Wine Over Matter

K and I could resist the temptation no longer. We finally bought some Bordeaux 2008. D'Angludet Margaux. Its unusually concentrated this year apparently. And at about £16.50 a bottle, all told, it seems like a good buy. Drink all twelve at one sitting and it will seem like a goodbye, of course.

College ended with the last exam on 26 May. Being BPP, their end of exams party seemed to be a stratospherically expensive affair. My classmates and I celebrated in suitable style and did not have to wear dinner jackets. Just as well really, as it was a barbecue in a friend's backgarden.

The elections for the European Parliament came and went without too much of a hoo-hah. Now I know that the Parliament has comparatively little power, the BNP are a bunch of neo-Nazis run by some kind of deluded, smug, slime ball. However, what really stood out for me from the election was the ludicrously enormous ballot paper.

Normally, an election gives voters the opportunity to vote, not vote or spoil their ballot. The EuroParl election offered a third option, it seemed to me: use the ballot form as a biodegradable scarf.

Gordon Brown continues to rumble on as Prime Minister. That the robotic, Hazel Blears has escaped from the Cabinet is, perhaps the only silver lining. Although... one time-Tory leader, William Hague seems to be having a rare old time in his role as House of Commons Music Hall comic. My only regret is that he never seems to finish his act on a song.

Incidentally, I never cease to be amazed by just how much of English Music Hall was utter trash amongst all the greats. For total tediousness and an act that is as likely to set the audience alight as sodden newspaper, I heartily recommend Mr Jack Warner (yes, he of Dixon of Dock Green fame). With a catchphrase like "Mind my bike!", he was hardly going to be on to a winner.

The approaching end of the British asparagus season is always a bit sad. Still, we gave it a good send off tonight. Soft boiled Legbar eggs with butter and cider vinegar (yup, saw it on the telly) with a crispy chicken leg plus a side of Jersey Royals. It was the best part of an unexpectedly depressing day.

There are regrets that many of us carry. One of mine is not being one of those people who instinctively knew what to do with their life. It's one thing to wish that you were Leonardo da Vinci or Derek Randall, in their prime. It's something else to track back and trace the strategic errors that you made along each lane of meandering career freeway.

Spending your time overrun by regret seems to be a waste of anyone's time. Is it as big a waste, professing to regret nothing? Perhaps. I must admit that those types of people always make me kind of suspicious. Maybe what they actually mean is that they're happy with their personal life and wouldn't want to jeopardise it in a spate of ill advised experiments in time travel.

It's tempting to draw a connection between talent and self-destruction, though. Last night, Bruce Weber's 'Let's get lost', the documentary on the magnificent, Chet Baker, was on television. I wanted so badly for Chet to talk about his inspirations; maybe recall a few funny episodes involving other jazz legends, etc. You understand what I'm getting at.

What the interviews with the 57 year old version of Baker actually gave us was the low-down on what makes a good 'speedball.' Not too much cocaine apparently. It gives the whole drug cocktail too much of a rush.

The only real state of perfection is probably our last. Chet reached it a short while after the film was made. If there's an afterlife then I wish him well.

O. and P. flew back to Vancouver today. 'sad to see them go, although if they hadn't then I guess they'd never be able to come back and visit.

It's ten hours flying non-stop, apparently. 'sure hope their arms don't get too tired.

Today was the 30th anniversary of the vote of no confidence in the 1974-79 UK Labour government. Cue tonight's TV: lots of old current affairs footage and me going into a mental timewarp back-flip.

There has been a payoff for being bored out of my brains with politics by my parents when I was a nipper. It means that if I concentrate really hard then I can remember Harold Wilson resigning, Carter becoming President of the U.S and watching the Bay City Rollers sing BYE BYE BABY on Top of The Pops (mmm, maybe that last one wasn't too political).

'just back with K from London's Borough Market. Good food for good people or merely the middle classes at prayer. The truth is probably somewhere between the two.

Don't get me wrong. I love farmers' markets and will be the first in line for a hare, piece of 'rare breed' pork belly or truckle of artisan cheese. There are limits, however. Today, I saw a huge line of people queuing for organic hamburgers. The wait was at least half an hour. The weather: freezing cold. Are these people mad? How great can a burger be?

It was the same at the line for Ginger Pig: my favourite butcher. Who doesn't like great dry aged beef of that quality? But giving up that amount of time? No siree.

After a surprisingly misspent fifteen minutes in the London Bridge branch of Majestic, Wine Merchants ('sure hope they were doing a stock take) K and I started to head down to Farringdon for some vino. It was then that it hit me. Why, presumably, sane people were willing to wait so long for their little slice of organic heaven.

Modern man, despite various high profile teleprogs, doesn't do much hunting or foraging these days. Perhaps queuing in icy temperatures for prized joints of meat, organic hamburgers and sausages put these folks in touch with their long-lost hunter-gatherer selves.

Remember the book, "No Logo"? It's Naomi Klein's no holds barred account of how branding is undermining the soul of consumers worldwide. In it was a tale of one particular human who had the Nike swoosh tattooed on his arm. What was the thinking there then? "Like Nike and me man. We're like the same, man. I mean, like Just Do It and everything. That is like how I live my life, man. It's who I am..."

Fast forward to 2009 and to the February edition of Decanter wine magazine. A bloke by the name of Daniel Sobolevskiy. has had the label of the famed (and uber expensive) Chateau Petrus tattooed in huge form on his arm. I'm guessing that the idea is not for people to associate him with snobbery and being overrated. No, no. Surely, the 'concept' is that of a super premium personal message; a legend such as "I am good, aren't I?"

The whole tattoo business on that scale is not my sort of thing. Nevertheless, before Woolworths shut down I was able to purchase some coloured wax crayons at (and I don't mind sharing this with you) a significant discount. When the Spring comes, a message "We are Good, aren't we?" will adorn my forehead and northbound hairline.

This whole self-imposed commercialisation of the person stuff is sick and, frankly, we all should be appalled. However, if anyone does have a suitable brand/product out there that they would like to place/plaster by my "We are Good..." personal tag then please do get in touch at the Email address above. Any reasonable offers considered. No time wasters, please.

And so we say farewell to the 2008 festive season. Not so many days ago, was joy and laughter. Now, in its place, are credit card bills, fading Christmas decorations and wrinkled, partially deflated balloons. No! Come back. Don't go!

Who knows what 2009 will bring. The main thing for me is to enjoy the ride while actually realising that I'm the one driving that old rustbucket car of destiny. If that is done then all will be well.

Onwards...

The Doctor Who Christmas Special came and went without leaving too much impact. One day on, this is what I can remember.

It was good to see typical Christmas problems being solved. Problems like facing off the Cyberking baddie, Dervla Kirwan, and preventing her from doing turning an hour show into a huge advert for Marks & Spencer. "These aren't just Cybermen. These are M&S Cybermen in their own luxurious, truffle infused Dreadnought Cybership..." It just wouldn't have worked, would it?

After all David Tennant's back problems, it was uplifting to see him accept the offer of a slap-up Christmas feast from David Morrissey. This year, DT's really earned his goose. There's only so much mooching round the Tardis anyone can do, I guess.

PS: Was I the only one who thought the Cybership was inspired by the robot in the Beastie Boys video for INTERGALACTIC?

The only time I seem to stop recently is to collect, collate and digest an ever increasing pile of case law notes and statutes. Most of the time, it's okay. Land Law does tend to push me over the edge, however. Rote learning is the only way forward with that puppy. I've tried learning by Cote Rotie, as well. 'great fun at the time but I remembered little in the morning. Pity really.

Come lunch time today, I was suffering from college cabin fever. With a hop, skip and a jump I found myself in the middle-class Mecca that is Borough Market. Foraging is called for in that arena. The mark-up on much of the food is enough to put you off it, really.
But did I give in? Oh, no. Two large venison shanks for £8? Yes, please. "Alba truffle for £300 to go with?". Er, no thanks.

Still no word yet on who will be the next Dr Who. By the look of the preposterous cover on the new 'Writer's Tale' book, I wouldn't be surprised if Russell T. Davies cast himself in role.

How do you know if you're really stone bonkingly tired? For me, the answer is that I become easily obsessed with unimportant things. With the work for law school mounting up each week and the minor influence of sleep deprivation, my unconscious mind seems to have tuned itself to the task of producing the perfect omelette.

The fluffy style with the whipped egg whites folded into the yolks is no problem. What I'm trying to work out is how to produce a non-rubbery, still 'scramble-eggy' style masterpiece. With practice, it is getting better. This Monday's was actually enjoyable rather than just edible.

K's non-stick Le Creuset pan is a good piece of kit. Start on the hob then flash it under the grill. It works. And yet, I'm not satisfied with what I'm making. It's only a B- at best.

Deep down I suppose that (at least on an unconscious level) that my making an A+ omelette will mean that everything in the world will be right and my life fulfilled. Who knows.

Should the primo ommlette ever be produced then I will be sure to update you on the more existential side of the equation.

The last few weeks have been a bit of a culture shock. My waking hours seem to have been taken over by ever growing piles of paper from the GDL course (Graduate Diploma of Law). There are so many materials to printout each week that it often feels like I'm doing an apprenticeship at a reprographics company.

There is no getting away from the fact that the GDL is a 'crammer'. Much of it is very interesting but it's hard to take that much information in on a fast-motion, whistle-stop bus tour.

One day I may summon up the courage to actually go to the toilet at college. The danger of missing some important tit-bit for the exams is an on-going deterrent however.

K. and I went to a surprisingly average wine tasting last night. Our impression was that little of it was worth the price. Still, it's always nice to be invited.

The meal at the Gay Hussar (old Soho institution) afterwards more than compensated for the winey misadventure. 'strange being there without John, my dad who died 18 months ago. In a way though, I felt very close to him during the meal. Perhaps it's more accurate to say, my memories of him.

It's funny, but I've been recently visiting the old places John and I used to meet in London. Times change and it's no use trying to recreate the past. Yet, I sometimes get the sense, when I am in a very 'John' place that he is holding court in the room there: somewhere in the past.

Sometimes a song or a piece of work you've been trying to learn will fling around your mind when you are trying to get to sleep some night. Perhaps it's 'persistance of sound'. Maybe you get with certain people in certain places too.