Cloud Hands

Grand Tour (part 1)

2010-10-17T15:10:00.002+01:00

It was a few Sundays ago. I went to a shopping centre that smelled of cheap perfume and then sat in a big tube for a couple of hours with lots of people. I emerged from that pipe and the shopping centre now smelt like more expensive perfume and coffee; it had also moved to the Cote D'Azur.

In this limited life of mine, a recurring pleasure is traveling along the Promenade Des Anglais from the airport into Nice. Few journeys deliver me such optimism, even on a bus. Turquoise sea and palm trees in a sunny city at the foot of the mountains. The hotel was about 2 or 3 hundred yards from the bus stop. Our case has two wheels (it hasn't lost any) at one corner and a handle at the opposite apex; this is problematic because one still has to carry a fair proportion of the baggage's weight and if your hand doesn't rest at the height of the handle, it is becomes an extremely inefficient system. We keep saying we will get new luggage.....next holiday; there are some nice bags about these days. I think there should be one with a fold down skateboard/scooter arrangement.

First stop (after the hotel) is the cleverly named La Pizza restaurant, first visited by me about thirty years ago as the guest of one Jose (father of Julian) Vilarrubi. They are good their pizzas.

We gadded about between shops, restaurants, beaches and cafes till Wednesday morning when I collected our hire car, I hope Postman Pat managed without it for a few days. It had had an appropriate azur re-spray and I laughed when it appeared on the forecourt. I lowered the driver seat to it's bottom setting which meant that there was about a foot and a half of headroom above me but the lowest possible centre of gravity. We inched out of that congested town and on to the Grand Corniche where we opened her up and blasted majestically into nearby Italy. More bright blue optimism, this time with added vertiginous drops. About 700km later we found ourselves wending our way up an unmade road to a village called Macerino in Umbria.

2010-06-01T14:29:00.006+01:00

On Friday a friend of mine and I were sipping cappuccinos in the late afternoon sun outside a cafe in Brighton; nice. We used the opportunity to bang on to each other about our respective ails. He has had and operation recently on a knee and is still limping, I am recovering from the periodic vertigo thing I have from time to time.

One of the topics we touched on for light relief was that of the vehicle parked at the side of the road in front of us. A normal looking transit van except that it had "nice" wheels and appeared to have handlebars instead of a steering wheel. Indeed, leering across more closely at it, I saw it had no driver's seat.

Half an hour or so later, we had moved inside as it become chilly and were both facing the floor-to-ceiling window that stretched the length of the place. An electric wheel chair appeared from the right. On board was a guy who I would guess was in his forties, he looked like a younger Stephen Hawking, his head was supported by a headrest at the back and on the side. Also he seemed unable to keep his limbs still. He was alone. My companion and I said nothing to each other, we both guessed what was about to happen but at the same time couldn't quite believe it. The back doors of the van opened and our friend (at the second attempt) parked on the lift that had dropped down. Up and in he went, the van doors calmly closed. A couple of minutes later he appeared in the front and then spent another while wrestling with his safety belts. Eventually the vehicle started up and our mystery man powered away, (no easing hesitantly into the traffic for him) to his next appointment.

(Adrian and his mate nil, God one).

The 45th anniversary of the assassination of JFK

2008-12-01T16:23:00.019Z

The sun is setting beyond the Isle of Wight. The sky is calm greys, blues and pinks with a neat fingernail moon over Sussex Heights, voted tallest residential building I can see from my study for the last five years in a row. (Four Peregrine Falcons live on the roof you know).

It was my birthday over a week ago. Partly for that reason and partly because of other reasons a number of lovely people converged on the flat before going on to La Fourchette; fork, what a good time we all had.

Fine Diners

Another Fine Diners

Heart on sleeve

Reminiscing about that Imperial War Museum trip

Dom reveals the extent of his personal problems

Our esteemed photographer (Dom took some too)

People came from as far away as Slough

Combined age of 89

Dom's chips were enjoyed widely

Adrian hadn't really been enjoying his pudding

Going anywhere nice this year?

(There are more excellent pictures on Dominic Butler's Facebook page or on my Flickr page; there is a link on the right hand side of this page)

Norwegian Wood

2008-07-08T11:42:00.000+01:00

Inspired by an episode of Alan Yentob's "Imagine" programme on BBC1 a couple of weeks ago I bought myself a copy of Haruki Murasaki's fourth novel.

This man tells me about the things I see but don't notice. I am still wandering around in his world, slightly beguiled, two days after finishing the book.

"What about the snakes....?"

2008-07-08T11:35:00.003+01:00

On a recent drive to Littlehampton I listened to this Radio 4 item (the first 20 minutes or so of the programme Excess Baggage which consits of an interview with someone called Yossi Ghinsberg); click on the link above if you would like your challenges to feel less challenging.

The Hairdresser's Husband *****

2007-11-13T11:01:00.000Z

Take 75 minutes of film and attempt to describe, or better still, allow the viewer to feel a pure kind of love. I bet you won't succeed better than the people who created this little work of art have. Not at all sentimental, slightly weird, very engaging and nicely bewildering.

Moved of Brighton.

...a shot in the dark

2007-11-05T11:51:00.000Z

Saturday's activities included afternoon tea at the Orangery in Kensington Gardens; a deliciously autumnal experience.

After that we paid a visit to the Whole Foods shop which occupies three floors in the Barkers building on Kensington High Street. More of a foodies' theme park than a supermarket, I found it quite exciting. Bought some unusual sausages including an Italian Pork with fennel one and some Pecan Butter (lovely but I can make it myself at home and much more cheaply) as well as some tasty seaweed (which I had with roast chicken for Sunday lunch). Rounded off the experience with a drink on the top floor, there are a variety of cafes, bars and restaurants up there. Due to a misunderstanding, I enjoyed an "espresso beer" (which reminded me of Guinness but with more of a kick), courtesy of the management.

Eastern Promises ****

2007-11-01T15:32:00.000Z

It's contemporary London Russian gangland (the centre of which would appear to be a building next door to Vic Naylor's Bar in St John Street, which I used to frequent nearly twenty years ago and featured in a couple of scenes of Snatch or another Guy Richie movie) and David Cronenburg is seeing to it that we are not given a break from the idea that something horrible might happen to anyone at any moment.

For me it took a while to get going and I was not convinced by some of the characters but it seemed to change gear in the second half and Viggo Mortensen's until then latent potency, is brought to the fore with devastating effect. Some good tattoos on display if you like that sort of thing.

Watch out for one of the most shocking and "cross your legs" ferocious fight scenes you will ever see, naked Viggo against two Rusky hitmen with curvy knives.

Old Joy ****

2007-11-01T14:51:00.000Z

Two friends whose lives have gone different ways meet up to drive into the hills and spend a night getting drunk. It is what isn't said in this film that generates the real power, I found myself wondering all sorts of things. A beautiful original soundtrack provided by Yo La Tengo really helped to gently remove me from my comfortable seat and lead me off to all sorts of slightly melancholic "what if" places.

"Sorrow is just worn-out joy".

Some days

2007-10-17T16:52:00.000+01:00

27 September - I get a call from my mother fairly late in the evening to say that she has returned from the hospital with my step-father, his procedure did not go according to plan but they were home now and will see how he gets on and perhaps go back to the hospital if necessary in the morning.

28 September - Mum calls at 7am from the hospital in Oban which is an hour from their home and bigger than their local hospital, Jack was taken there by ambulance in the night. She is a bit teary, she he has been told that he has hours or maybe days.

I fly to Glasgow where I hire a car, drive to the local M&S to get some provisions (as suggested by my brother), return the car to the hire place and replace it with something more appropriate and then drive the two hours to Oban. My mum and I spend the night in a "guest room" in the hospital, me on the floor on top of some cushions. Jack is drifting in and out of consciousness.

29 September - Bit of sitting about in Oban. Jack's condition is unchanged. My brother arrives in the evening, he and my mum and I have a mediocre dinner at the Waterfront Restaurant (the fish tastes funny) and then check in to the Royal Hotel where there are two weddings on the go. My brother and I have a couple of beers at the Lorne Bar on Stevenson Street, most adjacent, and then retire to our room where we both snore a lot, aparently.

30 September - Jack is still mainly conscious but prone to saying some odd things. My brother and I rent a flat for the week, the owner agrees to refund us for those days we do not use, my having explained the circumstances. Jack has asked us to bring in the bottle of champagne that I bought him for his birthday a few months ago and then bravely consumes half a glass (he has not taken any kind of fluid by mouth for three days and not passed any either).

1 October - It is Monday, much more going on in the hospital. We are summoned to a room where it is explained again that Jack's situation is terminal. It is also explained that pain control will be the staff's priority. We return to Jack's room, he is very angry that he is still alive and has a go at negotiating his disconnection from life the life-support systems but it is expained that he does not have that option. "I'll just have to try harder", he promises.

He is in a lot of pain and it takes a long time to get more drugs administered. I believe that the problem here was about expectations. If it had been explained that it would not be possible to keep him pain free and that there would be an issue with the finding the right balance between pain relief and maintaining consciousness then things might have gone more smoothly but instead we get angry when we see him in pain. Later another surgeon takes us into a room to talk to us about the morals of administering morphine, he has good intentions I'm sure (one of which would appear to be to show his junior how to talk to patient's relatives about morals) but it seems to me that the idea is just to distract us. I spend the night in one of those reclining chairs, in Jack's room. The night staff are excellent, attending to Jack throughout and always offering me tea and toast.

Oban sunset

2 October - For the second day in a row I have a meal in "the Oban Fish and Chip Restaurant" (it has a picture of Rick Stein and the proprietor in the window); the food is excellent and costs half what it did in the faux posh restaurant on the Saturday. I say goodbye to Jack in late afternoon and a bit emotionally at first , drive back to Glasgow from where I fly back to Gatwick.

3 October - I call my mum's mobile (they don't mind you using your mobile in this hospital, presumably because they don't have one of those bullshit contracts with the Patientline company) at about 7.30. She and my brother have just been with Jack as he breathed his last breath. I go to London for a meeting.

Hotel Puerta America

4 October - Gemma and I return to Gatwick for an early flight to Madrid for a long standing long weekend, there are many delays, we arrive at the phenomenally beautiful "Terminal 4"in mid afternoon before going to the "Hotel Puerta de America" where each floor has been designed by a different famous designer. We get to choose and select floor 9 (designed by Mr Richard Gluckman) which, whilst it is not as wacky as some of the others, is very relaxed. We head to town where I blame fatigue for my inability to read the map. It is raining heavily and we dive into the nearest Tapas bar. The food is fabulous, we order three different types of potato and some beers (amongst other things).

5 October - We lie in and order breakfast in our room. It doesn't come and so we go down to the restaurant (I don't believe that I should be chasing after it). They say that the restaurant has stopped serving breakfast and I explain why they are about to restart, which they do, food very nice but 50 Euros for the two of us doesn't seem reasonable. Back at the room, our smartly attired breakfast is there by the window smelling of strawberries and wondering what is going on. We go to the Prado where Julian's recommendations prompt us to consider his state of mind; neither of us enjoy Goya's Black Paintings which look a bit rushed to me.

Torres Blanco (our hotel's fantastic neighbour)

6 October - Find a great cafe behind the hotel where we have an excellent breakfast for 4 euros. Lunch at Il Teatriz, a former run-down theatre redisgned by Phillippe Starck (the bar is on the stage and the tables in the stalls and the circles with a cafe in the foyer).

Feeling small (at "Vincon)"

7 October - Breakfast in the same cafe. Lunch takes place downtown in a restaurant inhabited mainly by well to do locals; excellent. Back to the amazing looking airport for further delays, finally arriving at Gatwick at about 9.30pm.

Teatriz iz a treat

Spend the night in the "Yotel", will not be doing that again in a hurry. I reckon it is brilliant for a few hours rest but not so comfortable for whole night (especially two people in a standard room). It does mean that we don't have to rely on our alarm to make sure that we are up at 4am for our flight to Edinburgh. From there a bus takes us to Haymarket where we catch a train to Glasgow Central and then a taxi to the interesting Abode Hotel. I have not been feeling too good and manage a few bouts of diahorrea accompanied by shivering and sweating before meeting up with others in reception. I am full of Immodium and Paracodol we drive to Clydebank (30 minutes away) where Jack's funeral takes place. I am doing the eulogy and am on button pressing duty so am relieved that it seems to go ok. Back to the Abode for very nice drinks and snacks (which I am not in the best shape to enjoy), Michael Caines is the chef/proprietor of this handsome gaff, you might remember I spotted him last year sitting in the reception at the Windsor Hotel in Nice. The wake is very pleasant. Gemma and my mum and I drive back to Lochgilphead (2 hours) arriving about 8pm, I am in bed by 8.30.

9 October - Mum hosts a drinks party for her local friends (some of whom couldn't make the trip yesterday), what an interesting and eclectic bunch, all very nice too. Among others there is a French Coppersmith, a Dutch Tai Chi teacher, an ex fisherman turned reflexologist (he used to dive for scallops), the ex factory manager of Argyll Cars (who also was a mechanic for a two-time British Saloon Car Championship winning team, must have been a while ago, the cars were Minis) and a lady who used to look after monkeys (in Africa).

10 October - Ferry to Gigha (an hour to the ferry and 20 minute crossing), a six mile long island. Lunch in the hotel and then off to the handsome "Achamore House" where we meet the Californian owner, leading light in the world of Flower Remedies and (based on our converstion) leading "Tetra Mast" scheptic. Conversation with him leaves me feeling a bit doomed. Gardens beautiful.

Good Gigha

11 October - Drive to Glasgow, fly back to Gatwick, train to Brighton, more delays.

12 October - Two Meetings

13 October - A few episodes of the Sopranos

14 October - Sausage and Mash for lunch.

2007-09-04T14:47:00.000+01:00

The Story of the Weeping Camel *****

2007-09-04T11:38:00.000+01:00

A film about a camel in Mongolia who doesn't hit it off with her new-born colt but experiences the healing power of music; a masterpiece.

Glabrous - word of the week

2007-09-04T11:26:00.000+01:00

Somehow this word is slightly onomatopoeic, it means "free from hair or down, smooth". I am more familiar with its antonym; hirsute. In the school holidays when I was about 14, I was attempting the Telegraph quick crossword, the clue I was considering was "hirsute appendage".
"Dad, what does hirsute mean?"
"Hairy......how many letters?"
"Blank-e-blank-blank-blank".
"Beard", he said. (Although it had fit, penis just hadn't seemed right).

The various glabrous appendages I had when young, all seem to have become hirsute ones.

Word of the week - bricole

2007-08-15T17:14:00.000+01:00

Defined as a stroke off a wall or cushion (in squash or billiards)I like two things, correction three things about this word. Firstly I think it sounds delicious. Secondly I like the fact that it seems to lend itself to use in other circumstances, "he negotiated himself out of difficulty deploying the splendid bricole of arranging for one of his friends to call his boss at precisely the right moment pretending to be......." kind of thing. Not that I have ever yet had cause to use it in any circumstance, except for talking about it for its own sake.

Lastly, it reminds me of the time I spent in the town of Pau in the South West of France. For some reason I joined a local boxing club and would turn up every week to an old place that reminded me very much of my old prep school gym but with every aspcet of that room augmented significantly; more smell of stale sweat, equipment which was even more delapidated, wooden floors even more dusty and worn out and with the sence of occasion enhanced by the addition of blood stains on the floor, these were not present in my old school gym. This establishment was headed by someone who I would describe as resembling the captain of the Vogon Destructor Ship (from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). I suspect that a babel fish would have been of no help in trying to communicate with this man, I never understood a single thing he said. What I did like about him was the respect he was held in by the other part time pugilists. Every week after training, we would all (7 or 8 of us) decamp into the sauna which was the size of a large wardrobe. For the first several weeks I sat there and no one said a word to me. When someone finally did ask where I was from there was a lot of apologising; they had thought I was English (not Scottish) and everyone was my best friend after that.

Next door to the gym there was what I would call a Pelote Court although I am sure that, strictly speaking, it might have been called something else, especially now I have looked at "this". It was basically a carpark sized bit of land with a huge wall. In there I would occasionally see exponents with long banana-shaped bats hurling a ball at a phonomenal and frightening speed in great arcing bricoles.

Lilja 4-Ever ****

2007-08-13T14:00:00.000+01:00

So you thought you had problems.......

Made in 2002 by the Swedish Director/Writer Lukas Moodysson who also made Together , which I enjoyed as well as something called Fucking Amal, which I have not seen. I saw an interview with him and he was big on responsibility. Music plays a major role in this film. According to imdb, he rates the most significant influence in his life as the Cure. I am now of a mind to make such a list of my own.

This is somehow both repugnant and very moving. If you want to know how lucky you are, watch this film.

"So, this one will be yours....

2007-08-13T13:13:00.000+01:00

..., it has certain limitations which you will discover in due course, but it yours to develop and use throughout the experience. Abuse of it may result in the failure of a part which may not be replaceable. If a major element fails, the liklihood is that you will end up back here. Sign here and here, we take the full amount up front, there are no refunds".

"Any tips?"

"Remember that the object of the exercise is to enjoy yourself. Our other customers tell us that contributing in some way or other to the experience of others can be an effective way to do this. Abuse of the mechanism through over use of drugs such as adrenalin (which you can read about in the handbook) for example, typically foreshortens the experience".

Word of the week - Phaeton

2007-08-07T17:15:00.000+01:00

This week's word is a name. Phaeton was the son of Apollo who was famous for drivign his dad's chariot recklessly. Nice that VW should choose it as the name for their flagship vehicle.

Dead Man *****

2007-07-27T16:19:00.000+01:00

For a while my brother has been saying that I ought to see this Jim Jarmusch film. It wasn't until the opening scene that I realised that I had seen it before but, as seems to be the case more and more, I couldn't remember it well enough to know what was going to happen next.

William Blake (Johnny Depp) travels across the States at the beginning of the last century to take up a position as an accountant in a metal factory. When he finds the job gone, things start to change significantly for him. A little while later he is on the run, accused of murdering at first two then more people, with at first one then another bullet in his body.

This is a glorious thing, shot in black and white, the scenery is awesome and Mr Depp has imbued the character with fearless dignity and a powerful kind of naivity, as he makes the journey from life to death, accompanied some of the time by "Nobody", a Native American outcast who believes him to be, at least in spirit, William Blake, the poet.

Not much happens, it is very beautiful and inspiring.

Let me know if this hurts

2007-07-27T09:28:00.000+01:00

One of the reasons that the air-side shops are so successful is that passengers have effectively handed over responsibility for themselves to the authorities, they are relaxed, even vulnerable. You can say that everyone is vulnerable to some extent depending on a variety of personal and situational factors.

Yesterday Gemma was in the dentist's chair when the dentist said;

"Why are you frowning"?
"What do you mean"?
"That line on your forehead, shows you are frowning.......you can get rid of it with botox.......I can give you botox".

What's next....stealing your wallet whilst you are under anaesthetic?

Mantissa - word of the week

2007-07-17T13:04:00.000+01:00

This word cropped up the other day as it is the name of a song by Mahogany as reviewed in the esteemed Critical Mass blog last week. I first encountered it in the maths class of Mr McDonald as it was some part of a logrithm if I remember. What I liked about it was the sound and so aged twelve I decided that it should have "my favourite word" status. Neglected since then apart from a couple of fleeting mentions in my life, I have restored some of its status by awarding it "word of the week". According to Wikipedia, its archaic, non-mathematical meaning is "a small or worthless supplement". I like it for that reason as well.

ps I apologise if you have arrived here from Google or some other search engine hoping to learn something about maths. I suppose that the person who did a search on "tauten" was disappointed too.

Scotland photos

2007-07-17T09:30:00.000+01:00

A few Argyll photos from the other week.

Tayvalich

Loch Sween
South from Kilmartin

Cinerama

2007-07-14T15:31:00.000+01:00

I have nneglected my duties as a film reviewer over the last few weeks and have decided to rectify the situation to some extent by offering cut down notes on a number of the films that I have seen over that time. If you think I scatter around those little asteriscs too liberally, in the spirit of brevity, I have kept to my favourites.

The Machinist *****

A fascinating and disturbing study of guilt. (Christian Bale has managed to get himself unfeasibly skinny for the role of the eponymous factory worker). Most thought provoking, (for someone like me).

Little Miss Sunshine ****

This has been much hyped and rightly so. Disfunctional family attempts to support youngest daughter in her dream of success in one of those weird child beauty pageants they do in the States. Not what it seems, very funny and in the end, makes a point. (One criticism is that a repeated and nevertheless funny joke based on a mechanical problem with their transportation annoys me slightly as as it would not be possible).

Pan's Labyrinth ****

Very unusual, stylish, violent, engaging cross between a war thriller and fairy tail; honest. Brilliant nevertheless. Features the guy who played Harry in Harry he is here to help; Sergi Lopez, as a very nasty nutter, a role in which he is entirely believeable.

Volver****

An unusually accessible Almodovar film. Troubles in a Spanish family for Penelope Cruz to work out. The film is touching and atmospheric and now I can see what the all the fuss about Penelope Cruz is for. I really cared by the end.

I Vitelloni***

The adventures of a group of young men (vitelloni are calves), attempting to find their way in life, in a seaside town in Italy. Fredrico Fellini brilliantly makes me squirm at how people can be such idiots. Had to admire it even if not enjoy it. Once again (it was made in 1953) he manages to make a film that doesn't really date.

Sideways*****

Another film that makes you want to squirm a bit but which is perhaps more forgiving. Two very different (early middle-aged male) friends go off wine-tasting in Northern California in the week before the not very successful actor,(the other one is a penurious wannabe writer) is due to get married. A number of extreme situations in which they find themselves force them to face their own and each other's problems. Very very funny, brilliant acting.

Send three and fourpence.....

2007-07-14T15:25:00.000+01:00

I just enjoyed a substancial lunch at a local Japanese Restaurant. At the bar afterwards I was chatting to the waitress and asked her the meaning of Japanese symbol/character. After three confrimations I was confident that she had said "wheat grain", despite having intially thought she'd said "wheat germ". Gemma joined in the conversation at this point and quickly established that the girl was saying "weekend". I have had some odd conversations with that very nice girl in the past.

Respiro ****

2007-06-25T13:05:00.000+01:00

Living in a traditional Italian fishing village, the heroine is slightly bonkers in an unthreatening, even endearing kind of a way. This does not go down well with the locals however for whom her deviation from the norm is not acceptable. The film is about being an outsider and what that means, it is about taboo. The consequences are surprising and ironic.

The characters, particularly of the family members are authentic and compelling and the film has a great atmosphere, I use the word carefully. Respiro means "I breathe", at times we witness moments of Grazia's spirited liberation. However, the film also manages to convey the feeling of suffocation that she struggles with as a result of her inability to conform; several times I noticed my attention was drawn to my own breath, particularly at the perfectly conceived climax.

2007-06-19T15:31:00.000+01:00

Word of the week - dystocia

2007-06-07T13:27:00.000+01:00

Dystocia is the name given to the condition experienced when having trouble giving birth. This week I have had trouble coming up with a word of the week. Perhaps it could be said that I have suffered from a touch of etymological dystocia or alternatively that I need to pull my finger out.

Carbon copy

2007-06-05T13:35:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I had a couple of meetings in London in the morning and was on my way to Green Park to get the tube back to Vicotira when I had the idea that I could take a look at the Damien Hirst exhibition at the White Cube gallery in St James's. I suspected that there might not be a big queue to see the skull at 11.30 on a Monday morning and fortunatley I was correct. Entry is free but you have to have a ticket for a particular time slot; I was able to get my ticket and go in five minutes later.

The security man takes up seven or eight people at a time and you stand in a line in a corridor that reminded me of being at school. You get a little pep talk about leaving your bags on the floor outside and so on. He made me smile by explaining that the room was dark but that the only thing in there was the exhibit itself and not to worry about bumping into anything despite not being able to see your feet. He then mentioned however, that there was a woman in wheelchair already in there.

You have to give Mr Hirst credit for his ability to create icons, I have to say that I found "for the love of god" quite a stunning thing. The sense of theatre plays a part but the head itself is an object of beauty. I was particularly impressed by the view from the back. From the front, it is obviously an inanimate (if painstakingly prepared) object but from the rear there are no features missing that would necessarily lead you to believe that you might not be looking at the back of the head of young person, albeit shaved and covered with diamonds. I did wonder about its provenance, I understand that it is a cast made of platinum but of whom, where was he from, what colour skin did he have, what thoughts occurred in that space?

If I could fiddle with time, I could ask the artist on the bus on the way to school; he was in the year below me and often sat on his own. They didn't offer PR as a subject at that school but it is all art if you ask me. I remember the anticipation and the smell of paint as I queued outside the art room, I wonder what he remembers about those days. No smells at the White Cube but plenty of the other.

Un altro mondo

2007-05-30T14:13:00.000+01:00

West from Rocca Calascio

Abruzzo is quite mountainous. There are those peaks around Grand Sasso in the north, in the Grand Sasso National Park, the other main group is to be found in the Majella National Park more southerly, where San Tommaso, one of a number of places in Italy so-named by pope somebody the something after Henry VIII had martyred Thomas Beckett is to be found. The village is located about a third of the way up Majella, so to get to most other places, you have first to decend a few hundred meters to a town called Scafa where you can join the autostrada if you're going somewhere in a hurry or a main road if you are staying more local or aren't in a rush.

The Mille Miglia (the thousand mile road race, last run fifty years ago) used to pass through here, the drivers having just turned west to cross the country to Rome before turning back north to complete their mad few hours back in Brescia. Gemma's dad used to cycle down from San Tommaso (where cars of any type were rarely seen) to witness those special people hurtling through that town.

Turning left at Scafa leads you along a valley and between two big hills to a town called Popoli. Turn right there and wind back up, higher than San Tommaso and slightly weirdly, find yourself on a massive flat plane. Driving its length will take about half an hour and will lead you to L'Aquila. That road is mainly dead straight and driving along it gives me the feeling that I must have a special, other wordly destination.

This time we decided to check out some of the villages that cling to the hills that surround the plane. One such is Calascio, where an ancient, mostly ruined castle commands views, on a clear day, all the way back to Majella to the south and for a long way in every other direction. We arrived there in our Fiat Idea 1.3 diesel having driven up some roads that were precarious enough to have caused raised voices in the car, despite my crawling along in second gear, the absence of barriers between the edge of the road and the sheer drops being the main problem. Eventually you arrive in a dust bowl of a small car park also occupied by the village bins. From there by foot you climb steeply with expectations of seeing very little activity, the first houses and many of the others too have been abandoned for what looks like a long time. As you climb, through the gaps between those run down homes to your left, the view makes you giddy.

Looking north from Rocca Calascio

Don't be surprised, when you find a tiny cafe, perched on the cliff, with a quintet (Il Quintetto a fiata della Baronia) playing Hinemith's Kleine Kammermusik opus 24, no. 2. Stoop to enter, order your espresso, retire to a table outside and wonder about how things can sometimes be so extraordinary. Shake off the emotions you have been sitting in and climb the last bit to the castle itself. This is our other-worldly destination, a bridge between the prosaic and the astral.

Looking south from Rocca Calascio (that's Majella topped with snow)

p.s. I thought I had better just check my Mille Miglia facts before publishing this post and have spent a most enjoyable half hour surfing through related sites. At first I was concerned that there was some confusion over the exact route and that Gemma's dad might have been referring to a 16 mile street circuit that used to exist in the Pescara environs but I was pleased to be able to confirm that that infamous race did pass along that exact piece of road. A fact which, for me, really turns the evocativeness knob right up, is that the route of the race actually included the road across that plane. Next time I am there, I can imagine Sterling Moss passing me at 170mph (a speed the cars often reached on the straights in those days) in his cocoon of noise and wind, dirty faced, his eyes piercing those leather rimmed goggles, calculating in a moment the value of the hazard that I represent, before forgetting me forever, vanishing in a vortex of dust.

It turns out that there were a number of routes (click here),used for the race between 1927 and 1957. From 1949 they all passed between Pescara and L'Aquila in one or other direction.

Il Rifugio della Rocca (click here) is where those concerts are held, if you happen to be passing.

Word of the week - boh

2007-05-21T18:10:00.000+01:00

In view of my recent trip, this week we travel to Italy to find our word of the week. Boh is a bit rude and means I don't know or I don't care and although I couldn't find it in my dictionary it does appear in the BBC's language website under "cool Italian" click here to hear it pronounced, where it says it is usually accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders. When I first encountered it I was impressed by the level of laziness it conveys.

Che ora e?

What time is it?

Boh!

How the hell should I know!

Some Italy pics

2007-05-20T15:01:00.000+01:00

They fish from these

View of the Marone from 23 Corsa Reale, San Tommaso

Gargano Adriatic

A view from the tower in San Stefano

That's Vieste in Gargano in the distance

A stick

Monopoly

2007-05-17T16:53:00.000+01:00

He sat confidently, ready to play. It was the aspect of his day which made it all worth while, every tenth encounter would contain opportunity, and every third of those would be truly satisfying. The beauty was that he had nothing to lose, he was protected, there was the high desk between him and the danger, behind him was a large sign warning people that his company would not tolerate him being abused in any way. The object of the game; make them do things they don't want to.

I approached and placed my case on the weighing scale, and with a smile and a "hi" handed over three passports. He nodded to himself, this could be a good one. It transpired that I had misunderstood something on the website, he wanted thirty quid in excess baggage charges despite our carrying less than our allowance, (our return tickets had come to less than £50 each). We redistrubuted the contents of our bags. He now wanted only 5 quid but he also wanted our booking reference. I have used this carrier many times and in the past my passport (and maybe my credit card) had been enough. Now he wanted me to go to the sales desk to get the code and rejoin the back of the queue. I remained fairly calm, suggesting that I would be prepared to leave my position in the queue if he called security. Gemma was less happy and wanted his name, he refused and so she called him a "scaredy cat". Eventually that issue was resolved. He then announced that he didn't want any more money from us but that "as you have been so uncooperative, we would not like to see you here again".

The end result, as far as I can make out, was that everybody in the queue had experienced a ten minute delay, Ryan Air had made no more money, we had not enjoyed the nicest start to our trip, but "nameless man", after adjusting himself in his seat, running his finger round the inside of his collar and stretching out his lower jaw, was feeling good and ready for the next passenger.

Prima Colazione (Breakfast)

2007-05-14T17:57:00.000+01:00

Wereen is an older guy in Gemma's family's village in Italy, a real character, he is always doing nice things for me when I am there. Several times during the stay, I opened the front door to find a bottle of wine there that he had left for us; he makes wine, that is his big thing, and Grappa. Under his house in what they call the cantina over there, or what he calls his office, he has a still as well as various other grape related paraphernalia. Outside the cantina there is a bird cage where a minor bird lives, she will return your “Boun Giorno” with an unsettlingly human voice. Between her cage and the road is a high hedge, Gemma’s mother had become quite angry when, walking down the road last week, she was wolf whistled at a number of times.

Yesterday Wereen came round to the house in the morning to say that he was off to the next village to get his paper, and I suppose to see if I wanted to go too. Gemma’s mum intercepted him at the door telling him that I was busy, which I kind of was; I was writing a letter to Nat West for a lady who had an account there in the 60’s with about £200 in it; she wanted to know how she could retrieve the balance.

Anyway, when I had finished the letter I went after him. He was in his garden, he’d been and come back but thought he might have left his paper at the shop/café because he couldn’t find it. So off we went in his old Fiat Panda through the heat, down the hill across the bridge that Gemma’s granddad built in the 50’s (he was the foreman) and is now occasionally used for bungy jumping or suicides, up the other side into a sleepy village, through some very narrow streets before stopping outside the shop. When we went in we saw that the owner had ordered three copies of Il Centro (Abruzzo's daily) for the day (he showed us his manifest) and that he only had two left, the assumption being that Wereen had left with the other one. A shrug later we went through an archway into a deserted and dark room, the shop keeper followed us through and became barman. Wereen ordered two Sambucca al Centerbas.

Centerba is 70% alcohol and smells like it should be illegal. You can buy it on its own, usually only a splash is added to coffee (after dinner). Sambucca al Centerba has a slight taste of the "hundred herbs" spirit, it is delicious if a bit strong for 9.30 am. I declined, but agreed to have some in my coffee. Wereen had the drink in a measure that I would describe as being about the size of a small glass of wine. When we left there he insisted that he would like to take me to another bar. We drove through a maze of tiny streets arriving at the little square where, in one corner there were five or six mainly older guys sitting outside what looked like a very small shop, some of the men were drinking. It was very hot and bright, despite the early hour, as well as very quiet, it reminded me of a western film set. Everybody knows Wereen and he exchanged banter with some of the guys in French (he and a number of the locals had all gone off to Belgium to work in a coal mine in the 50’s) and the local dialect before we stepped into the cool of the bar. No tables, two slot machines, one not working. He asked for two Sambucca al Centerbas. The lady behind the bar produced the bottle but it only had enough for one (wine glass sized) shot left in it. There was a short debate about whiskies and other Sambuccas before Wereen suggested topping up our glasses with neat Centerba. Our hostess looked shocked at the idea, I couldn't understand everything that was said but I could see that she felt it was important that I knew what I was letting myself in for. Sambucca al Centerba is clear, Centerba is bright green and so were our cocktails. Five minutes later when I left, I knew I had had a drink.

Fave Maria?

2007-05-08T09:58:00.000+01:00

Buon giorno from the Abruzzese town of Chieti, perched high on a hill from where you can see the Adriatic to the east and, in the distance, Grande Sasso ("Big Stone", the tallest mountain in the region to the West).

The sky is clear blue but for a few whisps of cotton wool, unlike the last few days which have seen every conceivable meteorogical phenomenon.

Optimistic, we set out to walk to the hermitage of San Bartolomeo, a cave with an extension, perched on the side of a cliff, not far from here, on Sunday. Half way back a thunder storm intervened and when we reached the car we looked as though we had swam there.

Have been eating particularly well, yesterday's highlight being fried lambs liver, heart and kidneys with onions, I think it was called Contorto d'Agnello, but that could be bollocks. My Italian is not as good as I thought. When asked how I was, despite having made the same mistake previously, I tried to be clever by saying that I was as healthy as a fish, the equivalent to being fit as a fiddle at home. I announced that I was a saint like a peach.

Fellini's 8 1/2 *****

2007-04-27T13:50:00.000+01:00

This is very much the younger sibling of La Dolce Vita. Black and White and featuring beautiful well dressed people including Marcello Mastroianni (who featured in that other film) and the amazing looking Claudia Cardinale. This is a film about making a film. Ordinarily that would be reason enough for me to hit the eject button (I site Adaptation Adaptation, as an example of a film about making a film which is clever but leaves me feeling like I've been taken advantage of), but this for me is a mind-blowing piece of art.

I often think about the film I might write. As this film progresses I realise that, if I were able, this could be it.

There is the recurring idea that if you are not part of something, you are against it, you cannot exist satisfactorily without attaching yourself to ideas, principles or causes, without believing in things, "....happiness consists of being able to tell the truth without ever hurting anyone..." so says Guido the confused film-maker.

I notice that I have been enjoying films about people in crises; American Beauty and Citizen Kane (which I will be posting about soon) for example. They are quite theatrical (both the latter films were made by first time directors whose previous experience had been the stage). This surprises me a great deal. If you had told me that I would love a meandering, sometimes surreal wander about the very staged life of film maker experiencing a mid life crisis, I would have told you that it was more likely that DFS's sale had ended. At one point it even plays about with being a musical. As for what attracts me to this so much, I suppose that self recognition seems to be the most likely candidate. I am therefore exposing myself to accusations of being fanciful, but I can pick the elements I aspire to, as well as recognise those facets that I might be less happy about, but that does not diminish my identification with themes, even if I don't exist in the 'A' list stratosphere. Perhaps the whole idea is helped along by some small references such as the fact that it was released in the year I was born and that the leads drive about in a Porsche 356, not to mention the Italian thing.

Imagine being offered the chance to watch a film that was made by a film maker with no script who decided to go ahead and make a film about a film maker asked to make a film with not script and without a plot, about a film maker who has been asked to make a film that has no plot, and there you have it. Despite all of this, I kept wanting to know what was going to happen next.

Word of the week - mucilage

2007-04-27T13:40:00.000+01:00

A mucilage is a secretion or bodily fluid. The word comes from the same origin as the more familiar mucus.

Is that BA's new corporate identity or just some mucilage on the fusilage?

Midnight Run *****

2007-04-18T14:38:00.000+01:00

It was Good Friday morning, before seven, I got up (carefully) and decided that some light entertainment was in order. I selected my still celophane-wrapped Midnight Run dvd from the shelf and proceeded to enjoy the next couple of hours. There are some films which are haute cuisine and not the sort of things that one might want to consume too often. Then there is the classic hamburger, pefectly cooked, delicious relish and crispy chips; this is one of those. I have seen it often enough to have become familiar with its foibles which are most easily forgiven, I imagine that I will watch this many more times.

Robert De Niro is honest but hard done by bounty hunter Jack Walsh and the under-rated Charles Grodin plays Jonathan Mardukas, an accountant who has embezzled $15 million dollars from the mob (and given it to charity). It is essentially a road movie as the pair of them are chased across America from New York to L.A. The Grodin character is laconic, well meaning and prone to offering Jack advice about how he should change his life if he is to avoid an early grave. Jack is resigned to a lonely slightly self-ptiying existence; one that might be tempered by the big pay-off he will receive if he delivers "the Duke" to his bail bondsman in L.A. Their relationship is what the film is about and where most of the humour comes from.

It is directed by Martin "Beverley Hills Cop" Brest, but whilst that earlier film was very much of its time, this one seems to have side-stepped such a limitation. The story is comfortably well enough thought-through, not to distract from the set pieces and the interaction between members of the superb cast. Yaphet Koto who you might remember as Mr Big and Kanaga in the only properly funny James Bond film, Live and Let Die is the permanently exasperated FBI Agent Alonzo Mosely, (did you know that Live and Let die was written by the director of Eddie Murphy's first stand up movie, Dilerious)? Dennis Farina, always funny and scary in equal measure (he played Ray Barboni in Get Shorty), is as scary and funny as usual as mob boss Jimmy Serrano.

There are at least a couple of images that reappear in some shape or form in other films; there is a version of De Niro's "I am talking to a dead man" line, which he later uses in Heat and Dennis Farina announces rather prophetically that he is going to smash his telephone into someone's head; we actually have to wait for Get Shorty for him to do that to Gene Hackman's Harry Zimm. John Ashton (one of the LAPD foils for Eddie Murphy in Beverley Hills Cop) reappears here with great affect (as Marvin Dorfler, Jack Walsh's main competition).

This film always makes me laugh out loud, I am waiting like a child wanting his favourite bedtime story for my favourite jokes but, call me a sentimental piece of moist tissue, it also manages to move me a little every time I see it, that's probably the De Niro factor.

Word of the week

2007-04-18T14:30:00.000+01:00

As I wended my way through my copy of Alan Bennett's Untold Stories this week I encountered the word "enfilade" which I am reliably informed means either a "volley of gunfire directed along a line from end to end" or a "suite of rooms with doorways in line with each other". In order to help it settle in the word section of my brain, in a place where I have the slightest chance of retrieving it when needed, I have decided that as part of this new and ongoing feature, I will supply (for my own benefit) a sentence incorporating the word of the week.

"An enfilade of piss arced from behind the bush into a noisy puddle beneath the streetlight".

End of a day

2007-04-12T20:14:00.000+01:00

Ayrton Senna once said that he felt that "we are all seeking emotions".

This evening as I prepared dinner, I listened to All of this and Nothing by the Psychedelic Furs. Normally I would have Channel 4 News on. Actually it was on, but the Furs provided the soundtrack. Can I suggest that if you would like to view current affairs from a tangential angle that you try listening to some of your favourite music whilst watching the news. There was a report about the relationship between China and Japan with footage of war, as well as statesman doing what they do, (I don't know very much about him, but as premiers go, I would have to say that Mr Koizumi, the previous Japanese Prime Minister was a cool one). Anyway, songs that move you, played over footage of people killing or getting one over on each other, move you more, take it from me.

The fact that I spent most of the day unblocking a drain might be relevant and my tuna with ginger, spring onions and teryaki sauce was delicious in case you were wondering.

Brew hah hah

2007-04-09T14:27:00.000+01:00

One morning last week I woke quite early and decided to have a cup of tea. As the kettle warmed up on the stove, I considered the day ahead whilst dangerously multitasking, getting the tea bag out of the cupdboard, milk from the fridge and so on. The kettle was almost ready when I was suddenly aware of a big flame on my right hand side and quite a bit of smoke. My dressing gown was on fire. One acts quickly in these situations and very quickly I was doing my naked version of the hakka on top of the combustible garment. Gemma arrived on the scene concerned that a "girl had broken in" on account of the scream that had woken her.

There seems to be an elemental pattern to my early morning traumas, I might be due to wake up spattered with mud.

Butterfly effect

2007-04-04T15:05:00.000+01:00

A few moments ago I was to be found in the Murasaki Restaurant in the Seven Dials area of Brighton enjoying a Shogiyaki Don and a green tea. However, things might have been very different.

Last night I was rudely awoken by a the burglar alarm of a nearby house. I trust that nothing was in fact stolen except for a few hours of the collective sleep of a number of the inhabitants of the Clifton Hill conseravation area. On consulting my trusty alarm clock I discovered that this was occurring at about 12.30am. An hour or so later having tossed and turned I rose to have a cup of tea and as it transpired four rice cakes topped with Green and Black's chocolate spread. This was my first mistake; I believe the potent dose of refined sugar did not encourage my body to lapse back into unconsciousness, especially with a slug of classic boxing highlights mixed in for good measure. At about 4am I clambered back into bed but didn't manage to string together more than an hour or so of slumber at a time before getting up at about 7.

I was on the back foot slightly this morning, as a man was coming to my house at nine to make a hole in the ceiling in the hall, for the purpose of creating access to the roof space. This was a disruptive process, so much so that I had to leave the house. By midday (having visited Waterstones and Fopp) I was a bit cold and hungry and buckled quite easily under the influence of my own persuasive powers, retiring to the aforementioned Japanese cafe to seek solace and nourishment.

Whilst there I decided that I might as well investigate the possibility of visiting Japan later in the year for a holiday, something I have thought about for a number of years. The waitress was unable to share very much in the way of tips however as her English I find, isn't very well tuned to the western ear, there were some acutely embarrassing moments to go along with my pork and pickled vegetables.

But I was not put off and it would appear that burglar alarm plus loft hatch leads to Kyoto curiosity. To be continued.....

.....incredibly benevolent force

2007-03-28T18:06:00.000+01:00

I am supine on the floor, I feel heavy, I can smell burning sage and there is the slightly acrid taste of osha root in my mouth. Soon however, I am floating way above the earth, in space. In due course I am confronted by a dark, perfectly shaped oblong obelisk which has emerged from nowhere. It is hard-looking, wet; water runs down its surface, it is difficult to guage its size but it is probably about ten or twelve feet tall. It is similar to the icon which features in 2001 A Space Odessey.

A beautiful woman emerges from the monolith, she has long dark hair and looks like she knows everything. There is calm everywhere. She says nothing but from her look, I know there is no point in worrying about anything, ever, because I am part of something I don't begin to understand. I feel grateful but whilst I like the idea that I have been singled out, I suspect that I have been given this gift because I need it.

Death.......it's the future

2007-03-26T14:01:00.000+01:00

This weekend's dvds were V for Vendetta and The Death of Mr Lazarescu. The former is the dystopic Wachowski Brothers (of the Matrix fame) thriller featuring a highly cheesed-off man called "V" who, dressed in a Guy Fawkes mask throughout, makes it his business to do a bit of serious boat-rocking in the dictator-led Britain of the near future.

The second is the Romanian film which won the BBC4 World Cinema award earlier this year. It would be hard to find two films which contrast in style more, as this film has an almost documentary feel, hand held cameras and a budget that probably wouldn't buy you a nice coat. Mr Lazarescu is a man in his sixties, living in a cold, filthy and anonymous apartment in Bucharest, he is not feeling well and decides to try to do something about it, initially ringing the doctor before knocking on the door of his neighbours across the landing. Slowly he gets himself nearer and nearer to a diagnosis and potential treatment. What links his interactions with the various health professionals he encounters as he tours the city's hospitals throughout the night, in the back of an ambulance, is the lack of respect he is shown, because he smells of alcohol, but also because he is old and increasingly unable to converse with anyone (due to his condition). For a long time it is only the paramedic who first arrives at his cat infested flat who fights his corner, after that.........

Meanwhile back on a set bedecked with beautiful scenery and featuring the beautiful Natalie Portman we are in full on comic book, surrealist, multi-million dollar budget familiarity. Ms Portman plays Evey Hammond, a secretary at the BTN (British TV Network) who for one reason or another finds herself aiding and abetting the enigmatic Mr V. I am not sure if it is because it is set in London but there is a bit of an "episode of the Bill" feeling about some of it. That aside, just as the Matrix does, it succeeds most effectively in getting you thinking about the human condition, particularly with regard to an increasingly controlled post 9/11 world. Within the people-power theme, there is a sub plot revealing how Evey experiences the liberation that comes with losing the fear of death. This is my favourite part of the film, and not just because NP gets her head shaved.

So there we have it, the problem is that we spend our lives under the shadow of death, our decisions hampered by it, but at the same time, in denial of it. Then, when it looms on the horizon, despite its inevitability, there are often only scant preparations made which mean that you are relieved of your dignity well in time to make you last days miserable.

There is humour in both these films. I am surprized by how my attention was held for two and a half hours of Mr Lazarescu's death; mesmeric and revealing. V for Vendetta is high paced and full of philosophy, too much for one sitting perhaps, there are a lot of words; "verily this vichy soise of verbage is most verbose" the main protagonist admits at one point. Not one to watch with someone who is alergic to aliteration.

The Death of Mr Lazarescu****
V for Vendetta****

American Beauty *****

2007-03-22T14:45:00.000Z

Before I get into things I wish to place a request with the cosmic ordering system that I can meet and have a chat with Alan Ball, the writer of this film......thanks.

Lester Burnham, (Kevin Spacey) is 42 and entering a bit of a mid life crisis. The wheels have come off, his job has no meaning for him, his wife Carolyn, (Annette Bening) is on the brink of an affair and his daughter Jane, (Thora Birch) has no respect for him. Now watch what happens and how it affects him and his family and his new neighbours, the Fitzs.

This is a spectacular piece of work in regards to just about any aspect of film making that you might wish to measure. But as is often the way, it comes down to a couple of amazing moments which the whole films hangs on; in this case speeches by Lester's drug toting young neighbour Ricky Fitz, and towards the end of the film by Lester himself, elements of which have been borrowed from each other. The first takes place whilst Ricky shows Jane "the most beautiful thing he has ever filmed."

"It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was just, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in".

There is much iconography in this movie. Hands feature a lot, as well as reflections and mirrors and confined spaces. Lester is seeking to escape from his restricted life, but not to a place of irresponsibility, to a place where he can be himself.

This is a beautifully realized film with fantastic performances, Anette Bening is scarily effective, Mena Suvari who plays Jane's friend and the subject of Lester's infatuation is mesmerising, there is great imagery and brilliantly chosen music but above all, I love this film because I once had a similar experience to the one Ricky describes and as he said himself "it helps me remember".

Collateral *****

2007-03-20T16:12:00.000Z

Film 4 showed this movie last night. I am a fan of Michael Mann but whilst this is every bit as stylish as Heat, it hangs together better as a complete entity.

Tom Cruise (who I am not usually bothered about) plays a hitman, Vincent, in town for the night to do a spot of contract killing. Jamie Foxx is Max, the unwitting soul recruited to drive Vincent around for the duration. Max is a disenfranchised, nice guy, taxi driver who starts to realise that, up against Vincent and perhaps in the rest of his life he needs to take a stand. Vincent, on the other hand, is surfing along on the edge of his confidence and power, doing "what he does for a living......indifferent", causing havoc.

Sometimes aspects of a character in a film remind me of people I know and this for me is a sign of a great performance. Rarely has it happened to the extent that it does in the case of Vincent (not sure what this says about people I know).

This a black comedy; the bullying of Max by Vincent generates much tension and even amusement, odd pairings in other films like Midnight Run and Planes Trains and Automobiles come to mind. The imdb page for the film features much of Vincent's wisdom and ascerbic one-liners.

One dead body already in the boot of the car, two cops approach, "Don't let me get backed into a corner, you don't have enough trunk space", he warns Max.

Australian GP

2007-03-19T17:47:00.000Z

My predictions seem to be on target post this first race of the season........(click here for more).

Nice Truck

2007-03-19T17:08:00.000Z

Captured in its natural habitat in rural Alberta last year, I was pleased with how close I was able to get to this one.

Le Conseguenze dell'amore ****

2007-03-19T16:31:00.000Z

I spoke to someone about this film over the weekend. They said that they couldn't understand what motivated the main character to do what he did.

In the Scritti Politti song, the Sweetest Girl, there is the line "she left because she understood the value of defiance".

In this atmospheric and stylised but handsome film we learn about Titto, an immaculately dressed, middle-aged, lonely guy who lives in a smart hotel by a lake in Switzerland and is suffering from the consequences of decisions he has made and circumstances he has found himself in, which appear to have trapped him.

Much of the interpretation is left to the viewer but whilst decisions have consequences and whilst they may have a permanent impact, defiance does have an intrinsic value as does doing things for reasons of your own.

La Dolce Vita*****

2007-03-16T06:49:00.000Z

From the opening shot of the helicopter with a statue of Jesus dangling from it crossing a sunlit and optimistic Rome, it is iconic and beautiful to look at. I could watch it again without the sound. Although in black and white and made in 1960, it has avoided attaching itself to an era or even a genre.

Stunning and beautiful imagery and players reside within a wandering and dreamlike but compelling narrative. We follow cosmopolitan Marcello, a writer, as he experiences an almost cartoon existence of partying interspersed with rediculous and sometimes horrendous events. We watch as he tries to make sense of it all.

Easy to gaze at for its two and three quarter hours, it is engaging, amazingly contemprorary and even very funny.

Rude awakenings

2007-03-15T15:02:00.000Z

The head end of my bed is against a pretty Victorian (but blocked off) fireplace. I use the mantle as a shelf; typically I have my alarm clock there so I can simply reach up and turn it over to see what time it is. I have been a bit dry in the throat lately, this morning at what turned out to be 6.30 I poured a glass of water over my face, pillow and bed clothes.

p.s. For a split second I was quite shocked and actually wondered what the hell was up with the alarm clock.

The Good Soldier by Ford Maddox Ford*****

2007-03-15T14:40:00.000Z

I have tried to read this book three times now and have failed to finish it every time. Yet I would have to say that it is one of my all time favourites.
Beautifully written (I always want to take notes, maybe I will one day) it tells of the complications that exist beneath the surface of the aparently perfect lives of two wealthy couples who spend their time travelling from one posh hotel in Europe to another in the early 20th Century. Everything is not what it seems. I reckon that I have been unable to finish it for the same reason that I could not eat everything I was offered at Il Caldora restaurant in Pacentro (in Abruzzo); it was absolutley delicious but there is only so much you can eat.

Dancing

2007-03-14T06:52:00.000Z

He knocked gently, the door opened a little. He tapped again and after a moment called the name of the person he was expecting to meet throught the gap. Nothing. He crossed the threshold, there was a strong dank smell, stale tobacco with a note of unwashed people in prolonged confinement. A hoover stood in the hallway looking sheepish, he passed it and found himself in the living room.

He wasn't that surprised to see the mess, nothing was in its place, furniture, clothes and bed linen were strewn everywhere and there were mugs and glasses and piles of loose change on any available flat surfaces. Cigarette ends were hunched up in nooks and against chair legs like little battle victims.

In the kitchen, everything was everywhere and everywhere was filthy. A baby's bottle with a solid green lump of mould occupying the bottom half, open cartons of milk, no crockery at all in the cupboards, instead it formed precarious towers perched on odd corners. More cigarette ends and the dead bodies of some suspiciously foreign looking bugs.

He stood and allowed himself to absorb the scene. He had been aware since the beginning, nine months ago, that this guy had problems. He had been relieved when they had agreed to terminate their agreement and had talked about arrangements for making sure all the loose ends were tied up. He had seen vans come and go over recent days, taking away various things.

Tucked into a cranny in the hoover he found two sets of keys (including a bent one) and a post-it note; "truly sorry about the mess, hope the money left covers it".

Post script:

I will need to be more careful about choosing my next tenant and less willing to take the gamble that I always knew it was, to give the flat to a guy who'd just arrived in the country from Uganda with a 6 month old baby and no job. (The baby had had the good sense to return to Uganda some time ago).

Strangely I was not so much annoyed as sad (and ofcourse relieved); but escaping from one mess by fleeing to another is not escaping at all.

That morning I lent him the hoover and whilst I was confident that there would be work to do after he had left, the idea that renting a carpet cleaner for a morning would deal with it, proved to be wishful thinking.

There was nearly £20 in loose change, over £5 of which was in one and two p's, lying about the place.

When the fridge was moved, a little clutch of those international insects woke up and dashed off in all directions. I think I would have impressed Mr Flatly.

The Pianist*****

2007-03-07T10:32:00.000Z

If you want harrowing, might I suggest that you look no further. That said it is a stunning and in the end life affirming thing. The performances are brilliant and I also like the dignity of the various pianos which seem unfazed by all the bad behaviour going on around them.

My DVD included a "making of" extra. Mr Polanski reminds me of someone I used to do a lot of business with, I have often wondered how come I had not encountered another Terry, so it added a little something to the experience for me to be comparing these two larger than life characters with their powerful energy, still faces and steely, sometimes intimidating demeanour. Cheeky and funny too though (certainly my friend is and I would guess so is Mr Polanski).

Peripatetic

2007-03-05T10:08:00.000Z

Two or three weeks ago on a Tuesday, I headed off for Scotland. As I left Brighton I slotted my recently purchased Simple Minds Greatest Hits CD into the player and "Don't you forget about me" sprang into the car. I was immediately transported to the Odeon in Leeds. You may know that that song features in the film The Breakfast Club, it always reminds me of going to see it and knowing throughout that I was going to be dumped by my girlfriend of the time, on the way home. I wasn't that depressed about it and could see that there was a certain art in the whole thing; I reckon the film inspired her to ditch me and it helped me to understand why.

By early evening I was sitting in the reception of a BT building in the centre of Leeds. From there Dominic and I drove to Harrogate, passing the previously mentioned cinema on the way, for a rendez-vous with Guy and his 42 inch TV which (until Dominic changed a setting) produced a picture in which everything and everyone had a green hue. The following morning after having enjoyed a very amusing evening in the Hotel du Vin and the Drum and Monkey, I had a poached egg on smoked haddock at the increasingly Stepford Wives Betty's. They have aparently refurbished again, the designer incorporating a mildly discomforting level of perfection. I felt out of place next to a table of two elderly couples; both the men wore matching silver hair and blue v necks and both the old ladies could have been confused for each other except that one was slightly more stooped. My mobile rang and this exacerbated the situation, an employee was immediately dispatched with a "no mobile phone policy" message for me. Their Full English Breakfast is £9.95.

I had some errands to run in Glasgow before I checked into the airport Travelodge. It was not busy but most of the rest of the guests seemed to be teenagers with plastic bags full of bottles of booze; whilst I checked-in the receptionist was telling a girl that she had had her vodka delivered to her room. That evening I had haggis at the bar in Rogano's.

Next morning I thought I'd just drive about a bit and see where I ended up. Entirely without intention, I found my self at the Kelvin Hall and so parked up and wandered about, ultimately reaching the recently refurbished Kelvin Gallery and Museum. I enjoyed a half hour in there, it made me realise that when I miss London sometimes, it is actually cities that I need a fix of, not neccessarily that particular one. Glasgow is quite unusual. The grid pattern streets, the handsom architecture, the optimism and grit and the culture define it quite distinctly. I didn't like the look of the cafe in the Gallery and went across the road for a brew before continuing my tour and then heading through the dark and the rain to Lochgilphead to stay at my mum's for a couple of nights.

A highly dangerous room in the Kelvin Museum & Gallery

All that driving can leave space in your head which is readily filled up by all sorts of notions. I find it a bit surreal that all these roads are occupied by people sliding along, their bottoms just above the surface, at ninety miles an hour. In order for me to get about I have arranged for myself to be accompanied by a tonne and a half of metal, leather, glass, rubber and carpet. This and many other similar devices hurtling about, in the control of variously affected beings seems inefficient at least and probably quite funny to the children of three or four generations from now; if they can forgive our profligacy.

Speeding along the A74, bright sky, occasional fluffy cloud, lines of pylons threading across those ancient hills, I couldn't help feeling that the days of enjoying Scotch Pie, baked beans and Scooby Doo are not just gone from my life due to the passage of time, but I felt like I'd rubbed my eyes and the reality of what it has and will all cost was starting to reveal itself to my imagination. I wondered about the liklihood of us all looking a bit like we were on Guy's TV quite soon.

Then last week I had a good couple of busy days at work and I have aparently drifted quite happily back into worrying about things like whether to go to my usual Indian or to try something different. (They gave us free drinks at the Indian; so feeling good about that one).

Bare faced cheek

2007-03-01T10:25:00.000Z

For some time I have been in the market for a manual beard trimming type device. On Jermyn Street this week, after a certain amount of traipsing around, I procured one of those old fashioned clipper/scissor hybrid things that used to be evident in barber shops when I was young. I was concerned that they wouldn't work well when the operator was trying to cut his own hairs but that concern proved to be unfounded. This morning, Gemma commented that my facial hair appeared to be much longer than yesterday, (when I had used the machine that looks a bit like a prop from a film about Victorian surgery, for the first time). "Yes,I think it's stubbled in length", I replied. Sharp would seem to be the word of the moment.

Manon des Sources *****

2007-03-01T09:48:00.000Z

Doctor: So how have you been feeling?

Patient: Well, to be honest I do seem to be under pressure a lot, my job is hard work, I think I am stressed, not sleeping well, I'm bloated all the time, even though I take Yakult.

Doctor: Mm.....I'm going to recommend that you look at this DVD. It is available without prescription but I will warn you, it is nevertheless, very powerful. Don't expect there to be much reaction at first but after a while you will start to feel the effects; you might feel a little unsettled but it should help you to see things in a clearer perspective.

Patient: Are there any side effects?

Doctor: You may feel quite sick and emotional for a while, you would be best to avoid taking any other drugs at the same time.

A week later.

Doctor: So how did you get on with the medication?

Patient: It was quite difficult to swallow, but I can see now that my condition is self inflicted and that the consequences of going along with things that I don't believe in could be be tragic and permanent, what should I do?

Doctor: Good question.

Jean de Florette *****

2007-02-26T18:03:00.000Z

I had a vague memory of seeing this film in the 80's but sitting down to watch it again this weekend I didn't recall anything about it, which made it all the more enjoyable. Set in a poor part of Provence it describes how people can behave when they want something badly and how they can readily lose sight of what is important; you might call that greed but it could just as well be a metaphor for the world in general.

You want to hug Gerard Depardieu who plays the ex tax collector who inherits a farm with no water supply and brings his young family to the country, committed to enjoying an idyllic pastoral existence. Daniel Auteuil is brilliantly abhorent in this film as the flawed young peasant, Ugolin. With his uncle "Papet", Yves Montand, the brains behind the scheme, he conspires to get hold of the land that Jean de Florette has inherited. He has conceiled the source, the spring which is the one thing that will make the land viable; which for Ugolin, unlike Jean, is not necessary for his survival. Every time that Ugolin thinks that Jean has given up the ghost because of some new obstacle or other, his opportunity to snatch the land is taken away by a new idea or the renewed enthusiasm of Jean.

This film is a work of art, the visual beauty, the build up of tension, the reality created by the the film makers and the performances of the actors, particularly Daniel Auteuil.

The climax sets up the sequel Manon des Source in a compelling way; I can't wait for it to arrive from Love Film.

White knuckle

2007-02-08T14:27:00.000Z

At odds with the lyric in that Stranglers' song, the clouds are interesting here today (and not just in Sweden). From my study I have been watching various showers and other meteoroligical phenomena chasing each other across the sea. I can also see the Palace Pier and its various "rides". On a day like this I wonder why anyone would want to have themselves hurled about and blood draining levels of "g" inflicted upon themselves. As I contemplated that big arm that spins round in a vertical plane with a pod full of nausea at each end I found myself thinking about my first trip on a big wheel. When I was about 5 or 6 I lived in Glasgow. Around Chirstmas time there would be a fair and circus at the Kelvin Hall, maybe there still is. Only recently did I realize that that absolute temperature scale and the conference venue were linked. Lord Kelvin must have been quite someone, scientist, businessman, benefactor and so on. Anyway, his hall is big enough to fit a fair and a circus in it at the same time. The only problem with this event was that my mother would try to persuade my brother and me to have a sleep in the afternoon so we had enough energy to stay up late; this, in my opinion was not a successful strategy and inevitably lead to angst. The best example of this was in 1974 when we had a holiday in Ibiza; there was to be a firework display in the town which would be visible from our apartment roof. I was ten and my brother seven, as the pyratechnics would be happening later than we would usually go to bed, we were despatched for one of those (albeit rare) afternoon naps which, in this particular intance, I remember escalating into a great deal of waling and gnashing of teeth. Later I met a girl from the next door apartment who had been waterskiing earlier in the day. When I asked her "how was your water-ski"? She replied to my utter embarrassment, "how was your sleep?" Anyway, back in the Kelvin Hall and this particular year the clowns, the undoubted highlight of the whole show, arrived with a car which they drove about the ring and sytematically destroyed. Entertainment that for this young person, could not be improved upon. Consequently, every subsequent visit to a circus anywhere was a disappointment as there was never another vehicle. I am not sure if it was the clown car year, but I agreed on one occasion, to go on the big wheel with my Dad, actually, I must have persuaded him to take me on it as I don't reckon he was that excited about it himself. Up until then, the most daring thing I had attempted had been the all too ephemeral experience of a ride down the helter skelter sitting in a folded-up front door mat; ten seconds wondering if the end was just round the corner, and then a grazed leg. Not brilliant compared with the likes of "Oblivion" at Alton Towers or better still the roller coaster that is entwined around and through the New York New York Hotel in Las Vegas (properly violent). So, once on board the big wheel, despite the fact that is was relatively slow, indoors and not in a force ten gale, I buried my face in my dad's tweedy coat and cried the entire time.

Coffee and Cigarettes***

2007-02-06T14:34:00.000Z

The third film of this name from Mr Jarmusch is the first one that I have seen. A series of what those film buffs would call vignettes, I found this a bit clunky to say the least, particularly as it would appear that much if what is going on is improvised by the (in some cases) rather self-conscious players. The segments are all in black and white and feature coffee and cigarettes as the main props (get it); some it has to be said, were quite enjoyable, there is one with Steve Coogan and Alfred Molina which I particularly liked.

Should I post this?

2007-02-06T13:27:00.000Z

Dominic mentioned recently on Critical Mass that Peter Hammill tells us that the older you get the better able you are to make decisions but the fewer choices there are available to you.

What are the things that have the most impact over who we are and how we spend our time and over which we have control? Some would say that you choose your parents and that this life is entirely predestined but if we put that to one side for the moment, the answer is 'decisions'. At any given moment, we can take a decision or not. More so than working hard (although you can decide to do that) or the amount of effort we put into our daily lives generally, the decisions we choose to take have more of an impact on us than anything else we can do.

If I had not decided to move to London when I was 22 I would be living somewhere else, doing a different job, living with a different person and so on, (assuming I hadn't been run over and killed the day after I had been due to move).

Most of the best times I have had have resulted from decisions I have made, and certainly most of the worst times can be attributed to not making a decision at all, more so than making bad decisions. So my ability to make decisions is the single thing (over which I have some control) which has most influence in my life.

But when I was at school, for some reason, they wanted to teach me what year the Prussians invaded Bolivia instead of how to take decisions.

(The Barefoot Doctor suggests that you might as well decide to be happy, which should be a relatively easy decision to take even if you believe that everything is predestined).

The Vanishing****

2007-02-01T15:12:00.000Z

Last night's dvd was The Vanishing, not the 1993 Jeff Bridges, Keiffer Sutherland remake but the original 1988 one. I have seen it twice before and despite the fact that it is one of those films that you watch in anticipation of finding out what happens at the end, I still enjoyed it. The baddy is perfectly creepy in a "Harry, he's here to help" kind of way and the goody himself becomes slightly unhinged in the persuit of an understanding of the destiny of his vanished girlfriend. At 107 mins it has a perfect pace (and is a shocker the first time you see it).

Not one to watch with someone who is paranoid about being abducted.

Grattis på födelsedagen

2007-02-01T10:18:00.000Z

All of us at Cloud Hands would like to wish the Yorkshire (and some time Sweden) readership, happy birthday.

Belleville Rendez-vous****

2007-01-31T13:12:00.000Z

This is a 70 minute French cartoon about an old lady and her dog, on a mission to find the lady's son who has been kidnapped and taken to the States whilst taking part in the Tour de France.

Are you still there? The creator has not allowed himself to be burdened by too much reality and consequentially this is a really fantastic little film. It has a quirky style, full of beautifully realised, funny references to real life. Worth watching just to witness Bruno the dog going about his business.

(If you are thinking about watching it with a youngster, don't worry about the subtitles because there is very little dialogue).

One to watch with all sorts of folk.

Ladri di biciclette****

2007-01-30T11:36:00.000Z

On Sunday I watched the famous Bicycle Thieves on DVD. The whole 90 or so minutes are taken up with the business of the main character's bike and how its theft affects him and his family. How could something so futile become the premise for what is considered by many to be an all time great film? For me it would have to be the allegorical nature of the thing as much of what goes on can be viewed as a metaphor for some of the rediculous things that go on in life. Although I also enjoyed the look of it, it's not exactly 21st Century stuff. Not one to watch with someone who has Attention Deficit Disorder.

Captions welcome.........

2007-01-26T15:05:00.000Z

Blue hat to the white hat "that's right baby, come to mamma...."

The loser's guide to getting lucky (click here)

2007-01-26T14:30:00.000Z

Do you feel lucky? Well do you punk.........? I spotted this article earlier and present it here in order that the Cloud Hands readership might enjoy a little extra luck.

Getting what you want

2007-01-24T09:44:00.000Z

I have joined LoveFilm.com recently. I am signed up to the service whereby you get two films at a time. It is all very straight forward, you populate your list on the website with films you want to see (you can prioritise them) and then they send you them in an envelope which you use to return the disc(s) at your leisure, post free. There is a facility on their site whereby you can order additional envelopes, you may have received two in one envelope but only want to return one. I have been exchanging emails with them on this very subject.

Hi

I have asked for spare envelopes twice and not received any, as it
means that I am not able to return discs as soon I would like, I am
not getting the full benefit of two discs at a time. Can I have more
envelopes?

Regards

Adrian

Dear Adrian,

Thank you for your email.

If you could please return the DVD in a protective case with a note of your
full name, email address and the DVD reference number to the free post
address:-

FREEPOST RRAZ-ZJJS-XESH
LOVEFiLM International Ltd
Peterborough
PE2 6UG.

If you have any other questions then please do let us know.

Kind regards,

Georjo

Thank you. (Does that mean that you won't be sending me additional envelopes)?

Adrian

Dear Adrian,

Thank you for your email.

This is to inform you that you can of course send more than one disc back in the same return envelope, in the same way that they arrive. Our new plastic sleeves allow you to fit up to four discs in one envelope. Alternatively, you may send the discs back individually if you wish. You can order any extra return envelopes you may require on our Envelope Request page. You can find this here: www.lovefilm.com/account/envelope_request_form.html

Should you require any further information, please do not hesitate to contact us again.

Kind regards,

Ash
--
Customer Services
LOVEFiLM.com
The new way to rent DVDs
www.LOVEFiLM.com

If you check back to my initial email you will see that I have ordered additional envelopes twice already and none have come. All I want to know is whether you are sending me any?

Dear Adrian,

Thank you for your recent email.

Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience caused.

This is to inform you that the title "I'm Not Scared (aka Io Non Ho Paura) (Subtitled) (Sell Through)" is dispatched to you on 22/01/2007.

Should you have further queries, please do contact us again.

Kind regards,

Sushma
--
Customer Services
LOVEFiLM.com
The new way to rent DVDs
www.LOVEFiLM.com

Hello

Banana, telescope, litmus test. (Hopefully this email will defy your standard email system and you will check my question from my original mail).

Adrian

Postscript:

I have today been informed that I cannot have additional envelopes.

Dinner Rush ****

2007-01-16T16:10:00.000Z

A couple of weeks ago I joined LoveFilm.com having thought about it for a couple for years. What pushed me over the edge was that I realised that I like to watch my nice TV but that lately, I end up watching stuff I don't really want to see; due to laziness. I decided that I would be making much better use of the machine if I watched things I actually wanted to. As I considered this, my mind started to drift to films that I have seen in the past and would like to see again, but that I might not necessarily remember the name of; if I could track them down then Love Film might have them.

In about the year 2000 I watched a film at a smaller Leceister Square cinema that I really enjoyed set in an Italian restaurant in Manhattan. The only thing I could remember was that one of the characters was played by an actor I had seen in a couple of episodes of Sex and the City. With the help of iMDB I tracked down Dinner Rush and it was the first of the Love Film disks to arrive.

There are no particularly big stars except perhaps for Danny Aiello who has appeared in many Italian/mafiosi movies over the years (you might remember him in the role of Papa in Madonna's Papa Don't Preach video). This is a film about revenge that builds patiently, it is only an hour and half long, the first hour and twenty minutes is scene setting, the denouement is delicious.

The hole truth

2007-01-16T12:41:00.000Z

If you drive north from Sedona in Arizona for an hour or two through a beautiful lush valley, you will eventually emerge at Flagstaff. This town has a kind of gritty reality about it, Route 66 passes through here as does a railway line and from time to time those seemingly interminable trains, sounding their horns. There may be snow on the ground, some people will be wearing cowboy hats. Here is a good place from which to launch your assault on the Grand Canyon (an hour or so further north) or to visit the Museum of Northern Arizona or the Lowell Observatory . It isn't flash here, it is a university town and feels like it represents the end of something and start of something else. Point your hire car east, stick on the cruise control and another hour and a half or so later having passed no landmarks whatsoever, turn left and head north on one of straightest most featureless roads you'll ever drive. After 60 or 70 miles you will end up in Hopi territory. By the way, when I did this I was faced at one point by a dilemma; a car coming towards me, perhaps half a mile away, was weaving about the road as though it was drunk. I had plenty of time to think about this problem, opting in the first instance, to flash my headlights and pump my horn in the hope of rousing the dosing operator of the other vehicle. After a few seconds I was considering my next move. Fortunately the other car had regained its composure for long enough to satisfy me that I was unlikely to be involved in a head-on collision as plan B involved heading off into the desert roughly perpendicular to the tarmac, coming to rest several tens of yards away, where I would probably have languished in deep sand until rescued by some kind of off road truck. Anyway, the Hopis live in rudimentary settlements and villages on top of escarpments or "mesas". Imagine a run down council estate perched on beachy head but, in your mind's eye, replace any colour (eg sea, white cliffs, grass etc) with mile upon mile of beige......sand and rock.

Unattractive as this may seem, I found it to be very alluring. There is a simplicity and power about the place that is hard comprehend without taking yourself there. The history of the Hopi People,(the word Hopi means peace) tells of their travels throughout the world searching for a place to settle before selecting this desert. Later on their territory became smaller and more isolated as they were surrounded by the more modern minded and aquisitive Navaho. Did you know that there is no alcohol on the Navaho reservations? I checked into a hotel, went for dinner and asked for a beer to accompany my beans. The big Indian lady looked at me like I'd called her mother a terrorist whore; part of the no alcohol thing is aparently to do with the problems that that and other drugs have caused in their communities over the years.

Anyway, I am painting this picture in an attempt to set the scene which leads me not entirely neatly to the work of James Turrell I mentioned in a post featuring a trip to Paris last year. I cannot claim to be an afficionado, however, I know he does appreciate something about the area. He is a pilot and in his DVD "Passages", he tells us about how he spent months flying all over the north west of the states looking for the ideal place to contruct his works. He settled on this area because, although it did not meet the criteria he had set for himself prior to embarking on his search, he felt a "power" which allowed him to experiment with light in a unique way. His work is not about any particular medium but about the manipulation of light itself and the individual's perception of it, about "going inside" as he called it (which is the Hopi way to describe meditation). He creates or uses spaces in the land; craters or Kiva. The viewer, experiencing light in those spaces, is introduced to an aspect of it, not necessarily perceptible elsewhere. "Going into the space is like going into yourself; the light you see reveals yourself". Mr Turrell points out that light from stars, captured in one of his kivas is unique and may have been travelling across space for thousands of years. Perhaps witnessing a small slice of the sky gives it an intensity. Experiencing his work facilitates a connection between the viewer and the cosmos.

Coming soon: (more on) the work of Mark Rothko (trust me, it is relevant).

Ciao, grazie

2007-01-11T14:02:00.000Z

It is 1994, I am in a cab on the way from the offices of a new internet company in Cambridge back to the station. Rolling along I chat with my colleague Charles about various things, Liverpool football club, Ayrton Senna and other topics that interest us individually but which we find aspects of that we share an enthusiasm for. I had first encountered this guy when I joined a new company in 1993. He was head of one of the three business divisions, I was a saleman in another. He had levels of enthusiasm and energy that were very unusual, his team were very loyal to him, he was probably ten years younger than the heads of the other two divisions.

Whilst at that company, despite not initially working in the same area, we shared a few taxi rides and generated much business. When the initial phase of the business was over, many changes were made and we both left and went our seperate ways, but kept in touch. He set up his own business and I worked for two or three others before joining him again in 1999. There followed what was probably the most intense year of my life during which we, and others, formed a partnership with a large established media business, raised venture capital funding and charged about the place trying to change the world, before the money ran out and everything crashed to a halt. I remember the meeting at the lawyers' office in the City when the funding had been signed up, it was in a very large penthouse type meeting room, they had a butler there and I seem to remember being told I could order anything I fancied. We were all so knackered with it all though that we just went to the pub afterwards for one, rhater downbeat drink.

That little business employed some great people which was largely down to Charles's charisma, everyone believed that amazing things were going to happen and I reckon that if we used the same business plan about now, the technology and the market would be ready for it (unlike then). I remember going to Cannes with him to some exhibition or other. We got pretty drunk one evening (I had been serving drinks in the bar as the barman was frequently elsewhere) and the following morning we got up after everyone else. We (or rather he) decided there wasn't much point in going to meetings as our colleagues would be there and report back to us later. He asked if I wanted to suggest anything, so we got the train along the coast to Beaulieu sur Mer and then got a taxi up to the Voile D'Or on Cap Ferrat where we had a delicious lunch overlooking the port. We left there in time to get back to Nice Airport in the late afternoon, we had been the only people in the dining room. It was a very Charles 24 hours; he was full of wisdom and big plans.

There is no question at all that he was unusually bright, he had a kind of confidence bordering on arrogance, but you couldn't help wanting to see him win. The office was round the corner form the Eagle, next door to the Guardian. I remember he got in an argument with the proprietor about some thing or other which he proposed to resolve by "buying the fucking pub". We had to drag him out of there.

By the time the company was being dismantled our relationship had become rather tense, what with the various pressures and we lost touch for a while except through mutual friends.

In 2002 I heard that he had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour, that his wife was divorcing him and that he couldn't work properly due to having frequent seizures.
I made contact again (thanks to our friend Tina) and we started to see each other fairly regularly. Typically we would meet up, have a few drinks or a meal, he would tell me about his various projects (of which there were many). I'd stay at his or he would come to Brighton for an evening.
On one occasion I met him at the Hotel du Vin in mid afternoon. By late afternoon, as it was very busy, we were joined by a small hen party (which had nowhere else to sit). The bride to be was marrying someone called Charles and her dad's name was Adrian, she took this as some kind of omen and we spent most of the evening with them, it was one of those slightly weird incidences when you feel you know everyone. Another time I accompanied him to Copenhagen ostensibly to hang out but also to visit a Matisse exhibition. I have mentioned that trip elsewhere in this organ.

His seizures had got him into all sorts of trouble; falling off his pushbike (he was not allowed to drive), falling over generally and bashing himeself quite badly. One Saturday though, I was on the Kings Road when he rang me. That was the one and only occasion he asked me for anything or gave any indication that he might be a bit cheesed off about his circumstances, he was amazingly diginifed, despite everything. He was calling from Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, he had been transferred there three weeks before, due to the serious burns he had sustained when he had managed to pour a kettle of boiling water over his leg when he had a fit making himself a cup of tea. I met him in a pub just along Fulham Rd from the hospital. When I arrived, he was sitting at a table outside with someone he'd persuaded to go in an buy him a drink; he was in a wheelchair. When it was time to leave we headed off back to the hospital looking (I suspect) quite a lot like those two little Britain characters. When we pulled up outside the hospital he started to say cheerio and I offered to take him in to his room. He thought about it for a second and then said ok, but that if asked, I was to say I was his cousin and he had not been drinking.

About a year ago he came to Brighton. He seemed different, it felt kind of final, we went for a couple of beers, he told me about his plans for the year, he was going off to Spain for six months or so to continue to write one of the books he was working on. There was a kind of a calmness maybe even resignedness about him that I did not recognise. He asked me about my business and I reported a particular problem that I had been on my mind. He told me in no uncertain terms what I needed to change to fix it, I still think about that advice.

In September I was trying to find the handbrake in a hired people-carrier in the station car-park in Jasper, British Columbia when my phone rang and I noticed that it was Tina, I would not have expected a call from her as she knew I was out of the country, I had a bit of a moment and started to breathe a bit harder.

The other day I was outside Boots in Brighton when a young Charles doppelganger strode passed. I felt like congratulating him on the achievements and contribution to other people's lives he was due to make in his own. I will always remember the fun we had and appreciate the strength he is aparently still able to share with me.

Jackass Number Two ***

2006-12-11T13:09:00.000Z

I really laughed out loud at some of this latest Jack Arse (as Ralph calls it) production. Some of the sketches were only quite amusing and some I could have done without, but it was definitely worth it overall; I love all the rocket propelled shopping trolley kind of stuff. Johnny Knoxville seems to be an interesting nutter; he obviously works hard at what he does, succeeding in getting his mates to do some very painful things to themselves. At one point he and two or three of his cronies are planning to stand in front of a device that is designed to protect besieged embassies by firing dozens of little pellets at high speed at the offending marauders. We witness the machine being discharged at a dummy target and shredding it. "Why should we do this?" someone asks. "It's footage", replies Mr Knoxville before taking the full brunt of the thing; it knocked him over and left penny sized welts all over his chest. As each skit happened I tried to imagine if I would be prepared to have a go at it, there wasn't one. Not a film to watch with your mum.

"Rectal bleeding......another first for Jackass".

Jet set

2006-11-28T14:00:00.000Z

My Mum had just boarded the shuttle bus that takes you from Glasgow airport into town. She noticed that the volume level of the conversation between the driver and a guy who had just got on was increasing.

"What ja mean you wullny take a twenny pound note, what sort of fucking bus is this anyway?"
"It's the sort of fucking bus that goes te Buchanan Street Station"
"See youz, youz are a fucking arse..."
"Do you wann me to call security, 'sthat what you wann"?

There was a pause and the man with the twenty climbed off the bus. A couple more moments passed and a voice at the back announced just loudly enough for the rest of the bus to hear.

"Ah it's good te be home right enough"

Casino Royale ****

2006-11-27T11:32:00.000Z

On Saturday I celebrated the fact that I was still breathing on my 44th (consecutive) November 23rd. I started by going to the fantastic place that is the Odeon Leicester Square to give the new bond film a whirl. In the last scene of the film Mr Craig's character shoots someone in the leg before introducing himself in the customary "Bond, James Bond" way. I thought to myself, yes you are, you may have ginger hair, alright fair hair, but based on the last two hours I reckon you have earned the right to the name. I found that I was bothered about what was happening which is a good thing (as a friend of mine would say). Everyone has been raving about the grittiness and edginess and I would boringly have to concur with them, I did feel pain. I would say that if I were to be planning to enter Blofeld's lair then, given the choice, I would be taking this bond with me, on the basis that as he quite tasty, I wouldn't have to rely so much on rediculous luck to survive (also, I reckon I'd be in with more of a chance when it came to dishing out the totty).

The thing about that particular Odeon is that you can sometimes enjoy an amazing atmosphere. In the 1987 or there abouts I went there with a few people to see Aliens. If you have seen said movie, you might remember Sigourney Weaver emerging from behind a warehouse door strapped into a kind of forklift truck with legs and announcing to the alien in question; "get away from her you bitch". That prompted the biggest cheer I've ever heard in a cinema. Casino Royale didn't quite achieve that, but I reckon being at that cinema improved the experience.

On to Kettners to join some more pals for a bottle of vintage Louis Roederer and then to Imli, a kind of Indian Tapas bar. We were served by Monica from Madrid who looks like she might be Fernando Alonso's big sister. The food was unusual but very palatable and included comedy breast-shaped ice cream. Then to La Casa del Habano which is a kind of cigar bar. There was a lady rolling massive stogies in the corner (not on her thighs) so naturally I approached her to pass the time of day. It would appear that her English does not extend as far as "hello". Perhaps I'd better steer clear of Bond baddies' places all together.

Hard Candy ****

2006-11-14T17:25:00.000Z

An everyday story of a 14 year old girl systematically destroying a man she suspects of abuse. First you can't believe it, then you want to look away but you can't. Amazingly, the shock factor doesn't overshadow the brilliant performances. Go on.....rent it if you think you're man enough.

"So they weren't brass then!"

Colourful

2006-11-02T14:27:00.000Z

This morning, as I sometimes do, I went up to the South Downs for a bracing walk.

I set off west along the South Downs way before veering off down Fulking Hill towards the village (I did wonder if the Fulking Phone Box might be working or not) then a mile or so back east to Poynings before climbing up the flank of Devils Dyke.

Little bag of pretzels

2006-11-02T07:21:00.000Z

It is a beautiful clear day. I'm in a plane on my way from New York to Vancouver. My faced pressed against the window, I line up its edge with one of the many long straight roads 30 000 ft below and imagine I am down there; hurtling along at 500mph, scorching through the landscape, blowing up a big trail of dust. Sigur Ross is moaning away most satisfactorily through my headphones.

Last time I travelled this far west I wasn't that happy about being so far from home. On my way back I had to stop in Boston, my then business partner and I had a little spare time so we drove up the coast to Portland (Maine, having been in Portland Oregon a few days before). It is just like driving along a bit of UK coast,(I suppose it was part of the UK a billion years ago)and I felt much better with the familiarity of the landscape and the knowledge that I was just a flight across the Atlantic away from home. This time I am aware that in another metal tube, right now, people from home are following me across the sky, four hours behind me, having set off from Heathrow a couple of hours before I left New York.

It's flat out there at the moment, endless oblong fields, stretched out like a picnic blanket, purples, oranges, greens and yellows. There's another of those extremely meandering rivers that appears to have charcoaled a wiggly line on the material. I have been told that when a river meanders it becomes pi times longer than a straight line between the same two points. Sometimes this seems to make sense, other times not.

The Matador ****

2006-10-19T14:45:00.000+01:00

Piers Brosnan in the tragi-comic role of a burnt out assassin who meets up with Mr Normal in order that we can be amused by what happens when their very different lives overlap. It made me laugh several times and I was intrigued all the way. I am sure he would not have been allowed to make this whilst still under contract to the Brocolli dynasty. "I shit you not Danny, Monte Christo?"

A story in pictures

2006-10-16T14:46:00.000+01:00

At first Julian was reluctant to get close to someone he didn't know.

But soon he was warming to her, perhaps Naked Cowgirl was different from other girls.

It didn't take long however, before the inevitable, difficult conversations started.

Intense City

2006-10-09T14:41:00.000+01:00

So the three stooges clamber out of the taxi at the hotel. We are a little, only a little disappointed in the hotel. Guy changes room though, so he has a view along the Queensboro Bridge, quite dramatic. It is interesting how important a view is to people, (even to people who don't actually appreciate the view for what it is). A large element of the price of a house can be what you can see when you peer out of it. I like city views, we decant from the hotel and head to Columbus Circus where we enter a tall building to emerge in the lobby of the Mandarin Continental Hotel on the twenty somethingth floor. There is a bar here and a spectacular vista from my seat looking along the seem between the south edges of Central Park and the concrete encrustation.
A view makes you dream and I was dreaming of how it would be to live over the other side of the park in one of those handsome apartment buildings on Fifth Avenue, looking back here.

By the time we left Jane, our energetic waitress at the Hudson Hotel, our next venue, the view was a little wobblier. On her advice we were going for a burger somewhere in Greenwich Village. The taxi ride was a little surreal, the neon of Times Square was starting to take advantage of the sun's decline, my window was down and the nice breeze was necessary to maintain my focus.

I can hear my TV trying to sell me the idea of staying in my room and ordering a film instead of venturing out into the city, over and over. After what seems like a long time, I decide I can cope with it no more, I jolt myself into consciousness and notice that I am face down on my bed still fully clothed. The alarm clock tells me it is three am. Although I have tunred off the tv, I struggle to sleep much more as my own clock tells me it is eight.

Eventually I go down to the lobby. Julian is there but no Guy. I go to his room but cannot rouse him. I persuade the hotel staff to open his door only after I suggest that he could be dead in there. He is niether dead nor alive. He eventually catches up with us in a diner, I don't quite believe his story about where he has been. Most of today is about different, smaller but still powerful views; mainly the Metropolitan Museum. There is much too much to see in one go in there. For me those two Rothko's were very conspicuous; biding there time is what they seem to do, hanging out with that other contemporary and much less scary work waiting for the day when who knows what. Julian is very much on duty and spends the longest there, I come in second but get tired eventually. Guy was soon off; to meet someone.

Dinner that evening was at a fairly posh steakhouse (Guy needed it after the previous night's down and dirty burger experience. He immediately hits it off with our waiter; "Who's in tonight?" "That guy over there with the much younger guy is Neil Sedaka".

After I got back from Baltimore the next day I had a quick look at the Momo which was bonkers busy and therefore no use to me. Dinner and a couple of bars and I withdrew leaving the other two to get on with it. At five the next day I would be heading for JFK and a flight to Vancouver.

Spot the man with political aspirations

God bless Phillis

2006-09-10T21:47:00.000+01:00

Speeding through the early morning auburn landscape on a train from New York to Baltimore, headphones on, Boards of Canada 1969 tapping out the rhythm. The painted timber houses along the edge of the track all peachy hues in the low sun, cars and windows firing shots of bright white light into the carriage. I got up at 5.30 and by 6.00 I was out on the sidewalk cosmically ordering a cab. One lurched out from a nearby petrol station and rolled up next to me, I slid in and asked to go to Penn Station. The driver was sitting up straight at his wheel, oddly keen looking. "Am I your first fare of the day?" I inquired. "Yes", very African sounding, he turned and flashed a big smile at me. By the time I clambered out of that cab twenty minutes later, I knew quite a bit about him; Phillis, he said his name was. Twelve years ago he won a Green Card lottery, came to New York, got himself the required $470 000 loan for a cab driver's medallion and set about working 18 hours a day (except Sundays when he goes to church). Four months ago he paid it off; now he can rent out the cab for $800 a week and will use the money to go to school so he can get a better job. He is from Ghana and can't believe what good fortune he has had "anyone with a job and their health is very fortunate" he kept repeating. He should be on tv.

The Plan

2006-09-05T14:24:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow morning I will visit my local shoe repair shop where I will have a set of keys cut.

At some point in the day, I will board a train to Victoria accompanied by a small suitcase and my folding, folded A-Bike. En route I will flick through the Times and attempt to beat the recommended time for the Killer Sudoku puzzle.

On arrival at Victoria I will cross the station concourse and deposit my suitcase at left luggage.

Having unfolded my bike I will pedal across St James park in a Piccaddilly kind of a direction. There, possible uses of the next two or three hours include a Waterstone's visit, a meeting with Tim for a cup of coffee and a visit to a mole clinic. (You can aparently visit such a place and for £45 have a particular mole investigated; this is what I feel needs to be done as I am left unconvinced by my GP's appraisal of the itchy red mole at the top of my right arm).

At some point I will swing my leg over the saddle of my light weight transport and head to Chelsea where I will take in the ambiance before meeting Mig for dinner at 7pm (venue yet to be agreed). After dinner, (although he does not know the first bit yet) Mig will drive me to Victoria where I will collect my suitcase and from there to Langley near Slough, where my new keys will hopefully facilitate entry to Gemma's parents' house. The following morning at about 7.30 I will be magicked to Heathrow's 4th terminal by a local taxi driver (probably originating from the Indian Sub-Continent) where I will meet Guy and Julian.

After the minimum of hassle we will board a large aeroplane whose destination is New York. Whilst skimming through the air high above the Altantic we will be hatching a mini plan which will include bars, shops and museums for the nearly three days we will be in the place that is so good they named it twice. A taxi will take us from JFK to the Bentley Hotel on East 62nd Street (whose Expedia room rate halved after the recent 'increased security at airports' unpleasantness).

(The next bit of the plan will be filled in in due course)

On Saturday morning I will rise early and get myself to Penn Station where I will climb aboard Baltimore bound train. Once in Baltimore, I will have brunch with Neil and Holly and their two children Elizabeth and Ian before jumping on the a return train for the two and a half hour trip back to Manhattan.

After an anticipated saturnalian Saturday night I will part company with Julian and Guy, head back to the airport and sit down in a plane bound for Vancouver.

Several hours after reaching Canada, I will be joined by Gemma, my brother, his girlfriend Claire, and my Mum.

Two weeks in Vancouver, Jasper, Banff and surrounding areas including a train from Vancouver to Banff through the Rockies and an intimate experience with a glacier.

September 24th, fly from Vancouver to Heathrow.

Bank Holiday fun

2006-08-28T21:09:00.000+01:00

There are horrendous things happening all over the world but I wish to report what has fallen short of expectations in my immediate area today. Had a meeting this morning that went ok but got irritated in the car on the way there because of the number of things in my pocket. I removed my wallet and placed it by the handbrake reckoning that would help. Half way there I was breathing like a grampus in the belief that my mobile phone was languishing at home, busily and blatently ignoring important calls. Found my mobile under my wallet but my gratitude was short lived as I quickly returned to my "number of things in pockets" fixation. After the meeting went for lunch at the Royal Oak in Poynings which is a favourite. Today (being bank holiday) there was a definite feeling eminating from the building of "brace yourselves, all we've got to do is make it through the day and we'll have record takings". This was at odds with the actual number of customers present, perhaps they were staying away in anticipation of it being too busy. My fish was a bit small and my chips not properly cooked. When our waitress asked if everything was ok, I explained my problem but she had not been programmed with a response, I might as well have piped up with "that's my brother-in-law, Billy-Bob; he's got the fastest boat on the river", when asked if I had enjoyed my meal. I was also aware of being a little distracted by an enormous man at a nearby table. He had been waiting with his (also very big) partner before the doors openned to the pub. As we sat down he was aleady installed at his table with four bottles of Coke and was wolfing crisps in a determined fashion. His entire meal seemed to be a kind of systematic assault on the dishes placed in front of him. It was chillingly impressive, the relentless dissection, the continuous movement, no talking, just chewing whilst preparing the next forkful, absolutely no rest. I tried to ignore this display but couldn't help myself. At one point I witnessed what I thought was the begining of a pause, but it turned out to be the moment it took to carefully scrutinise his knife before licking it end to end at a steady speed, a speed cleverly designed to maximise matter removal as well as time available to arrange what food remained on his plate, with croupier-like efficiency, with his fork. I am very slightly afraid, just recalling what I saw.

After driving home and doing nothing in particular for a while, we went into town and in due course Carluccio's. My macchiato was definitely not the Milano blend I had ordered and Gemma's cappuccino was effectively a cup of hot slightly soiled milk.

Everything is cyclic

2006-08-16T09:09:00.000+01:00

The top news story is that I had an email from Parcel Force yesterday afternoon. At first I thought that it was some kind of spam but on closer inspection I realised that it carried news of my new A-Bike (the latest brain child of that modern day hero Sir Clive Sinclair - I once saw him quite late one evening on Jermyn Street with a very beautiful woman) which I ordered a little over a month ago. Further probing took me to a website where I can track its movements. It left the "West London Hub" last evening and is currently awaiting collection from the "National Hub", wherever that is.

In the paper today.....

2006-08-14T12:22:00.000+01:00

......there is an article about the funniest jokes in the world. One I had heard before was the one where someone rings 999 and says that he thinks that his friend might be dead, what should he do? "First let's make sure he really is dead" says the operator. There is a pause and then the sound of a gun shot. "He's definitely dead, now what"? That one was attributed to Spike Milligan.

The other joke made me laugh out loud in La Fourchette and the waiter gave me a disapproving look. A woman gets on the bus with her baby. As she is paying, the driver mentions that he thinks that she has the ugliest baby he's ever seen. Fuming, the woman sits down and announces to the person in the next seat that the driver has just insulted her. "That's terrible", says the other passenger "I'll hold your monkey whilst you go and give him a piece of your mind". Those were voted best in the world and best in Britain respectively. There was a best in England one but no best in Scotland one quoted; the England one didn't really do it for me.

I also noticed over the weekend that some advert or other suggested that if you called them to place an order "you could do it all over the phone". In my experience, once those buttons start to jam, no amount of fiddling with them will allow you to dial from that particular aparatus in confidence ever again.

Me and You and Everyone We Know *****

2006-08-13T17:08:00.000+01:00

A real achievement; this is a unique experience, not so much a film as a visit. Witness the fragility of these characters and recognise how delicate this whole banana of a life of ours is. We are in a bit of a Grand Canyon, Ice Storm, American Beauty and even Donnie Darko kind of a zone here but with the "should I be laughing or crying?" knob turned right up.

Miami Vice ****

2006-08-12T20:10:00.000+01:00

Unlike Mission Impossible, this film is an example of how to capitalise on more than just a name in the memory of your potential audience. But whilst the Miami Vice brand is evident, I think that it is quite daring of Mr Mann to push things along like this, it feels quite different, more contemporary, than Heat or even Collateral. The pace is modest (comparatively) and the viewer is invited to enjoy the slightly grainy cinematography. The beautiful and unusual shots (the traditional Miami Vice meat and veg) are still ubiquitous; nice cars and boats travelling fast or the city in crepuscular light, but it seems that more effort has gone into the feel of it. The acting is good; I liked the female baddy Isabella played by someone called Li Gong. Even the inevitable shooty gunny bit has been upgraded; sounding more John Simpson than Steven Segal.

I have read some uncomplimentary reviews, even one complaining about Colin Farrell's moustache (this viewer thought it was quite cool if a little too tidy) but I enjoyed this film. I had a slight problem with Crockett and Tubbs' boss; imagine the love child of Homer Simpson and Captain Doby (from Starsky and Hutch), but not so much as to spoil things.

I had promised to see it this week with Julian and so was feeling mildly guilty about going on Friday without him, but I felt better about myself afterwards as I enjoyed it sufficiently to see it again.

Marlin 1, Fisherman 0

2006-08-08T08:47:00.000+01:00

Always nice to see a fish striking a blow for the aquatic world

Tasse demi-plein

2006-08-03T12:20:00.000+01:00

At 6am on the Sunday before last, once Gemma had sorted herself out after falling down the front steps (fortunately and amazingly no debilitating damage done), she and my dad and I set off for Paris. First stop Newhaven, to catch the Ferry to Dieppe. I have made this crossing a number of times, always on the now discontinued 2 hour Hoverspeed boat. The only service now is a 4.5 hour Transmanche Ferry. I had assumed that as it was so slow it would be big and posh. Instead we endured uncomfortable seats in a restaurant which we shared with people who made equal facility of both fork and knife to deliver food to their mouths. The fare itself is of the swimming around in greese type that went out of fashion a couple of decades ago. Don't get excited when the boat seems to arrive a little early, there is a half hour of manoeuverings before you can clank out of the hold on to the French tarmac.

Lunch was light but pleasant and took place in a little restaurant in Forge les Eaux, this time we were accompanied by people demonstrating reassuringly French wackiness; curly moustaches, loud checked jackets and the like.

Then a further hour and a half of driving through beautiful countryside; the weather was moody which gave the landscape a dreaminess. Eventually we migrated on to more serious roads for the last few tens of kilometers arriving in the banlieux below ground via those fantastic subterranean motorways before popping up somewhere between La Defense and the Arch de Triumph, turning right on to the Periferique for the last spurt to Port de Sevres, location of my brother's temporary home.

Our hotel had an arrangement with a car park beneath the Parc Andre Citroen , site of a former Citroen factory. This is a carpark where they play classical music. I reckon if one were to draw a Venn diagram of the clients of that facility and of Transmanche ferries, the area of the intersection between to two circles would be very small. In the course of sorting things out with the manager there, my French ran our of steam and I sought the assistance of a nearby couple. Fortunately, although from Torquay, he had lived in Paris for 20 years and everything became clear. His wife was Venezualan. If you have ever heard me banging on about my (not fully developed) shared soul theory, he is an "archetype", someone you feel you know even though you don't, charismatic and enigmatic. We bumped into them a further twice on our way to the Eiffel Tower. Did you know that it was the tallest construction on the planet when it was completed before eventually being overtaken by the Chrysler Building in New York?

The next day we ambled the streets of Le Marais enjoying the many cool shops before hooking up with my dad at L'Hotel de Ville and heading for the Centre George Pompidou. Adjacent to that visceral development is to be found the Atelier Brancusi. I recognised the name of an artist whose work was being promoted there: James Turrell. I was introduced to him (not personally) when I first took an interest in things Arizonan, he works with the land and builds craters and things. We visited his installation at the atelier and as we filed out, there was a video running about some of the works he has done in the South West of the United States. I might attempt a post on this subject later but for the time being I can share with you that it featured the area of "mesas" occupied by those Hopi Indians. Indeed, for one of his most famous works at Roden Crater, he collaborated with a hopi chieftan. Mr Turrell describes the Hopis as "sky people" because they live on these extremely dramatic plateaux. I found this so fascinating that I watched the whole thing through, attempting to take notes. I imagined how stimulting it would be to own a a dvd of the film. We decanted from there into Richard Rogers' vast atrium and eventually to one of the shops where a copy of the "Passageways" DVD found its way into my hand without my having even looked for it.

Painted-on clouds

Dinner would take place at Brasserie Flo where I have been many times. Located down a tiny street in a not particularly salubrious part of town, it is almost a charicature of itself. The waiters look like horror film extras. My brother and I both had the steak tartare (medium spiciness); you don't need breakfast the next morning when you've had that.

It's a burger Jim......

On the way there, as we approached the Balard Metro station, a young tyke snatched the twenty euros I was clutching in my left hand (and had intended to use to buy our tickets) and sprinted off. I have to say that I was quite pleased with myself about this; in my younger days this would have generated a knee jerk reaction in me which would have resulted in a ruined evening, even if I had retrieved those notes. However, it was not a big deal, after all, he could have taken the 200 euros I had had in my hand a moment before or worse attempted to relieve my 82 year old dad of his cash or hurt someone; I could go on.

Le Pont de Bir-Hakeim

Before running the gauntlet of the Champs Elysees the following morning on our way out of town, we took a walk across the Bir-Hakeim Bridge ending up at Trocadero before boarding the Metro for the last time and enjoying the view from that elevated section of line number 6 that goes from Charles De Gaule Etoile to Nation (recrossing the viaduct). The Croque Monsieur I had in Rouen combined with the ferry home gave me a nasty tummy.

It all worked out nicely considering Gemma might have hurt herself badly when she fell, the 20 euro incident could have escalated badly and I might have started to have diahorrea in the car instead of on my front steps.

Good Bye and Good Night ****

2006-07-27T14:56:00.000+01:00

A view of Senator McCarthy's communist witch hunt in the fifties which, despite being axactly that, I really enjoyed. Focusing on the CBS newsroom and in particular a news man called Ed Morrow played very effectively by David Strathairn (you might remember him from LA Confidential and a few episodes of the Sopranos), it does a good job of showing how tense everyone got about the whole situation and is very stylish; lots of well turned out people in nice suits, smoking a lot.

Munich ****

2006-07-27T14:46:00.000+01:00

This film is based on the aftermath of the terrorist attack at the 1972 Olympics, is quite intense and designed to make you think a little as well as get your heart rate up. I enjoyed it more than I had expected because the characters were protrayed as flawed and the plot (which only has the Munich episode as a background) went somewhere unusual for movie of this genre. Daniel Craig's performance demonstrates to some extent why he has been given the 007 job.

Shopgirl ***

2006-07-27T14:42:00.000+01:00

Not a comedy per se, more of a romcom, beautifully shot and quite intersting, it is about a wealthy guy and a shop assistant. I read the book and it is as good as or better. Rightly or wrongly I assume it is to some extent autobiographical.

Have you or.......

2006-07-21T18:46:00.000+01:00

........one of your family members eaten a nut that wasn't your fault in the last three months?

The Truman Show

2006-07-21T10:29:00.000+01:00

Today the sea is light grey and flat and appears to stretch out to infinity as it blends seemlessly with the sky. There is a complimentary eerie quietness about, occasionally a straining speedboat engine or some arguing seagulls reveal how little noise there is. The interesting idea on which that disappointing film was based comes to mind.

Forget it.

2006-07-18T21:40:00.000+01:00

Last night a documentary aired on More 4 entitled "Unidentified White Male". Three years ago a 35 year old man found himself on the subway in New York. He knew nothing about himself, his name, where he lived, his job. He presented himself at the Coney Island Police Station from where he was taken to Mount Sinai Hospital and checked into the psychiatric department. He was told he would stay there until someone he knew came to collect him. He had no identification on him at all but in a Spanish book he had in his ruck sack there was a post-it note with a woman's name and phone number. When the hospital staff called the number the nice lady at the other end was unable to help. She did subsequently suggest to her daughter however, that she might call the hospital on the off-chance that she might know the man. She did; she had dated him a few times and so she collected him and took him home to his apartment. We learnt that he had been brought up in various European countries before becoming a stock broker in New York. Aged thirty he had made enough money to retire and chose to change vocation and become a photographer.

The cause of his "accident" was unknown but he had suffered a complete erasure of his "episodic" memory; the part that contains records of all the events of our lives. His "procedural" (the "how to" bit) and semantic (meaning bit of his) memories were intact. The effect of this was to render him without any context for his life, no knowledge of his friends or family, of world history, any history, art, food, politics. He was however still, eloquant and intelligent.

Initially he is very frightened due to his isolation. Perhaps surprisingly, very quickly (a few months later) he reaches a point where he is not just ambivalent at the prospect of his memory returning but he would prefer it didn't. This is because he is a man with no baggage. He does not feel responsible for the person he was before his accident and is unencumbered by the memories we all have that make us who we are.

When he is introduced to his old school mates they mourn the departure of their friend. He is very polite to them but they no longer share a past. Everyone observes how he is no longer the outgoing go-getter he was. He is now an intropsective, philosophical, aesthete. He sees everything as new, for the first time. When he goes to the beach and paddles in the water he is moved to tears by the "extraordinary energy" of the water. He does not recognise his family but identifies a "chemical" connection to his sisters. There are no stereo-types for him, only originality.

His friends feel they are twenty years older than him, not because he is childish but he has a lightness. Indeed although not referred to specifically in the film, he comes across as very cool, he does not seem to have any of the ego problems other have. A friend mentions in an email that he looks forward to reaquainting him with the delights of West Indian cricket when they next meet. "Is that a drink or an insect?" he inquires. His photography tutors believe his work has improved dramatically.

Is he the same person? If it were discovered for example that he had committed a crime in his former life; would he be punished now? Is he blessed?

Your art is at risk.......

2006-07-12T15:02:00.000+01:00

.....if you do not know where to draw the line.

It surprises me every morning.....

2006-07-10T20:48:00.000+01:00

....how heavy my alarm clock is.

The ghost in you

2006-07-07T21:20:00.000+01:00

Today has been coloured with a kind of contented melancholy which lingers from a dream I had last night. It is also tinged with something similar from the Psychedelic Furs album I have been playing over and over, since I bought it in the week. It is a reassuring sensation; in the dream I was in Glasgow at night. As far as the music is concerned, I cannot remember what I was doing when I used to listen to it all those years ago, but whatever it was, I must have liked it. Dying, I imagine, must be easier, when you are accompanied by this feeling.

Tourists are go

2006-07-06T17:56:00.000+01:00

I walked from Victoria up to Oxford Circus this morning where I was meeting my brother. As I approached Buckingham Palace I started to brace myself for the anticipated throng of visitors, there to see those blokes in tall hairy hats. Then I heard a brass band strike up; four slow chords which I recognised but couldn't immediately place. 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1, it was the Thunderbirds theme tune. I have checked on Google and it was first played prior to the cavalry charge at Waterloo.

Rediscography

2006-07-05T14:53:00.000+01:00

Two or three months ago I attempted to convert my favourite old cassettes into MP3 and would have been successful but for the fact that I seem to have a mono rather than a stereo mic socket on my pc. What did happen was that I started playing the cassettes again. I came to the conclusion that I would (in an unhurried way) watch out for Cds of my favourites and replace the tapes in due course.

I reckon that I will be able to go a long way to achieve this in a shop called Fopp. I found something that wasn't even on my list this morning; "All of this and nothing", by the Psychedelic Furs. As I type this, songs like "Love my way" and "Highwire Days" are having a similar affect on me to encountering someone that I was very fond of once upon a time, someone I didn't even realise I missed.

China Syndrome

2006-07-03T14:33:00.000+01:00

At the moment, the media is full of advice about precautions to take during the warm weather. Despite not being in an "at risk" category I do feel I have identified an omission. If you put a couple of cups of cold water in your kettle, place it on a high heat (don't put the whistle in if you want to avoid uneccessary noise) and leave for about an hour and twenty minutes, when you return your kitchen area will be a lot hotter than when you left it, even when it was uncomfortably warm in the first place. Next week; nuclear fusion and the domestic boiler and also, 20 things to do with your kettle handle.

Dietary problems

2006-07-03T09:15:00.000+01:00

George cross (or at least a little upset)

I enjoyed a pleasant Saturday afternoon in the Kings Rd doing a bit of shopping in that near-deserted thoroughfare. The bars were jammed to overflowing with ocassionally roaring and singing England fans. I am not one of those Scottish people who support anyone that England is playing, I am just someone who prefers, when possible, to shop without it getting too physical. It was quite interesting; the community feeling. I might be sampling the quality of a Comme des garcons shirt one minute but it would not be long before a taxi driver would ask if I knew the latest score; there was an all pervasive sensation that something was going on.

Eventually we decided to go for something to eat. When we got to the Big Easy, it was chokka but I realised that there would be a significant exodus in only a few minutes when I spotted that the game had reached the penalty stage. We considered the menu on the wall outside and in due course a particularly big sigh emanated from within and the building disgorged its unhappy occupants on to the pavement.

I felt vaguely guilty that the reason we were able to saunter in and enjoy a tasty burger was that so many had left, gutted.