Tory Leadership contest.

I quite like the semi annual Conservative Party leadership competitions.
Whilst I would love to have a credible opposition to Mr Blair it's also amusing to see the Tories in such disarray. They seem to change the rules governing their leadership elections every time and almost every time they pick a less than credible leader. So much that the shining light of English conservatism left the party and became a TV celebrity, he knew where he could be appreciated.
Two candidates in the current four way race are Kenneth Clarke who, as a director of a tobacco company has toured south east asia in an attempt to promote childhood smoking and some fellow by the name of Cameron who is currently involved in a row over drug abuse. It seems that in British politics you are allowed to smoke pot but not much else. His preference for 'the real thing' is hindering his chances of leading the blue rinse brigade.
I am just amused by the personalities, their brash disregard for the normalcies of political life and hope the fervent hope that none of them ever get close to running the country.

A question.

What's more important?
Solidarity or democracy?

In defence of beer.

I know some folk are wine lovers, some find joy in a tequila shot or whisky sour. I am a passionate defender of fine beer.
I'm not talking the corporate piss water that sometimes masquarades in the half time beer commercials, I mean crafted, well brewed, proper beer, the hard to find brewery, the result of someone's lifetime passion.
Last night at a friend's rehearsal dinner I was able to sample one or two fine Austrian beers. After that at 'Floyds' the Brooklyn lager flowed. This morning I feel clean and refreshed if slightly organic.
Had I veered from the path of fine beer I would feel like death right now.
Great beer is almost a meal in itself, nutty brown and delicious.
It's also an encouragement to great photography as you can see (that's me on the right).

Go Red Sox.

I have three pairs of red socks. One for each day of the series against the Yankees. I love being an October Sox fan. I make no claims for them unless they play against the Yankees or it's the post season. I would never root for them against the Mets.
I am sure that real Sox fans would get annoyed by my carpetbagging attitude but I really don't mind. Just be content that somewhere in Brooklyn there's an Englishman walking about with redsocks on in your honor.
And the best thing? I'm going to spend Sunday night at the wedding of the two biggest (yet socially acceptable) Yankee fans I know. He has been heard to question which is the more important, his wedding or the final game at Fenway.
I can't wait to see how it mixes up!

excuses, excuses.

Just so you all know I have been attempting to place lots of amusing comments upon other people's sites but have been pole axed by the wierd vagueries of my home wireless internet connection. It's been playing up a storm.

For instance I would have made several witty comments about the Johnny Damon poster that listmaker wrote about.
Actually I had not noticed the poster as the one day a week that I enter that building I try to keep my eyes closed, I am still quite traumatised by my six weeks of summer camp.
I was frustrated about not being able to mention the fact that I used to live right next door to the site of the Battle of Lansdown (1643). Weasel wrote about this and the comments page kept dissolving just as I was at my wittiest.
I was horrified not to be able to ask Handwashings where he buys his tofu.
I really wanted to complement Unwellness and Covetings on their fabbo sparkly Vegas weekend (despite the lack of GMB).
Maestra, I had to point out some home truths about your entry about the fictional establishment where you give us the tour of the floors, I was crushed.
And there are so many others, the list goes on.

In order to make up for all my shortcomings I have enclosed a rather marvellous picture of a doll a child made for me. It's actually a mini version of me!
Enjoy.

Map geek

I am a map geek, always have been, always will be.
I have now discovered a site that will distract me from now until my time comes.
I can only marvel at the future developments that will hit this site as technology catches up with it.
I feel like the man in 1962 who declared "By 1995 we will all be eating capsules for lunch!"
I was going to do things today, things like writing and going for a stroll with the lovely Ms Random Doubt.
The Gmap pedometer has now taken over, I have already found my birthplace (Rothbury Road, Wymondham, Norfolk, UK.
I have worked out exactly how far I ran the other night (about 6 miles from door to door, over the Manhattan Bridge and back over the Brooklyn).
I have also checked out the exact distance from our apartment to the Borough Hall subway station (just over 0.7 mile).
I don't know what I'm going to look up now but i'm sure it will be fantastic and that I will bore all my friends with tales of distances and hybrid maps and satellite imagery.

Kate rocks the Big Apple

Do you think my neice had a good time?

And you thought you'd heard enough about cricket....

I just started teaching the game to kids at school!

Being tall does indeed rock.

Conversations with an idiot.

We were fortunate enough to attend the delightful wedding of two wonderful friends this weekend. The venue was the Seaman's mission in downtown Manhattan. As the picture shows it's a great location nestled in amongst some of New York's most famous landmarks (as well as the ghosts of former landmarks).
It was while I was marvelling at the view that I had the following conversation.

Man at Wedding: "What is that? The Queensboro bridge?"
Me: "Er, you mean the Brooklyn Bridge?"
M.A.W: "Oh that's the fuckin Brooklyn Bridge? I never know which one is which"
Me (Assuming that he is one of the Midwestern contingent of guests and therefore in need of a quick NYC history lesson)"Yeah, that's the Brooklyn Bridge, the one next to it is the Manhattan and beyond the bend is the Williamburg, easy to remember, BMW just like the car"
M.A.W: "You know, I've lived in this city for eleven years and I still don't know this part of town, never been to Brooklyn, never gonna go, far too freaky".

Speechless, I left him to the view.

.

Catholic guilt #2.

Did i spend Sunday being stalked by iconography because I'd previously published about Catholic guilt? Or was it merely a continuation of the same dose?
It wasn't until I'd finished my lunch that I noticed the two huge bits of God staring at me.
Enough already.

.

.

.

Catholic guilt.

Until very recently I used to work alongside a devout Christian who took care to guide me in the ways of the Lord.
I used to joke with her and laugh off her advice whilst maintaing a high respect for her choice of faith.
Now she works with me no more.
Now when i look out of my new classroom window I have the whole gang glaring down at me.
I have to admit it is just a touch creepy.

I used to criticise others who didn't recycle properly or often. I also used to mock those who held onto copies of magazines in order to 'read them later'. Now I am both of those types of people. We have used airmiles to subscribe to a huge number of magazines, everything from foodie titles to 'Runner's world'. This is where many of them end up, underneath the wine rack in the living room.

The Ashes 2005. Final verdict.

We won the Ashes.
We won the Ashes.
We won the Ashes.
I just keep repeating it.
I'm going to take a day or two to calm down.
We won the fucking Ashes!
We won the fucking Ashes!!!!!
OK, I'll get back to sensible postings in a day or two.
Oh to be English in this hour!

The Ashes, final test.

"Raindrops keep falling on my head".
Slow, miserable, persistent English rain.
The Russians have General Winter.
The English (in cricketing terms at least) have Colonel Pissindown-Katzendogs.
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain!

Pinchers

This time last week I was sailing through parts of the northern broads with my erstwhile sailing chum and lifestyle guru Henry Holland. Powered only by the wind and a desire for a lunchtime beer we spent the day trimming sails, watching for light air and avoiding shallows. We also talked about life and how to live it. Henry reminded me of a marvellous expression for the type of sailing that we were experiencing, "pinching".
"Pinching" is what you do when you are attempting to navigate the twisting narrow rivers and sounds of the broads. It's mostly to do with light air ( almost anyone can sail in heavy wind, just point and go whilst hanging on with grim menace) and trying to get from A to B with a minimum of effort.
We were sailing 'Fiddler' which was a slightly hopeful boat that had obviously seen better days.
Fiddler wasn't that bothered about pointing and certainly lacked the momentum required to carry us through such notorious light air spots such as the ironically named 'windy corner'.
So we were left to pinch as hard as we could, hoping that we would make it around the next bend without having to put in a tack and thus stop.
All the while we continued to dream about the next time we would get together and do all this and how we would perhaps make that call to the boatyard a touch earlier in the week in order to avoid ever having to sail 'fiddler' again.

V-I-S-A

Hey everybody! I'll soon be coming back to good ole Brooklyn!

I spent four and a half hours in the purgatory that is otherwise known as The United States Embassy UK. Of that time I spent a full five minutes in conversation with the relevant authorities who promptly smiled very nicely and told me that I would be allowed back in to the land of the free. It was definately one of those 'are the policemen getting younger?' moments as the young lady who interviewd me must have only been about 26.
The rest of the day was spent sitting in a huge waiting area with about 600 others watching a TV screen with a completely random collection of numbers which indicated who should go where and for what. I tried to read my rather good book (Andrew Marr 'My Trade, a history of British journalism') but kept getting distracted by the TV "678 please go to desk 23" and then "265 please go to desk 12" It made no sense. I was 430.
Thus, with a new spring in my step and the knowledge that I might one day again feel the humid air of my adopted city, I did what only Bowles could do, Checked in with those fabulous Holland boys and drank lots of beer!
Henry (of Henry and the Avenues fame) had decided that we should meet in an Islington pub called, wait for it.... The Embassy!
This was a fine choice until the standard North London drunk scottish bloke invited himself to our table and started heckling us about social class. Hester responded that she was a good working class gal whilst I muttered something and Henry just kept mum!

Scotish wanker made us remove ourselves to a slightly swankier location where we found the admirable Mr Thorne. I was itching for some cricket news but as these boys are sailing chums it wasn't the right thing to talk about.
Speaking of sailing, we all decided that we don't get enough of it and now, after a few cheeky phonecalls to boatyards Henry and I are taking charge of 'fiddler' a small dutch thing for a day of sailing and sunburn!
As I write I am waiting to hear from Henry about his latest round of missed trains. It looks like i'm going to have to pick him up at 12.30am!
There are some friends you'd do anything for (he's totally buying breakfast!)

Petcare Futurama.

It's another rainy, windy english summer's day. Those of you who expressed concern will be pleased to know that Milo and Fizz are safely tucked away in their tiny little hutch nibbling on a carrot. Maureen I can't get my printer to work.

An amazing night of telly.

Wow!
I just have to love the BBC.
I don't normally blog about TV but tonight was too good to miss.
3 hours of fantastic sports documentarys about everyone's favourite sport, football!
Firstly, an hour about how TV sports developed through the 1960s with an unhealthy emphasis on the coverage of British domestic and international footy.
This featured huge chunks about England's 1966 World Cup win and Glazer United's 1968 European Cup triumph. Marvellous. It also featured some great cricketing footage.

Then a show about how black footballers such as Luther Blissett, Laurie Cunningham, Justin Fashanu and John Barnes broke the colour barrier in English football and overcame all the inevitable prejudice and stuff. Great.

Then, an hour tribute to Sir Bobby Moore.
This made me cry (well, could also have been the many beers i sunk whilst slumped on the sofa).
It was such a heartfelt show all about what a glorious Englishman he was.
Filled with old players and friends, noone had a bad word to say. And the thing is, it was easy to believe, Bobby Moore was a genuine hero, even though his playing days ended just a couple of years after I was born I, and many like me have been brought up to respect and admire all that he was, and we still do so, with ease.
The film really brought it home in the way that so many of the people interviewed were clearly welling up during their reminincences, My personal moment was the footage of martin Peters and Geoff Hurst laying a wreath decorated in the likeness of a West Ham no 6 shirt on the field at Upton Park. Tears in their eyes.
I brushed past Bobby Moore in Wembley car park before the 1987 FA Cup Final.

Petcare 2000

I always thought it might be fun to run a pet shop. It would have a futuristic edge to it, hence the name, 'Petcare 2000'.

Right, my question is this. Is it OK to leave two guinea pigs outside (in a semi covered run with hay, a carrot and dry food plus water) in the rain?

The run is much bigger than their snug little hutch but it is open and it's quite cold outside.

I think it probably is OK but if Milo and Fizz kark it then I'm in it deep with my neice and nephew.

Mo Mowlam.

Mo Mowlam has died aged 55 after a long illness.

Quite frankly unique, there is no US counterpart.

As Northern Ireland Secretary in the 90s she told hard line Ulster Unionist Ian Paisley to "fuck off".

I'm not sure she'd like to be remembered for that, but then again.

There's no 'I' in Immigration.

Right, some folk have expressed a mild degree of concern over my latest scrape.
it's really very simple.

I am between processing. This means that I am waiting for an appointment at the Embassy in London before I can return. The lovely Ms random Doubt had to leave for 'home' yesterday so i'm just hanging here in Norfolk, feet up and chilling.
When all is said and done i should be back in good time for 'work week'- don't worry listo!
This is just what happens when that 10% of the "I'm 90% certain this will all be done by August 18th" pops up and gives you a cheeky kiss.

If you've ever been an immigrant you will fully understand.
If you never have, don't waste your time trying to imagine.

I'm just a teenage dirtbag baby!!

Nothing much to say except YEAH!
The end of my immigration hell is near, I have all the relevant paperwork and appointments booked. I have to spend another two weeks under gorgeous house arrest and then I'm back to trouble the mighty USA with my wierd brand of teaching!
Huzzah!!

Stuck.

If you're going to be stuck in immigration related limbo anywhere it might as well be your favourite laid back lil hometown with your sister away on a lengthy august vacation so that you can live in her house and pretend it's your own.

More drunk vacation blogging.

Does it get any better than this?
Today I played at being "farmer Bowles".
The orchard needed mowing (our hosts had left this for me as they know how much I love driving tractors).
I fired the old girl up in the barn, searched hopelessly for the hay bin (it collects the grass from behind the mowing gear) but instead decided to go ahead without it.
I spent about an hour ducking near fatal apple tree branches as I mowed away to my hearts content!
The only thing is that now the orchard is full of big piles of grass (oh hay bin, where art thou??)
It took me about 2 hours to hand rake the grass, pitch it into the trailer and deposit it into the compost/horse shit pile.

I managed to clear about 1/10 of the orchard.

Tomorrow looks like being a busy day.

Other news....
I have fleeced my parent's house for old CDs and have harvested a cracking bunch including some old Cowboy Junkies (per-fuckin-fect for the Norfolk summer), some early Super Furry Animals (listened to as we speak) and some Noel Coward (we danced to him last night).
I have also found out that the cottage's grill doesn't work (sort of inconvienient as we have invited 20 people over for a grill fest tomorrow night).
The place is still full of bugs and wierd wildlife.
We are drinking too much on a daily basis. Perhaps three weeks is too long for a foreign vacation? No, it's great!
Ms random doubt has become an expert on the different items of agricultural machinery that pass along our narrow country lanes at super high speeds (sometimes causing us to duck the Saab into the nearest possible gap in the fields).
Wheat is in, barley is taking a week or two longer.

God Bless you Norfolk, you're a damn fine place.

Been away from the 'puter for a while and have decided to take a slightly tipsy evening away from it all to catch up.
Our vacation so far............
Chestnut Cottage is unreal, daily routine involves getting up, breakfast and feeding the animals (hens, geese, cats etc) getting Ms Random Doubt used to the huge ammount of spiders.
Then it's off to check out the day's activities, family stuff, beach, town, driving the Saab convertible with the roof down, daily temps of about 70 degrees, big passionate skies full of clouds and sun.
We have about 5 acres here with horses, orchard and paddocks.
England won the second test, I was sailing with the boys (only had to go in the drink twice to unsnag the propellor from the weeds).
Spent today with nephews and neice watching 'Charlie and the chocolate factory' and was delighted to find that 4 year old Ben is quite the film critic. Then walked into the city from my brother's house and did some shopping. Back to Chestnut Cottage (6 miles from anywhere) and ate and drank!!
Miss you all.
Mr and Ms Random Doubt.

Mad dogs and Englishmen...

So we're off to England for a few weeks. We planned our trip to coincide with the English School hols (our houseswop guests are a teacher/architect couple who have never visited New York.)We, on the other hand are experts at the English summer. In the past we have dashed off for two weeks at the start of my school break in June.

This year it's quite different. By waiting untill August we have endured the brunt of the New York summer, the humidity, the smells, the treacle air, the mysterious puddles that don't seem to evaporate. The utter skankiness. When we arrive in England it will be like stepping into a fridge. I must admit that after three years here I think I've got it. I'm not as oppressed by the heat, humidity or their vulgar side effects as I used to be. I just move slowly. When I first moved here in July 2002 I was actually physically ill for about a week, I was wiped out.

We were looking at photos of previous summer in England and were amazed to recall that we were wearing sweaters and jeans. I looked online at the weather for Norfolk.
Average temperatures were in the mid 60s to mid 70s. Marvellous!!
And for those American cynics, it won't rain everyday, probably.

East meets West, sort of.

Remember that famous (yet staged) photograph of American soldiers shaking hands with members of the Red Army? That one? The one on the River Elbe?

Well, This weekend Listmaker and Ms Listmaker travel north to New England.
At some point on their journey an historic meeting will take place, they will meet with Weasel, in Portland to watch a ballgame.

I would be jealous but I have travels of my own and plans to journey north later in the summer.
Fellas, from this ole' Norfolk boy to another (and Listo and Ms Listo), have a bloody marvellous weekend.

I shall be visiting Listo tomorrow to pass on a box of teabags for the Weasel. I just want a reenactment of that famous picture.

One down, four to go.

The Aussies beat us in the first test (Warnie must have been doing a f**king raindance in the dressing rooms on Saturday night). Part of me is OK with this, at least it gets those awful Autralian types out of Lords.
I cannot abide the idea of all those bartenders and parole violators hanging out in the shrine of English cricket, messing the place up and complaining about dingoes eating their babies.
Bring on the next test!

The Ashes (Why can't we just have a war with Australia and be done with it?)

Close of play on day two.
Australia lead by 314 runs.
England have a mountain to climb (although it's not impossible).
A week from now the wife and I will be flying into Blighty for our summer hols.

Last year Ms Random Doubt got into the cricket on the TV, she was quietly fascinated.
This year she may well learn more as we are doing a countryside retreat/house swop and have already planned our days of doing nothing but watching the tests and eating proper bacon and drinking too much (yeah!)
I have told her that it takes a lifetime to understand it and there is no hurry.
I have also promised her that we will ride our bikes into nearby villages and watch village games from pub benches before wobbling home.
We will also see friends and family and abandon our normally semi healthy lifestyle.
I cannot wait.

Line and Length.

Alright America, enough is enough. This blog has been accused in the past of being a bit 'in-jokey'. We are about to go there for real. If you have no interest or knowledge of cricket feel free to disregard the following.
Ms Bri, I am really sorry, we should go for secret beers some time to make up for all the sports blogging. Weasel, get your arse down here, I've got the keys to the PE cupboard and all the gear. Clokeeey, you may get a laugh out of this.

Today the cricket gear arrived at school.

Today I attempted to teach 20 8 year old Americans how to call 'HOWZAT???!!!' and what the bails were for.
I tried (christ in heaven I tried) to stop them from 'pitching' the ball at each others heads.
I remained calm when asked for the 50th time "how do you score a home run?"
I even took it in my stride when my boss walked in at the very moment that one of the kids got a smack on the forehead with a bat ("Icepack! NOW!")

To be honest, the kids did well.
They totally g0t the hang of defending the wicket without standing in front of it, they understood that to stand in front of it would be bad. They understood getting bowled and caught. There were even a bunch of good strokes. We work on scoring runs next week.
They loved being allowed to yell "HOWZAT!!!!!?" whenever they were in doubt about anything.
Me? I had a blast!

For those interested in the start of the Ashes series, we hammered the Aussies in the first inning of the first test, all out for 190 (pathetic) but then completely failed to capitalise. Typical

Stalagluft camp.

Summer camp is alright, the end is in sight. It's all a bit 'Dad's Army' but it could be a lot worse.
Beats the crap out of having to wear a tie or long trousers during the Summer.
It's just rather amusing how some of the teachers take it pretty seriously.

This morning I had to wait for about 10 minutes to get let into the building.
It was just after 8am and the weather was already creeping up to 90f with 120% humidity (ah, New York in July!).
With me was an art teacher who was Fer-reaking out about not having enough time to prepare her room, how so many of these 'teachers' they just roll in at 8.15, noone works as hard as she does, etc etc etc....
What was I freaking out about?

Am I going to have enough time to eat these three huge donuts I just bought before the kids arrive?

(The answer was no, Best kid in the whole world caught me cramming the last of the three into my mouth as i read the newspaper online).

Ted's dead.

Ted Heath, British Prime Minister 1970-1974. He was PM when I was born. I couldn't
resist playing around with things that rhyme with 'dead' and 'Ted'. Dead Heath.
Actually he was alright (i think).
I met him about 15 years ago. He was grumpy.

My Appointment.

Time to dust off the blues, get the ensign out of the loft.
I'm Officer Commanding Japonica 5 (or 8, whichever one I like the look of best, I'm three years older than the other OC and will most likely be there earlier than him to collect the boats, my choice).
Yeah!!

For those in peril on the sea....

....or broads.
I am just about as excited as it's possible to be. I have just managed to help organise the stag party of a friend. It's going to be on sailing cruisers (yachts) in Norfolk,UK. Sailing on the very rivers I grew up on, sailing the very boats I used to sail. A whole weekend of sailing, beer, smoking (even though we have all 'offically' given up), fried food and more sailing! It's even possible that there will be some beach involved. It's going to be cramped, smelly and distinctly hungover for much of the time. If you've seen the movie "Master and Commander" you'll have some sense of what is to come. I've offered my services to the groom as OC of one of the vessels. I have yet to hear back from him. Watch this space.

Gulag diaries #2

Day 18: Most of the more intelligent kids have worked out that I am only here for the money and that I hate them. This makes life easier. with good behaviour I should be out in two weeks.

New York 1

Woke up to some horrible news from London.
Checked out the TV channels, phoned my Dad.
Most of the TV channels were full of paranoid excess and massive fatality rates. One even cut to a Nivea ad half way through an interview with an eyewitness!!
New York One with trusty Pat Kiernan told me some pretty flat facts but also gave me relevant NYC info (are the subways OK?).
Good old NY1.

Daily Dancer.

There's some really wierd shit out there.
I guess this guy is Australian.
My favourite is 'The Copacabana'.
The mind boggles.

Bowlesapolooza/meatfest 2005.

Mr Bowles held a rather agreeable meatfest cook out barbie type thing yesterday. This was a rounding up of those gentlemen of the parish whose wives had buggered off to Florida for Schmidty's bacherlorette weekend. Plus a few welcome gatecrashers!

Much meat and shrimp was scoffed and a good time seemed to be had by all, I thought it went pretty well especially considering that it's one of the major grill up weekends of the year, and me, a mere Englishman. Put on a pretty good show.

Thanks to all who made it work and especially for the superb selection of beers that you all brought with you. Not one Bud or Coors light made it over my threshold. I was delighted to see Americans thinking with their thirst. Needless to say the night ended up with me and a couple of diehard neighbours finishing them off across the street, hey? you wouldn't have wanted them to go all stale and mouldy in the fridge would you?

The Ashes.

England, the motherland, moist and cloudy island at the heart of my inner being is about to enter serious cricketing combat with the old enemy.
The Australians have been loafing about on that sceptered isle for a few weeks now, playing meaningless one day warm ups against made up countries and no doubt drinking far too much and being slightly vulgar.
In a couple of weeks the real test begins.
The Ashes.
For my American cousins I'll explain, very briefly the history and concept.
A long time ago a bunch of colonials with beards and no manners came to England and dicked us at our own game. Some well meaning old ladies burnt the bails (that's the top bit of the wicket, that is, the sticks that cricketers run between) and put them in an urn. They became known as the Ashes of English cricket, we call them the Ashes.
Since then we have played the Aussies every couple of years, alternating between pleasant venues such as Lords and Trent Bridge and dusty mosquito pitches down under.
This summer it's back home to Blighty.
Five test matches, each played over a few days, from late July to early September.
Best of five wins the series.
All five are played even if the Aussies beat us in the first three (which they have a tendency to do quite often).
Here are the dates and locations so that you can follow and see why I am going quietly insane as the summer progresses.

First Test.
July 21-25, Lords, London.

Second Test.
August 4-8, Edgbaston, Birmingham.

Third Test.
Aug 11-15, Old Trafford, Manchester.

Fourth Test.
August 25-29, Trent Bridge, Nottingham.

Fifth Test.
September 8-12, The Oval, London.

We haven't won the Ashes since 1987.
Australia are an incredible cricketing nation.
Their Prime Minister once touched The Queen's arse.
Need I say more?
Are you starting to see my point?
These people must be stopped.

What can you do to help? I want to start a North American boycott of Outback Steakhouses starting now.
I ask you to stop renting Paul Hogan movies.
I want you, my loyal readers to report any outbreaks of Australianess, anyone saying "G'day" or referring to places of higher learning as "Uni".
I can still remember what the world was like in 1987, before they spoilt it by making us watch 'Neighbours' and 'Prisoner cell block H'.
I urge you to help.
Thank you for listening.

Stepping into the unknown...

Ok, I've linked to a site in Australia.
Now I know that those of you who know me will be a touch disturbed by this.
I know that you know how I feel about Australians.
But hey, it's all about equality and freedom and cricket and rugby and the Queen and stuff.
Those who missed my soccer writing/ranting and pictures of Mr Beckham, he can fill your empty loneliness.
And as long as the Aussies behave themselves then there won't be any trouble.
Besides, he's the only person in the world apart fromUncle Trotter, my dad, brother and wife who have ever even acknowledged the genius of the world's greatest ever movie 'The Club'.
Also, it's an Ashes summer. I need someone to abuse.
He's down there on the right, 'My pies rant' check him out, it's a good sporting read.

I Like 1957.

It's like this, This world is too big for me to handle all it's zeitgiest, the multiple passions and the varied tone of a varied culture. I have given up. Fortunately I have married a girl who cares for none of the above. It is such a joy to be able to comfortably abandon the pressures of the media whirl, the celebrity bullshit, the Tom Cruise nonsense.
I like 1957.

Camp Gitmo

Ah, the joys of summer camp.
You see, for me the word 'camp' has two meanings. An affectation of mild astheteness or a place of detainment.
It seems that summer camp is a mild variation upon the latter.
We have some asthetes (mostly those aged about 3 or 4 years old, they love to shout, scream and jump about and I am in the process of beginning to adore them).
We also have a large number of detainees. These children are older and generally just as amusing but in a slightly different way.
The real detainees are the teenagers who work camp.
They make me ponder on what it was like when I was fifteen.
They remind me how it was to be single minded.
They remind me how it was to be bloody minded.
They make me remember people mangement skills that I had hoped to forget.
Deep down they are good kids, but by god they make my days strong,
they test me and yet I must not show failure to their tests.
I am reafirmed that my vocation is to work with younger kids.
Having said all of that I must admit that the one particular teenager assigned to my command is a decent lad who does what I ask (and I ask, I do not yet have to tell or order) and is helpful and polite in every manner and tone.
But still, teenageness is another world, one that I have no wish to visit again for some years to come.

History Friday.

I know, I have stolen this from Weasel but it's July 1st and I really felt I had to write.
I've taken an interest in history since before I can remember and have studied/taught the stuff since I was 11. There are some dates you just cannot forget.
July 1st 1916 was the first day of the battle of the Somme. The Somme is a river in Northeastern France and was the scene of the greatest tragedy in British military history. Over 60,000 men were killed or wounded in one day. These men walked into the fire of German machine guns. Estimates vary but it has been said that as many as 20,000 men died within the first hour.
The numbers and scale of this battle (which lasted until November18th of that year) have always shocked and apalled me. The tactics of the generals, based upon the notion of 'throwing more men into the fray', horrified me. The bravery of the troops amazed me.
The result of the slaughter? A stalemate on the battlefield but arguably the end of British optimism about the Great War. Nothing was ever the same again.
Weasel, apologies for nicking your idea.

Google and sitemeters.

In order to celebrate the upcoming anniversary of the founding of this illustrious organ I have established a sitemeter. Not for Mondale the self congratulatory show of pictures and images of skiing pets or baseball trips. No lobster here. I have put this in because it's really useful.

On a related note we are proud to annouce that we have risen to page 2 of Google's 'Walter Mondale'. Just type the former veep into everybody's favourite search engine and there we are, page 2. Marvellous.

The first eleven put up a valiant performance against St Johns with Mallory taking three wickets. Unfortunately it was not enough and the Mondalians were trailing by 45 runs before bad light stopped play.

The CCF will meet at Mr Lockwood's room by the generator shed in order to prep for the upcoming combined schools exercise. Ammo can be collected from Mr Lockwood at that time.

Col. Bookham will be giving a talk about military formations, a must for all cadets. Mr Henderson's room at 3.15.

French club is cancelled this week.

Hymn # 332 "Praise thy god oh lord of heaven".

A most agreeable evening.

Spent last night celebrating Muskin's birthday at 'Sing Sing' a fashionable karaoke bar in the east village.
I love Karaoke. I do, lots of people can testify. It definately has lots to do with loving the sound of my own voice and holding onto the idea that I have much more singing talent than I actually do. It also helps getting very drunk and physically wrestling the microphone from people smaller than me.
Last night I managed to develop the 'stealth lurk' approach (until Ms Random Doubt made me stop). This involved moving close to the singer and jumping in with the chorus, adding to the overall karaoke experience immensely.
Apart from the 'stealth lurk' I did manage to pay my own way and hog the mike with the birthday boy and his passion for tequila.
The interesting thing about a karaoke hangover is that it is blended with lots of songs. I lie on the sofa, airconditioning wafting over me as "Don't go changing" or "You're so vain" drum through my addled brain.

The gulag diaries

I don't know what I'm more proud of.
Managing to make an entire week of PreK and K 'movement' class out of felt turtles and balloons or managing to convince the aforementioned campers that a plain old felt beanbag was actually a turtle sleeping it off in a turtle sized sleeping bag.

High Camp

So, like, I'm totally doing summer camp.
This is the first summer since 1996 that I have worked. The world was rather different then.
Camp is actually rather fun. By fun I mean getting to work in a very casual manner without any real thoughts in my head apart from

"Will my fifteen year old assistant turn up on time?"

" Will the jumping, screaming three year olds really manage to jump and scream all the way through their 35 minute 'movement'lesson?"

" What was I like when I was fifteen? Can I really have anything in common with a fifteen year old? Should I make efforts at outreach? Am I wondering about this stuff because I have nothing else in my brain and Oh my god, even though I'm working camp I really, really love being a teacher in summer".

This was my day today (it's not always like this). If you work in a proper job you may not want to read on.

Got to school.

Went on a 45 minute field trip with 50 hilarious kindergartners to a local firehouse. This involved spending about half an hour strapping the lil beggars into the bus for the 5 minute ride.

Got back to school 45 minutes later.

Hid from boss of camp in case she wanted me to do stuff. Told #2 boss that if she needed me I could be found in the science lab surfing the net.

Also took large lunchbreak with beardy science teacher, met with new boss, backslapped and joked with lurking headmaster who has a tendency to lurk whilst I am trying to flip stuff into the trash can.

As I write I am still hiding. An hour and a half from now I can go swim.

Mactechwitch.

I do like new blogs. I especially like new blogs from people I know. Accordingly I'd like to say a big Mondale hello to Maureen, a much esteemed co-worker. Check her out with the link below.
Welcome to blogworld Mactechwitch!
nb: Weasel, do you remember McWitch from the UK kid's TV show 'Renta-ghost'?

Perfect running weather.

At about 6pm last night Brooklyn got itself a torrential, South East Asian style downpour. The heavens truly opened and let rip.
At about this time I was heading out of the door for a run. I was definately going to get to City Hall in Manhattan but my return route was unspecified.
As some of you may know (Handwashings, are you with me so far?) The Brooklyn Bridge attracts alot of tourists (and rightly so) but they do make runnning a bit troublesome unless you are out and about at 6am. Imagine my delight as I approached the bridge and found not a soul upon it! Well OK, maybe a dozen others either running or huddled under the arches in a vain attempt to stay out of the rain. I was so excited I turned about at the Manhattan end and ran back, almost laughing all the way. Then I found a small flood/huge puddle in the Cadman Plaza park and jumped right in!
There really is something about running in the rain, and after the recent heatwave it's a joy to be able to get outside without expiring.
My legs hurt and my sneakers are drying outside as we speak.

When I was young, I said to my mum, "Are those hills in the distance America?"

I have just been able to spend a day in reflection. I have always done this around nature. When I was younger, working in Somerset I would often drive a few miles out of my way to Glastonbury Tor, climb it's 900ft and sit and reflect upon whatever may be on my mind. I would look out across the Somerset Levels, See Wales in the distance and generally just bask in the magical Land of Arthur.
Yesterday I was fortunate enough to get 3 hours to kill in the middle of the day. After a haircut and a new watch strap, I wandered over to Prospect park. Wandering as only a man who has no real cares but just a thousand things to do, wandering as one whose primary concern is avoiding the irrational summer storms.
I entered through the Third street entrance and was suddenly transformed into an amazing place. The park, Prospect park, was virtually deserted. As I strolled from Third street, through the Ravine to the Audebon centre I must have seen maybe twenty souls, all a bit like me, wandering through the park not quite realising how this place (amazing and gorgeous at any time ) was so damned beautiful. The clouds were chasing across the sky, rain fell here and there causing us to seek shelter under broad leafed trees and in between the sun shot through onto the meadows and ballfields.
My favourite moment was when I took to sharing a bench with Brooklyn's oldest couple. I though they were visitors to the Borough as they seemed a bit too Norman Rockwell for this part of town but nonetheless they were easily 107 years old and so very much in love. With walking canes and hands held together they sat near me and we exchanged pleasantries about the park and the weather. They were clearly familiar with the park so my inital doubts about their origins were muted (guess we do get WASPS in Brooklyn). Then, as another rainstorm passed and clear skies broke through I heard him say to her "Come on Honey, let's go chase some sun".
I really want us to be like them when we grow up.

The remarkably flexible memory.

I wish I could blame the warm weather, I wish I could blame a sustained abundance of alcohol or even drugs. I can do neither. It seems that 2005 has become the year of the remarkably flexible memory.
I've not become forgetful per sae, I just seem to have issues regarding the important, often work related stuff. I have a dear friend and co worker who you may be familiar with who has become increasingly exasperated by the fluidity of my mind. This is not a mental health thing or a sign of anxiety or depression, in fact, in that annoying Bowles way I doubt I've ever been happier.
It's just that I fear I am becoming increasingly incapable of remembering detail. Things like field trips and even what time of day I should get to work (during the flexible summer months anyway). Today I arrived an hour early to be greeted later by Listmaker with a knowing pseudo frown and mock lecture about this malaise.
I do remember some stuff. I remember that Joe Ferrari has yet to reply to me. I remember that I have some fun weekends ahead. I remember that dad is still in the hospital after a dodgy hip operation. I remember important anniversaries and weddings and birthdays. I never ever forget my keys.
I just want to say to those that this affects the most (OK, Listmaker, like do you come from a long line of highly detailed bureaucrats down there in DC or what?) that i'm working on it.

It's been a while....

Apologies randomites, I've been lazy.
It's the end of the school year and I am shifting towards "Summer Bowles" mode. All this despite a full week of school work ahead and then working summer camp.
Ms Random Doubt and I have spent a glorious weekend doing a walking tour of Red Hook and generally hugging the AC or alternately opening all the doors and windows when we foolishly thought the temperature had dropped a degree or two. We then shut everything up and cranked up the AC again.
Kitten has passed out in various parts of the apartment and has been fluffy and hot.
I checked my diary, saw an 8.30am meeting for Monday and proceeded to indulge in a few Gin and Tonics on a hot summers night. It's nice being English, you only have one 'cocktail' to choose from and it's so damned refreshing.
I shall write more soon, I'm over the England team and will soon be in summer mode. Looking forward to summer events and casual living.

A ridiculous ammount of blogging and photography about my morning with the England team.

This is probably the largest, craziest entry I've ever posted. Enjoy.
To get the full benefit, please scroll down to the first pictures, just above the desert island discs entry.
It's sort of chronological, from the bottom up.
Thanks.

Can you really imagine a credible sports host dressing like this and hitting on everything in sight? Well in Columbia it can happen.

The Columbian John Motson hitting on Chris's girlfriend.

The Columbian John Motson.

MIchael Owen.

Here's the thing. I like Michael Owen. He is a good man who has scored a silly ammount of goals for his (my) country and I'm sure that his mood today merely reflected his jetlag/discontent about having to delay his summer vacation by playing meaningless games in the US/leaving Liverpool in order to win the European Cup with Real Madrid only to have Liverpool win the European Cup anyway/missing his wife etc.
But, he annoyed me intensely today.
Each time I focused on him with my fancy camera (the one with auto focus, lenses etc) he turned away. Each time I tried to get a shot with the digital camera he managed to evade my lense.
Even now as I try to blog all this his pictures appear in the wrong order. Of the three pics I have published here today it should be #1.Him ignoring me on the pitch. #2 Him ignoring me passing through a crowd and # 3 Him completely disregarding me as he walks up some steps. Thats the order the pictures should appear but oh no, It's all about Mr Owen.
(I would like to add that David Beckham was all charisma and charm. I was with him for about a minute but he was almost Clintonesque in making me feel special and warm).

Michael Owen avoids me twice.

Michael Owen has had enough of me altogether, competely, period.

Michael Owen ignores me for the first time.

England.

I've just had the most marvellous of mornings. I was invited to visit the England training session at Giants stadium in NJ (scroll down to the start of the pictures, they are in a loose chronology from the bottom up). Even after the invite I wasn't sure that this would really happen and my two friends who picked me up this morning weren't totally sure that this wasn't some kind of a cruel joke.
We thought that perhaps we would have to sit in the stands and observe from afar, that we would have a chance to take some distant, smudgy snapshots and possibly, just possibly grab a quick word as the players scuttled back onto the team bus.
It all seemed to be going that way when we arrived at what seemed to be a deserted stadium. Of course we didn't realise that the entrance was on the other side so we walked all the way round to find guys with ID badges sending folk this way and that. We introduced ourselves and to our relief were escorted to a press tent. There we were given our 'credentials' and told to go with Jeremy who would show us around.
Still thinking this was all too good to be true our hearts faltered as New Jersey's slowest moving security guy told us that our 'credentials' were not the right 'credentials'. Jeremy gets on a walkie talkie and eventually scurries off, leaving us alone with grumpy security guy. At this point we bump into Robert Green's parents. The NYCanaries had come along to present the Norwich goalie with his player of the year award. He won the award after we had decided that him winning it and us having to present it to him in person would be a fantastic way of getting us to meet the rest of the England team.
Jeremy returned with a smooth looking guy in a suit who essentially told security guy to let us in.
We were put in a large area containing a variety of photographers, a mad Columbian TV crew and Robert Green's parents. I strolled over to the corner flag where I could play with my fancy new camera with it's lenses and stuff. I also bumped into Green's mother who was telling me how it's all very nice to visit New York but she would really rather be shopping or at the beach. I asked her, "The million dollar question, Do you actually like football?" "Of course I do, I just don't really like all this stuff". Still, like everyone else she was super nice, thoroughly approachable and happy to chat.
By this point the players were chasing about in the near half of the field, going through the motions of a press day/fake training session. The stands above us were filling with kids and the mad Columbian was yelling in his mike. I thought that this was as good as it was going to get but then the liason from the Football Association strolled over and told us that we were about to have our ten minutes with Robert Green.
We were sent from the media area onto the pitch.
Onto the bloody pitch!
The pitch where David Beckham was hanging out just a few yards away. The pitch where Michael Owen was being all moody. We got to present Rob Green with his award and share a few polite jokes and all the usual 'fan meets star player' smalltalk. 'Greeno' actually hung out with us for about 20 minutes and was super nice, a bit sweaty but appreciative of the award and easy to get along with.
I took a bunch of pictures and have thrown some up on the blog. I also got a few shots of David Beckham who was wonderful, friendly and relaxed and inches away from me.
One of the best aspects was that once we had presented Robert Green with his award and he had wandered off to chat with friends and family, the nice people from the FA sort of forgot that we were there. We were able to hang about on the pitch taking pictures and chatting with players.
It all seems a little too bizarre to be real but I have the pictures and for now that's good enough. I'll come down in a day or two.

The media circus.

Mr Beckham going up some stairs.

Mr Columbian TV is not happy about the fact that we got into the VIP enclosure and he did not.

Robert Green chats to his mum and dad.

My intense close up of a discombobulated David Beckham.

Mr Beckham coming down some stairs.

That's me on the left.

And how we laughed!

And then I give him a bunch of stuff.

The NYCanaries present Robert Green with our player of the year award.

After losing Michael Owen I turn to harass Robert Green.

Michael Owen turns his back on me.

Desert Island Discs.

OK, You have to choose your 7 all time favourite pieces of music. One for each day of the week if that helps. I'm curious and nosey. For your money's worth mine looks a bit like this...

Supergrass: Jesus came from outta space.
Steve Earle: The kind.
Cowboy Junkies: Anniversary song.
Billy Bragg: St Swithin's Day.
Eels: Rock hard times.
"Oh Lord and master of mankind" (it's a hymn, preferably belted out by a tone deaf congregation at a Bowles family wedding/christening/funeral).
Beethoven's ninth "Ode to Joy" sung in it's original German please.

So there we go. If you want to throw it out there go ahead. If not you just got a glimpse into the ever shifting psyche of the boy Mondale.

It's just like 1984!

And I am giggly and excited.
Firstly, Liverpool won the European cup last Wednesday night. That's a real time warp situation right there. I was lucky enough to get really crappy internet coverage of this event. I have since been told that it was arguably one of the games of the century. Marvellous. But at least an English team won.
Then I got a cryptic phonecall from a friend who runs the NYCanaries. You know the kind of call that gives you a gut feeling. "Hi, It's me, call me as soon as you get this". He is a friend but not the type of person who would call me in a crisis. He is also the master of fabulous self publicity and genuine fun to be around. I call him. He has got us 'invited' to watch England train in New Jersey on Monday. I had to decline, "I'll be at work, shit!" Then I call him right back. "It's Memorial Day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I am as excited as a very excited thing because on Monday I get to hang out with a bunch of overpaid (make that ridiculously overpaid) young people who would no doubt annoy the living crap out of me if I had to spend one minute actually talking to them. But then again I might get to meet Wayne Rooney!!

A period of reflection.

Following the demise of Norwich City as a premiership force I have been taking stock.
Accordingly I have posted no new entries since that fateful Sunday.
I shall continues to hold my peace untill the final day of the season, Monday, May 30th.
Unless something really cool comes along like wierdos making out at Shea or cruel and unusual poetry unearthed from another age.
This is a time for reflection.

The post mortem.

Some reasons for our defeat.
April brought some black and white cookies. Black and white?
Fulham play in black and white, as do West Brom (well, dark blue) who managed to stay up. It was a delightful gesture, just not thought through.
Where the hell was Mr Paquette?
The wierd hippy lady in the corner of the bar who told us off for smoking near James's dog.
It also appears that we were crap.

Manchester United #2

From the BBC. And yes, a large part of this is that german word for delighting in the traumas of those around you.

"It is currently a crisis caused by nothing more than uncertainty.

There is no proof yet that Glazer's takeover would be bad for Manchester United, other than it takes the club's ownership out of English hands.

Much has been said about United's "heart and soul" being ripped out, but Old Trafford was opened up to market forces went it went public 14 years ago - the start of a period of spectacular success.

"Not for sale" is the great rallying call for Old Trafford's faithful, but in reality almost everything at Manchester United has been for sale since that day. A hollow cry from this mega-rich and mega-marketable club. "

Fulham v Norwich.

6-0.
Bollocks.

Fulham v Norwich.

I'm getting really nervous.
Must stop blogging and do something constructive.
I've got all my plans ready for tomorrow.
Get up at 8am, ride 2 or 3 train to the Upper West Side, meet James, listen to game, watch United game. I expect Southampton to win.
I expect Norwich to win. Must win. Must win.
Watch delayed Norwich game. Must win.
Oh my god I think I'm turning into some sort of Redsock. I am starting to exhibit the type of paranoid freakery behaviour normally only associated with fans of the Boston Redsox.
I talked to my Dad and brother today, it was all we could talk about. Dad was all sort of calm, resigned wisdom and hope.
Simon told me where everyone he knew would be watching the game*. he told me that it was the biggest game he could remember, bigger than the Milk Cup final twenty years ago, bigger than the UEFA campaign in 1993. Far bigger even than last year's Championship. A hell of a lot more nervewracking that's for sure.
*City die hard and compulsive-obsessive fan, Tom Wood is apparently on holiday with his charming family in Sicily. Nice timing Tom. Booked the holiday a few months ago when he figured that we would be dead and buried already! Hope you get the match on Italian telly.

Manchester United.

Apparently Manchester United fans are upset because the oh so slightly beardy and creepy Malcolm Glazer has bought a bunch of shares. Listen up. United were a significant part of the crass commercialism of football that has upset so many people in the last thirty odd years and spawned a whole leftfield footy culture ala' Nick Hornby, WSC etc.
They pretty much invented themselves as an industry, global brand, corporate giant and so on. United pushed hard for the formation of the Premiership, bigger chunks of cash from the telly, greater European involvement and all that.
I'm not saying it's all bad but you can't then turn around and close the shop just because Mr Beardy Wierdy ginger head comes sniffing around.
So please, You poor , hard done by United fans, oh you who have suffered so at the hands of the evil capitalists (let's see? Since the foundation of the Premiership in 1992 we have 8 championships, 4 FACups and a European cup).
Stop complaining.
Shut up.
You get no sympathy here.

Mounting pressure (Superbowl for losers)

I tried to explain it to the kids. I said "it's like the Superbowl for losers".
I was attempting to explain how tense and anxious I was about Sunday's game. I've denied details about where I'll be watching the game so that people won't find me and jinx it (like, who the hell is going to trek up to Amsterdam and 83rd at 9.30am on a Sunday?). I have to be there with my people. Ms Random Doubt won't be coming (she's a jinx on the big occaison).
9.30am on Sunday. Death or Glory. I mean, if you lose the cup final you just lose a game, it sucks but it doesn't change your league position. Lose against Fulham and the bottom drops out of my football world. I am actively looking for omens and signs. Death or Glory. This is real death or glory.

trdowm caption competition.

Tense, nervous headache.

It's all come down to the final Saturday of the season.
City are playing Fulham.
I'll be in a bar at 10am in Saturday morning listening on the radio.
I'll have my phone switched off untill we are in posession of all the facts.
I could do with a week without this pressure.
But I love it so.

"She's having a baseball epiphany, She's having a baseball epiphany".

My sister enjoying what my brother kept refering to as "Amy's baseball epiphany". Ms Random Doubt looks on in delighted bemusement.

Those crazy Bowles boys enjoy a crap beer at a freezing Shea Stadium.

Concerning jam.

When I was a kid my dad would make jam. My parents house was blessed with a multitude of different fruit bearing bushes and trees, blackberry, gooseberry, damson, cherry and crabapple. If we felt like getting more exotic, strawberries for instance, we would trot over to the local country estate at Kimberley and pick our own from their walled garden. This was a fairly intensive form of child labour, the type of thing that would be legislated against today, but we were happy to just stuff our faces with fruit and cycle home with boxes of jam making material.
Dad constructed some pretty bizarre bird scaring mechanisms to protect his backyard crop. I recall lots of netting covering the bushes and even a summer's afternoon spent on tall ladders in an attempt to cover the 40ft Japanese cherry tree. I'm sure I remember that.
When the harvest was in there would be lots of washing , boiling and squashing of fruit, sugar would be added and the process of seperating pips and skin in order to create jelly (a clear, smooth form of jam) would begin. I think my parents still have the tall stool that was turned upside down, placed on the kitchen table and used to hang the muslin bag through which the soggy fruit would drip into a bowl. We would also produce the more tradtional types of jam with the bits in it, this works better with more pippy fruit such as strawberries or raspberries whilst apples and cherries produce excellent jelly.
Jars that had been collected would be filled with the latest batch, labels written and the stuff would be left to set. In a day or two we would attack the batch and be ready for a winter of toast and jam breakfasts. I can't quite tell which was my favourite, Crabapple jelly perhaps.
My grandad produced excellent honey but that's another story.
When I taught in Somerset in a depressed rural community I often received homemade jam as a gift from the kids. In the autumn the jars would start to arrive. One kid I remember very well, we used to have tremendous run ins over behaviour issues yet he would keep me supplied with the most delicious damson jam throughout the year. As some kids might bring an apple (yes, it does sometimes happen) or flowers, Iwan would bring me jam often with a ridiculously articulate excuse about his latest misdemeanor and once with a determined explanation that he was not attempting to poison me. He also made the most beautiful labels, coloured in pencil in 3D block letters,"DAMSOM JAM, SEPTEMBER 1997".
I still love a good jam, some friends in Brooklyn have German relatives who make the most amazing jam, all fruity and a little bit boozy. For me it's the breakfast of champions, doorstep toast, great coffee or tea and a choice of good, homemade jam.

Oona King

I'm pissed off that Oona King was beaten by a candidate who exploited her gender within a conservative muslim community in order to win a seat.
Hey, anyone could bitch about girls.

Victory.

I've been a Labour voter/sympathiser for the last 20 years. We've got a third term.
Right now I shelve the doubts, the contradictions, the discontent.
It's a Labour government.
That is good.
Thank you and goodnight.

It seems to be over.

Should Blair resign?
No, not yet.
He has been given another mandate, albeit slim.
His next task is to spend the next year or so pushing through his main priority, whatever that may be.
Then he needs to begin the handover to Gordon Brown. Mr Brown can lead the Labour party into a fourth term.

Election update #2

If you need up to the minute results, they are not here.
I recommend BBCi.
It's 9pm est so I guess it's 2am bst.
The results are flowing in thick and fast. I cannot blog at this pace.
Despite the fall in the Labour majority (but come on, who the hell thought it would last, nor should it)
More fascinating stuff to follow.

Election update #1

Right, here goes. I quote the fantastic Jeremy Paxman "none of us has much idea about what's going on".
I am loving this, this is the best election in my memory. 1992 was a real trauma that I still feel. 1997 was an ecstatic night of joy beyond the senses (ah, but we were young, so young). 2001 was really , really dull.
This time it's different. This time we are facing a multitude of issues such as Iraq, Blair's unpopularity (I equate this with LBJ in 1968 only less so), but also a good economy, slowly improving public services and a seemingly decrepit conservative opposition.
What we are witnessing is a flurry of fascinating results. Where Liberals expect to win, they lose. Where they expect nothing, they win. Labour hold seats with reduced majorities, a lot of recounts. Tories gain, Tories fail to win seats they really should win (Cheadle?) Even the prospect of the delightful Oona King being threatened by the 'MP for Baghdad' George Galloway.
This is, for the British political junkie, a fascinating night above all others.
Latest just in, Peter Snow's prediction based on real results in as of 8.51pm EST.
Labour majority 68.
We shall see.
more later, I hope

Superstition.

America is a beautiful place and it has made me a better person. There, I said it.
Before I lived here I dwelt within a ridiculously medieval world of superstition. I am still technically insane when it comes to sport but i have been able to let a couple of other things go. In little under an hour the polls close in the (Yes, we know) UK General Election. I am about to head home to watch the BBC coverage. I shall lay on the sofa until about 2am, drink a few beers and enjoy the scene. I genuinely hope that Labour maintain a strong majority but I am expecting them to lose about 50-70 seats. This will still give them a majority of about 120-100. I used to be all sweaty and superstitious about this. Now i'm much more relaxed. It will actually be fascinating to see how it all pans out. I used to think my world would end if the result didn't go my way. I guess it will be a disaster in the Tories win but, well they are not going to.
I can relax beacuse the result will go my way. But still i have to watch to make sure.

Decision 2005, The nation decides and makes it's decision.

I love the silence of election day. Under UK law there can be no further politicking, canvassing or shouting at tories. No fighting with John Prescott or attempting to install solar panels on the roofs of cabinet ministers. The anti-euro extremists in their old land rovers have pulled off the road. The Liberal Democrats have blown their chances for another generation.
It's time to rest, time to reflect, time to suck it up and vote Labour.
I spoke briefly with my mum last night. I tried to get her to vote Liberal Democrat as a route to destroying the Conservatives in her constituency.
"Oh no, I like Blair and anyway, I'll not be told how to vote by someone who doesn't even live here anymore"( I could feel a lecture about eating vegetables coming along)
I think i heard father in the background muttering bad things about Michael Howard. I think i heard him muttering " but I like the Iraq war".
What ever way the delightfully insane of Norfolk South vote, I shall be home by 5pm and tuned into CSpan2 for full BBC coverage of tonight's results. If you've never watched a UK election you could do worse than check it out for an hour. If you think Dan Rather's wit is as risque as it gets you should definately watch.
Just a couple of soundbites from previous coverage.
Anchor: (interviewing a defeated MP) "ready to drink hemlock yet?"
Same anchor, different election "Did you lie?" (repeated 14, that's FOURTEEN times)
Remember, CSpan2, 5pm until it's done.