Monday 30 April 2007

An English Country Garden Show

Every year Mrs C. and I go to the Harrogate Spring and Autumn shows. This year was no exception; having been back at work for almost three weeks I felt I needed a break so made representation to my boss (it was actually more like pitiful pleading accompanied by a pathetic limp - think of Dickens' Tiny Tim). Having successfully thrown myself prostrate on the executive office rug we trolled off to Harrogate on Friday.

The North of Yorkshire Horticultural shows, as they are more properly known, differ from the larger and grander shows of Chelsea and Hampton Court in a number of ways. For one, you are more likely to find people who garden at Harrogate as opposed to people who have gardeners; for another, the stalls reflect the likely interests of people who garden rather than an aspirational approach to what the latest garden designers are doing; ergo you can buy a wide range of plants direct from the nurserymen (oops sorry I mean nurserypeople...I've got a diversity meeting this afternoon!), together with a mass of handy gadgets and aids for the jobbing gardener.

Another
notable feature of the Harrogate crowd is their distinctly northern, pragmatic approach to the products on offer. For example, stood in a crowd of people watching a demonstration of a garden irrigation system, a brash Yorkshireman (I'm safe here he was a man and I'm sure wouldn't object to being so titled) commented
"That's awreet on yer flat garden bur it'd never work on th'ill I 'ave at 'ome" (roughly translated as: don't send southern jessies up North with gadgets only fit for soft southern gardens); and of course, being a brash Yorkshireman he wasn't shy about passing comment loud enough to cause the enthusiastic salesman some discomfit.

If you ever consider opening a stall a show one thing guaranteed to go like hot cakes is anything handy in the garden that you can carry something else in for example: trugs - marvellous in the garden but can equally carry your purchases; folding wheelbarrows -
again a garden boon that can be trundled round full of bought bedding plants. Of course being veteran show goers we were not to be conned into buying anything unnecessary and went equipped with two Tesco Bags For Life: good handles, you see.
We usually set off with a strictly limited list of intended purchases - limited by number and by the amount of cash we take with us. After a couple of hours though, the list is discarded in favour of inserting the trusty card into the thoughtfully provided mobile cash machine. This year I came back with a handy tool that will reach right to the bottom of my compost bin where I can wiggle it about thus aerating the contents and encouraging quicker rotting (should I get my anorak now?). This Spring's unfortunate purchase - we always have one - was five corms of a beautiful plant; we just can't remember what it's called. Our garden is full of plants like that: we could never be those clever folk on Gardeners World showing Monty Don round and telling him the Latin name of each plant.

Another area of the show that attracts the (Mr) Croft attention is the Yorkshire food section - I came away with a Fat Rascal (thought got a crack off Mrs C. for calling it something else), and a Yorkshire Curd tart. The lady on the stall looked like she'd been making them all her life and had simply popped out of her kitchen with a shopping bag laden with goodies to spread on the stall. I love characters like that, the show is full of them, people who look like they spend ten months of the year talking to their plants and only mix with the public twice a year. That's the joy of Harrogate for me: no Alan Titchmarsh, no demi-celebrities, just simple honest folk who garden.

Monday 23 April 2007

Am I normal?



A couple of posts I've read on other blogs recently have got me thinking about the degree to which we, society, accept other's differences. Urban Cowgirl set me off with her post The Eye Bone's Connected to the Brain Bone, in which she talks about the extent to which people who live in cities fail notice extremes of behaviour compared with people from out of town. This reminded me about my experiences of having worked in a semi-rural community and then being promoted to an inner city area of Manchester. I often came across people suffering from mental illness and dealt with the mental health services in getting treatment in an emergency; the identical situation in the inner city produced very different results, in that you had to be a lot madder to justify inpatient admission. In the city it is not unusual to see people displaying florid psychotic symptoms and have people just look the other way or simply accept it as just the way they are.

And here is where the other post I read recently coincides to produce my view
on normality - not even that, because, as you will see, I don't draw any real conclusions. Pewari, in her post Don't Dith the Lithp, talks about the challenges of being a parent when faced with a minor speech defect - in this case a lisp. I had a lisp - I still have on occasions - and went through school nicknamed Lispo. I was not aware of any available speech therapy nor was it ever considered to be something needing therapy - and here comes my germ of a thought - things that are normal don't need therapy and that is what my lisp was: normal, how I was, it was part of me. What my parents lacked in the provision of speech therapy - if lack is what is was - they made up for in giving me a ringing self confidence that helped me accept myself and bugger the rest.

So where do these two threads lead in the context of our society and our communities? As a parent it has always been a challenge to know how to pitch abnormality; for example a trip to the orthodontist means there are wonky teeth. Do we tell our children that people should accept them as they are and that they should do likewise to others - so long as they have straight teeth? If you are poor and live in a deprived inner city area are your parents less likely to make a big deal out of crooked teeth and such? The evidence, in my experience, suggests that that is the case.

How then do we teach our children about normality and their attitude towards it; how do we guide their attitudes when we see the village idiot performing outlandishly and embarrassingly? Yesterday I watched security guards escort a man sat at a Starbucks table in the classy part of Manchester's shopping centre; his crime? Occupying a table and not fitting in, I'm guessing that he was mentally ill: dressed scruffily, not clean, muttering to himself but doing no harm: there were loads of spare tables; but he didn't look nice.

If I've arrived at any view at all from this mental exertion, it's that we should strive for a light touch in our dealings with difference: after all, 30 years ago homosexuality was a shameful type of difference; now two men holding hands across a table in Starbucks is simply how people are, being mentally ill is clearly not.

Wednesday 18 April 2007

Don't be a softy Crofty


I'm not generally a wimp; but this last couple of weeks my ankle has been really sore and I've been back in work; consequently I have rested when possible, meaning a respite from physio exercises - in any case Easter Monday meant I missed a session. The pain was so bad at the end of last week I went to my GP anxious that the surgery was failing. He doubled my pain killers and told me to ask the physios for their opinion on Monday.

Limping into the Physiotherapy Department on Monday morning I anticipated sympathy, foot massage and maybe a reflexology session (perhaps from the cute physio with the auburn hair). What I got was Phil the Physio - who in his spare time, is the physio for Oldham Rugby League Club:

"Ahhh, you've just got a touch of tendonitis, it's sore but you've just got to stretch through it" Said Phil in that sort of masculine tone that says 'you won't mind a bit of character building pain now will you' and I, of course, being a man at home with my personality, self worth and not subject to gender stereotypes, acquiesced and toughed it out whilst secretly wincing inside.

So, passers by my office have been intrigued by the hourly groans of pain and relief from behind my office door as I stretch my calf and tendons five times each hour. And do you know what? It actually works: when the pain is bad, you s-t-r-e-t-c-h and get that delicious combination of pain and ecstasy - like when you have cramp: on the one hand the stretch is agony, but on the other it is blessed relief.



Monday 16 April 2007

Who is the blind beggar

Life On Mars came to an appropriately climactic close last week and the blogosphere was full of plaudits for John Simm's and Philip Glennister's portrayals of Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt. For me though, there was a plaudit missing: every week, Blind Beggar are credited with the role of musical advisers for the series. I cannot imagine the series without their carefully chosen, erudite, witty and pertinent musical selection; yet I can find out remarkably little about this team/business/individual. I have been waiting for a reply to an e-mail I sent to Kudos, the Life On Mars production company, their silence is ominous - if they reply I'll let you know; but my money is that they wont; because they are busy protecting what must be one of the best jobs in the world.

Picture the scene (screen fades to reveal what looks like a comfortable lounge with an Apple Mac in one corner, and a Bang and Olufsen music system filling one wall, with comfortable leather sofas strategically placed to gain the optimum musical experience from it; two
casually dressed guys in their mid forties lounge on the sofas with A4 pads and pens on their laps)

Man 1: So when is this series set?
Man 2: Script says about 1985
Man 1: And they want iconic music...they gotta be kidding...
Man 2: ...wait though, what about Kirsty McCall, New England?
Man 1: Yeah but it's all a bit sparse isn't it?
Man 2: Hmmm I think we need inspiration....
Man 1: You're right dude

(presses a remote control and a giant cupboard slides open to reveal a huge bar containing every conceivable bottled beer. The guys pop open bottles which they clink in the air as if 'high fiving')

Man 2: And now for the sounds man...

(presses another button and a Tom Bakeresque voice says: "your chosen year is 1985, enjoy..." the room erupts in sound and both men leap around as Prince's Let's Go Crazy pumps out of the precision speakers; the party hots up as Simple Minds, Don't You sets their minds racing on their new high earning project),

Man 1: Great move man! We're gonna pull off another Mars coup aren't we?
Man 2: Kerching!

Scene shifts to 90 minutes later, both men now sitting leaning drunkenly together on one sofa surrounded by empty bottles and cans; they both look dejected as the sounds of Elaine Paige and Barbara Dickson's I know him so well fade into the background.

Man 1: Three chuffing tracks...
Man 2: We're stuffed dude...
Man 1: Chuffing eighties crap...
Man 2: I'll get our coats...

Perhaps the job isn't that easy after all. Incidentally the BBC website for the series lists the songs used in each episode, but don't, like I did, click on the names expecting to hear the song, you just get more information on the artist - a page advertising Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, in the case of Alvin Stardust!

Thursday 12 April 2007

Rocking Reminiscence

Back in work this week, I was trawling through my Lotus Notes e -mail software, and came across this account of parenting that I had forgotten I had shared with colleagues some time ago. In lieu of being alert and pain-free enough to be creative, I've reproduced it here. I suppose it is tenuously relevant because Life On Mars and my sons' eighteenth birthdays has made me reminisce about music, gigs and such, so here it is:

'Last Friday was my 42nd birthday; we had a pleasant weekend, enjoyed a meal and glass of real ale at a local country pub and generally relaxed in the manner of a man in his 'Radio 2 Years'; until Sunday evening. My son Tom is fifteen years old and is a fan of some of the more extreme types of rock music. It transpired that the lead singer of one of his favourite bands was doing a solo tour and was to be on at Manchester University on Sunday night.

"Can I go Mum, can I can I can I can I can I pleeeeeeeze"
asked Tom,
"No way are you going down there on your own with your mad mates in Manchester where people get robbed and all manner of nasty things happen"
was his loving mother's reply.

"What if Dad came, it's only a tenner to get in"
was Tom's
cunningly worded response; having no ready riposte, Val acceded and I was dispatched to Manchester University.

I pride myself on being a veteran
gig goer; I've seen 'em all Rush, Led Zepp.Whitesnake and am no stranger to the sweaty, small venue, live band scene, so was brimming with confidence at the prospect of some good old fashioned rock and roll. We had a bit of a clothing crisis in the run up to the event because Tom said that people tend to dress up for this sort of gig and he didn't want to be seen with 'Man at Marks and Spencer' . So I found a suitable black top, a pair of jeans and managed to dust off my body piercing to complete the ensemble (well alright, it's only my earlobe that was pierced when I was seventeen, but I felt it gave me credibility!). At this stage Val felt she ought to say something and suggested that in view of my recent birthday I was having a mid life crisis and trying to relive my youth. I parried that my ear stud (or to be more precise Val's ear stud) was a damn sight cheaper than having a tattoo or buying a motorcycle which seem to be the usual testosterone laced answers to the male menopause. Arriving at Oxford St we found found a safe parking space and made for the venue. It appeared, when we got there, that there was a performance of the Rocky Horror Show on in one of the other Union Building rooms; I began to feel a little uneasy when I learnt that this was actually the queue for the gig we were attending: 'Wednesday 13'. Perhaps, on reflection, I should have suspected something when Tom told me that Wednesday's former bands were the Murder Dolls and Frankenstein Drag Queens.

There was a variety of gothic looking creatures
all eagerly awaiting Wednesday's performance but I felt better when we met Tom's mates and I realised that I knew some of them. "Hi Steve"
Said someone wearing a pair of Frankenstein boots,
black ripped jeans, a black string vest, white make-up, black lip stick, deathly eye make-up, black nail polish and sufficient hair products to make their black hair to all stand on end as if in horror. I looked closer and realised it was young Darren from church. It was at this stage that Tom's parental embarrasment gene kicked in and I was made to go and stand near the back while they stayed at the front in the Mosh Pit. I found a position directly in front of the mixing desk, reasoning that the best sound quality would be heard there, and awaited the support band. Taking the oppertunity to scan the scene I found it an enlightening experience, there was most of the cast of the Adams Family and a woman who looked exactly like 'Scary Mary' off the recent mobile phone commercial. I was also relieved to find that there were quite a number of parents escorting apprentice rock fans and I ended up stood next to other people of about my age. The one stood to my left, however, made my piercing feel very inferior: he had a silver bone through his nose and a green mohican to go with it, he was also wearing a Sex Pistols 'Never Mind the Bollocks' tour tee-sirt. Feeling the generation gap narrow I commented, "You here with you kids too?.." "Whatever" he replied sneeringly, which seemed to nicely conclude our conversation.
Eventually the support band took to the stage, at
first I thought they were the roadies, they looked like a cross between beer-swilling, post grad science students and 'The Darkness'. Their actual music was a treat: they pumped out some excellent 'Beer and Blokes Rock' reminiscent of Guns and Roses, AC/DC et al. I thoroughly enjoyed their set as they whipped the crowd into a frenzy with such classics as 'I'm A Heavy Drinking Heavy Metal Psycho Sex Machine', posturing and posing as all the best Stadium Rock Gods do. They managed to transport us twenty years into the past and I realised that the only thing between these guys and stardom was their looks.
"Are you ready for Wednesday?" screamed the lead singer "Yeah" screamed the crowd I couldn't resist a quip and turned to my punk peer and said "What's happening on Wednesday?" "Piss off" He replied. The band crashed and ground to a rock star finish: "Thank you Manchester, you've been great. We are Viking Skull" They left the stage amidst the echoes of smashing power chords and I smiled to myself as I thought they were almost a parody of themselves, very nearly modelled on Jack Black's caricature of rock music in the film 'School Of Rock'. The star image was spoilt slightly when, having no roadies, the band had to sneak back on to the stage to retrieve their gear, ready for 'Wednesday 13'. You could tell the crowd were building up to a frenzy as some of the more tough looking members did their macho mosh pit stuff: pushing, shoving and punching to the rock disco (this included many female mosh pit members who were indeed macho). Finally the set for the main act was revealed and looked like the inside of the ghost train at Blackpool Pleasure Beach, quaintly arrayed with a selection of skulls, dismembered limbs and bloody severed heads. Finally Wednesday and his musical combo took to the stage and launched into their gig. I wasn't fazed by them at all - I'd seen Kiss, Alice Cooper and Ozzie Osbourne - however being a veteran of rock gigs I quickly realised that there was something wrong with the sound system. All I could hear was a wall of white noise interspersed with the screams of someone falling victim to a very violent crime. I turned questioningly to the men behind the sound desk who looked remarkably unconcerned. Indeed I seemed to be the only one who had noticed, the crowd were going wild and seemed to be mouthing some form of lyric along with the shrieking skulls on stage. It transpires that this was what it was supposed to sound like and as events progressed I began to be able to decipher the lyrics and appreciate the qualities of what, it has to be admitted, was an excellently staged production.

Wednesday really knew how to work the crowd
and soon there were pint pots flying (plastic fortunately) , fighting, crowd surfing, girls crying, men shouting and all manner of rock gig activities going on. As the set progressed I was able to decipher some of the lyrics with lines of poetic beauty such as.... 'Mum and dad I am sorry, for putting holes in your body...' and crowd favourites such as 'Your Mum ***** **** In Hell'
(I really could not share the full
title of that song) and the real crowd pleaser: 'We Just Love to Say F***'
this fave was the climax of the gig and
Wednesday had lathered up the crowd to hysteria as he went through the classic 'Rock Gig Pantomime' routine: "Everyone raise your right hand in the air" Everyone did "Now make a fist" Everyone did "Now raise your middle finger and shout F***, F***, F***......." and amazingly, everyone (except me who resolutely refused) did!! At this point I resisted the temptation to check to see if Tom was engaged in this questionable activity on the grounds that if I couldn't see I wouldn't have tell his mum.
The gig rocked on through the statutory 2 song encore and I somehow found
myself jumping around with the rest of the crowd at to a ballad about a youth who killed his brother by smothering him with a pillow and finally suffering from a degree of tinitus we all made our happy way home. The car was unmolested and I had plenty of time in which to brief Tom on what and what not to tell his mum.
Hey Ho, back to Classic Fm.

Saturday 7 April 2007

New Schuhs

I'm starting to get a little nervous. On Tuesday I return to work for the first time since 28th December. Last week I went into Manchester to buy a new pair of shoes. Knowing exactly what I wanted - a pair of black, smooth top Doc Marten gibsons - I headed straight for the Doc Marten shop in the trendy Triangle centre. The man in the sports shop that used to be the Doc Marten shop told me that there hadn't been a Doc Marten shop there for years, he shook his head in a gentle, sad sort of way at my shopping innocence - he recognised a shopping yokel abroad. Directed up Market St, by the kind young man, I found Schuh: a revelation. Trendy, with shoes so outré that, twenty years ago, I would have killed to wear them. The music was brilliant - Oasis, Blur et al - and I felt right at home forgetting that my youthful vigour is retained only in the (numerically decreasing) neurons of my brain. I was, in the eyes of the assistants, a middle aged man buying boring shoes and trying to look trendy by singing along to the songs: I stopped singing and stuck to conversation with the assistant instead.
"The last pair of these shoes I had lasted eighteen years" I said, enthusing about the quality and comfort of Doc Martens. She gave me a withering look and only afterwards did I realise that, in all likelihood, her job depended on people buying shoes far more often that every eighteen years or so. I paid and left hastily but happy, wistfully wishing I could wear these for work instead:

Thursday 5 April 2007

I've been tagged!

Thomas Hamurger Jnr. has tagged me to list seven tracks or albums that feature in my life at present. Because I'm organised like that, I've done them in my music pages...click here.

It's my turn to tag some of my fellow bloggers with the task, here are my chosen few:

Rodney Olsen at The Journey
Tracy at Gwelva Kwernak
Jonathan at Life and Times
Cowgirl at Urban Cowgirl
Pewari at Pewari's Prattle
Pasher at Kermy's Thoughts
Wendy at Wendy's Woolies

Tuesday 3 April 2007

Music

Click Here for feel good springtime music from Marseille, courtesy of Crofty's My Music.

Monday 2 April 2007

Have your cake, and eat it

Given that the majority of my regular readers live in countries other than the UK, and those who do live in the UK are hardly likely to pop up to Oldham simply to visit a shop on my recommendation, this post might be a wasted one. But, do you ever get a service from someone and are really, really pleased with it and want to share the fact? Me too.

This weekend was Matt and Toms' eighteenth birthday celebration; it started with a fabulous Chinese meal at the Shanghai Wong on Friday night (if ever you are passing...); Saturday night was a big night out with their mates in Manchester and Oldham (not arriving home until circa. 5am...is it legal for clubs to stay open that late?...glad i
t wasn't when I was their age; I'd never have lasted the pace).

Sunday, unbelievably, they were both sober and full of energy for the big family party at our house. The star of the party was the cake:
This fabulous themed creation shows different phases of their eighteen years from baby through drama/karate to brass bands and then cars (aspirational in this case; I couldn't find a VW Polo and Citroen Saxo model). The cake was designed and made by Cake Heaven of Lydgate, I highly recommend them to you.

We had a fantastic day, the weather was great, the chiminea kept the young people warm out of doors and allowed them to have their own party, whilst sundry grandparents, great a
unts, uncles and aunts had a more sedate occasion indoors.

This is a small sample of the detritus of the day:

This morning Matt and Tom amazed me once more when they were ready for work, butty boxes full of the remains of the buffet, raring to go at the normal time, without a hint of the languor that was affecting Val and I.

Youth eh?