General

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All done

Just the run to build now (and a droppings tray to add, thanks Ally).

Written by exmonkey on April 29th, 2007 with 1 comment.
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Happy St Georges Day

As I write this, I am watching the sun set on another St Georges day.

St Georges day always brings to mind ideas of Englishness and national identity. Weirdly, we never seem to muster the same enthusiasm for the celebration of our national day as either the Irish, Americans or even the French - all of whom feel no embarrassment when celebrating what it is to be Irish, American or French, whilst downing pints of whatever beverage they can lay claim to as their national drink. Actually do Americans have a national drink? Probably something with a soldier on the label, called Victory Beer.

I have to admit to not feeling much national pride. The sight of a cross of St George often leaves me feeling at best, faintly uncomfortable and at worst, fearing the attention of the group of clone football fans that are waving it at the other people on the train.

I’m not sure that this is entirely my own personal issue, I think that the far right nationalist sections of our society have to shoulder at least half of the blame - although I doubt they care.

So how was I reminded that today is our national day? Sitting in a black cab after a meeting I had the good fortune to be behind a builders truck, filled with drunk women wearing the cross of St George, drinking Becks (our national drink?) and shouting at passers by. Brilliant.

Later on, for balance, I was reminded again of the date, when a semi naked tattooed man erupted from the train toilet and stumbled down the carriage clutching a beer in one hand and a flag in the other.

I am not one of those calling for a new flag, national day, national anthem or even new patron saint. I am confused as to what I do want on St Georges day.
I think I would like to feel an unashamed sense of pride and happiness at being English. I would like to have a clear and certain knowledge of my own cultural identity and how that fits together with the identities of all the other cultures that make Great Britain.

In short, I would like my national day to be represented by more than a flat bed truck filled with pissed up laddettes and a hairy semi-naked fat bloke being sick on a train.

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(apparently printed in The London Paper today - here)

Written by exmonkey on April 23rd, 2007 with 3 comments.
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Anatomy of a greehouse

I am trying a couple of different potting methods this year.
I am using loo rolls for the sweetcorn seeds, and newspaper-origami pots to pot up tomato seedlings.
The advantages are - cost (free!), green (reduce landfill and increase mulch) and reduced root disturbance when they are planted out (the loo rolls and newspaper break down in the soil - no need to extract the young plant before planting).

This will hopefully work well for the corn, as corn is notorious for hating its roots being played with. Last year’s corn crop was a disaster.

I think we may be heading for too many tomato plants.

Written by exmonkey on April 17th, 2007 with 1 comment.
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Hen house

We have decided to get chickens - and, being a tight arse, I am building the hen house or, coop, from old pallets.
Milo and I have had a few furtive drives around the local industrial estate, jumping out of the van and bundling pallets into the back. Milo was little help - but he did keep a look out for me.

Still to do: Roof, front, back, nest areas, perch, chicken run, chickens.

And advice on choosing a breed or anything I haven’t thought of for the coop - please feel free to comment.

Written by exmonkey on April 15th, 2007 with 23 comments.
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“Rap” and “hiphop”

Dear. Holy. Fucking. Crap.

Was my first reaction to: http://www.golakes.co.uk/wordsworthrap - Cumbria tourist board’s latest attempt to engage with the yoof (seen in today’s Guardian). You cannot yet see this video on You Tube, despite the title, “Wordsworth… for the You Tube generation”.

At what point in recent human history has it EVER been a good idea to commission a rap to get the kids to like something they never will.

I can imagine the group of middle aged men sitting in the Cumbria council chamber, trying to come up with innovative, ground breaking ideas. Cigarettes are smoked, tea is consumed, foolscap pads with Cumbria logos embossed on the corners are doodled on… then in a 1950’s BBC announcer voice, Rupert Smitheringly-Gaston says “I know - A rap. That’s what the kids of today like. Now lets go fox hunting.”

I urge you to watch the whole thing through as MC Nuts, the rapping Cumbrian squirrel, pops a cap in the asses of couple of bitches (ramblers). Muvva fukka.

Check it.

Word.

Written by exmonkey on April 11th, 2007 with 3 comments.
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Not sure about the title….

I made it into another edition of TheLondonPaper - although I didn’t supply the title.

This time I also got put on the website.

A tasteful pleasure of adulthood

Something my dad said to me when I was very young has stayed with me all my life. I was eight years old (we are talking the mid-70s here – Star Wars, Kevin Keegan, crap telly…) and he decided that I should try a small sip of whisky. His rationale was this: if I saw alcohol as being just the preserve of adults, I would grow up wanting to try this mysterious substance in secret – ultimately confusing drinking with hidden adult pleasures. Ergo: demystify alcohol and create a responsible drinker.

He tried the same thing with cigars. In his defence, these were simpler times. Although the photograph I have of 8-year-old me holding a lit cigar in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other is disturbing on a whole host of levels.

I’d love to say that his brand of reverse psychology worked… certainly I am no binge drinker, but then I’ve only just managed to quit smoking after 15 years of 30 roll-ups a day. You win some, you lose some.

Back to the point.

After I coughed most of the whisky over dad and the paisley furniture, he told me that it was an acquired taste, and that one has to work hard to acquire it. At the time this seemed like a stupid idea. Why would anyone spend time working at liking something that makes you retch?

Looking back though, the words “acquired taste” seem more and more powerful. As I become increasingly disenchanted with the baubles and trappings of 21st-century living, taking pleasure in the basest of human comforts is becoming ever more relevant. Indeed, some of the most delicious culinary and liquid treats involve things that, when first tasted, make you want to spit: olives, whisky, Stilton…

I have a two-year-old son, and like many of my peers, I am engaging in that age-old game of trying to improve upon the perceived shortcomings of my own parents. In this case, however, I know that if nothing else he will grow up seeking out those exclusive pleasures that can only be achieved when we acquire a taste. He won’t be smoking cigars until he’s at least 10 though.

Written by exmonkey on April 5th, 2007 with 4 comments.
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Handsome devil

Jebus

My local church is all geared up to celebrate the death of Jebus, some 2000 years ago.
Good Friday approaches - so called because it’s a good thing that Jebus died for our sins.

Little known fact: The day before Good Friday is call Oh Shit I’m Going To Die Thursday.

I took this picture because it made me smile - It’s the classic English interpretation of the bible - straight out of the Ladybird Book of God.

Jebus strikes a beatific pose, nonchalantly leaning against a beautifully appointed tomb (which, against all the odds, what with Jerusalem being quite dry, seems to be covered in moss) with a nice big round flat stone that has been rolled back to facilitate His exit.

Jebus himself is a bit of a hunk. Tall, flaxen of hair and (I imagine) blue of eye. He’s well dressed, in some pretty snazzy robes and has a wistful look about him.

He’s also as white as Whitey McWhite from Whiteyville. Pretty good going for a guy who was born and raised a Jew in a lovely sunny bit of the world. Maybe being locked in a cave for three days made him go pale.

You can’t keep a good man down.

Written by exmonkey on April 3rd, 2007 with 3 comments.
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Brilliant - robot fighting

Written by exmonkey on March 30th, 2007 with no comments.
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Kent vs Rest of the World

The drip drip of constant advertising that assailed me every time I opened a local paper or drove past an advertising hoarding, promised that this would set a new glittering standard in the history of food events. The “Kent vs The Rest of The World” food show, at the Hop Farm Paddock Wood, was going to raise the bar. Look out rest-of-the-world, here comes Kent.

The concept behind this annual event, according to the papershop posters, was to show off the extraordinary array of fresh produce, county specialities and local culinary talent Kent has to offer. I know it is to become an annual event, because the ads refer to it as the “1st Annual Kent vs Rest of the World show”.

So who is representing the rest of the world? What gastronomic ambassadors will be flying the brightly coloured flags of Ghana, Thailand and Peru? Well, none actually. The global food village was to be represented by two teams of French students. Still, I was sure that even a battle royal between competing chef schools, separated by 22 miles of dirty water would prove to be a real spectacle.

Wrong.

It was like ‘Ready, Steady, Cook’, but without the dubious charms of celebrity chefs and with a host who was struggling to find anything to say about the four small gangs of teenagers who were busy trying to remember how long to a cook pot noodle for. Plus, in ‘Ready, Steady, Cook’, the audience actually gives a damn.

The hapless cooks laboured away on a stage that rendered their efforts invisible to the audience, whilst a grizzled looking vagrant, wearing a white chefs’ coat and Madonna style cheek-microphone, prattled on about how exciting the whole thing was. Meanwhile the few people watching (who presumably wandered into the marquee to shelter from the cold wind) chatted amongst themselves and drank horrible tea from polystyrene cups.

The rest of the space was filled with a grim array of food stalls - a cross between a farmers market and a boot fair, which included a chocolate fountain and an Italian cake stand. I felt tears of pride welling up in my eyes. Or maybe that was a waft of traditional Kent ‘Curry in a Pitta Pocket’, available from a stall by the exit.

And that was it. Really.

Kent, the garden of England, was represented by a bunch of second rate food stalls, some teenage trainee cooks, two breweries (one was pretty good actually - The Nelson Brewing Company) and a bar that did not feature a single real ale, let alone one produced with Kent hops.

I never did see who won the teenage ‘cook off’- but I can tell you that the produce of Kent was the loser.

Written by exmonkey on March 26th, 2007 with no comments.
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the leviathan awakes

The new addition to my family, our 35 year old tortoise, woke up early.

After a week of listlessness we paid a visit to the vet, who said that he needed a heat/basking lamp. Hence my carpentry and electrical wiring skills were again tested.

Chippendale it ain’t.