Category: Weather

Who wants to be foretold the weather? It is bad enough when it comes, without our having the misery of knowing about it beforehand…

The Alternative Advent: Day 4

weather banner 2Everyone talks about the weather—

But no one does anything about it…

I managed to find time for a refresher shower shortly before the cat decided it was morning for the third time, knowing full well I’d either soon be summoned back to bed by her or unnecessarily shoved there by the brass monkeys.

You know the sort of thing— the 30 minute wake-up plunge squeezed into 90 seconds, with water that’s underdone for this time of year. I was hopping about chattering in fear of being caught short and shorter between a bout of hypothermia and an outdoors at its worst, in the chops.

We’ve had some particularly serious and chapping weather today; and it’s been miserable. Last night it was howling around the garden, in the way and of the type that used to smoke my cigarettes for me— all whilst slapping me about for good measure. Liveners they may be, but they’re insolent all the same.

It is observations such as these that really can inspire one to start looking at such things in a hurtful way, as though its infliction of injury is quite deliberate.

I can certainly imagine worse ways of looking at weather, but none quite so British or appropriately condescending as categorising it in terms of their manners.

And as such, it really would require a condescending name:

A formalities forecast perhaps?

I’ll leave it to you to imagine the extent to which a bag of Atlantic wind would have on your patience; or how amused you’d be were it on someone else’s, but I assure you there really are weather equivalents to:

  • speaking in a manner considered over-voluminously.
  • or with a mouth full of cake.
  • being called a little on the heavy side.
  • entering a room without so much as a tap first.
  • sneezing all over the place and you.
  • then not thinking to apologise
  • laughing at a small child when they’ve walked into something— as long as it’s not a road.

Obviously, I’ve allowed myself several moments to savour some of the more beastly behaviours of the uncontrollably uncultured and pondered their meteorological twins— and I must confess to much delight in doing so.

There would be something endearing about a forecast focussing on how noisy the weather was going to be; on its brashness; whether it would be rude, brazen, vulgar, impudent, discourteous, unmannerly, uncivil, cheeky, uncouth, crude, crass, gross, rustic, rough, common or churlish…

Or to what percent we ought expect a state of being or funny-business to swirl about us. How it may veer from a general gentlemanliness to being distinctly unladylike, lacking in gallantry, spine, spirit, heroism, pluck or consideration, or in a moment— being chock full of it!

It’s not what I had in mind exactly once the cat had finished her nonsense earlier, but I’ve decided there’s little virtue in describing how to make smash out of chewing gum— or spoiling how amusing applying good etiquette to shitty weather can be.

I always carry a spoon in my pocket. You know, just in case it rains…

Jarod Kintz

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I have to admit it’s getting better…

There is one consolation in being sick; and that is the possibility that you may recover to a better state than you were ever in before…

Henry David Thoreau

clone 02 2I think I can safely say the fog of beastliness has finally been lifted and the mending is well and truly on its way. That said, there is still a residual strangeness afoot— no doubt owing to a few nights spent bolt-upright for fear of drowning from the nose down. The head is clearer, so much so I can picture phrases in their entirety and have them committed without the worry they’ll escape as they did yesterday; which wasn’t so much a case of forgetting what I was trying to copy, as it was a series of chases I wasn’t properly conditioned for. That’s the worst thing about feeling under the weather: as climates go, they aren’t particularly chivalrous.

I remember one particular malady which left me so indisposed, I not only considered it malfeasant, so unnecessary were the symptoms; but also the closest I’ve ever been to becoming a vegetable. I was so delirious at one point, I actually considered making clippings of myself to send to friends so they could grow their own me.

Since then I’ve used the man/pot-plant spectrum as a rough rule of slide to gauge the gruesomeness of whatever it is that ails me: one being quite normal and ten: Salix babylonica or Weeping willow— a pleasant enough looking thing, but with all the characteristics of a state you should never be: ornamentally droopy and narrow, deciduous and named after a place which arouses images of exile and immorality.

While I hadn’t quite reached the shady heights of a ten, I was nevertheless pendulous enough to remain tucked up, clinging onto my duvet— along with the sixes and sevens in-case they ran off in search of the words that’d absconded earlier in the day. It’s just one of those ghastly things we pick up over time, along with the odd bug or two, that once things start getting away from us, there’s really no stopping them.

Fortunately the emancipation ceased and I didn’t get too much worse as the day dragged on— the drugs plugged the symptoms to the point I could at least breathe without making gargling sounds, which in turn allowed me to sleep a little. Unfortunately, I haven’t the stamina to delve into anything remotely grumpy today, at least not with the gusto it truly deserves. The beastliness may have evaporated, but there is still the small matter of about 50IQ points to make back up. So with any luck, after a few cups of tea and one good rest I’ll be ready for whatever the weathermen may throw at me; and with any hope be smarter than the cat again.

Without civilisation, we would not turn into animals, but vegetables…

Mason Cooley

In what must’ve been the second worst journey in the world: patting the journeyman & 12 hours on a coach…

Coaches are the devil—

Satan himself must travel this way.

Horse-drawn_coach,_Tolaga_Bay,_Gisborne_Region,_c._1880sI’ve often wondered if I’d look back one day and consider the following twelve hours of my life with amusement or horror; and whether or not the experience had been a terrific one. And this is that day— it was as I feared, a long time in the coming— I do however, still have nothing but the most hostile opinion of it. I detest coaches, hate them, they’re the very ass of public transportation— I hate them almost as much as travelling on them and this particular 588 was no exception: Unless of course the horror of this journey could be classified as exceptional, which it was, but only in the loosest possible sense.

Not only was I stuck for prolonged periods— actually stuck— wedged between safety glass and a guy determined to fill all the space available to him and a large proportion of the space purportedly mine. But, I also found myself sitting atop a heating element hell-bent on melting me; no doubt ensuring that if he’d wanted to— my immediate neighbour could’ve taken over the entire bench, with barely the minimum of fuss.

The heat was also clearly upsetting a few of the other passengers; and it wasn’t just owing to the smells of searing flesh. I may not have been able to see them through the sweaty mist that had been steadily accumulating since our departure at Victoria— but the groaning was unmistakable, no doubt related to the unusual climate we were amidst. There were grunts of dismay and the occasional thud I attributed to the simoom whirling about us causing passengers to either faint; or lose their way and walk into something— something I had no intention of doing myself— even if I’d wanted to.

I valued my pride you see, and with it firmly intact, albeit lacking a few hundred pounds where my sweat had been, for lack of a better word: leaking through the very minimum of clothing I felt comfortably decent in; I maintained ‘decorum’— in its most ‘primitive’ state you understand, until Keele— and this was some six and some odd hours into the ride. It was round about this time I decided, decorum be damned, and negotiated the corpse to my right and headed for the higher ground of the central aisle only to find myself surrounded by a litter of unluckily-plucky fellows who had clearly got lost en route to the chemical toilet at the rear and fallen over. It was here I stayed until we disembarked for the grand duration of thirty minutes into the chilly northern evening…

Feeling the need to take matters into my own hands, I approached the driver with my concerns regarding the ludicrous state of affairs taking place behind him, to which he merely asked whether or not it was because it was too hot or too cold. Obviously, I found the resolve to smutter loosely at his hutzpah; informed him that I quite fancied most of us had reported seeing camels since our departure and if he wouldn’t mind and could muster it— could he please turn down the heat…

Whether or not he complied is beyond me, but the sand laden winds deceased and there were fewer individuals cluttering up the walk way. I occupied the inside seat this time, which I soon discovered, came with its own set of problems. Unlike my companion, who was at times using my shoulder as a dribbling mat, I couldn’t really bring myself to lean excessively— I could tilt backwards or forwards, something I did-so thoroughly and decided: while it may be fine for the upper body, comfort was of no avail for the lower extremities; something I couldn’t forget with my legs now letting the rest of me know all about it whenever they possibly could. And though it was frighteningly annoying, this— I could have coped with. Constant jostling is something that can be ignored with a practicable ignorance; a leaky roof however, is completely different…

So there it was, one of life’s little ironies. Since I had already been cooked for all intents and purposes, crushed and changed seats— and despite my best efforts completely unable to discover any reasonable means of establishing comfort— it was decided that my insult was to be to rubbed further by a steady stream a water from which I was powerless to escape.

My sighs, as you can imagine, became more pronounced and the onset of snow at the journey’s end seemed to be a fitting accompaniment to the heat, dampness, discomfort and sleeplessness…

They may go round but they drive me up the wall—

Such is the way of the wheel…

Yes, I am looking at your obituary now. Tell me, where exactly you are calling from?

Every man dies— Not every man really lives…

William Ross Wallace

_65300595_bodyline-1If ever I reach the after-life— and this really doesn’t hurt thinking about by the way. I’d hate to just turn up, be spoilt for choice or so unprepared I’d have to wing it— I’d like to think that I would trundle as opposed to walk from place to place. Trindle or trendle, I don’t mind. Call me a romantic, but it has an air of clumsiness to it— something, when it all comes down to it, I’m rather fond of. I couldn’t think of anything worse than spending what remains of whatever without even the slightest trip to boast of.

Anyway, If I’d ever find my self trundling across a beach with a wireless stuck to my ear— I’d hope whomever were in charge would have the wisdom to employ the right crowd. None of these shock-jock bastards or flash-pan prats who shout a lot and are generally mean. But people who already have the misfortune to be dead.

These are my thoughts precisely when I tune into Test Match Special during rain delays and listen to Blowers, Aggers and Boycs paint pictures and speak of the mothers— very talented some of them. Unfortunately, I very nearly spoil it by taking a peek outside. It’s can be grey, miserable looking and decidedly home-made. The birds are off doing otherwhiles and of course there’s the damp. I am not to be undone however— not while romanticising about dead people and green fields.

Back to the beaches I think— back to the wireless. You see, I’d find the idea of owning anything other than a wireless when I’m dead a trifle distasteful. After all, what could you possibly want to listen to that your personal broadcaster wouldn’t have: he’d have wings for Pete’s sake— or jet packs or whatever, presuming ‘he’ was not a ‘she’ and that ‘they’ had passed all their necessaries before taking to the air.

My idea of perfection would be a live, ball-by-ball commentary of from 1932-33 Ashes Tour Down Under. I’d have Blowers in the box with BJ, Arlo and Fingo. Anywhere else of course, this wouldn’t be possible as Fingleton was actually playing at the time; but who better to describe his own batting?

Of course, you might say, it’d be easier to just go and watch the matches myself and yes— you’d be absolutely right, but time-travel’s impossible. Were it though, then this would be my destination one— so what would be better than to drag my favourites along to commentate. The fact that they’re all legendary drinkers and that Arlo would’ve had his wine cellar with him at all times, hadn’t even crossed my mind…

And then there was television—

Or just the listings perhaps…

I sometimes google autism and the nun; autistic nun; nuns on the spectrum – just AS nuns, sometimes do…

It’s habit, but what exactly to call it—

And would it smell as sweet?

530420_10150764779066041_2054832089_nI am terribly fond of trifles— a trifle cleverness for instance, provided it’s not too early in the morning. There’s always so much to do and what with wakefulness becoming such an undertaking, I find it unnecessary in the extreme. I’m far too fond of taking my particulars in a pedestrian manner— just one of the customary customs I’m accustomed to, to speak nil of the custumal. I’d call it routine were I able to abide the laziness of it— there’s far too much of that about, especially when everything else I have to write about is stripped of unnecessary words. And while nude text is most effective when dealing with the real world, I must confess how partial I am to the eccentricities of abusing syllables to the dozen when a few would certainly do. Suffice to say this trifle is rather filling. But let’s see…

I like a particular light, a particular quiet, in a particular room; two particular pints of one particular tea in twice the particular mug— though I’d refrain from describing this as fussy; not in the slightest— just a superficial type, more trinket than trapping that I’d hate to break: habits are most certainly not records.

By pint number three I may have settled into my reading, sometimes it’s hard to tell— the simmering awkwardness that accompanies me throughout the day’s most noticeable at this time, so it’s best to tread carefully. It’s also so rather dependant on the weather— the rain makes a racket and the gloom makes the room; then there’re those bloody wind-chimes: there really ought to be some observances regarding their uses enforceable by civilians prone to a little grumpy now and then.

Whether ritual or routine, it isn’t any wonder why we’re co-dependant, or simply compatible; or whether we’re just mutually beneficial— there’s always an elegant symmetry in antistrophe: I to the text, the text to I— to say nothing of the tea… or the light, or the quiet, the mug, weather or…

Each year one vicious habit discarded, in time might make the worst of us good.

Benjamin Franklin

Or at the very least, freak out a tad before doing so…

The psychological census, garden gnomes, wind-chimes, revenge & Russian roulette…

There is something so devilishly irrelevant about contemporary garden art—

That it cannot help failing to stimulate…

223102_10151214972906041_603918045_nThis is not always a good thing. It’s actually positively cruel in ways I am loathe to describe in too much detail, just in case my points are used for criminal purposes. There’s no doubt in my mind that some of this rubbish’s innocuousity— quite shamelessly so— could be exploited for tormenting the innocent; myself included, and I mention it only because the winds that pound my window, are also the same winds currently upsetting the wind-chime next door; belonging to a woman so grotesque, I have a mind to suggest she audition to become a garden feature— in someone elses garden.

It’s not that it’s something I could reel off a hundred objections against with ease, it’s just— well, everything about them. I fail to see anything remotely redeeming about them— it’s just my hope that someone I’m not too keen on is being creeped out too. They are made from scrap, crap and rubbish; they look like it and their sounds reflects the way they look. And just to compound the issue, the weather at present is far too intemperate to contemplate many more nights like last night.

The godawful racket wasn’t so much as reflected as it was carried off and up and around, before being thrown about with great force, seemingly sucking energies from the earth as it tried to dent my windows, my ears and my tranquillity— three things one really ought, if one does not already— hold dearly. No one need feel put upon in this way, which is what precipitated the streak of ruthless cunning with which to whisk future gales— should one reappear— perhaps one future day. Perhaps tonight?

My plans are dependant upon one unlikely event however and should it not transpire, I’ve a mind to just insert my own: the introduction of a psychological census. With the results, I could then ensure the correct noise was placed under the correct bedroom, correctly of course— in order to procure maximum nocturnal irritation. And if I couldn’t be specific and individually tailor my treats— there would always be the car-alarm— at least I’d like to think resorting to such a thing would be unnecessary: car-alarms are bastards.

My uncle is a great lover of tack: that would be inane rubbish to you or I. And were it not only his passion for buying it, but his passion for hanging it in his garden, we’d propably have more in common. A collection of twirly throws of coloured plastic whizzing back and forth are one of his more tasteless stylistic comments, in fact I’d prefer to call it a commitment. Another is a set of chimes; made from bamboo. It rather puts me in mind of ‘The Bridge On The River Kwai’ or the Vietnamese POW camp in ‘The Deer Hunter’, you want to rattle it and shout ‘Mao-mao!’ loudly, preferably within a foot from someone’s face. Though the temptation to actually put my foot in anyone’s face is rare, I believe I would make the except if next door pretended she was a gnome.

Now this is coming from someone who only saw the film— it’s rhetorical and I am not being influenced by television— but imagine if you’d actually been there and something woke you up by rattling bamboo outside your window. Imagine you have a slight incontinence problem only to wake up with a replica of the Trafalgar Square fountain floating in front of your face. Imagine being afraid and finding your fear hanging outside your bedroom window:

Perhaps it will be me, with a copy of: 

The psychological census…

And don’t get me started on gnomes…

Superheroes, disguises & fairy landscapes…

What a difference a day makes—

I hate these differences…

375601_10150752315281041_1742842866_nThough it does indeed. No two are alike and as with the riddle binding the elegance and mystery of the moment together— such things reveal themselves to me whilst I find myself going through an unscheduled, artistic change— a small period of paper-blindness is quite normal…

One step was to alter my identity to avoid being recognised in unlikely places. The obvious dwelling places, such as dells and fairy-landscapes hold no odds for me of encountering misfortunates— and unlike previous do-gooders before me, blessed with the immortality that required little more than a good set of hair straighteners and a chunky pair of spectacles; I value my anonymity— CCTV and all. The last thing I want is to be chased by the owner of a car I saved from being run over by a delinquent whilst on a reconnaissance mission during a winter month.

As the days get colder, the nights are hotting up for action and I’m afraid, since I made an addition to my special suit— I have a distaste for describing it as a costume or uniform since I am neither a star of panto or a soldier. The scarf was not my usual spandex but holds within its fabric, a welcome love. Unfortunately the aerodynamics and drag it creates whilst cruising between 3 and 5 miles up, led to my making the decision to remove the spikes that had acted as a rudder; especially during times of high winds— I have decided to revert to a sharks’ fin in order to manoeuvre at high speeds and dub it the finbar.

With baldness comes sleeplessness and with no sleep comes an appetite for produce where ‘microscopic bacteria’ actually features prominently in the list of ingredients. The laughter comes in dribs and drabs, lasting up to a full minute if I am lucky; And I am so lucky— this I know. Those I save these chilly evenings barely know how to smile.

I wish I had one wish, the realisation of a what if— the chance to make a cautionary element of living, a treasure for the masses for a day.

It wouldn’t be the same without italics…

Would it?

I look after hearts when they least expect to need healing; pets and friends too. Even idiots who think they can climb tall buildings without a safety net. You’re all safe…

On golf & why clubs are most certainly not trumps; wind and the 2 percenters…

There are times when retreat is the only option but no matter how hard you look for it, it cannot be found—

Quite how only-options cease to become any option at all, fits into the realm of being one’s own master, I really couldn’t say. But times will be times…

430115_10150678943126041_1985871782_n

On occasions such as these then, when options aren’t really options and the only decision to be made is, to like it or lump it, the only recourse is resignation; to accept the notion that things are not, nor are they likely to be on-the-up for the foreseeable future. Whether that future be a couple of hours, three weeks or ten minutes; thirty seconds yesterday, was quite considerable enough for my liking for things not to be on-the-up. For when all that was up was clearly feeling injured at being so ill thought of by those pukers and durrynackers at the Met Office, their recourse was to do nothing but get down. And so it was, they did. And low they must have felt, because down they came, and down and down and down. Those thirty seconds became ten minutes, then a couple of hours, until they made damn-sure it felt like three weeks.

Yesterday was a miserable day– I myself was rather splendid, toffed-up with all the other howling cheeses, knowing full well the weather would not be– quite how removed from dandy though was at the time, a mere speculation. Far from being picture perfect, the sky had a little hoarseness about it, but no clue as to the airs and graces it later let loose. At least once during warm-ups I saw enough blue to make a pair of sailors trousers, so it was more in hope than anything I’d preferred science and those learned chaps in Devon, to dock-whalloping.

It was a golf day, as was the day before, but whereas previously it’d been about practise, learning lines and the lay of the land– yesterday was competition day. I don’t play in those, I’m the caddy. I’m the guy with the numbers; the guy who plays the day before to put some of the course management scenarios to the test. I’m the guy who checks the weather statistics to determine baselines: average wind-speed and potential gusts relative to the passage of play; and whilst there’s no substitute for experience, it’s important to have certain things tucked away in the back-pocket to fall upon when the only guidance is a small red flag fluttering a hundred yards away or the tops of the trees, twenty above and five to the right. In situations like these, the nod to the gods just ain’t pie. To put it in perspective, the percentage between the distance of a short approach to a pin and the desired distance from it once settled, is at most, about 2%. Wind affects the ball considerably which is why we have our baselines and the ability to shape our balls: left to right or right to left. You might very well say that a golfer will dress according to conditions and then rummage from start to finish.

Dealing with strong winds can be a lot like eating claws for breakfast. A ball launched high into the wind will stall but invariably land softly, however this has many woes to consider. In order to get to where you’re going, you need a stronger club; the stronger the club, the harder the shot so greater therefore, is the margin for error. A ball launched lower is more penetrative so it negates the effects of the more majestic, moon-bound ball. However, it is more likely to kick after its initial contact with the ground, bringing landing areas into play and depending on your chips, to which the ball now becomes– the luck of the bounce. But you still want the ball to stop within that 2%. In some respects, the curve related to the impact of wind in relation to the difficulty of controlling distance, when plotted as a distribution of probability, mirrors the trajectory of the shot itself. Golf, played like this can be bollocks. And there was the rain.

Showers and a North-Easterly at 11mph, gusts up to 24. That was what we expected. What we got was a delightful one club wind and clear skies for about twenty minutes. But that was before the botherations. So impertinent we must have been to take the word of the finest meteorologists in the world, that when the rain’d decided to stop fannying about, it also decided to forego the drizzling, preferring something akin to dust-whapping. Indeed, with the right amount of squint, it was perfectly obvious to those of us not already blinded by them, that the droplets bore an uncanny resemblance to skillets. And then there was the wind.

By this time, even the most myopic golfer would’ve been able to hazard a guess as to where the North-East was, as the rain’s hypotenuse was something of a mathematical marvel– so remarkable was it, that Galvin Green ought to consider whether 100% waterproof is merely connotative and the 2% degree of desirability should applied to all facets of golf. The only downside there however, would be a label signifying something’s impenetrable by water, some of the time, to me anyway– lacks pizzazz.

To labour the point here would be to do injustice to the gruesomeness of the next five hours. Any sensible person would agree that to spend any longer than necessary in such conditions would be idiotic, but therein lies one of the quirks of the game. The more foul it is, the longer it generally takes to play. There are the necessary costume changes, the umbrellas, the pointless huddling under the branches of lone saplings; the misguided attempts to lull between holes in the hope that the weather will do the same– by which point, all carefully composed plans are replaced with fuck-yous to the heavens and more of a grip-it and rip-it approach. Finesse becomes futile, and what’s more, so does the caddy.

We start out as invaluable foot-lickers only to find ourselves all a-cock, reduced to sodden dull-swifts, duffered out and sole-spectators to a precision game reduced to clumps and the business of bludgeoning.

Like I said, golf played like this—

Is bollocks…

But I myself was rather splendid…