A quick two days into Florence. A great city full of life

Ponte Vecchio, a medieval stone arch bridge. Great to take in from a distance. Try getting over it when a Japanese tour group has hit town  

The Duomo. I don't have a great head for heights. My condition hasn't improved as the result of climbing to the top of the dome. Great views however scary stuff for wimps like yours truly

The market in the plaza on the hill overlooking Florence. Never let it be said that Julia, Sue and John (standing directly to Julia's right) don't know a bargain when they see one. I should be grateful. That single purchase was completed in just sixty five minutes  

Italy v France, it's a tough call

We are coming to the end of a ten day stint in Tuscany, the result of a house swap with a couple who own this and a few other dwellings in the small hilltop village of Pergine Valdarno, situated maybe an hours drive south of Florence.
We and our friends John and Sue have been hard at it exploring the surrounding region. Heaps to take in with the highlight probably being an overnighter to Florence, a city that Julia and I last visited in 1990.
Locally we have played the game and purchased virtually all our supplies from the village shops (big pat on the back for those far sighted Kiwis) The region is pretty interesting, the locals are real characters and our location is just perfect. If interested you can check out our digs by throwing " il pigionale" into your computer search engine.
Over the last few days we have been discussing the various merits of hanging out in either Italy or France for an extended period and have reached the following conclusions on the comparison chart.l
THE WEATHER
That's a classic draw. Both countries know to turn on the sun and deal to the rain when we hit town.
LANGUAGE
Where we are located the Italians have limited English however they make up for any shortfall with an enthusiasm that is kind of touching.
The French by and large clearly understand what you are waffling on about however more often than not they will refrain from getting verbally involved with any dialogue that they don't fully comprehend ( they have my full understanding on that score)
THE PEOPLE
Much as we love the French, the reality is that the Italians have it all over the French when it comes to being user friendly. It's not that the French are either unfriendly or unhelpful,  rather it's the case that the Italians see it as just natural to go out of their way to mix it with tourists. These guys simply can't do enough to help you. The French on the other hand are more of the "take it or leave it " variety, and tend to give you the impression that they don't really care one way or another about whether you fully understand their explanation about whatever. I fully understand the French stance on this issue and have no problem with it.
VILLAGE LIFE
Italian villages win this duel hands down. Barking dogs, screaming locals, lots of laughter, it's all on in our village. By comparison French villages feel a bit like Invercargill on a wet cold winters day. Whilst the French just quietly get on with their lives, their  Italian  counterparts appear to want to party at every turn . These people are just dynamic in everything they do. One really amusing feature of village life is the way locals communicate with their dogs. They talk to them like they are fellow humans and when their dogs play up they abuse the living day lights out of them. For their part, the dogs simply ignore their owners and  carry on doing doggie type things.  Pet training simple doesn't feature in local life.
FOOD
No arguments here, the French have it all over the Italians. It's not that the food here is bad, however it has to be said that when you compare what's on offer at say a French butcher's verses his Italian counterpart, then it's game over. For every  food line an Italian has on his counter, his French opposite number  has three times the variety on show. Both countries sell top quality stuff however when you get down to ordering in a restaurant you know for certain that a French menu will hold a lot more appeal ( that is, as long as you are not some kind of pasta and pizza freak)
BREAD (pretty important stuff in this area of the planet)
What is it with Italians and hard white bread. It's like they are consuming this unappealing stuff in an effort to pay for past sins. At a restaurant in Florence the other night the French couple sitting across from us nearly choked when presented bread by their waiter. The male diner actually poked one piece with his fork then bounced it on his table a couple of times . The couple were highly amused and then set to prattling on about "all things bread". One didn't need a interpreter to understand the direction of the conversation. Even Eskimos would probably appreciate the superior quality of French bread so it's a no contest.
WINE
The Italians produce some good quality reds, reasonable whites and debatable bubbles. It's a no brainer on this one. The French simply blow the Italians into the weeds. Prices are similar however the reality is that once you have downed a good quality chianti, well that's pretty much the wine tasting game done and dusted. As an aside bottles of Italian sparkling and champers seem to be a little light on bubbles. It's almost as if the plonk is slightly flat. It's all a bit weird.
INTERESTING STUFF TO PURCHASE IN CLOTHING/SHOE STORES
I don't doubt that if you hunt hard enough you can locate whatever you are after in a French store . As for the Italians, they are simply in another league.
The variety of product on hand is simply mind boggling and the prices are very attractive. A €500 leather jacket in France will go for something like €150 in Italy. And as for the huge variety and cheap pricing of top quality shoes in Italy, all I can say is that if you visit this country and don't take the opportunity to nail a number of pairs of shoes then you've  got rocks in your head
TRANSPORT
It's a draw again. Both countries know how to organise public transport.The ticket purchasing process in France is more logical however once you are onboard whatever both countries deliver the goods
ROADS
France wins again. OK, those mountain passes we crept over on the French side of the French/Italian border were fairly dodgy however as a rule France has far superior roads and highways. A small plus for the Italians in respect to significantly lower road toll charges than those in France
STREET AND ROAD SIGNS  ( a biggie for us)
It's a huge tick to the French. Getting around France is a breeze compared with Italy. I personally think the French are masters of the universe when it comes to road signage. They are simply in a class of their own.
OLD HISTORICAL STUFF TO VISIT
This is an interesting one. I'm drawing a very long bow here but it seems to me that on balance that Italy contains historical sites that are generally in an overall better state of repair than those of France however both Julia and myself agree that we find the French sites far more interesting . Maybe personal bias is getting in the way here, however that's just the way we see it.
COST OF LIVING
It's a draw.
WHICH COUNTRY WOULD WE PREFER TO RETURN TO ON AN ONGOING BASIS
That's a close race but in the end Provence would probably win out over Tuscany. It's a personal thing however it seems to me that Provence simply ticks more boxes.  That  said, we are not finished  with Florence and its immediate surrounding countryside . The plan is to return there within a couple of years. Than again, when you spend a fortnight in a small French village you are aware at all times that you are the outsider. Contrast that with our Tuscan village where within twenty four hours you have been accepted as part of the community

Isn't it just great to be spoiled for choice
Cheers

Pergine Valdarno , our bolt hole in Tuscany

Guess who is gearing up for a big night in. Actually, come to think of it, this shot is like something out of Groundhog Day. Maybe tonight we will change the rules. Then again, we probably won't 

Our digs "Il Pigionale" in the center of the shot. This 13th century home had it's top third floor blown clean off during WW2, courtesy of a wayward Allied bomb. 

Filling up with either still or sparkling water at the local dispenser. Euro 0.05 per 1.5L. The Italians don't know how good they have it

Venice, we love this city!

Avoid stress and do yourself a favor. Don't leave home without it

Julia and her new "best friend"

I had to slip this one in. After all, isn't this what its all about?

The local watering hole in a square two minutes from our hotel. Great stuff

Venice, this is pretty interesting territory

We have just linked up with friends John and Sue from Auckland for a four week holiday in Italy and France (three weeks in Venice/Tuscany and the Amalfi Coast followed  by a week swanning down the Midi-Canal in the Carcassonne area of Provence)
We are just reaching our third evening of this four night stay in Venice. For Julia and yours truly this is our first trip into "Watery Paradise Territory" . Sue was last here 31 years back and John last visited at least 40 years ago.
What's this city like. Well it's basically everything it's cracked up to be.
You have no doubt been here yourself or have had your ear bashed by friends who wanted to share their personal experience with you so I won't bore you with all the normal good stuff.
However there's a few things that I find really interesting.
For starters , you never see any Real Estate signs ANYWHERE. Isn't that weird? You are left wondering what the housing market situation is like here. Maybe it's a big non event. Who knows?
The flamboyance of the locals. Endless numbers of friends have told us to anticipate that when dealing with locals you will find them a bit crotchety. We have found the exact opposite. In our books the Venetians are winners and perfect hosts .
Getting around. Again, friends told us that it is very easy to get lost. Before arriving here I paid little attention to their comments and just thought that when push came to shove, our internal GPS systems would kick in.WRONG.! TOTALLY WRONG!. You only have to blink and you find yourself lost. Last night we went out at five for a few pre dinner drinks and forgot our map. The plan was for a ten minute walk to a bar we had ear marked as a suitable location. One hour and fifty minutes later and we had finally arrived at our destination. We have now learned our lesson on that little number.
Tourist numbers. We were consistently advised it was going to be a living nightmare and we would be battling for our share of the oxygen supply. Not true. Mid September is a great time to wander around this city. Temperatures are perfect and tourist numbers are just right.
And finally, whats the deal with these Gondoliers singing Tom Jones greats like "the greena greena grassa ofa a homea" . Are they getting bored with Italian numbers.
We are now thinking that this city should be allocated "Return Visit" status.
It's a winner, simple as that

Cheers

Let's be honest. We need a holiday

Last night at The Proms. Thank God I put in all those hard yards back in the sixties during music period at Christchurch Boy's High 

Leonard Cohen in full flight at the Wembley Arena. Seventy seven and still on top of his form. What a guy!  

Week 26. We are both trying to slow down each day however we are fighting a losing battle

Hi. I suppose we could have commented on what a great meal we had at Langan's  Brasserie last Friday week, however we won't.
Or, I could rave on about how fantastic the Last Night of The Proms was the following evening (and it was a winner), however we will give that a miss.
And, I won't even give you a blow by blow of the Leonard Cohen concert we attended on the Sunday evening at the Wembley stadium, and yes this was one of the greatest performances we have ever witnessed.
And finally, I could  even go into detail regarding the England v Ukraine football match we attended at the Wembley Stadium last Tuesday evening, but what do you say about a footie game? We were there?
Just take it from us, all these events exceeded expectation, end of story.
What was of real interest to me was all the side activity that goes on when you go out for an evening.
LANGAN'S BRASSERIE 
Langan's is a bit of a dining institution. The brasserie is located a stones throw from the Green Park tube station, a natural venue for us as we don't have to change tubes en route. Entrepreneur and raging alcoholic Peter Langan joined forces with actor Michael Caine to set up this restaurant back in 1976. Peter was a real piece of work. Apparently he managed to get  sozzled  on a daily basis. His party piece centered on throwing himself under tables occupied solely by women, then starting to howl  like a dog whilst at the same time attempting to gnaw away at the nearest female leg.
You have to love guys like Peter. He was a legend. It's a pity he ended up a flame char-grilled carcass, the result of burning down his house (in an orgy of self destruction) whilst still inside the building.
What I find really interesting about this restaurant is the clientele. Talk about a cross section of London society. Over lunch you can see any number of tables occupied by fast talking, overweight, over dressed 'Arthur Daley' types. 
And middle aged buxom blondes crammed into outfits two or three sizes too small are a dime a dozen. No lack of excess flesh on display here.
There is none of your pretentious two and a half hour table time limits in this establishment. If you plonk yourself down at noon and want to kick on until mid-night, so be it. I reckon Langan's is a "must do" for any overseas visitor interested in enjoying a great lunch or dinner in a restaurant packed with atmosphere.
THE LAST NIGHT OF THE PROMS
This evening is all about national bonding inclusive of a trip down memory lane , back to a  time when England ruled the waves. It's all pretty good stuff. Heaps of flag waving and with tears in your eyes we belted out Jerusalem, You'll Never Walk Alone, Land of Hope and Glory and on and on. 
We were sitting in an eight person box up on the third level directly adjacent to the front of the stage so we had a great view of the proceedings.  There was a corporate box to our right.  None of those guys and their four spouses had a musical brain cell  in their collective heads, however that didn't stop them from having a good time. The boss took a shine to Julia so we spend the evening downing free Frog Champers courtesy of these musical philistines.
As for the guys in our box, well they were also a very interesting collection . The couple directly in front were Scots. The husband  (a now retired corporate one man killing machine ) spent the night alternatively singing out of key, waving his Scotland flag in hysterical fashion, laughing,  crying, or clapping his hands out of sync in much the same way as one of those toy mechanical wind up monkeys claps the large cymbals attached to it's hands. 
The American couple (in their late sixties) sitting next to us were to my mind a dream. At least the guy was. We had been talking for a few minutes when he says to me " You're not from around here are you". To which I replied that we hailed from New Zealand. "Aaah", the  guy says, "Tell  me what's the population of New Zealand. And I reply, " four million". Then this chap says," geeze, that's not many people for one country. In California we have four million criminals". And I immediately respond, "that's a coincidence, that's the same number we have." 
No one says anything for maybe twenty seconds, then the guy's wife leans towards me and whispers, "are you sure about that, are you telling me everyone in your country is a criminal " . Julia's trying her best not to break up at this point as I look this woman in the face and say , "look, maybe I exaggerated  a little. Maybe it's only three million. Whatever it is , it's a lot"
I kind of wished these guys had hung around for round two, however at the break the husband confided to me that they were leaving early as they felt slightly uncomfortable being surrounded by people singing without having to refer to music scores. 
The two fellas n front of the Americans provided the highlight of the evening. The older of the two was eighty five, an Englishman who informed me that he loved Kiwis and New Zealand having worked there way back when the Lower Hutt Hospital was being built. His sixty year old non English speaking son-in-law was from Liechtenstein. The moment of high drama for these guys occurred when we all stood to sing the national anthem. That was, all of us with the exception of the son-in-law who didn't have a clue what was going on so stayed stuck to his seat. Not for long. Halfway  through the first verse the father-in-law happened to spot his daughter's spouse still seated.The old guy didn't hang back and screamed at the poor seated son, "Stand up. Show some respect for or Queen you bloody heathen. Stand up right now, do you hear me." 
Never again will I sing the British national anthem without thinking back to that evening when that old guy bawled out his relative. 
During the concert I spotted  no less than two elderly women who suffered attacks and had to be dragged out of their seats in a horizontal position. No easy feat  as both were seated in the middle of their respective rows
Pretty tame stuff when compared with what was going down in immediate vicinity.
LEONARD COHEN
A brief word. Leonard is now seventy seven yet performs with the energy of a man half his age. A four hour concert split by one twenty minute break. This man is a bloody legend. Both he and his backing group (of many years) are as slick as they come. If you get the chance, go and see this man in concert before he 'pops his clogs'
THE ENGLAND v UKRAINE GAME AT WEMBLEY STADIUM
It's the normal deal here. 70,000+ English fans face off against 15 Ukrainian supporters. That seems like a fair fight. What was interesting was the effect on the English supporters when the Ukraine went one up half way through the first half.
When it became apparent that the English had a real battle on their hands, you could sense a sea-change within the stadium. Tribal instincts took over, the level of abuse directed against both the  Ukrainian team and  their  small band of supporters reached fever bitch. To be honest, it wasn't my thing . I'm all for home team support however there are limits.
For the sake of both the opposition team and their supporters I'm just grateful England equalised in the eighty fifth minute.
In the future I think I will stick to watching the oval ball code.
As an aside, you know how you hear about the current generation of adults who spend most of their waking hours staring into their iPhone screens, well we had a classic group of five addicts sitting directly in front of us at the football. If I hadn't seen it for myself I wouldn't have believed it however the sad fact is that these two males and three females spent the entire match either downing lagers or staring and /or typing on their iPhones. Their seats cost sixty five quid a shot. What a waste. If these five were typical of their generation , all I can say is that the future of western civilization is looking a little dodgy.

Anyway, Saturday has now rolled around and we are off to see Nigel Kennedy in concert. You may recall he's the guy who has spent most of his life denying his comfortable middle class roots in attempt to portray himself as some kind of lower working class genius. It should be an interesting evening. 

I've got a sneaky feeling that one of these ITV commentators has lived a previous life within the BBC

As we have a heap of English friends let's get the disclaimer out of the way first.
In my opinion I think London has organised the best Olympics and Paralympics of all time. End of story. That said, what did bug me during the Olympics was all the jingoistic nonsense BBC commentators generated every time they opened their mouths. 
So I was delighted when I saw that the Paralympics coverage had been awarded to ITV and to this point this company's TV commentators have done a sterling  job to the point where they have actually been attempting to give balanced coverage .
Well that was  until this morning, when I switched on the set to take in the first few swimming events of the morning .
The head swimming race commentator is a woman who I noticed the other day had great difficulty relating to any swimmer who wasn't representing Team GB. Her obvious flaw was compensated by the more balanced coverages of her fellow commentators, so no big deal.
Well,  this morning this woman appeared to be commentating with just one fellow male assistant, and she wasn't holding back.
First up were three heats of a race called the men's SB9 100m breaststroke .
There was one Team GB swimmer only (Jack Bridge) and he was assigned to the second heat.
This is basically how all, three  heats were reported.
Prior to the first heat , we were subjected to a five minute monologue about the brilliance of "our Jack". At no stage was any mention made of any other swimmers in this particular competition. Not even a word on the current world record holder, a South African (Kevin Paul) swimming in heat three.
We,  in television land, were informed in no uncertain terms that the swimming auditorium was a sell out and get this, the commentator felt certain that every single punter in the audience would be supporting Team GB swimmers. This piece of work, even suggested that supporters of other swimmers would no doubt also be having very warm feelings for all British swimmers on show as this particular team had exemplified all that was great in the Paralympics.
OK , I get it. My wife and I have raised our disabled child these last twenty years. Have got up at five every morning to take take our child down to the pool for training, have taken on second jobs to ease the financial demands our son's sport has generated. And now at our cost, we have flown over to London to see our son, the current world record holder, perform in the 100m breaststroke.
And you , you twit of a commentator, you think we would have warm fuzzies about one of my son's competitors who happens to wear a Team GB cap.
No problem , GO TEAM GB!
Heat One
Not a Brit in sight. We actually saw the race live however, the commentator decided that rather than commentating on the race itself, it would be better if she gave us a run down on what we should expect to see when "our Jack " raced in heat two.
The race had actually finished and the result flashed on screen when the commentator finally got around to saying "and Heat One was won by the Chinese competitor in 1.09. Gosh that's not a particularly fast time . This is looking good for Jack to make the final".
Come on lady , go for it, tell us how you really feel. Forget that the winner of this heat is called Lin Furong . Why didn't you just cut to the chase and refer to him as the yellow China Man in lane three . God, this woman is pathetic. I hate her and I don't even know her.
Heat Two
It's "our Jacks " turn to show the world. And they are off. Jack, Jack, come on Jack , you can do it.
It's a brilliant race from Jack . Jacks the new British and European champion swimming a time of 1.105. 
Time for a compulsory pool side interview. Jack , great race, the crowd was right behind you . We all know you are a winner. Well done. 
Thanks very much  jaundiced commentator, I swam brilliantly . With all this crowd support I feel pretty good about winning Gold in tonight's final.
As "our Jack" walks away from the camera, the Heat Two results flash up on screen which confirm that a Russian (Ravel Potavtsev) actually beat Jack by a second.
Heat Three.
Again, this idiot commentator continues to analyse Jacks Heat Two performance as we watch the world record holder (Kevin Paul) race down the course in 1.06.
Quick, back to Jack to double check if he still feels confident about the prospect of picking up fully four seconds on his personal best to beat the South African in tonight's final.
Jacks not a shy one. Jacks up for it . Jacks going to do it for all the people of Britain (and for mankind). 

We are off to the final night of The Proms this evening so  we won't be around to see Jack blitz the competition from an outside lane and bring glory to Britain.
Come to think of it , this is pretty important stuff.
Perhaps the Albert Hall management team might give thought to flashing the race live on a big screen as we are all standing to attention when singing Jerusalmem.
Aah , sport, it's a wonderful thing.

Well, it's a tough call, but if I was asked to rate them......

We have been living in UK/Europe now for some six plus months and by my calculations we have spent something like four months of that time living in London. 
Over that period we have attended in excess of forty concerts.
Some of the performing artists have been fairly ordinary, however most of them have been class acts.
The low light would had to have been a performance by John Renbourne at the Union Chapel. This chap used to be a halfway decent singer/guitarist way-back in the  late sixties and early seventies when performing in the group Pentangle. Then John was a whippet thin Hippie with attitude, a man who was a pretty mean guitarist and one who could hold a key
Roll on forty years and what we were confronted with in that April concert was a burnt out Burl Ives look-a-like whose skills set had departed him many moons back. Frankly it was a pathetic spectacle. No amount of energy generated by his backing group could save this guy. John was just a dead man walking. God, the things some people do for fame and/or a buck.
Another guy who gave us a bit of a scare was the ex rock groups Cream's base guitarist Jack Bruce. We caught up with Jack at Ronnie Scott's back in March. When Jack appeared on stage I actually thought he was in the process of having a small heart attack. However, after downing a couple of stiff ones Jack suddenly fired up , pretty impressive stuff.
As an aside we have "history" when it comes to witnessing rock stars taking a turn for the worse whilst performing on stage. Back in 2000 we were present at the Rod Laver Arena in Melbourne  when singer Meat Loaf crumpled to the deck  mid way through his performance. The band kept playing and maybe twenty seconds on , still laying inert on stage, Meat  started squawking out the remainder of the song. On stage rushed a medic, dragging a chair behind him. A quick inspection, a drink of whatever, and then we hear the medic whisper into Meats head mike "Meat, you're good to go, its just a small murmur". And with that Meat was unceremoniously plonked into the chair where he remained as he hauled his way through the next few numbers. I don't know what that medic injected into Meat during the interval however whatever it was it sure as hell did the trick. Meats second half performance was fairly explosive.
Where was I?....that's right, the ratings war. If I had to rate to this point three artists who have really left their mark on us they would be as follows.
THIRD PLACE
Who : The lead female violinist performing with eight other string performers plus  harpsichord 
Where :  St Martin in the Fields last Saturday evening . 
We  happened  to be sitting in the front pews at this concert and were seated exactly one metre away from the this woman. Her performance was stunning however it was her mannerisms and breathing that got my attention. For starters she looked like she was performing in some kind of personal dream. During the entire performance she was living in an entirely different space from the rest of her fellow performers and we , the audience .
But what really got me was this woman's breathing. We had only just started to get into the first number when (I have pretty good hearing) I started to hear someone breathing heavily through their nostrils. At first I thought these sounds were coming from the guy sitting directly to my left or possibly someone seated right behind me. Bingo! , suddenly it dawned on me that this really disconcerting noise was actually  emanating from the nostril area of this first violinist. Then this very weird thing started happening in my brain. I slowly and unconsciously stopped listening to the actual music and starting zoning in on this woman's breathing. I became obsessed by her nasal activity and starting closely tracking the slight visible vibrations of the violinists nostril as she dragged in oxygen. And let me tell you this woman sucked in truck loads of air.
At the break I told Julia I could not face another hour of this unexpected windfall bonus so we snuck off round the corner to The Harp for a drink.
Trust me, when listening to the noise generated by the nasal intake of a stranger who happens to be playing a violin becomes more of interest than her musical performance then  you have to accept you have a problem that can only be rectified with a stiff drink.
That said, that evening was one weird  and highly enjoyable experience.
RUNNER UP
Who : Cameron Carpenter
Where : The Royal Albert Hall a week or so back
In an attempt to get us into the ballot for seats at the final night of The Proms I had to book a minimum number of regular concerts, including this organ recital performed late Sunday afternoon.
A couple of years back we attended a similar recital. On that occasion the organist of the hour was a the middle aged (most correct and very much respected) head of music at Durham University. I always recall that guy appearing in a full black tail outfit, which was kind of  "over the top " for a late afternoon performance
As Julia and I knew nothing whatsoever about this Cameron chap, we anticipated that he would be of similar mould , mid forties with roots in middle England etc.
Just as the clock struck four a guy sidled up to the organ and gave the audience a bit of a rundown. I suddenly came fully alert when I heard the guy tell us that at age sixteen our new friend Cameron had spent a year rewriting a full Mahler symphony for organ. The announcer then advised us that it had then taken Cameron these last fourteen years to get his skill set to the point where he could actually perform what he had written. By this stage I'm thinking, who the hell is this guy?
Well, we didn't have long to wait. Enter from stage left a stick thin American standing something over six foot tall.
Starting at the top.
The guy was sporting a huge jet black Mohawk 
His top was a string black see through tee shirt with cutaway arms
Cameron's bottom half was clothed in stove pipe shiny black jeans covered in sequins 
And as for footwear , what else, black nineteen sixties winkle pickers polished to an impossibly high sheen
What a sight, this guy was the spitting image of the now departed Sid Vicious of ex rock group The Sex Pistols. I have to be honest , one look at this guy and I was converted. 
Without further ado Cameron fired up what is considered to be the second best organ in the universe ( damm those forward thinking music types in Dresden) and commenced to give the audience a master lesson on what one genius can do when let loose on 9,997 organ pipes.
All I can say is that anyone has ever played better Bach on that organ, then the audience on that particular day would have savoured the occasion.
To watch this strange looking dude  as he wove his magic, what an experience .
And let me tell you when this guy pulled out all the stops during the climax of one first half piece, the Albert Hall actually started vibrating , which was an experience that won't be easily forgotten .
During a break between numbers the guy who had initially introduced us to Cameron said " I see you don't use written music scores when you perform" to which Cameron responded " to be honest, I feel my performance becomes cramped if I'm forced to read what I'm about to play. I just basically read the entire score a couple of times in advance of my initial performance of any number, and then that's about it"
Honestly, this guy is a seriously interesting piece of work and one to watch as the years pass. He might be worth checking out on the net
FIRST PLACE ( no doubts on that score)
Who : Lou Reed
Where : The Festival Hall, Southbank
Lou Reed is to USA rock music what Andy Warhol was to American Art.
This seventy year old has spend his entire music career out there......way, way out there.......probably on another planet .
I've always wanted to see Lou live and when the 2012 Alternative Music Festival listed Lou as a lead act, well that was our invitation to whip out the credit card.
You know, I've seen any number of ageing rock artists , and some of then like say Leonard Cohen, are in fine fettle.Even  the Moody Blues still look in pretty good repair .
That cant be said of Lou Reed. One look at this guy and you know in a second that everything that's ever been written about the USA East Coast rock sene back in the late sixties and seventies is probably all true.
Lou appeared on stage as if he was some poorly dressed mannequin being rolled into position for display at some retro black leather fashion show.
This guy was seriously old and was restricted in his movements to the point where he required assistance to take his guitar strap off his shoulders at the end of each number. 
But let's get one thing clear here. Under that human husk beat the heart of a rock lion. Lou just wasn't human, he was a rock legend, and he wasn't about to let down his faithful flock.
The next ninety minutes was simply rock heaven central.
Lou and his group gave a performance that had us alternatively clinging to our seats, or leaping into the air as we applauded wildly at the end of each song.
An hour and a half down the track and Lou stumbles up to the mike and tells us " this has been a great privilege for me (we all go wild) however I'm pretty well stuffed right now. If I could manage the encore routine I would do so but the effort getting off then back onto this stage is tonight a step too far for me. So here it goes, I'm giving this gig one final shot then I'm outa here"
And with that Lou launched  into one of his classics , Sad Song ,and that was that, game over.
A couple of band members stepped forward and gently assisted Lou as he exited the stage, and we trooped off to the Blackfriars  pub for a few drinks and an extensive post  match analysis
Lou  Reed, it was a privilege to hear you live. You were everything we hoped for and more.So much talent , and so little time left on earth. What a  great pity. 

Cheers 

You know, it would be quite useful if either Julia or yours truly could demonstrate a little more self control from time to time

Guys, do you know that feeling when you get up on a morning and just know that you are going to press your luck too far and are almost guaranteed to pay for your folly.
Today was a case in point ( for both Julia and yours truly I might say).
It all started at 4pm yesterday when we met up with friends Vicki and Steve who are over here from Christchurch for a break.
The sun was in the sky, there wasn't a cloud in sight, the temperature was running in the mid twenties. This perfect combination demanded a pub crawl.
First stop Ye Olde Mitre, followed by Ye Old Watling, then into our favourite bar (which just happens to be a fully blown Frog watering hole) Le Beaujolais , and then topping things off at Gordon's Wine Bar.
At this juncture we escorted our friends to the nearest tube station and we made our way home, with a quick last drink at The Gallery, a pub conveniently located directly outside the Pimlico tube station.
Straight to bed and miracle of miracles we both woke this morning hang over free and feeling on top of the word.
OK, that's the preamble done and dusted.
Now onto our fatal mistake.
After a very lazy morning Julia says, I'm hungry , why don't we go out for lunch?
No arguments from me. Having woken with all faculties intact I felt bullet proof.
A couple of weeks ago I had been trawling the net for a suitable pub for a day such as this,  so off we went to Ye Olde Red Cow, an establishment located directly over the road from the Smithfield Markets.
Of course it goes without saying that on the tube having discussed our full-on pub crawl the previous evening we made the obligatory commitments to each other to have an alcohol free day etc.
When we walked through the door of the pub (which specialises in fantastic meat dishes in combination with boutique beers) I turned to Julia and said, look we are kidding ourselves if we think we can have a gourmet pub lunch here and get away with only sucking down ginger beer or whatever.
What about we stay clear of wine and simply have a pint of what will be our first and last beer of the summer.
Agreed. 
Up we go to the counter and in a moment of lunacy, the after effects of which will haunt our bodies for the next eight hours, we look up at the list of beers behind the counter and believe it or not, order a couple of pints of a liquid answering to the name of Beaver Town Smog Rocket (I kid you not). The beer was listed as having a 6.5% alcohol count. Mistake, big mistake! A stupid call actually.
We commence to quietly sip this black brew as we waited for our lunch (which incidentally was fantastic) . After we had downed maybe a third of a pint I started feeling a tad strange so I asked Julia how she was feeling.
Julia immediately responded that she had been about to ask me the same thing as she was feeling as if her mind was starting to drift out of her body.
Snap! I was feeling exactly the same, in fact this out of body experience was feeling a little weird.
Any normal sane couple would have at this stage simply quit while they were behind and switch to a less non threatening drink.
But not your intrepid friends. 
No, we just pressed ahead and having  knocked off our pints, proceeded to order a second.
The trip home on the tube was a bit of laugh.
It was like we were viewing life from way on high.
Word of advise, when next in London if you want to experience a great pub lunch, then The Red Cow has it in spades.
As for their beer, do yourself a favour, stick to more non threatening, non mind bending beverages like wine.

Cheers

Look and see, but whatever you do, don't mess around with the "Lichen Police" .Read on

OK, the park bench to the far left is the location of the "Crime Scene"

Does this bench look suspicious to you? I thought not. Any thoughts why one shouldn't rest up a while. I agree. Time to plonk ones self down and suck up the atmosphere.

Gotcha!. Didn't see that did you. You should be more vigilant 

Proof that old gardens are worth a visit

Since arriving in London back at the end of February we have strolled past a fenced off garden called the Chelsea Physic Garden probably on forty or fifty occasions . And each time we pass by we say to each other, you know we should drop in there one day and check the place out. (At least, that's what Julia said to me. I just kinda nodded in response as to be honest the thought of wandering around a plant garden holds as much interest to me as the thought of having to ride a horse, eating cauliflower or consuming trifle).
Anyway, to cut a long story short, that afternoon Julia blindsided me out of nowhere and having moved too slowly on an immediate alternative Plan B, we agreed that this was the day.
You guys may be aware of the history surrounding this garden, established back in 1763 by the Society of Apothecaries to ensure their apprentices could learn to grow medicinal plants and study their uses.
And two hundred and forty nine years later we have dropped in, forked out our nine quid (per head, you can't get off that easily) and then proceeded to check the place out.
To be fair, on the "level of interest meter" in advance of the event I would have given this prospect a one out of ten. However once there, natural curiosity took over and after an hour or so I was feeling pretty good about the place.
Having viewed every plant in sight and any number of forgettable sculptures, we thought that prior to leaving we would sit back in one of the many  park benches scattered around the place and just take in the atmosphere and the autumnal sunshine.
Out of the  corner of my eye I spot the perfect possie right down the end of a path and off we stroll in the general direction of this perfectly positioned bench.
We had just plonked ourselves down and were quietly relaxing when about a minute on, I spot this very elderly couple frantically waving at us whilst charging (more like stumbling) in our general direction. Well,  to be more accurate, heading straight at us like a couple of first world war missiles disguised as old people.
Maybe ten seconds later, this couple come to a shuddering and very shaky halt right in front of our outstretched legs, then the old guy stammers "you can't sit there. Stand up. Stand up before you do any further damage".
What to do? When someone that old demonstrates that much agitation you have very little choice other than to immediately comply with their demands, irrespective of whether you know what the hell is going on.
So I look at this couple and say, what's the problem?
And the old woman then blurts out " It's the Lichen, you are sitting on it, you are killing it!"
At this point we both burst out laughing and I say " I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about."
Then the old guy stammers "Read the sign, read the sign, it tells you you can't sit on this bench, and you were."
My turn , and I respond "What sign?" as I look around for a sign.
And the guy says, "The sign on the bench, the one you had your back against when you were sitting on this bench which you shouldn't have sat on in the first place"
At this point we both turn around and we both start showing some real interest in this bench and obviously spot this rather small sign, a sign so small that to be honest you would have to go hunting for to find in the first place.
We then turn back to these guys, and I say," look, no problem, we didn't see the sign, and if we did, we wouldn't have sat there and would have chosen an alternative pew. Thanks for pointing it out to us."
The old woman just couldn't let it go with our heart felt apology , so her parting shot to us was" I just hope you haven't destroyed this very important Lichen experiment."
I should have just slunk off at that point but I thought, stuff these old self appointed 'Lichen Security Guards' so I looked at the old guy and said, "tell me , if you think my wife and myself were committing some kind of plant crime, what about those Americans on the other side of the garden who were secretly taking plant cuttings out of sight maybe ten minutes back."
In a nano second these old guys' faces drained of all remaining signs of blood and whilst at the same time going rigid ,like Pointers who have sighted ducks
The old dude screams "WHAT, TAKING CUTTINGS, BLOODY FOREIGNERS"
And with that he was off like a shot, dragging his wife behind him.
At that point I suggested to Julia that maybe we had done this garden to death. Julia agreed and  we exited via a side door.
I tell you, it doesn't matter where you go in London. You will never be bored. There's action aplenty around every corner.