Brennig Jones (and friends)

If music be the food of love, play on…

This week’s podcast contains music from four exceptional Oxfordshire bands; very talented musicians who you should be hearing on the radio.

The injustice of the situation, that four groups of artists as fresh, as invigorating and as talented as these, remain unsigned whilst utter dross gets shoved down our throats by the mainstream media, can not be lost on anyone with half a brain or more.

I find it so frustrating.

Anyway, the reason I’m cross-plugging the podcast is two-fold.

1. These artists are brilliant. Please visit their MySpace pages which you can get to from the podcast website (http://thisrealitypodcast.com) and tell them that you like them. It’s that simple. They’re not multi-millionaires, prima donnas or career musicians. This isn’t Big Music Business, most of these folk have jobs to help pay for their musical inclinations.

2. Next week’s podcast is going to kick off with the best start that any music podcast ever has. We’ve done some negotiating with various parties which will allow This Reality Podcast an unprecedented opportunity. And the reason for our efforts in this area is…

The podcast audience has been exceptionally steady at just over 82,500 for months. We’d love to get the podcast audience up to six figures by the end of the year. We have lots of plans for the future and several irons in the fire which, we hope, will help get us there.

So if you already listen, thank you very much. If you don’t listen yet, would you like to give it a try? But whatever you decide, do us a favour please.

Tell someone else they should listen!

Ta.

no, not an incredibly sexist joke

Victoria, the starting point of the homeward leg:
The woman got on the bus and, in heavily-accented Eastern-European English said to the driver, ‘A single to Oxford Street please.’

‘We don’t go to Oxford Street, we go to Oxford.’

‘Yes. A single please.’

‘Where to?’

‘Oxford Street.’

This had all of the hallmarks of turning in to an episode of comedy gold, but sadly some interfering old busybody kind soul who was already on the bus walked up to the woman and addressed her in her own language. I assume the conversation went something like this:

‘Look Tovarisch me old mucker, the driver wasn’t dealing you some bull, we really don’t go to Oxford Street in London. We go to the city of Oxford in Oxfordshire which is a fucking hugely long way outside of London. It’s so far outside London the place is surrounded by cows and fields and shit. If you want to go to Oxford Street you need to walk down there a bit and get a different bus. If you want to go to the city of Oxford and stare at the many magnificent bosoms that are on display on fine, sunny days, then just get on this one. OK?’

Evidently it was not OK because the Babushka got off.

But the ‘going home’ anecdote doesn’t end there.

Grosvenor Gardens, the second stop:
The woman got on the bus but the driver stopped her straight away.

‘You can’t bring hot food on the bus. You’ve got a McDonalds bag and that’s not allowed.’

‘But I want to bring my food on.’

‘You can’t. You either have to put it in the boot or catch the next bus.’

‘Can I put it in the bin?’

‘Yes’.

She made a move forwards.

‘You have to put it in the bin out there, not the bin on the bus.’

‘What?’

‘Put it in the bin out there or catch the next bus. It’s a company rule, no hot food allowed on the bus.’

The woman walked out to the bus stop and fumbled around then walked back.

‘You’re not getting on the bus. I saw you in my mirror; you’ve just put the bag of hot food in your handbag.’

‘I didn’t!’ she said with maximum indignation and outrage.

‘Right, well come here and I’ll have a look in your handbag when you get your purse out to pay me.’

‘Oh please. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since 8 o’clock this morning.’

‘You’ll have to catch the next bus then’.

‘Eat my shit.’

And with that parting comment straight out of the Emily Post book of etiquette, our charming, would-be mobile food nosher stomped off the bus over to a wall against which she leant while she extracted the bag of illicit hot food from her handbag and bit, angrily, in to her burger which she chewed venomously.

And do you know what I say?

I say Well Done to the driver for holding his ground and for not letting her browbeat him in to submission. Well Done Mr Oxford Tube driver.

Mind you, this rather triumphant exchange took on a nasty flavour at Hillingdon where a passenger got on, paid and took their seat clutching a bag of hot food from Burger King.

I do wonder if the change in the driver’s attitude is anything to do with the difference in passengers.

The first person was short, female, black and in her 50s. The second person was tall, well-built, male, shaven-headed, broken-nosed and in his 20s.

Now who are you sneering at? Yeah, me too.

I know, I know.

I keep going on about it.

But really.

So, while my husband was apparently supping cider in The George, I was ridding our back yard of weeds.

They are so bloody persistent those weeds, aren’t they?  I mean, there’s a whole shitload of stone and some membrane over the ground (well, the membrane is under the stone…but I can’t be arsed to go back and change it round), but they seem to keep finding their way through. Bastards.

I don’t really understand the point to weeds?  I mean, there must be a point, because they keep coming back!

And there is a weird incline type thing round this shitload of stone, which we decided would be annoying to keep up as a garden, flower or vegetable, so we my Mum and Dad (bless ‘em) broke their backs weeding and covering it with more membrane and piling a whole shitload of bark on it. While Bren and I made encouraging comments and cups of tea.  And occasionally helped got in the way.

Luckily the cats do not seem to have been shitting all over the shitload of stone.

They have, however, been shitting all over the shitload of bark.

If it wasn’t so obvious I probably wouldn’t care, but I can’t bear looking out of the kitchen window and seeing bare patches of membrane next to tumps of bark.

So after the mass weed-icide I had a mass poo-icide.

Again.

It wasn’t so bad in the main part of the back yard, or indeed down the side of the house.

But, by the front door it’s ridiculous.

Both the weeds and the poo are taking over.

And there is one little place where the furry fuckers can barely be arsed to cover their business.

So I cleared as much as I could, *heave* and there is now a jaunty little display in place of the ‘most-pooed-on-patch’.

I brought some CDs home from work, freebies from magazines etc. that no-one wanted.

They are now sitting out there in a rubbish display of reflective ‘Don’t Shit Here, Cats’ sign.

It might just be a temporary measure until we find something more permanent.

Erm, death?

Cows. Glove-box refrigerators in the car.

Don’t ask.

It is far too easy (human nature being what it is) to offer knee-jerk reactions to every news story.

That sentence was too light. She shouldn’t have been convicted. The referee was biased. Ferrari should get out of F1. Wait…

The MPs expenses bru-ha-ha is a case in point.

There have been fresh revelations in The Daily Telegraph for over a fortnight detailing how a number of our elected representatives have been claiming and spending public money.

And people have been taking sides; the political divisions have been clearly drawn – and supported – by pundits and commentators alike.

Conservative-leaning political commentators have condemned Labour MPs for doing Thing A, whilst refusing to condemn Conservative MPs who have also been outed for doing Thing A. Well-known Conservative blogger Ian Dale has been held up for ridicule in this respect by Craig Murray.

But this pathetic game-playing isn’t the exclusive domain of one party, the hypocritical shoe is also on the other foot.

And out of all of the commenting and commentating on the public revelations of MPs expenses, today I have read something that not only troubles me because it is patently nothing more than an attempt to begin the process of burial; an ill-disguised first-step to submerge the controversy.

It is also the most misguided, ill-conceived, misdirected piece of thinking I have ever seen.

This leading article in The Independent tries to misguide us, it’s that simple. The leader is nothing more than an attempt to subvert public thinking, it seeks to misrepresent truths in such a way as to trivialise the acts that many of our elected, public-serving officials have committed.

The Independent misses the point by a country mile.

The point is simple and twofold:

1. These elected officials are in parliament to represent the public. They are not there there to profit from what is obviously a lax expenses system. The key word there is ‘profit’.

2. These elected officials are supposed to behave in a manner that is morally and ethically beyond reproach. One doesn’t have to be a rocket scientist to realise that morals have been markedly absent and ethics appears to be a county just thouth of thuffolk.

I do not even begin to comprehend why The Independent is attempting to calm things down. I don’t know, but can only speculate; future honours, a peerage here or there, a board on an NGO – or a selection, or possibly all of these? Who knows.

The point is that for the very first time in the thousand-year history of our political system the public has been given a glimpse of what some of our public servants consider to be acceptable.

The reality is that ‘unacceptable’ is a word barely strong enough to describe the actions we have been witnessing.

The Independent has lost the plot. Or worse, The Independent has become compromised.

The only way for the public to regain trust and confidence in our political system is surely a total overhaul of MPs salary, the bringing of the expenses rules in to line with the same rules that our MPs ask local government to adhere to, the restoration of ethical and moral values that are beyond all reproach and…

The wholesale criminal prosecution of all MPs who defrauded or attempted to defraud the tax authorities and/or the public.

Paying money back does not make the crime go away. And the corrupt politicians need to learn this lesson.

Oh yes. And a general election now please because I, probably like many of the voting public, have absolutely no confidence in my Prime Minister or the House of Commons.

And speaking of a lack of confidence…

After years of long and faithful readership I shall not buy any further copies of The Independent. It has clearly demonstrated that it is no longer part of the solution, it is now part of the problem.

Hasn’t it been a brilliant day?

The weather has been very warm and sunny. We had a session with Relate first thing and then walked in to the centre of Oxford which was fantastic and filled with colourful, exciting, vibrant people.

The Braserie we choose to eat in served excellent food via happy, smiling, charming staff.

Then we went to the cinema and watched the new Star Trek. A good film but one where the special effects outweighed the plot.

Then we came home, set up the studio and recorded episode 65 of  This Reality Podcast. We’ve changed the format to make it leaner and punchier, Soph chose the music this week.

And now it’s Britain’s Got Talent with some soon-to-be served baked potatoes, quiche and salad.

A brilliant day.

Except, of course, for the centre of Oxford which wasn’t as described above. Actually it seemed to have more than its fair share of weirdly-dressed, cleavage-sporting, pavement-meandering people.

So today, Friday, I got up at 04.45 and did stuff and went to work and finished and came back to Oxfordshire and drove to the yard and did carrots and groomed and cuddled and then tacked up and rode and we schooled and afterwards I untacked and groomed and carrotted and drove home and Soph and I went to bed and a couple of hours later we got up and showered and dressed and went out for a meal and now we’re back and are both deadly tired.

So yesterday I got up at 04.45 and did stuff and went to work and finished and came back to Oxfordshire and drove to the yard and did carrots and groomed and cuddled and then tacked up and rode and we schooled and afterwards I untacked and groomed and carrotted and drove home and got changed and then we drove to the Leisure Centre in Witney and played Badminton for an hour and then drove home and ate and went to bed and fell asleep as I was getting in.

So the day before yesterday I got up at 04.45 and did stuff and went to work and finished and came back to Oxfordshire and drove to…

How’s your week been?

No, not a synonym for touching cotton

So I was in the Westminster tube station at 12.59. There was more human traffic around than usual – the Victoria line is on strike today.

My mind was wondering so far away I really don’t know where it was. ‘Zoned out’ is the phrase that Soph and I use to describe that kind of almost but not quite hypnotised state of ‘other worldliness’.

I was on the ‘up’ escalator from the Jubilee line. The hand that was caressing my bum was gentle, soothing. I shifted my weight and it slipped across and cupped my right cheek.

And then the penny dropped. Where I was. And that Soph was not standing behind me. I snapped upwards from my ‘leaning on the banister’ position and turned around.

Female. Blonde. Early 30s. Dyed blonde. Black dress. Cleavage. Leather jacket. Smile.

I think I smiled back.

She removed her hand as the escalator fed itself in to the jaws of the floor and I scampered on my way with more alacrity than normal and left her behind.

I’m not too sure how I feel about the incident.

Kind of flattered I think. But a little… strange.

Does that make sense?

So my MP, the Hon. member for Witney (and surrounding areas), David Cameron (C) has a constituency majority of c.14,000.

I have a list of the criteria that needs to be met in order to stand as a candidate at the next election.

I dislike the way that Mr Cameron (who, I’m sure is a really nice guy) has been claiming mortgage interest as an expense – mortgage interest on a large family house in London when, I strongly believe, an MPs home should be in their constituency.

I was wondering how much of a ripple it would cause if a trouble-making independent candidate (erm) stood against Mr Cameron – a candidate not allied to any of the established political parties. A candidate not afraid of standing up for points of principle. A candidate with significant experience in the private and public sectors…

Just, you know, wondering.

I met Soupy today. For lunch. And fourteen pints of scrumpy. And I handed over a big bag of drugs reference books that I’d procured for her.

When she arrived at the RV, I was chatting with a very senior member of a special police unit on his way in to NSY.

She rocked up and was all smiles and hellos and charm and he certainly wasn’t.

We dumped him and moved to an eatery where we ate and tried to talk above the dull roar that is the usual background noise in that place.

With the food gone we moved to a pub – and moved straight out again to a slightly quieter one. Two people want to have a chat here! Can we have some peace and quiet? Please??

No, obviously not.

But the second pub was better than the first which was better than the restaurant so it just about did. Just about.

And we sat and we chatted and talked and nattered and gossipped and exchanged information and time passed in about 2.4723 nanoseconds – such was the energy and charm and enthusiasm of the Soupster.

Rats and horses were disucssed, obv. And work and people at work and people at not work and people generally. And generals and… OK, maybe not generals.

But many things were talked about.

I had a great time, it was very nice to put a face to a ‘voice’, made lovelier by Soupy’s extremely pleasant personality.

In terms of female company it’s been an exceptional day for me. Lunch with Soupy, a long chat with Daughter, a big gossip with a couple of the girls at the yard and now… bed with Soph.

My cup runneth over, but I know how lucky I am.

Very.