British Airways (a lament)

Back from Dubai now and feeling like a British Airways rumble. The “world’s favourite airline” must now be one of the world’s least popular airlines. The poor, whingeing cabin crew staff did their best to disrupt our return plans with their attempted industrial action. Maybe, however, it would have been better if the strike had gone ahead and the company had been brought to their knees. That way we would have been re-routed on another airline on the way back and spared the graceless British Airways cabin service we received when returning from our Christmas break.

Okay so the flight safety video was on the blink (or none of the cabin crew knew how to work it). That meant that the £50,000 plus-a-year head of cabin crew had to read out the safety instructions, but she couldn’t find the script, so there was an embarrassing delay. We eventually got airborne and the drinks trolley appeared. Yes I could have a Bloody Mary if I didn’t mind a miniature of vodka, a slurp of tomato juice from a packet, ice and lemon. “Have you got any worcester sauce?” I pleaded. Of course not.

Now like my slimline son I quite enjoy the mysteries of airline food. There’s usually something reasonably tasty going on somewhere on the lunch tray – even when flying with charter carriers like Monarch. This time absolutely not. My lasagne was simply horrid and the wife’s chicken with rice was revolting to behold and she gave up after half a mouthful of the blackened, glutinous pulp.

Just to finish off I was tempted by an item or two from the duty free trolley. “Yes, sir, it will be coming around in about an hour”. Needless to say it never did. The moving map feature had been disabled to prevent us terrorists knowing when we were over areas of high population – soon, I imagine, they’ll black out the windows.

On landing by the modern and crisply efficient Terminal 5 our plane slowly taxied past a few dozen other British Airways aircraft, lined up at their showpiece terminal in much the same way as the same plane had taxied past a few dozen Emirates planes parked up outside their sparkling new terminal in Dubai seven hours or so earlier. The difference was that the Emirates fleet looked clean, new and efficient. The British Airways fleet looked old and tired – like their cabin crews. Next time I book a flight BA will be the carriers I’ll do my best to avoid. Sad, really...

Boxing Day Blues

It's true. I've just got to shed some weight. When I get castigated by my not-so-slim-himself son about taking sugar in my cafe latte, when my new XXL shirt bursts with the pressure of turkey and christmas pud, when the wife starts telling me to wear my shirt outside my trousers (like a skirt) , then I know it is time for some serious cutbacks.

There are problems ahead however - one more (paid for) massive breakfast in the Dubai hotel; a quiet lunch and supper today munching mince pies and cold turkey, fried up roast potato remains, delicious french baguette and all that. Then tomorrow we fly back to the chilly UK where a second Christmas feast awaits, then the New Year thing and then multiple family birthdays in January. Oh dear! Father Christmas brought me a drum of cheeselets, two tins of salted cashew nuts and a pack of my favourite Roka Cheese Crispies. Even while writing this I have paused for a few minutes to go out to a local supermarket where a very large packet of potato crisps found its way into the trolley. I must google the word 'coronary'.

On the plus side I have managed to have my first-ever Christmas Day swim, as well as my first-ever Boxing Day swim. I must find where I put the pack of Special K when I get home and, in the meantime, have to decide whether or not to buy significant quantities of duty-free gin on the way home. Good sense and prudent housekeeping says "yes", but my waistline says "no".
Decisions, decisions...

Dubai Revisited

It is Christmas Eve and very pleasant, sunny and warm. We follow a hearty hotel breakfast with a brief shopping expedition and then 'A Christmas Carol' - the Jim Carrey, Disney version in vibrant 3-D at a multiplex cinema (complete with two grandchildren and a large pot of popcorn). Gary Oldman's Bob Cratchit was suitably subservient and many in the audience found the snow effect through 3-D glasses rather curious in this desert location.

Dubai continues to puzzle me and to impress me by turns. The extraordinary Burj Dubai officially opens in a few days time. With over 160 floors it is currently the world's tallest building and looks quite amazing from our hotel bedroom window. New roads and buildings are being constructed at a frantic rate despite talk of money troubles and the global economic downturn.

Our fellow hotel guests encompass most of the world's nationalities and one looks in awe at the breakfast buffet as people mix different concoctions on the same plate: hot baked beans accompany figs, fresh fruit and dates; curries mix with camembert cheese; smoked salmon with (dirty) pork sausages and bacon; fresh melon with maple syrup, etc., etc.

I am challenged to games of chess by successive grandchildren which I unkindly win. I then decrease my popularity further by beating the venerable golden retriever at tug-of-war with his favourite toy.

Tonight we have every intention of attending the Church of England service at Holy Trinity Church, and tomorrow (Christmas Day) we intend to swim before munching turkey with all the trimmings. Boxing Day will of course be spent camel-hunting in the desert before returning to the refreshingly cool UK the day after.

Red Light Walloons

I’ve been in the habit these past twelve months of rumbling off to Holland to collect boxes of books for resale in the UK. The normal route is via Calais – Dieppe – skirt round Ostend and Bruges to Ghent – then Antwerp – Eindhoven. Plenty of long, flat motorway; plenty of lorries; and plenty of remorselessly aggressive Belgian drivers.

Last Friday I suffered Antwerp problems. It started with a serious traffic jam some thirty miles from the city. Then I diverted to an alternative motorway and found another traffic snarl up. And finally my normally trustworthy Tom Tom threw a fit and diverted me right through the crowded city centre (rather than the efficient ring road) and out in completely the wrong direction heading for Rotterdam. All the while I was bursting to relieve myself and no sign anywhere of an appropriate facility....

I was therefore pretty pleased that my pre-planned return journey avoided Antwerp and instead took me south via Maastricht to Wallonia – the French-speaking bit of Belgium. Neither Mrs Rumbling Nappa nor I had ever been to this part of Europe, so a little Walloon hunting sounded like a good idea.

Our chosen hotel was a popular four star establishment in the centre of Namur (capital of Wallonia) in a curious conversion of an old tannery. Our third floor room seemed to be on about seven levels and overlooked a narrow cobbled street that led to the scenic River Meuse near its confluence wiver the River Sambre, but it was comfortable and our dinner was excellent.

After our meal we decided to take a short walk through the town, following the narrow cobbled street towards the river. At this level we were rather startled to realise that at the back of the hotel and more or less directly under our room at street level was the town brothel. In the best traditions of the Low Countries a young lady in her underwear sat in the red-lit window (which might once have been a shop window) touting for custom.

“Non” opined Mrs Rumbling Nappa as she gripped my arm and led me away ....

Clever Marketing

Difficult to know what the Canadian doctor, Major John McCrae would have thought of Remembrance Sunday. He’d probably be both proud and surprised that his poem (written at a medical aid station at Essex Farm, near Ypres in 1915) would inspire the use of the poppy as the enduring symbol for servicemen killed in battle.

Since mid-October every newsreader, every politician, every football pundit, every guest on the “One Show” has worn a poppy. Pretentious I thought at first. Why not wait until closer to Remembrance Sunday? But then a bell started to ring in my head. It’s called good marketing, isn’t it? Some bright person within the Royal British Legion marketing department has actually had the good sense to actively encourage people appearing on TV to wear poppies. There are probably “help yourself” trays in every broadcasting studio in the land with the message that by wearing the poppy you help to make remembrance “cool” with the younger generation.

Having over the past couple of years visited many of the important World War I sites (including Essex Farm), I realise how important it is for children and school parties to visit these places and to try and understand the bravery of the troops who fought there. Only by convincing each successive generation both of the futility of war and the extraordinary courage of our soldiers can we be help to avoid repeating bloodshed on that atrocious scale, whilst at the same time continuing to honour those who lost their lives.

I, in turn, must visit the grave of Major McCrae next time I go through Wimereux, near Boulogne (which I frequently do). He died of pneumonia while still commanding No 3 Canadian Military Hospital at Boulogne in 1918, by that time a Lieutenant Colonel. Wikipedia tells how he received full military honours, the procession to the graveside being led by McCrae’s horse “Bonfire”, his master’s riding boots reversed in the stirrups.

Dubai (2)

I've seen camels (real ones) and strayed off-road in the desert. I've seen the underwater world of Atlantis and travelled on a monorail to the edge of the Palm resort enjoying the station-stop at "Trump Tower" (notable in that the "Trump Tower" has yet to be built). I've seen the 7-star Burj Arab hotel and swam in the Gulf itself.

At the Bab Al Shams Desert Resort I sipped lemonade while reading the regional newspaper. Best article on the front page concerned a Sharia Court case in Jeddah where a family has brought an action against a genie. Apparently the evil genie threw the family's possessions around the house in a poltergeist manner and also sent the family (who have had to be rehoused) abusive text messages by mobile phone.

Back on the subject of camels, I was driven around the huge camel pen complex by Nad Al Sheeba racecourse but we are off season and most of the 14,000-odd racing camels were elsewhere. Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammed bin Rashid al-Maktoum holds the record price so far paid for a camel (2.7 million dollars), and the big change in recent years has been to stop the trade in 'slave' boy jockeys who used to weigh in at about 20 kilos. You now have to be 15 years old, licenced and weigh at least 45 kilos before you can be a camel jockey.

Home now. I'll have to see if I can find a camel to carry my 20 kilo suitcase to the airport.

Dubai

It may well be regarded as an international pleasure ground boasting some of the world's finest hotels, shopping malls and sporting facilities but Dubai is (charmingly) essentially an arab capital city, honouring arab traditions and the Muslim religion. I've only been here for a day and a half, but I've seen the museum, more shopping malls than I've ever encountered in my life, and a few hundred cranes. I've visited the "pork room" in the local supermarket, and been amazed by the range and inventiveness of alcohol-free mocktails on offer in restaurants and cafes. And by the same token I've seen the locals driving their Hummers and quietly wondered what it would be like to have that sort of wealth, to wear a dishdasha robe and to have five burkha-clad wives to myself.

Look more closely at the picture above. It shows the base of the world's tallest building, the Burj Dubai which opens later in the year. It will boast 160 habitable floors and has already been topped out at 818 metres high. The man-made lake in the foreground boasts the world's tallest fountains, and to the right is a tiny part of the 1,200-store Dubai Mall - the world's largest shopping mall.

I laughed when told that local airlines allowed passengers in first class to take their falcons with them in the cabin, but I checked and it is true. Indeed Etihad Airways allows two falcons per passenger in first and business Class, whilst economy passengers are limited to one bird each.

The Muslim "call to prayer" resonates through the loudspeaker system of the shopping complexes, and the Rumbling Nappa very nearly disgraced himself when apparent signs for the gentleman's loo in the Dubai Mall very nearly landed him in the men only prayer room.

It will be interesting to see what adventures "day three" will produce.

Village Fete

There's an article in today's paper about the demise of the village fete. Organisers now have to complete up to 15 different licence applications, legal agreements, forms and certificates, and insurance companies require 20 pages of detailed risk assessment. Police and fire authorities, first aid centres, and local authority restrictions have turned the administrative side into an absolute minefield - resulting in the loss of many famous annual fairs and fetes.

Thank goodness that there are still some people around who are prepared to tolerate all this stuff and who succeed in putting on a decent event every year. Yesterday's Rowlands Castle Fair (outside our front door) was a terrific success. By midday the Rumbling Nappa was on his second jug of Pimms, had failed to win on the bottle stall, had declined the two enormous bouncy castles, had greeted "Eric the Orphan Sheep" with a "How Do You Do", and had agreed on the purchase of a cake. Steel bands and Irish Country Dancing enlivened the occasion along with maybe fifty or more side stalls.

The grand daughter in attendance tried out the roundabouts, Mrs Rumbling Nappa paid great attention to the horticultural exhibits, and during the afternoon the Rumbling Nappa was able to slip back indoors to watch the British and Irish Lions play how they should always have played.

By nightfall the event had transformed itself into a noisy Mamma Mia party. All good stuff.

"Boo!" to the local authority questioned by my newspaper about the forms to be completed - "To give you all the information you need would take absolutely ages. Unless you issue a formal Freedom of Information request, we won't be able to give all of it, because it really is that much information".

Air Rage

The wise and sensible daughter will have none of my moaning. If another passenger on our charter flight to Cyprus suffers from a severe nut allergy then it is fine by her for the eating of peanuts to be banned for all 250 passengers.

The Rumbling Nappa thinks otherwise. Monarch Airlines he reckons should have placed the unfortunate passenger inside a sealed plastic bubble until the plane landed at Paphos. The eating of peanuts on airplanes is a basic human right – specially on charter flights.

What if I suffered from leprosy? Would Monarch have given me a couple of rows to myself and forbidden passengers to go to the loo in case they touched me? Bah, I’m getting old and curmudgeonly, and just a bit unchristian. The daughter is right, I should loosen up.

Needless to add that as soon as we had boarded the return flight to Gatwick a week later than the inevitable announcement came from the cabin crew, “As we have a passenger on board who suffers from a severe nut allergy...”.

Ya...hoooo

I'm still not quite sure about Twenty20 cricket. Like most spectator sports it's great fun if you are winning, but over the next few days England must face the first and second favourites (South Africa and India) consecutively and that will probably be the end of it for the flag of St George. But you never know, miracles have happened, we did win the war, Gordon Brown is still Prime Minister.

Twenty20 cricket is a bit different. Test matches tend not to have dancers whirling about every time a boundary is hit, nor do they have their own Facebook pages. As someone who used to boast marketing skills I'm rather out of my depth with the sophisticed sponsorship marketing which comes complete with "jingle" promotion (that's the cry of "Ya...hooooo" that rings out for every change of batsman or bowler), the use of the scoreboard as a near-perpetual advertising medium, the carefully angled type that creates a 3-D effect out of the slogans imprinted on the hallowed turf.

Technically the new form of the game is demanding, particularly for the bowlers. Field placing also becomes absolutely critical. Although we all delight in great cow shots soaring into (or over) the spectators, there is still enjoyment to be had from watching Bopara-like run-stealing (one or two from just about every ball apart from those that reach the boundary).

I'm still waiting for a golden over (the single over 'eliminator' used to determine a result in the event of tied scores after the twenty overs), or for an umpire to impose a 5-run penalty for time-wasting. With a restriction that an incoming batsman has to be at the crease and ready to face a ball within ninety seconds of the fall of the previous wicket I'm sure that if I was to play in a Twenty20 match then with my slow, perambulating gait I would be the first incoming batsman ever to be fined penalty five runs for failure to reach the crease in time.

Ryan ten Dustcart and others

Back to Lords for the opening ceremony and first match of the ICC World Twenty20 series - and what a shambles. I was slightly niffed at not being allowed to watch from my usual eyrie atop the Tavern Stand, and had to make the tiresome trek to the top of the Warner Stand (a place which is extremely badly served with gentlemen's loos).

However my guests and I were dutifully in our seats by 4.30 for said opening ceremony and, inevitably, nothing happened. During the next hour no-one had any idea of what was going on until, eventually, a shortened version of the opening ceremony took place consisting (inappropriately for the occasion) of a short speech by a bewildered looking Duke of Kent. Standing behind him with a leering grin was none other than the Max Mosley of English cricket - Giles Clarke - and one wondered if a helicopter might descend from the skies with a reincarnated Sir Alan Stanford.

Oh dear, play eventually got going and Luke Wright and Ravi Bopara got England off to a great start, but then the wheels came off the bus. Subsequent batsmen were not up to the game and the run rate fell away. Ultimately the Hollanders deserved their victory, farcical though the sixth ball of the last over happened to be.

I was cheered up on the Circle Line tube coming away from the match. Someone had placed a very official 'Transport for London' sign on the window opposite my seat. In appropriate TFL style it read:

PEAK HOURS
May necessitate that you
allow another passenger to
sit on your lap.

Splitting the Vote

Well it's time to cast some votes again. If nothing else tomorrow night's local government and MEP election results will make interesting reading. I for one will not vote for the seemingly untrustworthy Mr Cameron, or for the morbid Mr Brown, or for Mr Clegg (wouldn't it be wiser for the Lib Dems to have a decent politician in charge like Vince Cable), or BNP, or any other political grouping.

I'm going to vote for the young blonde who oozes enthusiasm as well as good looks in the local elections (she happens to be Lib Dem), and for the Conservative ticket in the European elections for the sole reason that the splendid Daniel Hannan is named on the ticket. Not only is he a good speaker, but he has a brain on him and his blog encourages people like me to pay attention to today's Guardian leader - http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/jun/02/editorial-gordon-brown-labour - which is as good a summary of the present situation at Westminster as one is likely to find.

Maybe the present crisis will bring some good, honest men and women into government who can speak for themselves and for their constituents rather than acting as puppets for their party whips.

My dream is that the current upheaval might result in the end of our ghastly, class-ridden culture of tribal party politics. The clamour from many politicians is for proportional representation and I'll oppose that to the day I die. All proportional representation means is the perpetuation of the 'party' system that has served us so badly over the years.

Please, please can we take advantage of the tide of public opinion to effect real change in the workings of government.

Jackpot

Yipee, we've hit the big time!

Mrs Rumbling Nappa and I shared an investment on the Saturday Tote Scoop 6 where you have to correctly nominate the winners of six televised horse races to win a quarter of a million pounds or more.

Yes - the dark horse from Greece Ialysos battled his way through to win the 2.05 at Haydock at a useful 14-1; then Jamie Spencer rode the 15-8 favourite High Standing to victory in the 2.30 at Goodwood; the aptly named Suzi's Decision obliged at 11-2 in the 2.35 at Haydock; Red Merlin (5-1) did his stuff in the 2.50 at Goodwood; and Caracciola came in at 7-1 twenty minutes later at York.

There were 21-odd tickets still going on the last race, the 3.45 at York, all looking for a share of the £250,000 fund. Only one ticket however named Ishetoo the 12-1 winner - and that was ours. Yes, we were the only winners of the £250,000 prize and there is a chance of picking up an extra £200,000-odd bonus by naming the winner of a single race next Saturday.

There's only one dampener in all this. We purchased the ticket as members of a small syndicate called the Saturday 6 Club which is run by the "Elite" people who sell car number plates and who also own a successful horseracing owners club. We'll have to share our winnings with an estimated 5,582 other syndicate members. Oh well!

Brandishing Seaxes

With rain delaying the start of play on the third day of the recent Lords Test against the West Indies, I retired to the Middlesex Room with the brother-in-law for a cup of coffee (yes, honestly it was coffee - and not very good coffee at that). "Why do Middlesex use the same three swords as Essex?", he asked. "I'll look into it" I replied, little knowing that I was about to enter a heraldic minefield.

Leaving the early Saxon kings aside (which I cheerfully do), it wasn't until the twentieth century when the two counties had their coats of arms specified - in very non-20th century terms.

Essex: Gules three Seaxes fessewise in pale Argent pomels and hilts Or points to the sinister and cutting edges upwards.

Middlesex: Gules three Seaxes fessewise in pale proper pommelled and hilted Or points to the sinister and cutting edge upwards in chief a Saxon Crown of the last.

Obviously both counties identified with the three-seaxe badge, and both are left-handed counties as well, and both signed up for the red (gules) background. Thus the only difference is that Middlesex was to have a saxon crown over their three seaxes in order to differentiate. And over the years it seems that Middlesex just got lazy (or republican) and the crown disappeared.

Commentators on all this have included Germaine Greer whose 2003 Telegraph article concluded that the three seaxes charged on a field of blood is indicative of the counties grim joy of fighting. The device could be printed on the breast of every T-shirt worn by every hooligan from Essex or Middlesex. Ah well, sadly I'll miss the gladiatorial Twenty20 contest between the Essex Eagles (okay, so the Eagle is the regimental emblem) versus the Middlesex Panthers (yes, the team wears pink pyjamas in support of the breast cancer campaign) at Lords on 26th June, but I might try to catch the Chelmsford encounter four days earlier.

Censored Books

Oh hell! According to today's Mail on Sunday I'm likely to have my book confiscated next time I travel from Heathrow. I like Robert B Parker and feel sorry for 58-year-old bank worker Carolyn Burgess who was spotted carrying a Spenser three-in-one volume onto a plane. The gun image on the book's cover was deemed to be inappropriate and likely to upset her fellow passengers.
I'd actually planned to take Parker's Apaloosa on my next flight. Rather than featuring the Boston private detective Spenser, who does most of his fighting with his fists, Apaloosa is one of Parker's westerns in which everyone totes a big Army Colt in a flap holster. I recently enjoyed Gunman's Rhapsody which features Wyatt Earp and his brothers, Doc Holliday and Parker's take on the gunfight at the OK Corrall.
I guess I'll have to take some non-violent reading matter to Cyprus next month. It is after all high time I read Sense and Sensibility.

In the Dog House

As someone who is almost perpetually in the dog house I was pleased to spot an appropriate place to stay if I ever visit Cottonwood, Idaho. The Dog Bark Park Inn is listed at Number 10 in TripAdvisor's list of 'The World's Weirdest Hotels'. At this Bed and Breakfast establishment you actually get to sleep inside a 45 foot, air-conditioned beagle created by husband and wife hoteliers and chainsaw artists Derrick and Frances.

Included in the dog are a sleeping loft, microwave oven, fridge, books and games. Breakfast includes Derrick and Frances's celebrated fruited granola, and there is a gift shop.

Just in case you are interested, the list of the weird hotels includes a converted tea factory in Sri Lanka, a converted prison in Oxfordshire, a 'cave' hotel in Turkey, an ice hotel in Canada, and the fabulously expensive Al Maha Desert Resort in Dubai.

Maybe our son and heir will treat Mrs Rumbling Nappa and I to a week-long stay in a Bedouin Suite at Al Maha with private infinity pool and dinner served exclusively for you 'under the stars' out in the desert. It's a favourite with Mrs Beckham apparently.

Road to Rack and Rouen

I've always tried to avoid Rouen. People have told me what a fine city it is, but I have always associated it with horrendous traffic delays, a real hindrance spoiling a good drive to somewhere else. Yesterday, with a morning to spare, I braved the city centre and was blessed with a parking space within a hundred yards of the cathedral. Yup, a parking space within a hundred yards of the burial place of Richard the Lionheart's heart (his bowels are in church of the Chateau of Châlus-Chabrol in the Limousin, his brain in the abbey of Charroux in Poitou,and the rest of him is buried next to his father at Fontevraud Abbey near Chinon).

It is certainly a fine cathedral and the spire (pictured in the background above) made it for a short time in the nineteenth century the world's tallest building. The city centre (starting a few paces from my parked car) is pedestrianised and so it was good to amble through the cobbled streets with their strange mixture of shops (one moment Hermes, the next a small outlet for baking utensils), past the Palais de Justice, the Grand Horloge, and into the market square where St Joan of Arc was burned.

The strange modern building in the foreground of the above picture is the Eglise Sainte Jeanne d'Arc which was completed in 1979 and which, according to the guidebooks, is shaped to resemble an upturned Viking warship. I thought it looked like a manta ray with a very long tail. I also thought it was rather (if not very) ugly. Inside the church is apparently very impressive, but it was getting close to lunchtime so it was closed. Typically French. Like their whole attitude to Joan of Arc really. First the Burgundians take her prisoner and sell her to the English. Then after a mockery of a trial (her main offence seems to have been wearing mens clothes) she is sentenced to death. Meanwhile Charles VII, King of France, doesn't even try to protest despite the fact that she sat beside him at his coronation.

There is even some dispute as to the exact location of her execution. A signboard in a flowerbed says that "Le Bucher" took place exactly there, while other experts have different ideas and tourists have their pictures taken all over the square.

Her ashes were apparently thrown in the Seine but, whatever the history, and there is lots of it at Rouen (I haven't even mentioned the World War II bombing which destroyed large parts of the centre), it is a wonderful city.

I'll definitely brave the traffic to return - with or without a parking place.

Parliamentary Expenses

I'm just not very assertive!

Last year I went for a job as an assistant manager at the Parliamentary Bookshop. I particularly liked the benefits package which included a good pension and free use of the House of Commons gym. I failed to get the position.

After a few minutes of shame and feeling humble following receipt of the rejection letter I resolved at least to apply for reimbursement of my rail fare to Westminster which amounted to £15.20 (including my Senior Railcard discount). I wrote a nice letter which I sent off as instructed to HRM & D, Department of Resources, House of Commons, 3rd Floor, 7 Millbank, London SW1P 3JA together with my ticket receipt on 22nd October. Needless to say I never received a response let alone payment.

Obviously they are too busy with more important payments to more assertive claimants. Or could they have set the sum aside while they wait for an "ageism" challenge in the courts?

Pshaw, there cannot be many people out there with my experience of working with books on politics coupled with bookshop administration, enthusiasm, brightness of character, good looks, telephone manner, tact and diplomacy, table manners, raw energy, vibrancy, scrupulous efficiency, glowing health, IT proficiency, creative skills, snooker wizardry, omelette cooking medals, linguistic talent ... It's just that I'm rather elderly, and obviously not very assertive.

Let There Be Light

The big new thing at Lords this summer is the installation of a high-tech floodlighting system. Four giant 50-metre retractable masts, each carrying a frame of 100 lamps, have been installed and they look mighty impressive. Somewhat disheartening then that bad light stopped play on a couple of occasions during the West Indies test match.

The MCC had to battle hard for planning permission. After all the Twenty20 matches for which the lights are primarily intended are referred to as the "crack cocaine" of cricket and the St Johns Wood Residents Association had plenty to say:

“The Twenty20 World Cup [in the summer of 2009] will create a host of adverse impacts – it will attract huge crowds in the evening, there will be DJs playing loud music and more noise will be generated. The overall effect would be to generate ­levels and types of ­disturbance beyond any reasonable tolerance, in this densely residential and sensitive location."

As a result permission was granted on several conditions. The lights can only be used at full power until 21.50hrs. Bars must close at 21.00hrs on match days. The lights can only be used for a specific number of cricket matches between April and September. The frames must be dismantled within two weeks of the beginning/end of each cricket season.

All a bit limiting for what is described as the most modern, cutting-edge lighting system of its kind anywhere in the world. I for one will be at the inaugural match of the ICC World Twenty20 series on June 5th to witness the lights at full blast and to purchase my beverages pre-21.00hrs.

Readers Digest

Over three days last week I brought myself up to speed on a dozen or so classics of English literature, took a brief management course, taught myself table manners and watched England win a test match at Lords . This means of course that I have been staying at the older brother’s flat in Notting Hill and taking advantage of his lavatorial reading matter when not at the cricket.

Every polite household offers books or magazines for visitors to the lavatory. Usually these are quirky, informative, humorous and digestible a few pages at a time. My friend the Ayatollah even keeps some bottles of wine for the entertainment of those using the smallest room at his Romney Marsh mansion.

The older brother, efficient and self-improving as always, keeps a single 600-page tome for the purpose entitled (appropriately) “Passing Time in the Loo, Volume 1”. This curious book published by Scarab Books (www.loobooks.com) in the US includes short, two-page summaries of around fifty novels and plays; biographies of important people; rules of important games such as baseball and ice hockey; a section on punctuation (which I should really heed more carefully); and quotations ranging from a rather nice Danish saying “Fish and guests smell at three days old”, to Alfred Hitchcock’s “The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder”.

If all that was not enough, the book includes a section of ‘vocabulary building’ words – postulate, orotund, didactic, sophistry – and (specially for me) a chapter headed “Control Your Depression”. This last item might have been required had it not been for excellent performances on the pitch by Messrs. Bopara, Swann and Onions.

Cardboard Engineering

Ged Kelly and Efrem Cockett both work (hardly a surprise with names like that) in the funeral business. I missed the Jonathan Ross show where their handicraft was first shown to the nation and so it came as something of a surprise when, passing an undertakers window display in Petersfield yesterday, I saw the diversity of their entrepreneurial endeavours. What Messrs. Kelly and Cockett manufacture are environment-friendly cardboard coffins printed with the design of your choice. The company is based in Guernsey and trades as www.creativecoffins.com.

Their catalogue ranges from pretty sunflower coffins, through patriotic union jack designs, to (oh dear) comical coffins. If you (or your grieving family) so wish your coffin can be printed to resemble a packet of frozen peas inscribed, inevitably, “Rest in Peas”. Or, subject to copyright laws, a cigarette carton, a Smirnoff vodka coffin, or a wine bottle with your name and date on the label.

Oh hell, I’d been worried enough when wicker coffins were introduced - I imagined the thing creaking loudly under the weight of the Rumbling Nappa, or worse still splitting open. Now I live in fear that my survivors will order a Gordons Gin coffin in which to despatch me.

Chilly Cricket

Maybe it is the economic situation, maybe fear of the swine flu, but precious few people turned out for the first day of the Hampshire - Sussex county game yesterday. Which is sad, both for cricket and for the venue. Being an Essex man I wasn't there to support either team, I was more interested in seeing Hampshire's impressive county ground - the Rose Bowl - set in a leafy (and windy) spot in suburban Southampton.

The ground was opened in 2001 and cost a whopping £24 million which very nearly bankrupted Hampshire Cricket Club. It has something of the feel of an amphitheatre, surrounded by high fencing and towering floodlights, and features a handsome, canopied pavilion designed by Michael Hopkins and Partners (see below). Ground capacity is around 6,500 expanding to over 20,000 when temporary stands are erected, but to a non-member purchasing a £20 entrance ticket (okay, so I got it reduced to £15 because of my greying seniority) the facilities are pretty basic. Temporary structures house a burger bar, loos, a New Forest Ice Cream stall (excellent), a beer outlet (£3.50 for a pint of Marstons) and a Hampshire CC shop which doubles as the only outlet for scorecards.


In the same way as the older brother's beloved Ipswich Town FC has its reclusive millionaire, Marcus Evans, so The Rose Bowl PLC has its Rob Bromsgrove - a man who reacted to the ECB decision in 2006 not to accord the Rose Bowl test match status with a £35 million development plan to improve the ground and the traffic problems that go with it. The plans include a new, 176-room hotel, a press centre, grandstands and more, but yesterday there was little sign of great construction activity. Unlike Evans (£400 million), Bromsgrove does not make the Sunday Times Rich List so maybe he is even more reclusive, or, sadly, his fortunes might be ebbing away after his bold move to keep both Hampshire CC and the Rose Bowl project alive when they hit difficult times.

All I can say is "Good luck!". Running county cricket must be a pretty precarious business in this day and age. I just hope that Southampton's cricket ground doesn't go the way of its poor football club.

Essex Boy

It is funny how Chelmsford keeps cropping up. When I was young I used to chortle at the late Paul Jennings’s description in ‘Oodles of Oddlies’ which described Chelmsford as a ghastly city, a forsaken city, a city of electricians.

But it seems that Chelmsford has more to commend it than the Marconi and Crompton Parkinson factories; stuff that I (as an Essex-born man of Braintree and Chelmsford stock) should really have known about. For instance:

• Chelmsford is the ninth richest town in the UK with average income of £30,000 (The Times)

• Perhaps the most significant date in Chelmsford’s history was the ‘Great Flood’ of 3rd August 1888 when the River Can burst its banks – sweeping away the Iron Bridge in New London Road

• The Boreham interchange on the A12 is officially listed as one of Britain’s most confusing traffic intersections (Department of Transport)

• Henry VIII’s vast and imposing Beaulieu Palace stood originally on the site of what is now New Hall School (BBC TV Time Team)

• After World War II motor racing (with the likes of of Stirling Moss and Mike Hawthorn) took place at Boreham on a disused American military airfield

• Chelmsford Cathedral (previously St Mary’s Parish Church) has an action-packed history. In 1800 workmen dug a grave in the church floor, ready for a burial the next day. Unfortunately during the night an adjacent pillar ‘slipped’ into the hole, bringing down walls and roof

• Wikipedia records show that apart from members of my family (my Mum and my daughter come to mind) very few distinguished people were born in Essex's county town. Penny Lancaster (Mrs Rod Stewart) is about the best I can find, although Sir Geoff Hurst (born in Greater Manchester) grew up in Chelmsford

Happy Birthday, Will...

Today is not just St George's Day, it is also Shakespeare's birthday. I recently learned that there are 540,000 words in the English language (five times more than when Will was around) ... and climbing. Readers of The Economist used to search for at least one word per issue that was completely new to them, but now I guess that we are accumulating new vocabulary at almost the growth rate of the National Debt.

Yesterday I received a text message from a friend on a train. Her carriage was full, she complained, of 'gwarfing arses'. I reached for my copy of the Urban Dictionary and blushed. The principal definition of 'Gwarf' is too rude for this blog, so I will only treat you to the secondary definition: 'A new nation pastime: to swim down to the bottom of a swimming pool and fart, then try to bite all the bubbles before they reach the top'.

I tried the word 'Nappa' on the Urban Dictionary, but I'm ahead of them there. However under "N" I did find the following:

'Nonversation' - which I'm quite adept at.

'Nom, nom, nom' - the sound I make when eating.

'Nolifing' - sitting at home playing computer games all day.

'Noipe' - an annoying and ungrateful house guest that has overstayed his or her welcome.

It would be interesting to know how Shakespeare's writing might have changed if he added all this extra vocabulary at his disposal:

Friends, Romans and frisbielicious emo bitches, lend me your trusticles ...

Book Machines and Peter Pan

Another visit to London, this time with the principal purpose of visiting the annual London Book Fair at Earls Court. I didn’t find much of interest at the LBF - same old exhibitors, same old stuff, hundreds of people, but little buzz. I got my first sighting of the new Sony Reader and was very impressed. I also saw the Espresso book machine which Blackwells are installing in their Charing Cross Road and which will print “on demand” books for customers (from a list of around 400,000 titles of which 250,000 are out-of-print) in about five minutes -very eye-catching, but it is a hulking great thing which needs a pretty nifty person at the steering wheel.

Probably the highlight of my visit to the Book Fair was listening to the Italian novelist Umberto Eco who will be eighty next year. He didn’t start writing novels until fairly late in life and was extremely indignant when it was suggested that "The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana" (published in the UK in 2005) might be his final novel. I enjoyed hearing about Eco’s attitude to prioritising his workload. Married to a German art teacher who is extremely methodical and who will only do one job at a time, he claims that having Latin blood makes him quite the opposite. He likes to have multiple projects all on the go simultaneously and, when reminded that a deadline for a newspaper article is imminent, he will stubbornly set down to work on a completely different project, leaving the deadlined task until the very last minute. Absolutely my sort of person.

After leaving Earls Court I was able to savour London at its springtime best. Clear blue skies and a wonderful early evening for a walk in the park. Starting at Marble Arch and finishing at Notting Hill I traversed both Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, checking out the Serpentine (I didn’t realise that it was a totally man-made water feature created for Queen Caroline, wife of George II), the Princess Diana “Fountain” (confusing sort of paddling waterway thingy for children which is apparently a miracle of expensive 3-D computer graphics design and engineering), the Princess Diana Memorial Walk, the Princess Diana Memorial Playground, and good old Peter Pan. The statue of Peter Pan was interestingly gifted to the Park by J M Barrie who arranged for its installation in the dead of night (like Network Rail's removal of the Frinton-on-Sea level-crossing gates) so it would come as a nice surprise to the people.

Rather stupidly the one important monument that I missed in Kensington Gardens was the chestnut tree (or was it an oak tree?) under which I proposed marriage to Mrs Rumbling Nappa all those years ago.

Bearded Wonder

There’s a lot of rumbling and grumbling in the family about the son and heir and his beard (he’s the one on the right wearing the flashy trousers). Now working in Arabia he sports some designer stubble which gives him the sort of appearance of someone who has got up in the morning in something of a rush and has forgotten to shave. He gets abuse from his mother, his grandmother, his step-grandmother, his aunts, and probably the entire female population of downtown Dubai.

It came as something of a surprise (to myself as much as anyone) then when it transpired from photographic evidence that the Rumbling Nappa once – a long time ago - sported a beard. Yes, the strange person in the dark glasses definitely has something of a growth around his chin. Maybe, just maybe it is time to experiment with a beard once more. I'd probably look rather piratical.

Political Blogs

So the political bloggers are making headlines (again) and, into the bargain, are making life quite strenuous for our beloved leader, the greatest ever Prime Minister. It all reminds me of the time that I tried to persuade the likes of Guido Fawkes to get his readers to buy buy books through me (or rather Politico’s Bookshop for whom I was briefly a salaryman) rather than earning commission from the dark halls of the Amazon empire.

As is the case today Tory bloggers then outnumbered their Socialist and Lib Dem counterparts by about ten to one, and the best of them (Iain Dale’s Diary should get a mention here) are business enterprises in their own right – carrying advertising and earning commission from referred sales of books and stuff. Boris seems to have about twenty clubs in his bag – he uses Twitter to draw people to his blog which promotes his column in the Telegraph which in turn throws mud at poor Damien McBride (all probably linked to a Facebook page, a MySpace piece, and webcam live action on YouTube.

Silly, really that the Rumbling Nappa hasn’t followed suit. We live after all in interesting times and if rumour is to be believed our beloved leader,the greatest ever Prime Minister, is currently entering into what can only be described as his George III phase. Like the Rumbling Nappa he apparently experiences dark moods and locks himself in his study for long periods. As with me, it is widely thought to be only a matter of time before the men in white coats come to take him away ‘for a rest’.

Wow! That means that by early summer we could be enjoying the premiership of Harriet Harman. Yipee!

Hillsborough Remembered

The weekend papers are full of memories of the Hillsborough disaster, twenty years ago, when 96 Liverpool fans were killed, crushed in a crowd-surge at the Leppings Lane end of the Sheffield Wednesday ground. They were there because Liverpool were meeting Brian Clough’s Nottingham Forest in the 1989 FA Cup semi-final. The cause of the surge was shambolic organisation, particularly by the South Yorkshire Police.

Particularly poignant is Henry Winter's article in the Sunday Telegraph. His focus is on Kenny Dalglish, and how profoundly moved the Liverpool manager was by the events of that awful day. Winter tells how Dalglish marshalled his team to ensure that the players were represented at every funeral, himself attending up to four different services a day; how unimpressed Dalglish was by the politicians who turned up at Anfield thinking that the pitch draped in red scarves might be a great photo opportunity (with the exception of Neil Kinnock whose grief was absolutely genuine); and how Hillsborough eventually took its toll on the man.

I was watching football at the time of the disaster. I remember that I was sitting in the South Stand of Wimbledon’s Plough Lane (Wimbledon 1 – Tottenham Hotspur 2 was the result) listening to a sports programme via a radio earpiece. The radio commentary of events at Hillsborough has long been swept under the media carpet, but there was no doubting the initial reaction of the radio commentators – Liverpool supporters were running riot, it was an absolute disgrace, those selfish fans are bringing shame to the name of football. Oh dear, how absolutely, totally wrong those first reactions turned out to be.

Private Dreams

‘A tremor shakes my entire body from head to foot and instantly I am shamefully aware of my own inadequacy...”

Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. Yesterday I needed to be alone, away from prying eyes, far from family, neighbours and acquaintances, somewhere where I could indulge my secret passion without fear of being recognised or interrupted.

I drive to Tournerbury, a remote corner of Hayling Island where I had learnt that there was a place that could satisfy my needs. Having negotiated the dusty track to the ramshackle premises I shyly pay the required fee to a grizzled retainer, making doubly sure that I haven’t been followed. I then take the proffered bucket and with feelings of misgiving and foreboding go to my allotted cubicle, unfurnished apart from a clothes hook and an uncomfortable-looking green mat cast untidily on the concrete floor.

After hanging up my jacket I try to flex my arms and bend my knees in preparation for the coming ordeal. It has been a full year since I have experienced anything like this. Nervously I stretch the supple leather glove over the fingers of my left hand and then, a moment of indecision before, hesitantly I lift a five iron from my ancient bag of clubs. A couple of practice swings, then place a ball on the mat and crash! A tremor shakes my entire body from head to foot and and instantly I am shamefully aware of my own inadequacy as the club-head thuds into the matting a good six inches ahead of the ball. The jarring agony as I realise that the mat gives scant protection from the unforgiving concrete underneath. The club almost comes out of my hands and I feel the same sort of resounding sensation as a great church bell when the hammer falls.

Yup, the golf season is upon us once more and, once again, I have been wondering if it is worth the hassle of trying to pretend that I am really a latent golf champion who just needs a little quiet fine-tuning to smooth out a few technical hitches before taking on the best of them at the Augusta Masters (or my sister and brothers, even).

To my surprise the comfortable if ungainly swing of old (the one where the shaft of the club thuds into the back of my neck on the back-swing) has deserted me. I’m just too rusty, old and unfit and crumbly now. I think that the best option is to sell the old clubs on ebay and put the proceeds towards the purchase of a nice comfy armchair with matching footstool. I’ll then sit and watch golf on TV, placing the odd bet*, and mutter happily how everyone else’s golf swing is rubbish (except the redoubtable Mr Jeev Milkha Singh).

* Every year I tend to place a Masters bet on someone I haven’t previously heard of. Previously this system has unearthed Anthony Kim, Aaron Baddeley, etc. This year’s hope is Nick Watney (I liked the name) winner of the 2009 Buick Invitational.

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit

For some reason rabbit is regarded as a national dish in Malta. A bit surprising when you consider that most of the island has now been built over and there is precious little space for rabbits to run free. I did partake of the meat (traditional rabbit and chips) at a local restaurant during our recent visit but wasn’t over-impressed.

Easter bunnies (the chocolate variety) however bring back memories of childhood; of my elderly grandfather dressed in dark suit and tie solemnly listening to the Good Friday service on the radio with the Bible on his knee; hard-boiled eggs with painted faces dyed red with cochineel on Easter Sunday ; and the Marks Tey Point-to-Point on Bank Holiday Monday.

My younger brother often added an element of the unexpected at Easter. Known variously as Wub, Boons, Teddy, the RB, and Walrus – none of which bear any relation to his given names – he helped solve an etiquette problem regarding the consumption of chocolate rabbits. Having removed the wrappers there was doubt and confusion in the family as to which end to eat first. Do you nibble away delicately at the feet or back of the bunny? Do you try and split it into two halves? Do you work up from the base? “Bah!” opined the walrus, promptly biting off head and ears in a single mouthful, to the horror of the rest of us.

Needless to say the Walrus grew up to become a banker, whilst my sister, elder brother and I pursued less extreme vocations.

P.S.
Shortly after posting this I received the following:

Red Arrows

Not every policeman in Hampshire was sent to help out at the G20 Summit. A radar detector van was left to ensure good order on the A27 as it crosses the New Forest heading towards Ringwood. Oooof! I await the arrival of a nasty brown envelope within the next couple of weeks.

The reason for going to the New Forest in the first place was curiosity. I’d read in the new Spectator “Scoff” supplement that one of the best pubs in Britain was there – the Red Shoot at Linwood. Also, I reasoned, it would be sensible to make myself more familiar with this great tract of common land and meet up with some of the wild ponies.

The pub was okay. I approved the fact that instead of a bowl of peanuts on the counter there was a bowl of Bonio dog biscuits. The home-brewed beer was okay, too. But it was not worth the likely speeding fine – despite the pony fast asleep at the entrance.

The New Forest however was worth the trip, especially on a warm sunny afternoon with few people around. It is a huge area of unmolested woodland, bracken and scrub – perfect for development as a dormitory town for Southampton. The Forest has history, too. Although I’ve driven past the sign to Rufus Stone a hundred times, it never occurred to me that the place commemorates an important moment in English history.

My education (despite a history A-level) somehow missed out on King Rufus , son of William the Conqueror, and his fateful decision to go out hunting in the forest on Lammas-tide. As everyone but me knows Rufus was felled by friendly fire – an arrow shot by the King’s companion , William Tyrrel, which glanced off an oak tree and caught the unfortunate Rufus in the armpit. When he saw what he had done Tyrrel scarpered off to France rather than face the Hampshire constabulary. Sensible man. He apparently ended up in the Holy Land “in expiation of his involuntary treason”. I don’t think that I need to take quite such extreme steps. I’ll brave it out and wait for the speeding ticket.

Silk Purse

Up to London ahead of the G20 summit. Great to be back in town - a haircut, a latte at Buon Appetito (much chat about the old days, the old bookshop and the staff - almost all of whom are still remembered by their preferred sandwich fillings).

Then a few minutes in the British Museum (I'd forgotten how good that Norman Foster roof is) contemplating the statue of Sir Joseph Banks and checking out old bits of Babylonian pottery and stuff. Walk the length of Oxford Street and into Mayfair checking out the shop windows to see what Londoners are buying (see left), before being treated to lunch by two old chums anxious to winkle me out of my Rowlands Castle hibernation.

And what a lunch! Corrigans' in Upper Grosvenor Street has an excellent set menu, full of challenge to someone whose normal midday meal is a toasted cheese and ham sandwich. A starter of breaded Pig's Ear served with Quail Eggs, a main course of Grey Mullet with Pak Choi, and a pudding of Pear and Jelly in cheesey stuff were all terrific. And there was plenty of good carafe wine to wash it all down with - some of which was included in the menu.

And then, an ideal way to pass the afternoon, sitting outside a pub drinking beer for a couple of hours watching the world (and a few pretty girls) go by. Over the road Purdey the gun makers didn't appear to have many customers going through the door but like most people they have an online business now, and you can spend your first thousand pounds on a leather shooting vest and waterproof breeks before you start to think about a gun.

All in all a lovely way to spend the day. I must make efforts to be winkled out of Rowlands Castle more often.

Hunger Pangs

Back from Malta and I stand on the scales. Oops, I’m into previously uncharted territory here. I’ve never weighed so much in all my life.

I suppose it was all those monster breakfasts (well my daily routine only included eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms and hash browns washed down with healthy juices and fruit salad, and just a little maltese bread with marmalade, and of course those miniature croissants...), and a little lunch each day (the burger and chips were served with healthy green salad), and then we used to save ourselves for dinner (a restaurant called Zest was particularly appreciated) interrupting our fast only for the arrival of a maid at around 6.00pm carrying a basket of Lindt chocolates for the hungry hotel guests.

Ouch! And I even went easy on the booze. I had no gin for a week, just a respectable quantity of Guinness (considering that I was watching a rugby international at the time), the odd brandy and a daily sampling of the local Cisk beer and local wines. It must have been the nuts on the flight out where I went wrong.

Anyway, I’m now trying to abide by some sort of regime in order to shed a few stone. I’m “walking the block” each day – attempting to keep my pace-rate to over one hundred per minute. I’m only partaking of alcohol when in company (a few pints of Badger with the father of my most recent grandchild on Sunday, a gin and a bottle of wine with my Mum on her 92nd birthday on Monday, etc.). I’m taking Special K each morning, eating sensibly, and haven’t had a packet of Marmite crisps for days now.

A further report will be issued.

Maltesers - 2

Proper little tourists we are. We’ve done the ‘Round the Island’ cruise, stopped off at the smaller island of Comino to take a powerboat ride around the Blue Lagoon. The Rumbling Nappa would have liked to climb up to St Mary’s Tower on Comino (shown above and possibly more famous as the filmed location for the Chateau d'If in 'The Count of Monte Cristo') but having got half way, he was just too puffed. We ignored 'Popeye Village (a film set bequeathed to the Maltese), and were almost trampled underfoot by St Patrick's Day revellers - very few of whom seemed to be Irish

A strange place Malta. Just as you start to think that it is a sunny extension of Blackpool (yes, they do have pigeon racing here), you discover some of the island's extraordinary neolithic history. We visited the Hypogeum, a 5000-year-old underground burial temple which is deservedly a UNESCO world heritage site. Here is history that is so old that one can only imagine the religious context in which the place was used. From the time that the temple was constructed it would be around 2,500 years before St Paul got himself shipwrecked on Malta. All quite mind-blowing

Maltesers

Not a bad picture taken from the balcony of the hotel room where Mrs Rumbling Nappa and I are staying (celebrating the big four-oh). Spinola Bay is a popular part of Malta and we started our holiday with a good breakfast, a pleasant enough stroll, a minibus tour of some of the sights, a boat trip to the blue grotto, and then ... the Rumbling Nappa went AWOL.

At the exact time of the Ruby Wedding Anniversary he found himself in the local Irish bar, drinking lots of Guinness and roaring on the England rugby XV in their recovery match against France. The poor bride!

The problem was always the date. We married on the Ides of March 1969, a mild if not slightly blustery Saturday when England were playing Scotland at Twickenham. That year England won the Calcutta Cup and the wedding guests were mostly delighted (sorry, Harry) and the reception afterwards had a celebratory feel.

Maybe England's excellent performance this afternoon is an omen for the next forty. Here's hoping!

Old Dutch

We've been together now for forty years,
An' it don't seem a day too much,
There ain't a lady livin' in the land
As I'd "swop" for my dear old Dutch.

Miserable Old Git

Oh dear! The first comments on the all-new, action-packed "Rumbling" blog are coming through. "Gawd, he sounds so sad, so down-in-the-mouth, so gloomy". Yuk, I'll make a big effort to try and cheer up then ... maybe a winner or two at Cheltenham will help.

Angel Eyes - or so I thought

My friend Cratchit has an Audi A4. It's a venerable T-registered vehicle known to its friends as the Dog Cart. It was in the Dog Cart that I was driven around World War I memorial sites in France and Belgium last year. It is a sensible, reliable and economical car, and I later purchased a slightly more modern (2005) version of the Audi Dog Cart for myself. Like Cratchit's A4 mine has all the usual switches and levers and driving it is hardly a learning experience.

Unlike Cratchit, who services his Audi himself, I need professional help, and so this week I ended up driving a more modern (2008) courtesy Dog Cart (or at least the saloon version) provided by the local Audi dealer. Although the borrowed car had the same engine as mine it didn't have quite the same "pull" (different chassis apparently), and I discovered that there is an awful lot less for the driver to do. The lights for instance are automatic and make their own mind when to come on. My old friend the "handbrake" has disappeared and in place of the ratchetty old lever is a small switch with a red light that you simply flick to apply the brake. To release you just drive off (making sure that your seat belt is applied). There is no ignition key - rather a gadget-thing that you insert in a slot and then push to start (and later to stop). The windscreen wipers too have a mind of their own.

Then there are the strange lights, those odd headlamps which comprise lots of little, bright projector bulbs set in a sort of eyebrow curve. It needed Google to tell me that they are called Angel Eyes and that the logic (if there is any) for them is that if one of the little bulbs blows, then there are plenty to replace it. Car enthusiasts apparently do not like them, but I imagined the feeling of superiority I'd get when cars move out of the way on the motorway - just in case you are driving an Audi R8.

I was a little put out then when I realised that the slanting lamps on the modern A4 are not proper Angel Eyes. They are, as the all-knowing Cratchit would have pointed out, high visibility LED daytime running lights. So many new things for an ancient rumbler to get his brain around - and all designed to make life simpler and safer..

Grin and Bear It

With each passing day we all grow older. With each passing day our planet changes. Thus it has always been and always will. Icecaps melt, tidal waves and hurricanes destroy livelihoods, forests burn, birds and animals become extinct, and we have an earthquake rumbling in Folkestone.

The Prince of Wales (bless him) is warning us all that the next eight years are crucial, and if we don’t take action within this time-frame then we’re doomed. He’s probably right. But aren’t we doomed anyway. Hasn’t mankind always been doomed, ever since he discovered fire and the means to kill?

I try to do my bit. I’ve sold the “gas guzzler” and drive a more economical car. But the “gas guzzler” is still roaring around neighbouring Leigh Park with its new owner. I’ve taken to switching things like the TV off at the mains when we go away - but in all honesty this has more to do with saving money than saving the planet.

Princes and politicians make great speeches, but none are prepared to advocate the kind of ruthless action that would be required to radically slow down climate change. Here are a few obvious steps that might be taken universally:

i. A total ban on the selling of all motor vehicles (new and old) which do not comply to very strict emission limits. Non-compliant vehicles to be taxed at fifty-times current rate.

ii. A ban on all wood and coal burning – albeit domestic or power station.

iii. A total ban on aviation.

iv. Increased use of sail at sea.

v. Cancellation of all public service refuse collection. All rubbish to be taken to proper recycling points by users with charges made for unrecyclable items. Criminal offence not to comply.

vi. Electricity rationing.

So, you see, it’ll never happen. We’ll continue to hurl McDonalds wrappers from our car windows as we burn up the miles in our over-powered cars. We’ll continue to jet off on holiday; to light a good log fire on a cold winter evening; and to buy over-packaged food that has been flown thousands of miles to reach our supermarkets (which never close or turn off their lights). Enjoy it while we can.

Me No Likea

So what if one in ten Europeans were conceived on Ikea beds? So what if business is so good that main branches stay open until midnight every weekday? So what if the new Southampton store had cordoned queues during its opening fortnight just to get through the front door?

The place just makes me rumble.

Ikea is so smug. It treats customers to the quarter-mile slog as you have to walk through every damned department in order to reach the checkout (worse than the Hampton Court maze), and the stuff they sell seems to be of increasingly poor quality. When you buy a lamp - wouldn't it be nice if they included the (difficult to source elsewhere) bulb? Why was my hot dog cold?

I shouldn't rumble like this really as I am a believer in good, practical design; and Ikea often delivers that. But I do feel that the place should be subjected to some serious competition.

There is perceived value in Ikea - the paper napkins at a pound per large pack, and the very cheap glassware. But much of the furniture on display seems extraordinarily expensive - bearing in mind the very cheap materials used. The oven trays we bought were cheap, but cheaply made too (in Britain oddly), and much poorer quality than similar trays we purchased five years previously.

A great idea. Get the customers to actually build the items of furniture themselves, and still charge premium prices. By cooing on about how environmentally friendly and energy efficient everything is you are lulled into feeling how marvellous all this Scandinvian lifestyle furniture is. But it just makes me cross that our attempts to emulate the Ikea-phenomenon (the late MFI and Woolworth for kitchen stuff, and furniture stores like DFS and Harveys that sell credit rather than furniture) are so pitiful.

Cross Channel Values

It is 11.00 on a Friday morning and I am in the Sainsbury booze store in Calais. I'm looking for value - some gin for instance, a few bottles of wine. But there are no bargains, nothing at all tempts me to purchase. The car park is empty, there are no other customers.

Visitors to France hoping to pick up shopping bargains are out of luck at the moment. With the euro trading at near parity to the pound it is difficult to spend time in Europe nowadays without feeling the financial pinch. Everything costs so much more than a couple of years ago - specially food and drink.

On a visit to the Wine Society premises at Montreuil a few weeks ago the story was the same. It was early evening and we were only the second customers of the day (Wine Society gin at around 9 euros a litre still tempts me); the previous Tuesday they had had no customers at all.

A clothes shop in Le Touquet was having a clearance sale "everything must go - huge reductions". Indeed many of the shelves were empty and there was a pleasant enough shirt on display. How much after the 75% discount? Sixty five euros. Ouch!

A (very) small beer was four euros, a pint of guinness was six euros. Expensive rounds.

But it is not just monetary values that seem to be hurting at the moment. Restaurants in the North of France are serving up really poor food and still charging exorbitant prices. We visited a brasserie at St Valery-sur-Somme, packed with French people, and serving up poor quality food all round. Our bill was the best part of £100 for four for which we got a couple of bowls of moules marinieres (each served with a mean portion of sad looking chips), a ficelle picarde (ham and cheese pancake) which was distinctly meagre, and a small plate of seafood (prawns, whelks and six oysters - no crab or lobster). We drank (or at least I drank) half a bottle of Muscadet. There was a bottle of Evian and one other small beer. No starters, no desserts - the French table adjoining ours left their puddings they were so bad - £100 and the oysters are still rumbling two days later.

That lunch was not an isolated incident. On our last trip to France an expensive meal at Chez Perard, a famous seafood restaurant in Le Touquet, was so awful that I felt obliged to write a review on "Trip Advisor"; and, at another Le Touquet restaurant, my steak was simply inedible (not to mention it being served mysteriously with tartare sauce).

No wonder the Channel Tunnel is doing so little business, and that Speedferries went bust. But sad, too.

Empty Beaches - Sunny Mornings

There's something great about seaside resorts on sharp, sunny winter mornings. Yesterday at Frinton I seemed to have the whole place to myself. Low tide, glistening water, sandy beaches, soft colours, silence apart from a few cawing gulls. That's the life.

But is there something missing? Something with four legs and a wagging tail who might also revel in the moment? Now there is a business opportunity - Rent-a-Dog - ideal for people like me who love the occasional company of a canine friend, but who tire of dog hair everywhere, the relentness need of food and exercise. Simply turn up at the beach and select a dog from the man who rents out deckchairs in the summer months. Pay him a pound for an hour's rental of a good-natured setter or elkhound. But I rumble...

Postscript. After writing the above I visited France. Another sunny morning. Another deserted beach. But the French have rules about dogs.


Dogs are seemingly allowed to poo all over the pavements. But the beach in winter? Non!

Serenity

There's a lot to be said for "inner calm". The ability not to get excited about Sir Fred Goodwin's pension pot, Ryanair's plan to charge a pound for passengers using the loos on their planes, or England's cricket team struggling away in the West Indies.

Just calmly swim along with the tide and don't fret about the awfulness of the Readers Digest customer service department, the inefficiency of the Royal Bank of Scotland's WorldPay organization, or Walker's decision to stop manufacturing Marmite flavoured potato crisps*.

Keep up appearances at all times and remain unruffled by people shooting at Sri Lankan cricketers in Lahore, the attraction of the "sin bin" to England rugby players, the continuing collapse of the British economy.

Enjoy the few good things in life. When was the last time that two Essex batsmen scored centuries in the same test match? The grey, damp drizzle that is darkening this tuesday morning will surely be doing wonders for Mrs Rumbling Napa's newly planted potato sets. The weakening pound will undoubtedly reinvigorate the British tourist industry.

No need to rant or ramble. Simply swim along with everything that life throws at one. Swim with dignity and keep one's feathers immaculately clean. Betray only a hint of inner rumbling.

* After writing the above I found that Unilever (owners of Marmite) had reclaimed the "crisp" franchise and are manufacturing Marmite-flavour crisps themselves. Mrs Rumbling Nappa procured me some packets from Asda. Kind of her, but they are not the same as the Walkers crisps.

Here We Go Again

Well, I stopped "Ranting" in October 2006 having bored my readers with some 150 pieces. Six months later I began to "Ramble" but more sporadically. Then in April 2008 when I was spending a lot of time in France (organising the sale of our house) I got utterly frustrated with having no broadband and lost interest in blogging altogether.

A bit of a shame really. I should have written a suitable "Farewell to Dominois"; there were memorable excursions to First World War sites in France and Belgium; a journey to Berlin to find the grave of Mrs Rumbling Nappa's Uncle George (RAF pilot shot down in World War II) and, of course, the Berlin zoo (see above).

But now things have changed. There's a credit crunch. There's no house in France. I no longer work with computer books, or books on politics or high finance. I've looked at Facebook (too personal); attempted Twitter (how can I possibly sound off in only 140 characters); - it's time to get back to blogging; time to "Rumble"!