Oh Brother

Britpop.

It all began in 1992 with a Seect Magazone cover featuring Bret Anderson of Suede, with feature also of St Etienne, Denim, Pulp, The Auteurs. Bret was backdropped by the Union Flag and the message was "Yanks go home", a clear reaction against Grunge.

It was April 1993, and later that year a bunch of lads from Manchester released their debut single, Supersonic, on Creation, with a swagger and a lot of attitude. Blur had released their first single and album earlier that decade, and seemed to be in decline too, but were waiting for the ninth wave that was Britpop.

British music had always been popular, but through the 80s, most what were called "indie" bands remained on the fringe, being played by John Peel and touring, never quite making it. The Smiths, Cocteau Twins, Depeche Mode had hits, most didn't.

I, perhaps, had an unusual view of the Britpop phenomenon in that I was an outsider, posted to RAF Germany in July 1993, and seeing the scene explode from across the North Sea and through the conservative playlist of BFBS Radio.

I can remember discussing the merits of Oasis with someone at a beercall regarding that debut single, and the attitude (that again) they projected.

Records and CDs from the U took ages to reach us, in the case of Pulp, His n Hers available when Common People was high in the charts and Different Class wasn't.

Weeks would come and go, and some new band would have a huge hit: Supergrass, THe Bluetones, Ocean Colour Scene, Sleeper. Whereas bands of just a couple of years before like World of Twist and The Real People were still unknowns, even if the latter were Noel's favourite band.

The hype reached its peak when Oasis and Blue released singles the same day, it even got on the main daily TV news. Oddly, both singles were either bands worse hits of the period. Roll With It and Country House. Country House got to number 1, but Oasis sold huge amounts of records.

The bubble burst in 1997 with Oasis's thrd album, Be Hear Now was released, as wasn't very good. Even weaker follow up seeped out: Standing on the Shoulders of Giants for expample. I bought that, played it once and it sat on the shelves since the last century.

Oasis spit backstage at a gid in 2009, and only this week announced their reunion for next summer.

Nostalgia sells. Sells big. Bands that struggled to sell out the UEA can now sell out multiple nights at big venues in London, Manchester, Newcastle and so on. Playing live is where the money is now, records, CDs of downloads just let people know you're still there, and ready for the next tour.

I am of the belief that until the first gig happens and Noel and Liam walk out on stage, that Liam has more than enough lip to say something to upset his brother. Both have been making a good living, but Oasis can add a nought or two on any night's paycheck, so why not?

150 lads in a field screaming along, crying along to Wonderwall and Cigarettes and Alcohol.

The future is the past, or the past is the future.

Tuesday 27th August 2024

And so, back to work.

Again.

I say with some trepidation, as for the first day back, I have two four-hour audits to complete and then report on, which, in fairness, will take me most of the rest of the week.

Jools had decided to go for a swim in sea before work, so she left at just gone six, giving me 50 minutes to check on the moth trap, make a second coffee and have breakfast.

I log on, and find there were 156 unread mails, so with my position unclear, and not enough time this day to respond, I ignore them, find the agenda for the audit, get my notebook ready, make sure my pen works, and I'm away.

And away we go, meaning I have to ignore demands from the cats for food/attention/meow.

So it goes. So it goes.

I have an hour for lunch, but that is taken with phone calls on the latest firefighting, time enough to make a sandwich and a brew, sit outside in the sunshine where it is now officially, hot.

Back into the audit at midday, and the day craws. I get to about five to six hours in, and my brain melts, I lose concentration and just start clock-watching.

We get done half an hour early, at half three. Time to put on some shoes and go for a walk, even if its just over the fields on a Clouded Yellow hunt.

None seen, but the hedgerows are beginning to see ivy bloom, meaning it is nearly autumn, and the air is full of bees, wasps and flies, all gorging on the pollen and nectar.

I wander back, hot and bothered, and needing to prepare dinner of buttermilk chicken, baby boiled potatoes and fresh corn.

A light and mummery meal for the end of August.

There is football in the evening: League Cup with Norwich playing one of our 91 bogy teams: Crystal Palace.

We lose 4-0.

Apparently play well despite the score. But still lose, and now can concentrate on the League.

Monday 26th August 2024

Last day of the four day weekend. And no football, not much of anything. And I felt, a dayf or doing nothing.

I laid in until ten to eight! Almost lunchtime in this house, getting up to find the coffee made and sunshine flooding in through the windows out back.

Jools was to do a course at the leisure centre at eleven, and then we thought, we might go for a walk in the wood in the afternoon.

While she was out, I sliced up the guanciale, weighed it into portions for freezing. About 19 portions from the 2Kg hunk.

Poor Mulder smelt the meat on my hand before I had a chance to wash them, licked and must have got some of the pepper coating, as he was not impressed and ran off shaking his head.

We had sausage and bacon butties for lunch, and a huge brew. And so with full stomachs we snoozed the afternoon through, until at just after four the ice cream van came round, bells chiming, so we got a 99 each.

I had bought "large" scones from the fruit and veg place near to Sandwich on Sunday, they must have weight half a pound each, so I make huge brews, cut the scones in half, butter them and put each one on a dinner plate; they don't look out of place.

And that was supper.

So, another day comes to an end, but now just 363 days until retirement.

Probably.

Health update

It all began on the 26th January, when, after a long period of being stuck inside due to constant rainy days, I went for a walk in the new wellingtons bought for this purpose.

At some point, I had twisted my right knee, and, as it turned out, tore my cartilage.

We were due to go to Iceland on holiday five days later, and I wanted to go, but it hurt to walk.

I struggled home, and on Monday, when it was no better, went to the clinic down the hill for assessment, and it was he who told me what I had done.

By the 31st, it was less painful, and we packed for the trip. Jools was bringing her case down the stairs when she slipped, I moved to catch the case and tore the knee again.

Next day, we were lead all round Heathrow once our flight had been cancelled, taking us back through immigration so we could catch a bus to a hotel. I was nearly in tears by the time we got to our room, no position was pain-free.

I took drugs.

Then in Iceland, as the knew repaired, I would slip on some ice and tear it again, and it would be painful. So painful I would lay in bed for 90 minutes before it settled down and I could sleep

We did most of what we wanted in Iceland, only twice did I bail on things, so back home, back to the clinic, get some exercises, and get better.

Hopefully.

But it was a slow process, and even though the cartilage healed, the tendons either side were inflamed and muscles sore above and below.

I was limited when I could go out exploring or orchiding, and for someone who really lived for that, to only to be able to do the bare minimum hurt almost as much as the injury.

Into April, and travel to Denmark for a team event, I couldn't take part in the breakout room event, as it was so much walking, and even walking round the blade factory was so painful.

The orchid trip to Denmark was also painful. I was limited to how much climbing and clambering I could do, and after a day out in the field, walking to the restaurant a few minutes away was like walking on razor blades.

I became aware that I was walking with my right foot pointing slightly inwards, which was causing aches in my ankle. But that was nothing compared to the time in June, when filling the feeders, I turned my ankle over and I felt and heard something pop.

Bugger.

I had strained a tendon, the one that goes under the outside of the ankle joint, which meant any shoe worn pressed on the tendon making the pain ten times worse.

It was at this point when I doubted I would ever be well. I met my old boss, had a walking pole, and the ankle injury brough deep cramp in my right calf that was almost impossible to shift. What a poor figure I must have cut then.

I went to the clinic, he told me it was the least serious of possible injuries and would get better within two weeks, and indeed, the pain melted away.

And then my back: I damaged my back in the RAF, have two partially compressed discs and the discs press against my spinal column making it ache. Also causing back pain is piles. The Curse of the Milligans. And since JUne that flared up again.

However, over the weekend, there was some pressure release, and the back pain eased, my ankle is fine, and the knee just has a dull ache, that more use will help. I did 18,000 steps on Friday, 10,000 on Saturday, and my legs were aching, but with use not through injury.

Its taken a long time, seven months really. But I am fine, I am careful on rough ground, but can walk freely again, the walking poles are not needed. And so the shadow that hung over me is gone.

At one point I thought, is this it. Is this getting old, never to get better? One injury leads to another leads to another.

Turns out, not yet.

Sunday 25th August 2024

I have quite the backlog of shots to post, and with each passing day I take more. Back in the 70s, Mum was a bingo caller at the local hall, and I used to go along to help pay out lines and full houses, so got to know all the names for certain numbers: Kelly's eye, Wilson's Den, Top of the shop, and my favourite, five and nine, the Brighton Line.

Yesterday as my birthday, and reach the rip old age of fifty nine. The Brighton line.

Jools had already presented me with my present, see yesterday's post, so just cards from her and my schoolfriend, Douglas. I have no other family left, the only child of two only children. And those distant relations have all either passed away too or I lost contact.

Its something I got used to over the years, and then four years ago, Mum passed and there was no one left.

So it goes, so it goes.

And so then, to my birthday. And after coffee and breakfast, we drove out to Sandwich Bay as I was on the trail of yet another rare dragonfly. Or damselfly to be more accurate.

The Scarce Blue Tailed was discovered a couple of weeks back, so I thought, with the winds having dropped, I would go to hunt for it, the male is pretty distinctive.

So, I drove us over there, made more difficult by the closure of the level crossing in Sandwich, so we drove round the houses, then along the quay and out to the Bay.

I asked in the Observatory where they were, was told the new ponds and pointed about a quarter mile south. So set off, leaving Jools to stay in the car and read.

Not many damsels to be seen, and in the end just saw a male and female Common Blue Damsel right where the Scarce should have been, but were not.

I snapped a couple of dragons, and a couple of butterflies too. Then got a call from Jools saying that somehow she was locked inside the car. And I had the keys.

So that was my cue to leave and walk back along the estate road, back to the observatory and release Jools from her prison.

We had an ice cream then drove back towards Dover, though turning off to Whitfield as Jen was cooking Sunday dinner in celebration of mine and Cath's birthdays. Hers was a couple of days ago.

We chatted, drank wine and ate roast chicken, then after cleaning up, chatted more, until it was four and we could barely stay awake.

Back home to try to concentrate on the Brentford v Liverpool game, which was OK, with 'Pool running our 2-0 winners.

Was OK.

Saturday 24th August 2024

I have an admission: this weekend is my birthday. Which is why I took Friday off, and on Saturday Jools took me to that London for a birthday surprise.

We were up early again, driving down to Priory Gate to park so we could catch the quarter to eight train. And she had gathered a picnic, so we had ham rolls, a fruit dessert, sushi and a half bottle of proper champagne.

She brought a table cloth, glasses and napkins too. So, once the train pulled out of the station we ate, while the other passengers tried to ignore the high time we were having.

By now Jools had told me what the surprise was: I was going to attend a pasta making class.

Which sounded great.

So, at St Pancras we spit up and I took Thameslink one stop to Farringdon.

The paperwork said the academy was opposite the entrance to the Elizabeth Line station at Farringdon, but as it turned out, not WHICH entrance it was.

But thanks to Google Maps I found the way, walking round the outside of Old Spitalfields Market in the pouring rain until rounding a corner, I could see the façade of the academy.

I was early, so I went to a nearby coffee shop, and had a fine americano until it was time to get floury.

There was nine of us, there to make 100g of pasta, make it, by hand into shapes, and then cook it and finally eat it with some ragu they had made.

There was a small plate of antipasti to ease us in, and unlimited Prosecco to oil the fingers, as it were.

And, it came out fine, and so the machine at home might not get used any more, but we shall see.

Jools was waiting once we had finished, and our next call was the other side of Farringdon. We had planned to go to St Barts the Great, which was just back a couple of hundred yards, but the rain kept hammering down.

We walked on, and I saw that a barbers had an empty chair, so went in and was quickly shorn. Part of which involved some burning cotton used to sear ears to remove the fuzz.

Quite an experience.

We caught a taxi the two miles across the borough, dropping us outside the Mail Museum, but we had an hour. So, we visited the shop and had another coffee.

Our ticket was for Rail Mail, the mini underground system that used to move mailbags across the city, now turned into a tourist attraction.

We had a ticket for two, and being foolish thought that that time slot meant something.

Oh no, there was a 45 minute wait, among the screaming children and angry parents. A combination of the 18,000 steps on Friday and the stairs in the cathedral, and walking the hard streets of London, we decided to go home instead.

We caught a bus the three stops to King's Cross, and walking round the outside of the station to St Pancras, we had a 50 minute wait, so Jools bought us a frappe to sip.

Time passed..

Our train came in, so we piled on, slumping into our seats, shattered, and damp from the rain.

On the journey back home, I keep track of the football scores. Man Utd concede in the 96th minute to lose at Brighton, but Norwich only draw 1-1 with Sheffield Utd.

Jools went out for a chippy tea to save cooking, and so the end of another great but tiring day.

Friday 23rd August 2024

Storm Lillian did her worse over Thursday night, blowing a right hoolie.

Winds were still strong at dawn, but nothing to give much of a thought about, so that when Jools dropped me off at the station, I went into the greasy spoon for a bacon and sausage butty and a brew. And then sat on the low wall to eat and drink, knowing I had half an hour to kill as the train had just left.

So I thought. Storm Lillian had, in fact, brought a tree down on the line near Sittingbourne, and a train had hit it, so that al services were backed up, and I wasn't going to get to Canterbury East. But as the name suggests, there is another station in the city, though no direct trains from Dover to Canterbury West now.

Instead I caught a train north through Deal and Sandwich to Ramsgate, which was uneventful, if overlong due to the rambling nature of the line north of Richborough.

At Ramsgate, having just missed a high speed service, we waited.

For half an hour a Charing Cross service was "at Dumpton Park", but never arrived, so that it was the next high speed service we all piled onto.

A 15 minute run along the Stour Valley brought me to the city, where half the population with suitcases were waiting to get on.

I slipped off, but instead of going straight to the city, I turned left to the Goods Shed, an artisan market to check out whether there was guanciale.

They had some, and at half the price in Borough Market, so I made plans that either Jools or I would go back later to buy a hunk at only £2.60/Kg.

What I did notice too, was the eatery had just opened up, and were selling bubble and squeak with a variety of toppings. So I found myself ordering a second breakfast of bubble topped with chorizo and scrambled egg, along with the best coffee I have had for a long while.

That was better, now to face the naked city!

The long, dark and empty days of COVID are behind us, and although the streets were not packed, there were groups following guides, and it felt normal.

The reason for being here was the first ever public opening of the Corona Tower and then the chance to climb the 87 steps to the roof, for panoramic views of the city and surrounding downs.

Just one tour a day, with limited numbers, so I wanted to make sure my name was on the list. I got to the cathedral at five past ten, and was indeed the first name on the list, though a decision on whether the rooftop visit would go ahead depended on the winds dropping.

I went round the cathedral one more time, rattling of a couple of hundred shots, going down the crypt and around the Apse.

A short walk away is St Paul Without, which was open. So I went in to take some shots, I think I was there a couple of years back and was recognised in the guise of my Facebook avatar and name.

At midday, or just past, I was at the door of the Thomas Backet pub for a swifter. The landlord's two dogs made me feel very welcome.

The sun had got out and was warm outside, so I stayed inside for a second beer, and then they put their new house ale on, Troublesome Priest, named after the curse of King John of Thomas Becket. Its a dark best bitter, and very drinkable.

Three pints in, I thought I had better stop and go to meet up with Jools. The cathedral called to let me know the tour was on, so all was good.

I booked a table at a BBQ place for later, bought Jools a cider as she was parched, whereas I was well hydrated.

At quarter to three, I walked back to the cathedral, and was entertained by a choir while I waited. Their voices filled the huge space of the Nave, spinetingling stuff.

At half three, I met the guide at the lectern in the Quire, five others joined in to. So, after introductions, we walked to the Chapel at the very east of the Cathedral.

The public can look in the chapel, but have never been allowed inside, so this was a rare chance.

We swapped stories and news, me pointing out that the guide should really go to Nackington to see the ancient glass there, glass that gives the cathedral a good run for its money with the oldest stained glass in the country.

Then, time to climb to to roof of the chapel. An ancient door was unlocked, and beyond, medieval steps, unworn by many feet, so looking almost new, lead up and round.

Two glass doors look out onto the Quire, but are left dirty so people don't linger on the stairs to look. So, up and up, round and round, until the steps straighten up and with one last double-height step, we were out on the roof.

Not the very top of the cathedral: the roof of the Chancel rose to the west, and the central tower behind that, and in the distance, the two western tower just showed.

We look down on the city: a party in the grounds of the posh school nearby, the hustle of the streets and shops, and beyond, ground rose on all sides to the north Downs.

For half an hour we lingered and soaked the view in.

Time ran out, so back down. With the first huge step a doosie, but once over that, just round and round, down and down until we were back in the Chancel, with the last visitors of the day looking in surprise as we emerged from the cathedral walls.

Jools was in the Thomas Becket, as was my colleague Peter. They were two beers up on me. Or Peter was. Jools would be driving, so she had the one cider.

The pub is city centre, but down a side street, so is good, but quieter than it might otherwise be. And their beer is good, which helps, and the food, if you eat there, very good indeed.

We talk for an hour, then walk to the smokehouse, which turned out not to be a smokehouse, but a fast food place, opposite the grand entrance to King's School. They di platters for us, and was pretty good, and not too pricey either.

Then back to the Thomas Becket for "one last beer", and more chatting.

Jools lead me to the car, as my health app ticked over 18,000 steps. I was pooped and ready to go home for a cuppa before bed.

The city was just waking up, as bright and beautiful young things tumbled out of cars for a night in the clubs and bars, just beginning their fun just as we were finishing up.

Out through Windcheap and onto the A2, a cruise in the gloaming back to Dover.

Needless to say, the cats were very pleased/annoyed to see us just after nine. So we fed them, fussed over them. Jools made a brew and I checked my shots, charged the battery ready for Saturday and another fine day out planned.