tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72730128909436508072024-02-20T07:36:11.477+00:00Shadows and reflections........Sporadic musings, commentary and thoughts of a man who has not yet come to terms with the fact that he is in his 40's.
No subject too dreary or insignificant. No target too sensitive or precious. All feedback welcome, all criticism taken to heart. All praise, analysed and pored over for traces of sarcasm.Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-80242154687088630902014-04-26T09:54:00.002+01:002014-04-26T09:55:58.722+01:00Cocteau Twins - Pink Orange Red<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As I mentioned in the previous post, 1985 was somewhat of a musical watershed for me. It was the year I threw off the shackles of a somewhat narrow field of vision (audio?) when it came to music.<br />
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Once I had determined my new course of musical exploration I just couldn't stop. My musical journey was assisted from a number of sources in the form of John Peel, NME and Melody maker, a TV programme called the Chart show which trailed 'Indie' bands and most famously the Tube a TV programme which would hardly register in todays world but in the mid-80's was a really anathema to the formulaic, staid and somewhat tired formats of programmes like Top of the Pops.<br />
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Each episode had 3 or 4 live bands and many of may favourite bands of the era New Order, The Fall, The Smiths all appeared during this period. However, it was the ability to discover new bands that drew me in - that and the prospect of someone swearing on live TV which they often did.<br />
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I vividly remember tuning in to the Tube one Friday night, probably as I was getting ready to go out on a night of dancing, cavorting and illicit alcohol fuelled bufooning at the local underage drinking den 'Ye Olde Boot and Shoe' in Rossendale.<br />
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I remember being mesmerised by a song from The Cocteau twins whose singer Elizabeth Fraser who appeared to sing in tongues, mouthing gibberish which through the medium of her amazing vocal range sounded like the kind of noise heaven might make if it existed.<br />
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I love this song as much if not more today than I did back then. It triggered a fascination with the Cocteau Twins and a general love of the ethereal that I still pursue with gusto when I'm in the mood.<br />
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The Cocteau twins had a somewhat turbulent existence due to drug abuse, psychotherapy and inter-band relationships but that all seems to drive them to new heights for me.<br />
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In more recent times, Elizabeth Frasier has been responsible for providing vocals on other favourite songs of mine like 'Teardrop' by Massive Attack, 'Life-forms'' by the Future Sound of London and 'Candleland' with Ian McCulloch from Echo and the Bunnymen. She was also involved in the soundtrack to Lord of the Rings and has recently returned tentatively to life stage from her personal recluse.<br />
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There are certain moments in my life I'd love to revisit and hearing her perform this song on the Tub aged 15 is one of them.<br />
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<br />Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-82060034567085188132014-04-24T20:44:00.003+01:002014-04-26T09:56:16.183+01:00Depeche Mode - Shake the disease<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_0sL_SQYvw<br />
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in August 1985, I went on a school trip to France to a place called Quiberon, a small place in Brittany. The trip was an activity holiday involving canoeing, windsurfing, sailing and a range of other pursuits that I was and still am throughly unsuitable for.<br />
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Aquatic duress wasn't the reason I wanted to go though, it was more about finding the time and space to chase girls, smoke fags and drink cheap alcohol. Aged just fifteen, I'd realised I was quite good at these things and I was fit and active enough to the sporty activities without dying so I was determined to make the trip.<br />
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The expedition - and it really was an expedition, involving an 11 hour coach journey each way - was led by the male and female heads of PE who just happened to be married, francophiles and didn't mind their spending their summer holidays herding cats. The minute we landed we were off exploring and getting into trouble, wading into cheap cider and the packets of Rothmans fags (Paul Wellers favourite brand naturally) that we had bought on the ferry.<br />
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Initially, we would be collared on a regular basis by Mr and Mrs McIan but after a couple of days they realise it was a futile exercise and as long as we turned up for that days nautical activities we were pretty much given a free reign.<br />
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We found a cafe tucked away with a Galaxian machine, endless supplies of Orangina and an owner who was utterly unflustered by kids smoking in his establishment. He also happened to own a jukebox that had several half decent records on.<br />
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At his point in my life I was emerging from my Mod/Northern Soul phase and had just discovered Joy Division/New Order and was developing a taste for electronic music. In order to avoid a punch in the face and merciless ribbing from pals, it was extremely important to ensure that a high degree of caution was taken when choosing a song from the Jukebox and at one Franc for two songs it was was an expensive exercise if you got it wrong.<br />
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I didn't particularly like Depeche Mode (and still don't). For me they were tied into that whole new romantic, dandy fop thing that I despised and any music that provoked people into growing long fringes and waving their hands about in the air like they were platting piss was never going to sit well with me.<br />
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However, the group of girls in our group who were the target of our affections had a taste for this song that seemingly couldn't be quenched. It came on every other song and whilst annoying at first, it soon lodged itself in my ear and has occupied a space in my brain that it's never really left. Listening to it now, I still like it. It evokes memories of pouting and acting cool, trying not cough when inhaling and slugging as much cheap white wine as I could get my hands on (which wasn't much).<br />
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So began my love of France, something else that has never left me.<br />
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<br />Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-29952026422477947982014-04-24T20:16:00.002+01:002014-04-24T20:16:43.380+01:00Self-indulgent Top 100 soundtrack of my life blog.......<br />
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This page has been quieter than Old Trafford for the last year and that in itself is an achievement worth noting, or perhaps even an achievement worth nothing. </div>
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It's not that there hasn't been much going on in my life - quite the opposite in fact. I have a baby girl on the way in July, have moved house, bounced from pillar to post at work, travelled to New York, San Francisco, Barcelona (twice) and had our first successful season renting the Gite in France and yet I have not felt the urge to write a single syllable.<br />
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I have been writing elsewhere, for work mainly and the odd article here and there along with my usual social media nonsense but could not muster a single DNA molecule of enthusiasm for writing here. But I have finally arisen from my slumber but with an urge to write a blog based around a single idea. Every now and again - hopefully fairly regularly - I intend to write about a song from my recently composed Spotify playlist - the Top 100 songs that soundtrack my life.<br />
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I do of course realise that this is self-indulgent but then so is writing any blog about your own life and I've done that for so long that I probably don't need to apologise for that.<br />
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Each entry will describe a song and whilst I will try and include some information on the song and the artist that wrote it, my intention is mainly to capture the reason for it's inclusion and what point the song takes me back to in my life.<br />
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Before I start, it's worth capturing a few of the principles I decided on when I built my playlist:-<br />
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<ol>
<li>Only one song per artist (though derivative acts are allowed...)</li>
<li>The song isn't necessarily the best by a particular act but the one that resonates the loudest with me.</li>
<li>The songs are in no particular order - that would change the list every week and I can't be arsed with that. </li>
<li>Occasional changes to my list are allowed but only when I realise I've missed an absolute classic from my list and then I face the agonising choice of which song to drop. </li>
<li>My Spotify list has a couple of rubbish mixes of a particular song because the best mix isn't available but I'll try and post the Youtube link to the best mix here......</li>
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That's probably it. Oh, one other thing, my playlist is available to follow on Spotify to follow if you have either the inclination or the technical knowhow to do that......</div>
Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-78477492131756053622013-05-20T19:52:00.000+01:002013-05-21T16:22:44.657+01:00Coming of middle age........Like most people, I'm in denial where getting older is concerned. Whatever age I am, old people are always at least 5-10 years older than me and I've felt like that since before I can remember. Despite my greying hair and constant battle against middle age spread I've stayed in pretty good health and am as fit now as at any point since my teens. I'm also proud of the fact that mentally I'm often as childish and daft as I ever was though I do manage to mask that trait with a veneer of maturity and professionalism where appropriate.<br />
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However, I find myself constantly on the look out for signs that I may be ageing, Aches and pains have certainly become more prevalent but I convince myself that's down to my increased levels of exercise. I've definitely become grumpier but I've always been this way and in any case there is so much to be grumpy about so I'm not sure that's really age related, I just enjoy the whole process of getting annoyed. I've also failed to develop any of the tell-tale signs of ageing. I don't like Werthers originals, I don't have a box of tissues on the back shelf of my car and unless I am working I always wear jeans so I've not even developed the urge to wear comfy trousers yet.<br />
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I also strive for ways to stay young. I exercise more frequently now than I ever did in my twenties and thirties. I started playing tennis recently and I've discovered I'm much better and more spritely than I ever remember being when I played at school. I still try and attend gigs and listen to new bands whenever possible though I confess the style of music I enjoy hasn't really changed much. I went to two different gigs last week on consecutive school nights and whilst I subsequently needed to lie down on several occasions due to temporary tinnitus I still think that's pretty good for a forty two year old. (I also left early on both occasions to 'beat the traffic' but we'll not go into that here)<br />
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So I've been feeling of late that I am winning my battle against age or certainly holding back the tide. I'm two stone lighter than I was two years ago and If I stand in the right kind of light with the wrong kind of mirror I could swear blind that my hair is going browner and that my grey hair is giving up it's relentless march towards follicle dominance even without the aid of any Grecian 2000 type product. There's no doubt about it, for the time being I am keeping the inevitable waiting.<br />
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However, my fight against middle age has been dealt a cruel blow. It started a couple of weeks ago when I was carrying some laundry back towards the bedroom. As is often the case, I dropped a sock. No big deal, it happens ninety nine percent of the time that I carry anything numbering more than one. I bent down to pick it up and heard a strange groaning noise like the sort of sound that a Russian weightlifter makes in an Olympic finals. I looked around but could not see the originator. I shrugged my shoulders and did a little Scooby-Doo impression (even though there was only me there) and carried on about my business.<br />
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Last week, I was bending down whilst putting on my shoes when I heard it again only this time louder and if anything more guttural. Again I searched for the source of this sound but could find no clue. I was suspecting horseplay at this point and I asked my wife if she'd heard it.<br />
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Last night, I was playing tennis when I heard it again whilst bending down to pick up a stray tennis ball, this time it sounded like the person making it might be in real trouble. Of course, this time I realised that the sound was in fact coming from me. I wasn't in trouble, I was merely performing the perfunctory task of bending down.<br />
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It is with great regret and more than a little sorrow that I must announce I've developed the middle aged trait of making an involuntary groany noise every time I exert any real effort. I have noticed it in others before and I must confess I've always found it quite annoying. I remember my Grandad doing this but he was much older than me at the time. I've seen other members of my family do it but again, all of these people were older than I am now (about 5-10 years if I remember rightly).<br />
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I'm not sure what do about it. Perhaps I can see the doctor. Maybe he can prescribe me something that will stop it or refer me to a Groanologist who can devise a programme of therapy. After all, this could be the thin end of the wedge. Before I know it I'll end up being one of those people that let out a little accidental fart every time they bend down. I'm not having that..... I'm not getting old..... not yet.<br />
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<br />Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-32967981347152895372013-04-04T17:19:00.002+01:002013-04-04T17:19:59.050+01:00DowntimeWe're seven days into a ten day break at our house in the Limousin. Unusually for us there are very few jobs to do whilst we're out here, no guests to entertain and the only thing to worry about is getting as much relaxation in as possible which is a high quality problem. Mel and I are both on a fairly tight health regime currently and so other than a couple of bottles of red wine (no really....) we've majored on good healthy eating, cycling and walking. Our evenings have mainly consisted of giving up on films half way through because they failed to impress.<br />
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The weather has been as patchy as can be expected at this time of year, though thankfully we have escaped the snow that continues to fall in the UK. However, yesterday we awoke to brilliant sunshine so after a lazy lunch at a little restaurant in Pageas that we habitually visit we borrowed our friends Roz and Neils dog Tess and ventured off into the Limousin forest (les Essarts) armed with a map, a bottle of water and little else.<br />
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Thankfully our navigation skills stood up to the test without having to resort to dropping a trail of breadcrumbs behind us and we had a thoroughly fulfilling couple of hours walking around the barely discernible woodland trails without seeing a single person. Tranquility doesn't come easy to me but I found it in spades yesterday, the absolute antithesis of the hustle and bustle of the last few months.<br />
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Tess led the way. She appears to know the route like the back of her paw and she comically appeared to show frustration at our hesitancy. Some hours later we returned back home to a roaring fire and a rare glass of wine to toast a fantastic day.<br />
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We have a couple more days left before we return to blighty. Mel will then return in a few weeks time with her parents to run the holiday gite. We have several bookings already and are excited at the prospect of seeing Gouhaut spring to life as a holiday destination for other people. I'm almost jealous of the people that will rent our property, spending time here in our rural idyll is a pleasure I never tire of and they get to sample life here at it's very best. The holiday season in France is only about 14 weeks end to end and outside of that window, the area returns to it's almost soporific pace.<br />
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We're planning our summer holiday where I will join Mel and her parents here in Gouhaut before Mel and I spend a week travelling down the west coast of France and into Spain. A road trip adventure that I've already begun to plan based on several gastronomic landmarks that I've read about. I will of course share the highlights of that trip here.<br />
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<br />Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-83751039110588639842013-03-09T11:05:00.003+00:002013-03-09T11:06:28.835+00:00Soul food......Work-life balance has been completely out of kilter of late and working away for much of the week has meant that Melanie and I have seen very little of each other. Dragging my fatigued corpse through the door and dribbling on the sofa doesn't really count and we were well overdue a break. We're off to France for 10 days at Easter but that just seemed too far away. In any case, it's traditional for us to visit the coast, out of season before the hordes arrive and appreciate the faded grandeur of the British seaside resort.<br />
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Our destination of choice for the last few years has been Whitby but we decided that a trip down the west coast would make a change. So having consulted the barometer of taste - Trip advisor - we headed off last Friday afternoon to Abersoch, a place I haven't visited in years. Mel has never been to the Welsh coast before so was even more excited than I was. </div>
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We arrived at 3pm, an hour before we were able to check into our boutique B&B the Venetian. We had a quick walk down the road but quickly dived into the first decent pub we came across, St. Tudwals. Thoroughly refreshed we emerged an hour later having rediscovered my talent for thrashing people at pool and blinked as we discovered the clouds had disappeared and revealed a magnificent blue sky and low winter Sun. It was to be a sign of things to come, we barely saw a single cloud for the rest of the weekend. </div>
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Our B&B was superb, the owners could not do enough to make our stay perfect and indeed it was. We drank our stresses away, ate until we could eat no more and then walked away the damage along the beautiful coastline by day. I'm not exaggerating when I say the conditions could not have been more perfect and the lack of people around to spoil it was a bonus. </div>
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On the recommendation of a friend who was brought up in the area, we visited a little resort called Criccieth on the Saturday and were so taken with the place that we went back on the Sunday morning to explore even further. I have a real thing about small British seaside towns and Criccieth ticked every single box. No tackiness, lovely cafe's with homemade cakes and ice-creams, well preserved Castle looking out to sea and all pinned against the backdrop of the Snowdonian mountains. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.</div>
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We returned to Manchester on Sunday afternoon re-invigorated and well equipped to cope with whatever the next four weeks has to throw at us.</div>
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Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-12015590375167847802013-02-25T20:35:00.001+00:002013-02-26T22:48:56.506+00:00Out of the shadows, into the light.......<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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In the early 1970’s cine film, 35mm slides, carousels and
projectors were all the rage, heralding a new age for photography and home cinematograph.
Like many people at that time my parents embraced this new phenomenon and
consequently all snaps from that era were captured in this format. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I remember growing up and wondering why photographs of my
family and I only started when I was about 7 years old and wondered if I had
been adopted perhaps. The reality was less dramatic. It was merely that the
projectors and carousels that displayed these pictures were not wholly reliable
and when they did break they were expensive to service. When the fashion moved
back to traditional cameras and developed film those broken machines were
consigned to the loft and the slides and reels of film were left degrading in
cupboards somewhere. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I've subsequently spoken to other people in the same situation who possess or worse have thrown away huge collections of slides and films. Crucial moments captured in time, preserved in aspic but hidden from view or in a moment of carelessness abandoned in landfill.</div>
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Just recently, I started scanning and cataloguing old
photographs and storing them in the cloud where they can be accessed for years and years to come and shared with people who care about their contents.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve found that when you scan old photos a
new life is breathed into the image. Free from the tatty, grizzled and often
sub-standard paper they were originally printed on, they take on a new
life. I can zoom
around exploring hidden details and fixing flaws that have annoyed me for
years. I started with my own photos last year and intend to work my way through other peoples collections. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For Christmas I was generously bought a 35mm slide and
photograph scanner. I asked my Dad to lend me the dusty collection of slides
that had spent the last 40 years in one loft or another. After a couple of false starts and some
choice swearing I finally got everything working and was instantly rewarded
with some unbelievable artefacts, snapshots of my life that I knew existed but
had remained hitherto unseen.</div>
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Like talking through other peoples dreams, looking through someone else's photographs is an activity that should be endured for no more than a few seconds, so I'll spare you the full slideshow. I've shared the whole collection with my wider family particularly those who are either in the photographs or more poignantly have lost someone who is in them. That for me has been the most rewarding thing about this experience. </div>
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I lost my mum to cancer when she was aged just 48 and though it was over 17 years ago I still miss her incredibly for many reasons not least her great intellect and observational dry humour. Seeing her as a beautiful young woman and mother has helped to reanimate the memories that grief would not allow me to hold on to. Sufficient time has passed now that the photographs feel poignant rather than tragic, comforting as opposed to haunting. The images I have now have coloured in my imagination and allowed me to connect with her again.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLk-DWmadLEKsu7dkR1HsKJtuR2fOtVSV1dBSTbfRzfIEORmlrfWoCKcTV39cqyxpDaaRuWsRaD1LSlVoCa6TXIDHL1nMhZYyYKT3sehQCrJjL9qZASh_1ZK9aVns1fTsZ8B-6vLn3ynE/s1600/Love+this+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLk-DWmadLEKsu7dkR1HsKJtuR2fOtVSV1dBSTbfRzfIEORmlrfWoCKcTV39cqyxpDaaRuWsRaD1LSlVoCa6TXIDHL1nMhZYyYKT3sehQCrJjL9qZASh_1ZK9aVns1fTsZ8B-6vLn3ynE/s320/Love+this+photo.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVUYiSBiBfxg0cJku7FT8WKbKOtRPapFCbHEQEXRcVIGuLr_RBkilE9eWFJSIVGubCVpAS-tjChzLT_oeQ6PnrYqweymoiJqwIiAmkLs_qfYMS2AQtLOWzHjrr-6wSxsgoerydxf2OXk/s1600/My+beautiful+mum+on+wedding+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVUYiSBiBfxg0cJku7FT8WKbKOtRPapFCbHEQEXRcVIGuLr_RBkilE9eWFJSIVGubCVpAS-tjChzLT_oeQ6PnrYqweymoiJqwIiAmkLs_qfYMS2AQtLOWzHjrr-6wSxsgoerydxf2OXk/s320/My+beautiful+mum+on+wedding+day.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-78674572504705507602013-01-01T10:31:00.000+00:002013-01-03T10:37:05.095+00:00A short and fairly incomplete guide to winter sports<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
As soon as the last mince pie has been digested and the last
sprout released into the atmosphere, it's traditional to start thinking about
holidays. For some people, those thoughts are of distant summer holidays,
lazing by the pool with a drink in their hand. For the more sporty types, minds
are drawn to a more immediate way to address the post Christmas flab - The
skiing holiday.For those people skiing is the king of winter sports.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you think of winter sports, your mind wanders to a
place where ice skaters pirouette gracefully across the ice, skiers twisting
and turning as they descend the mountain slopes and people dressed in
impossibly tight fitting lycra fly down icy tracks on advanced tea trays. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, winter sports are not as accessible to the common
man as summer sports are. Nobody teaches you to ice skate at school, because
the harsh reality, it seems to me, is that it's one of those things that you
can either do or you can't. But how do you find out? Take ski jumping for
example, how do you know if you are cut out for it? If you tried it once and
didn't die then things are looking promising. I think not dying could actually
place you in the running for an Olympic medal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was at school, the litmus test to establish aptitude
for winter sports was to be occasionally packed off on a urine fragranced bus
to the local skating rink. Once there, new trainers were exchanged for a pair
of athletes foot infested, badly fitting boots that smelled like damp stilton
and you were sent to the ice without instruction. I remember putting those
boots on the first time and taking my first tentative steps onto the ice,
growing in confidence, gliding across the ice and swooping through my first
initial turns before attempting a tricky triple toe loop which I executed
perfectly. Everyone was agog at my natural flair and poise and whooped in
admiration.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
……not really…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In actual fact I fell over exactly four nanoseconds after my
skate hit the ice. I was only a tenth of the way back up when my other foot
shot from underneath me and I found that I had a hitherto undiscovered talent
for performing the splits. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.stateofyo.com/wp-content/uploads/old/bullet_time_skating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://www.stateofyo.com/wp-content/uploads/old/bullet_time_skating.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I adopted a strategy of hanging onto the safety rail for
dear life occasionally grasping at it as my feet continually failed to remain
attached to the ice for more than a few seconds. I checked to see that they
hadn't given me a pair of banana boots by mistake but evidently that was not
the case. Over the next 20 minutes, I shuffled around the rink twice, never
leaving the sanctuary of the rail. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must have fallen on my arse at least 12 times and I
simultaneously discovered my coxis and how painful a sore coxis was within
milliseconds of each other. Each time I slipped the cold thud of my body hit
the ice harder than the last and it became harder to get back onto my feet. My
Bambi impression had by now attracted the attention of every girl in the ice
rink and my previously lofty position in the social stratum of the school was
instantly downgraded to 'cockwomble' status.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gave up and skulked off to the arcade to smoke and play
Galaxians (two activities I excelled at) and made a firm commitment to
studiously avoid anything in future which could even broadly be described as
skating. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since that trip aged
just 14, the nearest I have come to skating was last year, when dropping off my
car for a service one morning, I went to join the queue of waiting customers
but instead found myself windmilling down the length of the queue on sheet
ice.I hurtled past the crowd of surprised onlookers,whose faces seemed to simultaneously
admire my gravity defying attempts at staying on my feet but also registered
the doom laden inevitability of the situation.There was only going to be one
conclusion and I didn't disappoint them when I finally lost my battle with fate
and ended up on my arse. Not a word was spoken when I dusted myself down and
joined the back of the queue. As the kids say - awkward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, despite my unsuccessful attempt at skating I wasn't
going to give up on any chance of competing in the winter olympics. I was
determined to sample other aspects of cold weather activity. Unfortunately one
avenue of potential opportunity was already closed to me…..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'd already disqualified myself from any potential career in
sledging or tobogganing. Aged about 8 years old, my Dad made me a custom built
sledge for Christmas. He spent weeks perfecting this present. They were hard
times financially and my Dad was determined that a lack of money was not going
to stop him from delivering a great present for me. As a result the end product
was incredibly impressive. The runners were red and sleek, topped with a wooden
seat and a bar to hold onto. I was delighted with it, I couldn't have been more
thrilled. I was praying for weeks for it to snow so I could test her out and I
imagined myself tearing down the massive hills that were a feature of where I
grew up in Rossendale. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, the big day arrived and I awoke one morning to a
blanket of snow and as was often the case in those days, a day off school due
to the weather. I can vividly remember the sense of wonder and excitement I
felt as I pushed aside my coco pops and hot Vimto that morning….I
had business on the slopes. Those hills were not going to descend themselves,
somebody needed to do it for them and that someone was me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My new sledge was hauled from my house to the top of the
nearest big hill, which was already populated by a gaggle of sledgists, or
whatever they are called. These poor unfortunates were in possession of the
most miserable collection of sledging equipment you can possibly imagine.
Bright garish orange plastic sledges were the most popular item in the sledging
fraternity at that time, so most had those. The odd person had a metal framed,
mass produced item and of course there was the odd lunatic with a maniacal grin
and their grandmas best tea tray but nobody had a custom made beauty like mine.
I was the king of the hill and the rest of the sledgists would just have to
watch and wonder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I put my sledge down perfectly positioned at the crest of
the hill I remember a palpable hush descending on the crowd around me. After
puffing my cheeks out a few times for dramatic effect I carefully mounted
myself atop my winter wonder and kicked off with my heels to commence my
descent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried again, this time a little more forcefully and again
Nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps I'd found a rough patch of ground. I adjusted my
frosted beast once more confident that no slippier a contraption existed on
earth. I had an appointment with the bottom of the hill and I was already
running late.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I kicked off again. Nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were a few nervous coughs around me by now and one of
lads with a bright orange affair was
making me aware of the gravity of my situation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Come on you dick, shift it. It's too heavy, thats why
it won't move". I made a mental note that one day he would probably go on
to become a mechanic's assistant. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I returned home crestfallen and through a series of mini
experiments I confirmed that he was in fact correct and I was actually in possession
of one the least effective sleds in the United Kingdom. In fact, it was so
lacking in sledginess that I would not have been able to descend the hill even
if I was being pulled by an entire pack of huskies. If the hill had been made
of sheet ice and was almost entirely vertical, my sledge and I would have
remained clung to the side of it like a limpet on a rock. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.odt.co.nz/files/story/2010/05/the_motor_sledge_made_for_captain_robert_falcon_sc_9810114494.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://www.odt.co.nz/files/story/2010/05/the_motor_sledge_made_for_captain_robert_falcon_sc_9810114494.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
An artists impression of my sledge</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the course of the next couple of weeks I tried
desperately to rectify the situation. I tried waxing the runners, removing the
bars to reduce it's weight and every other trick I could think of to salvage
the situation. Try as I might I was utterly unable to invent the portable
jetpack that I would need to strap to my back to actually make it move
anywhere. This was a very harsh, early lesson in my first foray into the world
of winter sports.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Equipped with the knowledge that the avenues of skating and
sledging were effectively closed of to a man of my limited abilities, I entered
my 20's sure I'd find a winter activity that suited me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That something had to be skiing. It just had to be. It was
surely impossible to be bad at every iteration of winter pursuits. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Growing up in Rossendale, in the 1970's and 80's I was
fortunate enough to be extremely close to one of the countries few dry ski
slopes at the time. So naturally I was already fairly proficient on skis and
could really hold my own on the slopes. At least I would have been had I ever
actually been there to ski. My visits to the slope were limited to occasionally
wandering up to laugh at the people hitting the wire fence at the bottom but I
hadn't ventured as far as having a go myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some friends gave me the opportunity to rectify that in 2002
by booking a ski holiday in Livigno, Italy. I kitted myself out in all the gear
before I went and couldn't wait to get started. I'd pre-booked sessions in ski
school each day to give myself the best possible chance of mastering the craft.
After a five hour transfer from the airport we arrived in the late afternoon
and went on a reconnoissance mission to suss the place out. We discovered the
place where we could rent our skis from and were delighted to discover it was
located next to the biggest bar in the resort. We had worked up quite a thirst
from travelling and we embarked on a quest to quench it over the next few
hours…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I awoke with a truly horrific hangover but was not going to
miss my lessons. I traipsed back down to the bar to equip myself with the
requisite gear but decided to self-administer hair of the dog medication to at
least bring me round a bit. Before I knew it, lunchtime had been and gone and I
was now completely 'refreshed' once more. I decided to write the first day off
and return the following day to try again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hangovers don't get any easier to bear after two consecutive
sessions but on the second day, through a superhuman effort of self discipline
I managed to bypass the bar and finally make it onto the slopes. After
receiving some fairly rudimentary tuition I decided I was more than good enough
to attempt some of the slopes on my own. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arranged to meet some friends at a restaurant halfway up
the mountain. To get there I had to master the button lifts which took me a
good half an hour and amused my fellow holiday makers as I veered off to the
side and was forced to let go. Eventually I made it to the chair lift and after
a 10 minute ride I finally arrived at the top of the Red run. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started cautiously not allowing my speed to build too
fast. I practised turning from side to side and began to feel my confidence
rise. In the distance I could see the restaurant and I allowed myself to go a
little faster as I wanted to impress my friends outside the restaurant with my
new found skiing ability. By the time I
was a hundred yards or so away I had really gained momentum and I started to
think about slowing down, quickly realising that point had passed and I was in
danger of 'overshooting the runway'. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The distant faces began to come quickly into focus and I
spotted my pals on a table next to a larger group of strangers. I tried to
adjust my line but misjudged it slightly and was going far too fast. To the
horror of everyone concerned I ploughed straight into the aforementioned
strangers table. I remember a brief millisecond where I realised from their
surprised and frightened shrieks that they were german, I had a vague sensation
of flying through the air followed by the sound of glasses and crockery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://cdn.epicski.com/3/34/500x1000px-LL-346f37ff_SkierX1998.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="http://cdn.epicski.com/3/34/500x1000px-LL-346f37ff_SkierX1998.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I came round under a pile of bodies, hot food and broken
crockery. The atmosphere was one of mild concern and growing hostility. I tried
to play it cool but quickly realised it was far too late for that. I looked to
my friends for support but realised that they had been swapped for a pack of
hysterical hyenas. There was not going to be much empathy from them. There was
only one thing for it….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I brokered a peace deal by replacing all food and drink and
apologising over and over again in a loud voice. It seemed to do the trick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The amazing thing about this incident is that I emerged
uninjured, totally unscathed. Everyone commented on what a miracle this was. I
felt embarrassed but also strangely invincible and we traipsed off to celebrate
my new found super power. The first bar we came to had two entrances, one at
the bottom which was few hundred yards away from where we were stood or
alternatively down a helter skelter. My friends chose the latter and I found
myself stood alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could hear their shouts of encouragement….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Come down backwards…..go on do it!"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That seemed like a good idea - after all I was invincible,
what could possibly go wrong……<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What could possibly go wrong was that unbeknownst to me I
was wearing an incredibly slippy jacket. In fact, if I had been able to coat
the runners on my sledge, aged 8 years old, I would have dominated the slopes.
As it was, my jacket sent me careering down the helter skelter backwards at a
velocity that would have interested scientists. I shot off the end cracked my
head on the bar, rendering myself unconscious in the process.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turns out I am not invincible, I discovered that when making
the return journey home in agony with a neck and shoulder injury that still
resurfaces occasionally to this day. I also realised there and then that winter
sports activities are not for me. Don't get me wrong, I still throw a mean
snowball, I can still occasionally slide long distances on ice without hurting
myself. But I leave winter sports holidays to those that find standing up on
snow and ice an effortless experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-60302114725942826012012-12-20T19:51:00.003+00:002012-12-20T19:56:56.425+00:00Urgent - A warning to all shoppers in Manchester this Christmas<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Be very aware! Important information for South Manchester
shoppers</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">WARNING to all those who shop at Waitrose or Sainsbury's</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Over the last month I have become a victim of a clever
Eastern European scam while out shopping. Simply dropping into Waitrose for a
bit of shopping turned out to be quite an experience. Don't be naive enough to
think it couldn't happen to you or your friends.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Here's how the scam works:</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">...Two seriously good-looking voluptuous 20-21 year</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">-old girls come over to your car as you are packing your
shopping into the boot. They both start cleaning your windscreen, their breasts
almost falling out of their skimpy T-shirts. When you thank them and offer them
a tip, they'll say 'No' and instead ask you for a lift to the town centre.</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">You agree and they both get in the back seat. On the way,
they start undressing, until both are completely naked. Then, when you pull over
to remonstrate, one of them climbs over into the front seat and starts crawling
all over your lap, kissing you, touching you, and thrusting herself against
you, while the other one steals your wallet!</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">I had my wallet stolen November 4th, 9th, 10th, twice on the
15th, 17th, 20th, 24th and 29th. On December 1st, 4th, 6th and twice yesterday.
So please warn all the older men you know to be on the lookout for this scam.
The best times seem to be just before lunch, and about 4:30 in the afternoon.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">P.S. Sainsburys have cheap wallets on sale for £1.45 each
but Waitrose wallets are £2.25 and look better</span><br />
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Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-66327656731666506402012-12-06T21:57:00.001+00:002012-12-07T09:00:07.154+00:00Mistletoe and whining.....<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Having only just recovered from my near death experience (*melodrama
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who know me will attest I’m not really a fan.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Admitting that you don’t like Christmas has an effect on
other peoples facial expressions that I imagine would be similar to admitting
that you quite enjoy eating dog shit. A look of horror is immediately apparent,
followed by a mixture of sympathy followed by a smattering of confusion then an overwhelming look of disgust.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My wife, like most people is a huge Christmas fan and the
fact that I’m not is a source of annual tension. I feel it’s presence from
about the middle of October, loitering in my calendar like an appointment with
the dentist for root canal work. I detest it’s zany, artificial jollity in TV
advertisements and on the high street. ‘Buy something special for the ones you
love’ is the message but ‘buy more shit’ is the take-home message.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t get me wrong, my grumpiness towards Christmas is not
really triggered by the commercialisation of a religious festival, far from it.
As a devout atheist I have no beef with the commercialisation of a pagan
festival, which was hijacked in order to provide an arbitrary approximation of
the birthday of a man who in all likelihood didn’t even exist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My ire is predominantly concerned with the distraction and
the hassle that ensues and it’s impact on everyday life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People adopt strange behaviours as they implement a military
planning approach to organising social calendars. The office party season
commences as the streets fill with bladdered lunatics, their stagger
demonstrating that they don’t get out very often. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to endure the same old nonsense songs with
meaningless sentiment, peddled from every speaker from October onwards. Who
writes these songs? What were they drinking?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The annual game of ‘who wants what’ begins where surprise
has been replaced by scouting missions and covert telephone conversations in
order to get the presents just right. I love giving presents but the effect is somewhat diluted when Amazon wish lists are exchanged in advance. (and I'm just as guilty by the way)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://rlv.zcache.com/rude_santa_christmas_card-p137144251304783026b2icl_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://rlv.zcache.com/rude_santa_christmas_card-p137144251304783026b2icl_400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A barrage of scribbled Christmas cards from people I’ve
never heard of are rammed through the door by neighbours obligated to ensure
that nobody is left out. I gave up the tortuous and pointless exercise of sending
Christmas cards years ago on the basis that I can’t be arsed. Instead, I take
the money I would otherwise have spent on cards and stamps and instead I spend
it all on whisky. I think that’s what Baby Jesus would have wanted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.dothesekidsmakemelookcrazy.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/funnydaze.net_-223x300.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.dothesekidsmakemelookcrazy.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/funnydaze.net_-223x300.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realise I’m painting a bleak picture here so I ought to
point out that I’m not a total misery arse. There are positive aspects to
Christmas, spending quality time with friends and family, drinking yourself
daft and eating your own body weight in salty carbohydrates are all welcome distractions from the drudgery of winter. But it could be so much better and yet people seem to go into Christmas auto-pilot even though in many people it induces pathological levels of stress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year we are spending Christmas in France with Mels
parents. The fact that we are 800 miles away from home, sat by a log fire and
can celebrate the end of a very rewarding year in great company is something I
am looking forward to immensely particularly after the last few weeks of
malaise. I intend to discover the ingredients of a Christmas that works for me and in all likelihood I'll find them in some kind of bottle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-11018397802224765482012-11-22T23:15:00.002+00:002012-11-23T10:42:00.310+00:00The road to recovery.....<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hmmmm…two weeks on from my previous post about contracting
pneumonia and I’m slowly on the road to recovery after my fourth course of
antibiotics finally did the job that their predecessors had failed to do.
Consequently I am no longer coughing every 0.5 seconds and the panic associated
with not being able to breathe properly has subsided. Those symptoms have been
replaced by general sense of fatigue and lethargy and a dull ache in my back
which apparently are all completely normal and to be expected. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I've endured multiple chest x-rays, blood tests, injections and I've consumed so many tablets I swear I can hear them rattling when I move. On top of all that I've spent hours waiting impatiently in surgeries for appointments with doctors whilst suspiciously scanning waiting rooms for people who don't even look ill. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the upside I’ve lost another half a stone which now means
I weigh two stone less than when I entered 2012 which still gives me a little
way to go to get to true fighting weight but I have caught myself looking in
the mirror a couple of times and wondering where four of my chins have gone to.
It’s not necessarily a diet I’d
recommend but having pneumonia is certainly effective at shifting the pounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In future, whenever I hear someone tell me they have or have
had pneumonia or they know someone that does, I won’t glaze over anymore and I
promise not to imagine someone with a really bad cold. It was truly horrific
and not something I would wish on anyone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m looking forward to getting back to work and some form of
normality. I have extinguished all avenues of entertainment - as mentioned previously I have read more books in two weeks than in the last 5 years combined, I've watched so many documentaries that I now consider myself a world renowned expert on ancient Britain, the vikings and icebergs and listened to music that I had forgotten I even owned. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bit of socialising and conversation that doesn’t involve giving daily updates on my condition will be most welcome. I am definitely ready to retake my place in society. In the three weeks that I've been ill, I've missed four City home games, two seminal gigs and several
nights out too. I’ve barely spoken to anyone beyond immediate family and friends
which I’m looking forward to rectifying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Christmas season is upon us and in my line of work that
usually involves a lot of entertaining clients and office parties. I doubt I’ll
be getting too involved this year, there is too much to catch up on work-wise and
I really don’t think getting slaughtered will be the best way to speed my
recovery. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re off to France for a week a couple of days before
Christmas with Mel's parents and I’m looking forward to a roaring fire, some fine festive food and
some comfortingly crap television. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-26410298631696030962012-11-08T21:12:00.002+00:002012-11-23T10:32:03.442+00:00New moan 'ere<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
I’m not brilliant at being ill, in fact I’m terrible at it
despite having lots of practice as a child. When I was young I was usually laid
up with tonsillitis, sinusitis or appendicitis or some such ailment. In the end I had them removed or operated on
at which point they ceased to be a problem and I went back to being healthy
again. However the weeks and months of illness associated with those conditions left me with a pathological aversion to illness and the associated boredom that has never left me.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The removal of my tonsils and appendix just left the colds and flu and occasional stomach
disorders for me to endure. For everyone else they are minor inconveniences, mere hurdles on the path
of life. Other people seem to simply step over those hurdles before merrily
skipping on with their lives like they had hardly noticed them. Not me, when I get ill I trip over those hurdles
and fall flat on my face. I am just not equipped to be ill. My
entire mental state is compromised by illness, I find it difficult to simply
carry on in my daily duties and I definitely do not skip through daily life
when I’m suffering from a malaise. I cough, splutter and wheeze through the day
demanding drugs and moaning about anything I can think of that I haven’t moaned
about in the previous five minutes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m also not very good at being with other people that are
ill. For starters, I’m always worried I’ll catch it even if the condition is
not contagious; in my experience you can never be too careful. Far better that
the ill person decamps to the furthest part of the house from me and I’ll
deliver any requirements on a tray, which I’ll leave outside the door. I’ll
admit that the chemical suit that I keep handy specifically for carrying trays
in these kinds of situations is perhaps just a little overkill but it seems to
work. I rarely contract anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until recently…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About a month ago, whilst holidaying in France Mel was
struck down with some kind of viral, cold ailment thing that rendered her
unable to function for a week or so. This wouldn’t ordinarily have been a
problem, she needed bed rest and I would just have to entertain myself. I’m
normally an independent soul who is entirely comfortable in my own company but
we were in rural France, which was suddenly enjoying biblical amounts of rain
after months of drought. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched as many films as I am able to take in one week
(which is one) and surfed the internet until I was literally bored shitless. So
bored shitless that I even started goggling the phrase ‘bored shitless’ in case
it returned some results that might help alleviate my boredom. I even resorted
to sorting out my CD and MP3 collection which has been on my to do list for
almost my whole life. This was getting ridiculous. When you start crossing
things off to-do lists that you never really intended to do, you know you are
in trouble. I tried some writing but could find no inspiration. I even caught
myself downloading ‘World of Warcraft’ but suddenly came to my senses and
punched myself in the face to snap me out of it. Surely things were not that
bad….. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://thegreatgeekmanual.com/images/humor/motivational/january/motivational-poster-warcraft-irony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://thegreatgeekmanual.com/images/humor/motivational/january/motivational-poster-warcraft-irony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the week of my birthday and we were both in need of a
break but try as she might Mel could not shake off her lurgy and so remained in
bed for much of the week. In the end, we were both relieved to get back to the
UK, which is a first for us but I think you will agree understandable given the
circumstances. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mel is extremely fit and healthy and shakes off illness
quite quickly and though this was a shocker of an illness she was on the mend
in a short period of time. We both went back to work and resumed our daily
chaotic lives where I crisscross the UK, staying in soulless hotels during the
week and then return home on a Friday. Normal service had resumed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt relieved and somewhat self-satisfied that I had avoided
any unpleasant illness and put it down to my inner resilience, masculinity and
genetic superiority. Which was a huge mistake in retrospect. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within days I developed a cold, then a chest infection. I
soldiered on as all men do and are renowned for doing. Eventually when I began
making a coughing sound like an asthmatic seal in a smoke filled room I went to
the doctors and got some antibiotics. A week later – no improvement, in fact if
anything I was worse. I returned to the doctors, apologising for having the
temerity to require an appointment this year and the doctor confirmed that
indeed it had got worse and prescribed some stronger antibiotics. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That weekend we returned to France for two days so we could winterise the property until we return at Christmas. Whist there we fitted a winter cover to our newly completed swimming pool in the Gite next door. We pinned the cover down with concrete slabs whilst we drilled the holes for the ropes. Unfortunately, due to my own stupidity a gust of wind blew the whole lot in and I had to don my swimming shorts and get in the freezing cold (and slightly murky) water to retrieve it all. I have never warmed up since.<br />
<br />
The next week I went to see City in Amsterdam playing Ajax. I'm not sure what the medical advice is for a chest infection but I'm pretty sure galavanting around Amsterdam for two days is not it. I don't know if it was the drinking, the cold or the result but I came back feeling even worse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week I was away for much of the week interviewing and
selecting graduates for our annual intake. As part of the selection process and
for a little bit of sport we put them through a day of presentations and group
activities. Think of ‘the Apprentice’ but without the pathological, borderline
psychotic personalities. Replace them with bright, ambitious and enthusiastic
people that make you feel very old and you are about there. Anyway, as well as
the daunting prospect of having to present to 20-30 of our senior executives
they also had to cope with my hacking cough interrupting them every 30
nanoseconds or so. They coped admirably but I was getting looks off people that
suggested that despite my constant practice my cough was not getting any
better.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.ciaranbrown.com/images/higsonbobfleming95.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.ciaranbrown.com/images/higsonbobfleming95.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I went back again. This time the doctor looked a bit
worried. Said he could hear ‘cracking and wheezing’ in his stethoscope. There
was a good reason for this. It was because he was listening to my lungs, which
were cracking and wheezing. He took blood and other samples and immediately
sent me for chest x-rays. He then
confirmed I had pneumonia and would require some very strong antibiotics and
steroids to help me breathe. He insisted
on complete bed rest, which is practically impossible from a work perspective
at this time of the year and asked to see me in a weeks time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I have eventually returned to writing, inspired and
necessitated by the dullness and tedium of my temporary existence. I'm sending those around me mad with hacking cough though they prefer that to my constant barrage of whinging and moaning. I've watched everything I want to watch, read everything I want to read and an hour ago I found myself thinking again about 'World of Warcraft' so I rubbed my face with a cheese grater to bring an abrupt halt to that. This has to stop. I need to get better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope to
write on cheerier topics in weeks to come but until then you can have this load
of drivel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-75159201396098993242012-10-28T11:37:00.002+00:002012-10-28T11:37:21.469+00:00P.S Well that went well eh?As you will know my delight at Virgin losing the franchise was short lived thanks to some cockwomble in the government who couldn't do his sums properly. As a consequence, the First Group appointment was scrapped and we are back to Virgin again for the foreseeable future.<br />
<br />
It might be of course that we dodged a bullet. One poster urged me to be careful what I wished for and informed me that there was little to no chance of first groups service being any better and more than a fair chance of it deteriorating. I guess we'll never know now or at least for a long time by which point I will care less.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-9453084586868397452012-08-31T20:57:00.001+01:002012-09-06T22:08:33.072+01:00Dear Richard Branson.......<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I understand you were a bit miffed last
week at losing the West Coast rail franchise to First Group last week and I
observed with interest and some amusement your attempts to get this decision
overturned.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Personally, I was delighted with the
decision to award the franchise elsewhere. So much so I even high-fived myself
and did a little dance when I read that the decision was not going to be
reversed. It’s rare that I get so
animated to be honest but to me life is all about small victories that lead to humungous
wins and this decision felt like one of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You could be forgiven for thinking that my
delight was some show of support for First Group, it isn’t. It’s merely that it
gives me hope that one of the great bug bears of my life might finally be
resolved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I can almost hear you asking ‘So what bug
bear is that Alan?’ Well just be patient and I’ll tell you…..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It’s not the fact that your staff are surly
and disinterested, though they are spectacularly good at that. I quite like it,
I see it as a personal challenge to try and fool them into giving a shit. I’ve
not managed it yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Nor is it the fact that your onboard
catering can sometimes make me wish I was eating my own shit freshly poached in
some rancid bilge-water though that is indeed often the case.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It isn’t the fact that you take credit for
turning this service round when in reality the taxpayer paid a ridiculously
large sum of money to build the infrastructure that allowed you to tap home
your ‘winning’ goal from six yards out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It isn’t even the fact that a return ticket
to London costs about the same amount of money as it takes to sustain a small
African nation for a decade.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">Or your unswerving ability to make the temperature inside the train an amplification of the temperature outside the train. Travelling with you I always resemble an extra from Tenko or an Eskimo on a particularly cold day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s not the way your company insist on
checking my ticket three times, once when boarding, once when on board and once
when disembarking though in truth that gets a tad tiresome to be honest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s something much more fundamental than
that and something which has the ability to make me froth at the mouth like
some kind of mentalist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In order to explain, let me put my beef into
context…….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In April of this year, a Scottish fisherman
was minding his own business, dredging the shit out of the bottom of the sea
off the Shetland Isles when his net brought up a 98 year old bottle that had been
cast adrift in 1914. Turns out, this bottle was one of 1,890 bottles that was
released as a batch by the Government to map the undercurrents of the sea in
Scotland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ih1.redbubble.net/image.9355063.0628/flat,550x550,075,f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://ih1.redbubble.net/image.9355063.0628/flat,550x550,075,f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Inside the bottle was a message explaining
that the lucky finder could claim a reward of a sixpence for recording the
details of his discovery. Regrettably
the sixpence no longer exists nor does the government that was going to pay it which
is a bit of a bummer for him. However, the finder of the bottle, Andrew Leaper
can now lay claim to finding the oldest ever message in a bottle. A fact
confirmed by the Guinness book of records. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s a fascinating story Richard and like
all fascinating stories they make you think a bit…….. This one made me think
that if I had sent this message to you in a bottle, it would get there an awful
lot quicker than if I e-mailed it to you whilst logged on to the wi-fi on one
of your trains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For a ridiculous amount of money I get a
connection that is marginally slower than the speed at which my stubble
grows. Slower than the movement of
tectonic plates around the earth.
So slow that if I googled ‘what is the slowest thing on earth?’ I would
be at Euston before the answer came back ‘Virgin wi-fi of course’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m not convinced that the staff will be
any better or caring? Nor do I hold out much hope of eating something vaguely
appetizing. I don’t for one minute think that tickets will get cheaper or the
service more reliable but surely First Group will be able to provide internet
connectivity that allows me to fill my time more productively than logging out
and then back in again in the hope that actually achieves something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I did think about writing to you earlier
but I’d have felt the need to point out that you actually do own a
telecommunications company but you know what they say, the cobblers children
are often the worst shod.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Anyway, I’m going to press send on this
e-mail now Richard, perhaps one of your future descendants can get back to one
of mine and provide the answer. God forbid they are travelling on one of your
Virgin galactic flights. They will
inevitably be eating some fetid gruel, profusely sweating from every pore whilst having their ticket checked for 14<sup>th</sup>
time and endlessly pressing refresh on their computer in the vain hope that
they ever re-connect to cyberspace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Best Regards<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Alan<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-35069801736886669882012-07-28T11:25:00.002+01:002012-07-28T14:44:41.043+01:00Unnatural selection - Sometimes nature needs a handI'm pretty sure it's not just me. Surely everybody gets irked by 21st century life at some juncture or other. Admittedly in my case it occurs approximately every three seconds but I can't believe that even the most angelic, level headed people don't occasionally feel their piss begin to move from a gentle simmer to a rolling boil when faced with supreme idiocy.<br />
<br />
My wife claims I'm getting worse as I get older and she is probably right but there is just so much to point at and ridicule. I probably and hopefully have somewhere between thirty to fifty years left to live and frankly I'm not sure how I'm going to find the time to bark all the invective and rebuke required to make me feel even a little bit better.<br />
<br />
It's not the big things for me. I can't get worked up about politics - that just feels like bald men arguing over a comb - I can occasionally get heated about religion but I also respect peoples right to be narrow minded and deluded if that's what they want to be. It tends to be the really small things things that really get my proverbial goat.<br />
<br />
I rejoice in the minutiae of irritability, I take comfort from the absolute fucknuggetry of every day life. I realise I'm not painting a great picture and there is a part of me that wishes I was programmed differently with a sunnier and more positive disposition but really, where is the fun in that?<br />
<br />
If I share an example with you, you'll get a feel for where I'm going with this. Over the course of the last six months I've driven somewhere in the region of 15,000 miles, criss crossing the UK in my professional life and driving long distances south to our home in France. Over the course of those journeys I have inevitably experienced discourteous drivers, aggressive maniacs and all manner of annoying practices. I don't even flich at those things (other than the odd hand gesture here and there). However, the one thing that really sends me apoplectic with rage is the behaviour of a small percentage of people who are biologically ill-equipped to deal with life at toll booths and car parks.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Approaching the machine at the correct angle with the correct change or means of payment ready at hand really should be considered a basic skill of driving and yet I<span style="background-color: white;"> estimate based on WAGNER data (Wild Arse Guess Not Easily Refuted) that I have spent approximately five hours of my life waiting </span><span style="background-color: white;">at toll booths or car park exits </span><span style="background-color: white;">behind people who appear to have ventured onto the roads for the very first time that day. I am magnetically attracted to the lanes that these people occupy and I sit and </span><span style="background-color: white;">seethe whilst watching the rest of the traffic sail efficiently through other lanes whilst the driver in front of me wrestles to position their car within walking distance of the machine or window, before eventually giving that one up and getting out of the car and strolling over with a look of bewilderment etched on their face. Inevitably at this point, they realise that they don't have the correct change or indeed any other means of payment. Sometimes, they resort to casually and optimistically throwing coins in the general direction of the coin collection basket or pump small change into a machine in the hope that the automatic systems will somehow take pity on them and let them through. Of course this wishing well mentality has no impact whatsoever and the driver moves through the' curve of ignorance and stupidity' from denial to acceptance of their situation.</span><br />
<br />
There are as yet undiscovered biological organisms clinging to the sides of hydrothermal vents in some of the most remote ocean trenches. Even they know how the culmination of this regrettable scenario plays out. Eventually after realising that hope is not an accepted method of payment, the assistance button is eventually pushed. A lumo-jacketed, attendant eventually arrives. After a quick check of their give-a-shit-ometer to establish it is still registering zero the attendant starts a conversation which inexplicably takes several more minutes before it inevitably ends by waving the driver through. Annoyed at having had to put out their cigarette and leave their copy of 'take a break' magazine in order to deal with another cockwomble the attendant stomps back to boredom whilst the driver oblivious to the primal fury that has erupted in the car immediately behind them sails off to their next date with ineptitude.<br />
<br />
Natural selection should take care of people like this but seems somehow inadequate. To remind you, the definition of Natural selection is 'the gradual process by which biological traits become either more or less common in a population as a function of differential reproduction of their bearers'. I suspect that in ancient history when humans existed on a much more level playing field than exists today, people like this would have been eaten by bears or some other such predator, caught and devoured whilst trying to negotiate the tricky act of walking and breathing at the same time. But in the cosseted and cocooned bubble in which we now exist, no such filtration exists. It's time we gave nature a hand. In an ideal scenario, the attendant should point the driver over to a special lane where they must get out of the car, are forced hand over their driving licence and car keys before being given the required amount of bus fare to take them home and give themselves a good talking to. That and an appointment at their local hospital where a crack medical team are on standby to ensure their genetic pool is contained and prevented from any further breeding.<br />
<br />
See, I told you I was grumpy.......<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-80622263409505281252012-06-04T13:12:00.002+01:002012-06-04T13:21:32.519+01:00In BrugesHow on earth did we get to June so quickly? It seems only weeks ago that we were celebrating Mels 40th in January. Yet when I think about it, so much has happened already this year which probably explains my lack of posts. There are times for reflection and capturing the moment but there are periods where you just want to live in the moment, when you just don't feel like stopping to catch a breath. This year has been once continuous whirlwind of activity both in my professional and personal life. But due to circumstance, I am taking most of my annual leave in a 4 month period which hopefully will allow me enough time and space to do a little more writing than has been possible of late.<br />
<br />
In May, Mel and I decided to do something special to celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary. Since watching the film 'In Bruges' we have been borderline obsessed with visiting the City. One evening, after a particularly intense day Mel offered to do all the organising and get our weekend away booked. At that point, Manchester City were eight points behind United and as far as everyone was concerned the title had gone for this season at least. So when Mel suggested that we travel on the 12th and 13th of May I didn't object. The flights and hotels were booked and we were both really excited at the prospect of a long weekend together. I'm away 3-4 nights a week through work and consequently we've reached the stage where we have to plan quality time together.<br />
<br />
It was only as the dénouement of the season began to play out that my hasty decision became apparent. United dropped points and City edged nearer and nearer. By the time the derby game at the Etihad stadium arrived I began to realise what a huge clanger I had dropped. I hastily scoured the internet for early flights back on the Sunday morning (I haven't mentioned this to Mel so don't tell her....) but to no avail. I was to miss the final game of the season, the biggest in my lifetime, a chance to witness us sealing the Premier title.<br />
<br />
Resigned to my fate, I gave my ticket to my sister, who doesn't get to go much since having a family but who used to be an incredibly enthusiastic supporter back in the 90's at a time when frankly there was not much to be enthusiastic about. I could have sold my ticket for a small fortune but that wouldn't have been right, it deserved to go to someone who had suffered the bad days so that was that.......<br />
<br />
We left early on the Friday morning, flying to Brussels and then an hours train Journey to Bruges. We were in our beautiful and luxurious hotel by lunchtime and out exploring all afternoon. Bruges is if anything even more fascinating and atmospheric than I had imagined and being so early in the tourist season it was reasonably quiet.<br />
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<br />
After lunch and a few drinks we headed out to to a bar that was well rated on Trip Advisor, down a quiet back street and away from the main tourist drag. The Cafe Rose Red is a place I'll always remember and always long to go back to. Serving the finest beers known to man, with impeccable service and knowledgeable help with our selections it is by far the best way to sample Belgian beer. Unfortunately Mel has now acquired a very expensive taste for Liefmans Cherry beer which is far nicer than I expected.The price was fairly reasonable there but costs £4 a bottle from Waitrose.<br />
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<br />
Saturday was a full day of exploration of this amazing city. We must have walked several miles through the cobbled streets and unusually for us, we took in all the cultural highlights including Michelangelo's Madonna and Child. There was so much to see and do and we worked up a thirst that could only be quenched with a return to the Cafe Rose Red.<br />
<br />
We had pre-booked dinner for the Saturday night at the Park Restaurant which was the perfect way to celebrate 5 years of marriage. A perfect evening in a great restaurant with impeccable service really helped to mark the occasion and Mel and I laughed, ate and drank our way through the evening.<br />
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<br />
Sunday was a completely different affair. I had managed to block all thoughts of football up to this point but I awoke early on the Sunday morning in a blind panic. Mel attempted to distract me by taking me on a horse drawn carriage tour of the City which was lovely but didn't really distract me from the drama ahead.<br />
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We checked out and got the train back to Brussels and thanks to an old School-friend who recommended a bar off the beaten track we were able to settle down to watch the game in the company of several neutrals and a lot of United fans. By this point I was almost hyperventilating with nerves and every fibre of my being was wishing I were at the stadium.<br />
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The first half passed in a blur assisted by a few drinks and going in 1-0 up at half-time helped to settle the nerves a bit. However, early in the second half disaster struck, first conceding an equaliser and then worse going a goal behind. I don't think I've ever sworn so much and the crowd in the bar began to enjoy my pain. So much so that with just a few minutes to go, I doubted my team more than I have ever done before. I told Mel we were leaving, I just couldn't take the disappointment. To her eternal credit she demanded we stay. I loitered at the back of the bar, not wanting to be part of anyone else's entertainment. When Dzeko scored to even matters in the 91st minute I just became more infuriated. How could they do this to me? 'Typical City' - words I had uttered many times before......then from the darkness came light.....Aguero to Balotelli, back to Aguero then..........well I don't really remember the next few minutes. Mel said I cried a lot as we jumped and danced our way around the bar. I literally could not take it in......<br />
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"Drink it in, you will never see anything like this ever again..."</div>
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Somehow Mel got me back to the airport, I just couldn't function any more and had simply reverted to repeating the words 'I can't believe it....' over and over again. I spoke to friends at the game and we hastily arranged to meet and celebrate as soon as I landed. We made our way to the gate, boarded the plane and were just beginning to be moved to the runway when suddenly a loud bang rang through the cabin.<br />
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'Apologies Ladies and Gentlemen, you may have just heard the sound of the nose cone being hit by the tug vehicle......we think it will be OK but are just waiting for an engineer to check it out....."<br />
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Two hours later, we were still sat on the plane and our worst fears were confirmed. The flight was cancelled and we disembarked, collected our luggage and made our way to a hotel at the airport. I couldn't be persuaded to eat with the other passengers and instead we had room service delivered while I consoled my celebratory self by watching Match of the Day before drifting off into a victorious coma......only to be awoken by a gut wrenching stomach pain that consequently turned out to be food poisoning. How I made it through that journey I'll never know and by the time we landed in Manchester the following morning I was a husk of my former self. Exhausted, delirious and absolutely ecstatic, I somehow made it through the day and was able to get the train in to Manchester to witness the trophy being paraded around the City.<br />
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There will always be a part of me that regrets not being there but equally I will always remember the weekend and the broad spectrum of emotions I went through that weekend. Plus I was able to share the moment with my soulmate who understood what it meant to me and had the fortitude to make me stay until the end and witness the most electrically charged moment of my entire life.<br />
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<br />Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-59199005073394859582012-04-21T09:40:00.000+01:002012-04-21T09:53:27.085+01:00ChâlusOur renovation project in France is almost complete. We recently returned from a 10 day break where we had a chance to see the work that my Parent-in-laws have done over the last 6 weeks. It is looking fantastic, to the point where our house next door is looking tired and boring in comparison.<br />
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Fred has tiled and fitted four bathrooms as well as a list of other jobs as long as a gangly persons arm. Whilst there we took the opportunity to buy light fittings and soft furnishings etc. where I was able to demonstrate that my rudimentary French has amazingly got even worse.<br />
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I am embarrassed to admit that on several occasions I reverted to pointing at things and even worse speaking English in a French accent. I've resolved to book regular French lessons in order to fix this situation as a matter of some urgency and intend to demonstrate a better grasp of the French vernacular when we return in June.<br />
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The final phase of work including the pool and decking will be going in over the next two months and we will be finished slightly ahead of plan in time for our first guests later this year. I'll post more photos then but here is a recent shot of the rear of the property. The weather was mostly fantastic whilst we were there but I managed to capture the Gite at the gloomiest possible moment. I'm gifted like that.</div>
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My contribution to the project was to mow the lawn which took nearly two hours and rendered me exhausted to the point where I had to drink an entire bottle of Cidre to revitalise myself. I also took some time out to reflect that aged 41, I now own 10 bedrooms, 8 toilets and a small tractor. I have truly arrived.<br />
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We didn't manage much holidaying as we were both exhausted and relaxation was the name of the game, mainly involving wine and cheese but we did manage a day out at Lac Vassiviere about an hour from our house. If you think about the Lake District but without the hordes of people, you'll not be far away. We intend to revisit in June and cycle around the shoreline though having learned that it's 45km all the way round I'm going off the idea. However, Mel will not be deterred so I'd better get fitter in a hurry.<br />
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I've attached two photos, one of mine and one by a talented photographer. See if you can work out which one is which. (I won't be offering a prize).</div>
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After nearly five years of owning a house in the Limousin, we now know the area really well, have made some great friends and have acquired a lot of knowledge on living and thriving in France. However, we're not ready to move there for some time yet. Our life in the UK is very rewarding right now and we're keeping an open mind on our eventual plans.
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For now, we're enjoying the experience and looking forward to the day when we can just enjoy what we have there rather than sinking every spare penny into the project. I know that Pat and Fred, who have been beyond amazing are looking forward to those days too. We're eternally grateful to them for helping us realise our goal. </div>Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-79100249042930672622012-01-26T13:51:00.002+00:002012-01-27T10:38:14.012+00:00Dear Orange.....After three months of absence where I've been utterly bereft of any desire to blog due to the pace and complexity of life, it was going to take a special situation to stir me from my self-imposed writing exile. Thankfully the telecommunications industry came up trumps again.......<br />
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<span style="color: #444444;">Dear Orange Customer Service Manager, </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;">I am writing to let you know about a complaint which has annoyed me so much that I nearly lost my composure a couple of times and smashed my own face in with a toffee hammer. I’m hoping that won’t be strictly necessary but I can tell you, after the morning I've had - it’s not looking good.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">In November I rather carelessly dropped my iphone into the toilet whilst attempting to multi-task. As you will be well aware, men are not renowned for this ability but I thought it within the realms of possibility to send a text whilst ‘feeding the fish’. (I’ve seen my wife do similar things, she’s amazing she can watch telly, text and glare at me in a disapproving way all at the same time)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">But I was wrong, in fact so wrong that within seconds I’d dropped my phone into the bowl and was forced to plunge my hand into my own urine and rescue the said device from its ‘golden grave’. No man should ever have to immerse any part of his body into his own wee, it's primevally abhorrent but I know I only had myself to blame. (It could have been worse if you think about it for long enough......).</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Naturally, the device was not keen on working. I’m not sure any device would. I’d had a couple of nights out previously and whilst I’m no chemical expert I think the contents of the bowl could have stripped rust from metal.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">I tried all the usual barmy, crackpot internet gleaned remedies including storing the phone in the airing cupboard, inside a bag of dried rice and sacrificing a small animal to the Roman God Mobilius but my mind was always filled with the certainty that I was wasting my time. I did manage to get the phone to make a couple of warbly bleeps at one point but it was the kind of noise that an engineer designed the phone to make, purely to inform the user that it is never going to work properly ever again.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">In desperation, I called your customer services department and without necessarily telling them about the pissy bit, I informed them that my phone had sustained water damage and was now deader than the Manchester United Premiership homecoming victory parade last season.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I was informed that for a princely sum of £150 I could have it replaced but I had to ensure that the old phone was returned via the same courier. Sure enough, it arrived the next day, delivered by a man who smelt worse than the phone I handed to him, but I gratefully received the new phone and thought nothing more about it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Ten days later the old phone was returned to me in a tatty old envelope with my name and address scrawled on the outside in the kind of handwriting that suggests you may have outsourced your administration to a mental asylum. The kind that houses people who write their names on walls with their own shit.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;">The fact that the postman managed to deliver it to me is a testament to the service of the Royal Mail and I have suggested that this particular postman be immediately despatched to Egypt to examine the latest hieroglyphic artefacts. He is clearly a man of great talent.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I was perplexed at receiving the phone back and wondered if it perhaps had boomerang qualities but on inspection it was just an iphone that smelt vaguely of urine. (....and dried rice, not a brilliant combination in truth).</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;">Two days later I received a very sternly worded letter advising me that I was to return the phone in the envelope provided (this time typed, nice touch...) as a matter of urgency and that failure to do so would result in an additional £300 being charged. I travel a lot with my job and tend to be stupidly busy but obviously I enjoy unnecessary trips to the post office as much as the next man, so off I went.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Again, I thought no more of it. Job done. Phone returned. A bit like last time, only this time with a bit more effort involved on my part.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">You can imagine my delight when I opened my post this morning and found another package containing my old piss sodden phone, this time inside a jiffy bag. Tthis one had my name and address on it which appeared to have been written by my doctor. I’ve seen his prescriptions and god knows how anybody deciphers them but it was a lovely personal touch that I certainly appreciated.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I was still a little bemused at having it sent back to me again, especially as it arrived without explanation (or indeed a return envelope this time) and I even wondered if it had been condemned and returned to me due its unfortunate odour. So I called to find out......</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Having negotiated the 4,678 options on your telephone system I realised that there was no option for ‘If you are constantly having a piss stained, broken phone sent back to you press number One’ option, I just pressed some random buttons and got through to some chap in the Philippines who couldn’t have sounded less interested even if he’d been practising for the ‘2012 Couldn’t give a shit award’. After a painful conversation he informed that I’d returned a different phone to the one issued to me and had been charged £450 instead of £150. I explained this was impossible and he then went on to tell me that he knew this because of some IMEI number or something... (I confess I was too busy looking for my toffee hammer and getting ready to spontaneously combust so I didn’t hear his explanation properly). I explained, in calm tones that this was impossible. The phone I had returned was the one provided to me 9 months previously. He asked if he could put me on hold and then promptly cut me off.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444;">I immediately called back and through another sequence of random button presses I was put through to a lady who explained that she could do nothing as the ‘engineer’ was adamant that I had returned the wrong phone although he wouldn’t talk to me as he didn’t speak to customers and in any case he was busy writing names and addresses on the outside of shoddy envelopes.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Several phone calls later, I am still £300 down though I have spent the majority of the day talking to exceptionally polite and nice people in the Phillipines who are utterly devoid of any ability to help customers. So, you know, not all bad in all. All of this work stuff will have to wait.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">I’d really appreciate a conversation with someone who is able to discuss my situation with me and resolve it to the point where I no longer want to spend the rest of my life wholly dedicated to persuading customers not to sign up with you. There are other things I’d still like to achieve in life but if that is my only course of action I’m fully prepared to commit.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">It’s not about the money, it’s the principle. You have treated me like I’m dishonest. Which boils my piss. (though I won’t be dropping my new phone in it – You’d only send it back to me). </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Regards</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;">Alan</span></div>Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-50941585259138678212011-11-20T11:07:00.001+00:002011-11-20T22:48:10.022+00:00Sick swans<div>
The annihilation of Manchester United by 6 (six) goals to 1(one) will live long in my memory. Not so much because of the scoreline (we've beaten them by big margins before) but because of the ruthless and clinical manner of the performance and the shell shocked reaction of every United fan I know. Naturally of course, they have tried to respond with accusations that we are buying our way to success (a strategy they know only too well) and that the sending off materially changed the outcome (who knows). There is however a look in their eyes that suggests they realise this is the first of many hidings coming their way and that the pendulum of football has well and truly swung.<br />
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I'd like to think that my reaction to this monumental result was respectful, measured and appropriate. I'd like to think that except it is of course not true. I've been pretty much whooping it up ever since, lauding about the place like I scored the six goals myself and getting completely carried away with the whole thing. </div>
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My friends Paul, Neil and I travelled to Valencia for a three day trip to see City take on Villareal in the Champions league. It was my first euro away trip but it definitely wont be the last. We had an absolute blast from the minute we arrived and even an endless succession of work calls during the day couldn't dampen my fun.<br />
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Valencia is an incredible City, modern and vibrant with a lovely mix of the old and new. Some of the architecture is stunning and I made a mental note to revisit for a long weekend at some point in the near future.<br />
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It's also a City on the beach and within minutes of checking into the hotel we were in a cab heading towards the old port and tucking into several lovely courses of tapas accompanied by more than a few ice cold cervezas. The combination of the heat, the octopus and the beer was lethal and I was soon quite squiffy.<br />
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From there a taxi to the old town where the night was spent enjoying a carnival atmosphere outside an Irish bar (yes, yes I know.....) where approximately 50% of the songs were about the derby victory. It was like old times supporting City in my early twenties only this time on the back of success and I confess I enjoyed myself a little too much for my own good.<br />
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The next morning I was fragile and the prospect of another day on the pop was almost too much to contemplate. Almost. By 2pm we were on the coach for the hours journey to Villareal and by 3pm we were in the bars next to the ground despite the game not kicking off for another five hours. I spent a few hours on the phone sorting out some work issues which probably kept me sober enough to see the rest of the afternoon off in relative sobriety but in the hour leading up to kick-off I fatally decided to try and catch up with my friends Paul and Neil's drinking tally.<br />
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I say fatally because Villareal's away end is named the 'birdcage' and is unbelievably steep. At the bottom of the stand is a huge perspex screen covering the whole of the front of the stand. It's main purpose is to stop missiles being thrown onto the pitch but it also does a really good job of blocking the view of the game. I stumbled to my seat and missed my footing sending me tumbling down rows of seats saved only by some kindly City fans who managed to catch me despite collapsing with laughter.<br />
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Thankfully the alcohol I had consumed prevented the pain from affecting me too much and I was able to witness another thoroughly professional victory. The celebrations went on long into the night though in truth I was a spent force. After the coach journey back we had one beer and then retired for the night.<br />
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A fantastic euro trip all round capped off by a terrific win. I'm optimistic that we will make it through the group stages so I can make another trip next year to some other destination maybe even Barcelona. I'm not confident we'd get a result there but it would be a brilliant experience. </div>
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<br /></div>Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-632984561062938082011-10-16T22:13:00.003+01:002011-10-16T22:32:55.045+01:00Leaves on the vine of time.....<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">43 days have passed since m</span><span class="Apple-style-span">y last post, largely due to work pressures and holidays but I also felt I just needed to live life a bit more, free from from the tweets and updates of social media and blogging. I love writing but with everything going on around me it had begun to feel like a chore, so the natural thing to do was to live life offline for a bit.<br />
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A lot has happened during that period, in fact so much has occurred that my mind can't quite compute how it is only 43 days since our Alton Towers trip.<br />
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I'll start with my first foray the into the world of Urban Exploration or Urbex as it is known. For those unfamiliar with the term, Urbex is the exploration and photographic documentation of urban environments that hidden or off limits for most people. Some Urban explorers go up, to the rooftops of the highest buildings. Others go under, to the hidden world of sewers and tunnels. But the area that fascinates me is the exploration of decaying and dilapidated buildings. There are a number of forums that cover the world of Urbex, with some amazing photographs and reports of buildings that have been left to the elements. Old hospitals, cinemas, schools, factories and mills hold a fascination for me. Buildings seem to hold echoes of the life that once flowed through them. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A friend of mine from Rossendale Chris Lord is a superb photographer and an avid Urban explorer. Most of his explorations are in and around the Rossendale area which is where I grew up. The familiarity of his subjects and the techniques he uses draw the eye and make you want to find out more. We'd discussed me accompanying him on one of his trips for some time, particularly as I wanted to learn how to use the expensive camera I was bought for my 40th birthday last year. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I drove up to Rossendale early and after picking Chris up we went to an old mill in the area that has been out of use now for over 40 years. A bit of sneaking, ducking, climbing and crawling was required to get in which would have been quite easy for me once upon a time, but in my autumn years......not so much. Chris was far nimbler and more adept than me and he moved around with confidence. Once inside the pitch black was pierced by his powerful torch whilst the one I had brought with me was laughably feeble by comparison. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We spent probably an hour walking around the different areas of the old mill taking loads of photographs and Chris showed me some camera tricks which are used to achieve dramatic effects, including light painting like below. In this instance, I stood with my back to a camera on a tripod and he stood in front of me and painted round my outline with a torch with the camera set to a long exposure. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The mill was one of the biggest in the area and up until the 1960's had employed more than 500 people. All the machinery was long gone but some of the equipment was still kicking around and the old engine room retained some of it's former grandeur. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Part of the Urban exploration code is to take nothing, damage nothing and leave things exactly as you find them, which we were very careful to observe. After a further look around we left as we had come in. I really enjoyed the experience and will undoubtedly return to the topic for future writing projects. I also have a much better understanding of my camera which I will put to good use. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The following weekend Mel and I flew to Naples to start our two week holiday with a week on the Amalfi coast. We'd both been before and it is one of my favourite places in the world. We'd planned our week months ago which is unusual for us but it didn't become real until we jumped in the hire car and started the frenetic and slightly scary journey to Sorrento. It takes some time to adjust to people driving millimetres from your rear bumper and overtaking you on blind mountain corners but eventually I adjusted and was whizzing along cliff-top roads with Italian abandon before I knew it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We arrived at La Solara Hotel in the early afternoon, a beautiful hotel that I have stayed at previously. We were shattered from our early start but I wasn't going to let tiredness get in the way of gluttony and within minutes I was tucking into my first pizza whilst taking in the stunning views. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We spent a week exploring, eating, walking, eating, sunbathing, eating and taking in the beautiful scenery but mainly eating. Some of the food we ate that week will never be surpassed as far I'm concerned. Using the travel bible that is trip advisor we hunted down some of the most extraordinary culinary experiences I have ever had and I have eaten in some lovely places over the years. I was having to swim half a mile per day in the Hotel pool just to stop myself getting Channel 5 documentary fat.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The highlight of our week was undoubtedly our day in Capri. We actually went there by accident. We had planned to visit Positano by boat but missed the ferry by 20 minutes. We'd both been to Capri before and whilst it is lovely neither of us had any desperate desire to return. However, crossings were every 20 minutes so we hopped on a boat and chanced our arm.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We decided against the cliff lift and chose to walk up the steps to the top of Capri which is the second time I've made this schoolboy error. By the time we got to the top I was in need of a lung transplant and only a lemon slush drink saved my life. It was at this point that Mel seized an opportunity to partake in her own 'where's Wally?' photo. See if you can spot her.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After an hour or so walking round the shops and trying not to laugh at the price of things we decided on a whim to hire a scooter. I've always hankered after a Vespa but Mel has refused on the basis that she quite likes her husbands alive and breathing but she relented in Capri as the roads were quiet. The rules for hiring one were quite strict as the following conversation will demonstrate.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Man : Do you have a driving licence?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me : Yeah</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Man : Can I see it?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me : No, I haven't got it with me.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Man : But you do have one, you say?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me : Yeah</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Man : Ok, not to worry. Just sign here in case you die so that nobody will think it's my fault or responsibility.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me : Ok, thanks......</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With that, we were off, tearing up the mountain roads looking like a pair of out of work human cannonballs. Some of the roads seemed to cling impossibly to the sides of cliffs like this one here which genuinely took my breath away. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mel went from a scooter sceptic to demanding we buy one for our time in France in about five minutes. It was such a brilliant way to tour the island though I wouldn't dare ride one on the Italian mainland. My body would remain intact for about five minutes.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The rest of the week was superb with minimal interruptions from work. I had timed my holiday really badly and there were several work related issues that were playing out back in the UK that demanded my involvement but thankfully this was limited to a few calls in the evening.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the Sunday we commenced the second leg of our holiday, rising early to drive back to Naples. From there we flew to Paris and after a bus transfer across the City we got the train down to Limoges which took about four hours. Mel's parents met us at the station as they were working hard as usual completing the holiday home renovation and had been there for two weeks already. Within 40 minutes we had arrived at our house in Chalus ready to start a second week. The premise was that Mel would relax, cycle and run as she always does and I would help Fred with the work on the Gite. Work put a bit of a spanner in the works though as I had to spend a few hours each day helping out with situations back at home as needs dictate but there are far worse places to be working from. The weather was unbelievably warm, far too hot even to sit out on our newly laid patio.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We had some great meals out, caught up with our friends in the evening and had a really relaxing week. The final stages of our project are in flight and the place is looking really good, much better than I had imagined in my wildest dreams. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Whoever holidays in our place will be assured a brilliant time in very comfortable surroundings in one of the prettiest and greenest parts of France. Our week there flew by and all too soon Sunday morning arrived and we were packing to come home. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was at this point that Mel realised that in the midst of making all of the transfer arrangements she had somehow booked us onto a flight for the wrong day. Instead of the Sunday, we were booked onto a flight on Monday. There was no way I could extend our holiday, even by a day so a series of frantic calls to £1 a minute Ryanair hotlines (the robbing, exploitative scumbags) ascertained that the only option was to book two new tickets at a cost of £500. It was an incredibly expensive end to a holiday but not even the impish little shit Michael O'Leary could tarnish one of the best fortnights of my life. Great memories come from great experiences and I'll remember those two amazing weeks long after I forget about the painful body blow of a few hundred quid. </span><br />
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</span>Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-56282730715068612252011-09-03T13:00:00.002+01:002011-09-05T16:21:40.638+01:00Oblivion (and back)Earlier this week Mel and I extended the bank holiday weekend to take my 10 year old son Harry away for a couple of days. I have only recently been reconciled with him after nearly five years (long story not for here) and we are still getting to know each other again. I suggested a trip to Alton Towers a few weeks ago, a suggestion which was incredibly well received and I think we were all counting down the days with excitement. I hadn't been since 1993 and was looking forward to revisiting a place that holds important memories for me.<br />
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I've been to Alton Towers five times. First with my parents aged around ten years old. I was forced to spend a day exploring the gardens and admiring the architectural beauty of Augustus Pugin. Actually admiring may be too strong a word, I recall spending most of the day with my hands in pockets, shrugging my shoulders, kicking gravel and repeating the question "Can we go now? this is rubbish...."</div>
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In the very early 1980's there were very few rides or attractions that were of any interest to a ten year old. The list of things to see and do included an adventure playground, a shit zoo (not the dog breed), a dolls house, skateboard track, a planetarium and worst of all dinosaur land. This last attraction consisted of huge model dinosaurs presumably designed and constructed by people who had never seen pictures or drawings of dinosaurs. (These fibre glass reptilian abominations were later to be found liberally scattered throughout the theme park, hidden away in tree canopies visible only from rides).</div>
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The day was most memorable for getting stuck mid-air on one of the cable cars that traversed the park. Any mere mortal would start to panic but I remember my dad pouring himself a cup of coffee from his flask and offering round corned beef sandwiches. I explained that there was no way I was eating food whilst dangling precariously 400 feet up from a rusty wire and in any case I only like corned beef sandwiches with branston pickle on.</div>
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I remember thinking that my friends were probably having a proper day at a proper destination like Blackpool or something and were probably at that very moment riding roller coasters and eating candy floss. It was only much later that I realised how lucky I was to have parents that took me to interesting places. Most of my friends never went anywhere at all with their parents. </div>
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On my return to school the following week, we were all asked what we had done in the summer holidays, I reeled off a long list of days out and things we had done and seen, other people in my class had very little to report. I remember being asked to write an essay entitled 'The day we got stuck in a cable car'</div>
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In the years that followed, I saw and heard about the various rides and attractions that had been built since my premature visit. I felt incredibly short changed as friends regaled me with tales of the Corkscrew and Black hole rides. It wasn't until 1983 that I returned on a school trip and tried these rides out for the first time. My memories of this trip and the return visit the following year are intertwined and mainly consist of queueing for hours, trying to impress girls, smoking fags, getting soaked on the water rides and getting a grade 'A' bollocking for being late for the coach home. Brilliant times. </div>
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My last visit was in 1994, when I went back with my friend Paul and once more queued for hours in order to sample the new rides Nemesis, Thunderlooper and Enterprise, a ride seemingly designed to shake loose and remove all of the small change from your pockets. </div>
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On Tuesday, we met and collected Harry from Nottingham Train station (he lives in Boston, Lincs) and travelled to a Hotel near Stoke where we hatched our plans for the following days rides, studying Youtube video's and detailed maps of the resort to plan our day with military precision. We determined to do the water rides last in order to spend the least amount of time wet and to hit the 'big rides' early to avoid the queues.</div>
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We were up early and wolfed our breakfast before setting off to Alton Towers at 9am in order to be there for opening time. After a minor mishap (the hotel had sold us an entry ticket which was dated 2010) we were in and hurrying towards 'the Forbidden Valley' where the rides Nemesis and Air are located. Harry and I queued and rode each in turn, whilst Mel sat and waited contemplating whether she felt up to it or not. Eventually she gathered the courage and we went on each in turn again, Mel's fear conquered.</div>
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We then had lunch before discussing whether any of us felt brave enough to ride on 'Oblivion' the worlds first vertical drop roller coaster. Fearless Harry decided he did, whilst sensible Mel declined. We climbed the steps and discovered there was hardly any queue. I now understand why.........</div>
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Mel had paid for on-ride photos and you can see here the differing reactions between the two of us. Harry's face is filled with wonder and adventure, the joy of anticipation. On the other hand, my face is etched with concern. If I remember that brief nanosecond correctly, I was wondering how to explain to my son why I smelt so bad and was trying to find a shop that sold trousers. Thankfully, I narrowly avoided that scenario. It was though, a very close call. </div>
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I came off the ride feeling like I'd been set on fire and put out with a cricket bat. For the first time all day even Harry looked off colour and we both needed a sit down. It's important for a man to set an example and I was soon on my feet insisting we press on to the water rides. Externally I was fine, inside I was a husk of my former self. </div>
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The rest of the day and remaining rides are a blur in my memory bank, I was physically and emotionally numb as evidenced by this photograph from the Flume where compared to Mel and Harry my face is not registering anything at all. </div>
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Immediately afterwards we returned to the car park. The journey back to Nottingham train station was very quiet indeed. Harry was shattered, we all were. As we drove back, I contemplated what a fantastic day we'd had and I also considered how extremely grateful I was that Harry would not have to write an essay on his return to school entitled 'The day my Dad shat in his pants at Alton Towers'.</div>
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Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-66082067575106090562011-08-14T10:05:00.003+01:002011-08-14T21:41:59.069+01:00Just not cricket......One of the more enjoyable aspects of my job is entertaining clients. Usually this would entail dinner in the evenings or perhaps a major sporting event at the weekend. Occasionally I get invited to an event during the week but more often than not there are more pressing priorities and a colleague will usually step in and host on my behalf. However recently one of our suppliers asked if I had customers who might want to go to the England v India test at Edgbaston. I didn't need asking twice and luckily I have two customers who are even bigger cricket buffs than I.<br />
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</div><div>Cricket has been a constant throughout my life. It's never quite scaled the peaks of my passion in the way that football, fishing or music have but equally I can track the timeline of my life through the various test series and winter tours that I have watched down the years. Unlike football I never played to any real standard but I have at various times in my school and work years been an enthusiastic if hapless participant on the field. I have however, come to realise that I make a much better spectator than player and barring the odd ill advised foray onto a cricket pitch, I have limited my involvement to attending the occasional high profile game. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Whenever you mention that you like cricket, you typically get one of two reactions, wild eyed enthusiasm and instant affinity or rolling eyes accompanied by the word 'boring....'. To a point I do find the latter reaction understandable. For people with short attention spans or a constant hankering for instant gratification five day test cricket is the proverbial sporting paint drying. But for someone like me who thinks nothing of watching a motionless fishing float for eight hours or for people who demand subtlety and tactical nuance in their sport it is the most absorbing of all spectacles.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Test match cricket was always on in our house growing up, my mum was as keen as I am now and towards the end of her long terminal illness, her enforced immobility meant she became as big an expert as I have ever known able to instantly recall statistics which would have made David 'bumble' Lloyd feel threatened in his job. Fifteen years after her death I miss many things about my mum and discussing the trials and tribulations of the England cricket team is one of them. She would be very proud of the current team.</div><div><br />
</div><div>As a child my holidays were usually in a caravan somewhere in England and consequently as least two or three days were spent indoors sheltering from biblical rain and howling winds. When stuck in a caravan, laid out in front of a gas fire eating chocolate biscuits and trying to talk above the sound of water drumming on the roof, a day can last a month. On those days, I have indelible memories of watching Ian Botham on a tiny portable TV smashing the West Indies bowlers to all corners of the ground. Or Geoffrey Boycott seemingly batting for months on end for just thirty runs. I came to understand the fineries of five day cricket and it became my sport of choice for the summer months.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The third test at Edgbaston was a chance for England to clinch the series and claim the honour of being the number one team in the world. In the last decade, the England cricket team have been in the ascendancy but for most of my life were about as successful as my football team Manchester City. Seemingly all my sporting affiliations are entering purple periods though and I was more than a bit excited as I awaited my lift on Friday morning. I had somehow coerced a colleague into driving me to Birmingham. As any fan will tell you, watching cricket is a thirsty business and our supplier had thoughtfully laid on a free bar to resolve this problem. </div><div><br />
</div><div>We left at 8am and were in the vicinity of Edgbaston by 10am. With an hour still to go before play commenced the crowds were gravitating towards the ground many in outrageous fancy dress outfits which has become a staple facet of watching England play. Even as someone who is pathologically allergic to fancy dress of any description I am still able to admire the effort and the foolishness of these committed souls.<br />
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</div><div>We followed the directions of a man holding a hand written sign saying 'Car Pork £10' and found ourselves in a residential area where we were directed to somebody's drive which we were assured belonged to 'me Dad'. His father was clearly a very rich man who owned several properties as the cars behind us were directed onto the drives of several neighbouring houses. Mind you at £10 per car per day, it's no wonder he can afford so many properties.<br />
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After a brief walk to the ground, we arrived at the main entrance. Our tickets were for 'the experience club' which was a huge lounge with a bar at one end and a never ending and constantly replenished buffet at the other. Never were the words 'winning combination' more applicable to a sentence than the previous one.<br />
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Our seats were on a balcony just outside of the bar and consequently I was able to slay my thirst without taking my eyes off the cricket. My customers, two hefty lads from Yorkshire were also extremely thirsty, probably due to the saltiness of the buffet and I managed to continue my fitness regime by making regular trips to the bar and back for them.<br />
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The cricket was in truth a trifle dull. Having established a handsome lead, England chose to press home their advantage and bat through the day to establish an unassailable runs total. This was undoubtedly the right thing to do but without the thrill of big hitters at the crease it wasn't the greatest spectacle I've ever seen. A seemingly endless stream of single runs were punctuated only by a couple of heavy showers that sent us scurrying inside for cover which necessitated further trips to the bar via the buffet.<br />
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The action picked up in the afternoon though my ability to focus on the game diminished with each pint. Wickets began to fall whilst Alistair Cook continued his own personal ascent to the top of his profession though at times it felt like he was taking the long way round. But as the day wore on the crowd became rowdier as it became apparent that the coronation of the England team as number one in the world was a mere formality. It was also obvious that coronation would not occur until the Saturday afternoon.<br />
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By the close of play at 7pm I was quite full and ready for home. Claire, my colleague and reluctant driver appeared enthralled as she drove us home whilst I regaled her with observations, theories and general buffoonery about our day. I say she appeared enthralled, I think she may have been in a hurry to get back home, I've never seen anyone drive quite so fast.<br />
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All told it was a fantastic day though I have now discovered that in a remarkable twist of irony, free bars are always paid for the following day, yesterday was a write off. I was fit for nothing except lying on the sofa...............and watching England being crowned the kings of cricket.</div>Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-4422371094629458052011-07-30T21:33:00.000+01:002011-07-30T21:33:15.883+01:00Raving not drowning.....Sometimes my blogs come easily and almost seem to write themselves. My tendency to attract bizarre incident, or my enjoyment of weird observation means I can literally hear words and sentences as events unfurl in front of me. At other times, I feel stuck in the mundane and have nothing to say of any consequence.<br />
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Due to the pressures of work and struggling with some kind of virus for a couple of weeks I've not felt much like writing. I've been suffering from a prolonged lurgy for nearly six weeks and despite two courses of antibiotics I was beginning to think I might never shake it. However, yesterday the clouds of illness began to clear and arriving back from London at around 3pm I decided I deserved to finish early for the week and would take an opportunity to go for a swim.<br />
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Mel and I joined David Lloyd in Cheadle a few weeks ago, which is probably half a mile from our apartment. It is expensive for a gym but we figured that would be more likely to make us go and so far that theory is holding up pretty well. My exercise of choice is swimming and the pool there really is great. I try to get up early and swim half a mile or occasionally go late at night when things quieten down a bit. On this occasion, I had no idea whether it would be busy or quiet.<br />
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The car park had loads of spaces which is rarely the case. As I walked through reception it did seem quieter than normal though the outdoor pool was full of kids enjoying a bit of rare sunshine with their parents. I say enjoying they were screaming their heads off but I think thats the same thing.<br />
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After a quick change I walked through to the pool to find it completely empty. I've never seen this before and made a mental note that stealing an hour in the afternoon would be a great time to take a swim.<br />
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Due to the aforementioned lurgy my swimming opportunities have been a little limited over the last few weeks but I was soon back in my stride and had completed twenty lengths in no time at all. I noticed the pool attendant placing a CD Player on a small table at the side of the pool and a couple of old people getting into the pool. I carried on about my business but on my return length I noticed a few more senior citizens loitering around the pool. By the time I had finished another length there was a massive gathering of grey hair, milling around, spilling into the pool and speaking in hushed tones . I stopped to investigate and was struck by the feverish, wide eyed expressions on their faces. They started to pile into the pool whipping the water into a white foam as they strode through the pool like a herd of antelope crossing an alligator infested river.<br />
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The crowd was predominantly female but with a few old men scattered throughout looking slightly awkward but equally enthusiastic. They started to take positions and one or two were limbering up and I could feel anticipation building. A slick of floral perfume and deep heat was now skating across the surface of the water and I could taste it strongly with each stroke to the point where I had to give up my swim and simply watch.<br />
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The excitement built further and their eyes became focused on the entrance to the pool, the limbering up became more frenetic. A few innocent swimmers came into the pool , took one look at the gaggle of OAP's, turned on their heels and left again.<br />
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Suddenly their moment arrived, the door opened and the minciest man I have ever seen came catapulting through the door in a green leotard charging down one side of the pool. The golden throng were ecstatic, clapping and cheering as he flounced his way around the pool and toward the CD Player. He acknowledged his parish and theatrically bent down to press play on the CD Player. Three seconds of silence only served to rebuild tension until suddenly the music burst into life as KC and the Sunshine Band advised everyone to celebrate good times. The instructors adoring public didn't need asking twice, they were on their toes and off before you could say 'oh for gods sake' and I realised that this aqua aerobics class was a regular fixture. These people knew the drill, for the next hour this was their pool and there was no song too cheesy for them.<br />
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The instructor was also in his pomp. Strutting like a deranged cat he prowled up and down the side of the pool making eye contact with each of his subjects and throwing me a look that made it clear that this was now his manor and I was on it.<br />
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His dancing and instruction was simply unbelievable, simultaneously feeding instruction and demonstrating the action with a face so serious that I suddenly burst out laughing. It was made clear to me by his congregation that it was not a laughing matter. They reciprocated his seriousness and mirrored his showy dance movements hampered only by the resistance of water and the flexibility of their ageing joints.<br />
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I was literally transfixed, I've never seen anything like it. The music went from terrible to unforgivable in no time at all and I quickly realised there would be no more swimming for me. The instructor was in full flight now though and was stood right next to the pool exit. I decided to make my way over there and time my exit to make minimum fuss. However, just as I completed that thought the instructor decided to mark the end of Van Halens 'Jump' with a leap on the spot. Which would have been perfectly fine were he not at the side of a pool and wearing trainers, he landed and skidded in one action, attempted to catch himself from falling on a hand rail and ended up on his arse. However being the true professional that he is he rolled over and back onto his feet just in time to seamlessly start dancing to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts 'I love rock n roll'.<br />
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His adoring public barely seemed to notice though I did see a few people turn round the other way presumably to stifle their laughter. I did no such thing and let out an almighty belly laugh as I exited the pool. I scampered for the exit and resolved never to chance a daytime swim again during the week.Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-24190487672855596032011-07-17T12:35:00.003+01:002011-07-18T21:18:48.706+01:00Fallen Idols<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKtOASc3pn_EpSEu8i9Xg6kyDX_0fi-Jd6AwuimEnZcW0PQ5SVy_Uc0zMpTq98K9FJx38qnKGQktAIrSlGzayRzfanNQ2u02BZZkFLfHv4KY1111FLgdyKHDF2eFIv2ohAnbOrpX13_c/s1600/Wheel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKtOASc3pn_EpSEu8i9Xg6kyDX_0fi-Jd6AwuimEnZcW0PQ5SVy_Uc0zMpTq98K9FJx38qnKGQktAIrSlGzayRzfanNQ2u02BZZkFLfHv4KY1111FLgdyKHDF2eFIv2ohAnbOrpX13_c/s320/Wheel.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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The second week of our holiday in France passed without major incident or accident. We had a few days out at local tourist haunts, meals at lovely restaurants and thankfully the weather remained fantastic throughout. Mels friends seemed to enjoy themselves and left looking more bronzed (burnt) than when they arrived. The time passed too quickly as usual and we were soon closing the shutters and saying goodbye to Gouhaut (the name of our house) for a few more months.<br />
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We dropped Mels friends Vicky and Sue at Limoges Airport last Saturday and then drove up to Calais for one night in the worlds worst hotel, the truly hideous Metropole. Our normal hotel near Calais is cheap and cheerful but on this occasion was fully booked. This alternative hotel was recommended on Trip advisor presumably by people who through some terrifically sad illness have been deprived of all of their senses. It managed to be tired, grotty, soulless, smelly and also happened to be in an area of Calais that made Beirut look cheery by comparison. We spent the night confined to the room surviving on a box of red wine and some crisps. Hard times.<br />
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On Sunday we rose early, were delighted to find our car still on the car park where we left it and were soon boarding Eurotunnel, arriving at Folkestone at 8am before completing our journey home without any delay. The fact that we managed 1600 miles in two journeys without any major holdups is a first and I suspect a last.<br />
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As can be expected on holiday my girth increased a tad as a result of my consumption of fine French food but cycling and swimming ensured the buttons on my trousers remained intact though compromised. I've worked hard this week to put that right through discipline and abstinence. Actually that's not true, I have exercised but my body still thinks its on holiday and is still demanding 3,000 calories a day. I'll have to have a word with myself.<br />
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On Tuesday night I was lucky enough to be invited to the Umbro launch of the new Manchester City home kit. I met a few people I speak with regularly on Twitter beforehand in a bar and we then moved onto the venue. All the usual Manchester City supporting celebs were in attendance as well as former players and various dignitaries. There was an early photo opportunity with Mike Summerbee, Tommy Booth and the FA Cup which I was delighted about....<br />
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Then a three course dinner followed by a presentation of the new shirt. In the bar beforehand I met one of my long time idols Mark E Smith lead singer and only constant of The Fall. He is notoriously a caustic, uncompromising individual and not the kind of person who readily poses for photographs with fans but I must have caught him in a good mood as he spent ages discussing City and generally holding court and being hilarious.<br />
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His vocal onslauught continued during the presentation when he continually heckled and blew raspberrys at the kit designer from Umbro who valiantly continued to try and describe the design aesthetics whilst coming under a barrage of one-man abuse. The presenter held it together pretty well in fairness and took it in good spirits. Mark sloped off, his work here was done. The video of Liam Gallaghers band Beady Eye performing Blue Moon seemed to act as his exit cue.<br />
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After dinner was a chance to mingle with other writers, tweeters, forum owners and celebrity City fans. I also took the opportunity to talk at Gary Cook the CEO of Manchester City who I'm sure enjoyed the experience immensely. I noticed 40 people waiting to share their opinions and advice with him, he's a lucky man.<br />
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It really was a great night and the perfect cure for post-holiday blues.Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7273012890943650807.post-63701847933497591722011-06-30T16:03:00.009+01:002011-07-01T15:58:35.822+01:00More tales of rodents and critters.....(euro edition)We arrived in Chalus on Saturday afternoon after a remarkably stress free journey by our standards. Of course there was the inevitable 2 hour queue for the Queen Elizabeth II bridge at Dartford on Friday afternoon. A lot of people would object to queueing for two hours just to pay to cross a poxy bridge, especially if that bridge were standing between you and the first holiday you had in a long time........and they would be right to. It really boils my piss, it's almost like the last ounce of stress is being squeezed from me before my relaxation can begin. But at least you have the view, which is as good as any view you will find anywhere in Dartford........<br />
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We eventually crossed on Eurotunnel at about 11pm and arrived at our traditional cheap and not very cheerful stopover hotel in Rouen at 2am, just in time to open a bottle of wine, glug it down between us in less than 15 minutes before falling into a comatic sleep. We were wide awake by 7am and after what has now become a celebrated event, the terrible breakfast at the hotel, we were back on the road by 8am.<br />
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With a couple of stops, we were within 2 hours of our place in Chalus when an old couple in an Audi chose to drift across all three lanes of the motorway without signal or warning forcing me into braking and turning my carefully packed Land Rover into a moving tumble dryer. We had packed three parasols for garden furniture which turned into makeshift spears and narrowly avoided impaling Mel and I. Bags moved from the back of the car to the front and Mel did a brilliant job of catching them with her head, whilst I wrestled with the steering wheel in order to prevent any fatalities.<br />
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We had a brief moment of stress where we realised how close we had come to tragedy before taking the easy way out, pissing ourselves laughing and continuing the journey as if nothing had happened.<br />
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We eventually arrived at 2pm, slightly frazzled but delighted to see Mels parents who have been working on our holiday home rennovation for the last six weeks. Mels sister Penny had also flown over on Friday afternoon and after a couple of journey loosening drinks we swooped round to marvel at the results of Pat and Freds hard work. We're far from finished and unlikely to be so until the end of this year but it's really taking shape now. Here is a preview of how the Gite is looking......<br />
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We still have much to do and much to earn to pay for it but we will get there in the next six months or so. We have a detailed schedule of work to organise in the next few months and we're all back again in September to supervise the final phase.<br />
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My time so far this trip has been spent organising a clearance of the mountain of packaging from the furniture we have had delivered, cutting grass and felling some trees around the gardens and generally tidying everything up. Naturally (being a man), I therefore created an enormous bonfire in an old steel drum I found lying around the old barn. I have spent three days burning rubbish, putting out stray fires and generally working hard to prevent the whole of France catching fire. My arms and legs are now pretty much bereft of any hairs and my face is a combination of sun bronzed and fire blackened. I smell like a fireman after a forty eight hour shift. Still it has been deeply satisfying at a very primal level . It also provided plenty of opportunity to get my little tractor out which is always a point of personal satisfaction.<br />
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When we arrived Pat explained that there had been an upturn in activity from our resident ceiling monster. Ever since we bought our house four years ago, our sleep has been occasionally disturbed by the sound of scampering and scratching in the ceiling from the loft that runs the entire length of the house. After a day or two it ceases to bother us and on the odd occasion where I have gathered sufficient courage to go up there and investigate there has been no sign of damage. Mel says that it is impossible to ascertain that by simply shining the torch round for two seconds and then quickly jumping back down but I have a feel for these things.<br />
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We take a fairly relaxed attitude to creatures and critters, its a fact of life of living in the middle of the country and Mel can't bear to kill any creature so we've let it pass. This includes the gigantic (and completely harmless) spiders that regularly inhabit our house and I have become fairly adept at the glass and sliding paper trick though on a number of occasions have thrown the glass out of the window along with the spider.<br />
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This time however, the noises are significantly louder, more regular and more.......playful. We had our friends Roz and Neil round for dinner and they mentioned the culprit could be a member of the rodent family called Lerot which is a kind of doormouse but bigger and slightly weirder looking. On further inspection, we've now seen two of the little blighters.<br />
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There are obviously quite a few up there and every night they have wild parties. I'm not entirely sure but from the noises they make I think they may be taking drugs. They make a sound like they are moving furniture around the loft interspersed with the pitter patter of their leaden feet dancing across the plasterboard.<br />
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I was planning a rodent assault similar to my successful campaign in the UK but made the mistake of showing the above picture to Mel. I also mentioned that they do no damage which now means they are a permanent fixture and she made me cancel the appointment I had made with Le Ratman.<br />
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It seems I am inadvertently attracting every species of rodent known to man to my life. I am like the Pied Piper of Hamlin except without the pipe and to be fair I am not from Hamlin either (though I could accurately be described as pied). I have seen more rodents in the last six months of my life than in my previous 39 and a half years. I only hope that this is not a trend that will continue or else in two years I will be completely surrounded by exotic vermin.<br />
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In the meantime, Fred and Pat are off back to Blighty in a couple of days for a well earned rest and Mel and I are here for another week. On Saturday her friends are arriving to spend next week with us so I'm sure that there will be plenty more opportunity for mishap and adventure and you can be sure if there is then you will read it here first.<br />
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Also, Mel is already laughing at the prospect of my new swimming shorts that I will be modelling for the first time tomorrow. The local outdoor pool demands that proper swim wear is adorned and they do not even allow swimming shorts. So for the first time since I was six years old I will be sporting some tight swimming trunks, an event that Mel has promised to capture for posterity.......Alan Leishmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04698261577155305225noreply@blogger.com10