Brennig Jones (and friends)

The

Paint

Is

Drying

Nicely

Thank

You.

Zzzzzzzzzzzz……

An email arrives from one of the lovely folk who works in the workplace Costa I used to frequent in Swindon.

There’s a Costa in my new workplace too.

It’s nice that there is such a consistency in my life.

But it’s not the same Costa.

Not the same lovelies.

I miss them all.

And I miss their prices too.

The price of the Latté, you smutty-minded individual, the price of the Latté.

£1 for a small-to-medium in Swindon

£1.85 for a medium in Victoria.

£0.85 difference!

How’s that work out?

£2.25 for a large one.

There’s a joke close by but it’s bordering on bad taste and who knows, Siân or one of the other lovelies from Swindon might be looking in – and I wouldn’t want to offend them with rude implications.

Oh no.

Because that never happened while I was working there.

Absolutely.

Not.

B.

Episode 18 – 29 minutes running time

It’s Sunday morning in Studio K in rural Worcestershire and today’s music is provided by:

1. Scamper and ‘Sophie’
2. Clifford T Ward and ‘Gaye’ (played with kind permission of CTW’s estate and widow)
3. Blake Morgan and ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’

In between the music we have random conversation that includes…

* A (not) sponsorship
* A birthday in da house – yay!
* News that an EU MEP (Marianne Mikko) wants bloggers to be registered with the EU!
* BBC journalists’ puzzling use of the word ‘some’, and
* Old, Gold and Pants musical acts at Glastonbury (hereinafter correctly called Pilton) pop festival

Podcast admin:
‘Sophie’ and ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’ both come from the Podsafe Music Network. ‘Gaye’ is played with the express permission of the estate of the late CTW.

If you’d like to send in a contribution or air your views on these – or any other topics you can think of – you can email the podcast: thisrealitypodcast@googlemail.com.

Or if you prefer you can leave your comments (or whatever) in our drop zone at http://drop.io/thisreality.

B.

Eventing.

So I apologise for the fact that This Reality podcast will be late this week.

Too much travelling, too many things to do.

B.

Tomorrow is Eland Lodge Horse Trials.

And Big Vin and I are out for some fun:

As you can see it’s a late one; a late start, a late finish.

Unfortunately we have to add preparation and travel on to the start of those times – which means leaving the yard at about 11.00.

Then we have to add tidying up and travel back on to the end of the day…

Which means it’s going to be a late finish by the time we return home!

Sadly, although there are a number of professionals competing, there aren’t any of the Seriously World Class Names taking part on Saturday (though there are on Sunday).

Which is a shame, because I’m hoping to interview some of the SWCNs for the podcast – especially in the run-up towards the Olympics!

Hey ho, another time perhaps.

The dressage test is BE102 – the same test we rode at Llanymynech.

We have to improve our dressage mark.

50% is not acceptable.

I rode for Jo today and she marked us at 38% – a massive improvement over 50%!

She helped; she asked a couple of pointed questions about where the differences are between riding the test in the school at the yard and riding the same test at a One Day Event.

She made me think.

I found the answers.

In theory, I now have the means to improve our dressage mark by at least 12%.

All I have to do is remember what to do differently – but that’s a big ask, for my feeble little mind.

B.

So first of all we have the tube journey from Victoria to Oxford Circus.

This evening’s peculiar juxtaposition of sweating humanity included:

* Two Spanish girls – jailbait though not far off legality, but trying hard to look both simultaneously drop-dead gorgeous and not jailbait (and succeeding only on the former) – uniformly attired.

You know what I mean.

Low-slung jeans, lots of bare midriff, tight tops struggling to conceal the symmetrically attractive contents of push-up bras; immaculately applied minimalist makeup.

Speaking of which – makeup I mean – is it normal for women to apply copious amounts of ‘slap’ on the underground (or other public transport system of your choice) in your reality?

Because that’s what happened this morning.

Youngish – about mid-30s – she got on the tube at Brixton, hauled out her muchly cavernous handbag and applied many layers of makeup.

Eyes, lips, cheeks.

Fuck me, this is really, really, really good, isn’t it?

What is it?

Lost Prophets and Everyday Combat.

Very raw, very rocky.

Anyway, back to today.

* Three monks.

The full bit; robes with curtain ties around the middle, sandals without socks, beards, glasses.

Is that, I wondered, a response to the uniform being worn by the young girls?

Well, no. Obv.

Cretin.

Stop sniggering.

Stoppit!

They’re looking at you.

All of them!

That’s better.

Settle down.

Back to the story in hand.

* Suits; there were lots and lots of suits on The Tube.

Some on boys.

Some on girls.

Uniforms of a different kind I suppose?

I feel sorry for the girl sitting on the opposite side of this carriage.

I’m on the train now, did I mention that?

No?

Sorry.

Anyway, the almost attractive young girl in the hugely spotted, brightly coloured dress on the opposite side of the aisle?

Such a terrible shame.

Blind you know.

And yet she’s so fast on the text.

Oh yes, blind – definitely.

Because the sign right in front of her fucking eyes says no audible music.

And there’s a graphic illustration that makes the same point.

Yet she’s texting away with her beep-beep-beeping phone whilst also playing music out of The World’s Tinniest (that’s what I meant! Not tiny, OK??) Speaker(tm).

So yes.

Totally blind, poor thing.

She’d be quite pretty too.

If she wasn’t constantly chewing gum – in a manner that’s disturbingly reminiscent of a Guernsey milker I used to know in my youth.

The woman behind me is trying to read this.

I catch her peering between the gaps, attempting to catch a glimpse of what I’m writing.

Here love, let me make it easy for you…

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCKITY FUCKITY FUCK-FUCK FUCK!!!

To quote the prophet.

Hugh Grant.

Ha ha ha ha ha!

Oh my God, they’re looking at me again.

Bugger.

I think I may have just played air guitar.

Linkin Park – the first 30 bars of What I’ve Done.

The hot chic opposite is now pretending to be asleep.

To hide her embarrassment.

Headbanging?

Me?

I don’t think so.

Well…

Maybe a little nod.

Or two.

I think we’re coming in to a station now.

Because everyone else is gathering up their things and moving to the exit.

B.

This is one of those ‘pull up a sandbag and I’ll tell you a war story’ posts…

There’s a shop in Broadway, SW1, called the Falklands Shop.

It is a celebration of all things Falklandish.

Sheep, mainly.

Interestingly enough the window display completely fails to mention landmines (of which there are still many down there in the South Atlantic).

Fifty-four paces from the front door of this shop is the front door of New Scotland Yard.

You’ve probably seen the frontage in a hundred films, news bulletins or even media photographs; a large slab of office block fronted with a triangular, revolving sign.

This vista has been updated in these ‘troubled times’.

Many CCTV cameras and two armed civilian police officers.

I walked past the place six times today.

On the fifth walk past I wondered what would happen to me if I stopped, whipped out my camera and took a photograph of the building?

Yeah, it isn’t too hard to hypothesise that the boys in blue would apprehend me, ask me a million questions and generally make life pretty damn unbearable.

Because, in these enlightened times, taking photographs is illegal.

Oh yes it is!

They just haven’t told you yet.

Anyway, this isn’t a rant about the way our freedoms are being withdrawn with our tacit consent.

This is a rant about the boys in blue.

When I carried weapons for a living we did range practice every week.

We did live-fire drills in mockup scenarios every other month.

And we did drills with laser devices whenever the commanding officer of No 4 Wing, 2nd Allied Tactical Air Force (Group Captain J.R. Walker RAF, AFC, DFC and a number of other gongs, including one earned for spraying a Jaguar GR1 all over the Scottish countryside instead of the village it was trying to merge with) deemed we needed.

Which usually occurred at something like 02.00 on a Sunday morning.

Bastard.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is for all of us (except the medics, padre and bandsmen), our weapons were part of our toolset.

Even if we were flight-line mechanics, suppliers, MT drivers – no matter what our ‘real’ trade was, we lived with and depended on our weapons.

Some of us even fired our weapons in anger.

That we did with such effect was a testimony to our training.

And we were professional about them, at all times.

Back to the boys in blue, today.

I sincerely hope those things weren’t loaded.

Because the plods heads weren’t.

And their attitudes were – without exception – extraordinarily unprofessional.

Bloody hell, these people are supposed to be trained?

Really?

Well I don’t believe it.

Overweight civilian cops toting (presumably) armed weapons whilst looking – at best, half asleep and at worst, completely out of it – actually increased the fear factor in me.

Instead of reducing it.

Incorrectly-carried at all times, tight in to the body of the carrier (and therefore rotating outwards across the street as these plods meandered around outside the building they were supposed to be protecting), straps in the way, trigger fingers nowhere near where they should have been.

Once again the phrase ‘armed police’ looks seriously not good.

These civilians should never be armed.

They barely looked capable of being in charge of a pencil, let alone a device that propels a small piece of metal forwards faster than the speed of sound.

Amateurs.

B.

Isn’t it amazing, he asked of the small tabby cat sitting on the kitchen chair opposite, how the design – the variation in size, shape, breadth and depth of a breakfast cereal bowl can affect both the flavour and the texture of Oatso Simple?

We have used the:
Same quantity as at home.
Same amount of milk as at home.
Same Microwave power setting and same amount of time.

And yet, because the bowl is a completely different shape, we are presented with a product that tastes so different – and where the texture is unlike that which is routinely produced at home.

Small tabby cat nods, enthusiastically.

You are wise beyond your years (ears?) oh small tabby cat.

We would do well to listen to you and your kind more often.

Except you don’t actually do much speaking, do you?

Small tabby cat shakes head, dolefully.

B.

Stone me.

For the last week and a half I’ve been mentally dancing around the place because I had discovered the perfect Track 3.

I should explain.

In the podcast the music follows a pattern.

Track 1 = something upbeat
Track 2 = a quieter moment, maybe a ballad, but definately a slower number
Track 3 = uptempo again, but slightly less manic (wrong word but it’ll do for now) than the first one. The intention is to ‘refresh’ after the slower Track 2.

Got it?

Well I had found the perfect Track 3.

I’ve spent most of this evening previewing music for the next podcast.

And have found myself favouring the more downtempo numbers.

Because – I’ll state the obvious – I miss Soph.

So after an evening of mellow, I’ve just listened to that perfect Track 3.

And it sucks.

No, it does, really.

Funny how one’s mood can be affected by music…

Anyway, the search continues.

I’m currently listening to a story track.

It could have been written by the great musical storyteller – Roger Waters.

It’s right up there in terms of quality – the same level as Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking (one of the most disturbing albums ever!).

But…

It’s not me.

Good – I’ll concede – just not right.

Man, I’m so going to have to bring one of my guitars down here next week.

Even I can play better than the track I’m currently listening to.

Hang on, I have to lose it.

Ooooh, this is nice.

Bit of a power ballad.

But I need to sleep now.

So goodnight everybody.

B.

Long but oh so apt title…

Lean closer my little droogies for I have a tale of cunning to tell.

And while you’re leaning closer, gaze too at my nakedness.

Yes indeed, I am without cables.

I have my very own copy of the internet; I am WiFi’d.

Theresa’s part-time boyfriend (that’s her label, not mine!) has given her a WiFi router which someone else gave him because they couldn’t remember how to get in to it to change the passwords and anyway they had a new one from BT so….

Bwahahahahahahah!!!!!

I have hacked in to it.

And stolen the WEP key.

And installed the self same WEP key on to Theresa’s Apple and my very own World’s Fastest Laptop.

And now I can go anywhere!

Look!

I’ll show you.

Now I’m on the top floor, in the office.

Now I’m in the 2nd bathroom.

On the floor below – in my bedroom.

In Theresa’s bedroom now.

Yeah, sorry Theresa.

You’re right.

I should have knocked.

My that’s a big one!

I’m leaving now.

On the next floor down now.

Lurking outside Shane and Pete’s room.

You know…

One embarrasing moment a night is enough.

Now I’m in the 1st bathroom.

And now on the ground floor.

In the lounge.

Look!

This is me sprawled on the couch!

And now in the kitchen – putting the kettle on!

And now…

In the garden, walking up to the fish pond and feeding the fish.

And back in the kitchen – pouring freshly boiled water on to a teabag.

Ah yes my friends.

The wireless life is the life for me.

Theresa, I have to tell you, has just come downstairs, gone in to the lounge, picked up a dustpan and brush and gone back up to her bedroom…

Saying she was going to clean up after having swept the chimney.

Really?

That’s what it’s called?

Well I never!

B.