My favourite place - complete with recipe

BEAUTY SPOT

This is Newhaven Harbour, situated on the northern edge of Edinburgh, and the southern bank of the Firth of Forth.  It was once the focal point of the fishing village of Newhaven, and the long, low red building on the eastern side was the fish market.  Not so long ago, certainly well within living memory, it was a major employer in the locale and bustling centre activity from the early hours of each morning.

Nowadays there are few catches being delivered (there's one being made in the first photo), and most of the boats moored here are for pleasure use only.  The old market building houses a couple of restaurants, which enjoy spectacular views from their and windows and terraces, an excellent fishmonger, and the latter's processing and distribution plant.  They have another couple of fish shops in the city, and supply many restaurants, pubs etc in the Edinburgh area.  So the old links have not completely died away.

There isn't a lot going on nowadays, traffic in and out of the harbour walls is sparse, and an ugly hotel has been stuck up at the north eastern corner.  But this spot has become my favourite place in the world.  I love going there whatever the weather, season or time of day.  On a bright, clear day there are long distance views across to the hills of Fife and up the Forth to the famous bridges, both of which can be seen clearly in the distance (you should be able to make them out in the fifth of the pictures above).  But when the haar descends, the dense fog that blows in from the North Sea, it becomes a world all to itself, suspended from reality like Brigadoon.  You can make out a few boats bobbing, hear the sound of the water slapping against the hulls and harbour sides, but even the lighthouse at the end of the breakwater can be hidden from clear view, becoming an eerie, shimmering finger of white raised in insult against nature.

This is a place I never tire of visiting, of photographing, of sitting watching the gulls and sailors and tourists and locals savouring the beauty of the sights it provides.  I love it primarily for itself, but I also have some roots here.  It wasn't a place we came to much when I was young, as we lived on the other side of the city (although I did go to primary school near here).  Only many years later did I discover the family connection.

For a while that old fish market building housed a Newhaven Musem, which we visited with my parents. There were old photos of workers from the fishing industry, and tt came as a surprise that my dad could identify by name several of the old fishwives, in traditional harbour dress, as people he'd know as a child.  But even then he didn't talk much about the connection between himself and the village and harbour.  It was his death some years later that provided me with the evidence of just how close this relationship was.  He'd been born in his parents' house, one street back from the harbour front.  His mother had worked at gutting the fish coming in, his father was a fish porter (I had only ever seen him as a school janitor).

Now I'm not one to believe in psychic links or suchlike, and coincidences are usually just that, events with no causal relationship.  But there is a weirdness in thinking that this particular spot on the planet, which I revisit constantly, had such close links to my immediate family.  But yeah, still just coincidence!

There are a couple of other attractions beyond the sensory allure.  Up the road is one of best cafes in the city, The Haven, and I already mentioned that fish shop. Too often fishmongers had, have, an off-putting aroma and confused display.  You can forget that in Welch Fishmongers of Newhaven.  Beautifully displayed, fresh, great variety.  There's a tank of live lobsters to your right as you come through the door, and some attractive fishy-related crockery in the window.  And they make their own smoked salmon pate which is irresistible.  No, I'm not being paid to say this....

They also do an excellent, and cheap, fish pie mix, with offcuts of salmon, cod and smoked haddock.  I've used it as the basis for an excellent fish curry, as this recipe I concocted demonstrates.  Go on, give it a go.

MIXED FISH CURRY WITH SPICED COURGETTE

Ingredients (for 2 people)

350g fish pie mix (see above - if making up your own it should include some smoked fish)
2 tsp mustard seeds
1 onion, chopped
1 celery stick, finely chopped
1 green chilli sliced into rings
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
4 medium tomatoes
creme fraiche
1 tsp each of ground turmeric, ground ginger, garam masala
salt to taste

1 large courgette
1/2 tsp each of cumin seeds. fennel seeds, chilli powder ground

Cupful of basmati rice

Method

Soften tomatoes in boiling water and seive finely, discard solids
Fry mustard seeds until they begin to crackle
Add onion and celery, fry for 5 minutes
Add chilli and garlic and fry until onions are soft
Add fish (chopped) and remaining spices
Fry for 1 min
Add seived tomatoes and couple of dollops of creme fraiche to get a creamy consistency
Simmer for 5-10 minutes depending on your fish
Add salt to taste

Meanwhile....
Put the rice on to boil and once it's cooking fry the courgette spices for 1 min
Add sliced courgette and salt generously, stir well and keep it moving occasionally
Fry until soft

Serve with rice in middle, courgettes to one side, curry to other

A Viognier goes well with this if your chilli isn't too much of a hot one!

Amateur critic - a review blog

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

It's been a while since I posted anything here.  Lack of inspiration, lack of time, other things to do.  And general indolence.  Especially that one.  But some of the time gets taken up with going out to be entertained.  That includes a few cinema visits, but mostly it's live interaction that I'm seeking. Music, comedy, drama - and ice hockey.  A week doesn't normally pass without seeing some kind of gig, play or match.

Of course the decision on what we (it's mostly 'we') go to see is derived from our own eclectic tastes.  So the music is mostly folk, preferably in small, intimate venues, and you're unlikely to see me at stadium events.  The plays are more likely to be new works than classics.  And the comedy will be in clubs or pubs rather than theatres.  While the hockey, well, that's been documented here before.

I have no qualifications to be much of a critic.  I'm resolutely unmusical, rarely funny, while my amateur acting days are long behind me and would make no claims to anything more than some basic competence.  As for ice hockey.... I doubt I'd stay upright for more than five seconds.

But there might be some people out there looking for new music, or seeking  an independent opinion on a touring play or a comedian who has yet to achiev national fame.  OK, I doubt anyone will be much interested in my uninformed opinion on hockey matches, but you can't please everyone.  So I have a new blog, giving brief reviews of events I've been to.  Don't expect much in the way of depth, but at least you should be clear about whether this individual liked what he saw or not.

The first review can be found here. 

You won - now get over it

WE'VE ALL HEARD OF SORE LOSERS BEFORE - BUT NOW WE'VE GOT SORE WINNERS

The Scottish Independence Referendum has been and gone.  To me the result was sad, but not at all unexpected.  The Yes campaign had to take on the full might of the Westminster Establishment, and almost all of the UK's mass media.  Getting the message across was never going to be an easy task.  But the degree to which it politicised the population of Scotland was a truly remarkable achievement.

Perhaps inevitably, given the high stakes and emotions involved, there were a number of sore losers who vented their spleen on social media in the weeks and months that followed.  A few continue to do so and I hope that they'll soon fade away.  They are an embarrassment to the great mass of Yes voters.  Ludicrous suggestions that the poll was rigged in some way helps nobody.

However most Independence minded people have moved on and are now showing a high degree of positivity, of which more later.  A more curious trend on Twitter is the emergence of No voters who, living up to their characterisation as Bitter Together, seem unhappy with the win they actually got and want to exaggerate or lie about it in various ways.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you - The Sore Winners.

Before providing an example of the species let me go back briefly over the relevant events on the timeline.  When the referendum was first proposed the Scottish Government suggested that there should be three options to choose from.  Firstly, full independence; secondly, the status quo; and finally, the option which became known as Devo Max, which delegated most government powers to Holyrood, with the main exceptions being foreign policy and the military.  That latter option was vetoed by the Cameron government.  Largely, it was thought, and as indicated by polls at the time, because it would have been a clear winner.  Such a potential loss of power and control was not something that Westminster was willing to risk.

So the vote became a simple Yes/No choice - Yes to have a fully independent Scotland, No to remain as we were.  And that remained the case when the first postal votes were being cast.  But then something happened.  A single poll suggested that Yes might be in the lead - and Westminster, indeed the whole UK Establishment, went into full panic mode.  In the days running up to the 18th of September we had the Gordon Brown intervention, then the three UK party leaders, and then the infamous 'Vow'.  All of which said that a No vote was a vote for greater powers for Holyrood, albeit vague and unspecified.  It wasn't quite Devo Max, but something heading in that direction.

Which meant that, on the 18th, we were no longer voting to make the same decision as those early postal voters had (which feels like a strange way to run a democratic exercise, but that's an issue for another time....).  Yes still meant the same as it always had, but now No meant something new, something a bit vague, but it most certainly involved change and a greater devolution of powers to the Scottish Parliament.  I've no doubt there were many No voters who wanted to vote for the status quo, to keep things exactly as they were, but they no longer had that option.  It had been taken away from them at the last minute.

The votes were cast, there was a clear win for No.  On an impressive 85% turnout No got just over 55% of the votes cast, with almost 45% going to Yes.  No doubts there about the result (even if it was unclear exactly what was being voted for!).  The sore losers never had a leg to stand on.

In the immediate aftermath there was, of course, much sadness and despondency in the Yes camp.  Many people had invested a huge part of their lives into the campaign, which had a much stronger grass roots basis than did the No side.  But then something strange and wonderful started to happen.  From out of that gloom came a spirit of determination and positivity.  Yes campaigners had seen what could be achieved, against considerable odds, and decided that they must continue working towards what they believed in.

So many of the organisations which had sprung up in the run up to the referendum continued to meet and discuss and look for ways forward.  The three political parties who campaigned for Yes all saw huge increases in their membership numbers.  The SNP in particular grew to become the third largest party in the UK, bigger than the numbers of the Lib Dems and ukip combined.  It seems that around 2% of the adult population of the country are now SNP members, a remarkable figure.

Reflecting this mood a new national daily newspaper, with an editorial stance favouring independence, was given a trial run, met with success, and has become a (hopefully) permanent part of the Scottish media landscape.  Nobody expects another referendum in the near future, but it's clear that it could easily come about within the next ten years, with much depending on how the vague Vow is implemented.

And that's where we are today.  Polls currently show the SNP en route to capturing a large number of Westminster seats in May, although much can happen during the three and a bit months in between.  By contrast the Scottish Labour Party still appears to be in crisis, with it's new leader making desperate grabs for media attention, while the Lib Dems will surely suffer heavily for the betrayal of their values by Nick Clegg.  Yes voters have a lot to feel good about, a lot to be proud of.

So shouldn't No, who actually won the vote, be feeling the same?  If they do then it's being kept well hidden.  Already there seems to be a particular kind of unionist who keeps wanting to look back to last September, and to amplify and distort the result.  Yesterday provided a classic example.  A unionist troll posted this tweet actually inviting people to tell him where he was factually incorrect     Yes, yes, I know that I shouldn't feed the trolls, but there's some fun to be had in finding out how quickly they become abusive when confronted with the things they hate most - facts and evidence.

Of course it's obvious, from my words above, that there are two clear instances of misinformation in the presented graphic.  Firstly, the pie chart.  No statistician would ever suggest that you can impute a single intent to non participants.  To do so is either down to simple stupidity (an option which can't be discounted....), or a wilful attempt to mislead.  Either explanation leaves the perpetrator looking pathetic.

Secondly, the words "no thanks, we will stay as we are" are an outright lie, for the reasons already explained above.  Had he simply not been following events (yet feels qualified to pontificate on them!) or is this again an attempt to mislead?  And if the latter - why?  What sort of delusions motivate people to distort the result of a vote they actually won?  I know they say that history is (re)written by the victors, but such revisionism doesn't usually happen quite so quickly!

Oh, and was he abusive?  Of course he was, but only to call me vacuous, so pretty mild by troll standards!

The other common thread with The Sore Winners is their constant need to say "You lost, now forget about it".  Presumably they were brought up on that wise old saying "If at first you don't succeed - just give up."?  Or maybe I've always misunderstood that story about Bruce and the spider we were told in school?

It's a puzzle.  Maybe The Sore Winners just need to learn to accept that they won, back in September, and move on.  Get over it.  If they can't then there's an obvious question - what exactly is it that they're so afraid of?  Maybe, deep down, they realise that it's far from over....

Why I'm playing Stickman

WHERE'S MY HORSEHAIR WIG?

In my previous post I mentioned that I've been walking with the aid of a stick for a few days.  Here's why.

Hogmanay began with a slight limp (that actually sounds like a promising opening line for a story....).  The limp decided it wasn't getting enough attention and made itself more noticeable, until, well before the bells were ringing in the New Year, my left foot had decided to withdraw it's labour and refused to accept any effort to put weight on it.  Well, not without me doing a bit of screaming.

It's as well I don't believe in omens, or I'd now dread what the rest of 2015 had in store for me.  I remained housebound until the eighth.  In the interim I developed my own methods of travel around the flat - on all fours, a stick-aided bunny hopping, and the time honoured sit-on-your-arse technique for stair negotiating.  Elegance was not an option.

On the eighth I got along to our new GP surgery, to meet a doctor with a sense of humour.  I have no idea how competent he is, but at least we had a laugh.  Which may be why he came up with a comedy diagnosis.  Considering all I told him about my symptoms, and a prod and visual scan of my inflated foot, he came to the conclusion that the most probable answer was....

Gout

Now it might turn out not to be, because he says it's difficult to prove, but it's a strong favourite.  And seems entirely appropriate.  A music hall ailment, a renowned subject for mirth.  I have kept a daily diary for many years, but didn't realise I was turning into Samuel Pepys.  (Note to pedants : yes, I do know Pepys didn't have gout.  It's a joke, albeit a poor one.  Now go and get yourself a life.)  I had better get out my horsehair wig and start downing the port and stilton.  (I might skip the wig bit.)

But as well as having comedic powers I can confirm one other reputed power of the gout.  It's f**king painful.  Ask our cat, who jumped casually on to the bed, landed on the afflicted paw, and was treated to a stream of names considerably less affectionate than those she's become used to.

So now I have pills, and am to drink five pints of water a day.  Which means I sweat like Shergar, fart like Ermintrude, have the runs like an Alsatian that's just lapped up a two day old prawn vindaloo, and I pee like Nellie the elephant.  I'm sure it's just coincidence that my wife has gone away for five days.

But I am, thanks for asking, well on the way to recovery.  On Saturday I woke without pain for the first time in 2015 (nothing like making it sound dramatic, is there?) and my foot is looking more like a human extremity again and less like something to be found on the slap at Crombies (which, for those not fortunate enough to inhabit this fair city, is an Edinburgh butcher renowned for sausages).  I am, almost, a free man again.

Except for knowing I have become a member of the parody malady club.  Now where's the port bottle?  And why is the cat playing with my wig?

A new superhero? - Stickman

THE CAMARADERIE OF THE STICK

For the past few days, for reasons I might make clearer in a future post, I have been using a walking stick to get about.  And by 'get about' I mean 'moving at a pace that has slugs tutting and demanding to be let past'.

There are three main reasons for my use of this metal and rubber implement.  It takes a bit of pressure off my faulty appendage, hopefully aiding recovery.  I can cope better with the uneven pavement surfaces (and it's only when you find yourself with a wonky lower limb that you suddenly realise just how undulating our walkways are).  Plus it provides a handy visual warning to strangers that the person in front of them has the agility of a supertanker and should be given a wide berth.

It certainly works in making me look pathetic.  I got on an almost empty bus and a grey haired lady, who must have been at least fifteen to twenty years my senior, offered me her seat!  (Residual pride made me decline.)

And it has also got me into a conversation based on the gait it imposes.  Walking along Princes Street in my enforced low-velocity manner, I could see a creature approaching who mirrored my movements.  When we eventually met, after many seconds had passed, we exchanged greetings and sanguine acceptances, moving quickly to the most important question - what was the problem?

He won that one.  Having woken up in extreme pain one morning to then be told he had severe osteoarthritis of the knee and it wasn't going to go away.  The only 'cure', a new knee, would be some years off as he was considered too young to get one immediately.  (He was probably about five years younger than me, but it's hard to say - pain is ageing.)  At least I know that my problem, while it might reoccur in future, is only going to be with me for a few more days this time.  He hasn't got that hope.  Poor guy.

So he'll still have the walk, the stick and the anguished expression.  No doubt to commune with other stick wielders in future.  Who knew the rod of mobility could have such power to bond humans together?

Fandom beckons after all

WHY I'M NOW PROUD TO BE A CAPS FAN

A couple of years ago, not long after I started this blog, I posted this piece explaining why I never became a football fan, that I never really 'got' the tribal nature of giving lifelong support to a particular club, and relating an incident that shaped my attitude towards sport and the notion of fair play.  A year later I posted about my new found love for ice hockey and how, to my surprise, I was exhibiting signs of becoming one of those fans I'd derided twelve months before....

Another twelve months on and those subjects have collided into one event which now allows me to say I Am Proud To Be A Caps Fan.  Without, I hope, more than the merest glimpse of hypocrisy.

The move back to Edinburgh has meant, for the first time, becoming a regular match goer at Murrayfield ice rink.  I've got the supporter's scarf, a regular place where we sit for each game, membership of the Supporter's Club.  I follow away games as best I can, I frequently find myself thinking about how injuries will affect the team line ups.  I'm well on my way to becoming that kind of sad git.  Even whilst recognising that I still feel very much the new boy and there are still so many aspects of the game I find hard to follow.  I'm not sure I've even fully got my head around the offside rule yet.

And yet.  There's always that 'fair play' reservation at the back of my mind.  Could I still support 'my' team if they started to play dirty?  If you haven't seen ice hockey (why not?) I should explain that as well as being extremely fast it is also very physical.  Heavy man on man contacts are commonplace.  Occasionally fist fights break out in the heat of the game and, within controlled limits, are, for good or ill, accepted as part of the culture of the sport.  But there are strict laws designed to prevent serious physical damage to opponents.  And there are clearly some teams who ride the boundary between legal and illegal more carelessly than others.  Even my inexpert eyes could see that the Coventry squad of last season, and the Braehead team in this, overdid the physical aspects of their play (yes, that is a euphemism for 'a bit thuggish').

Not the Edinburgh Capitals are a bunch of angels.  These are professional sportsmen playing in a tough sport and they have to be able to stand up for themselves.  Inevitably they will cross the line from time to time.  But I've seen no sign of that being endemic, of there being a culture of violence.  Even this season when the Caps team has included a lot more big guys than in recent years.  Of course, I would say that, wouldn't I?  I'm fully aware of what confirmation bias is....

But there's a also a lot to be said for being the underdog.  It forces supporters towards a much more realistic, at times cynical, view of the team they love.  And Edinburgh is, financially, one of the poorest teams in the league.  So their place in the standings generally reflects that.  They probably aren't going to win any big trophies, and our fourteen game losing streak before November was a convincing reminder of that fact.  But there's a lot to be said for seeing the little guy getting one over on their richer neighbours, and it wasn't just the Caps faithful, but many of the wider hockey community, who enjoyed seeing them notch up some unlikely victories in the weeks before Xmas.  That wouldn't be the case if we were a dirty team, would it?

And so to last night's incident.  Joe Grimaldi, one of our American defencemen, was thrown out of the game for unacceptable violence.  He had speared at an opponent with his stick, then took of his helmet and threw it point blank into the other guy's face.  Way over the top by any standards.  And that certainly didn't make me proud of my team.  But what happened in the following twenty fours certainly did.

The club swiftly issued a statement saying that Grimaldi had been released from his contract.  Nothing more was said, but there seems a clear implication that they did not wanted to be associated with that kind of behaviour.  Top marks to the club.  Even better was the reaction, on Twitter and Facebook, of the fans.  Young and old, newbies or lifelong supporters, all seem agreed that getting rid of Joe was the right thing to do and they had no place for actions of that sort in their (our!) club.  And that, even more than anything I've seen on the ice, makes me proud to be a Caps fan.

Of course there's more to it than that, these situations are never pure black and white.  Joe has had his detractors for much of the season.  Both for the flaring of his temper, and some of his other on-ice antics.  A very skilful, at times flamboyant, player, but one whose flashy moves rarely seemed to benefit the team.  Yet we shouldn't forget he played a leading role in the collection of toys for a children's hospital ward just before Xmas, and he was the only player who got along on the day and handed out presents to the kids.  Underneath that volatile skin there's a very decent human being.  I hope he can find a way to let the latter take control and make a decent career for himself.

So, football fans, feel free to scoff.  I have become one of the faithful at The Fridge of Dreams.  We might not win much.  But we'll be decent about it.

Finally, and with apologies to non-Scots readers, I think if the club is looking for a new slogan then there are no three words more obvious then these :

"Nae Bawbaggery Here!"

#MonTheCaps

The disappearing Xmas present

JUST BECAUSE IT'S NOT A PUPPY....

"A dog is for life, not just for Xmas".  We've all seen that one before and pondered on the sort of person who'd buy a puppy as a present without thinking through the consequences.  Some gifts deserve to be taken a it more seriously than others.

And some arrive with the expectation that, as with a canine companion, there will be a long relationship in the offing.  Only 'things' of course, but there's the odd item that looks so useful, as if it will suit you so well, that you feel sure it's going to become an essential part of your daily life.  And so it was with one of the more unlikely presents I received on the twenty fifth.  A foldaway rucksack, which fitted into a pouch not much bigger than a pack of cards, and seemed the ideal solution to those moments when I find yourself buying more in the shops than I'd planned to do, and suddenly lugging a big carton of milk about on the end of my arm.  And given that we rarely use the car nowadays those moments seem to crop up surprisingly often.  (Which may just be a sign of how disorganised I am.)

The rucksack was made of black nylon and I didn't bother to unfold it at the time, thinking I'd leave it looking pristine until it was called into use.  Which happened a few days later.  At the supermarket till, more items than expected, some of them on the hefty side, and me far too mean to pay the 5p per bag charge now implemented in Scotland.  This is a job for .... foldaway rucksack!

So out it came and neat piece of design it looked.  Broad straps for the shoulders, adjustable buckles, and the pouch turned into a zip pocket on the outside of the rucksack.  A load was placed inside, the bag slung on my back and we headed for the bus stop.  Only for a number 16 to arrive at just that moment.  On bus, up the stairs, slide rucksack from shoulders - rip!  One backstrap parted company with the nylon seam it had been joined to.  And now I had a black nylon holdall.  From putting it on my back to the moment of destruction took less than five minutes.

At least we hadn't had time to become attached to one another.  It had not cemented it's place in my life, become the essential pocket companion I had expected from it.  But at least it wasn't a puppy.

PS  This one came from Trespass and seems to be the only one they sell.  Anyone come across any better alternatives?

Children should be seen and not heard?

THE KIDS FESTIVAL?  SOMETIMES....

My last post, harking back to events in August, reminded me of another thought I had at that time and it still feels worth sharing.

Anyone who knows me well will be aware of my paedophobic tendencies.  I have spent most of my life trying, where possible, to avoid the company of small children (or even large ones).  They simply make me feel uneasy, that's all, in much the same way dogs or cats or spiders do to other people.  So I certainly don't pretend to be an expert of the subject of bringing them up.

But, despite this, I did notice that the Edinburgh Fringe seems to be catering for the needs, and entertainment, of children more and more.  This year there seemed to be far more shows advertised that were aimed at a younger audience, and lots of street acts too.  It would seem easy to find something for your child to enjoy, and the Fringe is making itself as family friendly as possible.

Although even I can see that there must be some limitations.  Making your way through densely packed streets is sometimes bad enough for someone my size, so I imagine it might hold occasional moments of terror if you're only two feet tall.  If you're going to 'do' the Fringe than you have to be willing to brave the tidal flows of Festival-goers in their many thousands.

Some adapt to this in their own way.  I have heard a comedian tell of, and seen for myself, parents who use their pram/pushchair as a form of weapon, a battering ram to carve a path through the hordes, expecting that people will fall aside when confronted with the magic they wield.  Like I said, I'm no expert, but is that approach in any of the myriad childcare manuals?

Of course the parents have come to Edinburgh to enjoy a bit of culture themselves, not just to see their kids entertained, so they want to see something a bit more grown up than three puppets in a plastic boat.  But where do you find child care in a city that's in the throws of hedonism?  This is not a question some of them seem to have asked before they turn up.  Which brings me to the two incidents which inspired this wee rant.

Phill Jupitus is a bit of a TV star now, but began as a street poet, and each year at the Fringe he reincarnates himself as Porky the Poet.  Although it's on around five o'clock it is emphatically not a kids show.  It isn't advertised as such, there are no grounds for suspecting that it might be.  So when a couple brought their twelve year old along and plonked themselves down in the front row it wasn't quite what Mr J was expecting. He was, as you'd expect, pretty decent about it.  He asked the kid how old he was, he asked the parents if they knew what kind of show he was about to deliver, he gave every kind of hint you might ask for.  When there was no sign of them moving he told the kid he'd be learning some new words and concepts that none of his schoolmates would know about yet.  And still they insisted on saying.

Personally I'm glad they did. Because Porky then proceeding to rip the piss out of said parents at frequent intervals during the following hour.  Which he seemed to enjoy, and the rest of the audience did, and maybe even the kid.  Well, the bits he understood.  As for the parents?  Who cares....

Our final Fringe show of 2014 was a Glasgow comedian called Janey Godley.  If you don't know here then check her stuff on YouTube.  Very funny.  And very sweary.  The show was just getting going when a woman came to the door with a small child.  Janey went over, told her this wasn't a good idea, and she had the sense to recognise the wisdom in this and turned back.  Which prompted Ms Godley to relate the tale of a less readily convinced punter she'd had in a few days earlier.

Two parents with a small girl.  Janey did the same as above, went over and explained that this really wasn't a show that was suitable for children.  The parents argued that it was up to them as they'd paid for their tickets.  The Godley voiced was raised in volume so that all could hear. "Why would you want to bring in a wee kid in to see a woman who says 'cunt' a lot?"

They got the point.  They left.  Now that's my kind of show.

Not the 2014 Review it should be

IT'S REVIEW TIME, ISN'T IT?

This is the time of year when world, dog, and dog's granny are all looking back at the preceding twelve months and attempting to crowbar some sense of order and narrative on to their own randomised lives and the mixed up storyline that is humanity.  And this isn't one of those.  It is, however, a review, even if a little on the late side.

Last year I posted a list of my favourite ten shows from the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe.  I did so about four weeks after my city had sighed it's relief at the annual ending of the world's largest arts festival.  Sufficient time had passed to give me some perspective on what I'd seen, near enough for it still to have some sense of relevance.

This year I had, really, intended to do the same.  But (insert your own choice of lame, half-arsed excuse here) and that's why it didn't get done at the time.  However, never let it be said I don't deliver eventually, despite my Adamsesque attitude to deadlines.  Better late than never?  Probably not, but here it is anyway.

As with last year's effort, I present these in no particular order.  We managed to see sixty shows in little more than three weeks, and trying to reduce that to a favoured ten was hard enough without trying to pretend that one was better than another.  I'll start with the acts who made this list last year.  There were six we saw again, three are back here this time, and I'll begin with the same man I did last September.

Cuckooed is a one man drama telling a tale of treachery, espionage, and the exercise of naked power.  It shows Britain's largest arms manufacturer, BAE, spying on a small group of activists who are trying to bring said company's disdain for human rights to the attention of a wider world.  The cuckoo in question is an old friend of most of the activists who has been bribed into betraying his fellows.  The one man telling the tale is, of course, Mark Thomas.  Which means that the show is slick, the narrative compelling and fast paced, the emotions often raw, and frequently hysterically funny.  Particularly mention has to be made of the staging, which sees various talking heads pop out of filing cabinets on screens to give their side of the story.  Very effective.  Thomas is an astonishing stage presence and never fails to be both informative and hilarious.

Jennifer Williams was one of my favourite discoveries of 2013 and she was back again with another one woman performance (assisted, in the background, by her brother providing music and sound) and another quirky story to tell.  The Cold Clear Elsewhere is based on factual events and tells of Grace, an Australian war bride, who married a British sailor, and eventually sailed half way across the world to start a new life with a man she could, by then, hardly remember.  With a few props Jennifer creates several scenes in differing places and times, her acting skills well up to playing a wide variety of characters along the way, yet never leaving the audience in doubt about who they were watching, or where, or when.  By the end it was hard to believe that an hour had passed, so absorbed had I been in the action.  It was a shame that this was probably the smallest audience I was part of all month, only just breaking double figures, and I hope she can find her way into a more central venue next year.

And finally, in my repeat trio, Mr Aidan Goatley.  Once again he performed 10 Films With My Dad, and my comments of last year still stand on second viewing.  There was also 11 Films to Happiness (there may be a theme here....) which was equally entertaining, silly, charming, funny and simply enjoyable.  Aidan is just such a lovely, lovely man that it's hard to imagine him not being fun to watch.

In "10 Films" Mr G has roped in a few of his mates to help with some of the cinematic sequences in his show, and we went to see one of said mates doing his own stand-up thing.  Oft times there can be a sense of disappointment at seeing a comedian live after seeing him or her on the telly.  This man had been on Mock the Week, but I wasn't going to hold that against him.  Romesh Ranganathan is Funny.  You know the kind of comedy where you come out unable to repeat a single joke and barely remember what it was all about, except that your chest hurts because there was hardly a second when you weren't laughing?  The sort of comedy where you have to remind yourself to keep breathing?  That's Mr R.

Oh, and he helped make my night, albeit indirectly. He asked me if I thought I was a good husband.  I suggested I wasn't the person to judge and that he ask Barbara sat next to me, so she was requested to give me marks out of ten.  And there am I thinking "Maybe a five?  A six would be good....".  And she say "Eight and half".  Eight and a bloody half!!  I'm still not sure what I've done to deserve anything that good, but I'm not about to forget it (or remind her when it seems 'appropriate').

Another stand up comedian, of sorts.  An American in a weird, scarlet, bulbous onesie who worked his audience into the act.  If you don't like participation then this wasn't for you.  It was teasing, testing, terrifying, timeless.  If at times it verged too far towards the simplistics of the Self Help 'Industry' it fully redeemed itself with the opportunities it provided for thought and the sheer funniness of the words and actions on stage.  The show is called Red Bastard and I will say no more, for it is something you have to experience to understand.  Would I go back?  Maybe....

Away from the stand up, but sticking with comedy, Austentatious is certainly an act you easily view several times, for every performance is different.  Six actors improvise a comedy drama based on title suggestions from the audience, all in the style of Jane Austen.  That could so easily go wrong, but these guys all know each other so well, and have such a great sense of timing, that the result is laughter making throughout (sometimes for the cast as much as the audience, the corpsing serving to make the performance even funnier).  I'll be back.

Another comedy drama, Spilt Decision, but scripted this time.  Partly in verse, which highlighted the unreality of the action and the satirical intent.  The characters portray a drunken husband, a domineering wife and a non-combatant marriage counsellor.  The battle lines are clearly drawn and the script, written by local comedian Keir McAllister, wears it's heart proudly on it's sleeve.  With the sharp end of that heart pointing strongly towards a Yes vote in the then upcoming Scottish Independence Referendum.  I can't tell you what it would have been like for a neutral, or even a No supporter, but they were preaching to the utterly converted in me and I enjoyed it hugely.

Three to go, and I'm going to cheat a wee bit.  This event was advertised in the Fringe programme, but was also selling tickets as an independent theatre event.  It was also held outside Edinburgh, in adjoining Musselburgh, so I'm stretching the definition a bit.  This was a last minute decision too.  We'd had tickets to see James Rhodes (one day, one day), but illness had forced him to cancel at short notice.  Was there a music gig that would replace it?  Cue mad phone calls to get tickets and we were off to the far East (Lothian) that evening.

It's been a few years since I last saw Blazin' Fiddles and the line up had changed considerably, but the format remains the same.  A rhythm section of guitar and keyboard, and four of Scotland's best fiddle players up front.  Some fabulous music, some terrible jokes and a lot of silliness.  Best of all, sheer energy coming off the stage and infecting the watching crowd.  The line up kept changing, with solos and duos and trios, and then the full band again.  There was virtuosity and sheer bloody joy out there.  Impossible to leave without a grin.

Even more of a cheat for this one, for two reasons.  The event was in the International Festival itself, not the Fringe.  And it was actually three events, but as an experience deserves to be treated as one.  You may have read about (or even seen) the James plays.  Three new works, each based on the lives of the first three kings of Scotland called James.  We saw all three in the one day, enjoying the sense of continuity and overriding narrative that opportunity provided.  All three made powerful individual statements, with James 1 the most complete as a drama, 2 it's slightly weaker cousin, and 3 falling somewhere in between.  The presentation of 3 in a more modern setting took some getting used to, and the first half was more 2 than 1 in dialogue quality.  But the second half saw Sofie Grabol, of Killing fame, deliver an astonishingly powerful and commanding performance which demanded that Scots and Scotland take a good hard look at themselves.  Historic, important, unforgettable.

And finally.  Not necessarily the funniest, or cleverest, or most dramatic show I saw, but perhaps the most memorable.  Have you ever heard of Tourettes Hero?  If not then shame on you, because you should.  Jess Thom has tourettes, which makes her say Biscuit rather more often than you'd hear it said after spending a day in McVities.  Penguins and hedgehogs feature on a regular basis.  And she hits her chest a lot.  All of this is, of course, involuntary and a by-product of her condition.  A much misunderstood condition and Jess has made it her role in life to dispel the myths and encourage understanding as much as one person can.  And she's very, very good at it.  So much so that she created a stage show to show to anyone who cared to come along to see what tourettes involved, how it affected her life, and just what an instinctively funny person she is.

The show was called Backstage in Biscuit Land and in it Jess, aided by an excellent actress also named Jess, tells us what having tourettes is like for her and those involved in her life, how the wider world sometimes reacts and what that feels like for her.  All the while making the whole explanation wildly entertaining.  Unpredictably so for all concerned because, as she explains at the start, her condition makes her incapable of sticking to a script, and some of the unplanned outbursts are even funnier than the original lines.  (Plus, at the show we were at, she had a couple of friends with tourettes in the audience, and one of them added some great punch lines of his own!)  Simply lovely.

And that's it, out of my system at last.  Still not sure how I've been forced to leave out Jo Caulfield, Chris Coltrane, The Nualas, Bruce Fummey....

Maybe next year I'll be back to doing this in September?

'Twas the move before Xmas

THE WRONG WAY TO MOVE

No, this isn't about my attempts to dance at a Xmas night out.

It's been several weeks since I last posted anything here and that has almost entirely been down to one thing - we've been moving home.  Again.  It's said to be an experience almost on a par with bereavement for stress levels. That always sound a bit OTT to me, but it certainly isn't one of the more relaxing ways to pass the time.

But we thought we had a way to make life easier for ourselves, take some of the pain out of the process, give ourselves a bit of time.  For reasons I won't go into here we were in the unusual situation of being able to stay in our old flat for a while after we had been given the keys to the new one.  So, we thought, let's do a staged move, and not actually settle into our new home until it's been made habitable.  They're little more than a mile apart, so shuffling back and forward won't even take much time. Will it?

And now, one month on, I can give you a solid recommendation should you ever find yourself in a similar position:

DON'T

DO

IT

Just don't. Go on the traditional path of enduring one day of extreme harassment followed by days and days of living amongst the boxes.  In the end it will be quicker and less effort, and you won't look like total plonkers to the rest of the word.  Trust me.

We'd bought the flat fully furnished (that too is another story....) and spent the first three days rearranging the items we were keeping and moving most of the others down to the garage. Day four and our old stuff arrived from storage where it had dwelt these past four months. An episode straight from a seventies sitcom (with me as Terry Scott) as we tried to remembered why we'd wanted to keep all these....things. Endless things of limited use was how it appeared. More things to stick into that garage.

So we now had an overstuffed flat that looked more warehouse than penthouse. Ah, but we had that 'luxury' of not having to move in and live amongst the cardboard, did we not?  And therein lies the problem.  Because instead of working every available hour to make the place habitable we'd wake up somewhere that already was, and return there in the evening.  And there would still be food shopping to do, meals to make, a social life to lead (why not?).

So the days passed in this fashion. Empty a few boxes, fill up the wardrobes, move furniture around, return home ('home'?) weary and ready to eat, watch TV and have a good sleep. And maybe a lie in, since it was tempting to do so. Progress was slow.  But then the moment arrived when the decision had to be made about actually 'moving in'.  Prompted by that most essential element of modern life - when the broadband account switched properties.  Suddenly it doesn't feel like home any more without a fast internet connection....

Which means moving all those bits and pieces that made one home feel like home into the other home to make that feel like home, so that the first home wouldn't be home any more, which it wasn't without that broadband connection, even if I (there were a few days when I was left to my own devices) was still sleeping in the home that wasn't any more.  I think.

No vans this time, no strapping young men to shift the heavy stuff, just a hatchback and us. And a new block of flats that has a lot of doors and distance to cross.  There's nothing like a suitcase/box obstacle course to improve the temper.  That operation began about, oh, six months ago maybe.  Or is it really just six days?  A short drive across, yes, but why has it come to feel like a commute?

But we are in, and have slept here. Several times.  There is still more 'stuff' to come, but if we live without it for long enough maybe it will fade away from memory.  There is, just like in a normal move, one room decorated with wall to wall cardboard boxes, so there was no advantage there either  In fact the only positive I can come up with isn't for us, but for any neighbours who might have chanced to watch.  (Not that I've seen any net curtains twitching, it's not that sort of neighbourhood.)  They may have enjoyed a few comedy moments from two not-so-young people trying to move cases and boxes and oddly shaped items through rain and wind - carrying back the empty boxes for another load is a particularly good way of turning into a Marcel Marceau impression of a rudderless Cutty Sark.

And that's how not to do it.

But at least I can start blogging again.