The Ancient Chamber Pot of Azerbaijan

The girls only have a dozen or so DVDs here and they are growing bored with the same old stuff. In fact they've recently been branching out into my own collection - the majority are unsuitable and referred to as daddy's scary movies but Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Back to the Future etc, are coming within range. Today I plundered the local Library catalogue and reserved the first three Harry Potter films for them, not my cup of tea, but I'll do my usual trick with 'DVD Shrink' and 'DVD Decrypter' and copy them so the girls can watch them forever and ever, amen.

 

***

Here is why men shouldn't buy bedding unsupervised. My favourite fitted Queen sheet needed a deputy, so I measured the bed, definitely Queen, 60" x 80" (that would be King in the UK; King in North America is sprawling, never mind the impressive acreage called Super King and California King!!) and I set off to do the rounds of Sears, Winners, Bed Bath and Beyond, and Wal-Mart. I handpicked a fitted cotton sheet for twenty dollars and two pillow cases for eight, chocolate brown, mmm.

 

So far so good. At home I discovered the new Queen pillow cases were a flapping seven inches too long for my puny Standard pillows. Several outings later I resigned myself to the fact there are no Standard pillow cases to be had these days. Bigheads abound I assume. So... I invested in two new Queen pillows. Later I ditched the girls' worn out Standard pillows and upgraded their entitlement to my serviceable cast-offs. What a palaver.

 

I don't have a duvet, just a comforter (known in the UK as a quilt). It's quite thin and akin to throwing an opened-up sleeping bag over you, but it's great for me even in winter (despite my lifelong habit of sleeping au naturel)! Well, I picked up a new comforter too and relegated the original to occasional duties. No problem on the size front and a snip at seventeen dollars!

***

I slipped over in the bath. To be precise I toppled from nearly standing to slung over the side of the bath tub. My ribcage took the full impact before I could break my fall. Initially I was shocked and winded, every ounce of breath gone. Surely I had punctured a lung or at least speared my spleen. After gingerly feeling for protruding organs I took a slow deep breath and realised I would probably live. That was two weeks ago and ever since I have winced and grunted and bemoaned my stupid clumsiness.

This week I tried a couple of longish runs, 10k and 15k. At first the bruised ribs grumbled but after a few minutes my natural endorphins started flowing and it was easier. I start marathon training in July and should be in fair shape by then.

google street view

For those who are curious about the small city I live in, for my Canadian friends who wonder how an odd Englishman sees Charlottetown, and of course for me, I am continuing to post my photography on Flickr.

It seems I am up against some stiff competition. While I hop from site to site on foot or in my Elantra, a certain Mr. Google is cruising theses historic streets in a Subaru Impreza dressed in mapping livery, updating the planet's view of the Maritimes.

Yesterday morning I spotted my adversary parked outside the prestigious Rodd Charlottetown Hotel, doubtless still dipping his bread into a soft-boiled egg and sipping coffee from fine china. His technical wizardry was safely under a protective tarpaulin while he perused the day's route. Meanwhile I scurried ahead capturing beautiful Victorian homes on Pownal.

The street view camera car records everything its multi-directional lenses can capture and transmits the data to Google HQ where they are stitched into a nearly seamless tour of... well, everywhere. I'm a sucker for virtually revisiting my old haunts, tracking down interesting places and often just stalking the cyber streets because I can. Navigation, tilt and zoom are my friends.

Thank you Mr. Google, but I think there is still room for my way. I can sneak down footpaths, crouch, stand on a wall, wait until the view is clear of cars and people, come back when the sun is shining, subtly shift position; I can crop, zoom, manipulate exposure.

This year I have been less bothered about writing my thoughts down on paper. Instead I am enjoying compiling this pictorial catalogue.

Flickr update

Last year I scoured the highways and byways of Charlottetown looking for photo opportunities which would capture the essence of this small city. I uploaded the results to Flickr but halted when I reached the free storage limit. Now that Flickr has increased my allowance to 1TB I have been able to add more to my online catalogue. The pictures are here.

end of an era

In the late 1960s entertainment in the UK was on the cusp of development. Our TV programming was mostly simple and bland. I fondly remember "It's a Knockout!", a riotous outdoor game show in which villages of the Shires and beyond competed in friendly rivalry. The 'games' mostly involved greasy poles, lengths of industrial elastic and copious amounts of water. Village greens turned into mud baths amid contests of strength, agility and endurance.

 

"Jeux Sans Frontières" was an International version of the games. It was hotly contested by several European countries, represented by the winners of their own domestic heats. By the late 1970s the show had become grandiose. The challenges were more complicated, competitors wore outsized foam costumes and the spectacle had become essential Saturday evening viewing; a veritable British institution for over twenty years.

 

And through it all rose Stuart Hall, a forty-something local BBC news reporter, turned game show host whose flowery commentary and manic laughter became synonymous with the harmless fun. Little did we know, the wild hilarity hid a sinister secret.

 

Last week Hall, now aged eighty-three, pled guilty to various sex offences against girls, both minors and adults dating back to those Halcyon days of the 70s and 80s. The media is relentless in teasing out the details and we now hear that Hall boasted of one hundred partners during one three-month summer season of "It's a Knockout!" Co-presenters at the BBC have started to speak out, branding Hall a notorious sexual predator.

 

So is Hall the next Jimmy Savile, the disgraced former radio DJ and presenter of kids' TV shows, who died aged eighty-five in 2011? Will more accusers creep out of the woodwork? Savile hid in plain sight using his larger-than-life, comedic, marathon-running persona as a mask; he raised millions of pounds for charity but every pound is now tainted. Police are following over four hundred and fifty posthumous accusations of paedophilia against Savile. The BBC is subject to an Enquiry into why so many bosses and colleagues chose not to expose this man.

 

...

 

I grew up in the 60's and 70s. Hall and Savile were part of the backdrop to my formative years. They didn't particularly influence me but I laughed along at their antics. An era has ended. An era of apparent innocence.

 

The veteran Australian Rolf Harris, a fixture on British TV as singer, comedian, painter and all round personality, has lived for fifty years in England winning hearts with his songs, his amazing artistic talent, his unprecedented empathy presenting the TV show "Animal Hospital" and his wit and good humour. Earlier this year he was charged with multiple historic sex offences. He is eighty three.

 

How many more personalities from my childhood are at home, biting their fingernails, waiting for that knock at the door, that knock which usually comes before dawn, when least expected?

 

Can we trust that anyone is merely what they appear to be? Probably not. Coronation Street, that bastion of British soap operas, is under scrutiny. Script writers are hastily re-writing plots to account for the sudden departure of major characters. These people are household names. William Roache, aged eighty one, who has played womaniser Ken Barlow ever since episode one of The Street in 1960, has been charged historically with the rape of a fifteen year old girl.

 

Michael Le Vell, chirpy motor mechanic Kevin Webster, is charged with a string of child sex offences.

 

Andrew Lancel, former factory co-owner Frank Foster, is charged with five counts of child sex abuse. What is it about men in their eighties? What climate prevailed that led them to their sickening pursuits. Or what is it about soap operas? Are they fooling themselves with fantasy?

 

...

 

And there are others. Comedians are on the list. Stalwarts of the 1970s, Freddie Starr and Jim Davidson, have been arrested to face accusations of historic sexual misconduct. Disc Jockeys are a well represented category. In addition to Savile, that predator who ingratiated himself with the Royal Family, with senior Politicians and with Charity Heads, other leading DJs of the 1970s are in disgrace. Dave Lee Travis (aka The Hairy Cornflake) is charged with historic sexual assault.

 

Even that inspirational advocate for fringe bands, that finder of new and exciting material, DJ John Peel has been posthumously accused of sexual misconduct with a minor.

 

Gary Glitter, glam rock pioneer and wearer of impossibly high platform boots and silver suits, whose early single "Rock 'n' Roll, part 1" was one of my first purchases, is a notorious child sex offender both in the UK and the Far East. Recent investigations have brought to light yet more claims against him.

 

...

 

Max Clifford is well known in the UK as a Publicist, one of those odious individuals to whom celebrities flock for guidance. Clifford has high-profile clients who are keen to keep certain details of their private lives out of the newspapers. Clifford has the ear of national publishers. He can squash salacious rumours and he can raise smokescreens. For a fat fee. If for example Simon Cowell wants to be associated with bevies of beautiful women, headlines and photos will miraculously appear portraying exactly that.

 

Clifford has grown very rich manipulating the truth. In the current climate of sexual allegations, he has managed to stem the tide of rumour against many well-known names. However, for too long he has been the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. The dam has burst and the public is denouncing their former heroes and clamouring for justice.

 

I have the utmost sympathy for victims, but imagine my grim satisfaction when a certain name hit the news recently. A household name accused of eleven historic sex offences against young women… yes, Max Clifford.

 

I know the maxim 'innocent until proven guilty' but it must be understood that many of the above have already been charged. In the UK the Crown Prosecution Service brings the charges after reviewing evidence with the Police. The CPS has to be satisfied there is a genuine case to be answered before committing public funds. It's a trial before a trial, of sorts, and after that point, naming and shaming is fine by me even if it encourages the baying crowd.

We have every right to know and to be angry. Youngsters exploring their sexuality under-age between themselves is one thing but men in their thirties, forties or beyond preying on kids and young children (and with kids I include anyone under eighteen) wrecks lives and destroys innocence.

As the father of boys thirty years ago I didn't worry but now as the father of two small girls I do worry. However I take comfort from the systematic tracking down of these predators and their evil crimes, regardless of how long ago those may be.

spring cleaning

   

I spent this morning cleaning and polishing my new car. I say new, actually I have had it for six weeks but this is the first time I have given it serious attention. Odd behaviour from one who normally scrubs and wipes until all around him is antiseptically clean and gleaming like a mirror.

There is a good reason for this lax attitude. The weather. I drove my new, one-year-old Hyundai Elantra home from the dealership in snow flurries and have since swept off snow and scraped off ice every day until quite recently. This morning dawned sunny and bright so I drove through the car wash (an outrageous extravagance I know but apartment living doesn't easily lend itself to car washing).

I then polished every square centimetre, including under the bonnet and around all door reveals and hinges. All interior glass received Windex treatment and every plastic nook and cranny of the dashboard, cockpit cleaner. I vacuumed the carpets and took the floor mats into the laundry room for scrubbing. In the noon sunshine it looked pretty good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Dell XPS16 has been showing signs of age. It's four years old and still nicely spec'd but definitely suffering from too many files and programmes and not enough hard drive. I keep deleting my old restore points to create space.

I started looking around for a replacement some months ago and by the time I was ready to make a decision, Windows 8 was behind almost all new systems. Research had revealed that this was more akin to a mobile phone set-up with 'apps' being the order of the day. As a staunch traditionalist I still remember Windows 3, and having suffered the vicissitudes of Millennium, XP and Vista, I wanted to hang onto some familiarity. Every day my choices grew less as Microsoft phased out Windows 7.

I ended up switching from Dell to Asus and bought a nineteen inch hi-definition laptop with Blu-ray, Bluetooth and a backpack! It has 12GB of RAM and 1.5TB hard drive. Oh and yes, Windows 7. The last batch before it was phased out.

I'm pleased with it. The generous RAM means I can have several complex applications open simultaneously. It took a few days to install the software I use, load all 15,000 photos, 25,000 mp3 files, my Genealogy files and images, and a slew of Word and Excel documents. There have been a couple of minor issues which I was able to resolve. In particular, video 'tearing' was very evident during fast action but I tracked that down to using the conventional Windows desktop instead of one of the preferred 'Aero' themes. Using 'Aero' brings additional resources from the NVidia graphics card into play, such that video is now rendered smoothly.

So, the Dell has been relegated to the role of browser (and occasional kids' plaything!) The Asus is now the system of choice for writing, genealogy, photo and music.

trial and retribution

 

A couple of years ago I watched Picture Perfect, an episode of 48 Hours recounting the tragic murder of Travis Alexander in Mesa, Arizona in June 2008. Travis was a popular young motivational speaker and legal insurance salesman. He had been shot in the face, stabbed twenty-nine times in the back the head and the heart, and his throat had been slashed from ear to ear. His body was found in his master suite shower stall by worried friends who, as early as their own 911 call, pointed the finger at Travis' former girlfriend, Jodi Arias.

Initially Arias denied being in Mesa at all but soon changed her story to match what police already knew. Naked photos of her, time and date stamped, put her in Travis' house. Nonetheless she next cooked up a preposterous account involving two masked intruders who had committed the sickening act but charitably allowed her to flee. Years later, and no doubt on legal advice, she changed her story again, finally admitting the killing but claiming self-defence.

True crime is a fascination of mine so when I noticed the Arias trial date was set and it was due to be streamed live, gavel to gavel, from the court house in Phoenix, I found a source and set a reminder. Since 2nd January I have watched proceedings online at AZCentral and joined in daily debate on the crime forum Websleuths.
 

I attend 'laptop court' as often as convenient and sit as armchair Judge, Jury and Executioner on this most extraordinary and emotive case. The State is arguing for premeditation and demanding the death penalty while the Defence claims self-defence by a victim of domestic violence. Premeditation has been amply demonstrated by the fake road trip story from California to Utah; cell phone switched off in Arizona; a selection of borrowed and purchased gas cans to avoid a credit card trail; dyed hair; flipped licence plates; hire car with missing mats; burglary at grandparents' home where a gun matching the murder weapon for calibre was 'stolen'. Motive was easy, jealous rage. Travis dated other girls after Jodi and had marriage aspirations. Jodi knew he had invited the new woman in his life on holiday to Cancun.

This sociopath has had more lovers than hot dinners and seems to have spent her life meandering from one teen-style drama to another while lining up her next meal ticket. She leached from Travis financially, emotionally and spiritually and stalked him relentlessly. Yet this was hardly a complete relationship. They met at a sales conference and were loosely together for just five months, living most of that time in separate States. Only after they 'broke up' did she move one thousand miles to Arizona and start living mere minutes from Travis. Interestingly Arias had a new 9mm Glock and a set of knives in her latest hire car at the time of her arrest four weeks after Travis' murder.

I'm furious that as usual a perpetrator is portrayed in court as a victim while the real victim is ignored, and in this case trashed. Arias took the stand and dragged Travis name through the mud, accusing her former lover of pedophilia, acts of violence and sexual aggression toward her, infidelity and loose morals in contravention of his Mormon faith. And all of this now he has no voice with which to speak.

The Defence Team have played cheap tricks such as calling a TV personality, unscheduled, out of the public gallery to testify about claimed autographing and photo sessions by the Prosecutor on the court steps. They take every opportunity to demand a mistrial, yet behave in court with utter disrespect. The chief speaks his objections while simultaneously picking his nose, his sidekick asks to approach the judge for a private tête-à-tête every few minutes, tottering to the bench on sky-high heels. Pfft!

The Judge is allowing a good deal of leeway as the last thing the State wants is to set grounds for appeal. However incessant sidebars, non-responsive witnesses, giggling between Arias' mother and aunt, apparent coaching of witnesses by head-shaking, Nancy Grace and other luminaries showing up to gawk, all these threaten to turn the trial into a circus. Already a juror has been dismissed for undisclosed reasons but speculation is that Arias didn't approve of her. The very next day this juror defiantly turned up in court amid scenes of astonishment to watch from the public gallery.

Arias considers herself an artist and has been passing sketches to her family who sell them on eBay to raise money for attending trial all the way from Yreka, California. A court observer puked one day causing the already short court day to be ended early, but not before the Defence's expert psychologist witness had wheeled his suitcase out through the fresh puddle of vomit in his hurry to leave!

I want to point out that the Prosecution rested its case after a mere ten days yet the Defence is still going strong ten weeks later, calling witnesses and leading them through endless rehashes of the same laughable nonsense. I'm sure the less you have to say of note, the longer you take to say it. The State's funding of her Defence is now close to a million and a half dollars. What an upside down world.

We've heard torrid tales of sexual encounters, seen ultra close-up photos of genitalia, listened to elicit recordings of phone-sex chats orchestrated by Arias and seen harrowing crime scene and autopsy pictures. Online but not allowed into evidence, there is footage of Arias performing a headstand and other weird antics alone in the police interview room on the day of her arrest; interviews in which she admits kicking a dog; interviews with her parents who believed her to be bi-polar and have no real relationship with her.

I have invested a fair amount in this trial emotionally and have grown to 'know' all the players: the Judge and her court staff, the razor-sharp Prosecutor, the Defence and his assistant, the Mitigation Expert, and the long string of witnesses. Arias' supporters sit together, her mother and twin aunt attending daily while her sister, brother and father have appeared only a couple of times. There are 'Friends' made in jail (as she has been banged up awaiting trial for five years) and even a crazed-looking madman who (inaccurately, we hear) claims to be a new boyfriend on the outside. A mitigation specialist with a permanent grin and an ultra low-cut blouse hovers near Arias, whispering and cooing in her ear from time to time. They exchange secrets like furtive lovers.

Throughout, the family and friends of Travis Alexander have sat stoically listening to innuendo and lies. They have heard nebulous claims of domestic violence, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and murder-day-amnesia. His three sisters, a brother and a brother-in-law are impeccably dressed, keep perfect decorum every day and take written notes. There is no interaction between opposing supporters. Posters on the Websleuths forum who live in Phoenix have been attending the trial and posting their thoughts and observations direct from the court room, thereby giving Internet observers unprecedented insight into proceedings, including juror descriptions and asides not seen by the TV cameras.

The terrier-like/god-like/photographic-memory-endowed Prosecutor is now cross-examining the final witness for the Defence, a domestic violence expert (and lesbian, man-hating feminist with 1960s credentials) whose testimony he is systematically dismantling and exposing as fabrication. During her week on the stand her new book has been slammed with almost five hundred one star reviews on Amazon. The power of free speech is wonderful!

 

The trial is approaching its final phase when the State will call rebuttal witnesses. There is only one charge on the docket, First Degree Murder. There are no lesser charges so I will be disappointed if the jury agrees with self-defence. Travis was shot, stabbed in the back over twenty times and virtually decapitated. Retribution should be appropriate.

woodbines in the kitchen

(Nan outside Coombe Avenue, Ensbury Park c1960.)

I prop my bike against the wall of a red brick house in Ensbury Park and mount the single concrete step to the side door. Saturday morning at Nan and Granddad’s has quickly become something of an institution now that I’m allowed to ride on the road. It’s 1969 and I’m twelve.

 

Without knocking, I twist the wobbly door handle and step straight into the kitchen. “Hi Nan. Hi Granddad.”

Nan beams broadly. She is standing at the sink shaving Granddad who has a hand towel wrapped under his chin like a child’s bib. He grins sheepishly, inclining his head in my general direction. One of his cheeks is white with soap. Nan places the razor on the draining board and wipes her palms down her apron.

“Cuppa tea, Paul?” Her soft Irish brogue is like singing.

“Please,” I say and perch on a plain wooden chair squeezed between the back door and the sink. Nan turns, almost on the spot, produces a cup, balances a small strainer on it and pours from a pot whose spout peeps out of a knitted cosy. Her woollen sleeves are frayed at the cuffs. She adds a splash of milk and stirs. “There,” she says gently, handing me the dark orange brew.

Granddad stands patiently, hands by his sides and fingers trembling ever so slightly. He is stripped to his vest, and his braces hang to his knees in loops. Nan picks up the razor and resumes shaving him. There are little rasps then she dips the razor in the sink and shakes it underwater. “Chin up, George.” She puts her fingers under his chin and tilts his head back, a little firmly, and starts scraping at his neck. “Nearly done,” she nods at me and gives that barely audible gasp, that short intake of breath with which she emphasises her points. I smile and sit waiting for this ritual to finish.

The kitchen is perhaps nine feet by seven and contains most of their needs: a gas stove, running water, a tiny Formica table, three unmatched chairs, an ancient radio and a window to the garden. In addition to the side door, there are two internal doors. One leads to the hall, the other to a small larder with shelves of tinned food. My grandparents spend much of their time here. The house is unheated but the chill is taken off this small space by body heat and the low flame which burns constantly from one ring of the gas stove. There is a stale atmosphere which I am used to by now, cigarettes, damp towels, unwashed clothes, potatoes and cabbage, the aroma of the elderly.

I hear a squeak as Nan turns the tap and rinses the sink. She pulls Granddad’s bib off, blots his cheeks and helps him into his shirt. Granddad puts his arms into his braces, turns and shuffles towards his chair. It is barely four feet away but he takes several tiny steps, his slippers scuffing the lino. He sits and sweeps the table with his hand, locating his Woodbines. I watch fascinated as he pulls one from the pack and places it between his lips. He holds a little silver lighter a few inches from his face and flicks it until he can feel its warmth then guides the unfiltered cigarette to the flame.

“Want one, May?” His voice carries a trace of his South London roots. He extends the pack into the room and she leans forward to help herself. Nan fires up too and soon the room is wreathed in rich, blue smoke. I observe their techniques noting that Granddad pinches his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, stroking off the ash with his pinky whereas Nan brings her whole hand to her face, fingers spread wide with the cigarette lodged at the base of the first and second finger. I tell them about school, about my brother and sister and my cousins. Nan is enthusiastic and Granddad smiles wistfully.

Now Nan stands and cuts fat slices of bread. She re-lights a spent match off the gas ring and opens the grill door on the stove. At the turn of a knob the jets hiss and she reaches in with the match. There is a little 'woof' sound and soon the smell of toasting bread and a lingering scent of gas join the fug. She settles back and switches on the ‘wireless’, a huge valve radio, all Bakelite and twill. There is a pause while the valves heat up then we hear the clipped tones of a BBC newsreader. He is telling the nation about the latest bombing targets of the I.R.A. Nan gasps quietly and shakes her head. “Oh, Paul... Northern Ireland.” It is what she always says, and it summarises Nan’s despair over her homeland without need for embellishment.

From time to time Nan pulls out the grill pan to check progress. I am hungry by the time she smothers the hot toast with butter and we all munch as we listen. The grim news bulletin gives way to the galloping theme music of ‘The Archers’ and for a few minutes we listen to the goings-on of a fictional farming family.

Nan switches the radio off and folds a newspaper to the racing page. She fishes a magnifying lens from her apron pocket, hovers it over the small print and begins to read aloud. The recitation of runners and riders is familiar and strangely comforting – the horse, the jockey, the trainer, the form in recent outings. Granddad gazes into space and listens to the litany for minutes on end, unaware of the blood spots on his shirt collar. He never needs a repetition and with the information in his head he stands, opens the door to the hall and inches to the telephone trailing his hand on the wall. We hear the rotary dial then he speaks slowly and clearly to the bookmaker.

Granddad scuffs back along the hall and soon he is back in his seat feeling for his Woodbines.

Nothing is rushed here. Life is slow.