Christmas or New Year? What's to like?

Like it or not, it's only round the corner: the festive season. Some dislike Christmas and practically orgasm over the whole process of planning and enjoying the build up to new year, others are totally the opposite and would rather forget that New Year's Eve happened at all. I'm somewhere in the middle and can take or leave either; if forced to make a choice, I'd have to weigh up the pros and cons.

Christmas - For:
Time off work, giving and receiving of presents, in fact indulgence of all sorts material and sensual. There's the Christmas Eve drinks with friends, knowing there's a lie in the morning, enjoying the conviviality of everyone's festive mood. Even the bin men are smiling and saying "Good morning", cynics would say they're just after a tip, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. Intoxicated giggling at the back of the church for midnight mass, and then retiring fairly early, to sleep off the alcohol in time for the gluttonous orgy that awaits on waking.
For me, Christmas day starts with a shower, late-ish and then a stroll to the local for a glass of brandy and a couple of pints with friends. Then depending on who's hosting Christmas dinner, it's either a walk or a lift to the venue of choice. Once with the family, a frenzied hour of opening presents, drinking and then the three courses of calorie laden, Christmas cuisine. Once the pudding is done and everyone looks uncomfortably full that is it. That's Christmas. Done and dusted in around 24 hours, from Christmas Eve to Christmas night. So I go and sleep it off and then my holiday begins.

Christmas - Against:
I usually get to Christmas Eve and realise I've forgotten a present, or rather just been too disorganised to do much in the way of shopping and wrapping, so there's a last minute whip around shops brimful of excited children and quarrelling parents. Hell on earth.People panic buying like there's going to be a siege - the supermarkets are only closed for a day or two in most cases and, there's still the corner shop which will be open right the way through.
Pubs, packed to the rafters with strangers, visiting relatives of others, people that don't usually enter the portals of a boozer any other time of the year and haven't the faintest idea how these institutions work. Dithering at the bar, wafting their arms about and after 5 minutes deliberation ordering a St. Clements. Other than the above, Christmas is ok.

New Year's Eve:
Well it's like Christmas, but without the turkey and presents, and with the knowledge that you've got one more day before it's back to the grindstone of another year.

That's why I prefer Christmas.

When is a Tattoo Sleeve Not a Sleeve?

Tattoo ink has been added to my right arm over a period of 3 years now and it's still not finished, just when I think I'm going to fill it all up, what seems like an acre of skin yawns before me, crying out for the needle. It has a nautical theme, there's a pin up, a mermaid, a ship, anchors, swallows, a compass, lighthouse, kraken, and adding colour a jauntily angled yellow submarine near the elbow.

It started with the Sailor Jerry sailor girl pin up, I first came across her on the inside of a label of a bottle of spiced rum bearing the legendary tattooist's name. It took about an afternoon to realise that I wanted her on my arm. My right arm at this point a virgin to this ancient art. Appointment made for six weeks' time, but put my name on the cancellation list, a few days later I got a call and was told there was a slot that afternoon if I could make it. I could.

Watching her taking shape on my bicep, over the space of an hour, I was already thinking about the next bit. I knew then that she was the start of something bigger, and my thoughts turned to a sleeve. As you can see in the picture on the right, my artist had done an amazing job. I left his apprentice the brief of designing some more work to go around her and made another booking. Six weeks later she was embellished with an anchor, waves a ship's wheel and other nautical designs. This sleeve was going places.

Next was the ship, again based on a Sailor Jerry design, but instead of the Homeward script, I used the Irish Aimsir An Dea, which means either Good Times, or Good Weather - both of which are appropriate to me, and the tattoo.

The rate at which ink was now being injected into my skin was increasing and the addiction as strong as anything else which might involve a needle might be. My mermaid was to follow and she was a much bigger project, involving 3 hours of pain over a couple of sessions, the tattooist layering different shades of green to give the impression of depth to her iridescent scales. Since then there's been the homage to The Beatles, to submarines and to psychedelia. An impromptu anchor, a kraken attacking a paddle steamer and a leatherback turtle.

My point to this blog post is this, and this is my opinion only, others may have a different view, but when my sleeve is finished it will have probably taken at least 20 hours work over four years, and a considerable amount of cash. It will be made up of lots of different tattoos, with the small gaps of skin to be ultimately covered in scales and breaking waves, so that I'm left with an interesting and complex piece of art. It will not be a forearm tattoo, a bicep tattoo and a whole load of clouds lazily covering the rest of the skin. I've seen people with no ink at all, and then a month later they're wandering around showing off their sleeve. To me, that's not a sleeve. It's a short cut to a fashion statement. Isn't it?

Maybe I'm just a grumpy old curmudgeon! I'd love to hear other peoples' views on this.

Sun, Strings and Super Cold Cider: The Acoustic Festival of Great Britain 2012

This is my fourth time at the Acoustic Festival of Britain, described by the Guardian as "The cleanest, best kept festival in the UK". And it is.
As I mentioned in previous post, I much prefer the smaller festivals to the large corporate money traps that dominate the festival season. To give you a feel for it, here's my account of this year's jamboree!

Spacious camping

Day One
We arrived at the gates of Uttoxeter Racecourse at around 11am on Friday (25th May) and joined the usual queue of cars waiting entry - that was a queue of one - us. We were speedily issued with our wristbands, which reminds me I must remove mine, and off to find somewhere suitable for the tent; one of the big bonuses at this festival is that you can park your car next to your tent - there's no 2 mile slog, laden like a pack horse to endure. There is masses of space in the soft green fields to find a spot, and nowhere is more than, at most, a 10 minute walk from the arena, stages and shops. It's all incredibly civilised.
Tents up, it was time to enjoy the sunshine, cook breakfast, peruse the programme (extremely fairly priced at £3) and decide who we were going to watch over the next three days. There's a varied collection of styles, talents and ages and the little biogs in the brochure helped us plan our attack over a couple of pints of real ale.

Real ales available

First off was TJ & Murphy a guitar duo from Liverpool who gave a mellow, tuneful and enjoyable start to the day, sprinkling their finely crafted tunes with anecdotes and stories about why their songs came about. Then we took a first walk to the main stage for the enthusiastically billed but disappointing Shamus O'Blivion; I'm a huge fan of the Irish genre and celtic rock, but for me, these failed to hit the mark - maybe the crowd were a bit too sober to enjoy to the full. Following this we worked our way around a number of extremely talented acts in the various smaller stages watching performances of poetry, harp playing bands and solo artists. Then we made our way to the real ale tent, ordered a couple of Old Peculiers and found a place on the floor to watch Rodney Branigan - the man who can play two guitars at once, and how. This will be the fourth time I've seen Rodney and his set never fails to amuse and amaze, eminently talented on not one, but two guitars and a master of some entertaining banter in between tunes. I'm pleased to learn that Rodney will also be playing at this year's Kendal Calling festival too - so if you're going there, he's a must see!

The impressive main stage

As the real ale and cider kicked in, the sunshine and atmosphere washed over me and the hours passed quickly, until as the evening sun started to dip toward the horizon, The Move took to the main stage. There was plenty of interaction with the audience, and the band, as do pretty much all the bands at this festival looked as if they were having as good a time as the crowd. And what a crowd! An hour of memorable music finished with the classic Blackberry Way, which got everyone up singing, swaying and dancing.

Once the main stage, headline act has left at the end of their set there's still plenty going on in the other tents; we went to watch the candid and excellent guitarist, Adrian Nation, in the Dome, and then The Wee Bag Band. The latter played Irish songs with an air of the Wolfe Tones about them and got a packed real ale tent, diddly-i-aying along with them. The entertainment goes on until midnight, when there's a curfew and revellers retired to the campsite to sleep, chat, or sing and play guitar in their groups. Quietly, so others can sleep, though sleep came easily to me!

Day Two
Awaking in my tent, rested, and remarkable devoid of a hangover to glorious sunshine has to be one of the best ways to start the day. A shower hot if you don't mind a small queue in the morning, cold if you're up for the more invigorating option; I went for the cold one, and by the time I'd walked back to the tent I was bone dry. Hint: if you don't like cold showers, or queuing, then sneak back at about 3pm ish and you'll be straight in! Then my favourite part of camping: full English breakfast.

After spending the best part of an hour cooking and eating a leviathan plate full, it's time for a read and a chill in late morning sun, plotting which acts to see on day two.
First act to watch for me on Saturday, kicking off at noon were the Seven Little Sisters from Nottingham, only as they put it "we're all blokes, and there's only six of us!" They treated us to a mix of bluegrass, Cajun, punk, and Irish musical styles with real verve and some entertaining in-between song moments on the microphone. So these guys got the day off to a really good start, accompanied of course, by that lovely strawberry and lime scrumpy that was on tap in the bar.

A short walk to the other side of the arena to the Festival Eye tent to watch guitar aficionado Chris Woods, who used every part of his instrument to produce a note, a beat, a click or some sounds that only onomatopoeia can describe! It was good to see Rodney Branigan watching intently from the front row. Chris' music was mostly instrumental and each track told a musical story, which he thoughtfully relayed to us before playing.

Aziz in full flow...

After a casual roam around the site, stopping to take in poetry and other musicians, we headed for the real ale tent where ex Stone Roses guitar maestro Aziz was about to take to the stage; Aziz has played at several previous acoustic festivals and for some reason I've always missed him previously, so made sure I got a good perch this year, and I wasn't in anyway disappointed.

Backed, only by another guy on the bongos, he played an amazing set, literally melting the frets and dishing out some heavy rock meets India licks, riffs and even playing with his teeth.
With more pedals than the Blackpool Tower Wurlitzer he produced an incredible variety of sounds in his too short set; as for the percussion - I've never seen lead bongos before. Inspirational.

His own material was punctuated with a little bit of Stone Roses magic and if you wanted a visual clue to how good Aziz was, then you only needed to see the line of people queuing up to buy his CD. If you get the chance to see him live, then do it.

A packed real ale tent

A tough act to follow, so a little dazed, I did the arena mooch and cherry picked at what was going on in some of the other tents - poetry, shimmy dancers (not to my taste!) and more and more musicians. Chilled in the sun, people watched and browsing the wares of the traders, and did what one's supposed to do at a festival like this: relax. It's not hectic or manic, but may be a little soporific and a sense of drowsiness takes over. Or maybe that's the cider!

Taking in some food from the selection of outlets, all offering food over and above the quality you'd expect from a festival; the chick pea curry from The Furnace is particularly recommended.

Finally at 5pm it was time for the inimitable Mike Peters of The Alarm; I've seen Mike a number of times in various venues and he never fails to give a good show, he has a certain charm and none of the rock and roll posturing of some with his back catalogue. Just Mike, a guitar, harmonica, a stage and several hundred people enjoying great acoustic music in the sun.  He does a live performance exactly how it should be done - to please the crowd.

A brief sojourn back to base camp for a snack and a drink then we were fortified for the evening session, kicked off by Squeeze's Glen Tilbrook who always appears to be having a whale of a time when on stage and today's performance was no exception. The crowd seem to buzz of his enthusiasm and it loops back in a feedback fashion leading to an awesome performance. Saturday's final act on the Main Stage was Joan Armatrading, a performer for longer than I can remember who put an immaculately performed set together and wowed the festival goers. For me after 14 hours sitting in the sun this was enough and I retired to my tent for a good 10 hour kip, while the others partied on 'til close.

The author prepares breakfast!

Day Three
Wide awake and sat bolt upright, fresh as a daisy at 07:41, I poked my head out of the tent on yet another beautiful sunny morning, and wondered what time the rest of the planet would be surfacing. No, matter I sat outside the tent reading in the morning warmth for a good couple of hours and then decided to go on the hunt for breakfast provisions.

There's a 24 hour camp shop on site, but I the hunter gatherer in me wanted to go a little further afield, so checking I could get back in again, I left the racecourse and about 20 minutes later I came across the local Tesco store and stocked up on a few other bits and bobs whilst there. Imagine being able to do this at V or Leeds. No chance!

The mighty hunter returns and another leisurely al fresco breakfast is prepared and devoured, once more while poring over the programme, for Sunday's big finale. As the last of the bacon was sizzling The Animals could be heard on the breeze, playing their numerous hits - you see, at this festival you don't miss out even if you're still back at base...

The festival takes place within the grounds of
Uttoxeter Racecourse

Arriving at the arena in time to catch the House of The Rising Sun as The Animals last song, we got a good seat in the real ale tent just in time to catch T-Rex tribute T-Rextacy who got the whole tent up and grooving to hit after hit, performed of course, acoustically. Following T-Rextacy were one of the acts I was really keen to watch and was on my list of do-not-miss-under-any-account bands. It was Danny and Ben from rock band Thunder.

I wasn't quite prepared for Thunder's set I have to say, and can only describe them as probably (for me at least) the most entertaining hour of the whole festival. Mixing stories and jokes with their music and a hilarious inclusion of the audience in their cover of The Beatles' Blackbird, they gave the crowd a damn good time. Covers of the Who, Elvis and more were all performed with a bit of a glint in the eye and a tongue firmly in the cheek.
There wasn't one person that didn't leave the tent with a smile on their face, I don't recall them trying to plug a CD either! Danny and Ben owned that stage.

At this point we'd decided to pack up and head back at the close of the night, so it was back to the campsite to strike camp and load the car up, before returning to Acousticville for the final acts of a great weekend.

Weather takes the stage

All the way from Los Angeles for the second year running was female vocalist and guitarist Weather, who's petite frame belies the power and tone of the voice that erupts from her, backed by her pithy, rhythmic strumming on the 3/4 sized guitar, which gives a bright crisp tone. Unfortunately her biog was omitted from the programme and I don't know if this contributed to the small number of people watching, which was a shame as you missed out. Weather might not be everyone's cup of tea, but you can't help get wrapped up in the passion, energy and raw emotion that she packs into her set.

Following this we caught the end of Gandalf Murphy's slot - a bit like Pink Floyd took acid with a blue grass band and this was the result. Entertaining, indeed! Then it was time to sit and appreciate someone who's probably played to crowds of tens of thousands during his time as guitarist for the Scorpions - Uri Jon Roth had the audience in the real ale tent with his own compositions and covers of the likes of Hendrix. I could see a few old heads, nodding and swaying in a trance like state. All I can say is that I was blown away - awesome guitar skills, Uri makes it look so easy and effortless.

It was now time to find a space in front of the main stage for Katrina, of The Waves fame, the final main stage act of the festival.

She started her show by thanking Adrian Nation for lending her his guitar, as she'd managed to lock hers, and her keys in her own car! She then candidly announced that the band had never played acoustically before this gig, and the band themselves were really pleased about how it sounded and how it turned out.

Walking on Sunshine sounded very different, but fresh, alive and vibrant - a new direction for them, who knows, but they wanted to come back next year if they were invited. Let's hope they do get an invite, and that their set isn't cut short next time. I'm not sure what happened, but half way through the last song, Katrina informed us that she had to cut the set short, mildly annoying for the audience, and undoubtedly frustrating for the artists. I'm sure there was a reason, and these festivals must be a mission to organise, and this one gets better every year, so I can forgive that minor slip up!

That was it, there were a few more acts on the smaller stages, but we decided to head off and leave Uttoxeter once more.

So to summarise the essence of this fantastic little festival: random, varied, characters a plenty, relaxed, talent, sunshine, happy, uncommercialised, quality. Do not miss it next year!!

A Day At The Micro Brewery

As a keen consumer of beer since being about 16 years of age, I have recently had my interest in real ales rekindled. After the slow, early 90s death of cask conditioned beers I switched almost exclusively to Guinness - a drink I love, especially in comparison to the blandness of 'smoothflow' keg bitters and the even blander and ubiquitous Carling lager. I still would drink a real ale whenever I came across one, but the pubs and bars I usually frequented didn't offer them.

Gradually though, I was aware of the renaissance of real ale production, particularly in the micro-brewery sector and the availability of these beers in my local Wetherspoons, in some variety. Wetherspoons wasn't my favourite watering hole at the time, but I made the odd trip, just for the exceedingly well kept real ales.

Hot liquor, mash tun and Copper (r-l)

Then the brewery, round the corner, at Blakemere - The Northern Brewing Company - started to sell its beers through my local The Old Star and the real ale thirst was once again revived. I have a long connection with Blakemere in general, and through a mutual friend I got to know the guys at the brewery some years ago. Their beers are also regular guest ales in the local Wetherspoons and more and more this chain pub became my local, and now I find myself supping proper beer in there several times a week.

Chatting to my friend Paul, the brewer at Northern Brewing Company over a beer one afternoon, he invited me to come and have a 'brew day' and make 1500 pints of a real ale, next time I was off work. I agreed to this in a nanosecond and arranged the day.

Brew Day
Seven twenty in the morning, I arrive at the brewery as agreed and it's a case of getting stuck straight in; everything in the brewing of real ales is time sensitive and has to be done in a strict order according to the recipe. I was making Blakemere Gold today.

Mashing in.

The first task was 'mashing in' - or mixing the correct amount of malted barley with hot liquor (water) and ensuring it is thoroughly stirred in, bending over the mash tun with a specially designed paddle, stirring a 'porridge' that gets thicker and heavier as each bag of malted barley is poured in. At 7:30am, this is a real wakener!

This mix is left in the mash tun at a carefully monitored temperature for an hour, steeping. The process is undertaken at the optimum temperature for extracting the natural sugars from the malt.
After the allotted time has elapsed, the sugary liquid is drained off into the copper. This sweet tasting liquor is known as strong wort, I filled a cup from the copper and it was very much like an Ovaltine without the milk, naturally sweet and known in the trade as 'brewer's breakfast'.

Digging the used malt out of the mash tun

Once the malt is nearly dry, a process called sparging commences; a consistent shower of hot water is evenly laid over the top of the barley in the tun, to extract the remaining malty sugars. Sparging continues until the copper is full, and ready for the next phase of this ancient operation. What surprised me was that at no point was any sugar added - all the sweetness, the food for the yeast, was obtained from the barley - completely natural. The original gravity of the strong wort is measured using a hydrometer, this gives an accurate measure of just how much sugar is in the mix, a key to calculating the alcohol content once the beer is ready.

The bittering hops are added to the wort in the copper, and the massive heating element is fired up to bring the mix to the boil, and to keep it boiling for about an hour. The hops added at this stage are chosen to control just how bitter the taste of the final brew will really be.

Adding the aroma hops

Meanwhile the back breaking job of digging out the barley from the mash tun has to be done, these sweet tasting husks are are the only bi-product of the brewing and are collected by a farmer for animal feed, that's providing an opportunistic magpie doesn't eat them all first.

It's time for a mug of tea and a breather while the contents of the copper bubble away, the hoppy, malty aroma is almost intoxicating in itself and no alcohol has been produced yet!

The final step whilst the wort is still in the copper is to add, for this recipe anyway, the aroma hops, and stir them in so they're all soaked and infusing the brew with their wonderful perfume.

The fermenter

After the boiling has finished the resulting liquor is cooled down using a heat exchanger to around 24 degrees and the golden coloured, fragrance laden liquid is transferred to the fermenter, ready for the addition of yeast; then it is left in a temperature controlled environment for the yeast to work its magic. As the brew starts to leisurely ferment (each bubble produced corresponds to some alcohol) the less than relaxing task of digging out and cleaning the copper has to be done, while it's still steaming. It's like a hoppy sauna in there, and luckily brewer, Paul, took pity on me and undertook this job.

It's now about 1:30pm and I'm pretty exhausted - there's a lot of hard work and effort that goes in to making a craft beer, a true real ale. So as a thank you, I cooked up one of my favourite bar snacks - currywurst - and we finished the shift with sausages, a glass of one of their bottle conditioned beers and retired to Wetherspoon's for a pint, or two.

Next - the tasting!

My Musical Life - Part 1.

What's your musical journey?
Thinking back, mine's been a varied one - influenced by friends, family, Radio 1 and in the later years Radio 2.

My childhood music input consisted of a less than eclectic mix of Tommy Steele's Little White Bull, the sound track album to Rex Harrison's My Fair Lady and Russ Conway at my paternal grandparents' Bush gramophone - a spectacular varnished mahogany structure treated with the sort of veneration reserved for deities. I was the only other person other than Grandpa and my father allowed to go within 3 metres of it. An honour indeed.

My Grandpa Donegan on my mother's side had a taste more akin to mine, and lots of country seven inch singles - Harper Valley PTA was my favourite and there was some really obscure but compelling music on the spool to spool tapes I found, these were played on a radiogram the size of a narrow boat, which garnered none of the respect of the Bush; it was a dumping ground for cigarette packets, pouches of pipe tobacco and yellowing copies of the Daily Express. This was the music I preferred.

Then at home with my parents it was different again: a lot of classical music; some Nana Mouskouri; Aker Bilk and his British Jazz counterparts; The Seekers; Abba; and there shining like a jewel in the last but one rack - The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem.

And that was pretty much it, that was the musical diet of my first ten years, not exactly under nourished, but hardly an aural feast either.
The first album I bought and the first cassette I ever owned was Duran Duran's Rio, purchased in Woolworths in Crewe in 1982. A startling change of direction and I'm not sure my parents entirely approved. Then came a flurry of single buying and displaying some terrible taste and total lack of judgement my first single shopping trip resulted in the ownership of Neil - Hole In My Shoe, Nik Kershaw's The Riddle, and Paul Young's Everytime You Go Away - it was 1984.

There followed a few years with every Saturday morning spent taping songs from the radio - Animotion, Human League, Howard Jones, and pretty much anything that I liked the sound of. My tastes were changing, developing and growing.

One afternoon, at school, a friend played me the most ridiculously fantastic record I had ever heard, it went on for ages and was like a mini opera, it literally blew me away (a clichéd phrase but it's true). The track was Bohemian Rhapsody.

Bohemian Rhapsody wasn't off my cassette player for weeks, I'd play it, rewind, it play and repeat the process, ad nauseam. About a year after this epiphany I had every single Queen album on tape, and some specially editions too, I even bought A Night at The Opera on LP for my dad's birthday present. The staff at the long gone Omega Records in Northwich, were used to me meandering in each Saturday lunchtime and parting with £3.99 for each precious album.
(Yes, Omega Records - home to the label DeadDeadGood - does anyone remember Oceanic and their track Insanity? Click it and have a listen!)

Along the way I picked up some Blondie, and The Who too, but mostly I lived and breathed Queen from that moment, until I went to start my A Level studies. Then there was epiphany number two...

The Two Best UK Festivals Are These.

It's the "logging on like something demented and hoping against hope that you'll get through and be able to part with almost £200 for a ticket to one of the BIG festivals" season. I've done that a few times, each year wondering just how many times above inflation that the ticket price will increase. I remember V96 and paying around £20 for a day ticket to see Cast, Pulp, Gary Numan, Elastica and Supergrass - which was excellent value for money! But now ten times that to see The Killers year after year.

I feel that corporate greed has taken over and quashed the festival atmosphere; the last time I went to V, paying £180 and then a £10 to park as soon as I'd got through the gates, everywhere I walked I could almost feel the cash being sucked out of my wallet by some massive money extraction device. The music has become a side show to what is the mass milking of 100,000 wage packets. Four quid for a paper cup of tea is not unusual and a miserable carpet burger for over £6 - you've got to be joking!

But!! The moaning ends here, there are alternatives. Four years ago I attended my first Acoustic Festival of Great Britain, now held at Uttoxeter race course and still under £100 for a massive range of artists.

On my trips to this chilled out, uncommercialised festival I've seen Hayseed Dixie, Cerys Matthews, Steve Harley, Imelda May, The Christians, Mungo Jerry, Donovan, Kate Rusby, The Quireboys, Fairport Convention and much more. There's real ale at a real price, home made, flavoursome food, car parking next to your tent, clean toilets and hot showers - all included.

It's at the end of May and if you love your music, I can't recommend this one enough. There's no packs of ecstasy and Carling fuelled lads making a nuisance of themselves, no quagmire queue for the fouls stench of the WCs.

So you've saved a hundred pounds on a V festical ticket, now what the heck are you going to do with that? Well a ticket to Kendal Calling at the end of July would be a very sensible investment, I feel.

This is another smaller festival, and as well as great music of all genres, there's not a dodgy burger bar to be seen, or a sense of being ripped off. Real ale, proper cider, Tibetan food, nachos to die for and another friendly atmosphere where the artists mingle with the crowds before and after their spots on one of the numerous themed stages.

You'll have to put a tenner to the ton you saved by going to the acoustif festival instead of a V or a Reading and Leeds, but it'll be worth it. This year there's Dizzie Rascal, James, Inspiral Carpets, Maximo Park, Feeder - all in a more intimate and convivial environment that you'd think possible. Even the bars create a buzz, last year's Sailor Jerry's Airstream bar, belted out great tunes and cold drinks to the revellers.

So that's my opinion - maybe I'm getting old, but I'd definitely rather go for my two for the price of one deal than walk miles in the mud being fleeced at every step at one of the big corporate festivals.

Am I right? Let me know.

Nautical Ink - What's Behind My Tattoos?

My latest addition to a growing tattoo collection is a mermaid, an ample bosomed pin up with an iridescent green tail, and majestic fin. She sits on some wave soaked rocks, under the gaze of Penmon Point lighthouse, swaddled in the Nick Cave lyric "Come sail your ships around me and burn your bridges down." She's a siren in the traditional sense, alluringly running her fingers through auburn locks and gazing into the eyes of the enchanted.

She's in good company - further up the arm, there's a sailor girl pin up, an anchor, swallow, ship's wheel and a Sailor Jerry inspired tall ship continuing the maritime theme. Ultimately she'll be joined by a turtle, an octopus and if there's room even more.

But why the nautical doodling, I'm not a sailor, my descendants weren't naval or even merchant seamen. Today, thanks largely to shows like LA Ink, it seems you have to have a sentimental reason for a tattoo design - a deceased relative or friend, overcoming some personal challenge of leviathan (you see I got another sea monster in there) proportions! My reason is that I like the art, the tradition is interesting and the symbolism - did you know that a turtle tattoo symbolises that the wearer has crossed the equator? It does, and I have, so even if it's not a 'reason', I'm entitled to wear it with pride.

I've always loved being by the sea, and water in general but that really has no bearing on my tattoo choice. I could claim England's long history of seafaring, exploration and empire building, but my ancestry is Irish so it's not really that.

I'm not trying to belittle people's serious and memorial justifications for choosing tattoos, as I believe that the ritual of being tattooed is a powerful one and a spiritual one too, with healing properties. However I feel that many people choose some ink, purely because they like the art, (just like me) and then feel that they have to fabricate a story to back up and in some way validate its existence on their skin. Don't worry, if you did the tattoo to please yourself, that's probably the best reason there is.

The important thing is to love your ink, and don't search for a reason that isn't there. It's valid, whatever.

My Butternut Squash and Chick Pea Curry

If you love curry, but fancy something a bit lighter, then make this; it's filling and tastes fresh, you can feel it doing you good.

You need:

An onion, thinly sliced
1 clove of garlic, finely chopped

Fresh ginger about the size of your thumb, finely chopped

Butternut squash, peeled and diced into good chunks

Red pepper, sliced

A tin of chickpeas

5 tablespoons of tomato ketchup

Water

Salt and Pepper

Chilli flakes

Curry Powder

Garam masala (optional)

Small handful of fresh coriander, chopped

Juice of half a lemon.

Heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a large pan and soften the onions and garlic for about 5 minutes, add a teaspoon or two of curry powder, and if you've got it a teaspoon of garam masala. Stir into the onions, then add the ginger, squash, pepper, chickpeas, chilli flakes and ketchup.

Add enough water to almost cover, then simmer for about 30 minutes with a lid on. Remove the lid and simmer for another ten minutes or so, until the butternut squash is tender, and the sauce has reduced a little.

Squeeze in the lemon juice, sprinkle in the coriander, salt and pepper, and serve with brown rice and a warm naan bread.

You'll not be disappointed, I promise.

Blood, Beet and Borscht

My Blood Red Borscht

Never had it, certainly never had it bubbling on my stove before. In a Lent inspired health spree, I found myself browsing through my Soup Kitchen recipe book. 


There it was. 


A bowl of glossy, blood red liquid. 
If its flavour was as intense as its appearance, then it would be spectacular.
I made it; missing out the garlic absent-mindedly at the outset, but added it with the stock and let it boil with all the other ingredients for the 40 minutes. Garnished (almost) as advised with fromage frais and chopped chives this dish could only be described as sweet, earthy goodness. If you haven't made it, do it. Now. Seriously, try it. The Russians aren't famous for much that's good, so we might as well embrace this stunningly simple and glorious soup.


Colour meets taste.


Here's the recipe I used:

50 g butter
250 g raw beetroot, peeled and roughly chopped
1 onion, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 tablespoon caster sugar
1.5 litres beef stock
1/2 lemon, juiced
1 small pot sourced cream
a handful chopped chives
salt
black pepper


Melt the butter in a large pan over a gentle heat and slowly sweat the
beetroot, onion, carrot and garlic, turning the vegetables (which will
become a lurid pink) over the in the butter.


Add the sugar and stock to the pan, season with a few grinds of pepper,
bring the soup to a simmer and cook for about 40 minutes until the
vegetables are tender.


Using a blender, whizz the soup until it is entirely smooth then add the
freshly squeezed lemon juice and a little salt to taste.


A swirl of soured cream and a scattering of chopped chives is the
traditional garnish for his beautiful soup - delicious, and adding another
dimension to the fabulous beetroot colour.

What and why..?

This isn't my first blog, I've published a few and run out of steam either because of changes in circumstance or a simple stagnation of ideas. I did a walking and green laning one, and then lost my Land Rover and my job, I've put together a photography one, but Instagram came along and did that job so much better.

So my three real loves are:

• Tattoos
• Cooking
• Poetry and lyrics

So I thought maybe if I put all three together, my interest won't wane and I might be less one dimensional to any readers I may be lucky enough to acquire.