Sunday 9th January 2017

Now, about rumtopf, wine, silly strong Belgian beer and Stella. All in one evening. Mix with a few Iceland sausage rolls, and add five people sat round a table playing cards, laughing. So, that was Saturday night.

Sunday morning, I had a bad case of "head".

Head is not quite a hangover. In fact quite some way from a hangover, but enough of one to make your head wooly and not want to do much. I had an attack of head all morning, through lunch and into the afternoon. And by the time the head was wearing off, it was getting dark, and the planned walk was cancelled.

I got up at half eight, gingerly. Jools had a coffee waiting, and so I sat on the sofa watching the highlights of most of the previous day's football.

Then there is bacon. Bacon cures most things. Including head. And there are few dishes that cannot be improved with adding some bacon. I had cauliflower soup last week. And it had crispy bacon sprinkled on top. Thus improved. Just by adding bacon. Maybe custard won't be better with bacon, but most things will. Heck, even pancakes and syrup can be improved with bacon. Its bloody marvelous.

Anyway, after the bacon, Jools went into the garden and I do some work at the table. Proper work, on the work computer. I know, amazing isn't it.

We sit in the garden during a period when the clouds thinned, and the sun was warm enough to sit in the back garden, in the shelter, sipping fresh brews. Lovely, eh? Imagine how great it'll be in the summer?

There is a smoothie for lunch. And then mid-afternoon inbetween episodes of Long Weekends and Yellowstone we have a healthy slice of the second Christmas cake. And when I say healthy, it was probably the opposite. But it had fruit in it, so that counts, right?

I watch the final half hour of the Spurs v Villa game, and it was poor. And this was chosen to be shown live across the country. Anyway.

I cook chorizo hash for dinner, then let you tube entertain us as it linked one song with another. Until I found an account that has hundreds of Peel sessions. Sherlock was on, but we couldn't be arsed with it. I mean it's in the i player for a month, so we will catch up some time. Nice that that nice Toby Jones got to be on TV for a change.

Up for the Cup

I feel I have to pass comment on the TV coverage of the 3rd round of the FA Cup over the weekend.

After going on about the history and heritage of the competition for weeks, both the BBC and BT Sports chose the dullest more unimaginative games to show live, full of the usual Premier League familiar faces, and ignoring the true romance of Barrow at home to Rochdale, or Lincoln away to Ipswich(!), rather than Citeh away to Wet Sham on Friday night, or Spurs v Villa on Sunday afternoon.

TV companies will try to pick games involving the big name teams, but that might be true of the league, but the cup? Surely its all about muddy, sloping pitches, crowd invasions, cardboard replicas of the cup wrapped in silver paper and rattles. Without those, its just another game to be squeezed in between the rounds of league football.

That the so-called big teams made up to 10 changes for the weekend games, thus Plymouth thought they were playing Liverpool, but ended up playing the Liverpool Academy side. That it ended up as a 0-0 draw is by the by, but now Klopp complains about another game: well, play a stronger team next time then!

These two things together will kill what is the oldest such competition in football, either rugby codes, Australian Rules, American Football, Gaelic Football, having been in existence since 1871, you would think would count for something, and teams would want to take part and win? But no, that relegation six-pointer next weekend seems to have more importance. And in the end, my generation who remember it as HE competition, of which the league and European football was a sideshow, this was the real deal, worth a six hour build up come final day, and sporting versions of your favourite game shows.

That I did other stuff rather than watch most of the live games says much about the poor quality of the fayre available.

The draw for the next round is MOnday night, and so expect the usual suspects to take part, now that much of the romance has lost out already.

Of ill-founded arguments and muddled thinking

A new year and another new Brexit Blog.

This one will delight in the fuss created by the Permanent Representative of the United Kingdom to the European Union who decided to resign several months early, and in it, in wonderful civil service speak, ripped the Government and May's Brexit team for the apparent "ill-founded arguments and muddled thinking".

Sir Ivan Rogers had been in the right wing press' cross-hairs because he did not bend to the idea that either Brexit was either good or easy, in fact he said late last year that it would take up to ten years. This angered people who clearly knew less, but thought Brexit should be easy, and that anyway, supporting Brexit is seen as patriotic.

Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel and fascist, and this thought that anyone who works on Brexit should be a believer, or otherwise it be subverted. Which is clearly hog-wash.

In the past few weeks we have seen the independence of both the Judiciary and the Civil Service called into question by both the press and the Brexiteers. Both need to be impartial to ensure separation of law and state, and to make sure tat either the Government follows the rule of law, and that Ministers are given the best advice in the pursuit of their policies, even if said policies are madness.

Nigel volunteered to replace Sir Ivan, but as the Mail said, be-knighted career civil servant replaced by be-knighted career civil servant, as if this was in some way a bad thing. In only in a Brexiteers mind would putting someone with little or no experience in such a vital job be even considered, with Britian's economic and political future at stake.

But these are the times we are living in. Times when the PM won't, or can't, give a straight answer if it is her Government's aim to stay in or leave the Single Market. She just wants the best deal. But then the best deal would be to remain a member of both the Single Market and EU.

Farming is the one industry that has most to fear from Brexit; with vast amounts of subsidies from the EU going to vanish overnight in maybe 2019, although the Government has said these would continue until 2020, but that is just delaying the disaster ahead. British meat exports, unless a deal could be struck with the EU, would be so expensive as to make exports almost impossible. And striking trade deals with counties like, say the US, would mean the UK being flooded with imported meat full of vitamins and chemicals that the EU has banned. On top of that, there would be no labour to pick fruit and vegetables from the fields, but then one of the Brexiteers, Andrea Leadsom, indicated that unskilled EU migration could continue and rules would be bent to allow this to happen. In every negotiation, there is give and take, and in the face of the banking lobby to keep passporting rights, it seems to be a possibility that farming might be sacrificed.

Free movement sounds scary, but when it is EU nationals from other EU countries, doing exactly what hundreds of thousands of Brits do, live and work in another country, what is there really to be scared of? These EU expats, come over here, work, pay taxes and behave themselves. Work in the fields, in our hospitals and in care homes, doing the jobs that British people won't do, at least for that money. BASTARDS! They should come over here, claim benefits, clog up the NHS so the right can moan about them, so instead, the press just makes up scare stories. That EU expats, not migrants; best call them what we call our own British migrants, do what we and hundreds of thousands of Brits do, live and work, pay taxes, raise families and I guess don't learn the language. Now who isn't integrating?

Saturday 7th January 2017

I now right every day, and I have noticed that sometimes the words just tumble out, into what I think is almost acceptable prose. But sometimes I have to work hard to grab them out of the air, and the act of writing itself becomes a chore. Yesterday's post was one which I struggled to write, even though I had a lot to write about, and yet it felt just flat to me. Anyway, although I can't promise there will be a post that is a right riveting read, some will be better than others, and sometimes we just don't do much as we have had a hard week at work, or traveling.

Anyway, Saturday.

I must have been tired, as I laid in bed until, get this, twenty past eight! Jools had got up, fed the cats, come back to bed, and I slept on. Of course, it did mean having that wooly headed feeling the rest of the day, but for the first time in weeks, I felt rested.

We have a coffee, catch up on the news, then bake croissants and make another coffee, all of which means we were ready to do something not much before ten, and with it being a dull and drizzly day outside, we decided to take thinks easy and chill for the morning. Which meant editing shots, writing a blog post, and listening to Huey on the radio.

And at twelve everything stops as we had a visitor; one of Jools' oldest friends came round to catch up, so the radio had to be switched off, and I went into the kitchen to get creative, making spicy tomato soup and potato bread using some of the old cheese left over from Christmas.

Lunch was great, even if the lack of self-rising flour meant using plain and bicarbonate soda, the result was huge buns, more than enough for lunch and then dinner too.

Leanne leaves just before three which means I could lay on the sofa listening to the cup games on the radio, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, City did not lose. They did not win either, so are in the draw for the next round after equalising in the last minute to salvage a draw against Southampton.

We have insalata caprese for dinner, before driving out to Whitfield for a night of cards and banter at the old folks' place.

A family friend, Uncle John, lost his wife of 50 years just before Christmas, and sadly it was his wife and her sharp tongue that meant we stopped going to the quiz nights. Phillis wasn't a nice or popular person, but John loved her, and obviously has been broken since she has gone. He woke up one morning, and she didn't, just as simple as that.

Anyway, we sit down at eight for a couple of games of Meld, and with drink flowing, it was a fine night. Jools was on Schloer, so she drove us back home, dropping John back home on the way, meaning we go back nearly at one. Dirty stopouts that we are!

Friday 6th January 2017

Time to go home. Which is always nice. But as the early morning flight via London City had been cancelled, it meant a trek through Heathrow, then having to catch the train to Paddington. Just like last summer.

What it did mean was that instead of being at the airport for six, I could get there are the more civilised time of nine, or a few minutes later.

So I had set the alarm for seven, and once it went off I lay there for a while, listening to the traffic outside. I pack and get ready, going down to reception to check out and have breakfast for twenty to eight, and with a belly full of bran flakes and yoghurt, I prepare to leave at five past eight.

It was a bitterly cold morning in Esbjerg, the car said minus 3.5, but once I had cleared the windscreen and driven out of town, the temperature fell further to minus seven, eight and finally nine as I arrived at the airport. I know the way so well, and I could have overtaken in a few places, but with it being so icy, it seemed sensible to take my time and just follow the traffic in front, and anyway we were going along at the speed limit. The sky lightened as I drove, turning from indigo to orange to red and then to pale blue. And the sun rose as I rounded the roundabout outside the airport.

I park up the car, then get to the terminal as quick as i can as it is probably near to minus ten. But as soon as you go inside the building, there is the full benefit of the heating and air conditioning. I hand the key for the car in, check in and go through security, mixing with the Danes who were off the the apris ski slopes around Europe. I manage to get through, then walk through the duty free shop and up to the business lounge, I have a card now giving me free access. Although I wan't hungry, free coffee is always welcome, and if the sun had gone past the yardarm, I might have had a beer. But not today.

I check mails, make calls, making use of the unlimited free internet, before it is time to go to the gate. Now, going via Heathrow, which means a bigger plane, but then, more passengers. So we crowd on, even though we have allocated seats, just the greedy stupid people trying to claim all the space in the overhead lockers. I carry all my stuff in a satchel now, so it don't matter to me, but I did see a couple with at least 5 carry on bags between them; how is this allowed yet alone fair?

So, we are all on board, announcements made, video ignored, and so we can taxi and then leap into the sky.

An hour later and we are circling over the Thames Estuary, although the ground and water blocked out by a layer of low thick cloud. After circling some more, I spy Kings Cross and St Pancras through a gap in the cloud, I take a shot looking into the sun, hoping it comes out.

A few seconds later, I get another shot looking over the skyscrapers of The City towards the River and The Shard, and in a moment it is gone.

We turn onto final approach, and over Southwark, the clouds part and the remainder of the run were are treated to the best views in the house as we swoop over the South Bank, with views over to The City, Westmonster and Fulham.

A quick shot of the ongoing work at Battersea, and all the interesting stuff had gone. Just miles and miles of houses and retail areas. All criss-crossed by roads and urban railways. So I put the camera away, and think about things to do once on the ground.

We touch down and then have to taxi for ten minutes to terminal 5, and after a short wait we all queue up to get off, walking 5 minutes to immigration where, thankfully, there is no waiting. But this means having to wait for the bags to be delivered.

Once mine comes, I walk to the arrivals hall, buy a ticket for the train, and the vendor tells me I have 12 minutes until the next departure, which means I am not in a panic to get space in a lift down to the platform. In fact I walk out of the lift as the train glides in, and after waiting for it to be cleaned, we are allowed on, and I take a seat on the right hand side so when we go into London I can look at the new Hitachi loco sheds and maybe see some of the new high speed trains. Freak? yes, I am I suppose.

We exit the tunnel from the airport, crossing over the GWML over the new bridge, then taking the fast line through Southall and into town.

At Paddington, I scour the platforms for new trains, but see none, so I make my way to the Hammersmith and City platforms, only to find, depending on which sign you believe, that either there was a driver shortage or signal failure on the line. Which means we had to wait for a Circle Line train; when it arrived, I expected it to be packed, but there was plenty of room. Anyway, from there it was a short 5 stop run along the oldest part of the network, through Baker Street, Great Portland Street and Euston to Kings Cross.

Along the passageways, up the stairs and into the St Pancras undercroft, past the rows of fancy shops and eateries, along past the Eurostar arrivals, taking the right turn under the platforms and up the escalators to the Southeastern platforms. I have a two minute wait for the train to arrive, and with 15 minutes to spare, I am on the 13:37 train back to Dover. I had skipped lunch, in the end I wasn't hungry, and Jools said we were going to have fish and chips for dinner. So I could wait. I know how to wait!

Being a lunchtime train, it wasn't full, so I had a seat to myself, and on the way home checked off the landmarks, counted trains, doing the things I like to do on this journey. The countryside is still that wintershade of brown, or where all colours are subdued and have a brown tint to them from the mud. But as yet we have had below average rain, so there is none of the flooding we saw last year.

There is a taxi waiting at the station, I had called from London. So a quick run up Castle Street then along past the Duke of Yorks to home, and there I was, standing outside, paying the driver, free for the weekend. And I was tired. Again.

I wait for Jools to come back home, she stopped at Tesco to mean we did not have to go out on Saturday. I made a huge brew and put the radio on.

It was the weekend.

I have another cuppa when Jools comes home, she then goes out as soon as the chippy is open, as she had not eaten either. We sat down to eat at quarter to five, the fish freshly fried all golden and crispy. Perfect.

We are both pooped, but there is two more episodes of Long Weekends to watch; Reykjavik and Berlin, and they look wonderful too. More places to add to our list of places to visit.

And that was it, another day done, first week of the new year done too.

Thursday 5th January 2017

I set the alarm for half six, and after girding my loins for another day in the freezer, I looked out of the hotel window, and even from a distance of 50m, I could see the hoar frost on the cars across the road in the car park.

Brrrr.

I get ready for work, go down for breakfast. At least the Danes know how to cook bacon; streaky rashers cooked until crisp. And so perfect in a fresh roll with lashings of butter melting from the heat of the bacon. And a fresh cup of coffee is perfect. Anyway, lets go outside.

Lets not, its bloody cold.

But I have to, walk over to the car, start it up, clear the screen. Find the heated seat button, and soon I am toasty warm. Warm enough for the five minute drive to the office.

Through the morning, as people come in from the yard, their glasses cloud over with condensation and their cheeks are ruddy red. Strangely, I have enough work to keep me in the office and so not go outside. Strange that.

Anyway, the day passes, meetings come meetings go. Lunchtime passes, the sun makes its passage across the sky, and the temperature drops even lower outside. I had tried to arrange a team meal out, but one by one the team dropped out, until it was just Brian and me. So, we picked a time that was good for us and would meet in the lobby of the hotel at half five and walk to 200m to Flammen.

Flammen in a chain that does meat. All kinds of meat. On a bbq. And its eat as much as you like, and with salad too. People like Flammen. Danes like Flammen. But I do worry about vegetarians in Denmark, they must go hungry. I have ribs, lamb, stuffed pork, chicken wings and venison. All lovely and drizzled with red wine sauce.

I know how to roll.

But, its best not to eat too much, least the meat sweats come during the night. And the indigestion.

We bid farewell. Times are changing, and who knows where or what we will be doing come the end of it. But it will be an adventure, and our friendship shall endure.

Back in my room, I cannot turn the heating/ventilation off, so take to keep warm, so snooze on and off for two hours watching Denmark play handball. I have no idea what was going on, but it was exciting. Doubly so as I did not know how long each half would be, so not quite sure when the game would end.

Anyway, home tomorrow.

Wednesday 4th January 2017

And welcome back to Denmark! Bet you thought I might never return?

Well, never fear, with head office here, I will coming back once a month at least for the foreseeable future anyways.

I throw open the curtains, and look on the scene outside. As I arrived late the night before, I did not set my alarm, so it was twenty past seven, and light was already showing in the sky. Traffic was jumping on the street outside, or cruising to a stop at the traffic lights at the junction 50m away to the left. It had stopped raining, so it looked cold.

And outside, by crikey, it was cold. And was due to get colder. I have to clear the windscreen of ice, and then drive to the office in the port area, not enough time for the car to warm up.

I go round greeting friends, wishing them happy new year and asking about their holidays. That done it was time for work, and maybe even a walk into the yard to look at the turbines.

The storm the night before had abated, but caused havoc with some of the facilities we have, so work was delayed until it could be repaired. But the turbines look good, and now we have less than half the project on the quayside ready to load. Although there is much work to do, and much of it hard, we have come a long way, and the end can be seen in the far distance.

I go out to look at the turbines. In the bright sunshine and with the blue sky as a background, the towers look fabulous. I take a few shots; this is because I have started a shot a day project, so each post for a day should have at least one picture to illustrate it. So you have been warned.

Anyway, with the big tidy up going on, all I can do as a manager is what managers have said to me in the past "you're doing a great job, they look great!" Maybe they even believe me. This time I was telling the truth.

The day continues, I put out some fires, and pass fires to others to deal with, as I am a manager I may as well share the pain!

At four, all are leaving the site for the day, so I join them, driving back to the hotel, and making sure I was in the restaurant before half five as I had skipped lunch. I treated myself, of the company treated me, to cauliflower soup which was sprinkled with crispy bacon. See there is little that cannot be improved with bacon. Followed by rib eye steak and beets. Yes beets. And it was splendid, I did not each all the friens, or all the steak, stopping once I was full.

I went back to my room and climbed in bed and dozed for two hours with the radio playing in the background. I woke up to watch the Spurs v Chelski game on TV, which was very good and kept me awake until 11. Spurs won 2-0, and were well worth the win.

Then I went to sleep, and slept long and well.