Lentissimo

Gator Watch Florida 2010

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sat, 04 Dec 2010 00:14:00 +0000

This is a land of opportunity I thought. “It seems like a land of opportunity”, I said to no one in particular. My family studiously ignored me and carried on gazing out the windows of the Kia saloon and over the mangroves of the Everglades flashing past on either side. The Tamiami Trail, a ruler straight ribbon of road, lay ahead and behind, and hurricane season clouds lowered overhead, threatening a thunderstorm of biblical proportion.

The previous afternoon, Virgin flight 104, had dropped us into a maelstrom of Miami culture or the airport as we like to call it. Miami Beach was the first stop on our relaxed itinerary and the only thing that stood between us and our destination was “The Drive”. Travellers’ tales of the perils awaiting the hapless Brit who should venture into the wrong parts equipped with rental car and expensive holiday gear had scared us witless, so the unexpected bonus of a GPS unit seemed like a potential life saver. How thoughtful then for all of the Alamo’s and Hertz’s to gather themselves together into a bunker shaped multi-storey and to position the exit ‘neath tons of radiation sapping concrete. “No GPS signal being received” was the unit’s response to pretty much any command. We were on our own - paper was the only technology that could help us now.

Ocean Drive loomed large over the hood - an Art Deco extravaganza of hotels and bars with a view of the Atlantic across a sliver of dunes and expanse of sand. The Park Central was our home for a single night, a character starring in a remake of fifties Havana, with its gloomy corridors of dark panelling and whirling ceiling fans, leading to the pristine white of the poky rooms with their tiny paned windows. We ventured out into the humidity of a Florida evening - which curtailed our search for sustenance to the sidewalk restaurant outside the hotel lobby. The expected hordes of mosquitoes had thankfully decided to take their vacation too and we ate our sea bass unmolested; our table cooled by a giant fan straight off a Hollywood film set.

Nightlife pumped out of every neon lit joint up and down the strip - “Unload your dollars here” they seemed to say, but we were jet worn and retired to our rooms to summon energy for the serious art of chilling out. A breakfast later and the opportunity to swim in southern latitude waters was too good to miss, so we briefly sampled the warmth of the Atlantic before heading off to the quiet of the Gulf coast, via the swampy delights of the interior.

“How can you see, Dad?” asked the kids. “It’s fine”, I lied, as I strained my eyes to glimpse a tail light winking through the deluge unleashed by those Everglade clouds. The young people were on “Gator Watch”, a sport indulged in by the innocent visitor whiling away the monotony of the eighty mile drive to next stop Naples. The score stood at Kids 2, Gators 0 as we rolled into the Freedom Square lot for the opening ceremony of the box that held the key to our next week’s accommodation.

Lely Resort was the answer to the posed question - a vast area of holiday heaven a mere pitcher’s throw from the mall. Bronze Horses stood guard at the entrance off the highway as the road snaked between the development’s three championship golf courses to our waiting cavernous bungaloid villa complete with pool and surrounding anti-bug netting. The par four second, with its raised green and vast sand traps threaded its way past our home from home, providing entertainment as players wrestled their balls from tees to hole. These were either rookies or we were better than we thought we were. When we finally chanced our arm and played it boy how we were wrong, totals ratcheted up and balls went AWOL with alacrity.

The Americans do golf like they do everything else - big: big course, big price - but there’s a deal to be done before my boy and I are aboard our buggy which announces that we are four hundred and ten yards from the hole. The ninety three degree heat means that this is literally no walk in the park, and we are ferried in comfort from slice to hook and eventual sunk putt. We wave to the girls relaxing by the pool before the next hole heads out over heron-patrolled lakes.

Before long, hours have passed and a shimmering apparition appears in the form of the mobile sandwich and drinks lady. We hand over greenbacks and she returns with pleasingly ice cold water - we had already passed up the invitation of a “grill order” offered by our IT laden transport. These guys had thought of everything, but we were glad to keep dehydration at bay until the untimely demise of our round when the afternoon thunderstorm kicked in and kicked us back to our villa.

“Are you guys England?”, interjected the man at the next table. Our travels around Naples Old Town were rewarded by happening upon the Dock at Crayton Cove, a squat riverside restaurant serving up a mean mahi mahi or grouper. The building let in the evening atmosphere as it was open on all sides, but a hefty application of bug repellent kept airborne pests at bay - not so the attentions of our next door diners. No really they couldn’t have been friendlier, it emerged that they were New Yorkers with a Florida pad in the same resort as us. The man’s talent for brevity informed us that he “worked on the 103rd floor” and we knew in an instant what he meant. That he was still here to tell the tale, was due to the fortune of an early contract finish: a fortune doubled by his daughter who also worked in the towers being away on the fateful day.

No visit to South Florida would be complete without the obligatory air boat ride and we were determined not to lose out. Jungle Erv’s was our preferred destination for exploring the shallow waters of the Everglades. A small hut just off the Tamiami Trail was the base of the operation with a resident 12 foot ‘gator skulking around their observation deck. Like most attractions, handing over USD150 bought us 40 minutes in the company of Captain Bill, a sun hardened veteran with a great line in power slides and ‘gator based patter. His superior local knowledge bagged us a quartet of gnarled amphibians - despite their eyes being the only body part breaking the surface. For our viewing pleasure he managed to entice a beast to show us his dental work by snapping at his dangled fingers - a heart in mouth moment I am sure he has tried many times before.

When you think of Florida, you don’t dream of its upland vistas, as it is flatter than Norfolk, but it did have one more piece of landscape jigsaw to slot into place. Back we journeyed in the direction of Miami, but the now chirping Satnav broadcast its instruction to set our controls to hyperbolic for US1, the Overseas Highway and our gateway to the paradise that is “The Keys”.

When the roads turn to bridges and take leaps across the Straits of Florida, you know you are set for the drive of your life as first you are surrounded by open sea, closely followed by small fried eggs of islands all linked by two lane blacktop. We stop for roadside fare at the Tower of Pizza on Key Largo, pulling off-road onto a dusty strip, serving as their parking lot. The decor is straight out of 1973, with pine effect panelling gracing the walls, and Formica tables to match. A scowling waitress informs us that “we can sit anywhere”, and takes our order of slices all round. At least we can see the chef, generally flinging the dough about before topping it and throwing it into the heat of the oven. As expected it is unspectacular when it arrives, but it fills some hungry mouths and gets us quickly on our way.

It’s impossible to get lost in the Keys - with only one way in or out, Mile Markers (MM) are the co-ordinates of choice for Conchs, natives of these parts. At MM61, we find Duck Key and turn off the highway for Hawks Cay resort, the last chapter of our flatland adventure, and a real chance to be cocooned in the tropical island surroundings of a hotel and villa complex. Our home will be a two bedroom end terrace clapboarded house, backing onto water.

The saltwater lagoon pool into which we submerge our bodies in late afternoon heat is man made, but does its cooling job perfectly. Instinct tells you to head for the wooden floating platform tethered in the centre - even so the watery expanse accommodates plenty of swimmers without the clash of limbs in the main pool. We will gravitate there later in our stay if only to sample the decadence of poolside waiters ferrying your food order direct to lounger in stack-able baskets, with accompanying cocktails.

And it is not just homo sapiens that this place caters for: a trio of dolphin have checked in (albeit that they probably had no choice in the matter, and will not be leaving any time soon). They are here to entertain the land-dwelling mammals, spurred on by fish-throwing trainers. Whatever you think of the ethics of keeping species in captivity for our pleasure, they sure were fun to watch with their back flips and tail standing antics. One at least wanted to carry on when the supply of fishy rewards had dried up and was left to its own devices. The solitary “Flipper” was practising a repetitive routine of taking a mouthful of water, throwing it into the air with a casual toss of the head, and catching it open-mouthed moments later.

Other non-human residents were a small collection of fearsome-looking iguana who had chosen to settle around the Beach Grill, no doubt attracted by the promise of discarded chips as their bounty from a table-side vigil. Despite their prehistoric and scary appearance, enhanced by their bright green complexion, they did not pose a threat to the customers - at least while we were there. The daytime soundtrack of Bob Marley, Junior Murvin and other assorted eighties reggae and calypso classics must have lulled them into a similarly soporific state as the rest of us.

At last too much relaxing got the better of us and we jumped into the almost forgotten car to head down to the end of the road. It turns out the end is 61 miles away in Key West and luckily someone had thought to exploit its unique position to provide an array of tourist delights to keep us off the streets. The August heat and humidity did its best to keep us off the streets too, and we were glad of the Old Town Trolley Tours - antique styled buses in distinctive orange and green livery piloted by wisecracking but knowledgeable guides - to ferry us from attraction to attraction.

Hemingway’s House was a tick off the list sort of place - somewhere you feel you ought to visit - even if it is just to marvel at the feline descendants of the author’s notorious six toed pets. We swiftly departed to pick up the next trolley - it’s a jump on, jump off service every twenty minutes - and carried on around the compact island to the red and yellow marker of the Southernmost Point in the USA - a tourist magnet if ever there was one - a bit like the Equator or the Greenwich Meridian.

Completing the circular trolley route brought us back to Mallory Square in plenty of time for magic hour where the tourist drones gather in west facing celebration of the sunset. Drawn too by the jangling of trousered nickels and dimes are the street entertaining folk of far and wide - ready to put on a show or tell a tale designed to liberate coins or greenbacks in your possession. The crowds are good natured and up for a great time - especially those that have downed a few tequilas in the iconic Sloppy Joe’s Bar. We gave this a miss, with kids in tow, and marvelled at those disappearing rays in clear headed sobriety.

If it’s a Caribbean break you are after but you’ve been caught in double dip recessionary times, try the Keys - it’s a great stunt double.

Halloween Drizzle

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 09:34:00 +0000

The Halloween drizzle makes the lights of the shops flare a little brighter and the dark shadows of Oxford’s Gothic urban fabric take on a ghoulish presence. We’re here essentially due to poor planning - our intended destination, Cheltenham, being too far to travel for the lateness of the rising hour even accounting for the end of daylight saving. It matters not - occasionally a demon to get to - today we are in luck and we sweep into the centre without the spectre of jammed up streets.

Market town dwellers like us are easily impressed and the clicking of foreign tongues means we are not alone in our admiration of this learning environment. Oxford has history woven into the landscape and there is a whole infrastructure here to entertain the visitor for the day. Whether it’s eclectic commerce you are after - not too many places can boast a printed music emporium - or the façade of centuries of architectural endeavour, this compact city has an array of haunts to keep you coming back for more.

Young minds must be fed on a varied diet of art, literature and music and the smorgasbord of choice is spirited in through the medium of street advertising. There is a lot happening and posters keep you updated with local events in a way that Iphones haven’t quite learned yet. We meander - deliberate wrong turnings keep us in unfamiliar and unexpected territory. Outside the Pitt-Rivers Museum massive phantom prone trees, roots uselessly clutching smoggy air, occupy concrete plinths. This is “Ghost Forest” - Angela Palmer’s metaphor for deforestation and climate change and there is no more apt day to see it, despite the mud underfoot.

The Bodleian Library’s season stretching Summer exhibition is ending and we swiftly waft around the collection of scientific instruments, examinations of Stonehenge archaeology and diagrams of napkin-folding that sprang forth from the incredibly expansive mind of John Aubrey - a seventeenth century Fellow of the Royal Society of London whose “wit was always working” apparently.

Morning turns to afternoon and thoughts turn to lunch: Oxford takes its cafe society very seriously and a snack is all we need so we bag a table at Patisserie Valerie: a chain yes, but this outlet inhabits an ancient building, which lends it a more authentic air. The two “Croques”: Madame for Monsieur and Italienne for Madame are topped with beautifully browned bechamel and a well dressed side salad cuts through the cloying cheesiness. The teens’ Eggs Benedict sport a rather suspect “glow in the dark” hollandaise, but with runny yolks and smoked salmon: who’s complaining?

We cannot escape without passing the counter where the apparition of tantalising pastries hover screaming at us to take them. We are unable to resist and our boxed pudding flies out of the door with us.

The ethereal being of Oxford is made flesh in very real scenery of the Northern Thames Valley - the rattling of chains diminishes as we make our exit.

The lamb lies down

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 17:24:00 +0000

Just how did we get duped into thinking that Britain's preferred meat at Easter time was spring lamb? Those adorable fluffy bundles of joy gambolling about the fields of the green and pleasant land are not the ones adorning your plate.

By the miracle of advertising we have been conditioned into eating a product that has travelled from the other side of the world. Spring lamb yes - but which hemisphere's spring? Consulting the shelves at Waitrose earlier today it would seem that New Zealand lamb is the order of the day. Tot up the food miles on that one and you'll come up wanting in the eco-warrior stakes.

It's time to rethink our choice of Lenten dish to one that is more seasonal, more local. Your buying power can be a force for good in the saving of the planet. Please use wisely.

Motivational Speaker

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Barriers to achievement are mostly in the mind. We are not born with the innate ability to perform every task that we will need to fulfil in life: we must learn, we must grow. Some acquire skills quickly, others hardly at all, after the explosion of childhood. So what stops people from taking those steps on the road to self improvement? It is that organ between your ears: that spongy mass of grey matter, filled to the brim with hopes, fears and desires.

There is no real limit to what someone can do within their lifetime. It all starts with the will to do it. To set your mind to run full tilt at a goal is the most empowering thing you can do. That's the biggest obstacle overcome right there: it is all downhill from now on. But I haven't got the talent, I can hear you whine. The truth is you don't know that for sure and nobody else does either - that's your mental barrier talking - your most vociferous critic. Until you have a go, you won't know. And guess what, by having a go you will have learnt some lessons that you can plough back in to making it better next time.

Even if the light that illuminates that path is temporarily extinguished, you have secreted away some valuable data that can be whipped out at a moment's notice if the need arises. The more avenues of interest that you explore, the more varied your experiences become and your stock of responses to those new unfamiliar situations grows in its repertoire. Life becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy, full of a world of possibilities instead of a linear route from cradle to grave.

The most exciting times in recent human existence have been when the threshold of entry has been lowered to impossibly low levels. I am thinking here of the birth of punk rock: when seemingly overnight it became OK to start a band and play gigs even if you couldn't (by historical standards that is) actually play an instrument. Who cares that all of the Ramones songs were under three minutes long and consisted of three chords each, thrashed with abandon by leather jacketed, ripped T Shirt, twentysomethings? Only the most uncharitable would fail to agree that these were true greats of the pop world. If they had been held back by the "you can't do that" mantra, we would all be the poorer for it. Did they every sit back and consider whether they had talent? I think not. They just imagined a world in which they became stars and made it happen.

This "can do" attitude came to the fore again in 2006 with the rise of Web 2.0, a renaissance for the Internet age after the boom years of 2000-2001. Anyone with half an idea for a service that could be plied over the wires of the world wide web, launched their own startup company even if their idea had no obvious way of making any money. Again the naysayers were thwarted and the roadblock to achievement had been cleared off the highway to the future. Without this lowering of the hurdles we would never have been graced with the presence of Twitter: a service that not only made no money, but also had no point, according to its legion of detractors. I do not need to remind you of its ubiquity today.

Its time. Time to unshackle your creative power - you don't need talent, you just need to try it. What's the worst that could happen?

Time

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 23:48:00 +0000

Time: it's important to make good use of it: a natural resource that is running out faster than oil, gas or anything found in the ground.

How to make time go further? Cloning is always an option: multiple mes all beavering away on separate simultaneous tasks. Not wasting it would be technologically more sound, as you don't have to wait for anything to be invented yet.

Waiting: now that's a no-no when it comes to utilising the power of the clock: so that makes the first option even more non-viable.

Ever wanted to go back in time? Well it is probably best not to want this, as this is not possible either. The nearest you can get to it is to rewind a video you made, but this doesn't get you very far as in my experience the film plays out the same way when you watch it forward again.

Meditation sounds like a waste of time, but some people swear by it. Come to think of it, if they are doing any swearing then they probably need to spend longer at the meditation itself.

It is said that time drags if you are not having a good time, so that sounds like a method of making more of it. Try and make yourself as depressed as possible whilst undertaking a long and difficult task and you'll complete it in no time.

If any of this sounds like it should make it into the next big business book for hard-pressed managers, don't worry: it won't. I haven't got time to write it. Loop until end.

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 18:35:00 +0000

If you're looking for a fruit with a bit more drama, you could do worse than to sample the blood orange. This is a citrus with attitude, looking for all the world like Bela Lugosi got there and had a bite before you. The shock when your orange skinned beauty sheds its covering to reveal a heart of pure crimson flesh is very theatrical. On the taste front it's close to its normal interior neighbour, but the look is all pure murderous intent.

If you want to unleash some of the red stuff on unsuspecting friends, you could try juicing it to add a claret coloured twist on familiar cocktails - blood orange screwdriver anyone? Add a coulis of pure plasma to sauce your valentine's eve dessert to get to the heart of your relationship - you can't go far wrong.

Pass Notes: Sir Jacob Astley

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 17:01:00 +0000

Who is he then? A notable Royalist commander of footsoldiers in medieval times, who fought at both battles of Newbury along with other Civil War battles such as Edgehill. He gained his soldiering experience in the Dutch, Danish and German armies as well as supporting the King is his endeavours against those dour parliamentarians.

Not to be confused with: Rick Astley, a Lancastrian eighties pop phenomenon, thrust into the spotlight by those chart topping producers, Stock Aitken Waterman and made doubly famous by the practice of linking to his most popular video on Youtube, whilst visitors think they are headed somewhere else entirely.

Why is he in the news? Who, Rick? No, Jacob: a rather handsome portrait of him has come up for sale at a London dealers for the princely sum of £16,000. West Berkshire Museum is appealing for donations to help preserve the painting for the good folk of town and their descendants.

How much do they need to raise? I have already told you, £16,000.

Crikey that's a lot. They ought to have a telethon. They could call it Museum in Need or something like that. Come to think of it, that Rick Astley could play a benefit concert, where he plays all his hits.

I don't think he has any associations with Newbury though.

Shame. He does share a name with the great man.

Do say: "For the Crown! For Prince Charles! For the Duke of York!"

Don't say: "Never gonna give you up; never gonna let you down; never gonna turn around and desert you!"

With thanks to the Guardian and the Newbury Weekly News.

Song for Le Manoir aux Quat Saisons

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 22:45:00 +0000

YouTube - Chromeo - Night By Night (Skream Remix)

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 11:33:00 +0000

Strip away the pomp rock; darken the mood; retain the breathy original vocal with its stylised vocoder treatment and undercut with snare and lashings of deliciously thick, oozing bass. If you like your dubstep glammed up and ready for nightfall, you'll love Croydon-based Skream's remix of those anachronistic Montreal rockers, Chromeo's latest outing.

There's ne'er a song that cannot be improved by running it through the wringer of the remix process and this is no exception. A slice of deconstructed funk from the New World, bettered by the best of the Old World order. Skream is at the peak of his powers, as judged by recent top tunes such as his superior arrangement of La Roux's 'In for the Kill'. Long may he continue to re-imagine likely and unlikely chart challengers.

Watch it here - you know you want to: YouTube - Chromeo - Night By Night (Skream Remix)

Time for a Change?

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 14:49:00 +0000

Is it just me or is it just my body clock that refuses to believe it ought to be doing everything an hour earlier?

I still wake up and feel hungry on Greenwich Mean Time, so I guess I'll have to adjust gradually over the next few days like everyone else. It's a weird thing, this convention that the whole country is suddenly flung into a new time zone. It is like travelling but without the stress, and lo and behold the view out of you front door stays much the same as it did too.

What with the recession raising its angry voice over the winter, perhaps we are moving from meaner times to greener times, as those shoots of the same hue struggle to raise their heads above ground. Perhaps the recovery starts here. The downturn could be a figment of our collective consciousness, much as the summer time is today. If we all think, act and behave as if it is over, it could, just could be all over.

Just as Pestonmania talked us into this economic situation, it ought to talk us out of it again. Sometimes perception is everything.

Urbane Renewal

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 17:28:00 +0000

The seasons have ticked by in a full 360 spin round the sun and we find ourselves back in the depths of winter. Short, dark, misty days punctuated with depressing news stories about the global slowdown, job losses and celebrity misdemeanours. Hard then to break into optimistic vein looking forward to a new year of opportunity, discovery and self renewal.

Into this maelstrom of confused emotion, Channel 4 launch us headlong into TV chef heaven with their now annual 'Great British Food Fight'. How many times does an event have to occur before we can call something annual? Twice will do. Hugh, Jamie, Gordon and Heston - not the latest boy band, but four of the UK's leading cooks. A quartet destined not to indulge in broth spoiling, but to kick start a campaign or two to celebrate all that is great in the state of this nation's tucker and to rid Britain of poor animal welfare.

We need heroes especially at a time like this: leaders who can inspire action in Joe and Joanna Public by getting them to think about what goes on their plate and in their mouths. This is what the 'GBFF' is all about. We try to do our bit - buy organic, free range, locally sourced but there is always more that can be done to eradicate questionable practices from the food chain and to improve the quality of our daily bread.

Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall may have an exceedingly long and posh name, but he is incredibly down to earth. That's where his roots are or rather those of his vegetables, which he lovingly tends and eulogises over the myriad ways to enliven the taste between ground and table. The pictures that accompany his weekly Guardian column can best be described as 'food porn' (all sensuous close-up and loving lighting), but the copy is definitely by someone who knows his onions ( and leeks).

He isn't afraid of tackling big business either as his campaign against Tesco's cheap chicken has shown. Price is a sensitive issue for many, but for those with a conscience, the sight of mass produced birds, as re-created by the River Cottage master, is fowl play indeed - proof if any be needed that the pursuit of profit can lower standards to the gutter.

Jamie Oliver is another veteran campaigner. His cheeky-chappy persona is employed to great effect in changing attitudes to the convenience meal and to the fast food culture that had permeated our schools. He has championed the underdog too - recognising talent amongst the unemployed and putting it to good use in his restaurant kitchens. His no nonsense approach wins many friends.

Gordon Ramsay is a campaigner too: he has a talent for self promotion matched only by the likes of Richard Branson. Nevertheless, his sheer exuberance and genuine excitement at what can be created in the domestic kitchens of Brown's Britain inspire many of us to don apron, sharpen kitchen weaponry and take the food fight to one of his sumptuous dishes. His passion for his subject erupts in the Tourret's-like outbursts for which he is justly famous, but there is another side to him. He lavishes praise on those that deserve it, whilst heaping withering scorn on the hapless cooks that he meets in his pursuit of bad food around the country.

That just leaves the mighty Heston. What job will the experimental chemist and kitchen alchemist take on? Blumenthal's mission, that he has chosen to accept, is not to tackle the standard of grub in the M4 service station that bears his name. That would be a step too far, maybe. No, far better to beef up the Little Chef. You wouldn't have thought that he would have stayed that way after all those greasy breakfasts, would you? Put the 'midget cook' on a rigorous training schedule, and build up those muscles I say. Perhaps the Fat Duck proprietor (what is is with all these size-ist references?) will heed what I say, perhaps not - but it is bound to be highly entertaining.

These shows are generally aired in January: a month when many of us are in reflective mood - regretting the excesses of the festive period, and hungry for a period of de-toxification and general self-renewal. They capture the spirit of the moment and leave us optimistic for the opportunities offered by the year ahead. The gradual re-emergence of the sun from its winter hiding place assists the healing process for us Northern-latitude folk. Spare a thought then for Equatorial bound people where the days vary little from one season the the next. They don't have the luxury of an Earth centred biorhythm, beating out the passage of time. No metaphorical skin-shedding for them. Boy are we lucky or what?

Liberate the Land

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 18:15:00 +0000

Forget your Waitroses, your Tescos and your Sainsburys, your Asdas, your Morrisons and your Lidls. There's an even cheaper source of food - it's free - and I have seen it with my own eyes. It is unlikely to sustain even the most minor human though. Yes it definitely will not sustain you, unless you are a fruitatarian.

Blackberries are ready and waiting to be picked in a piece of countryside near you. Nature's wonderful bounty - packaged in fruit form and accessible to those who ramble through the brambles.

It is a wonder of Britain - the fact that there is land in private ownership ("common land") over which we, the masses have certain rights. Whether those rights extend from the grazing of cattle, something I don't have much call for, to the picking of fruit and fungi seems to be in dispute. However, the general consensus seems to be that if you are picking them for your own use, then you are on safe ground.

When we went picking last weekend the dismal weather seemed to have produced a crop of small and incredibly soft fruit, but with a small team of highly trained pickers we managed to snaffle up a couple of pounds of purple berries in just over an hour.

The unseasonal downpours had turned the byways to small inland waterways, so care was required not to get bogged down or to fall unceremoniously into a deep puddle whilst straining off balance to reach the most inaccessible ones.

Quite why they are called blackberries is a mystery, since after our stint in countryside crop collection, my hands were stained purple with flecks of red, ravaged with cuts from the vicious thorns. I must make a note to tell whoever is in charge of these things that they are definitely wrong on this one.

So, the food to feed your family is out there. Forget the credit crunch and go get 'em people.

Right time, right plaice

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 10:08:00 +0000

It was a cataclysmically damp day and the lights of my destination shone out like a beacon from the gathering early evening gloom. The gleaming white surfaces of the interior and the shiny steel of the mainstay of the operation oozed with consumer confidence, attracting the occasional visitor and regular alike. The staff in this place of off-site catering know their business and do their utmost to ensure that you leave as soon as possible, laden down with the fruits of their labours.

Which is odd really, since the one thing you won't find in The Avon Fish Bar, in Newbury is fruit, or vegetables for that matter. Never mind though - taking a break from healthy eating for a night will not hurt anyone - please consult your GP if you are unsure. What you will find is fish - the clue's in the name of the place and very good it is too.

Now Newbury is not renowned for being near the sea or anything like that so we are not talking "just landed" cod or "off the dock" plaice, but sheer honest to goodness catches that have been whisked down to the mean streets of this market town, lovingly coated in golden batter and thrown into that fiery steel fryer, nanoseconds before you enter. The result is pure white moist flakes enveloped with a crisp textured jacket and accompanied with plump fluffy potato chips, fried to the perfect state of bite.

For the sea averse diner, as per the younger members of the party, you can always salivate over the obligatory deep fried jumbo sausage, or if an actual fried fish is too simple in concept you can always opt for the fishcake. As with all good restaurants, the choice is strictly limited, but what they do serve they do well and you cannot say fairer than that.

Up and down the country this scene is being played out, the humble emporium serving its local community with its national dish. There are so many reasons not to cook: poor weather, end of the week, nothing in, stressful meeting. These saviours of the day are there to rescue us all. Purveyors of the fish supper, we salute you.

This is not just food, this is solid British food. It's not fancy, but it's fine.

Low Expectations

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 10:52:00 +0000

The omens weren't good. The weather forecast looked mightily similar to where we leaving behind; our youngest had a wrist in plaster, having managed to acquire a green-stick fracture in the first week of the holidays, which seemed to be increasingly doom-laden. The raison d'être for the trip was to have been to cycle and swim - but these were now out of the equation for one of our number. So, when our flight to Nantes in North-West France arrived bang on time and completely without incident, things seemed to be looking up. Our convictions were further reinforced when the hire car was better than the usual dross that gets palmed off on unsuspecting tourists and had the added bonus of Sat Nav to boot. Of course all of this good fortune was lulling us into a false sense of security as the charming female tones of the directional device led us straight into a humdinger of a holiday jam on the Nantes peripherique.

We might have expected this. After all, August in France is prime season: the bête noire is that the patriotic Gallic hordes take en masse to their Renaults, Citroens and Peugeots and head for the sun. In this case they all seemed to have opted for our destination of the Ile de Re and had set off at exactly the same time. We travelled around the ring road at escargot's pace, but on reaching the autoroute the confiture subsided and we picked up speed towards our villa for the week, which had been booked through Homelidays. Our hopes were dashed once more as we settled into a slow-moving queue north of Marans, now off the fast road and into the Marais Poiteven, a marshy wonderland criss crossed by canals but few roads, so we had little option but to sit it out - only punctuated by calls to the villa's owner with tardier rendezvous times for the all important key handover ceremony.

When we finally made it we were greeted by Michel, white van man and proud possessor of a chic pied-à-terre on the edge of Sainte Marie de Re. This was no fin de siècle monstrosity though but a modern clean lined single storey structure finished in the vernacular whitewashed walls, curly red tiles and green shutters. The villa was supremely equipped for holiday activity with pool, trampoline, ping pong, boules and brick barbecue. He seemed to be up on his technology though and had installed a PC with internet access thrown in, electrically operated security shutters and wireless surveillance devices around the property. Our French wasn't good enough to ask him if he could monitor our every move - a creepy thought. Hopefully he only used this for when his charming place was unoccupied.

Goals - it is important to have these and never more so than when on your annual vacation. Mine were simple - oysters - I had to try some. I had lost my oyster virginity in Whitstable a while back, and was keen to re-kindle my relationship with these beautiful bi-valves. These are a speciality of the Charentes-Maritime region: trying the local chow helps to root your holiday with a sense of place and increase your joie de vivre. I finally ticked off this off my list on a visit to the busy port area of La Rochelle, a town with heritage, like the fifteenth century 'Lanterne tower' an ancient vertigo inducing 55 metre lighthouse - worth a day's visit. My family were not impressed by the odour of my hors d'oeuvres however and opted for the tried and tested favourite of moules frites - not haute cuisine certainly, but the standard of 'ordinary' French cooking beats most British pub grub.

It is the cuisine that keeps drawing us back to our nearest neighbour. I mean you have to be bowled over by a country that celebrates bread - one the most basic foodstuffs known to man. The French pay homage to their bakers - a hard working profession who toil away while the nation sleeps to supply us with tasty breakfast items. They elevate some to artisan status - there is no higher honour - these are experts at their chosen craft but with their skill comes the added benefit that the product that they sell arrives with scarcely a few food kilometres on the clock. This bread is designed to be consumed close to the point of origin or else it turns to inedible dry sandpaper and nobody wants that.

A visit to the market - like the medieval one at La Flotte - one of the island's larger towns and another busy port, can easily consume a morning. Away from the practicalities of earning a crust, you can afford to linger over tables heaving with spices, fruits, vegetables, every conceivable kind of fish, seafood and souvenirs carved from stone or fashioned from iron. The trusty traders know how to display their wares to greatest temptation - designed to extract the maximum number of holiday euros from the thronged customers weaving their way around the stalls.

St Martin de Ré, whose harbour harbours its own islet also accommodates attractions for the visitor. The largest ice-cream shop I have ever encountered sits there on the front, enticing the clientèle with its array of ices. There were more flavours than there are days in the long school summer break and I believe the counter, which seemed to stretch for three shop units width had to be that long so that they could display the names of the different ones they offered. The milling hordes were three deep at the bar, but I don't know how many of them were queuing for the most exotic taste of 'caviar and oyster'.

No visit to the Ile de Ré would be complete without a trip to the salt pans. This 'cottage' industry had declined massively from its peak in the nineteenth century, but there is still something supremely satisfying about their year round struggle to harvest the natural resources of the sea. Another basic element but vital to the preparation of the region's most flavoursome dishes, salt has to be persuaded to part company from its watery home by a combination of wind and sun and man made pools of decreasing depth. Anyone au fait with the skill of the salt worker would know that they use paddles and scoops to extract the salt first from the surface - literally 'salt flowers' and then through more strenuous sloshing of water to scrape the crystallised salt into a rectangular pyramid. These regular snowy peaks dotted across the landscape give rise to a scene like none other.

Back at our holiday home, our own private hexagonal pool (an unashamed luxury) provided many hours of enjoyment, but also an unexpected added bonus. The sheer pleasure of watching the pool cleaning robot scurrying about on its underwater quest to rid the pool of damp debris and submerged slime, brought about a state of tranquil relaxation and je ne sais quoi that could not be induced by the local wine alone. The decking of the patio and pool surround revived memories of my own construction in a previous residence - the warmth of the wood when exiting the pool was a sharp contrast to the usual cold, rough tile. In the evening sun, you could sit at the table, shaded by the electrically operated awning (de rigueur around these parts), sipping your Ile de Re rosé. C'est la vie!

Doctor, doctor, am I a Luddite?

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 20:27:00 +0000

It had to happen sooner or later. After all it was nearly fifteen years old and the chrome wasn't quite as shiny as the day we bought it. It was a design classic: just past its diamond anniversary and barely changed in all that time. I was as accustomed to its beautiful ticking sound, as I am to the voices of my own family: it signified the imminent arrival of a warm breakfast. Two slices of bread were never transformed into toast quite as effortlessly as in our Dualit toaster, which went wrong last week.

There's no need to mourn though - no speedy send-off to appliance heaven with this little beauty: oh no my precious, no! As I have done several times before, I will repair it. The sheer simplicity of its design is its greatest strength: there are a mere four different active parts, which makes fault-finding easier than the Sun crossword. As the design evolves at geological speeds, there is no need for the manufacturers to maintain a colossal inventory of multifarious parts in a huge, anonymous warehouse just off the M23. I fondly imagine that they are stored in the equivalent of an elderly gentleman's front room, on plain shelves, just high enough for the elderly gentleman who's in charge of them to reach.

When working perfectly and standing proud and gleaming on the granite worktop, it has the air of an instrument that knows it's going to last. It seems to be constructed in metal from which I fondly imagine 'black-box' flight recorders are made. If the worst happened and an atomic bomb landed on Rod K Mansions, I think our ape-like descendants who may eventually roam the planet would be able to crank up a generator, pluck the toaster from the wreckage, plug it in and make a decent round of crispy bread snacks in no time at all.

It is the ultimate green option: in this era of the disposable, the durable is king. Who needs the gimmicks, who needs the add-ons? Who needs pop-up, auto-timing, kitchen-coordinating features when they can have something that works and goes on working when the lesser white goods have been sent for scrap?

But is this the only uncomplicated gadget that I have ever owned or does my choice of home technology tend toward the Luddite? I thought long, I thought hard and finally an image of a revolving 12 inch, perfectly clear glass platter formed in my mind's eye. Who needs automatic speed changing when you can easily lift the turntable and shift the tiny rubber band from one spindle to another to switch between long players and 45rpm singles? This was the Rega Planar 3, a black slab and no-nonsense audiophile option for spinning the vinyl and generating the music of my youth.

It too was a design classic with few parts, but those that were included were highly engineered to deliver sonic perfection. I fondly imagine that the designers spent hundreds of hours honing their craft and delivering a platform worthy of Mozart, Brahms and Tchaikovsky: I of course played the Clash, but it sounded brilliant all the same.

Like the Dualit, the Rega was built to last, and last it did. Sadly, the software, as those Eighties Hi-Fi magazines used to call it didn't: usurped by the technically inferior but highly popular CD. It became harder and harder to find the tunes I liked pressed into the spiralling groove of the record and so the Rega was put out to grass and finally to the ignominy of the car boot sale.

I fondly imagine though in many aeons time, our ape-like descendants who may eventually roam the planet would be able to crank up a generator, pluck the turntable from the landfill site, plug it in and listen to an admittedly scratched copy of 'London Calling'.

Michelin Time

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 13:38:00 +0000

For the avid restaurant reviewer, January is the most exciting time; along with sitting down in a newly found eaterie for the first time. For why? One word: Michelin. The latest guide is due out in the coming week. This bible of all that is hot in the world of the professional kitchen will pass judgement on the performance of those that wore the toque in 2007.

Who's in, who's out, who's up and who's down: the premier league of chefs get delivered their end of season report and this will have a major bearing on those all important earnings for the year to come. For instance, has the new team at the Hare in Lambourn done enough to keep theirs?

A recent re-visit to the Yew Tree Inn, which boasts the name of the lifetime starred Marco Pierre White, has shown that a popular TV show can also help pull in the punters. The menu had changed little since our previous foray into the northern fringes of Hampshire, but was none the worse for that. What had changed though was the clientèle: there were loads of them. Tables didn't stay empty for long, as new occupants replaced old, eager to sample a slice of Hell's Kitchen. This wasn't H.K. food, or Michelin food, but the place had a buzz, an atmosphere, generated by people in search of a decent meal., which is exactly what they got.

Some people criticise the guide for concentrating on poncy nosh that real people would rarely eat, but having dined at and reported on a few that have earned themselves a coveted star or two, I can vouch that these chefs definitely try that little bit harder. A Michelin chef can produce a dish that transports you to another place - they bring out flavour that inferior cooks leave behind in the pan or indeed the field.

You can be sure of top quality ingredients which, in these post Big Food Fight days, Joe Public knows are really important. You can be sure that they have been treated with reverence. You can be sure that they have been lovingly combined with one aim: pure pleasure on the plate and on your palate.

Michelin chefs demand high standards in the kitchen, just as you should demand high standards in your chosen dining establishment, starred or nay. As Jamie Oliver and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall have done for the supermarket chicken, you with your purchasing power can do for the humble restaurant meal. By voting with your fork, you can help drive up the quality of British food. We don't want to be a nation of culinary low achievers, so the next time I hear someone criticising the Guide, I will shed a tear for the poverty of aspiration that misguided soul represents.

We all have a choice as to where to spend our hard-earned loot. Please don't lavish it on junk.

What colours do you see?

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 18:41:00 +0000

Do you see in colour? If so, what colours do you see? Are you normal; am I normal? What is normal? Questions, questions, questions - all unravelling before me. Why? A visit to Blue/Orange, a play of psychiatric potency, as envisioned by the amateurs, and I use the term purely in its literal sense, of the Progress Theatre.

A three hander is a tall order for a small team to pull off, and this is a play of words, lots of them. So, there is a mountain to climb in terms of mastering those roles and to concoct a believable world of a small psychiatric unit. The production launches into action through a babel of disembodied voices and dystopian imagery fused into a Tate Modern-like installation piece. The work of Mike Brand, a Reading artist, is on display here both in these echoes of what the disturbed young man at the centre of the work may be hearing and feeling, and in the pleasingly antiseptic set which acts as a foil to the machinations of the plot.

A young doctor and a younger patient, the man around which the plot revolves, enter the stage. They are in discussion. The doctor is concerned. He wants to do the right thing. He wants the best for his patient. He has an approach, a way of doing things. He thinks he needs more time: more time to help this man. There is a downside. The man has had an 'episode', has been detained and is nearing the end of his stay: the time when he can go home, but only if the doctor, the psychiatrist, says so. Power: raw power, one with all and one with none.

Emmanuel Adanlawo is highly accomplished in his display of the emotional range of the highly-strung detainee in this opening encounter and Mark Simmonds plays the college fresh shrink with an authentic nod to the lack of experience that his character feels in the midst of this tense stand-off.

Chris Bertrand as Bruce enters, smoking, and blusters his way into conversation with the doctor, with scant regard for the all-important doctor-patient relationship. He is the self-important consultant, the more experienced teacher. Power: raw power, one with none, one with some and one with more. How will they use this power? More questions.

The consultant role is the keystone of the play. He acts as the disturbing influence in the path mapped out by his pupil in the treatment of the disturbed. He has been supremely cast, with the right air of snootiness, condescension, and I'm the greatest thing to hit this place smugness.

The struggle for power begins now and ebbs and flows between the characters. The writing from the truth-seeking imagination of Joe Penhall is superb. There is a message: is there a sort of institutional racism in the treatment of people with mental health problems? Do the white middle-class professionals of this branch of medicine judge people by their own standards and find them wanting? The message is expertly conveyed though the dramatic tension of the claustrophobic consulting room.

This is a play of power: raw power. A psychiatrist holds power over his patient's liberty. He must exercise that wisely and the widely different approaches of the pupil and teacher examine the intellectual hoops through which they must leap to apply the correct label, the correct diagnosis and its attendant treatment regime: inside or outside the institution? The patient is not without power too, as we see when the plot unfolds towards its tantalising conclusion.

I loved the way that the roles reversed throughout this story. "Pull yourself together" is a phrase that would never grace the lips of a self respecting psychiatrist when dealing with his patient, but when the superior being of the consultant is being heavy handed and superior with his patient-like underling then it's OK.

Get a ticket for this play if you can. The denizens of the Progress Theatre have proved that being amateur doesn't have to be a straight-jacket. After all in the treatment of mental health, that's so last century. They climbed the mountain, they made it real, or was I just hearing voices?

Is Ben Elton the new Arthur C Clarke?

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 18:12:00 +0000

Arthur C Clarke is one of those rare creatures: a science fiction writer with vision. I mean a vision that is on the money more often than not. This is strange enough, but every now and again along comes someone with vision and the common touch: a communicator, comedian and writer by the name of Ben Elton, who has proved through his jointly penned Queen musical, "We Will Rock You", that he stands among the ranks of the Nostradamus fraternity.

His creation was first performed way back in May 2002 so it must have been conceived during those bubble days of the first internet boom. Five years is a long time in terms of technological advancement, but soothsayer Elton, 48, accurately predicted the rise of global software corporations that would very soon control our every thought, and more importantly our music. Now it may be that he was thinking of Microsoft when he encapsulated that thought on his manuscript, but little did he realise in those PG days (that's Pre Google to the uninitiated), that the powerhouse of search and online ads would be vying for world domination in the way that it has today.

Another internet prophet, Robert X. Cringely, recently speculated on "Google's plan to host all of our applications", but why stop there? It could be that they really aspire to mature into Globalsoft, Elton's scarcely fictional megalomaniacal mega corporation, headed by a Killer Queen and intent on ridding the world of music it did not control. I must admit to being ignorant of Page and Brin's fondness for British seventies glam rock or indeed eighties alternative comedy, the progenitors of the musical subject of this piece, but you never know.

We have investigated the roots of the ideas that gave birth to this theatrical rockfest, with live music thundering from stage enveloping speakers, but what of the performances? I can say that the whole family, buoyed by expectation of classic singalong tracks whose appeal has bridged the generations, was not disappointed. The event itself, magnified by the majesty of a visit to the capital and the delights of the West End, which started with lunch on the South Bank in the buzzing Strada beneath the newly refurbished Festival Hall, was an assault on the senses.

The staging could best be described as theatre for the video generation, with pulsating pixels on flying screens providing a dynamic visual experience and canvas against which the faithfully rendered songs and lets face it paper thin plot played out. It was a feast for the eyes and ears if not the brain - it left that organ a bit undernourished - after all this was never going to be culture but none the worse for that.

A cast devoid of stars literally popped up out of the stage floor and generally had a great time on the fiendishly flexible set, which awed with its clever ability to lift, rotate and generally thrust the actors deep into the Dominion's cavernous auditorium, over the heads of the posh bods in the stalls.

Ben Elton has taken the spirit of that notoriously difficult to categorise band, made flesh a few of their lyrical characters and melded them together with a joke filled script which showcases all of their hits and packages it into two hours of enjoyment for the whole family. As Paul Weller said 'That's Entertainment'!

Only you go and Aygo

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 20:34:00 +0000

You may go in a Yugo, or the slightly less catchy Zastava, but these days I go in an Aygo. This modern motoring miracle has replaced the ageing Pug that used to grace the drive in front of my house. And why exactly am I raving about it? I am able to swan around town, smug in the knowledge that I am creating a lot less CO2 than most other cars on the road, short of expensive hybrids and those rather unstable looking electric ones. Now I am not naive enough to claim that this is real full on eco-warrior behaviour. After all I didn't cause any pollution whilst riding my two wheeled transport option, however cycling will still be part of my weekly commuting cycle.

No it is not really green because the old car wasn't scrapped - it lives on. So personally I have added to the world total CO2 emissions by buying a new car - it is just that I am the legal owner of less of it than I was a few weeks ago. Fuel-wise the car appears to run on fresh air. I haven't had to visit the filling station yet, and nor do I expect to any time soon. It is more frugal than a Chancellor Brown budget and I may have to have some sort of festivity when I first have to find a forecourt dispensing fuel.

It ticks a number of boxes so far, and I was very pleased when some colleagues complimented it on its roomy interior and ample access through several of the four doors and a sort of window hatch to what is laughingly called a boot. To squeeze four full sized humans into such compact dimensions, the designers have had to compromise on the load carrying capacity. Despite positioning the wheels attractively, one at each corner, the space behind the surprisingly comfy seats is only really suitable for a couple of squashy overnight bags. Best leave behind the matching set of designer luggage or the grandfather clock that you picked up at the musty antique shop, as these are not going to cut it. If you can persuade a couple of your rear-seat passengers that they would like to walk home then this opens up the option of folding the split rear seats and a whole vista of payload conveying options opens up, as long as these items fit through that hatch or can be crammed through the doors left open by your departing travellers.

Am I pleased with it? You bet I am, and would recommend one for any card carrying left-ward thinking, environmentally-concious middle-aged male, or anyone that knows one.

Lentissimo - what's in a name

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 21:07:00 +0000

Regular readers - well the especially eagle eyed ones, will have noticed that this column is now located at www.lentissimo.co.uk, my little piece of the internet.

So what's it all about? I wanted the name to reflect ideas about the pace of life and how best to cope with today's lifestyle. We recently paid a visit to friends who live in the New Forest National Park, and I was knocked out by the sheer tranquillity of Furzley Common, a forgotten and lightly trafficked region. The beauty of that essentially English landscape with its signature look honed by generations of wild and not so wild grazing animals was very easy on the eye and on the brain.

A short walk from atop the single hill vantage point took us amongst a smattering of trees. The total lack of intrusion of 21st century noise, which the road planners can count as a success story: the M27 being only a kilometre away, meant that the beating of a crow's wings whilst flying over the forest could be heard as plainly as Big Ben in the Palace of Westminster.

It was the sort of place where we felt that the best option for happening upon the natural fauna was to stand stock still and wait for it to emerge from its collective hidey hole and meet and greet us. So the idea of slow time was born, and not just any old time - very slowly indeed: lentissimo!

Live Earth: a personal view

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Sat, 28 Jul 2007 08:37:00 +0000

If you missed my Live Earth post - its because its lower down the homepage. The flood story managed to overtake it. You can read it here.

Noah's Art

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 20:23:00 +0000

The citizens of West Berks were subjected to their own personal Armageddon today as torrential rain fell with a vengeance from before we rose at 7am through to 2pm. The weather forecast had been terrifyingly accurate, with no let up in the precipitation for the whole morning.

My lunchtime journey home prompted by a worried call from my family was a shocking adventure as I turned from the A4, itself covered with several inches of water into Fir Tree Lane. The sight that greeted me was like nothing I have ever seen before. I have used the expression 'the road was like a river' many times, but on this occasion it was never truer. The sight of a torrent of muddy brown water streaming between the kerbs, gushing from risen manhole covers, towards me will stay with me for ever.

Worse was to come though, as I drove through Manor Park I saw water coursing down Yates Copse and making a sweeping turn into Waller Drive, where it entered an impromptu lake which stretched as far as I could see past Passey's yard. I turned around and luckily found a passable route home. A reconnaissance mission later on when the rain had ceased revealed the true extent of the flood, which had claimed a car, the occupants of which had to be rescued by the residents of Fleetwood Close, by swimming to retrieve them.

Apparently the water level had been several feet higher and had subsided back to that pictured here, even though it had only just stopped raining. The cause of this was immediately obvious when we walked through the dried out area later on. A wall around the scrapyard was damming the water when it gave way under the pressure and allowed some respite on the drowned road.

Several houses in the area had been under water, at least one up to its letter-box, and so the clean up must now begin after what should have been a day of joy for the children of West Berks: the last day of term before the summer break. A day we will not forget in a hurry.

Live Earth: a view from the top tier

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 20:18:00 +0000

There are some things that a middle-aged father of two shouldn't see... but Live Earth definitely isn't one of them. To arrive at the new, majestic Wembley Stadium on what seemed like the only fine weekend of the summer was an occasion, filled with anticipation of participation in a major planet-saving event. It was a shame that my own personal carbon footprint was erring on the 'size 12' - what with the fleeting visit to Birmingham for the Dan, and a journey to the Cotswolds planned for the very next day, but sometimes things just have to be done.

"Who are these old men?" asked my eldest when the first main band came on stage. Our seats were in the rarefied atmosphere of the top tier, whose gently curving wave arced over us a few rows back, where Chris Moyles' announcement sounded like 'Nghnges' by the time it reached us from the stadium engulfing PA system. The sunlight glinting off the lead singer's pate was a huge clue - "Its Genesis; old man's rock," I said. "Don't worry, there will be acts you've heard of later". Eighties classics brought out a long-forgotten nostalgic streak in me. (Don't get me wrong here - there was no getting my kit off and running around the stadium in my birthday suit.) There would be more of this to come (nostalgia, not streaking) what with Duran Duran on the bill.

We soon moved on to America - the Razorlight anthem that is - and at last the crowd were treated to material that had been created in the majority of their lifetimes. The lager was going down and the pulse was going up around the stadium and crowd singing filled the air like seventy thousand post pub Saturday nights.

The Black Eyed Peas pumped it louder as their frontman used the catwalk stage to maximum effect, and from our lofty perch in the upper echelons, the standing masses in the bowels of the auditorium rose and fell as one, conducted perfectly by the bobbing singer. Unfortunately the slowed down style and sophistication of next up John Legend's urbane soul was lost on the hyped up crowd - perhaps it was a hard act to follow.

We were then treated to the surprisingly nifty sounding Duran Duran, another band swinging the needle of the nostalgia-meter far to the right. They belted through a trio of greatest hits with only their waistlines to show that perhaps they were merely 'acceptable in the Noughties', now a couple of decades from their heyday. After all we were a long way from the action and the screen was tantalisingly out of sight at our oblique angle, so the wrinkles were rendered invisible by the diffusion of distance.

The Red Hot Chilli Peppers reached a new standard in crowd lift off, as the riffs from the guitar thinned out from their opening chord medley to the opening bars of "Can't Stop'. The expectant punters locked in to a recognisable signal and you could feel a warm tingling feeling in your extremities as the palpable wave of love went zinging back to the stage. They were truly stunning, and the next real high after those crazy, energetic 'Peas.

At festivals you get used to queuing, but the effect of too many hits on the concession stands meant that I had to join a mega one for the ATM to replenish much needed funds. Consequently the hour long snake up and down the corridors meant that we missed Corinne Bailey Rae (no particular loss), Bloc Party (see previous note), and rather more importantly Keane. I suppose you could call it a near live experience here, since I could see the band on the handily provided screen (with a better view than from my seat) and I could hear the sound wafting through the openings into the seated bowl, but I couldn't face the thought of losing my place to check them out properly. Shame.

In the latter stages we went considerably down the metal route - that of the heavy variety. Now I must admit here that I have never actually seen Spinal Tap - the movie - all the way through. The usual clips have registered themselves in my conciousness, but the the mini Stone Henge sequence had passed me by and I had to have it explained to me afterwards - never a great idea. So the notion that the little people dancing around the henge were as a result of a scale cock-up and that they weren't children was completely lost on me. Consequently they weren't as high on my enjoyment factor as they were on their amp volume controls.

Metallica continued the rock vein and my notes for this section simply say: 'loud, damn loud'. My eldest wanted to see them though so we braved the assault on our ear-drums, which despite the band's best efforts, remained free of post gig tinnitus, which in my youth would have been the lasting impression left by the really iconic events.

The Foo Fighters are in the melodic metal category on their recorded releases, but in the stadium, with the sound muddied and distorted over a highly amped PA, Dave Grohl's urgent screams to the audience to get involved, over an industrial block wall of sound gave them a distinctly harder edge. This was no power pop, but a real thrash through their tried and tested tunes, which was appealing in its raw, un-sanitised state. The levels were getting to my youngest by now, and we had to take a breather before the pinnacle of professional pop came to the stage to deliver the most perfect slice of choreographed show-womanship that only Madonna can.

Her slick, polished delivery came as complete contrast to the fore-runners. Don't get me wrong - Madonna can do festivals - from the audience berating expletives to the guitar hero pose of 'Ray of Light', she rocked the rockers and funked the funkers at full remix version length with 'Hung Up' and La Isla Bonita. All of this was accompanied by precision choreography, the look of which had been honed so that it looked like she had set up home there on the stage, it was that rehearsed.

It was time to vanish into the night; to leave the dream-world of music shot through with lessons in carbon frugality, some of which will stick. Al Gore - job done.

Dan 'te Inferno

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 19:52:00 +0000

This must have been a first for the UK at least: a gig where the only smoke in the auditorium was of the artificial kind. They were slightly wider in girth and greyer in the locks: and that was just the audience. The symbiosis between Fagen and Becker was clear from the start as they strutted on stage, cocooned by the ten piece 2007 orchestra, which was driving a rhythm tighter than Gordon Brown's wallet. The cauldron of the National Indoor Arena, filled with funk-obsessed forty-somethings, were there for the infrequently touring Steely Dan.

The evening hadn't started well, after all, a dash up the A34 and M40 to Birmingham attempted after work on a wet Thursday is a real misnomer. We crawled along for mile after mile and arrived in the second city well after the support act had taken the stage. Still after parking and some cracking directions from some friendly locals, which took us on a short walk up the extremely picturesque canal side, punctuated by skinny locks and industrial heritage architecture, we arrived at the venue.

Now a feature of all public events, clouds of nicotine greeted us, as the smokers wheezed outside during the break before the main event. At least we had made it, and could let the old timers deliver up a slice of musical legend. The devotees, of which I must admit I cannot really count myself a member, were there in abundance, packing the blacked out space to the rafters.

The sound was tight - real tight - and funkier than I had remembered. After all the last time I had seen these boys was way back in 1996 in Wembley Arena. Then was the first time that they had visited these shores for many a year, and they played a lot of their favourites. But this time they eschewed such musical convention and went on a tour of their own, through their extensive back catalogue.

It also struck me that despite their obvious love of stardom and performing, Walter Becker and Donald Fagen were also democratic, allowing their highly talented band the space to show off their own abilities. This even extended at one point to allow what would normally be called backing singers to take over vocal duties on the track 'Dirty Work' off their very first album. I was really impressed and we left after two hours of classy fusion music, which sounded as fresh today as it had when it left the pens of those viagra propelled jazz-funk superstars.

All in all a great warm up for the next big event: Live Earth!

The Hare Downgraded

noreply@blogger.com (Rod K With NASA) — Tue, 26 Jun 2007 20:43:00 +0000

As I twittered recently, I read with dismay that The Hare at Lambourn Woodlands, a one Michelin star restaurant in the Rod K Restaurant Network, had changed hands. It seems that the power behind the astonishingly good value but taste sensation menu, head chef Tristan Mason, has also left. I expect that the establishment will be downgraded at the next Michelin guide update, which is a real shame for food here in West Berks.

The Hare wasn't expensive for the quality that it delivered but it seems that price may have been a factor in its demise, since the new owners are proud of their "new cheaper menu", as reported in the Newbury Weekly News.

There is a ray of sunshine in the unseasonal gloom however, in that the Red House at Marsh Benham is open again after a three year closure, and promising us "modern British cooking". Here's hoping that it can go some way to filling the gap in my network. Report will be posted as soon as I sample their wares.