I don’t do girly drinks.

But at the Hungry Cat the other day, I couldn’t help but coo, “Oooh that’s pretty” as the bartender set down the pimlico, greyhound proper and sazerac on the counter, enough to make his bald head blush.

Not that these drinks were girly; despite their soft pastel appearance, my pimlico packed a punch.

This summer, my best friends and I embarked on a little pre-bachelorette party party in Europe. Through the course of three weeks and countless planes, trains, and bus rides, we more-often-than-not found ourselves at, as Briana liked to call it, that quaint little place down the street.  The Marquis of Westminster is by all means my favorite pub in the entire world.

Last week I embarked on another adventure, but this closer to home!

I travelled over london delivering art work to some lovely creatives and art directors! Call me Leicester Express!

I was accompanied by our work experience helper for the week, Ross. He was there to fight all those cheese stealing rats of Brixton and to assist me in my communcation with others slightly larger than myself.

It was a rather long day! I travelled to posh Pimlico and on to Brixton; to Chelsea to browse all these fanatabulous design places, mouse carpets and all that furniture… and eventually made it back to the office after getting lost.

You can now see some of my pictures on flickr!

Ta ra for now
Leicester xx

A New York Navel-Gazer Looks at Botswana, South Africa

and Mozambique by Way of London

By Kyle Thomas Smith

Part One

Today I heard on a podcast that Boyd Varty, son of the Varty family who owns the Londolozi Game Park in South Africa, is writing a memoir. I don’t know the book’s title. All I know is that the opening line is something like, “Come sit by my fire.”

From there, he launches into harrowing tales of walking away in one piece from multiple plane crashes, saving ingénues from crocodiles’ jaws in Brazil, and fending off starving lionesses on his treks through Africa, all before pursuing a career as a boxer in Thailand. At age 20, he fell into a deep depression but came across a sangoma, a witch doctor in an African village, who made some magical incantation that spurred Boyd’s dispirited soul on to a protracted vision quest that would later become the subject of his forthcoming autobiography.

Let me say straight out that this blog post is bound to be less fascinating than the Varty boy’s life. First of all, I was only in Africa for two and a half weeks, most of which was spent in game parks where the chardonnay flowed in rivers every time our jeeps full of retirees and Ex-Officio-clad, white-collar warriors returned to camp from our two daily photographic safaris.

Second, I’m writing this dispatch in the throes of jetlag from my Brooklyn watering hole, the Tea Lounge, which reeks more of Quattro Breves and Turkish Lattes than it does of wild savannah perils.

I’ve also been popping Malarone for the past three weeks, so I can’t even recount fever dreams that I might have otherwise had during bouts of malaria. Besides, late August/early September is winter in the subequatorial regions of Africa and the mosquitoes were either dead or too flaccid to fly when I was out peering at pachyderms. This doesn’t mean it wasn’t hot. Holy shit, the sun could burn right through your binocular lenses, at least in mid-afternoon, but there too, I can’t even bring back field reports of sunburns since I shellacked my pasty Irish skin with enough 50+ SPF Sunblock to shield myself from the greenhouse effect for life.

(I’m hardly the danger-seeker Hemingway was. Rather than picking up muskets, Julius and I found ourselves paying a few hundred South African Rand—the equivalent of about 20 US dollars, each—to pet a trained cheetah cub at the southern tip of South Africa.

Papa Hem would have boasted about staring that endangered creature down and laying it low with a single shot, but I have never, will never, and could never hunt a living thing—especially one so (deceptively) adorable. I mean, I can’t even bring myself to preorder flounder from a Long John Silver’s aquarium.

Unlike my fellow spectators at the lodge, I cheered when I watched an impala near Simbambili Lodge outfox a slow-witted leopard. I hope to God my tenderhearted disposition doesn’t ruin my writing career.)

But one thing I do have in common with the Londolozi author is that I was in the general vicinity of his family’s park when I was on the airstrip en route to Nelstruit and then Cape Town. By sheer coincidence, my hot minute near Londolozi coincided with my guru Martha Beck’s Starlight Safari at the game park, but, alas, she was nowhere to be seen before our four-seat propeller jet took off. (BTW, if you’re a Martha fan too, please note that her beloved beagle Cookie recently passed away, so you might want to send your sympathies to her website.) Anyway, this morning’s podcast inspired me to throw down some notes from our trip, which Julius has been bugging me to post. So here goes, warts and all (almost unabridged):

****These are only notes—raw notes—taken straight from a travel notebook I kept. Please forgive the shorthand (e.g., @, &, tho, ~, thru), grammar lapses and paucity of possessive pronouns (e.g., “their,” “mine,” “his,” “hers”) and articles (e.g., “a,” “an,” & “the”).****

****Many photos are mine & Julius’ but at least as many are lifted from Flickr & other websites. Many images are filler for what we failed to capture as amateur/often inattentive photographers.****

August 21, 2009 – Soho & Trafalgar Square, London

Arrive @ Heathrow @ 9 am. Still sliding on last night’s Ambien. Mysteriously arrive @ Hazlitt’s—favorite hotel in all my years of slipping in & out of rented rooms. Can’t even recall passing through customs or taking taxi. Staff fixes me pot of Darjeeling tea, seats me in one of their many ground-floor libraries. I munch, red-eyed, on biscuits while gazing @ old, crumbling books on shelves. Too blitzed to get off ass & check if pages on The Voyage Out are authentically yellowing or just plain blank.

Rest ruddy cheek on palm as I wonder if V. Woolf ever stayed @ Hazlitt’s (est. 1718) but am awake enough to know it’s a stupid meditation. She was already living a couple neighborhoods over in Bloomsbury, tho it’s true she wasn’t known for her frugality & might have splurged on a Hazlitt’s room while up-cycling.

Noon

Room ready. Can’t hit sack ’til nighttime, not unless I want jetlag locked in its infernal place.

Take shower, rubbing soap in zombielike slow-mo over body. Ablutions so automatic, eyes so heavy, am not even sure if I undressed before stepping into tub. Satisfied I’ve done so by time I step out, reach for towel & notice I’m in front of full-length window as lunchtime crowd marches by, taking time out of busy schedules to snicker. Close curtains, happy to have harvested at least some admiring glances.

1:00 pm

Meet Rachael for lunch @ Café Boheme. Have long prided myself on moving beyond mainstream gay identity. Still, first thing I do is hand Rachael program to her all-time favorite musical, South Pacific, which I saw last week @ Lincoln Center. (In my defense, I only went to show b/c Julius promised to spring for pizza afterwards. Wasn’t moved by outdated depictions of race relations in Polynesia; thought blonde was being ridiculous – kind of like watching Giant in the 21^st Century, but not as good). Order bottle of something red. R has salmon omelet; me, salade nicoise.

Rachael & I email 1 to 2 x/day but still find loads to catch up on in person. R tells me BBC laughs @ American wingnuts & evangelicals. UK & liberal Americans like me not amused now, tho. Furious over ignorance & ultra-partisan opposition to Obama’s healthcare plan. Am equally outraged @ WH for seeking consensus w/ right, bargaining over public option & letting right run debate. Conservatives say: “We don’t trust government.” Why the fuck weren’t they screaming that when Bush launched unholy war? & why didn’t media cover Iraq protests anywhere near as much as town-hall riots? & did Republicans deign to give us town halls before going ahead w/ Shock & Awe? That was Big Government at its baddest. And Dems were all too quick to capitulate, as usual; hope they don’t this time. (Mention to R that am glad to also have EU passport, thanks to Irish Grampa.)

~ 5:00 pm

Move on to drinks up road @ The Dog & Duck. Still chattering but look @ watch, see it’s already 7 pm. Am full to bursting with Fosters Lager but have only 15 minutes to claim ground-floor table for 7:30 show @ Playhouse Theatre near Trafalgar Square.

The show: La Cage Aux Folles, another wrecking ball to non-cliché gay status. (Must admit: bought ticket just to hear “I Am What I Am.” Also smitten by antique, feather-boa camp.)

7:20 pm

Arrive @ Playhouse Theatre late but still time before curtain call. Didn’t realize would be occupying 1 of few tables. Rest of audience in regular seats behind me. Am right up against stage.

Sitting w/ 3 muscle boys who wink @ & flirt w/ me. Guy w/ them looks like Col. Sanders in an ascot. Must be rent boys. Play it off w/ them but am thankful they don’t later extend invitation to orgy that I’d have to spend awkward 20 mins or so turning down. (Heard all about London boys.) Couldn’t explain that one away to Julius, who is due to arrive @ ~ dawn, nor would want to besmirch unblemished record of fidelity.

8:12 pm

Sinuous can-can dancer from cast jumps on table, gropes me as stage lights flash. All above waist, tho, so = okay.

10:30 pm

Soho erupting w/ nightlife. Even more jam-packed than Manhattan due to narrower streets. Unabashedly drunk mobs. Can’t justify going to bed.

Opt for Margherita pizza half a block away @ chi-chi restaurant called Bertorelli. Fashionista waiter acts like my table’s not worth his time. Won’t even get me another Peroni. Have to wave down his buddy for a check. Leave no tip. Tips are To Insure Proper Service, & where the hell was that?

11:20 pm

Back @ Hazlitt’s. Log on to Bertorelli website. Tell them to tell their waiters to get over themselves. Say I come from city where restaurants are 2x as full & wait staff at least as gorgeous & infinitely politer; say, in NYC, servers know it’s to their financial & karmic benefit to be nice to customers. Website has extensive Comments & Suggestion protocol, tho. Have to go thru ~ 12 screens; takes 1/2 hour to rifle off complaint. Worth it, tho. Plus, am automatically registered for raffle for all-expenses-paid trip to Italy. Prob’ly be disqualified once they read my Comments & Suggestions.

August 22, 2009 – London: Soho, Belgravia, Picadilly Circus, & Islington

Morning

Can’t sleep; wake up @ 4: 25. Write, meditate, shower. Hope to see J by time I’m done but no sign of him. Roma Espresso only place open on Greek Street. Order espresso and Peligrino. Woman in layers of raggedy 80s clothes sits outside; egg yolk dripping from hair (don’t know how that happened); manila file folder on lap,

mumbling to herself in cockney flourishes like strumpet from Jack The Ripper movie; making random scribbles on corners of papers in file. Besides Roma Espresso owner, she & I = only ones out this early. No call from J. By 10:30, checking world news & American Airlines websites for plane crashes.

Afternoon

J turns up @ Hazlitt’s @ ~ noon. Both his bags weigh ~ 500 lbs. Concierge helps carry. Hope she’s eligible for worker’s comp. J says had to sit on JFK runway in rain for 4 hrs. Surprised plane could take off w/ his bags in back.

Go to Pimlico, Belgravia to look @ houses. Both locales sterile & dead cf. Soho. Has Buddhist Center, tho, w/ Theravada & Mahayana teachers. Closed for next month, tho. How will people keep in practice? Also, band of Cambridge-looking elite on white-pillared balcony drinking champagne & listening to Gnarls Barkley’s St. Elsewhere. What street cred! (I know, I’m a fine one to talk!)

Julius realizes he didn’t bring Malarone. No Malarone, no Africa. Need Rx. Call everyone we know in London. All say go to Public Health Dept. We go, waiting room’s full. Boots Pharmacy @ Picadilly Circus (equiv., Duane Reade, NYC) doesn’t offer help on where to find self-pay physician on Saturday. Tough bollocks, they all but say.

Before having nervous breakdown, we decide to buy socks at Harvie & Hudson. Salesman overhears us discussing dilemma.

Suggests we go to London Clinic, a self-pay physicians office near Mayfair. We hail cab, walk out w/ Malarone Rx 20 mins later. Boots of Picadilly has to fill it – more egg on their faces now than in schizophrenic woman’s hair.

Dinner

Meet friends Matthew & Neil for dinner @ gastro-pub called The Draper’s Arms in Islington. Rachael joining us. Matthew & Neil want to meet her, vastly intrigued by specter of oft-referenced penpal. Thank God, instant rapport b/t all parties once R arrives. (R & husband Adam had trouble finding babysitter for Mimi, so Adam had to stay home.) Turns out, Neil = good friends w/ R’s society journalist sister Emily. Conversation steers itself now. J & I both enchanted by Islington houses. Might move into one if/when we relocate. Lucky to have ready group of friends if/when we do.

(Continues w/ Part Two)

Coming Up

Tubu Tree Camp, Botswana

London’s affordable housing comes with a high quotient of style. In the next few months, first-time buyers could move into a boutique apartment in Fulham or join the Primrose Hill set in a landmark development near Camden Town.

“Affordability” doesn’t come cheap, however housing associations consider only those buyers with an income below £60,000. But with monthly costs in Central London hovering between £700 and £1,000, you are likely to need every penny of that.

One of the most controversial schemes, Peel House, in Pimlico, is due to be launched next month. The 14 shared-ownership flats have been created by the property developers Nick and Christian Candy.

The multimillionaire brothers were obliged to fund some affordable housing as part of the deal to build the One Hyde Park development in Knightsbridge, where apartments cost an average of £20 million. Rather than include it on site, they built it two miles away in a former police training centre. Critics accused them of creating a “billionaire’s ghetto”, but the developer promises a high-spec finish. The development, which includes 56 flats and houses for rent, is five minutes’ walk from Victoria.

(Prosze w komentarzach wpisywac swoje oferty)

Pimlico property residents who regularly use busy Westminster roads may be set to benefit from a new traffic safety trial.

A number of traffic lights positioned in areas of the Westminster borough will be turned off as part of an experiment to see how London’s traffic flow can be improved.

It is hoped drivers approaching junctions will have to show more care at junctions where traffic signals have been disabled, making eye contact with other car users and pedestrians.

Westminster City Council’s director of transportation Martin Low believes that by creating indecision in the minds of road users, a safer environment could well be created.

He said: “When lights are out we have noticed that drivers are far more considerate and show more care and attention than they do when they have the reassurance of traffic lights.”

Last month the council encouraged more people living in Pimlico and Westminster properties to shop locally, to help out small businesses during the recession.

How could any woman say no?

Routes 11, 344 (2 hours 12 minutes)

Route 11 is a marquee route. One for the show-reel. It’s stunning.

Starting outside Fulham Town Hall, it quickly heads east up the King’s Road to Sloane Square into Pimlico, past Victoria and into Westminster. It circles Parliament Square before heading up Whitehall, past Horse Guards Parade and into Trafalgar Square. Then comes The Strand, Drury Lane and Fleet Street before heading into The City and St Paul’s, Bank and Threadneedle Street and terminating at Liverpool Street. It’s 73 minutes right through the heart of London and as such a little difficult to write about because it sails past landmark upon famous landmark. What is there to say about the Houses of Parliament? Apart from the fact I still think Big Ben looks like it’s made out of matchsticks.

Today though, it’s raining, so the shine is somewhat removed, even on King’s Road, which runs for about two and-a-half miles which runs from Fulham through the heart of Chelsea to Eaton Square, was a private road right up until 1830. Until then, it had been the road Charles II used to travel to Hampton Court, while George III liked to use it to get to Kew. These days, as befits its royal pedigree, it is largely full of boutique shops, beauty salons, art galleries and antique shops, or in some cases, a combination of all of the above. Only as you reach the eastern end of the road do more familiar high street names start to make an appearance.

Typical of King's Road

Then it is into the somewhat undefined area of Pimlico and past Victoria Coach Station, where many an hour was spent in my youth waiting for connecting National Express coaches on my way to and from University. I still have the top deck to myself as Westminster Abbey marks our entrance to Parliament Square, the sky a portentious (my dictionary insists this is not a word, but I disagree. I like it) deep grey.

But traffic is unusually light, so Whitehall is soon upon us, the government offices fronted by statues such as Earl Haig and Field Marshall Montgomery. War memorials standing proudly in the middle of the road. Horse Guards Parade is full of tourists as a man uses a mirror to check underneath a van waiting to enter Downing Street. Then it is right at Trafalgar Square onto The Strand and into Aldwych. The theatres of Drury Lane pass on the left before a familiar road is found. Fleet Street. Here, a man displays absolutely no chivalry by holding an umbrella over his head but not that of his female companion. I tut disapprovingly, not least because she is, well… I’ll leave it there. Anyway, this is at least the third time I have been up here and past Ludgate Circus to St Paul’s, but I love it. It reeks of history and gin-soaked press copy of years gone by. Then it’s past Bank and into Threadneedle Street, with Liverpool Street quickly arriving.

Yep, the No 11 is a tourist dream, surely no other route passes so many landmarks? It almost feels like cheating and there’s certainly not a great deal that can be added to the thousands of tourist guides that document these features. No, I said at the start of this quest that I would probably find meaning as I went, and it appears my calling remains with the mundane, the unseen and the unloved.

Liverpool Street has an interesting monument outside the entrance though. The Children of the Kindertransport serves as a mark of gratitude “to the people of Britain for saving the lives of 10,000 unaccompanied mainly Jewish children who fled from Nazi persecution in 1938 and 1939.”

Children of the Kindertransport

I take a look inside the station, it’s platforms well below ground level. Until recently it was the location of a T-Mobile ad in their current horrific campaign to hijack the very modern pursuit of flashmobbing. I have been to one flashmob, back in December 2004. It was a pillow fight outside the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. Everyone had to be there by 6pm, but were not allowed to have a pillow in view. Then, at 6pm precisely, about 300 strangers removed pillows from their rucksacks and started hitting each other for 10 minutes, much to the utter bemusement of American tourists. It was a glorious moment and it’s taken corporate wankers a few years to remove any sense of spirit from the whole enterprise. They’ll be onto parkour next.

Look at those eyes, ready to batter a stranger

Anyway, Liverpool Street is a grand old red-brick station and stands proudly in the shadow of the Gherkin and The City’s shiny towers thanks largely to a £65m refurbishment in 2000.

Liverpool Street Station

Liverpool Street Station concourse

My next route means a short walk around the back of the station, to pick up the 344, which is to take me back south of the river to Clapham Junction. Pleasingly, it is there waiting for me as I arrive and briefly retraces the route of the No 11 before sweeping down Gracechurch Street and past The Monument, where I spent a happy hour a few weeks ago. However, once it has crossed Southwark Bridge (the only route to do so) things rather get bogged down at Elephant & Castle, enhancing the grim junction’s bid for my least favourite part of London. I despise this place, from its savage architecture, bewildering subway system and constant traffic mess. Apart from the Charlie Chaplin pub, only the origin of its name can possibly hold any interest.

One urban myth is that it relates to Infanta de Castile, usually said to be a reference to Eleanor of Castile, the wife of Edward I, but according to Michael Quinion:

The castle here is actually a howdah on the back of the elephant, in India a seat traditionally used by hunters. The public house called the Elephant and Castle was converted about 1760 from a smithy that had had the same name and sign. This had connections with the Cutlers’ Company, a London craft guild founded in the 13th century which represented workers who made knives, scissors, surgical instruments and the like. The guild used the same emblem. The link here is the Indian elephant ivory used for knife handles, in which the Cutlers’ Company dealt.

So, the explanation is as mundane as the landscape. Still, we trundle on and get a brief glimpse of Lambeth Palace, believed to date back to the start of the 13th Century and official residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was here in 1534 that former Speaker and member of the King’s Council, Thomas More, when asked to take the oath of succession by Henry VIII, refused to do so and was subsequently sent to the Tower of London. He was beheaded a little over a year later, his head boiled and placed on a pole.

A brief glimpse of Lambeth Palace

A shall return to the Palace for further delving at some point, but for now there are rather more modern security arrangements going on just up the river. As we pass Albert Embankment, a plethora of armed police have set up a checkpoint and are stopping random cars and dog-walkers. I sneak a couple of quick photos, aware that they probably wouldn’t be too chuffed to see me doing so, but my immediate thought is of bombdogs.

Checkpoint negotiated, the 344 continues its easy passage through Vauxhall, past the Power Station and Dog’s Home of Battersea to Clapham Junction. It chucks me out beside the Grand. After today’s grand proceedings, it seems appropriate.

Rachel Alexandra - Photo by Jim McCue of the Maryland Jockey Club

I’ve posted this on Twitter, placed it in recent articles, and feel very strongly about the matter.  Following Rachel Alexandra’s victory against older males in the Woodward on Saturday at Saratoga, the race for Horse of the Year would appear to be over.  I realize that might be a bold statement considering there are several huge races left to be run this year.  I can’t see how anyone else’s campaign could possibly top what we’ve seen unfold before our eyes.  The filly who was once rejected by her mother (Lotta Kim) has reached the top of the mountain as the finest horse in racing in all of North America.

This isn’t just a Horse of the Year campaign, it’s a campaign for all times.  Arguably the start to a Hall of Fame career.  Every time she runs, decades worth of history come crashing down like so many dominoes.  She lays waste to the competition, conquers every track she encounters, and can lay claim to achieving truly unprecedented results.

“…any talk of another horse being worthy of Horse of the Year honors is patently absurd.”

Interestingly, I actually believe that if the Zenyatta camp had travelled east to face Rachel in the Woodward, they would’ve had a very big shot to prevail.  Especially considering how the pace setup ultimately played out.  The closers (Bullsbay and Macho Again) were rolling late with every chance to catch Rachel.  You’d have to think Zenyatta would’ve been coming gamely in the stretch.  We must also factor in that Zenyatta would’ve been returning to dirt in a relatively fresh condition.

I just don’t see what Zenyatta can do now to surpass what Rachel has done this year?  There would’ve been an opportunity to keep pace by moving up the class ladder and taking on older males in the Pacific Classic, but that didn’t happen.  We KNOW that Rachel is the dominant horse of the U.S. east of the Mississippi.  Zenyatta?  Well, the picture’s a little cloudy for her.  She’s a champion and undefeated mare who deserves a great deal of respect, that much is certain.  

Don’t you have to feel though that the older male division in California has been somewhat ripe for the taking?  I thought Zenyatta would’ve made a lot of sense as a logical contender in last year’s Breeders’ Cup Classic.  Sadly, we’ve never had the chance to find out.  Hopefully that changes in the future, but even so it might be a case of too little too late.

Even if Zenyatta manages to win the Classic, and let’s assume for a moment that she does win in electrifying fashion against top flight competition, would that be enough to leapfrog everything Rachel has accomplished already?  Not in my mind.  Of course, this doesn’t even factor in that Zenyatta might run into a horse like Sea the Stars in the Classic.  As much respect as I have for her, the 2009 campaign so far does not stack up favorably against the accomplishments of Rachel.

Too strong an opinion?  Perhaps, but let’s review that list of accomplishments for Rachel:

Historical notes:
-First filly in 8 decades to win the Preakness
-2nd filly in 42 years to win the Haskell
-first filly EVER to defeat older males in the Woodward

Runners who have flattered Rachel with NEXT OUT Stakes wins:
-Just Jenda ( G3 Monmouth Oaks)
-Sarah Louise (G3 Victory Ride)
-Gabby’s Golden Gal (G1 Acorn)
-Take the Points (G2 Secretariat)
-Flashing (G1 Test)
-Summer Bird (G1 Travers)

Misc:
-5 CONSECUTIVE Grade 1 wins (Ky Oaks, Preakness, Mother Goose, Haskell, Woodward).

-Joins elite company becoming one of the few 3-year-old fillies in history to defeat Grade 1 older males over a mile or more.

-Faced males in 3 of those 5 Grade 1 races, won ‘em all.

-Perfect 8 for 8 record in 2009, all stakes races.

-Has defeated the winners of the Kentucky Derby, Belmont Stakes, Travers Stakes, Whitney Handicap, Stephen Foster – all while winning the Kentucky Oaks, Preakness, Mother Goose, Haskell, and Woodward for herself…and that’s just the last 5 races going back to May.

(read that point above one more time)

-For any other horse (colt or filly) defeating the Kentucky Derby winner would’ve been the centerpiece of their 3-year-old campaign.  For Rachel it’s just one of many such moments, and arguably not the biggest or the most memorable.  Think about that.  That’s really saying something.  Just to help you remember how special that moment and the buildup to that historic ride was, take a little walk down memory lane once again:

-Has won Grade 1 races this year at 5 different tracks: Churchill Downs (KY Oaks), Pimlico (Preakness), Belmont Park (Mother Goose), Monmouth Park (Haskell), and Saratoga (Woodward). 

-There were 3 more stakes victories starting the campaign in early 2009.  Take note of this as it’s the first point in the discussion that Zenyatta’s ‘09 campaign draws even by comparison.  It’s the basement of Rachel’s accomplishments but currently the ceiling of those Zenyatta has earned thus far in 2009.  I think that last sentence bears some reflection.

The thought that all of the above happened in the 3-year-old campaign of a single filly is so unbelievably spectacular that I’m not sure even Horse of the Year renders it full justice.  Remember that after all this, she’s still not even a mare yet!  It boggles the mind to think of how she might develop if given proper rest to prepare for a 4-year-old campaign.

“…any talk of another horse being worthy of Horse of the Year honors is patently absurd.”

Well, maybe that is a little harsh, but it’s hard to argue with the list of accolades listed above. 

Any argument favoring someone else for Horse of the Year is bound to contain speculation about what might happen in the future, or is based on memories from the previous year.  In contrast, Rachel’s case is built on events that have actually happened this year.  There’s no might or if about them.  She’s earned it all on the track.

What say you?

Yesterday I ventured down to Pimlico and Millbank to revisit the Tate Britain. Long my favourite Tate outpost, I don’t think the Tate Modern was even open the first time I visited Millbank. I particularly like the Tate Britain because of their focus on historical British art. I have a particular fondness for the Pre-Raphaelites and Victorian Romantics and the Arts and Crafts movement with which they were closely linked. The Tate has a fantastic collection of works which are changed regularly to let all the paintings have their chance to be seen.  Although this meant I didn’t see all the paintings I remembered (as if all of them would still be up so many years later) I did manage to find a few favourites and also had a look at the William Blake exhibition recreation.

Tate Britain

It was a lazy afternoon well spent looking at fantastic paintings such as Edward Burne-Jones’ King Cophetua and the beggar maid, George Frederick Watts Hope, John Everett Millais Ophelia, and William Blake’s exhibition. I didn’t take a lot of photos because the battery in the camera was threatening to die. It’s done very well, taking hundreds of photos even though I’d only charged the battery once since buying it. It does take excellent close up photos (much better than the old camera) as seen in this picture of the beautiful flowers in the garden outside the Tate.

I just liked the colour (and there's a bee!)

And the other notable building in the area is just across the river. Home of the SIS, better known as MI6, this massive building sits not so secretly right near the Vauxhall Bridge.  It’s interesting enough as a curiousity but I do remember that someone launched a rocket at it last time I was here.

Ssssh it's a secret service

And of course seeing some ads during the trip home on the tube reminded me that I need to go visit the V & A soon. I’m keeping stuff like the Tower of London until the school holidays here are over (which is soon) in the hope there might be a couple less people there when I visit.

I’ve been reading GK Chesterton’s Orthodoxy. It is obviously brilliant, if, perhaps, a little hard on those who desire revolution or to overthrow unjust socio-political orthodoxies. But I came across this passage, which I just had to share.

Obviously, lines like “then it would remain Pimlico, which would be awful,” amuse me because of what Pimlico is today. But, as Chesterton wrote, apparently, it was a poor neighbourhood, and what he says about loving a place into renewal rather than waiting for it to be renewed before loving it is beautiful and profound. The last three passages, in which he points out the central (or at least important) role of faith in the socio-political creation of a better world. Not only is it okay for Christians to be political, it is important that they are ‘fully Christian’ while being ‘fully political’, never assuming that all they have to offer is body, without Spirit.

It’s all very incarnation:

GK Chesterton

Let us suppose we are confronted with a desperate thing — say Pimlico. If we think what is really best for Pimlico we shall find the thread of thought leads to the throne or the mystic and the arbitrary. It is not enough for a man to disapprove of Pimlico: in that case he will merely cut his throat or move to Chelsea. Nor, certainly, is it enough for a man to approve of Pimlico: for then it will remain Pimlico, which would be awful.

The only way out of it seems to be for somebody to love Pimlico: to love it with a transcendental tie and without any earthly reason. If there arose a man who loved Pimlico, then Pimlico would rise into ivory towers and golden pinnacles; Pimlico would attire herself as a woman does when she is loved. For decoration is not given to hide horrible things: but to decorate things already adorable.

A mother does not give her child a blue bow because he is so ugly without it. A lover does not give a girl a necklace to hide her neck. If men loved Pimlico as mothers love children, arbitrarily, because it is theirs, Pimlico in a year or two might be fairer than Florence. Some readers will say that this is a mere fantasy. I answer that this is the actual history of mankind. This, as a fact, is how cities did grow great. Go back to the darkest roots of civilization and you will find them knotted round some sacred stone or encircling some sacred well. People first paid honour to a spot and afterwards gained glory for it. Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was great because they had loved her.

The eighteenth-century theories of the social contract have been exposed to much clumsy criticism in our time; in so far as they meant that there is at the back of all historic government an idea of content and co-operation, they were demonstrably right. But they really were wrong in so far as they suggested that men had ever aimed at order or ethics directly by a conscious exchange of interests.

From the blog of the American Chesterton Society

Morality did not begin by one man saying to another, “I will not hit you if you do not hit me”; there is no trace of such a transaction. There is a trace of both men having said, “We must not hit each other in the holy place.” They gained their morality by guarding their religion. They did not cultivate courage. They fought for the shrine, and found they had become courageous. They did not cultivate cleanliness. They purified themselves for the altar, and found that they were clean.

The history of the Jews is the only early document known to most Englishmen, and the facts can be judged sufficiently from that. The Ten Commandments which have been found substantially common to mankind were merely military commands; a code of regimental orders, issued to protect a certain ark across a certain desert. Anarchy was evil because it endangered the sanctity. And only when they made a holy day for God did they find they had made a holiday for men.

Anyway, you should read Orthodoxy. It’s rather good.

And this is a clip of an adaptation of Father Brown, his most famous creation. The stories fit into the Detective genre, but they are really great religious and sociological essays, dramatised with much humour.

Having discussed the gates of London, I thought it would perhaps be fitting to discuss their Industrial Revolution equivalents – I refer to the railway termini.

These days, railways – underground, overground or Wombling free – are a vital part of London’s transport network. Look at the chaos that results when there’s a Tube strike, for example. But what’s less well appreciated in our everyday lives is how much life in the city was changed by the coming of the railways. For instance, the fish and chip shops? Not possible before the railways - fresh sea fish couldn’t be transported inland in time. National daily newspapers couldn’t exist until there was a means to transport them. Perishable goods like meat and milk could only be sold locally, often to the farmer’s loss. Suburbia didn’t exist in its modern form, because only the fairly well-off could afford to live more than walking distance from work (although what would have been considered “walking distance” in the early nineteenth century was considerably more than it would be today).

So the big railway stations of London are gateways to the city in two senses – firstly, they are the physical gateways. Indeed, if you want to get philosophical, the entire railway is a gateway. You step through the carriage door in one city and when you step out, you’re in a different city. I think Baudrillard said something along those lines. Him or Foucault, I always get those two confused. Wow, I must be the first blogger ever to admit not being familiar with philosophy. Har.

Back on topic. But in another sense, the railway termini are a gateway in time – they makr the boundary between the old city and the modern. I will start my little series with Victoria, not so much because it has any special significance as because I was there the other day.

The station was opened in 1860, built on the site occupied by a conveniently-abandoned canal basin. The western side of the station was run by the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway (LBSC) and served the lines now running through Battersea Park, Balham and Crystal Palace.

London, Brighton and South Coast Railway coat of arms preserved on the viaduct at Battersea Park

The western side was owned by the London, Chatham and Dover Railway (LCDR). Of course, despite being built on basically unused land, the construction of a terminus in fashionable Belgravia did not come cheap, and there were strict and frankly bizarre regulations put in place by the landowners – the lines would have to run under a glass roof from the river to the station and the rails had to be underlaid with rubber to deaden noise.

Despite this, the men of the Companies didn’t feel the need to build a station in keeping with its surroundings, and both the LCDR and LBSC made their home in shabby wooden shacks, and it was only in 1908 that the LBSC completed the rebuild of their half of the station (seen above). Not very fitting for station that promised luxury services to the South Coast and the Channel ports, but frankly this attitude wasn’t unusual in the mid-nineteenth century – the need to drive a line into London outweighed any aesthetic considerations. Shortly after the LBSC began their rebuild, the South Eastern and Chatham Railway (a company formed out of the LCDR and the South Eastern Railway) decided they weren’t going to be shown up and did some rebuilding of their own. The completed building featured, according to Alan A. Jackson, “a maritime flavour bestowed by four mermaids contemplating their well-parted bosoms”. Yoy. Less racily, due to the proximity of Buckingham Palace, the rebuilt station featured luxury waiting room for Royalty.

Victoria Station famously plays a part in Oscar Wilde’s play The Importance of Being Earnest. Indeed, it is mentioned in the most oft-quoted section of the play:

JACK: The late Mr Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for Worthing in his pocket at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside resort.

LADY BRACKNELL: Where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you?

JACK: (gravely) In a hand-bag.

LADY BRACKNELL: A hand-bag?

JACK: (very seriously) Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag – a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles on it – an ordinary hand-bag, in fact

LADY BRACKNELL: In what locality did this Mr James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?

JACK: In the cloakroom at Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.

LADY BRACKNELL: The cloakroom at Victoria Station?

JACK: Yes. The Brighton line.

LADY BRACKNELL: The line is immaterial, Mr Worthing. I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution.

The stations were united in 1923, when the Southern Railway took over both the SECR and the LBSC.

As well as offering Royal trains (not that these were unique), Victoria gained a name for prestige, luxury trains. Boat trains – trains timed to meet ships in the Channel ports – were a mainstay of services. There was even, for a time, a Flying Boat Train. This sounds like the most awesome form of transport ever, but was in fact just a train timed to meet seaplane services at Southampton.

London, Brighton and South Coast Railway locomotive. I'm not joking. You think I'm joking? I'm not joking.

Slightly cooler was a plan to build a heliport on top of the station in the 1950s. Fortunately, due to concerns about traffic congestion in the area, this idea wasn’t carried out – let’s face it, given the standard of architecture in the 1950s and 60s, we wouldn’t have ended up with anything beautiful. However, 1962 saw the start of the Gatwick Airport service that continues to this day in the form of the Gatwick Express.

Which was why, in the 1960s, it was thought that Victoria, rather than Waterloo or St Pancras, would be the terminus of the Channel Tunnel rail link. There were also plans to run a line to Victoria from Heathrow, the idea being that by the time all this was complete, Victoria would be a world-class epicentre of travel in the West End. The Victoria Line, opened in 1967, was in part intended to take advantage of this. Alan A. Jackson, he of the contemplative bosoms, noted in 1969 that this development would be essential with “the pending arrival of high-capacity civilian aircraft (the so-called jumbo-jets)”. Ah, hindsight.

Incidentally, to end on a low-down note, British railways (like most around the world) are divided into signalling sections. When a train is in one section, another cannot be allowed into that section until it has moved on. Thus are accidents prevented. The first section out of Victoria ends at a place called Pouparts Junction, which is brilliant.

Incidentally

I talk a little more about this on My Other Blog – http://coarsescale.wordpress.com/2009/08/05/layout-ideas-victoria/

Once again, Ealing Studios provides me with a title that encapsulates the thoughts of a disturbed mind. Or at least provides a segway into it.

Trouble at t’mill?

Songs, more specifically nursery rhymes, are deeply disturbing when considered in a sober state. I’m certain there are very good explanations and origins of most of our received rhymes, but on face value they are utterly absurd. For example:

Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
We’ll all have tea.
Sukey take it off again,
Sukey take it off again,
Sukey take it off again,
They’ve all gone away.

What the hell can that possibly mean? Is this the ranting of some opium fiend? Were ancient tea rooms the sanctuary of the clinically insane? The plot thickens, for the nursery rhyme is not as ancient as I had first imagined. It was composed and written in 1797. So it’s a mere pup as far as nursery rhymes go. The story has it, that a man wrote and published the lyrics to this nursery rhyme. The origins were based on the man having five children – two boys and three girls. There were constant arguments as the boys wanted to play “soldiers” and the girls wanted to play “house”. If the girls wanted to get rid of their brothers, they would sometimes pretend to start a game of “house” and Polly would put the toy kettle on. As soon as the boys left, Sukey would take it off again. Their father was so amused by this ploy that he set it to words and added the music.

So, in summary, it’s nothing more than a ruse or a distraction for repelling unwanted company or callers. I actually now use this ploy whenever I answer the telephone.

Hello, Pimlico 236…

Ah, the beautiful drawings of Kate Greenaway. As a child, I would study the detail of her pictures in nursery rhyme books for hours.

Here’s another strange fish:

Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run, see how they run,
They all ran after the farmer’s wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did you ever see such a thing in your life,
As three blind mice?

Once again, apparent lunacy. However, the origin of the words to the Three Blind Mice rhyme are, as you would expect, based in history. The “farmer’s wife” refers to the daughter of King Henry VIII, Queen Mary I. Mary was a staunch Catholic and her violent persecution of Protestants led to the nickname of “Bloody Mary”. Not everybody’s favourite drink, but I love a good Bloody Mary. Anyway, the reference to “farmer’s wife” refers to the massive estates which she, and her husband King Philip of Spain, possessed. The “three blind mice” were three noblemen who adhered to the Protestant faith who were convicted of plotting against the Queen – she did not have them dismembered and blinded as inferred in Three Blind Mice – but she did have them burnt at the stake.

Incidentally, another nursery rhyme which features “Bloody Mary” is “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary…”

Dodgy girl, but nice drink

Of course, this is all a far cry from Gracie Fields in the Ealing comedy (Sing As We Go), where she plays a feisty mill girl trying out various jobs in Blackpool during the summer after her mill is forced to close down. After getting into some hair-raising scrapes, she has an accidental meeting with magnate Sir William Upton, whereupon she is able to start negotiations to restore prosperity and save her colleagues jobs at the mill. They don’t write them like that anymore. Blackpool, with its fine erection in honour of Monsieur Eiffel is again a far cry from Walmington-on-Sea. I mention this because I was reminded of aforementioned town, when I saw the map on the war room walls of direct.gov.uk

“Don’t panic”

I often wish that the Department of Health had read my weblog from the onset, perhaps I should drop them a link (and that’s not a euphemism). Yes that’s right dear reader, it’s Swine Flu again. As you are also aware, we are the best prepared country. Best prepared to accept it, spread it and generally give it a good solid base to work on. Now, apparently, we are shifting the public away from doctor to non-medical staff, who will deal with it “Call Centre” style. The general advice is to telephone these help lines, have your self diagnosed and get a healthy person to collect the purported remedy from a clinic. So, let’s recap. Take one healthy person who has now been in contact with a swine flu victim, and then send them out to infect a whole lot of vulnerably unwell people at the clinic. Thus, ensuring the airborne virus has a damned good foothold for its next batch of chumps. This sounds an awesome idea. You have to be a special kind of idiot to dream up these schemes. This isn’t your regular idiot plan, no sir, this is advanced stuff. This is pure Rampton grade.

The new Minister for Health

Totally changing the subject now, I’m certain my neighbour is wearing my socks. It’s something I feel I will never prove, but I’m watching him. One false move and he’ll be de-Argyled faster than a speeding trolleybus.

Anyone for tea?

Damn you Ealing Studios, but a title is a title, and it’s the theme of today’s weblog.

This missive is definitely a tricky egg. I’ve already alienated my Formula One readership and now I risk losing my female audience if, and I cannot stress that enough, this is read the wrong way. Men are in a bit of a crisis – that’s hardly front page news you’re thinking. They’re in a kind of “damned if they do – damned if they don’t” paradox. It’s the small things that highlight this peculiarity – don’t open a door for a woman and you’re ignorantly rude – open a door for a woman and you’re a patronising throwback from the past. I simply hurl myself out of the nearest window when I see a woman approaching any form of doorway; it’s simpler but very painful.

Ealing Studios: The Feminine Touch

I will make no apologies for being attracted to, and adoring the female of our species. This is not in a patronising way; this is simply base instincts taking over. That’s just the way it works and that’s why we are all here as a species today. If, en masse, one generation had decided to think otherwise, there would be no next generation – simple.

Now, here’s the rub. I am beginning to wonder about the “I want my cake and eat it” philosophy that is permeating our culture. Equal rights for both sexes are not an issue, they were a painfully long time coming, but thankfully they’re with us and here to stay. That is a given!

I can broadly sum up my confusion in two statements: Sheila’s Wheels and Girl Power

These social and iconic entities are wrong on so many levels.

Let’s take Sheila’s Wheels for example. I’m certain that everybody has heard of this insurance phenomenon, solely aimed at a female only audience. It’s very, very pink and very, very girly. It’s also very, very sexist. Yet, I hear no outcry from the lumpen male populous. Trust me, if there was an insurance deal out there called “Bob’s Bollocks – Car insurance for real men”, it would provoke civil unrest. I cannot understand why this insurance company hasn’t been beaten about the head with a rolled up copy of the current equality legislation laws. I am overlooking the fact that they advertise car insurance for women drivers by showing three women standing up in the front seat of a car wearing pink ball gowns. I am also overlooking the adverts’ claim of women being the safer of the two genders when it comes to driving, albeit without having to use a steering wheel like their dumb male counterparts.

Equality in action: Look no hands!

On the Sheila’s Wheels website, they offer things like:

“Handbag cover up to £300, with comprehensive cover”
“Courtesy car when using our repairers, with comprehensive cover”

And here’s the cruncher “Female friendly repairers”. That will be the men, but only special men who have been carefully vetted for their subservient and friendly deference towards their women superiors. You see men are good for certain things, even if it is only the designing, planning, building, repairing, and in some instances buying of the cars. Apart from that, they have very little input and certainly are incapable of dancing and driving simultaneously.

Now “Girl Power”… When did this happen?

The progress of suffrage?

How did a noble fight for equality and suffrage, involving pain and death, end up as this?

From Emmeline Pankhurst to the Spice Girls: Girl Power

Poor Emmeline must be turning in her grave; this was not what she had in mind.  She didn’t break down the barriers of prejudice, chauvinism and bigotry for this. She had high ideals of women accomplishing the heights of human endeavour without fear of restriction. Her intention was never that women should emulate the worst qualities in men – laughing when they fart and taking the drink “Canada Dry” as a personal challenge. The point has been missed entirely.

The Women’s Institute in the 1950s

Today’s Women’s Institute?

Today, we have girls joining the Boy’s Brigade and the Boy Scouts. We never see a queue of boys waiting to join the Brownies or the Girl Guides. We see the concept of the “Gentleman’s Club” forced to open its doors to women, yet we still have a women only W.I. (Women’s Institute). We have “Woman’s Hour” on Radio 4, no mention of a “Man’s Hour”. The Right Honourable Harriet Harman QC MP is also Minister for Women. There is no comparable Ministry for Men (although that is a debatable point I do concede).

And how long does it take the panel on television’s “Loose Women” to get onto the subject of men? Check it out – at least 2 minutes maximum. These emancipated goddesses have their own show and totally blow it within minutes of the show being aired. After a brief introduction of whatever these crones cackle about, they are immediately onto the subject of how to attract a man. They talk about their curves (or lack of them), their boob size, their lingerie… my point is, the conversation goes in one direction only: Men and how to attract one. Come on girls, you have the forum, use it.

Independent women or arm candy?

Interestingly, I was checking out the history of women inventors and scientists. From Sybilla Masters in 1715 through to Ellen Ochoa in 1993, there have been a total of fifteen worthy of note. Yes, that is fifteen!

Whilst female forums and platforms continue with this pandering to a “Barbie” lifestyle, the Paris Hiltons will always outnumber the Marie Curies.

There is one underlying fact that is simply a universal truism – Women are attractive, men are attracted! That’s it. The sooner we simply accept that fact, grow up and accept the way we are hardwired together, the sooner we can all engage in the common pursuit of excellence.

Men have always worn two hats when it comes to the subject of women – one on their head and one between their legs. I am now speaking with the hat on my head and will say that there is nothing sexier than an intellectual woman. However, if there are any women out there, wishing to act like drunken ladettes down my local tavern in Pimlico – I am quite prepared to be disappointed and swap hats.

     Dear reader, I was astonished at the announcement today that the V.A.T. rate is henceforth to be determined by the spinning of a roulette wheel. Of course, the original value added tax was introduced in 1532, as you well know.

     It was originally introduced to fund the 25 year Bowler hat war with France. Although originally it was merely funded as a value added tax on facial hair, after the moustache riots of 1602, it was extended to cover a range of services. The moustache or beard are no longer used to contribute to the nations coffers (sideburns, curiously are still liable to a 21.5% rate.)

exempt from VAT

     Part of the new “sliding scale” charges will be used to fund the extension of swineflu into Europe. As a world leader in the hosting, marketing and spreading of swineflu, Britain is intending to be the first to spread the porcine menace to our partners in the E.U. Only the other day, a party of pupils from Pimlico Middle School were sent to Burgundy, as part of the spearhead assault to the boundary of France. Luck, however was not with us. The party was discovered, and sent packing. According to sources close to the infected party, they were told to “return to your disease-ridden country.” Not to be deterred a party of children are to be parachuted behind enemy lines. We will ensure that we are the best prepared country to spread the swineflu across Europe and to the rest of the commonwealth. Typhoid Mary was unavailable for comment.

Thwarted again - yet we shall prevail

To the outsider, Pimlico seems to be as calm as ever. But the underlying mood is one of dignified panic. Passports are being issued under the counter. Muted whisperings in a Burgundian dialect can be heard at the local patisserie. Yes, it’s Swine Flu fever again…

Is that a flying pig?

As you well know dear reader, Britain is the best prepared country in the world to deal with swine flu. None of your strict Chinese authoritarian quarantine rules here. No sir. That is why outside of Mexico and the United States, we have the highest incidence of swine flu on the planet. In our international news reports we see a group of British foreign exchange students whooping, waving and acting the fool from behind their protective glass screens. Wearing their protective face masks – it’s all a bit of a laugh, a jape to them. The Chinese are taking the possibility of a deadly airborne spreading killer virus infecting one billion of their fellow countrymen rather seriously; they don’t seem to be amused by the prospect.

Interestingly, I have been reading the swine flu advice for high-risk groups, including pregnant women and children, being underlined by the Government ahead of the launch of a new pandemic service. What’s this, a new pandemic service? The old one has been and gone? Let me tell you, the pandemic is already with us, so don’t wait too long to close the stable door.

The Department of Health said separate pieces of guidance were pulled together in a section of the NHS website because it “made sense to clarify existing advice and put it in one place“. What? You mean that isn’t already done? What exactly did they mean by “We are the best prepared country”?

Once again, we are reacting to situations rather than anticipating situations. The former, is the British way. The latter, favoured by others, is known as planning. Ho hum…

A spokeswoman for the Department of Health said it had not yet decided how the vaccines, which are expected to become available from next month, would be prioritised. Next month? Perhaps she should have said that we are going to wait and see how many people collapse and die before we can assess the dangers. Thank God somebody is on the case with all this, that’s all I can say. Anyway, enough ranting about such trifling matters… Instead, I propose a hand-picked team of experts should be created to deal with all national emergencies, and here is my dream team:

Norris, Doris, Boris and Horace

Given a free hand and an unlimited budget, I don’t think you realise what these four could accomplish.

I would love to hear any comments from you readers out there. I am recoiling at the thought of me talking to myself, so go on, and give it a go. It’s easy to do – simply click the “Leave A Comment” link.

Apropos absolutely nothing – Is it just me, or does Isambard Kingdom Brunel look harder than the Kray twins ever did?

Are you looking at me?

Inspired by a few trips to the betting window over the years, I’ve developed a system of rating how good a sports day I’ve had. To hit the daily double, my two favorite teams – the Cleveland Indians and San Francisco Giants – must win. That happens fairly often (although the Tribe didn’t exactly give me great odds during the first half of the season).

To hit a trifecta, the Tribe and Giants must win – and the Los Angeles Dodgers must lose.

For a superfecta: all of the above plus victory by the baseball teams next nearest to my heart, the Milwaukee Brewers and Oakland Athletics.

The parimutuel concept probably struck me in college, about the time I went to my first horse race. That was the 1976 Preakness at Pimlico in Baltimore. (I had bets on four of the horses in the field of six; neither won or placed.)

During college football season, the main components in my calculus were Ohio State winning and Michigan losing. Eventually, I added USC victories and Notre Dame losses to the formula.

In pro football, a Browns’ victory paired with a Steelers loss was extremely satisfying. Nowadays, my daily double is a San Francisco 49ers victory paired with a Dallas Cowboys loss. I’ll include the occasional (and I do mean occasional) Oakland Raiders victory  and a Steelers loss for good measure.

In September, when football and baseball seasons overlap, I can have either a mighty fine weekend or a miserable one, depending on the fortunes of the Indians, Giants, Buckeyes and Niners.

As for October, my baseball teams are usually watching the Yankees, Cardinals and Dodgers along with everybody else. But one can dream.

Once again, swine flu seems to be edging its way up the agenda. The casual attitude persists, more “porky pest” than “la grippe porcine”. Calmness in a crisis is one thing, bending over backwards to assist the virus is quite another.

I once read a comment from the MSN business manager Caroline Fry, as she returned from a holiday in Mexico, where she spent four days in one of the most affected areas. Here, she describes the scenes she witnessed and what it feels like living in quarantine.

“We were all over the place, to be honest. We started in Mexico City on Good Friday and we were there for four days. Then we toured round the coast and down to the south. From what I heard while I was there, swine flu had already broken out by then, but they thought it was normal flu, rather than something else. There was nothing in the press about it. We were going to go back to Mexico City for our last day, but we decided not to because there was so much fuss and people said everything was shut and we wouldn’t be able to get into hotels or restaurants.”

So much fuss? Not being able to book into a restaurant or hotels? It is heartbreaking. The damned inconvenience of it all! She, of course, forgets to mention the risk of becoming a harbinger of death upon her return. Hey ho.

Caroline Fry: No room at the inn?

The silly season is upon us. Religious fever has taken root in a rural Irish village after workmen claimed the image of the Virgin Mary appeared in the remains of a felled churchyard tree.

The supposed vision in Rathkeale, Co Limerick, has stumped locals who have come in their hundreds to pray and light candles in the grounds of Holy Mary Parish church.

Rathkeale apparition

Why don’t these people invest in a damned good hologram instead of relying on the usual misshapen vegetable approach of the former “That’s Life” television show? If that is supposed to be the Virgin Mary, I can show them where there’s a forest full.

However, it does not beat Diane Duyser from Florida. She sold a decade-old toasted cheese sandwich said to bear an image of the Virgin Mary. She sold it on the eBay auction website for $28,000. As if any other proof were needed of its divine qualities, she claimed the sandwich has never gone mouldy since she made it 10 years ago.

Diane Duyser and George III - Doppelgangers?

Do you remember me telling you of the harrowing tale of Mr Percival Greenwood and his purloined parsnips? Well, I actually bumped into Mr Greenwood in the Teapot, a local tavern. He was remarkably chipper, as he told me of his latest news. One of the parsnips that escaped theft has turned out to be an apparition itself. Yes indeed, one of Mr Greenwood’s parsnips bears a striking resemblance to the Virgin Mary. Apparitions are spreading faster than swine flu. However, everybody is happy. The bounder who took Percival’s parsnips has won first prize at the annual Pimlico Fete. Mr Greenwood has found religion and forgiven the larcenist and I am about to take an evening stroll through Pimlico Gardens.

Percival Greenwood: Life cannot be better

Pimlico Internet Café today

I am despatching this missive to you directly from the Pimlico Internet Café, as it’s far too urgent to go through the normal channels…

Of course, as with most urgent news, that usually means trouble. But, as we always say at P2P “Don’t shoot the messenger”.

A neighbour of mine, Mr Percival Greenwood, has been experiencing parsnip theft on a major scale. Mr Greenwood’s prize parsnips are legendary around Pimlico way.

Mr Greenwood's parsnips, last year

“The matter is not being taken seriously by the police” a distraught Mr Greenwood (aged 67) told awaiting news reporters. “The prize parsnips are not even fully matured, they were only planted in March and take 34 weeks to reach full maturity” he added. Mr Greenwood suspects a rival competitor of the theft, but with no tangible evidence to offer the police, he has resorted to maintaining an all day vigil of his vegetable plot. Trouble indeed!

Discussing parsnips, today

Until today, I had never witnessed a grown man break down and weep over the loss of parsnips. I can only hope to God that I never have to witness such a spectacle again. Watching this well respected giant of a man lose his dignity this morning, was frankly more than I could stand. I had to walk away.

Mr Percival Greenwood keeping vigil, today

Well, it’s finally happened. The long awaited return of the Great British Trouser Show to BBC1. As I understand it, this will be aired on Monday 6 July at 8:00 pm. This opening show of the series promises to be a stonker. The two colossuses of the trouser world finally meet head to head. Yes, it’s Sir Patrick Moore taking on Simon Cowell. The episode to be aired is provocatively entitled “The Wrong Trousers” and will stop traffic!

Moore vs Cowell

“I’m old school” claims Moore. “I wear my trousers high and proud” Cowell responds. I won’t give too much away here, but the sight of Sir Patrick Moore sitting on Simon Cowell’s face and obviously trying to break wind, is worth the Licence Fee alone.

Swiftly changing the topic now; to things being “Ready”. Everything seems to be “Ready”. These ghosts of the future that have somehow found their way back to the present. These technical wonders of the future actually available today, but cannot be used until the future arrives. With me? No? OK… Here’s an example: Televisions that are HD Ready.
These HD Ready televisions have been around for donkey’s years. It is only now that HD (High Definition) is actually becoming a reality. When it is finally a full reality, I recommend then, and only then, go out and buy one. They’ll be dirt cheap and pretty damn good, if the hype is to be believed.  I will never understand the people who have been telling me they have owned one for almost a decade. My stock response to them is “I suppose you’ve purchased some magic beans on your way to market too? Perhaps traded the family cow for them?” They either look blankly back at me, or eagerly ask if such magic beans exist and be readily purchased. To which I will then say “No I’m afraid not, but I have some normal beans that are Magic Ready”.

Actually, I have purchased some rather smart “Hover Ready” shoes.

Hover Ready brogues

They don’t actually hover yet, but when that technology arrives, and it will. I have been assured by the retailer that I will be able to glide around the room effortlessly without any apparent means of propulsion. The thought of never having to wear out a carpet or step in dog excrement again, caused me to part with my money on the spot. I would give you the name of the establishment where I had the good fortune to make such a purchase, but alas, it was a mobile shoe shop. The gentleman assured me that he would be calling around the Pimlico area again this time next year. Seems fair enough, I thought.

Apparently, this is how the shoes will perform:

Recently, as coincidence would have it, Mrs Parsons of Pimlico Gardens is rumoured to have purchased a hover chair. Not a “Hover Ready” chair, but a chair that hovers now! Typical Mrs Parsons, she always has to be first. Having heard the rumour, I ventured a visit to her Georgian Mews. Indeed the rumours were well founded, for as I was shown through to her back lawns, I espied her hovering to her heart’s content. I have to admit this sight was something to behold, she looked like a vision, an ethereal angel. Mrs Parsons what a fine swan you are.

The ethereal Mrs Parsons

Whilst strolling through Pimlico Gardens this morning, it dawned on me. We should engage ourselves with more magic. Now, I’m not suggesting we should all take ourselves off to Mortlake or reacquaint ourselves with the spirit Ariel. No, I am proposing we try some subtle inference magic, more Alistair Darling than Aleister Crowley. This occult art has all but been lost over the centuries. Or has it?

I cannot help wondering whether people and their titles are more entwined than we think. The King is King, as long as we call him King. What about a cat? Does a cat act like a cat because it is called a cat, or because it looks like a cat? Or, more probably, because it is actually a cat… Bear with me; I am just taking more drugs…

OK I’m back. The mystical element creeps in when one considers whether the job title or acronym affects the task being carried out or not. Members of the cabinet all have fascinating titles:

Rt. Hon. Alistair Darling MP Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Or simply Alistair Darling of the House of Commons

With global financial collapse as a backdrop, ponder the policies of
Alistair Darling – House of Commons. Or AD HOC for short.

Forgetting all their official titles and tiaras, the names of some of our cabinet are very suggestive and conjure wonderful images in our minds…

Jack Straw – Obviously a children’s game.

Ed Balls – Sounds like a talent.

Hillary Benn – Now, she’s a babe.

Bob Ainsworth – Sound like a 1950s radio turn.

Lord Adonis – Please. Too easy, stop me!

New Adonis vs Old Adonis

Anyway, the good news is that I have now stopped dressing up as my uncle. For several months now, I have been passing myself off as my uncle and booking into a Cornish hotel under his name. It is the same hotel my uncle usually stays at. After a blazing altercation with my uncle’s tailor and several embarrassing incidents at the St Ives Tea Room, I have decided to stop it. It was simply confusing my aunt too much. She is in a right tizzy. She has nightmares. Even now, she cannot be left alone in a room containing a man’s trousers.

I have just received a telegram, must STOP

“In betting on races, however, there are two elements that are never lacking: hope against hope and an incomplete recollection of the lessons of the past.”  -E.V. Lucas, Visibility Good

Note: For a little perspective, see my post on the Belmont Stakes from a year ago, “Belmont 2008.” Original titles, I know.

I didn’t work the Preakness Stakes in 2006, but I watched it on television. The previous three years had seen highly promising horses win two of the three legs of the Triple Crown, and we watched Funny Cide, Afleet Alex, and Smarty Jones slip from the public’s favor the second they were nosed out of a sweep. In 2006, Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro seemed to be getting as much hype as these three hopefuls combined. NBC devoted most of their pre-Preakness coverage to the horse, following him from the stable to the paddock to the post. I still remember that moment, a few furlongs into the race, when everyone realized that something had gone wrong. Barbaro twisted and stuttered—Edgar Prado was quickly and skillfully pulling him up—and he half limped, half sprinted to the side as the cameramen grudgingly tracked the rest of the race. Bernadini won easily, and everyone turned back to Barbaro, surrounded by trainers and doctors, looking so much smaller without his saddle as he gingerly raised the right hind leg on which he could no longer stand. I’ve watched it again recently, and it’s still heartbreaking. The bigger story is a compelling one—the long, costly battle to repair and rehabilitate Barbaro after an injury that is normally met with swift euthanasia, his eventual death and the resulting scrutiny into unsafe breeding and racing conditions—but that moment on the track remains one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.

Seven years ago, I started working in an industry whose facets were in varying stages of decline. Horses were growing bigger and running faster every year, but they were breaking down more often, and a single bad step increasingly meant an end to a racing career, or to a life. In grandstands across the country, turnout was plummeting, and on the other side of the windows, state and federal officials were quashing the corrupt practices that had become emblematic of pari-mutuel betting. Customers and fellow tellers were constantly telling me that things just weren’t the same these days; they could never seem to agree on exactly when things were better, but the glory days were, without a doubt, behind us. I worked over at Belmont a few weeks ago, on a sunny Memorial Day, and they put me up in the far end of the Clubhouse with just half a dozen other tellers. We were in a big, air-conditioned room with twenty or thirty rows of desks and chairs facing two walls of televisions tuned to every major track in the country. The crowd was decidedly older: my youngest customer that day was probably in his early sixties. The teller next to me had worked Belmont weekends for the past two decades, and he’d spent many Saturdays stuck in this forgotten corner of the track. “These people are here every single day,” he said, scanning the crowd grimly. “And I don’t know who’s going to fill these seats when they’re gone.”

I came back to Belmont two weekends later for the final leg of the Triple Crown, the Belmont Stakes. I was spared a sleepy afternoon upstairs when they assigned me a window out in the park, where people had arrived at eight in the morning to claim picnic tables, where shirts and shoes were apparently optional, and where $8 beers didn’t seem to slow anyone down. It was one of the more brutal major race days I can remember. Attendance was way, way down: nearly fifty percent fewer people than last year, when a hundred thousand showed up to see if Big Brown would be the first Triple Crown winner since Affirmed in 1978. But I think the economy kept people out of the stands, where seats and boxes can cost hundreds, and pushed them into the park, where you can bring your own food and smuggle in your own liquor. My customers were rowdy novices and the tips were paltry, though one man, upon winning a few hundred, handed me a ten and shouted, “You! You’re worth the price of admission!”

Barbaro cast a dark shadow over the 2006 racing season, and last year saw Eight Belles break two legs moments after finishing second in the Kentucky Derby. She was euthanized right on the track minutes later. Peter J. Boyer wrote about her trainer, Larry Jones, in The New Yorker last month. Much of the article hovers in a weird space between an in-depth profile of Jones and an investigative report on the dangers of overmedicating and over-breeding thoroughbreds, but it never really goes far enough in either direction. There are powerful moments in the piece, though, like when Boyer describes the final moments of the Derby, when Eight Belles is put down before anyone consults Jones:

When he got next to his horse, and touched her, moving her legs, he could see that the decision made on the track had been the right one. Eight Belles had suffered compound fractures to both of her front ankles. “She had no chance,’” he says now. “As soon as I looked, and moved her legs just a little bit, there was no way you’re gonna save this horse. You’ve gotta have at least three legs to stand on, and she didn’t have ‘em. She just didn’t have ‘em.”

This year we haven’t seen such tragedies, with some trainers erring on the side of caution and keeping favorites out of big races rather than risking horses’ health for high profile wins. Last year, when PETA got vocal and Congress talked about stepping in, I was sure that by this year the racing world would be a very different one: highly regulated, continually criticized, and possibly nearing an actual end. But Congress never did get around to a serious probe, and rightly so—I’d much rather have them grill auto and banking executives than drug-loving horse trainers like Rick Dutrow. But states have spent the past year putting some regulations in place, banning steroids and some medications, and replacing natural surfaces with gentler artificial tracks. 

But it seems to me that nothing the government does, short of extreme action, will really change the sport. The pressure won’t come from the fans, many of whom care more about trifecta payouts than they do about the long-term welfare of horses. Nor will it come from animal rights groups: some equate thoroughbred racing with dog and cock fighting, and their extreme rhetoric and lack of in-depth understanding only hurts their cause with racing professionals. Change must come from within. In my post about last year’s Belmont Stakes, I quoted Sid Gustafson, a novelist and horse veterinarian who contributes to The Rail, the New York Times’ Triple Crown blog. This year, in an article called “Horse Safety is Up to Us All,” he writes about the medications and techniques used to dull horses’ senses and push through injuries. He calls for the professional racing community to voluntarily end these practices, writing with characteristic gentleness. “…it is all of us who must contribute to make racing safer, and to improve the competitive ethic and our relationship with the horse. In time, horsemanship will once again by and large replace medication, and horse behavior will once again be appropriately considered.”

Things feel different this year. In our everyday lives, we’re more cautious, buying next to nothing, choosing essentials slowly and carefully, opting for products that are built to last. For years, horses have been bred based on the market, because a horse descended from champions can often make more as a sire than he could winning races. Today’s thoroughbreds are inbred and subsequently shakier for it: as Boyer points out in The New Yorker, every runner in the 2008 Kentucky Derby was related to a single horse—Native Dancer, who had notoriously bad ankles. I’m not prepared to draw any foolish metaphors about an inherently weak horse with a sterling pedigree and, say, any of the trickery that fueled the financial services industry until the fall of 2008, but I think there might be a parallel in there somewhere. Most people in the racing industry are united by one thing: a love of horses. Ten years ago, I couldn’t have cared less about them; now, I’m in tears watching a horse break down. Horses are not simply an investment, or a number to bet on. I imagine most people have always known this, but with the tragedies of recent years, they now seem to be acting on it. Between that and the economy, the racetrack feels like a very sober place these days. But if that’s what it takes to save the industry, then I’m all for it.

The Shadow Home Secretary initiated a debate on teenage knife crime yesterday.

Chris Grayling began by welcoming Alan Johnson to his new role as Home Secretary.

“It is five years since I last did battle with the right hon. Gentleman over top-up fees, and it is a pleasure to shadow him again,” he said.

“I wondered whether he might prove to be the shortest-lived Home Secretary in the history of this country, but following last night’s meeting of the parliamentary Labour party it appears that he might have to wait a little longer before he gets the opportunity to move into No. 10.

“Seriously, however, I look forward to debating the issues facing us all over the months ahead.”

Mr Grayling said he wanted the debate to focus on finding solutions to knife crime among young people.

“No doubt we will argue intensively over the failures of Government policy, but today’s debate is intended to be different,” he said.

“I understand from the Clerks that it is customary for an Opposition day motion to be critical of the Government and their policies, but this motion is not intended to do that.

“Rather, it is intended to stimulate a serious discussion about an issue that has been of concern to all of us—knife crime, particularly among our young people.”

He praised last week’s Home Affairs Select Committee report on the subject as “thoughtful,” but pointed out that not all teenagers are armed.

“There is no arms race going on among all children in the United Kingdom, nor are all seven-year-olds carrying knives for their elders,” he told MPs.

“There is an acute gang problem in some parts of the country, particularly in inner-city areas and most significantly in parts of London, but the vast majority of young people are decent, law-abiding citizens, getting on with their lives, taking their exams, working on a Saturday morning and having fun on a Saturday night. We must not allow a serious and important debate to create the sense that young people are a problem today.”

Mr Grayling said the reality of the situation is “stark.”

“The level of fatal stabbings is the highest on record.

“There has been a 34 per cent. increase in the number of people killed by sharp instruments such as knives in recent years.

“The number of people stabbed to death in England and Wales increased from 201 a decade ago to 270 in 2007-08, the highest figure on record. That is a serious problem. A serious knife crime—although not a homicide—is committed every hour.”

He quoted a 2008 MORI youth survey indicated that 31 per cent. of 11 to 16-year-olds in mainstream education and 61 per cent. of excluded young people had carried a weapon at some point during the preceding year.

“We have to tackle the root causes of worklessness, educational failure and family breakdown, and we have to foster a revolution in what we have dubbed our broken society,” he told MPs.

“But we also need to deliver the direct, on-the-ground support that can steer those young people caught up in the knife culture away from it.”

Alan Johnson thanked Mr Grayling for “his remarks and his welcome to me as Home Secretary.”

“I do indeed remember the last time we faced each other over the Dispatch Box,” he said, to which Labour MP Rob Marris shouted: “You won!”

“I like to think that the nation won,” Mr Johnson replied.

“The tragic cases of youngsters killed because of knife crime in London and elsewhere have shocked and saddened the nation,” he told the House.

“Reducing knife crime and crime among young people more widely is of paramount importance, not only because of the need to deal with the very small minority of young people who are persistent offenders and who cause considerable anxiety and harm to their victims, families and communities, but because addressing the issues that can lead to criminality among young people is essential for a fairer, safer society.”

Diane Abbott, MP for Hackney, North and Stoke Newington, was one of several London MPs to speak in the debate.

“On the question of young people’s attitude to murder, is it not perhaps so much that they think that murder is acceptable but that they believe in their gangs and their communities that anything is acceptable when it comes to enforcing respect, to territorial defence of their gang or to demonstrating how much of a man they are?” she asked.

“It is such attitudes that we have to undermine.”

“From all my experience, I think that my hon. Friend is absolutely right,” Mr Johnson said.

“Incidentally, my press office had arranged for me to meet some police on Westminster’s Churchill Gardens estate yesterday and to walk around for my first on-camera shot as Home Secretary.

“By a real coincidence, that was where I was badly assaulted when I was 15.

“I came from the rough end of Notting Hill, and thought that this was a posh area of Pimlico, but the problem was a territorial thing because we were in an area that was not our territory.

“My hon. Friend the Member for Hackney, North and Stoke Newington (Ms Abbott) is absolutely right to say that such attitudes are ingrained in people, but sometimes they can be reinforced by the things that they see and read.

“That is why I want to repeat that the Home Affairs Committee has done us a service by mentioning the fact that people feel that they have to go to that extra level to prove how hard and tough they are, and how much harder and tougher they are than the other gang.”

Mr Johnson said the youth crime action plan launched last summer of last year is providing more support to address the underlying causes of poor behaviour.

“It places a greater focus on prevention to tackle the low-level but serious problems such as truancy or exclusion that put young people at increased risk of becoming involved in crime or antisocial behaviour.”

He also praised family intervention projects, Operation Staysafe, which preventing vulnerable young people from being drawn into criminal activity and 5,300 Safer Schools partnerships “fostering better relationships between police and young people.”

“The advertising campaign, “It Doesn’t Have to Happen”, has been designed by young people, for young people, with that precise purpose,” he said.

“Aimed at 10 to 16-year-olds, the adverts portray unflinchingly the physical effects of knife wounds and have been viewed more than 13 million times. Of those youngsters surveyed, 73 per cent. said that they were less likely to carry a knife as a result of seeing the advert.”

The Home Secretary said that through the Be Safe programme, 1 million young people will be able to attend workshops over the next five years on the dangers of knives and other weapons.

Emily Thornberry, MP for Islington South and Finsbury, commended stop and search.

“My area is one in which the action programme has been introduced because of the problems that we have had with knife crime, resulting in a number of deaths, ending, unfortunately, with Ben Kinsella’s murder last summer,” she said.

“Youngsters were afraid to go out on the street because they thought other people were carrying knives, so they carried them themselves. The introduction of random stop and search among all young people was extremely helpful in putting a cap on the carrying of knives.”

Karen Buck, MP for Regents Park and Kensington North drew attention to research that confirmed the apparent correlation between certain types of violent crime and inequality.

“It is not just a question of deprivation equalling violence; the sharp impact of inequalities in society unfortunately also has an influence on how some people behave,” she said.

Andrew Love, MP for Edmonton said he was concerned about gang activity in his constituency.

“We wanted to set up a youth facility in a school that crossed a geographical boundary, but many young people in my community—both those who did belong to gangs and those who did not—were not prepared to cross it,” he said.

“We have to understand more about gang dynamics if we are to make an impact on this problem.”

Justine Greening, MP for Putney, praised Operation Blunt 2 in London.

“In the past year, more than 2 million people have been stopped, 10,000 arrests have been made—a rate of one every 51 minutes—and 25,500 knives have been seized,” she said.

“There has been a 30 per cent. fall in serious stabbings, and 90 per cent. of those caught in possession of a knife have been charged.”

Later in the debate Diane Abbott spoke at length about how Hackney teenagers become gang members.

“It is important in such a debate first to stress that the majority of our young people are not caught up in knife crime, gun crime or gang culture,” she told the House.

“It is easy to get carried away and criminalise young people as a class, inner-city young people as a class and, even, young people of a certain skin shade as a class.

“I might shock the House to say that one might walk through Hackney and see a group of gangling boys lurking under their hoods and think that they are plotting murder and mayhem, but they might just as well be on their way to play basketball.

“They will be quite pleased that people are frightened of them, but they will be trotting behind their mother to church on a Sunday.

“The media encourage us to jump to conclusions about young people, but we should not, so I want to put on record that, although we have our issues in Hackney, the majority of our young people are not in that criminal sub-culture.

“I do not know of many young inner-city men who when shopping up the west end have not been descended on by store detectives, or who have not walked down a street and had women clutch their bags closer to their bodies because they have just assumed that such men are criminals.

“We have to beware of criminalising our young people in that way.

“None the less, as a Member for an inner-city area and as a parent, I know that knife crime and the related issues of guns and gangs are very frightening to parents and communities, not least because one can say goodbye to one’s child as they go off in the morning to school, college or their first job, and by the evening receive a phone call saying that they have been caught up in an incident—sometimes quite innocently.

“That is a frightening thing for parents in an inner-city area to live with, because when the gun, gang and knife cultures erupt, they often touch and harm young people who are simply going about their business.

“Where does the young man, swaggering around an estate with a knife up his sleeve, thinking that he can demand respect with the point of a blade or a gun, come from?

“I do not believe that he is the result of listening to music or watching video games. I do not believe that the culture produces criminal behaviour; I believe that the criminal sub-culture produces the music and the games.

“Where do such young men come from?

“They come from families, many thousands of them on estates that I represent in Hackney, where young boys are growing up not just in female-headed households—I would be the last person to say that a single parent cannot be a good parent—but in households where they have never seen men getting up and going out to work, and meeting their responsibilities as men; nor have their friends seen that.

“When they go to school, most of their teachers are women. As they grow up, their notion of manhood is a vacuum.

“I was fortunate; my family are working-class Jamaicans, but every day that God sent, my father went out to work, and on a Friday he brought home his wage packet. That was my notion, and my brother’s notion, of what being a man was all about.

“There are too many young children on estates in Hackney who do not have a notion of manhood. They do not see people—men or women—going out to work and meeting their responsibilities.

“As they grow up, their minds are filled with a notion of manhood that is informed partly by popular culture, yes, but partly also by the guys they see on the street with the big cars and the gold chains.

“They do not know that those guys will have a very short “working” life. They do not know about the downside.

“All that they see is the swagger, the big car, the gold chains, and the notion that that guy is the one whom all the girls are after.

“Into those boys’ imagination comes a notion of manhood that I do not recognise, that people in the House do not recognise, and that my father would not have recognised.

“That is the notion of manhood to which those boys aspire.”