It’s Just Facts And Figures

Our tour around England (and a brief passage through Wales) this year could be summed up in a number of lists. I could sit here and type the list of castles seen, or towns visited. It would fill a lot of space, but they would just be lists. And taken away from the context of the trip we made writing about every little nook and cranny we found ourselves in could take nearly as long as the trip itself.

I could compare it to last year’s trip, taken over a similar period. But that would probably just end in a long rambling rant about the weather this year. It did rain a lot, but on the whole we didn’t let it dampen our spirits too much (ba-dum-tish). Or let it water our spirits down either. (I’ll get my coat.)

I’ve thought about how to try and put this together for a few days since getting back from our trip, and finally decided to go with a mainly figures based look at what we did. But to start it off, a simple statement of fact.

England is a wonderful country, full of beautiful countryside, magnificent buildings and amazing history.

It’s popular and easy to fly off to warmer climes, and there are plenty of countries with all the above as well, with a lot less chance of rain. However I think it is a shame that the country we live in is overlooked as somewhere to visit. Millions of tourists come to this country from overseas to see what we have on offer; we should really do the same.

We clocked up 991 miles this year, perhaps with another detour, or if there had been less rain we might have broken the thousand barrier again. The mileage was broken down over 41 legs over 14 days. Some stints were over 100 miles at a time, others only 2 or 3. Pretty much all of them pointed out two damning observations of road travel.

  1. The roads are full of imbeciles who can’t drive. Such as those who are allergic to their indicators; or others who think it’s acceptable to turn right from the left of four lanes cutting straight across those in the correct lane to go straight on; and of course those who have had all their mirrors stolen.
  2. Local councils and the Highways Agency have given up looking after road signs. Nature is claiming them all for itself. There are more road signs covered by foliage than not nowadays. They assume that everyone uses sat-nav and think no one needs signs anymore. Well we do, so get your tree trimmers out and clear all that greenery out of the way. Muppets.

We used 6 hotels, having them more as a base to explore from than overnight stops as we’d done previously. It made life a bit more relaxing, but again showed up a damning observation. Hotels only pay lip service to environmental issues. None of the half flushes work at half capacity. Towels are changed regardless of how neatly you hang them up (or hide them). Plastic cups are replaced daily despite being in perfect working order. And no matter how much you turn the temperature down on the taps, the water is always too bloody hot.

Every major location we went to was linked to a big river. The importance of being able to transport goods was shown to be the catalyst for settlements to be made. We could see 6 major rivers being the reason for what we had gone to see being built. And in the case of the River Severn, it appeared time and time again as it meanders through and dominants the topology of western England.

The Romans understood how important waterways were, and they built roads. Straight roads at that. A lot of miles were done on roads following the routes the Romans had placed there nearly two thousand years before. Especially on the Fosse Way and Watling Street, but also Ermin Street, Akeman Street and Via Devana.

Watling Street also saw two ruins of former Roman settlements. Wall, near Lichfield was a stop off point, and a part of the old town is kept as a visitor site. The other – Wroxeter is a bigger site, and largely unheard of. The part on display there now is a reasonable size, but in the fourth century it was the fourth largest city in England behind London, St. Albans and Cirencester. It was the same size as Pompeii. Whilst the poor unfortunate souls of Pompeii were killed by a volcano eruption, the city was preserved as was for future generations to find. Wroxeter just went into decline as the Saxons broke it up and used a lot of the stone for building elsewhere. The current village is tiny, and if you blinked you would miss the turnings to it. There is a lot of the old site still there under the fields, being deliberately left to prevent damaging it.

There were Roman remains in other places we visited as well, and even pre-Roman remains. And then remains from every period of history since as well. That is one of the great things about England, there is a lot of history, a lot the result of conflict; and with conflict comes damage.

The damage is obvious in most places. We visited 22 English Heritage or local council run historical sites over the two weeks. Of them all, only one stands fully complete as it was built, the curiosity that is Rushton Triangular Lodge. All the others are either complete ruins, or have only parts that are as they were originally built.  5 abbeys and 5 of the 9 cathedrals we visited had fallen foul of the reformation and were partly destroyed or had reduced in size with the dissolution of the monasteries.

Of the 9 castles, only 3 still have any of the original buildings in use now. First the War of the Roses claimed its victims (such as the never completed Kirby Muxloe Castle); or the English Civil War got them, with old Royalist castles being made uninhabitable by having the roofs pulled down (Goodrich, Kenilworth and Ashby de la Zouch all having the obvious signs of where the roofs used to be).

From a distant a lot of the sights look forlorn, unconnected piles of stone. Yet when up close you understand the sheer scale of how large they would have been when fully built. How they managed to build such structures without modern tools and in the timescales they built them in, is a marvel. Especially when you look at how long it takes us to build straightforward blocks of flats or houses nowadays.

Having driven 991 miles wasn’t the full story, there would have been the 70 or so miles we would have walked over the fortnight as well. The exploring of towns, cities and countryside. Of finding that bowing woodwork of the Tudor framed building stuck in between a Georgian townhouse and a seventies concrete monstrosity. Then there will have been the thousands of steps up and down old ruins, to the top of castle keeps and to the depths of cathedral crypts. Many of which have no handrail for your safety (or in my case to help pull myself up, or support myself down). And the narrow and low passages and doorways show how much as a species we have grown in height (and width) in the last 500 years. I would have ended up as a hunchback in medieval times. Even Helen had to duck for some of the doorways. I wonder how the knights managed to negotiate them in full armour.

Between all the activity, and dodging the raindrops (in no less than 19 downpours), there was the need to eat and drink. 11 restaurants, 9 cafes and 21 pubs (plus a night club). From a cup of tea and an ice cream, to a three course meal, or pints and shots, all bases were covered along the way, even to the extent of a missing breakfast one morning.

Then there were the people. Family and friends were met in Leicester, Nottingham and Chester, and it was good to catch up with them. But elsewhere, most of those we came across were friendly, and content in what they were doing. Willing to have a conversation, being happy to help. At any attraction the people working there, the majority of them volunteers, were proud of what we had gone to see. They wanted visitors to come and see the buildings that they loved and cared for. They could tell you pretty much anything about it too. From the teenager welcoming us to Lichfield Cathedral, to the octogenarian tour guide at Worcester Cathedral, and all those in between, they were there to help and answer any questions you had, but at the same time they didn’t intrude if you were happy to do your own thing. It felt good that there were so many people who were enthusiastic about England’s history. It was a good two weeks, and we crammed a lot into it. It was sad that we had to stop, but it is nice to be at home. There are plenty of places to see within a couple of hours of where we live. It’s the same for us all. Get out and have a look around. We live in a wonderful country.

Brighton & Hove Pub Crawl

The 11th annual pub crawl hit Brighton for the very first time, and the role of routemaster changed hands to Liam for the year.

After two weeks on holiday touring round the country in constant rain, the thought of trudging around twelve pubs and a curry house in the rain again wasn’t something I was looking forward to. However, as tends to be the case most years, it happened to be a nice day. Enough of a nice day that even the shorts could be busted out. (The kind you wear, not the ones you drink. Certainly not at pub 1 anyway.)

The theme this year was Brighton & Hove, and the twelve pubs and one curry house would spell out the words Brighton, Hove and the ampersand. Though not in order, as we may well have been still walking around now, plus no one wants the Curry before any beers have been consumed.

Pub 1 was Idle Hands, and there was a second best ever turn out for a pub one (only beaten by last year) of nine people. I will name some, and forget some as I go on, this is due to the fact that I’m an ignorant so and so, and I’m rubbish with names, I only get my own right fifty percent of the time. Besides myself, there was Helen, Liam, Simon, Hewitt, Cooper, Ian, Mike (i think) <John actually> and his girlfriend, whose name escapes me completely, although I’m fairly sure she is a Kiwi. <Jepha apparently>

Initial drink of choice was going to be a pint of Snake Head, but having a pint that is 8.6% abv in pub one is just asking for trouble. Instead I went for the somewhat tamer, but excellently named – Disco Forklift Truck, a mere amateur at 5.2%. Food in pub one due to a lack of time for a Charlie’s at Three Bridges, and saying eat early and eat often. It didn’t happen, it was twelve establishments later before any more food was taken on.

The pub crawl’s accompanying CD was running the same competition as the year before, one of them had writing in a different colour to the rest, and meant a free drink at the next pub for whoever selected it at random. Last year it had been pub seven before anyone had managed to select it, this year it was pub one, and it was the organiser – Liam – who managed to pick it. If he had made the cd’s then the cries of fix could have been justified, but he didn’t. It was keeping it in the family though, as the winner from last year was Ellie, his other half.

When Hewitt kicked off the chat about Love Island in pub one my heart sank, if that was coming out that early I might end up chucking myself in the sea by the time we got to the front. Fortunately the level of chat did pick up during the day. Whilst in pub one we did see someone stumble on what appeared to be thin air outside the pub. And laughed. We’ll come back to the inevitable outcome of that later.

It has to be said, I thought that making notes as I went round to aid writing this would be a good idea. However I failed to take into account that a. my handwriting is horrendous to start with; and b. it was only ever going to go downhill as the level of alcohol intake increased during the day. There may be some entries as this goes through that make no sense. I’m doing my best to translate from spiderese.

On the map it didn’t look that far to pub two, and to be fair it wasn’t, however the rise in altitude was almost as much as the distance. And Liam said that he took us on the gentler slope. Damn, if we had gone the other way, it wouldn’t have been a drink needed, it would have been oxygen.

Pub two was Good Companions. The climb in the hot weather made me glad to get drink two. A pint of wonderfully named Identity Theft at 5.3% abv. We were joined by Liam’s other half – Ellie, and Ellie’s sister’s other half, another name I can’t remember. <Ed, of course – Ed> Jana joined for one drink with her husband and daughter which meant there were fourteen at pub two, a new record.

Sat outside in the sun with no breeze wasn’t doing me any good, so walking in the shade on the way to pub three was a relief. As was the fact that we appeared to heading back down hill, after all, what goes up must come down. Only for it to be like one of those marble games, where it gets to the bottom and then starts heading back up the other side. It was the longest trek of the day as well.

Pub three was Open House. A pint of Mangolicious at 4.6% abv was the choice here. Unfortunately the choice was also to sit out in the middle of the beer garden with no shade whatsoever. We were joined by Barry, which made the running total twelve people in pub three (and fifteen for the day). Simon ordered some chips when we got there. When we got around to leaving thirty five minutes later, the chips still hadn’t turned up. Whoever took the sun drenched table after us would have had some bonus chips turn up at some point.

After a brief up – to cross the footbridge over the station at London Road, if was mainly a gentle downhill sweep to pub four. Well, not just a pub, but a brewery. Holler Brewery, where a pint of West Coast IPA at 5.5% abv was the chosen tipple. Food was ordered by some, as they have a deal with a local pizzeria to do send in. Ross and Angie (I think) joined us to make the running total fourteen (seventeen for the day). The toilets were playing classic video game themes, as played on a Casio keyboard. It sounded to me like someone was managing to play the most epic game of Pac-Man ever. Only for it to change to Tetris. Apart from the single smoker amongst the group, we were all glad to sit inside in the air conditioned cool

Time to move on again came rapidly, and it was all downhill this time on the way to pub five. Passing a building that was said to have been built based on the dimensions of Noah’s Ark (only upside down).

Pub five was The Office, smack bang in the middle of Sydney Street’s very hipster market. It was a gin bar, but I stuck to beer, but with a limited choice, it was Pilsner Urquell at 4.4% abv. We were joined by Lewis making it fifteen as the running total (and eighteen for the day). Whilst we were sat in the cool, someone came in wearing a full bright red Adidas tracksuit, zipped up to the neck, with a camo thick gilet over the top, whilst sporting a long greasy mullet. He was making me feel warm just looking at him. That much polyester in the same place was a fire risk waiting to happen.

The shortest transfer of the day followed as it was only a couple of minutes to pub six – North Laine. We timed this one about right, as it was going to be shut between six and nine so that they could get it ready for a glitter party that night. I had a pint of Chaos Theory, back up to 6.0% abv, but still not as strong as the other two possibilities I was eyeing up which were both 6.5%. Amy joined us, and was extremely happy to tell us that she had handed her notice in and was escaping from the tyranny of payroll at work. The sixteen of us (total nineteen) sat with the empty window frame between us, some inside able to hear the set of eighties cheesy retro tunes playing, and others outside in the shade being drowned out by the passing traffic.

The next journey had us going back up hill again, there has been far too much of this hilly terrain today. You forget just how hilly Brighton is, bloody pita.

Pub seven was The Ranelagh and again there wasn’t a massive choice of beers, so it was a pint of Birra Moretti, 4.6% abv. Half of the crowd of attendees had detoured to Grubbs for burgers on the way. Somehow it was thought a good idea to bust the darts out for a game of killer. No one seemed to have improved since Liam’s birthday tournament. No one! Hewitt eventually won the game of killer, which goes to show just how poor the standard was. Especially since he asked “Is that Ellie’s sister?” On being told yes, he continued, “Well that makes sense then, they look alike.” We were joined by Vinay, making the running total seventeen, and pushing the total for the day through the twenty barrier.

The route to pub eight was the most touristy part of the day, walking back down towards the sea front, you could see the pier, and we passed the pavilion, wandering across roads ignoring any potential traffic hazards. Or, thinking about it, we were probably becoming the potential traffic hazards.

Pub eight was The East Street Tap. A pint of Sunburst at 4.8% abv. All the seats outside were already taken, and no one could be bothered to climb the stairs, so we found a table and an inadequate number of chairs and hovered. There was an additional female, who, even if I tried until I was eighty I wouldn’t be able to tell you what their name was joined us. <Katie, so I am told> The running total was eighteen now (twenty one for the day). Definitely seemed a cool place. Even the guy at the bar with the cowboy hat on covering a comedy green mullet. Well done sir.

Winding back into the lanes to get to pub 9 – The Victory. We lost Amy, as she had a gig to go to, or was it dinner? I was a bit confused at all the mentions of Hot Chip(s). We were joined by Annie, (another) Ellie and Melinda, making the running total twenty (and twenty four for the day). I had a pint of Hip Hop (with a name like that what else was I going to have?) at 4.0 % abv. The weakest of the day. It was the time of day when the beers begin to kick in, but it’s still daylight so you feel like you’re invincible.

Just a hint.

You’re not!

But it’s worth the try.

It really was a case of hitting the seafront next as we were virtually on the beach for pub ten – double figures – oooh! The Tempest, one of the bars and cafes underneath the promenade between the pier and the 360 thingymabob. We had lost Vinay, Ross and Simon along the way, a great effort from Simon who had been fighting illness all day, well that plus a lack of chips back at pub three. Out of the front of the pub you can see the sea. Inside, in their very atmospheric (and nice and cool) caves you can’t. Such is life. We were joined by Dot, which made the running total eighteen again, and the total for the day twenty six, the final total for the day. I had a pint of Amstel at 4.1 abv, due to the fact that they had nothing else that passed for a drinkable beer.

I was loving the cool of the caves on the sunny day, but could have done with a kebab by this stage, but unlikely to get one here, at this point, the curry seems too far away.

On the way to pub eleven, Liam lost a bunch of stragglers, myself included, as we made our way back up from the beach and onto the border between Brighton and Hove. We lost Miranda to her home, which meant the running total was down to seventeen. Just about managed to find the right street for pub eleven – The Lion & Lobster (getting that all important ampersand in there.) Once you had found the street, there was no way of missing the bright salmon pink paint job of the pub. Even this late in the evening it is still far too hot for me, though most other humans appear to be enjoying the weather. I went for a pint of the usual – Stella Artois at 4.8% abv, seeing as they’ve wussed it right down from it’s original 5.4% over the last few years due to people not being able to handle their drink. Elsewhere the Pimms had been cracked out with a massive jug floating around. Certainly different for a pub crawl.

On the way to pub twelve it showed why laughing at people stumbling will bite you in the ass. I stacked it big time walking along, I hit a phone booth’s jammed open door at an angle and went careering off an an angle and ended up in a heap on the floor. If it had been more comfortable down there I might well have called it a night at that point and gone to sleep. As it was I was helped up by other stragglers and made it to pub twelve. Hove Place, and a pint of Copper Hop, again because I liked the name, and that was all the decision making I was capable of by that time. 4.2% abv. We sat in the garden, which also appeared to house a massive bronze Gromit statue, although the fading daylight may have been playing tricks on me by that stage. I counted seventeen, I may have been wrong.

Then it was time for a curry, and trying to make sense of my notes now is heavy going. Certainties first. There were fourteen of us in the Bali Brasserie. Annie and Ellie (number 2) had gone, so had someone else; couldn’t tell you who though. I had Cobra (well, two of them) 4.8% abv.

Now for the more subjective pieces. Their ordering system was chaotic. I could say that it is a good Indian restaurant for side dishes, but I would be lying. Their menu tried to be as abstract as possible, and to be fair to them, if that is what they were aiming for, they did a great job of it. Just I was having none of it. There were no bread options. At all. They forced me to have rice with my meal. I hate rice with curries. Then the bill came, and the bunfight started about not splitting it fourteen ways, and everyone paying for exactly what they ordered. We put in more than we had spent and headed out as needed to get back to Crawley.

It was going to be cutting it fine to get the last train from Hove, so rang a taxi to get to Brighton station instead. Hewitt, Iain and Cooper had tried to get to Hove, but only Iain had made it. Cooper did manage to get the last train from Brighton. Just. No sign of Hewitt though.

The train did stop at Burgess Hill for an inordinate amount of time. The announcement on the train was that there was a drunken idiot on the line. I leave it to the readers to think whether it was just a coincidence that this is where Ian was getting off. Looking around the train it appeared that everyone else is asleep.

It was another great pub crawl. Congratulations to Liam for arranging the route, and to keeping us to time in each pub. Absolutely spot on at every location.

Roll on 2020 and whatever the pub crawl theme will be next year.

<Apologies to those of you who I forgot the name of, Liam kindly reminded me of them all and I’ve edited appropriately.>

Weighing Me Down

It was very heavy this morning

I suppose that could apply to many things

Not just all the excess soft tissue on my frame

Not just the dense bones of my frame

The atmosphere could be described as heavy

No sun, but it was warm, muggy, oppressive

Recent rain had washed the pollen off the trees

I could feel it invading every orifice

All of those could be considered as heavy

But it wasn’t any of them that was weighing me down

No it was my feelings doing that

A dread pushing down on my shoulders

Fear crushing against my internal organs

Apathy shattering the bones holding me together

Like I am now a primordial sludge

Wanting to seep away from this life

To be able to hibernate

Not for the winter like a hairy bear

But from the pressure enveloping me

Confidence, usually low, is now in negative

Block the world out with headphones and sunglasses

I can’t hear them talking about me

I can’t see them looking at me

Not that they are doing either

It’s just my fractured self, imagining it

I don’t want to deal with the world

No people, no nature, no concrete cells

No forced conversations, no phone, no e-mail, no skype

Just me curled up in a foetal position in bed

Just me and what’s inside my head

But is that wise?

Isn’t what is in there the thing that is making me this way?

Is it a self-fulfilling cycle I’m in?

Revolving around like in a wall of death

If I slow down I crash in a heap at the bottom

Yet if I could pick up my pace somehow

Speed up to the top and take off

And it’s a cycle no more

As I fly through the air

I’ve broken away in a straight line

I may fall to earth soon enough

But my spirit will have soared

Physical injuries can be healed in time

So why not the ones of the mind

The people may still look

They may still talk about me

But why should I let them worry me

If I am fine with myself and Helen is too

Then nothing else matters, that is all I need

Not Such a Rush Hour

It’s strange how much a small change to a routine manages to have such a large effect on most people. I had a meeting up in London today. Just before leaving work last night a note came out to say the start time had been put back from 9:00 to 10:30. Still too early to make any use of off-peak fares.

I got an earlier train than I needed as I thought that getting the bus from Victoria to Warren Street would be a much more interesting way there than the three stops on the underground. I wasn’t to know just how much more. What I didn’t know was part of Oxford Street is closed at the moment and therefore there is a detour for the buses.

Judging by the panicked look on most passengers’ faces on the bus, not many other knew about it either. The moment the bus turned left out of Oxford Street and into Orchard Street the people were up out of their seats, some rushing down the stairs; most to berate the driver. When it did another left into Portman Square the clamour of voices drowned out the music in my headphones.

If it had been possible to turn directly right into Wigmore Street instead of having to go all the way around Portman Square and then left in to Wigmore Street, there may have been less panic. As it was people were jumping off the bus at every opportunity and scurrying off in every direction. I hadn’t realised that the red button over the back doors on the new London buses opened them regardless of what the driver was doing.

I can’t say I can remember ever walking around Portman Square or along Wigmore Street, then Cavendish Square, Cavendish Place and Mortimer Street as it runs parallel to Oxford Street all the way down to Great Portland Street. However, having had a good look out of the window as the bus crawled along, it’s a walk to be borne in mind for the future, one to be taken with decent company and the camera.

The journey did take a lot longer than it should, and I ended up being five minutes late for the meeting’s official start time. But it turned out to be half an hour before it got started properly. Plus I’d seen lots of interesting building and little side streets that I’d never have seen if I’d crammed myself on to the tube like some kind of demented sardine.

(Journey on 29th May, only just got around to typing it up.)

Miracles Do Happen

Oh my giddy aunt. Where to start on that game last night? I suppose I should have a look at what I predicted Spurs would do before the season started. I predicted we would struggle, I had us finishing sixth in the league, out in the group stage in the Champions League, and out in the fourth round in both domestic cups.

To be fair, I wasn’t that far away from it, the only reason Spurs are still fourth after an abysmal run of form is that Arsenal and Manchester United have been just as bad, if they had put a couple of wins together in the last month we would be sixth. The FA Cup was spot on, out in the fourth round. And in the Champions League we were eleven minutes away from going out after losing the first two group games and drawing the third.

Being 1-0 down after the first leg at home meant I didn’t have high expectations for the second leg away at Ajax. Ajax have been playing some wonderful football this season and have beaten Real Madrid and Juventus so far this year. Spurs have been playing as if they were blind for the last two months and have lost seven away games on the bounce.

It was a big mountain to climb, but the game the previous night showed that pretty much anything can happen, as Liverpool overcame a 3-0 first leg deficit against Barcelona with a stunning 4-0 victory.

It didn’t start well, Spurs were a goal down within five minutes and it seemed nothing would go right when Son hit the post and the ball ran across the open goal area out of reach of any Spurs player. We were creating chances but doing nothing with them, and our defence was looking creaky as the Ajax players attacked with pace and poise, threatening to score almost any time they crossed the halfway line.

And then they did, Trippier at fault again. It’s difficult to say whether it is just the weariness from last summer’s world cup catching up with him (and numerous other players), that he’s phoning it in because he now believes the hype generated about him from the world cup and the start of the season, or he’s just actually shit, but he has been a liability in the last couple of months. Spurs were down 2-0 five minutes before half time and 3-0 on aggregate. It seemed we were dead and buried.

It looked like there was going to be another semi-final defeat, the second of the season, having gone out on penalties in the Carabao cup after the rules were changed this season to scrap the away goals rule, something that we would have won on if still in place, and something that allowed us to overcome Manchester City in the Champions League quarter finals (well, along with VAR). After all, semi-final defeats are becoming Spurs’ speciality.

Then as if by magic it all started to change. A goal appeared from nowhere. Deli Alli ran at the defence, but it seemed he had pushed the ball too far ahead of himself, but Lucas Moura put on the afterburners, ran on the the ball and slotted it into the corner.

Four minutes later and it looked as if the miracle could be on. Trippier finally did something useful and crossed a great ball to Llorente who must score, only for the Ajax keeper to pull off two stunning saves. But the ball bounced loose and Moura picked it up, danced around with quick feet, spun and shot through a gap in the Ajax defence that didn’t seem to be there and it was now 2-2 on the night with still half an hour to play.

Could we really do this?

Ajax looked nervy now in defence, and Spurs piled forward at every opportunity trying to get that third goal which would be enough to put them through to the final on the away goals rule. In doing so they were leaving themselves open to the counter attack and they nearly paid the price on several occasions, Lloris made a couple of decent saves, Ajax struck the post, and a chance was put wide when it seemed it was easier to hit the target. Nervous times all round.

Then we had a corner with less than five minutes of normal time left. Vertonghen rose and sent a powerful header against the bar. It rebounded to him and his follow up shot was cleared off the line. Was that the moment? Would we get another chance?

Five minutes of extra time was shown and three minutes into we get another corner, only for Llorente’s header to sail harmlessly over the bar. That was surely the last chance gone. Ajax’s keeper got booked for time wasting as he took 41 seconds to take the resulting goal kick.

As the ball went up the pitch and made its way to Lloris at the other end there was only 10 seconds of the extra time left. A pass out to a defender, and a hoof up towards Llorente who knocked it down into the path of Alli. He poked it through into a gap that was surely too close to the two Ajax defenders. But Moura put the afterburners on again and got his toe to the ball first and his shot left his boot with just two seconds left. Time seemed to stand still as the ball rolled under the despairing dive of the Ajax keeper and into the corner of the net.

Cue absolute fucking scenes. Gutted Ajax players dropped to the turf all over the pitch. A huge pile of Spurs players, substitutes, management and anyone else connected with the club that could make to the corner flag appeared.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way about any goal I’ve seen in my life. A sense of amazement, joy, disbelief, happiness, triumph, ecstasy and “did that really happen” all mixed together. I’m still not sure it’s fully sunk in just how immense that was.

It took two minutes for the restart to happen, and there would be at least another thirty seconds to play due to the time added on for time wasting in extra time when Ajax did kick off. Enough time to have kittens, and for those kittens to have kittens of their own as Ajax got the ball into the Spurs box twice, but then the ball broke to Sissoko and off he went running with the ball all the way up the pitch (as he had done several times in this Champions League run – thought I’m still not convinced he was worth £30 million) only to be fouled near the Ajax box. Instead of a free kick the ref blew the full time whistle and it was all over.

If I had been sat there watching it by myself I would have been of the opinion that I’d dreamt the whole thing. But there were other witnesses. It really did happen. Spurs have made it to the Champions League final for the first time. Something I never thought I would see in my lifetime.

We may well have the worst record of any club to have reached a Champions League Final. We may have rode our luck, we have been outplayed by Barcelona, Manchester City and Ajax. But, somehow, we have managed to pull out performances and results when it has mattered most and now we are going to be playing Liverpool in Madrid on the 1st June.

Where in my realistic mode, there is more than a good chance that we will live up to the tag of underdogs, and the one of perennial bottlers and lose without a whimper.

But damn, what a ride.

Drinking Underground and The Palladium

It has been reported recently that there is a ban on drinking on any transport run by Transport For London, which covers the Underground, Buses, Overground, Suburban trains, Clippers and the cable cars. It was in the news because the shadow Home Secretary – Diane Abbott – was pictured on a tube drinking a can of pre-mixed cocktail.

However on Monday, Helen and I were drinking on the Underground, in a totally legal way. We had a slot at Cahoots booked. A cocktail bar hidden away underground in Kingly Court just off Carnaby Street. It had used to be an emergency shelter during the Second World War, but contrary to whatever the bar may tell you, it was never actually a tube station.

If you didn’t know it was there you could quite easily pass it by, with only a little “this way to the trains” sign pointing the way to a gate in one of the passages leading into Kingly Court. The entrance has been made to look like it was a tube station, the maroon tiles are the same as can be seen on a great number of other central London stations.

You go down the stairs and are met with a layout of what could have been a station platform, with signs and route maps, the tiling of old etc. And the far side of the bar is laid out with seating that appears to be laid out in a disused tube carriage.

It is low lit and quite atmospheric, and the staff are dressed to fit in with the theme that the year is 1946. The drinks menu is in the style of an “of the age” newspaper, and it is all very well done.

You have to book slots, so that there is actually a seat for you, and we only used an hour of our allocated two. Which is probably a good job. The cocktails are strong, and very well presented, but there isn’t actually a lot of volume there, mainly due to there being Titanic worrying lumps of ice in each glass. And with prices started at twelve quid a pop for a cocktail, it doesn’t take very long at all to work up to an ear-wateringly high bill.

It’s a great experience, and would be good fun for special occasions, but not the best for casual drinking.

After staggering back into the daylight we went for food and up to the first floor in Kingly Court to the Stax café. Adorned with posters from musical icons over the years, and a menu full of Stax related food names, it claims to be a soul food café. Somewhat unusually it was run and staffed entirely by Spanish people, one of whom explained that their beef bacon and chorizo was off the menu as their delivery was stuck somewhere behind a blockade in France.

With it being a Stax café, you might expect the accompanying music to be a treat from the label’s wonderful sixties and seventies soul output, but in seemingly oblivious style, I don’t think I heard a single Stax song whilst I was in there, not even in any of the samples on the variety of hip hop that was played. Nothing from their associated Atlantic or Volt labels either, but they did manage to put on some tracks from their biggest rival at the time – Motown.

The food was good, and there was a fair amount of it. The cocktails may not have been as exotic, or as wonderfully presented as the ones in Cahoots, but they were still good and a damn site cheaper.

Then it was time for the main event. Imelda May at the London Palladium. An evening of Celtic soul, with Leo Green’s Orchestra for backing, and recording for BBC Radio 2, for their Friday night concert show programmes. Which when introduced as such on a Monday night does seem a bit odd.

When we had been to see Imelda May at the Royal Albert Hall some eighteen months ago, she had said about wanting to do a project relating to the great Irish songbook. And so this concert was taking a trip through those acts that she felt represented Irish music that influenced her. Apart from the finale of “Danny Boy”, there weren’t any of traditional Irish songs I had been half expecting (“Black Velvet Band”, “Molly Malone”, “Wild Rover”, “Irish Rover” etc.). Instead there were songs from a more contemporary selection of Irish bands, such as The Cranberries, Hothouse Flowers, U2, Sinead O’Connor, Rory Gallagher, Van Morrison, Damien Rice and Thin Lizzy.

Her first special guest was Damien Dempsey, someone who she has recorded songs with, then came Bronagh Gallagher, who Imelda May lived with in the past, and who was in The Commitments, and so they did two songs from that soundtrack. Finally she was joined by a very excitable Ronnie Wood as they romped through a couple of full on rock ‘n’ roll songs.

The two plus hours went so quickly it was difficult to believe it was nearing eleven as we came out of the Palladium. It was a great show (again), just a shame we don’t have the Tuesday off as well now.

How Hot?

Now, it’s well known that I like spicy food, normally the spicier the better. There is very little I have had where I would turn around and say “stop porridge pot stop” (or stop chilli pot stop even.)

My local is The Downsman, and they do good food there, one of, if not the best, curries in Crawley. We go there on a regular basis, and I normally have their hottest dish whenever I go – the Chicken Nepali Kalio. You can see the blended chillies and the seeds in the sauce. It is very hot, but it has never caused me any issues before.

Then came Sunday afternoon and a number of us have gone out to celebrate Nathan’s 21st birthday. I’ve ordered the chicken nepali kalio as usual, and it’s turned up looking the same. Yet within a couple of mouthfuls I was struggling. My lips were way beyond tingling phase. My face had colour for the first time in decades, and there was sweat coming out of every pore in my head like a battery of mini Niagara Falls.

The naan bread wasn’t helping, the Cobra wasn’t cooling me down, in fact it was probably coming straight back out in the Niagara Falls from my head. It was a battle to eat it. I managed to just about get through the potato and chicken in the dish, but still had a fair bit of sauce there. I would have battled on, but I chose that moment to look up.

To look up at the purple patterned wallpaper across the room from me. Which now appeared to be swaying and dancing across the wall in a multi-coloured kaleidoscopic, hallucinogenic way that reminded me of the Simpson’s episode where Homer wins the chilli eating competition but ends up wandering the desert in an acid trip style connection to the wolf god.

I looked back to my bowl and tried to focus. The chilli seeds weren’t moving in the same way as the wallpaper, but it was probably a sign that I shouldn’t eat any more of the sauce, and so I retired from the dish, defeated. Others around the table tried microscopic bits of the sauce with all kinds of colourful language to describe it. It was just so much hotter than it had ever been before.

Once it was taken away everything returned to usual, and there was no exit burns, which leaves only one question. Do I have the dish again next time I am back?

Bank Holiday Football

At a bit of a loose end for what to do on an Easter Bank Holiday Monday? Well I’ve got an idea, let’s go and watch some football. Crawley Town are at home, and so off we all go to sit in the glorious sunshine / horrendous heat (*delete as applicable), to watch their match against Notts County.

The battle of two clubs who both have Harry Kewell as an ex-manager this season. (Hence the chant during the first half of “we hate Harry more than you”). With only three games left this season, Notts County are rooted to the foot of the League 2 table, and their status of being the oldest league club is in serious jeopardy.

They are level on points with Yeovil, and two behind Macclesfield Town, now managed by Sol Campbell, who had an infamous spell with Notts County in 2009, They had got a new owner with big plans and they had, quite frankly gone a bit mental. They’d managed to persuade former England manager Sven-Göran Eriksson to become their manager, and had unveiled Campbell as their marquee signing. He played one game for them, and Sven disappeared not much later, and the plans of Premiership football hit the dust. Both lasting even less time than Harry Kewell in his unsuccessful spell there earlier in the season after he had left Crawley Town for “bigger and better” things. Such as the sack!

Crawley Town had only made themselves safe from relegation with wins in their last two games, Notts County need to pick up points and a lot of goals if they are to escape relegation. If they were to fall through the trap door to non-league football, then they wouldn’t be the oldest league club anymore that honour would move to Stoke City. They wouldn’t be the oldest non-league club either, as Sheffield FC hold that moniker as the oldest club in the world.

Notts County were one of the founder members of the Football League in 1888, and they only missed out on being one of the founder members of the Premier League, being relegated in the last Division One season in 1991-92, their last top flight season, so it would be a shame if they were to disappear into non-league football.

Despite there being no danger of a clash of strips, Notts County came out in their plain blue away kit, and not their black and white vertical stripes that have been made so famous by Juventus, who changed to Notts County colours in 1903 due to problems with their original pink kit fading in the wash.

There was a bitty start to the game, and it was easy to see why both teams have been struggling at the wrong end of the table. Crawley Town were struggling to get out of their own half, or string any passes together early on, whereas Notts County were doing a lot of pressing, with Craig Mackail-Smith being full of running, chasing everything down and rushing around like a lunatic, with his long flowing bleached blonde hair trailing behind him like some kind of Frank McAvennie throwback, only one who couldn’t trap a bag of cement.

But he could head a ball and did so to open the scoring in the eighth minute with a looping header that just floated in slow motion into the goal to give Notts County the lead with their first (and only) attempt on target. Crawley Town equalised eleven minutes later with their first attempt on target (of a massive two) as Ashley Nathaniel-George slowly meandered in from the far touchline, almost walking past three defenders across the edge of the area before curling a trickling shot into the corner of the goal.

Robert Milson had gone to Notts County during the transfer window, following his old boss Harry Kewell, and with Kewell now no longer at Notts County; the Crawley Town fans targeted Milson from the outset. His every touch was booed, and there were cheers whenever he lost the ball or made a mistake.

Notts County probably shaded the first half, and but for some woeful finishing could have been two up at the break. Their bad misses were met with chants of “That’s why you’re going down” and “That’s why you’re Conference bound”.

By half time we could all have done with some shade. The two blokes who had been sat next to us during the first half, went off to get refreshments, and never came back. It’s unknown whether they just left due to the “shocking level of football” – their words, or if they just migrated into another area of the ground that offered some protection from the bright sunshine.

The second half started much as the first half had gone, scrappy play and mistakes. A loose ball in midfield was contested and brought about a straight red card for Notts County’s Ben Barclay. A bit of a surprise from where I was sitting, but the referee didn’t hesitate, and the reaction of the players and some of the fans suggested it was the correct decision.

Despite the man advantage, there could have been another three halves of football without Crawley Town seriously looking like scoring. The contest became a feisty affair. At the centre of it was a running battle between the wire cleaner constructed Panutche Camara who looked as if he was moving like Bambi, and Notts County’s Matt Tootle (wearing number two), who overtook Robert Milson as the Crawley Town fans’ hate figure as the game went on.

After Tootle had gone down in instalments to win a free kick, the Crawley Town fans were chanting “cheat” in his direction, and after the referee had squirted a dollop of his disappearing foam to mark where the free kick should be taken from, Tootle scooped it up and threw it five yards further up the pitch. Cue uproar from the fans. The referee and nearside linesman hadn’t seen the moving of the foam, but the fourth official must have done, as the referee returned to make him move the ball back again. Then as he went to take to free kick a lone voice shouted out “Number two – that’s shit!”

The game petered out into a draw, with Crawley Town conspiring to miss a game winning chance in the last minute when it would have been easier to score. The draw didn’t do Notts County any favours, especially when the scores from the other games came through and both Yeovil and Macclesfield Town had drawn as well.

With the final whistle came the end of the burning sun as clouds congregated to cover the sky, as if its work of cooking us all to a crisp was done.

Rate or Slate

I’ve been reading a lot recently, even more than I normally do. I’ve been reading a lot of books in genres I don’t read a lot of. Expand my horizon a bit from the factual/crime/sci-fi/thriller/horror/fantasy staples I usually read.

I’ve been tracking them on Goodreads, I spent a while a couple of years ago adding everything I could remember reading on there. The last couple of years I’ve signed up to the yearly reading challenge. I set myself a target of 150 books for the year, and I’m already past half way through that.

I have my Goodreads account sync’d to my Twitter account, so when I do updates on Goodreads, or finish a book and give it a rating it automatically goes out on my Twitter feed.

I finished reading Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness yesterday, and I gave it a two out of five rating. Only for someone to get irate on Twitter about my rating. “Excuse me? The greatest book ever written.” was part of their response. Someone, who isn’t one of my 1200+ followers, took time out to complain about my personal view of a book.

Then I thought that is one of the great things about books, and it’s the same for music, films or TV, that everyone has different tastes. Someone’s five star rating could only get a one star from someone else. It’s totally subjective. I’ve mellowed with age, I don’t get so preachy about what I think is great, I’ve come to realise that it’s down to individual choice.

But for the books I went back and had a look at the ratings on Goodreads. They put a description next to each of the stars.

1 – Did not like it.

2 – It was OK.

3 – Liked it

4 – Really liked it

5 – It was amazing

I’ve rated getting on for 3000 books, of which less than one percent get the top “It was amazing” rating, my overall average is at 2.82 and I think that is perfectly normal based on the wording of the ratings.

Then I look at other people’s rating. And it makes me wonder if I’m doing something wrong. The majority of the people on my friends list, or come up on my feed have average ratings of over 4. Only one other person had an average of less than 3.5. At least fifty percent of those I looked at had ratings over 4.5. Which means that they rated more than half the books they have read as being “It was amazing.”

Now, I know that people go for the kind of books they feel they are going to like, but it’s not natural for the majority of what someone reads (and some of them have got well in to the hundreds on the numbers of books read) to be that highly rated. As some of them are going to be absolute clunkers. It happens. I recently gave a book 1 star, and that was only because you can’t leave zero. The thing was I was really looking forward to reading it before I started, but it was so bad it was one of only three books ever that I’ve considered just giving up on.

If I ever get published myself, then I would be fine getting a two star Goodreads rating for any book I’d written. Three would be great, four is dreamland, and five would be special to me. But for others it would be happenstance.

But if I saw a stranger’s bad / poor review of a book I loved, I don’t think I’d take to Twitter to tell them they are wrong. I might momentarily think it is a shame that they don’t like it, but then let it go as they aren’t me, and they are allowed to think whatever they like.

Leicestershire La La La Vs Strange Sussex

In an unplanned addition to the weekend activities, I was off to watch cricket. For the first time in god knows how long, I was off to watch Leicestershire in the county championship. I know it must be a long time, because the last time I went to a Leicestershire county championship game there was only one division. And Leicestershire were good.

Now there are two divisions and for three of the last four seasons Leicestershire have come rock bottom of division two. There was a brief period at the start of last season where they won four out of six games, which coming close to a period of two and a half years and thirty nine games without a single win was a vast improvement. However it was a false dawn and there were no more wins after that point.

Going in to the first game of the new season, and the pre-season punditry has Leicestershire as the favourites to be the strongest team in the league again. Yep, that’s right, sitting at the bottom holding all the other teams up.

Living in Crawley, it is fortunate that this first game of the season is against Sussex at Hove as it cuts down on the journey time. But not by much considering it’s a Sunday and there’s a rail replacement on the go. The go slow that is.

And why is it always the case that people have to sit next to you on the bus when there are lots of available seats where they could sit by themselves. Having a strange European woman sat next to you muttering to herself for the whole journey is a bit off putting. Then the driver gets to the outskirts of Brighton and a bus lane appears, but, despite the fact the bus is a Brighton and Hove liveried bus, the driver sat queuing in the normal traffic lane. Right up until the point where a loud voice shouted from upstairs, “there’s a fucking bus lane mate”, and the driver drifted over into it.

It’s after lunch when I do get to the ground, and Leicestershire had managed to bowl Sussex out just before lunch, getting their last eight wickets for under a hundred runs. So Leicestershire had 230 to chase and five sessions to get the runs in. a fairly easy task for most teams, but this is the Leicestershire of now we are talking about. Not the one of the mid-seventies, where the city council got carried away after they won the championship and named all the streets in a new estate after the players. Or the one from the late nineties where they won two championships in three years. This is the team that has only won five games in four years.

In true jinx style, no sooner do I take a seat than Leicestershire lose their first wicket. The early morning sun had now been replaced by a covering of dark grey cloud. So much dark cloud that they had turned the floodlights on to try and make it seem like normal daylight out on the pitch.

There is a sparse population of spectators scattered around the ground. Lots of spare deckchair and folding chairs at the Cromwell Road end where we are, and the stands have odd people dotted around. There is some polite applause for the bowling, and a small smattering of cheering for boundaries from a group sat not far from me who are supporting Leicestershire.

As Leicestershire start scoring at a steady rate without losing any wickets, the chants of Leicestershire La La La are started, but with only six Leicestershire fans it does sound a bit muted. Then they were up on their feet to celebrate a half century from Paul Horton.

It was approaching the tea break when the first spots of rain arrived. When tea was taken Leicestershire had managed to get through to 99 for 1, leaving 130 to win with nine wickets remaining. Alas that was the end of the cricket for the day, as the rain became heavier and play was called off.

We decamped to the Palmeira pub to watch the second FA Cup semi-final. It was dry and the game was good, Wolves looking likely to go through as they went into a two goal lead with chances to extend that lead with little more than ten minutes left. Watford got one back, and then there was a nerve shredding injury time penalty to even the scores. And they did. Watford took the lead in the first half of extra time, but I missed the end of the game, as food was calling, and there was a short time window to get it before it was off to the evening’s entertainment.

I’d picked Mezal randomly as it was on the way and looked like something different. It is housed in a nice old Victorian building on the corner of Western Road. It has a very comfortable feel about it. The food was very good, and there was friendly and quick service. Unfortunately we were in too much of a rush to savour the experience properly. A return trip would be good at some point in the future.

The evening was taken up with a Dark Days talk – this one on Strange Sussex. It was held at the Southern Belle, a lovely old pub close to the sea front. It also doubles as a guest house, and is supposed to be the oldest of its kind in Brighton. Out towards the back is a small theatre. It was here that the talk was taking place.

The talk wasn’t quite as expected. It was more a case of slightly weird and eccentric than the dark strangeness it had been built up to be. The person doing the talk was very engaging and entertaining thought, and the two hours flew by, and it was quite interesting. We thought that going on one of the many guided walks he does would be a better idea. Listening to a talk in a darkened, warm room after a few pints is quite soporific, so being outside and moving might help.

PS Leicestershire went on to win the championship game the following day by seven wickets and proudly sit atop of the second division. Cancel the rest of the season and promote us now.