow the British public elect regional Police and Crime Commissioners.

What’s that?

You read right. The British public….that's me and the people around me….elect….as in vote for, like you would for say, a president or MP….. regional….as in local….. Police and Crime Commissioners1…..Big decision making honchos in the police force.

The end of an era. A moment in history.

So you would think that such a monumental moment in history would be heralded with fanfare, instruction and promotion. Well…you would be wrong. Here in sunny Royal Leamington Spa there has been little in the way of canvassing. 

Much like during the local and general elections the half hearted mehness of the candidates is not giving me insight into who to vote for nor is it inspiring me to vote. Regular followers of my blogs (Hi Louenne) will probably remember during the local elections in Barnsley I challenged the candidates to come to my house and suggest why I should vote for them. Nobody did, so I voted for an outsider. I also complained of a similar lack of canvassing during the general elections.

I later wrote a piece about local MP Jeremy Wright who, until recently, had only discussed chickens once in Parliament, now seems to be a most prolific letter writer in his new job in the ministry of Justice2

For the Police and Crime Commissioner of Warwickshire there had been nothing much until Mrs Fruitcake received a card addressed to her from the local independent candidate Mr Ron Ball. [http://www.ronball4pcc.co.uk]

Ron Ball seems to be on the ball. A simple leaflet with a brief résumé, a picture of him and the statement “KEEP PARTY POLITICS OUT OF POLICING”. Nice. 

Mr Ron Ball says that if he is elected he will :

Strengthen policing

Ensure no reductions in policing

Spend money on nice offices for him to use

That’s fairly honest. I mean what else could he say? Nothing, I noted about the commissioning of crime. But maybe he doesn’t really want to advertise that bit.

So like in Barnsley, as Mr Ron Ball was the only person to bother to send some information about himself and why he was standing even though it wasn’t addressed to me, he was going to get my vote.

That is…..Until last night.

Two days before the election a leaflet lands on the mat. This time from the LABOUR Police and Crime Commissioner Candidate – James Plaskitt. [http://www.jamesforwarwickshire.co.uk]

Hurrah! Someone else to consider.

Mr Plaskitt says he will:

Strengthen policing

Make sure there are no reductions in policing

Spend money on nice offices for him to use

Ok. So that’s pretty much standard then. Then…at the top of the back page….

“I WILL KEEP POLITICS OUT OF POLICING”

How? Hang on, you’re the LABOUR PCC candidate. And you’re going to KEEP POLITICS OUT OF POLICING?

That’s like Jimmy Saville running for Child Protection officer saying “KEEP MOLESTATION OUT OF CHILDRENS HOMES”

I don’t get it.

As yet Gnomepants Heights is still to receive propaganda from the Conservative candidate, Fraser Pithie [http://www.fraserpithie.org.uk/] . Being a Conservative area he probably thinks “I don’t need to do anything as people in this area automatically vote for conservative here anyway. I mean if Adolf Hitler was standing as a conservative then people here would vote for him.”

 

 

But no doubt he will say that he will:

Strengthen policing

Make sure there are no reductions in policing

Spend money on nice offices for him to use

While probably also keeping politics out of policing.

Hmmm. In all that’s like saying “Vote for me and I’ll do the job” which is to be expected. But it’s so confusing. It’s like being asked to pick your favourite pot of jam. Where all the jams are the same flavour and brand.

Especially as I notice a distinct sweeping resemblance. They all look the same. Perhaps they are. Maybe they are all the same person So I’ll put the challenge out there.

Dear Messrs BALL, PITHIE and PLASKETT.

I, Stegzy Gnomepants, challenge you to come to my house and tell me why I should vote for you.

I won’t tell you where I live. You must prove your policing skills by using detective work to find me. If you find me and tell me why you’re the person I should vote for you’ll get my vote. And a photo opportunity.

Lots of love

Gnomepants

I’m not holding my breath. My challenge failed in Barnsley. However all this insight into the candidates might be in vain. During research for this article I came across several items about voter apathy. Interestingly enough, one about apathy in Barnsley. [http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-20301308]

I’ll let you know if anything happens.

 

 

---

1 – A person that commissions both Police and Crime? Who would commission crime? “Oh we need more burglaries in that area and we should have some more stabbings in that area….”

  2 - Granted, Mr Wright is doing an important job in Parliament now and no doubt his wrist is swollen due to the 3-4 letters he writes each day. But my point remains, he doesn't seem to be doing much specifically for the Coventry and Warwickshire area. He's too busy you see....writing letters about prisons and the cost of jam in police cells.

Friends

My philosophy is that we are all on a journey together. We walk different paths. Sometimes the paths are close to each other and we walk some distance together before the paths diverge. Other times the paths continue on together for what seems like a long time. While walking these paths we make friends with our fellow walkers. They become life time companions. Others diverge, people we once knew that move on to other things maybe even a few we lose touch with. Some walkers on these paths reach the goal before others and they exit through the gift shop, picking up their celestial commemorative photos on the way. Some enjoy the walk so much that they buy another ticket and the path of life for them begins again.

Three things happened this weekend that kind of reminded me of how fluid friends are. The first was my parents. They are both in their seventies. My mum's phone kept ringing throughout my stay in Liverpool. It was either this person or that person. When the phone wasn't ringing, it would be a neighbour popping down the road for a quick chat or a friend just passing to say hello. I realised I no longer have this experience. I have not had this experience since 2006 and even then it was waning.

The second occurred because of a breakdown in communication. My paranoia rose and in the short space of a moment I went from a feeling of fondness to a feeling of betrayal about that person. The feelings of betrayal grew into a feeling of loneliness, because yes, even after 2 years in the midlands, I am still to foster new friendships to the same levels of those friends I left behind in Liverpool and Yorkshire.

The third thing that happened was I had a message through Facebook from someone off the course I was on at Barnsley UCB. The message told me that another one of my friends, , had died suddenly in their sleep. He was 26. This kind of knocked me for six and today I conversed with the friend who messaged me about how quickly we all drifted apart.

I believe that Facebook (and for that matter, the internet) gives us a false feeling of connection. We meet many people through our lives. Each person influences us in some fashion and we develop our own personality from the sum of the people we interact with, both those we get along with and those we don't. I won't dwell on those we don't get along with. In fact I'll just say "Life is too short for grudges no matter what a person has done". I think that's the core of what some bloke said two thousand years ago. But they nailed him to a tree and I don't fancy that fate so I won't dwell as I said.

Sure the internet has helped us touch others we might never meet and, conversely, it has helped us to keep touching the same and those we may be never able to touch again because of geographical constraints. Like this blog. You, my dear reader, you I have touched many times. In polite company I might be arrested I have reached out over the web waves and through your screen, there I reach through the glass of your monitor and caress the back of your mind with tenderness, showing my appreciation and love for you all in my own special way. We click. We share our experiences. We share the path together for some time.

Crucially the point is how well do you know people. Apart from your closer family and friends, when was the last time you met that person on your Facebook? Have you even met them? When did they last touch you? Did you tell the police? When was the last time you were in the same town or geographical region as them? Did you even look them up? Would you look them up? Even if it was just for a five minute hello and catch up? What would you do if they stopped posting on Facebook, Twitter or Livejournal? Would you contact them to check they were alright?

I did an experiment this year. Back in the early noughties I was a prominent presence in the Thirty something chat rooms on Freeserve. People loved to chat with me. I loved to chat with people. Sadly, for personal reasons, I had to stop going into the chat rooms. Within 9 months I had a letter from one of the people who regularly visited the chatrooms. I wasn't particularly close to them but they wrote to show their concern at not seeing me online for so long. This year I stopped liking and posting on Facebook. Nobody messaged me. Nobody enquired about my health. Ok granted, a good deal of people on my Facebook know people I know and no doubt I suspect they thought if anything was wrong they would know through them. In away, Steve's death reinforced this fact. I would probably never have known had it not been for another friend pointing out the announcement on Facebook. Have we really all drifted apart? Or is it just my feeling of isolation that brings this to me?

So I now ask you to look again at your Facebook, Twitter and LJ accounts and friends lists. If there is someone on there who has truly touched you in some way or other tell the police, and you haven't heard from them for a while, message them. Let them know you think of them still. Don't delete them. Don't ignore them and hope they message you. And I'm not saying just like a post of theirs or comment vacuously on some posting of theirs. Make an effort. Email them. Message them directly. Say hi. Ask them how they are. Ask them a question. Tell them I told you to do it. Who knows, maybe I'll get some messages too. The people we meet on our journey along life's paths are gifts and guides to us. Cherish each and every person you meet. Listen to them. Talk to them. Share your message so they too can touch and impart a piece of you onto others. Without getting arrested.

Holiday 2012 : Part 2 Day 5 - Of fish, Cornish and fish again

So the last full day of our holiday arrived. Rather than spend another day driving around without clue, we opted to take it leisurely. I wanted:- To go for a swim To eat ice cream To eat fish To drink cider Zoe wanted:- To go on a boat ride To see Cornwall To go to the National aquarium So we drove once more into Plymouth.


Having parked up paying 9 pounds for a full day parking, we made our way into the Barbican district. We checked the times for the ferry and then went into the National aquarium centre. It was a stark contrast from the previous day where there was queues around the block this time we walked straight in. we paid our entry fee and made our way to the top of the tour.


It has been a long time since I have been to an aquarium in the old days you would be lucky to see a couple of goldfish in a spherical bowl and maybe with a couple of crabs. the Plymouth National aquarium centre is full of fish in fact my stomach was rumbling just at the thought of such delights. The previous nights lemon sole was still fresh in my memory and with every sole I saw I was salivating.


Zoe seemed to enjoy herself. she saw some stingrays and other giant fish and even had her photograph taken with a mermaid. She was like a child in a sweet shop where as I was like a hungry person in a fish restaurant. The tour at an end, we made our way to the ferry departure point. while there we observed the boats coming and going and was surprised at the small ferryboat that arrived to take us to our destination. We were lucky to get on it was so small. I mean 5 inch ferryboats....how are we meant to fit on a 5 inch ferry boat? Our destination today was to Cawsands. Again a Cornish misnomer as there was no sands, just sharp pieces of small broken rock. Cawsands is a small fishing village once on the border of Cornwall and Devon. It neighbours the village of Kingsands. Again a tourist trap; narrow streets, cute buildings, full of tourists. Still pleasant enough we stopped at a pub intending to have our cheap lunch however the pub was very expensive. £6.50 for a Cornish pasty no much bigger than one you might get from Greggs or Ginsters. While Zoe had a couple of pale looking Cumberland sausages and some unpleasant looking chips for £9.


A bit more walking and it was time to get back on the boat. I can't comment how pleased I was to get back. Even though the ice cream I had was really nice I still felt kind of light in pocket. Returning to Plymouth we then nipped into the cider bar on the Barbican. We sat outside on the quay watching the world go by. Before long it was time to head off to dinner. again we had chosen platters as our choice for the evening. I opted for the lemon sole having not thought of anything else since the previous night Zoe went for the mixed grill again. Fully sated we returned to the hotel and took advantage of the spa facilities have an early night in preparation for the long drive home on the Saturday. And here ends the accounts of the holiday. I hope you enjoyed reading - Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Holiday 2012: Part 2–Day 4 Wall of Corn

 

Following the mad tour of the east coast of Devon we decided to take a trip inland. Our guide books told us of the wonders of Cornwall and our brief trip across the Taymar on Tuesday showed us that Cornwall was closer than we thought.

But where to go were either of us hadn’t been before? Our first thought was “Oooh where does FJ Warren live? She’s Cornish. But the thought of a another long drive was not appealing. Instead we peeked at the maps and guidebooks and settled on Launceston.

 

According to the guidebooks, Launceston was the ancient Cornish capital. It had a castle, a steam train and other interesting things like cider farms on route. So it seemed like the natural choice. So once more across the Taymar we went noting for the second time that week that people are charged to leave Cornwall and not go in.

Launceston is…boring. Tatty around the edges. Pretty. But boring. After a brief 10 minute walk it appeared we had done Launceston. So we tootled up to the castle to have mooch there. But at £7 each to go and look around some crumbling ruins we thought £14 would be better spent on cake or fun. So we buggered off back to the car and went to see where else we could get to.

The Bodmin Moor of my childhood was not the Bodmin Moor of my middle age. Either there has been a new road built across the moor in the 30 or so years since my last visit or my dad took us across Bodmin Moor along some weird unmarked B road. So much so, by the time we had reached Bodmin I was like “Oh, we’re here already”.

Bodmin was interesting. Well what we saw through the car windows. But with only shops and more money wanting to be spent we thought another stop mooching round a provincial town was not on the cards. So when the only place to park for free was up a side street alongside Bodmin General, part of the Bodmin Steam Railway, we thought “But a steam train ride might be fun!”

So that’s what we did. We bought 2 tickets to B~~~~~ and boarded the chuffing chuffer.

It was fun!

Badger enjoyed it too!

When we returned we stopped for a cream tea.

Full of cake and after a bit of geocaching, we hopped back into the car and headed toward Polperro via Lostwithiel. Lostwithiel is described as the Medieval Capital of Cornwall. Again, it was quaint, children were playing in the river and shops seemed open.

One thing we had noticed during our time in the Southwest was that everyone seemed to be so miserable. Shop keepers and ice cream van men were no exception. I can only imagine that the misery was down to the lack of boobs on display. Cornwall needs more boobs. Or cake. Or maybe just a tickle.

Anyway, before misery got a grip, we headed off again, this time to Polperro. My nan and granddad visited Polperro when they were alive. I remember leafing through their photograph album at the pretty houses and narrow streets. Indeed it was. Narrow, quaint, overpriced and packed with tourists. Having been fleeced £4 for parking we wandered into the village to try and find somewhere to eat. We were a bit early and all the restaurants seemed to do nice fish dishes. Sadly none were open until half an hour after our parking expired and I didn’t feel like paying a further £4-£8 just to stuff my face. Our minds were made up by the time we had reached the quayside that we would head off to Looe and see if there was any other nice places to eat instead.

But before we could turn round and make our way back, a woman offered us a boat ride along the coast. How could we refuse?

So that’s what we did.

On our return we made our way back through the tourists to the car and drove off to Looe. Looe reminded me of Skegness without the wind amusement arcades or Victoriana. It was heaving with tourists of the lower orders. Police men, our first since leaving the midlands, were talking to shouty drunk youths. Haggard teen mothers were dragging their screeching urchins. Young girls with more tattoos and piercings than a freak show jostled with loud shouty short haired scallies for chips from the harbour chippy. But our guidebooks insisted that there was good eating to be had somewhere in Looe.

And yes. They were right. We stopped for dinner at the Smuggler’s Cot in Looe where I had the biggest Lemon Sole (and bones) I’ve ever seen. It was delicious! Meanwhile Zoe struggled with her mammoth 20oz D cut rump steak. She assured me that was delicious too.

Holiday 2012: Part 2–Day3 Touring Torquay

After the rather soggy Tuesday I was three quarter expecting the Wednesday to be a wash out as well. It started off overcast so I wasn’t entirely optimistic about the weather.

We had decided to have a trip over the Dart Moor and visit Widecome in the Moor where there is a haunted inn. I had this romantic image of Dartmoor. Rolling plains with Tors and rocks and ponies and goblins and ruined crofts and weirdness and Kate Bush and floaty types and a scary gothic foreboding Victorian prison and a sign saying “Abandon ye hope” and a solitary pub called “The Slaughtered Lamb”, Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.

I guess I spent too much time in Yorkshire.

Sure we saw some ponies and some stones and some tors, but the lack of crofts, pubs and prisons almost outweighed the lack of Kate Bush prancing about in a floaty dress.

Anyway, we made our way across the moor and into the sleepy Yorkshiresque village of Widecome in the Moor. You might know Widecome from the folk song Widecome Fayre or you might not. Or you might know Widecome from the Great Storm of some time long ago where the Devil blew up the church. Or you might know Widecome in the Moor from page 7 of your 1976 AA Road Atlas. Either way it is a lovely place. It was there we had breakfast. Our second and last, Full English breakfast of the week. All that meat blocks your insides you know.

Widecome has loads of interesting things like the old church and ancient wells. The Old Inn in Widecome is a haunted inn from Marc Alexander’s Haunted Inns (1973).  The story goes that you can hear the cries of a child and possibly even see the spectre of a man. Bollocks or not? Who knows.

 

From Widecome we headed back into civilization and into Torquay.

I’m sorry but my next statement might upset some people.

Torquay is a dump.

There I’ve said it.

My mental image of Torquay is sandy beaches and long sweeping promenades lined with palm trees, cafés and a harbour full of luxury yachts.  Instead it was streets full of chavs, tattooed Tommys and indiscreet Escorts. Sure there were some palm trees and yes there were some yachts but the streets had handy information notices warning the residents that their excessive drinking threatens the safety of their children and their development. Not “It’s so Bracing” or “Buy our Rock” more like “Drinking makes your children into awful people like you” and “Chavviness is born through nurture not nature”.

We walked to the breakwater and bawked at the cost of entrance fee to the Sea Life centre - £11.75. So £23.50 better off in pocket, we decided to try and find some geocaches. Our searching took us to a little stony beach behind the Sea Life Centre which, incidentally, we could see inside from the outside. It was on the beach we were shortly joined by a dark haired woman in her late 40s walking her dogs. She was talking on her telephone giving the caller assurances that she was good looking and that he wouldn’t be disappointed and that she lived in a discrete house and discretion was her watchword for the price he would be paying.

We left.

Made our way back to the car via an amusement arcade where Zoe won me a gold £ on the tuppenny pushnshoves followed by a direct run to the car and a continuation of our journey southward.

The roads took us towards the misnamed Slapton Sands. Misnamed because Slapton Gravels doesn’t have the same ring to it. The weather had brightened and there were lots of people there enjoying the sun and sea. In such situations I crave ice cream so joy lightened my life when I was able to buy a 99 from the ice cream van there.

Now I was always of the opinion that the top five of miserable people doing jobs went something like this:

81 bus driver
Post office counter clerk
Surveyor
Surly Pot man in a dodgy pub
Mortician

But I now have to move Ice Cream Van Man at Slapton Bits of Stone Sands to the top. I actually felt like apologising for wanting to give him my money for his overpriced wares.

From there we went via Start Point (another overpriced place; £4 parking and another £5 for a look round the lighthouse) to Salcombe.

Salcombe is a bit like Torquay should have been only without all the posh wazzaks poncing about at the Regatta that was taking place there. It was a complete polar opposite to Torquay only with awful children instead of awful parents.

Hunger got the better of us so we made our way back to Plymouth searching for a Chinese restaurant that wasn’t full.

Holiday 2012: Part 2–Day2 Plymouth

 

Ah Plymouth.

So when I was a kid I had a healthy interest in lighthouses. This was piqued by stories in a school book regarding the Eddystone Lighthouse on Eddystone rocks just off the coast of Plymouth.

In case you were unaware the Eddystone Lighthouse has been built four (arguably five) times. The first was made of wood and got washed away during a storm. The second caught fire and melted onto the people trying to put it out, the third developed cracks, the fourth still stands (with modifications such as helipad). The whole romance of the sea, mystery and adventure surrounding lighthouses just fuelled my desire to become a lighthouse keeper. The third lighthouse, Smeaton’s tower, was dismantled and rebuilt on the Hoe for shits and giggles  as a kind of public monument to those lost at sea and a museum of lighthouseololology. Or summat.

Anyway because the tower had been rebuilt on the Hoe, it had always been a place I’d wanted to visit. So when the weather turned for the grot on the Tuesday we decided to continue our previous nights walk along the Hoe after we had found somewhere to eat for breakfast.

Our choice for breakfast was Little Chef. My map of Little Chefs (well…the map on their website) was a bit crap. The two identified on the map had either gone, as in the case of the one at Saltash, Cornwall  or it had the wrong address (as in the one supposedly to the east of Plymouth). So we thought stuff it, and went for breakfast in a quaint cafe in the Barbican district as long as we walked it off.

Our next intention was to go to the National Aquarium. But because of the crap weather the queues to get in were round the block. So the walk to the Hoe took priority.

Walking round the back of the Royal Citadel we made our way towards the Wheel. I wanted to see the Smeaton tower but I wasn’t prepared to pay £3 each just to go up some stairs and down again. Instead we looked at the other monuments and Zoe offered to pay for a ride on the Wheel.

 

 

Despite the rain and the clouds there were some good views from up there. I never knew Plymouth was bombed like Coventry during the Blitz. It was interesting listening to the commentary though. I liked how the avenue was designed to be a pathway from the station to the Hoe. It’s a shame that the architects who redesigned Coventry didn’t have similar artistic skills instead of a passion for concrete.

So after that we went into the town centre where I bought a new bag, a nice shirt and some new trousers. I had intended on wearing the trousers that evening but Zoe suggested I waited because the wet pavements would have made them mucky.

 

That evening we dined on fine fish at Platters. We both had white bait for starters and the seafood mixed grill for mains – Five types of fish, grilled and served with a mountain of chips. Ace biscuits!

Holiday 2012: Part 2–Devon & Cornwall

 

On the Monday we got up, packed, grabbed our bags and headed down the M5 towards Plymouth.

I didn’t really know what to expect with Plymouth. It has been on my list of “Places to Visit” since I was about 8 or 9. Mostly because of the Smeaton Tower on Plymouth Hoe and my love of lighthouses. But more of that later.

We had booked a five night stay at the Elfordleigh Golf and Country Club in Plymouth which, looking at the website, seemed to tick all our boxes. Those being:- Spa, Pool, Comfortable, Quiet and Affordable. So after a three or four hour drive we arrived in the vicinity of the Hotel. At first we thought we had been given the wrong directions or something. Reason being that the sat-nav had us going through what appeared to be a residential estate of the social kind. But within a few minutes the estate gave way to rural lanes, farms and country manses before we arrived at the bright pink rendered gateway of the Elfordleigh Golf and Country Club.

View from the window

The room was lovely and cosy with two windows and a small canopy over the bed. The bathroom long. The shower powerful and hot.

View from window

As usual we perused the room literature, no, not the Gideon Bible; the leaflets hotels like to leave with the bar and restaurant menus and suggestions of places to visit. In this case they had left a magazine detailing the local eateries. Having settled on possible contenders for dinner we headed out to Plymouth’s Barbican district for a bit of an explore and a look around.

Plymouth’s Barbican district is a proper touristy area. Think Albert Dock in Liverpool only not as enclosed and lots more interesting buildings. There are many nice looking bars and restaurants there. So many, we had difficulty deciding which restaurant was going to be our definitive choice of the evening.

We settled on Rocky’s Grill for our first night. I had the 16oz T Bone Steak, Zoe had the mammoth mixed grill. Following dinner we went for a walk around the Royal Citadel towards the Hoe and did a small bit of Geocaching on the way. Unfortunately, Zoe’s food may have been closer to dairy products than she had hoped and so we cut our walk short and headed back to the hotel.

Smeaton’s Tower

Plymouth Wheel and Memorial

Coming soon-> Day 2: Rain Rain Go Away

Holiday 2012–Part 1: A Walk in the Rain

Rain. It comes and washes away the summer dreams like a proper spoil sport.

My calculations that the time between Wimbledon and the Olympics yet before the school holidays would be a gloriously sunny time were completely out. Beyond out.

And so it came to pass that on Saturday 14th July I loaded up the car for the next leg of my annual Welsh Costal Walk with Nick. With the car laden I began the four hour journey to the north west of Wales via Betws-y-Coed.

Omens and foresight should have shown me that the weekend was to be a tricky one. When I was about an hour into my journey to my first port of call, a text arrived from my colleague to announce he was running late and would be setting off shortly. Fine, I thought, this will give me a chance to mooch about the camping shops in Betws-y-Coed and therein maybe purchase some gas canisters for the camping stove.

On my arrival the rains began. Fair enough, I thought, this is Betws-y-Coed which is renown for rain as the clouds empty their load onto the Snowdonian foot hills so a bit of precipitation is bound to occur in these here parts.

Two hours, a very expensive bacon sandwich (£4.50 for two bits of soggy bacon between cheap slices of bread) and a cup of tea (£1.50 for an egg cup with a splash of milky brown liquid) and several Radio 4 programmes later, Nick arrived and negotiations began for further travel to Porthmadoc where we could buy provisions for the break and some beer. Before following Mr Sat Nav’s directions to Aberdaron and the campsite.

A few days before departure I had placed a reservation as usual at Mynnedd Mawr Campsite only to be told “Just turn up”. So we did. And managed to get one of the last good spots for the tent. The majority of the campsite seemed to be taken up by two very large 10 men trailer tents pitched slap bang in the middle of the site. The thoughtful owners (two Jewish couples in their late fifties/early sixties) had blocked out the lovely view so I didn’t have to look at it. That was very kind of them.

The following day, glorious sunshine blessed our walk which commenced from the end of the last walk (Porth Oer) up the coast toward Porth Tywyn. A good 15 miles of coastal path. The weeks of torrential rain over the previous weeks had made the going quite boggy and our initial steps seemed thwarted but following a brief detour along the beach we were back on the trail in no time.

 

Glorious views were beheld. Glorious weather too.

Looking North

Nick enjoying a well earned break

There are many mysterious places along that stretch of coast. For example these stairs cut into the hill side and seemingly inaccessible static caravans.

Or you would be trudging along and have to follow the path through a field of cows…

It’s such a lovely piece of coast line. But the weather there can be unpredictable. By 3pm the clouds were already gathering and the wind had picked up. On our return to the tent it was decided that it was too cold to sit outside drinking beer and that we should retire to the interior of the tent, therein to play dominoes.

I was winning, 10 rounds up, the wind brought with it rain and clouds to further darken the skies. By morning the tent had nearly taken off had it not been laden with the previous evening and early morning rain. The outlook seemed bleak. Further bad weather due.

Rain stopped play. We decamped and returned to our respective homes.

 

Coming soon – Holiday 2012: Part 2 Devon and Cornwall.

Local? Elections?

 

Apparently there are local elections coming up soon. I say apparently because as most of Warwickshire aren’t having any, there is very little in the way of posterage, bannerage or flyerage in the sleepy semi-rural area of Leamington Spa that is Radford Semele.

Ah, Radford Semele. You know? I thought Brierley in South Yorkshire was a sleepy little insignificant village, but that was a nuclear political battle ground compared to here. I suppose the difference may be because in Barnsley the local press is still mostly independent and local politicians vie for column space to show how good a job they do or, as in the “mayor” of Brierley’s case, how many fat fingers he had in juicy local pies.

Radford Semele. Well, there’s nothing much political about it. There is a parish council and a handy, recently vandalised, village notice board. But other than that, nothing. I think at the last election I saw one flyer, but that was for the BNP so that doesn’t count.

Now, regular readers, not that there are any, would probably remember my foray into the world of poking local politicians into action when I emailed the “Mayor” of Brierley, Alex Vodden,  and asked such questions as: “Why don’t you have a website?”, “What exactly do you do?” and “Why does a small insignificant village on the outskirts of Barnsley need an expensive mayor?”. But you would be forgiven in forgetting as I recall I did not receive a reply anyway (possibly because of my name). Though a few months later a website did appear which, curiously, hasn’t been updated in 2 years.

Then there was the time at the General election where I invited the MPs vying for my vote to attend at my local pub for a chat and a pint to convince me why I should vote for them in the first place. I attended. They didn’t. So I didn’t vote for any of them.

Now I am based in this tiny speck on the map next to ROYAL Leamington Spa and I’m kind of sad that I haven’t bitten into the bitter apple of local politics in the same way. It could be that the local press, well the Leamington Observer, is more of a “ONOES DOG MESS ON MY PAVEMENT” kind of rag compared to the Barnsley Chronicle. It could be that ROYAL Leamington Spa is just too posh for local politics. Or it could be that I have been too busy re-establishing a career to fuck about with local politicians. I suspect the latter.

So I took it upon myself to find out about the local parish council and started with my good old friend Mr Google. I asked Mr Google to search for “Radford Semele Parish Council”. The hits I received were a bit disappointing, a few mentions in old PDFs and a bit about the contact details for the Parish Council clerk on the Warwickshire Council website. The parish clerk, it appears, is some jobbing due-for-retirement-solicitor, but that’s all there is. Disappointed? Not really. I’ve come to expect that sort of thing with local democracy over the years.

I mean, here we are with the most powerful communication tool ever and what do local politicians do? Ignore the marketing power of it! What better platform to get your message across than the Internet?

Fair enough, I thought. Maybe I’m looking too local and so I widened my search into the local Parliamentarians. It was then I discovered the wonderfully lazy conservative MP, Jeremy Wright. Ah, Jeremy. What do you actually do in the big house in Westminster? Not very much it seems, if theyworkforyou.com is any indication.

 

As it states on his page (http://www.theyworkforyou.com/mp/jeremy_wright/kenilworth_and_southam):-

 

 

Numerology

Please note that numbers do not measure quality. Also, representatives may do other things not currently covered by this site. (More about this)

• Has spoken in 1 debate in the last year — well below average amongst MPs.
• Has received answers to 0 written questions in the last year — well below average amongst MPs.
• Replied within 2 or 3 weeks to a high number of messages sent via WriteToThem.com during 2008, according to constituents.
• Has voted in 81.15% of votes in this Parliament with this affiliation — above average amongst MPs. (From Public Whip)
• People have made 1 annotation on this MP’s speeches — below average amongst MPs.
• This MP's speeches, in Hansard, are readable by an average 18–19 year old, going by the Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level score.
• 111 people are tracking this MP — email me updates on Jeremy Wright’s activity.
• Has used three-word alliterative phrases (e.g. "she sells seashells") 92 times in debates — below average amongst MPs.

Source: theyworkforyou.com

Now to give him his due, Jeremy is a bit of a voter, however, it appears that he doesn’t say much in the big house really. To further illustrate, you see the bit that says “111 people are tracking this MP”. Well I’m one of them. I have been for almost 2 years now. Do you know what? I haven’t had an update about him in ages. I suspect he may have lost his voice, so when I contact him, I might offer him a Zube or something. And yes, he does sometimes bitch and moan about the inconvenient HS2 running through his back garden with some opposed to the scheme, but with added “But it’s tough, it’s for the good of the country….vote for me anyway”.

Anyway, I had a bit more of a poke about to see what old Jezza has been up to. Where he lives. What his interests are. But that would mean writing lots more and, no doubt, you are already bored of reading this. So I’ll leave that….analysis….for a future date.

Oh, and Jeremy? Don’t go changing stuff….I’ve made copies…..

Sundae Sunday

On Sunday I was overcome with the burning desire for an ice cream sundae. The urge took me much in the same way as I imagine a smack head might desire heroin. So, jumping into the car, I made headway to Sainsbury’s wherein I purchased the necessary ingredients to make a delicious raspberry ice cream sundae.

As you can see I bought all the necessary ingredients including some essential for a dairy free sundae Sunday treat for Zoe, who is allergic to dairy.
Ten minutes of sculpting ice cream, poking flakes and scattering chopped nuts the results emerged.

The one on the right is the dairy free one.

They were both devoured with a speed faster than the two donkeys I got in the Grand National office sweepstakes.

Horse

You probably won't remember, in fact I probably didn't relate to you, that the smelly old man downstairs was carted off to the knackers yard last year because he got stuck in the bath.

Briefly, for those who don't remember, I was “home alone” and heard some banging that I initially thought was someone doing some DIY. It wasn’t until 11pm when the banging continued that I realised something was amiss. Nipping outside I managed to determine that the banging wasn’t some late night Tommy Walsh but probably the old man in the flat below had come into some sort of mischief. The police were called, who in turn called an ambulance and, long story short, the old man was prised out of his cold bath, bundled into an ambulance and shoved into some sort of “sheltered housing” wherein he now shits and spits where disgruntled Polish nurses can clean up after him. No doubt they also force feed him pureed parsnips in some sort of perverse preparation for my turn in the Old People’s Home Of No Return.

Since those heady days of loud televisions, constant coughing and infestations of rats, wasps and mice we have had some new neighbours in Gnome-cake Towers. A young-(44)-ish mother and her teenage daughter. Out goes the loud telly and farting and in come the late night Mother-Daughter arguments, door slamming and complimentary sobbing.

Last week, Mrs Downstairs went to Ireland. It transpires that previously they (or at least she) lived in some remote part of southern Ireland wherein the nearest neighbour was some distance away. Mrs Downstairs returned to the Emerald Isle with a van in an attempt to fetch the remainder of her stuff, which I assume was in storage.

This left Teen alone.

A whole week with no shouting, no loud telly but just the occasional slamming of badly council fitted windows and doors. With Thursday being the exception when, Teen being a teen, a small soiree took place. Five girls, the Glee soundtrack, cigarettes (possibly some dope) and a bottle or two of Blue Lightning or White Nun or whatever underage beverages are of choice today (In my time it was kiwi MD20/20).

Fruitcake was getting a bit tense by about 10pm when the noise hadn’t abated but by 10.20 the doors were banged and I assume the teens reduced their noise with some consideration culminating in peace and quiet returning to Warwickshire at about 10.40pm. By morning, the only sign of late evening revelry was a couple of fag buts and an empty bottle, possibly Tesco’s Value Turpentine substitute.

In the mid morning I saw the Teen. Smiling sheepishly at me, as she does, she politely said hello. I asked her how her party went the previous night. She replied with apologies and platitudes for any noise and explained that her mum was away in Ireland and was back later that afternoon. We chatted lightly and, using my journalistic skills, I managed to glean further information from our mysterious new neighbours while pointing out that the scary tapping she had heard at night was Quincy the cat trying to get out of the cat flap and the hint that the walls were like paper.

A penny seemed to drop.

I let it lie there.

Spin forward in time in one of those wibbly wobbly screen dissolves to today.

There comes a tap tap tapping at my chamber door. No, not the Raven, but Mrs Downstairs. Chip on her shoulder apparent immediately. Not something I had said or done rather something that Mr Gardener-Nextdoor had obviously said to her regarding the mass of branches felled from the tree out at the front which had lain their since the Autumn.

Promises were made. Promises backed by annoyance at having been told off by someone who seemingly has no business complaining about piles of decaying leylandii. Excuses given. Given to both the right person and the wrong person.

Mentions of the back garden.

Did I mention the back garden? No it seems I didn’t.

During the summer, house clearance people came and cleared the old man’s flat out and demolished and emptied his two sheds. Apples were thrown about the place, larks were had and a couple of trees and a fence saw their demise. Before the new people moved in, the garden looked rather good, if not still a little overgrown.

Wibbly wobbly screen dissolves again.

Now, it seems, Steptoe and son have come to some arrangement with Mrs Downstairs. Instead of useful stuff from storage, the silly bint has brought, what can only be described as, a scrap yard over on the ferry. Perhaps she emptied the wrong lock up. Who knows.

As I said, apologies were given about the kip of the back garden. Promises made regarding the imminent arrival of fencing material, a six foot gate and some tree felling. Apologies regarding any noise.

In return I listened, placated and smiled reassuringly while inserting titbits into the conversation regarding reciprocal noise, door slamming, rampant terriers and nosey busy body neighbours. Seeds were sown. Hints were dropped. Deals alluded to.

On her side? Promises.

As I frequently say “Words are but wind”

Developments, like photography,  remain to be seen.