Sunday, January 27, 2013

i should be doing the compulsory hoovering ...
















... but a combination of weekender's inertia and whimsicality provoked me to copy & paste an old blog into google translator ... which will then read it aloud for you in a foreign language once you click the audio icon at bottom right  ...














this was the text i copied, and the translation was instantaneous

"Breathless thoughts provoked by the excitement of an impending trip to Madrid and my dream of introducing a new dimension of transcendant spirituality in to the great game ... the magic sponge might become a relic ... the thrice-blessed universally-revered holy sponge, permanently floating in a silver bucket suspended over a holy well, to be carried in procession on match days by a team of hand-picked virgins ( or tv weather girls ? ) wearing translucent classical robes, chanting every step of the way from the bishop's chapel to the stadium, to the accompaniment of thumping drums and wailing flutes ... the water would, of course, be genuine certified holy water, not yer ordinary bottled stuff, and might be paid for by the donations of pious widows and spinsters of the parish ... in fact i see no reason why the sponge shouldn't be administered as a kind of unction by a priest, and/or by the mother superior of the nearest holy order, with the blessed hem of her robe rolled up and tucked into her formal suspender belt as she kneels to give succour to the distressed combatant, whilst singing nuns and choirboys encircle the injured player to protect his privacy and to soothe away his pain with a medieval psalm, or an uplifting medley from rogers and hammerstein’s sound of music ... we could even send on a military brass band to escort the bucket & lend further ceremonial dignity at this difficult moment ... and then, once the magic has taken effect, the star player could leap on to an ornate mobile pulpit, drawn to the centre of the pitch by a team of prancing white horses, grabbing the microphone to give up a suitable prayer of thanks for his deliverance, followed by a vote of gratitude to almost everyone present, and to the various sponsors, for their kindness and consideration ... except for the stone-faced blue-chinned piratically-cynical back four of the visiting team, of course ... i'm not sure if i want to raise the crowd to lord leighton's lofty ideal of elegant and fashionable piety ..."

... and i rarther enjoy the thought that my script is probably being read by a top actress ...

















POSTSCRIPT: my other dreams are shattered ... i've discovered that her indoors has been moving the fluff that was under the bed and hiding it behind the sofa

apropos de nuffinque


Friday, January 25, 2013

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

3BT


















At first light, almost an an hour before sunrise, I am driving up out of some darker than black woods into the deep blue sky, and as I emerge on the highest part of Ashdown Forest there is just the smokiest glimmer of red on the horizon before the road winds inky blue down again towards the next mass of trees ... and a big headed owl flashes fast across my path in the headlights.

Later, Radio3 are playing an Astor Piazzola big band sort of tango from a concert in the early 1980s, just as the truck is rolling and yawing along a humpy-dippy Wealden village street and, for three blissful seconds, sending my arse and shoulders right out of the seat and twisting and bouncing my whole body exactly in time to the music.

At mid-day, an old oak stands thickly frosted in the middle of an unploughed field on the Downs above Merstham and it casts an oval grey shadow some distance across the ochre-coloured stubble, in the middle of which shadow the remaining thick frost somehow reflects the sky's pale blueness.