Pirate Bling

Back in the golden age of pirating, all you had to do was sail around a bit and you would practically fall over a merchant ship loaded with plunder, apart from the loss of the occasional limb, monsters from the deep and mermaid sirens life was good. Then people got a bit annoyed at having all their stuff nicked so set out to put a stop to it. War ships were deployed, task committees formed and rewards offered for capture dead or alive, life became a bit more of a chore. The pirate way of life became less enticing and with the advancements in technology many a foresighted pirate saw the nail was in the coffin for the maritime based lifestyle they had become accustom and started to explore alternative careers.

Documents released through whistle blowing website WikiLeaks show that with the help of a government based back to work scheme many pirates returned to dry land, retrained and under local council supervision were integrated back in to society with the hope they could lead productive lives and enrich communities through their diversity. It could be attributed to the many hours singing shanties or the less formal attire adopted by these particular sectors, but it seems that pirates have a penchant for the music and entertainment industries as today this is where we see many have ended up. As much of a success as the scheme was there were a few pirates who's life of crime was so ingrained that once deemed rehabilitated they turned back to the underworld. A certain sector started black markets in pirate DVDs, games and CDs selling them on dodgy market stalls, street corners and through the 'guy at work' network. A few looked for fame over the air waves and started what has been called pirate radio. Already adept at mast construction they found this allowed them the ability to broadcast from all manor of locations, a few even returning to the sea. This made detection by the authorities almost impossible at the time and as it was only considered an infringement on the law very few were ever caught or prosecuted. Others chose to follow a more legitimate thespian career path and to this day can be seen treading stages across the world performing in everything from seasonal pantomime, opera and the dizzy heights of Hollywood to great acclaim.

Arguably the most successful group went in to music and became rap and hip hop stars. This genera was through necessity rather  than choice, many preferring more pop styled tunes but with their indecipherable pronunciation, less than tone perfect vocal abilities and hard luck life stories rueing the days they were shot numerous times and the bad neighbourhoods they grew up in, they were limited. Never the less they took the music scene by storm, their hard lyrics hitting a poignant note amongst despondent youth. They were able to incorporate the pirate cultural identity through the use of bandanas, gold teeth, and earrings , popularising the 'bling' movement we know today. Drink was a well publicised issue for pirates and the revenue from platinum album sales did nothing to quell this problem of binge drinking instead moving away from large barrels and on to premium brand bottled spirits. Being creatures of habit they stuck with brandy, rum and cognac drinks, and have in their rap star incarnations become much aligned with such brands as Hennesey, Jack Daniels and Courvoisier. Few could have seen the far reaching impact pirates would have, their influences stretching in to the mainstream vocabulary with words such as Yo, a greeting and also a shortening of the possessive prenominal adjective your, Ho, a woman of questionable moral standing and Booty, a catch all term meaning both treasure and women two highly prized assets in the pirate community. As well as the pirate limp, a way of walking where one leg is kept straight while walking in order to simulate a wooden prosthetic. All have now become commonplace on streets up and down the country particularly evident around such hubs as fried chicken shops and McDonald's outlets, sported by adoring fans eager to emulate their musical idols.

The debate as to whether these are positive role models remains to be seen. It has been shown you can take the pirate out of the sea but can he sing?

Egg and Soliders

It must have been more than 15 years ago. It would have been at my grandparent's house and probably on a Wednesday. That was last time I had a soft boiled egg with soldiers.

There is no reason it has been left this long. I had no bad experience I can only imagine that the seductive lure of scrambled, the hangover curing properties of fried or the gastro difficulty of hollandaise smothered poached variety just distracted me. It would have been in the seemingly endless summer holidays where I can only remember the days being sunny and children's cartoons playing on the television all hours of the day, that my sister and I would have visited my gran in what we considered to be deep in the Sussex countryside. Things at my grans house were always at a more sedate pace. Everything was hand made in the comforting way of recipes handed down and refined through a lifetime, using bowls and utensils that have served their function for a generation already but show no sign of giving up any time soon. Where cereal, usually in front of the television was normally the order of the day in our house at my grans things could not have been more different. Soft boiled egg and soldiers was on the menu the eggs from the market, many with feathers still stuck to the shells, most no more than a couple of days since they left the chicken and hit the ground. The bread was white and from an uncut loaf and required cutting on the slicing machine the width set to your desired preference. A couple of minutes under the grill and a thick coating of butter and the soldiers were dressed, shortly followed by the egg in a cup all served at the table. This was egg and soldiers as I remember it.  

I figured it was time to amend this glitch and go back to the future. On Sunday morning I fired up the grill and put an anemic slice of white bread under to crisp and tan. Moments later the pan of boiling water was bubbling away ready to receive its offering. I figured I was somewhat larger than I used to be so reasoned two eggs rather than the one from memory were probably needed so in they went for exactly 3 minutes before being scooped out by the slotted spoon and placed in a bowl of cold water. The bread got a butter covering and the eggs a cup long forgotten about from the back of the cupboard. We were ready to go just one questioned remained do you smash or slice the top.

For posterity I should have smashed but for convenience I sliced, inside was the gold, runny and ready for dipping. Always my favorite bit I waded in with a soldier of toast touching the bottom of the egg for maximum yolk coverage. The white was always second best. When I could I would pass it off to my sister or exchange it for her yolk in the days when saturated fats meant little to a kid. In all honesty I only ate the albumen out of loyalty to the yellow, figuring I would be doing the egg as a whole a disservice by shunning it, that and being a prisoner to the table until it was all finished and I was allowed to get down.
 
So was it like it used to be? In the end I had a pile of toast crumbs on the plate and table, two empty egg shells and yolk drips down my t shirt, yes.

Barely lamented

I had the immense pleasure of catching the bus to work the other morning. Whilst squashed between the window and the wide spread newspaper of the commuter next to me, a young gentlemen situated one row back on his way to school, decided to include me and the the middle third of the bus in his phone conservation by speaking in a tone only a few decibels short of a public address system. Although flattered that I should be included in said conversation I, with the help of my own copy of the Metro adopted the standard issue London block-it-out stare and got on with the journey. That was until I heard the youth say "yeah blood I had bare skills brov." Now this is completely out of context but I wondered in which context you could use such a phrase.

So does this boy have certain skills that he can only use once bare, invisibility for instance. A very useful skill but not one you hear people shout about too often. From recollection the documented (fictional) characters were all unfortunate victims of failed drug trials, chemical spills or some gifted scientist's plan gone wrong. Unless this kid is in the habit of hanging around with such scientists it seems unlikely to be the solution. Could it be those (wink of an eye) kind of bare skills. The kind that cause women to fall to their knees and become putty in your hand. If so where can I get some of those because at a far grander age it is this holy grail I am still searching for myself, let alone rewinding 15 years previous to the awkward fumblings of youth. Could it be bear skills. Bears have skills but there is a desperate lack of caves for hibernation in the local boroughs mostly as a direct result of government cut backs. Salmon migrating up the Thames are also few and far between so the skills a bear possesses are actually of little use in the urban environment and probably not the kind of thing you mention over the phone.

As folly as this is Bare turns out to be a catch all term and loosely means a lot of or excessively. It would seem things have changed since back in the day and calls in to question my decision to turn my back on the word of the street and adopt the commonly understood sentence structure and dictionary definitions to my vocab. Age catches up on you eventually and every so often old father time gives your heels a bit of a nip, here is one of those nips. I just lament those heady days when pocket money flowed freely, my day was 9 till 3 with a couple of play times in between and the world of slang sense.

Bad meant good and it was good to be bad except when it meant bad then it was bad.

Red and Bloated

I'm sitting in the garden, the best part of summer has past but the sun is shining and a cool breeze rustles through late in the afternoon. I've been here for a while and have turned a very deep shade of red indeed. I have become fat and rather swollen and I think if left for too much longer I stand the very real possibility of splitting right down the middle. I am not the only one but then thats what tomatoes do so it's to be expected really.

There are few things that come close to the taste of a freshly picked tomato from my very own garden. Maybe its the time invested nurturing the plant from seed, its constant child like calls for food, water and the occasional story that make the fruits taste all the sweeter in the end. As the summer draws in and the green fruits turn that deep shade of red the excitement build for I know a harvest is on the way and fresh tomatoes are nearly here. In good years there is a glut but never a waste as the Big cheese and I find inventive ways the use them in all manor of dishes and then concoct ways to preserve the rest. So after being plucked from that nice cosy stem that I had grown so accustom to what fate would I decide for my tomato self. Given the range of my applications the options are almost endless. It could be argued that the puritan way would be to be picked, sliced and possibly drizzled with a small amount of olive oil then enjoyed in my natural state. Sun dried seems a little more exciting, my flavors concentrated down to half my original size with the possibility of adorning any number of continental style neuvo unmeasured wop-a-hand-full-in Jamie Oliver creations.The fact is I am just toying with you, for me there is no debate to be had, I knew right from the start how I want to end up. It's not high brow or refined but loved by young and old.

I want to end up sweet but a bit sour too, I want to sit in cafes and to smother chips, lay on top of a burger and be pressed down by the bun. I want give the illusion of one of your five-a-day but with a taste that you know it isn't. I want the possibility of meeting anyone from a cabby to the queen. I want people to pause while the waiter fetches me before starting their lunch. I want to make an odd noise as I come out that makes small children (and the non tomato me) laugh out loud. I want to spray in many directions as I near the end and drip from sandwiches making shirts fit only for washing then refuse to show myself if dispensed from an old style bottle unless mercilessly spanked on the bottom. I can't think of any other way a tomato could have this much fun.

In short make me Ketchup.

Evolutionary list

It was about 32,000 years ago, sitting in a cave the smartest of the what we could loosely call our distant cousins grew tired of popping down the forest only to find when he arrived his pea brain had forgotten the very reason he had left in the first place. He hit upon the notion of making a physical image and with no paper to hand he drew it on the wall for safe keeping. Never again did Mr Caveman forget the many tasks that needed performing that day and as most days consisted of hunting, cooking and Friday nights knocking down pins at the Bedrock bowl-o-Rama one or two pictures were generally enough and saved all the crossing out and re drawing. The images that remain and what we refer to as cave paintings serve as a reminder of the advancements in evolution. They show the important and pivotal role in allowing cavemen to become a more productive bunch through the conception of the humble to-do-list.

There are a few things that are disputed about my opening gambit, firstly that a bloke wrote the to-do-list. Assuming gender stereotypical roles at the time it could quite easily be a shopping list from his wife, meaning that man did not invent the list but a woman, also other theories do exist based around the images being for the purposes of art and religion but I guess we will never truly know, one thing we do know is that lists are a bloody good idea. 

At any one time I will have three lists on the go there is one that I carry about, another sitting on the kitchen work surface and then a third in the ethereal space in my mind. I am of the old school when it comes to lists so it has to be pen to paper. A list made in the virtual world of a smart phones programming has no more presence than the wisp of a thought flying through my mind. The ink has to solidify the notion on paper before it becomes a pressing concern. I have to feel the papers presence in my pocket the corners rubbing against my leg nagging me to fulfill its purpose and check everything off. I get a satisfaction from all parts of the to do list. Its very inception means I have purpose. Being able to visualize the tasks ahead in black and white, pick the next one to tackle and the climax of crossing them off one by one in a game of chores bingo must surely be one of the most satisfying aspects of menial jobs. For a fully checked off list is a beauty to behold a testimony to your achievements that day. When completed it is almost immediately replaced by a newer more current list, but for a moment in time the list shines in it's completed glory before being resigned to the recycling bin.

I am almost sure that without my to-do-list the house would be in such a mess as to resemble a cave, the shopping left so long that I would have to forage in the back for anything edible and the washing forgotten leaving me no option but to wear the animal print tshirt deep in the recesses of the wardrobe. Maybe I am not so far along the evolutionary chain as I once thought.

Broken English

It is fair to say that my time at school was largely uneventful and this was fine by me. In the lore of the playground you learn quickly the dos and don'ts and the people best avoided. I hung about with my friends and mostly did my homework, throughout my time there I only made two real enemies. spelling and grammar.

I am not sure what happened on the day we learned grammar, perhaps I was ill because I truly have no recollection of anyone ever telling me this is how it is. Grammar was a hard lesson learnt through pages and pages of corrections. At the time I had nothing more than a vague interest bought about mostly through a late developing aversion to red ink. Books and I were well acquainted but even at the end grammar was no friend of mine and we parted ways with the certain knowledge that we would be forced together at a later date. Something has happened in the interim period, maybe we have both mellowed over the years. Where once we would cross the street in order to avoid each other now we say a passing hello. I have seen a whole different side to grammar in recent years that for some reason I was blind to before. The syntax of words and the insertion of punctuation I once saw as nothing more than a chore. The English language is blessed with such flexibility that as long as the correct words are there their meaning is usually not to difficult to construct. Where as I used to view grammar as a secret that I was not party to I am now starting to glimpse at its function.

There is a trend in education backed by statistics for boys to choose subjects such as mathematics, the sciences and design technology. To me these subjects are black and white because they conform to strict rules, there are formulas and ways or doing things, rules that I never saw or took no interest in when it came to English. But now the hieroglyphics have been translated and I cannot say I am fluent but I find this new language fascinating and not the chore it used to be it is now a challenge with rules and boundaries, not so unlike the sciences I once liked. There are things to discover and knowledge to to be gained a chance for self improvement and greater understanding. Anyone with half a notion of the correct deployment of grammar will instantly see this monologue littered with red ink. It is not uncommon for the Big Cheese to put more than a few things right but I can add this to the rules I have learned and move on. I never hated linguistics but now I like it more and think this could be the start of a good friendship.  

This will come as no surprise to those who did not miss that day at school but I don't really think that grammar's job is to police, grammar is the icing on the cake. Cakes are good but frosting makes it funny or poniente gives it a pace and a voice. Grammar frosting takes it from a sponge to a birthday cake and if it is really good a piped message on top.

Grammar and I may even go for a beer later, he was even talking of bringing a friend. Comma, full stop, even semi colon are all fine by me but if it's spelling, forget it. We still have issues.

Kryptonite brunch

I think it is true that everyone is good at something, everyone has their own power, something they are good at. But if we have learnt nothing more from the Superman franchise it is that there is no such thing as perfection. A flaw is not always obvious and even if it was would you tell. If we can believe the movie Clark Kent was in his mid thirties before anyone even knew the effects of Kryptonite. I say this because it seems pretty obvious now that even the dumbest of the many bad guys and henchmen now doing time could not have put two and two together and come up with something like "lets get some of that stuff that brings the unstoppable man to him knees." even if they could not see through a disguise consisting of a pair of glasses and a pot of hair gel. I am no Lex Luther but I have now discovered my sisters Kryptonite. I did not mean to it just appeared.

When it comes to cooking little L is pretty good. She has served dinners for 15 consisting of two sittings, cooked banquettes for Easter, Christmas and every other significant annual event. She has baked cakes for birthdays, christenings and weddings and I have never known a person to leave her house without complaining of eating too much. She does not cook in blue Lycra and does not need to change in a phone box before turning on the oven, but she is pretty good at cooking, thats (one of) her power(s).
I was expecting good things when I invited myself round for a late breakfast, or brunch if you want to be all American about it. When I arrived things were boiling and bread was primed for toasting. There was a great spread on the table and just a few things to finish off. We all sat down and the last of the bounty was presented. It was great, I started with some toast covered it in beans a few mushrooms on the side then some scrambled eggs. Now I do a bit of cooking myself and I am pretty much positive that the black and crispy extras did nothing to enhanced the overall taste and texture of the side dish, burnt scrambled eggs, must have been an off day. I invited myself round again about a month later again a great spread and again scrambled eggs avec black and crispy bits. I had to check, for a moment I thought that maybe little L had for all this time lived under the false notion that this was the correct manner to cook them. No they were just burnt and she knew it.

I do not wish to trivialise the scrambled egg for within its simplicity is contained one of the true wonders of breakfast. They should be light, moist and creamy but have the firmness to just stay on your fork, great scrambled eggs are an art that only a few people ever master.  But such is the greatness of scrambled eggs that even an adequate effort, easily achievable by almost anyone who puts their mind to it is still delicious and something to look forward to. We can therefor only reason other forces were at work, how else could you explain a complete loss of cooking ability for one of the simplest dishes known to man by a cook with credentials. A combination of an everyday frying pan and free range medium size eggs had combined and formed a Kryptonite substance which like Superman was harmless to everyone else on the planet except her. Unlike Superman she did not fall to the floor in a quivering heap I guess the hearty brunch gave her the strength to carry on.

It took Eve Teschmacher to save the great man of steel from a watery grave and to give us all the happy ending we had hoped for. With this is mind I worked tirelessly on an antidote until I found it.

Next time we had brunch I did the eggs.