The Proof of the Elvis Pudding

Earlier this month I wrote a post entitled Elvis: The Myth and the Marketing; the gist was that the Elvis phenomenon was more to do with marketing than talent and, as if to prove my point, on Saturday night the BBC launched the World's Greatest Elvis contest: a competition for Elvis impersonators to prove that they are the best. Loathe as I am to watch this sort of thing - I usually eschew X Factor and the like - I felt that,in the name of blogging journalism, I just had to watch. I wasn't disappointed.

Elvi from Wales to Memphis, from Japan to Belgium took part in what amounted to a great hip-swivelling, lip-curling exhibition of the best in karaoke; for that's what it looked like. No amount of earnest commentary from the judges: Suzi Quatro (on singing?); Craig Revell Horwood (on hip swivelling and general Elvis-like movement) and Joe Esposito (who was a mate of the real Elvis and seemed to be there to just assess the actual Elvisness of it all) could escape the fact that this was simply one big glitzy Elvis themed karaoke.

Sitting through it I imagined Colonel Tom Parker would have been rubbing his hands at the endless possibilities of the marketing miracle he had created: just imagine - Elvis Big Brother, Elvis Who Wants to be a Millionaire - the possibilities are endless.

Just when I thought the I could bear no more of this contrived nonsense I was hit by a bolt from above when I noticed the red button on the Digibox remote control - it seemed to be glowing and whispering 'press me'. We have not had Freeview very long and are still settling in to the wonders of interactive telly, so I was amazed when, having pressed the button, all of the song words to each of the songs sung by each of the Elvi miraculously appeared on the screen - just like a real karaoke. My evening was transformed - in fact the evening of the rest of the Crofty Clan was transformed (not quite what they said; but it was what they meant)... did I ever mention that I can do a mean pub singer impersonation?...

Friday Night is Chippy Night

Why is it that Friday seems to attract more traditions than any other day of the week? Whether it's going out on the lash; 'Dress Down Day' or have a naughty day in the office day, they all seem to be on Friday.

Around our way Friday night is chippy night: at the end of a hard week nobody can be bothered cooking - but here's the thing - it's not Chinese, Indian or Pizza night; it's good old English Chippy night. So it's off to, in our case, the catchily and wittily titled Frydays (see what they did there) but not before popping into Raja's Newsagents for a copy of the Oldham Evening Chronicle to read whilst stood in the queue that stretches out of the door.

The chippy queue is a social entity. In these day's when there are few local shops and nobody walks anywhere, it's the place where you see your neighbours; or the parents of your kids mates - you catch up on whether Tom's boxing or Kimberley is pole dancing (that is true by the way and her mum will kill me if she reads this).

Queuing etiquette is important too; it's no good standing there thinking that -like in the Chinese - your fish will be ready in the warming cabinet. No, all fish, sausages, spam fritters and 1/2 chickens are cooked to order; so, be assertive when you enter and shout over the heads of your fellow queuers "Will you put us in two fish and a spam fritter please mate"; don't feel as though you are being pushy: it's what's expected.

Finally at the counter it's essential that you know who is serving you; if you get the dopey girl who is more interested in watching passing cars on the road outside, you must watch carefully as she prepares your order - like as not she'll forget to put in your small carton of peas or your curry sauce. I'm pleased to say we only have one dopey girl in our chippy; my favourite is 'memory girl' who - and I lie not - can look you in the eye as you say:
"two fish, two home-made cheese and onion pie, two lots of chips - one big, one regular, big peas, little peas and a big curry sauce please" and not pause once to check, before placing the perfectly remembered list in your Frydays carrier bag and taking your £12.50 off you.

Yes, chippy night is the perfect way to start the weekend: no washing up, no cooking.

The Great Photography Con

Hartshead Pike is a bit of a monument set on a bit of a hill pretty much on the boundary between Oldham and Ashton Under Lyne; it is a memorial to some or other royal wedding a long time ago. When we were kids it was that place that was just to far to be allowed to cycle alone - but not so far to be too scared to go or the place for your first hike with cub scouts - only 3 miles from home; but it felt like the countryside.The reality though, was that despite the fabulous view out over the City of Manchester and the Cheshire plain to the distant Welsh mountains in one direction, in the other

it was backed by Mullaney's Scrap metal yard; a land fill and surrounded by scrappy farmland with scruffy sheep. Now Hartshead Pike is simply a shortcut to avoid traffic for those who know it.

Last week Lisa posted this photograph on Flickr and set me thinking. Had the picture appeared in a glossy holiday brochure you could be forgiven for wanting to actually take a trip to Hartshead Pike. So has it always looked like that and I haven't noticed, or is photography - the art whose device never lies, we used to be told - a con, there to fool us in to believing what we might not otherwise believe. I mean to say look at the sky: it never looks like that over Manchester... does it?

Another Friday Night Mellow Red Wine Experience

What is it about Fridays? Is it the release of the week's stress: that big sigh that eases us into the weekend. I've just watched a repeat of the second series of Phoenix Nights, the one with the family fun day to raise money for the relaunch of the Phoenix Club; and after belly laughing my way through all the jokes I missed the first time what do you suppose was the thing that sent me scurrying to YouTube to see if it was there? The Simon Park theme tune to the 1970s TV detective series Van Der Valk. Try describing the hit series set in Amsterdam to anyone under 30 and they just look at you bemused - the sort of look that goes with the 'dad's just done another embarrassing dad thing; humour him and the moment will pass...' my sons do.

Anyway, if you don't know what I'm talking about have a look at this 1973 Top Of The Pops Christmas Special:

Like Knights of Olde

When I read Simon Armitage's translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight I was struck both by the fabulous muscular language that he injects into his writing and also by the way a tale of a manly quest still has the power to grip. It was to such a quest that the gentlemen of St John the Baptist Church, Hey went on Saturday evening: the inaugural Annual St John's Crown Green Bowls Tournament.Ten men stepped out on to the velvet sward at Springhead Liberal Club; but only one returned victorious.

Crown Green Bowling differs from it's Southern cousin in that there is little or no dress code (flat caps are, I am afraid to say, not compulsory) - there is no requirement to wear white; and the task of getting your bowls, or woods as we call them, close to the Jack, or block as its known by the cognoscenti, is made more difficult by the obstacle of the raised centre of the green: the crown. Of the ten combatants no one declared themselves as having existing skill, indeed many declared themselves - as I - a Crown Green virgin; but as the evening progressed it became clear that four players had hitherto hid their lights beneath their proverbial bushels.

The semi-finalists 'I helped organise this but haven't played before' Phil; 'I've only ever played a couple of times' Steve; 'I only know what I've learnt from t'internet Andy; and 'how can a Geordie IT teacher be any good at this' Tony; battled it out to the death leaving Tony and Steve to enthrall the crowd, gathered in the encroaching dusk, with a thrilling fifteen point climax. In the end, churchwarden Steve proved the mightier and, just like head boy at school, showed he was good at everything. Magnaminous in defeat Tony accepted his runners up cup (actually it was a mug) with only whispered mutterings about the next contest being a science fiction literature quiz and seeing who'd win then.

All in all given the high quality of last weekend's sport: Rugby World Cup, Football International and Italian Grand Prix, I know which classic conquest was my highlight.

Me? I was knocked out in the quarter finals by the eventual victor.

City Life

Sometimes Manchester is a really cool city, this week was one of those times: Autumn sun low in the sky, warming the bodies of people relaxing, kissing, eating and drinking (though not necessarily at the same time) on the grass and around the fountains of Piccadilly Gardens; people strolling loose-limbed around the smart shops on Market Street enjoying the last of the sun - and knowing that in eight or so weeks we'll all be hurrying, heads down, hoods up, against the more usual Manchester rain. Even I, despite being eager to get home after a hard day, slowed my stride to soak up the atmosphere and enjoy the street musicians. I was particularly taken by these two men dressed in Native American costumes playing what - at least to my untrained ear - sounded something like music with a nod in the direction of native America. Click on the mini player thing to hear a dreadful recording made on my works (and therefore cheap) mobile telephone.



Ten minutes later sat, having missed the 16.15h train, on the platform of Victoria Station, I even thought the giant CIS building looked picturesque from my vantage point.

The strange thing was, thinking about it afterwards, that the people in Piccadilly were no different to usual: the regular collection of alcohol weathered faces; drug-collapsed casualties; loud students proclaiming the city as their own invention. The difference was in me - the sun warmed me through, making me want to slow down and lengthen my stride and, having done that, I just noticed more.

The Compost Doctor Is In

When Ms Cowgirl wrote to Doctor Compost for help, he was so moved by her decomposition distress that he wondered how many other lost souls might benefit from his rot remedies. This is the result: welcome to the Compost Doctor problem page.

Ms Cowgirl wrote:

Dear Compost Doctor why won't my compost heap rot?.. my breakdown rate has broken down, despite vigorous stirring and liberal applications of shop bought compost accelerant...all I see is dried up grass clippings, the only sign of any change are the pale spots left by my dried tears... please, Compost Doctor can you help?

The Compost Doctor lifts a handful of the specimen kindly provided by Ms Cowgirl, lifts it to his nose and breathes in deeply closing his eyes. He nods sagely and then inspects the sorry sample separating the contents with his index figure. Finally his expression changes from one of professional appraisal to one of satisfaction as he sits down to write:

Dear Ms Cowgirl,
Calm yourself, all is not lost. Firstly I notice that this specimen consists predominantly of grass clippings which, whilst they will eventually decompose, are notoriously bad rotters - they are not the ideal basis for a beginners heap. I prescribe daily doses of mixed vegetable matter for this heap: peelings, salad, raw vegetables. If the grass clippings are dry it may be rather too late for them; but if you add a good moist mixture of vegetable matter you may save them.

Secondly, you don't mention worms. Brandling worms (pictured courtesy of British Worm Breeders) are a friend to compost, they are the best of all compost accelerants. I wonder whether your heap is on a solid base or on soil. It wants to be on bare earth - break up the earth beneath it and then replace your container. If you provide plenty of good food for the worms they will repay your kindness by converting it into rich compost in half the time (did you know people actually buy worms for the purpose?). Incidentally, the addition of fresh horse manure will help to both encourage decomposition and encourage worms to join the fun - but don't forget to stir it all in.

Thirdly I was worried by the dryness - decomposition occurs best in moist (not sloppy) conditions (though undisturbed grass clipping clumps have a habit of looking dry on the outside whilst being wet on the inside). Bottom line: if you are happy that your heap is well aerated and your grass is nicely distributed throughout, it may need watering. Watering your heap is a good thing; watering it with a naturally occurring solution high in nitrogenous compounds is all the better - see where I'm going?

In summary, Ms Cowgirl, compost, like most of us, likes daily love and attention. Invest time and a good melange of vegetable matter in your heap and your reward will be great.

Lots of love,

Compost Doctor

I told the Doctor that I didn't think his signing off was quite professional but he insisted. Watch this space for more compost diagnoses.

The Rot Has Set In; I'm Glad To Say

It's funny how something that started out as a practical way to recycle food waste has become - according to people around me - an obsession. Regular readers know that Mrs C and I are keen gardeners; composting is a natural and not unusual part of that process; but somewhere along the line I seem to have been swept along by a tidal wave of rotting vegetation and aerobic decomposition. I suppose it started with a simple interest in how to make the compost process as efficient as possible - not unreasonable, so I applied 'A' Level Biological (D Grade) knowledge to understand the relevance of the difference between anaerobic decomposition (slow, wet and smelly) and anaerobic decomposition (fast, moist and aromatic).
Most evenings when adding something to my two-bin system, I turn the contents to let the air circulate; and I do add something every day: do not be surprised if you find used teabags or your lunchtime apple core disappearing form your desk (what do you mean you don't leave them on your desk?).
I also quickly learnt the benefit of adding nitrogenous compost accelerators, for example chicken manure or urine (and with my new compost bins above waist height that is quite a challenge I can tell you). Other compost accelerators include fresh animal manure and I think this was the tipping point between interest and obsession. On countryside walks with Mrs C and the dog I am eager to gather souvenirs to take home to add richness to my own little corner of the garden.

But the rewards for dedication to this decaying art are great: the harvest of rich peaty material spread from my heap to the garden is only bettered by the harvest of fruit and flowers fed by my rotten viand. Almost a metaphor of life: the cycle of things failing and decaying only to regenerate new life and growth (blimey, I almost shed a tear then).