Retrospectator

Another misinformed, misguided but opinionated individual who feels the need to contribute. Now you too can view the world through the the eyes of a middle-aged man who can't see his toes, let alone the point of it all.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007


The Day after The Fringe

I'm not the type of person that likes to draw too much attention to myself, so I was a little alarmed when the street performer started pointing in my direction. We were inconspiciously (or so I thought) seated on the hard cobblestones, in a square off the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, watching a group of juggling comedians entertain the crowd. It was the day after The Fringe closed, but it seemed like most of the acts from the festival had set up impromptu roadside skits to pay for their bar tabs and transport home.

I'm not sure whether I was relieved or horrified when a silver painted man enticed my daughter to ride pillon on a pretend, kazoo powered motorcycle in front of several hundred laughing onlookers - oh well, at least it wasn't me. The finale of the show involved a mono-cycling juggler, escape artist and Scottish strongman that lay on a bed of nails as a mime artist cracked a concrete block over his torso.

From where we were seated I could see all the way up his kilt - so did my daughter, before I could cover her eyes. I think she saw more of Edinburgh than she bargained on...

Friday, August 24, 2007

Cultural capital...

Is Leicester the tracksuit pants capital of England? I know that first impressions can be deceiving, but they do influence how you perceive a place. Granted, it was a cold and wet morning when I alighted from my Mainline Midland service into the grey streets of Leicester.

Mullet-headed men in track pants loitered around the train station forecourt, as single mums with prams puffed hard on fags. One of them handed a still smouldering butt to her five year old son.

'Go put this out for me luv', she said.

She reached into her handbag, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit another one, as her son expertly flicked the fag butt into the gutter....

Action Drama...18+

Getting to and from work can be difficult at times. Delayed trains, over-crowded tubes and roadworks in the capital make my journey to the office a challange. However, with continued heavy rain and rising gun crime my morning commute is starting to resemble a trailer to the Bourne Ultimatum.

So crowded are the tubes that I have to fight, hand-to-hand, just to get onto the train. Local flooding ensures that I usually spend several minutes, trapped in the dark, between stations fending off killer mosquitos that are thriving in the damp conditions underground. Once I've surfaced from the tube I end up combat rolling to the office to avoid BMX riding teenagers with hand guns.

I am sure that if don't drown, contract a deadly tropical desease from an insect bite or become mortally injured in a drive-by, there is a high likelyhood I'll get shot by the police for looking suspicious.....

Wednesday, August 15, 2007


You need to learn to walk before you can swim...

The island was about half the size of a football pitch, but contained a surprising variety of trees, bushes and rocks. It was about 300 metres offshore, but it still took my daughter and I about 15 minutes to swim there.
'Be careful dear', I said to Larisa. 'The stones are very slippery and sharp'. She was clambouring over the big rocks on the shoreline and didn't appear to be listening.
'If you're not going to be careful you might hurt.....aagghh'. After many expletives and much bleeding we decided to swim back to the mainland.

'Careful dad, those stones look sharp....' I limped back into the lake without answering her.

Sunday, August 12, 2007


Good Moaning...

'Terve' (Hello). Uncle Sulo shook hands and met me with the standard Finnish welcome.

'Good Moaning', I responded. 'My calves ache at the thought of pickled herring - what is your thinking?' Somewhat startled, he paused - stared blankly at me for a moment, but continued with our doomed conversation.

Despite the fact that I was born in Helsinki, my grasp of the Finnish language can be best described as remedial. I left my former homeland when I was just 4 years old and still revert to the vocabulary of a pre-schooler when engaged in conversation.

'Monta paiva te olette Soumessa?' (How long are you staying in Finland?), inquired Sulo.

'I will weave a net in a number of days', I responded.

He bowed his head slightly towards my mother and whispered under his breath. I think I heard him ask her if she had dropped me when I was a child.