Wine Over Matter

I had a dream about Steve Jobs. He was standing on stage telling everyone about an upgrade to the IPhone 4. You know, the usual Moses addresses the plebs-type party.

Anyway; the presentation seemed to be going okay. Much clapping and whooping was going on and Jobs was on top form. The event had started out an apology to users but seemed to be ending in the usual spirit of triumphalism.

At this point I became aware that a resurrected Benny Hill had ventured on to the podium. Repeatedly, Hill ran up to Steve Jobs and gave him a few quick little slaps to the centre of his balding head.

Ever the pro, Jobs carried right on and mumbled something about Security needing an alarm clock ap. Hill was not done yet though. No. Not by a long chalk.

He emerged again. This time, slowly walking up behind Jobs. SJ didn't even register the intruder was there. BH placed his hand above the head of the Apple boss. I'd say, Hill's hand can't have been more than two inches from SJ's head.

Why was he doing this? What was Hill trying to prove? The truth is that I don't think anyone in that room was really sure. All that can be said is that after about twenty-five seconds, Jobs whole body appeared to start shimmer and fade.

You'd have thought someone like SJ would have been aware he was dropping out of proceedings at such an alarming rate. I have to hand it to the guy though. He just carried on with the presentation.

I woke up at this point. It was Friday, 6.10am and K had kindly brought me some tea. 'weather outside seemed okay though.

Whatever took place during my sleep, I prefer to think that Jobs would have faded back into existence once Benny Hill removed his hand from the top of SJ's head. We can only guess though.

And so the UK suddenly becomes aware of what of having a (largely) unwritten constitution can actually mean. Two unelected Prime Ministers in a row? Why not.
Anything goes in Blighty.

David Cameron's negotiating team can only bend so far in their increased offer to the Liberal Democrats. Possible support of some watered down version of Proportional
Representation, er, maybe. Perhaps if the Tories were to pitch up today with a few homemade cakes then it may help tip the balance of the negotiations.

In other news.... I was fascinated to come across a video showing a sommelier's analysis of the beverage/legend known as Buckfast. How the wine chap stopped himself from bursting into laughter, I don't understand. Heavy editing was, no doubt, required.

The older I get, the younger I seem to feel mentally. Perhaps this is the result of spending my 20s worrying about everything under the sun. Who knows.

It all means that I'm actually enjoying the illusion of feeling younger thanks to my previous status as a 'young fogey'.

A strange old business.
A rum kind of do.
Some defiance of logic
but somehow strangely true.

Amen.

Is there such a thing as a cheese hangover?

The odd glass of wine or two doesn't seem to do me much harm. A night on the cheese seems to make me feel drained and dozy the next morning. What is a bloke to do?

If it isn't the cheese hangover then this week so far has been about reeking of chlorine from the pool at Tooting Leisure Centre. The Lido is cold, ice cold. At least it doesn't leave me with cold-like symptoms and (even after a shower) smelling like a chemical plant.

The blerb mountain surrounding the Burgundy 2008 primeur campaign seems to dragging on a bit. My guess is that it's probably a bit of a hard sell given that people know that the hyped-up 2009s are just around the corner.

Wines at the top quality end of the spectrum usually work out, even in dodgy years. The key seems to be reducing the yield of the vine in order to concentrate the carbohydrate energy going into the grapes. Or, to put it another way: cutting off lots of undeveloped bunches prior to ripening in order to ensure the full ripening of what is left.

Burgundy (particularly for the Pinot Noirs) is notorious for chucking sugar into unfermented grape juice in order to boost the potential alcohol. Low end wines in poor years tend to be the worst for this.

K and I have bought a case of red Marsannay and a single vineyard 'standard' pinot noir burgundy from the 2008. They are both from an excellent producer called
Sylvain Pataille. It be inexpensive, quality drinking. If you see any of his wines: buy them!

It's 2010. To Facebook, I say goodbye. It was good but in the end you were too demanding and didn't show enough respect for my privacy. Still, 'more time to write the blog though.

Seeing the demise of the tenth Doctor Who was always going to be traumatic. It really was like David Tennant died and there appeared a younger imposter to take his place. 'very sad.

The man who is the UK Prime Minister is still older than me, Obama is my senior by many years. But now, now, the actor playing the Doctor is younger than I. This cannot be right.

November brings strange times. Early morning swimming consists of a choice between "Clash Of The ASBO Pensioners" or freezing my balls off in the Lido. 'kind of a Devil v Deep Blue Sea scenario, really.

Swimming in the Tooting Leisure Centre is virtually free for the over 65s. Sadly, in the large apple barrel of fine folks that this altruistic concept attracts, there is a fair share of rotters.

Exactly what kind of selfish eejit insists on doing backstroke down a swim lane designed to fit two people? Exactly how many times do you have to crash into someone before they think: "Mmm, something's wrong here..." Is it ageist to ask whether someone is insane?

Meanwhile, Tooting Bec Lido is fantastic, if fantastically freezing cold. The sense of freedom there is always immense. Sometimes I even manage to get the whole pool to myself. Just me, a 90 metre pool and a swift cuppa at the end of proceedings.

All would be glorious if it wasn't such a shock getting into the sub-7 degrees of Celsius water. 'Scolding' my feet in the water, two or three times before getting in, seems to limit the pain. Only, never really quite enough.

I am greatly saddened to learn of the death of writer, food communicator, chef and TV cook, Keith Floyd.

He was fantastic at communicating the hedonistic joy of food. I still enjoy his recipe for Chicken cous cous, on a regular basis. The Floyd On France book remains a favourite.

Good luck, Keith.

My back bloody hurts. I don't know why. Maybe it's my eccentric swimming technique. Maybe our new bed is taking its revenge for my slovenliness. The point is that the last possible thing I could do with right now is three to four days bed rest.

One thing that I find back pain is very good for though is focussing the mind.

Today is a day I knew, in my heart of hearts, was coming. Dawn of the Facebook cull. The time when basic realities of life have to be faced. So, it's goodbye vaguely familiar people and those I could well do without. Farewell to those who block any of my cursory attempts at positivity and adios to the extras from my 'good old' school days. Specifically, those who seem to spend their lives in some misty eyed, rose tinted nostalgia trip, yearning for times that never actually existed.

One of the tragedies of adulthood is that the bullies of your childhood are no longer around to arrange to have assassinated. They are, of course, now all grown-up with families of there own. I have no quarrel with these adults, only their child selves.

My resounding memory of childhood is having seven bells knocked out of me by the resident thugs. The reason being was that I was (and am) not well coordinated physically and overweight. A prime target as a punch bag, you might say.

What I really hate about having had the living daylights beaten out of my younger self on a regular basis is the fact that it made me very defensive. You get so used to having to get into fight/flight mode in order to survive that the brain translates everyday trials and tribulations as personal threats. It's only really since being with K. that I have fully recognised this trait. My apologies to anyone who had to put up with me as a teenager.

Thanks to me not being as strict as is advisable with accepting new 'Facebook friends', I have found myself in danger of being vicariously connected to people whose names and faces my subconscious has spent the last 22 years trying to erase.

If there is some space between denial and wallowing in the shit from the past then maybe it's worth staking a claim for.

But enough of that. Let us head upstream...

Almost the last of the wedding vintage (2006) wines arrived yesterday. Domaine Gauby Muntada. The Gaubster is the king of Roussillon wine and I was once proud to meet him with my dad, S. and her friend, Ma.

Seeing Mr Gauby at his domaine in Calce, you could not fail to notice an incredible sense of conviction coming from him when he was talking about his wines. What a guy. What a winemaker: elegant, rich wines that are not burdened with overripeness and the consequent alcoholic, blockbuster style.

Now then; temporary remedies for backache...

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.