Rob Wickings's Blog, page 59

Witness Statement: The M25 Spin, 2014

I wish I could say that this year I’d manned up and joined Gimpo as he patrolled the borders of London. 

Sadly, I wussed out, and the Spin remained yet again a Rob-free zone. I console myself with the fact that there’s still a chunk of time to go. There are seven Spins left for me to make my mark.

This year, Gimpo was largely on his own. It is, I guess, inevitable that at some point the mission will boil down to its essential elements: a man, a sacrifice, a journey mapped as much in time as in distance.

Gimpo was, however, joined for one lap of the Spin by Mark – Iron Man Records, who has been a regular and enthusiastic chronicler of the way of the Spin. With his permission, Excuses And Half Truths is proud to present his illustrated witness statement of his time on the road with Gimpo.

Strap in, get comfortable. This one could take a while.

 

I didn’t get much sleep the night before. I had been working on the release of the new John Sinclair record “Mohawk.” By the time I climbed into the car and started the engine it was 10am. I drove to London and dropped the car in Brentford. I picked up the keys. I had a 9 seater VW Splitter van on hire from DYC Touring and headed to Shepherd’s Bush. I wasn’t due to meet the band until 3pm so I had a bit of time to park up and make phone calls.

If I was applying for a job I’d probably tell you I’m a tour manager, a music manager. I can drive a splitter van and tow trailers, and I have a clean driving licence. I could tell you I’ve been running a record label called Iron Man Records for 18 years, I play in a couple of bands, I run a few websites, I work freelance and so on. In reality, I don’t apply for jobs, employers find their way to me on personal recommendation because no one else, in a right mind, will take their work on. The day was looking no different to any other. The phone was ringing.

I have to do many things on a daily basis just to keep things moving, some of it for money, some of it for free, some of it because I have no other choice and some of it for reasons of pure nonsense. Don’t ask me to explain.

Gimpo was due to start the 25 hour M25 Spin at midday, so by now he should have completed a lap and be half way round the next one. The time was 2pm and my phone was lighting up with messages from people asking if I was on the Spin this year. Not this year. I was driving a band called Tenterhook to Hereford for a gig at The Jailhouse. They needed a driver and had a small budget to work with. I had no money, and on that basis I was “available” to do the work. Gimpo was planning to do the M25 Spin solo this year. You can’t reason with someone like Gimpo. He thinks things up and goes and does them. No discussion. No explanation. The Tao of Gimpo.

I had decided to leave him to it for now. For various reasons Tim, who usually drives the van for the whole 25 hours, was unable to make it this year. Sharon, who handles navigation and supplies while Tim is at the wheel, was stuck in Guatemala with no money for a plane ticket. Todd, who looks after the website www.GimpoGimpo.com was in New Jersey. I already had several messages from him asking “What the fuck’s going on?”

Did I know what was going on? Can anyone know what’s going on in Gimpo’s mind? I managed to speak to Tim: he had been in touch with the man himself. Gimpo had made a start, but had only got half way round. Tim was worried about progress. Gimpo hadn’t got very far and Tim had been questioning Gimpo at length. “Half a lap? What are you doing? Selling ice cream? Get a move on, there’s work to do.” It seemed to me that Gimpo was having technical problems. Gimpo was driving his own car this year in an attempt to do the M25 Spin solo for the first time. This might all sound pretty good, but the reality was a little different.

The CD player was broken in Gimpo’s car and the radio doesn’t really do it these days. Gimpo had fixed up the video camera with cable ties, and had a stock of blank mini DV tapes at the ready. But, there were a few other issues that hadn’t been thought through. You can’t drive and text, can you? You can’t drive and take pictures, can you? You cant drive, take pictures, text, answer the phone, send emails or reply to requests, can you?

So what was Gimpo to do? He was already on the M25 spin. Solo. No support. And how was he going to document the event? He had stopped at Clacket Lane Services to discover this was going to be a long and complicated day. He had an iPhone, with a SIM card, which gave him free internet access but the camera on his Nokia phone was better. For some reason the Nokia wouldn’t send emails so Todd wasn’t going to get any picture updates for the website.

I rang Gimpo, as time was moving on, to find out what he was up to. Gimpo would not be stopped by anyone. Gimpo was doing the M25 Spin and he would do it solo with or without anyone knowing about it. I had to go. It was nearly 3pm, the band needed to be in Hereford for 6pm. I told Gimpo I would come and find him when I got back after the gig. He would have to go it alone till then.

3pm arrived and I found myself collecting a band, who are being managed by one of the few capable music management companies I know. They look after Madness, so no joke, they are going to do good things with this lot. The band are actually a singer and songwriter with a great voice who plays the guitar and goes under the name of Tenterhook. He’s 19. He works with some other musicians who play drums, guitar, bass and keys. The van was loaded and by 3.15pm we were on the road to Hereford. The gig was just like any other I’ve been to. Headliners took for ever getting their soundcheck done, they didn’t really speak to anyone and then vanished. The lot I was with sound checked and agreed last details like set order, start and finish time, and made a start on the limited rider provided by the venue staff.

By now there was a long list of messages and emails asking what the fuck was going on? Where was Gimpo? Was he OK? What did I know? Had I heard anything? The Spin was on, nobody needed to know. Gimpo was at the wheel and with that thought in mind, it’s probably better not to know what’s going on.

Tenterhook didn’t go onstage till much later than planned. The band had a good one. It was their first gig and the applause gave the band the endorsement they were hoping for.

Outside the band members gathered to load the van while people came out of the the venue to chat and find out who they were, and where they had come from. It was their first gig together.

On the way back to London beers were opened, and the talk was of the gig and what had just gone on. The band knew how much work was ahead but it seemed like a good start to the process.

I dropped the band back at 5am and taxis were waiting to take people home from the meeting point. “Where are you going now, where are you staying?” came the inevitable question. I unloaded the gear and handed it to the exhausted band members. “Don’t ask, you don’t want to know” was my reply. I could see there were a load of messages that had come in on my phone while I was driving back from Hereford. I dared not even look till the van was parked, the gear unloaded, and the band already gone.

The phone was full of madness. I called Gimpo and found him at Clacket Lane Services. He had just pulled in to try and send some pictures to Todd. No change there then. I suggested we meet at Cobham services, only 30 minutes further round, to talk through what was going on.

I arrived at Cobham around 6am having dropped the splitter van back to DYC Touring on the way. The parking at Cobham is free for 2 hours then its £25 for up to 24 hours. As I despaired at the parking situation, Gimpo arrived. “Don’t worry about parking, Mark. Let’s book a meeting room for £8, the parking is free with that.” Nice try, Gimpo. I wasn’t about to try booking a meeting room at 6am on a Sunday morning. Neither of us looked in any way believable and if we booked a meeting room and then vanished it may generate suspicion. We defaulted to the only option available, a cup of tea from Greggs and a meeting in the comfy chair area to work out what sort of plan might be possible under the circumstances.

Gimpo started emptying his pockets of leads, head phones, charger cables, car keys, phones and assorted other items. He explained the problem. “I’ve got this iPhone but you need two hands to work the camera. This Nokia has a better camera, and you can work it one handed, but I can’t get it to work. I can’t send emails to Todd.” I looked at both and tried to have a go at getting the Nokia to work. It was full of pictures, but no, the internet wasn’t working and I couldn’t work out how to get it to send and receive.

We finished the tea and returned to the vehicles. Gimpo said, “Let’s drop your car off on the A3. I know a place where Bill and Jimmy took a load of journalists in the middle of the night. Ockham Common. It’s where we showed the money nailed to a piece of wood.” That sounded like a great idea, even if no one would even remember or believe the basis upon which the suggestion had been made. I digress. I refused to pay £25 to park my car. That’s a waste of money, isn’t it?

I followed Gimpo back onto the M25 and just one stop further on we turned off onto the A3 and headed south for a few minutes. On the left is Ockham woods and there’s a car park with free parking. I parked my car and took what valuables I had with me. The early morning doggers looked on as Gimpo explained at length and in detail about his previous visits with Bill and Jimmy. I listened with interest as the story poured out and I transferred my stuff to Gimpo’s car. I didn’t have to time to think about the rest.

In a few minutes Gimpo was back on the M25 and the Spin continued. Gimpo looked worn out but determined. This was his M25 spin, he was the artist here, and no one was going to stop him. This was his first solo M25 spin. The phone rang and Gimpo activated his hands free set. It was Tim. Tim sounded like he was checking in to be sure that nothing had gone wrong. Gimpo passed the phone across. “Hi Mark, is everything all right?” he asked. Tim and I chatted a while longer and I handed the phone back. Gimpo continued on with the story about the phone versus camera versus driving solo problem. And then Tim was gone, and the Spin continued. 

Next up was the “Give Peas a Chance” Bridge, just north of J16 where the M25 crosses the M40. We headed North while Gimpo endlessly flipped from one radio station to the next, attempting to find anything worth listening to, whilst broadcasting his irritation at the fact the cd player was broken and he had no “modern music” to listen to.

Gimpo drove at a steady 56 miles an hour. “The price of bloody fuel these days Mark, it’s a rip off,” he said. “The Spin gets more and more expensive every year. The only thing I can do is drive at what the car manual says is the most economical speed. 56 miles an hour. It’s not a race.”

Gimpo turned off at J23, South Mimms. He wanted to get some fruit juice and have a driving break. He parked up and as we both walked into the services he spotted four “Beat The Street” double decker tour buses parked up. “That’ll be Elton John or some other shit I bet,” he said. “Who do these people think they are?”

Once inside I got a dissertation on the pros and cons of Krispie Kreme Donuts and Gimpo’s theory on who buys them, how, and why.

Back outside Gimpo showed me how he had stuck his signs to the roof of the car with gaffer tape. Only the truck drivers or bus passengers would see. We got back in the car and Gimpo set to work labelling and loading the next tape to go in the video camera. We headed back onto the M25 and I got the full account of Spin Island, the only island on the M25. Gimpo wants to plant an Argentinian flag on it. He says he’d like to buy it and give it to the owners of Stott Hall Farm, between J22 and J23 on the M62. The story goes they refused to sell up and move house when they built the M62 Motorway over the Pennines so by rights, they should have Spin Island too. Gimpo says there’s a hot spring on Spin Island. That’s why they had to split the motorway to go around it.

Onwards through a couple of tunnels then it was up over the Queen Elizabeth Bridge. Traditionally the Spin starts there at midday on the Saturday, top dead centre. Descending on the other side Gimpo only uses toll booth number 23. Gimpo paid the toll and as the barrier went up it was almost exactly 9am.

Next stop was Clacket Lane Services. “Doggers Delight!” Gimpo declared. “They put a rat trap in the hedge just there but the rat dug a hole underneath it.” More fruit juice and a quick driving break before moving on to Cobham and the lap was completed. Gimpo still couldn’t find anything to listen to on the radio. He switched it off in despair. “Where’s Tim?” he shouted, “He always has the music, we need Tim here to put the music on.”

Gimpo explained he wanted to do the last lap by himself so he dropped me back to my car. A committed artist. I collected my car and followed Gimpo back onto the M25. Some things just can’t be explained. Gimpo is making the world’s longest road movie. He wants to know where the M25 goes. His plan is to drive round the M25 every year on the closest Saturday night/Sunday morning to 21 March each year for 25 years. Gimpo has 7 years left to completion. 

I looked across at the other drivers as they passed by on their way to nowhere, circling the nation’s capital. Another ruin of a world city. Gimpo was ahead at a steady 56mph, unmoved in his commitment to the work. Who would know who was in the car in front? An artist alone at work. An artist without a name or a country. An artist who has nothing in common with you. An artist filming the world’s longest road movie in an attempt to find out where the M25 goes. An artist with no gods and no masters. The M25, the London Orbital Motorway, 117 miles of open road where Gimpo is the artist. One man, just getting into it for himself.

Thanks again, Mark. Sterling work. More to come on the subject, of course. Seven years to go. The Spin prevails.

For more on Mark and Iron Man Records, hie thee to his website: http://www.ironmanrecords.co.uk/

Fodderblog: Bombay Baked Potatoes

Ah, the joys of the humble baked potato. Never dressy, never the belle of the ball. But always there when you need it.

As Nigel Slater put it so well, the baked spud is the culinary equivalent of a big fat hug.

Sure, it's simple, honest comfort food, but there's no reason why you can't give it an extra touch of luxury.

I'm a fairly recent convert to the ways of the twice-baked potato, but the little bit of extra work involved pays off in spades. After all, it's not like a baker is exactly hard work in the first place–you put a potato in a hot oven for an hour. End of recipe.

The notion of the twice-baked potato is nearly as simple. Once your spud is crispy and deep brown, you split it in twain, scoop out the flesh, mash it with a few goodies, then pile the filling back into the shells and return it to the oven for 15-20 minutes. With a decent melty cheese and some pancetta cubes, fizzing from the pan, complete with their oil as an alternative to butter, it's utter heaven.

Today, though, I want to talk about last night's dinner. A simple meal of leftovers. Some chicken thighs, half a pack of Indian snacks and some rice. But I had a leftover potato that needed using too. Twice-baked would seem to be the way to go. With those Indian flavours already in the mix, I knew which way to take things.

I melted some butter and oil in a pan and, once foaming, tossed in a teaspoon of garam masala and cumin. I let the spices cook for a minute or so, then added a very fined chopped shallot and a couple of cloves of garlic, again as finely diced as I could get them. Thinking about it now, I had some ginger that could have gone in as well, dammit. Oh well, next time.

I covered the pan and gave the spice and shallot/garlic mix a few minutes to gently burble away (careful, though, don't let them burn), while I carefully split and scooped the potato. It's actually a lot easier to do this with a spud that's fresh from the oven–the skin of a fridged potato is much more fragile than the crackly, paper-rustling delight you get from a hot spud. Just go easy, and try to leave a little of the flesh around the edge to help the finished item keep its shape.

Then it's just a case of tipping the potato and spice mix together in a bowl with a little salt and perhaps a touch more butter, and mashing the lot. You should get a nice yellow colour from the spices, flecked with gold from the onoins and garlic. Don't be tempted to go completely smooth with the mash–a little texture works wonders.

Then I piled the filling back into the skins (they wobbled, so I popped them in a high-sided baking dish and leant them drunkenly up against each other) and back into the oven for a bit. A fresh spud will probably only need 10 minutes or so. My cold one took closer to 20.

End result? A crispy skin with a soft, nubbly, flavoursome interior just begging to be dragged through some sour cream or yoghurt. You effectively have the stuffing for a samosa here, so if your spud's big enough, you could add a few thawed frozen peas to the mix. Perhaps some finely chopped mushrooms would be nice, cooked down with the shallot, garlic and spices to become sticky little flavour bombs.

My Bombay Baked Potatoes work a treat with any curry, as an alternative (or an addition) to a bhaji plate. Or indeed, any meal that could use a little no-fuss spice.

 

Follow Friday

In a break to our regular schedule, I wanted to shout out to some of our X&HTeam-mates.

One of the nice things about doing this blog are the connections that you make along the way. I’m lucky enough to be friends with some very clever and creative people, so it’s only fair that I make some noise when they do cool stuff.

Following on from last week’s Captain America piece, I noticed that Chris Rogers has also put in the hours to post his own in-depth overview of the Sentinel Of Liberty’s most recent escapades. With a focus, as ever, on the architecture and tradecraft on display, it makes for a fascinating read.

America In Winter: Who Watches The Watchmen?

Longtime chum of the site Simon Aitken is currently on his second run of fund-raising for his portmanteau exploration of the ways of the heart on the 21st century, Modern Love. He’s come up with a neat idea. On April 16th, if you want to dedicate the film to a loved one, you can do so for the bargain price of one English pound. How’s that for the gift that goes on giving? For more info, check out his Indiegogo page for the project, and drop the guy a bit of cash, whydoncha?

Modern Love at Indiegogo

Simon recently talked to our chum, writer and film-maker Stuart Wright, on his Britflicks podcast about Modern Love and the unusual way in which he’s funding it. Britflicks is always worth a listen (keep yours ears open for an upcoming appearance from yr humble author) and this episode serves as a fascinating insight into the trials and joys of modern low-budget film-making.

Britflicks: Simon Aitken

Meanwhile, Stu’s latest short, Tabloid Terry, received its first screening this week as our chums at BraineHownd Films hosted their popular monthly film night. They’ve changing things up with a two-venue approach, based at The Art House (Crouch End’s only independent cinema) and The Hob in Forest Hill. It’s been too long since I covered a BraineHownd event – expect to see a report from one of the two new bases of operations soon!

BraineHownd’s Facebook Page

As for Excuses And Half Truths… Clive and I are also shifting things around a bit, moving The Speakeasy out of stinky old Soho and into a shiny new home in Clerkenwell. The first show recorded there will be our Summer Movie preview, dropping in May, which also marks the first anniversary of the show. How time doth fly.

In the meantime, watch out for our epic concept album podcast with Stu, which will make an appearance on your feeds next week. Don’t forget, The Speakeasy is available through iTunes, SoundCloud and for download at the links above and below.

The Speakeasy on iTunes

The Speakeasy on Soundcloud 

Phew. Blimey. I think that’s it. Did I miss anyone? 

Fodderblog: Janssen’s Temptation

As ever, dinner the other night was dictated by what was knocking around in the fridge. From few and humble ingredients, great things can be made.

 

I don't often have full-fat cream in the house. If I want something creamy with a pud, it's either the crisp tang of creme fraiche or yoghurt, or if I really fancy something sweet, custard. Cream just seems a little too full in the mouth, that bit too rich. However, I couldn't resist trying out Mary Berry's cottage pie with a dauphinoise topping, and a pot of double cream was essential (it's delicious, by the way, you should try it–just don't expect to do anything energetic for a few hours afterwards).

But I used far less cream than I thought I'd need, which presented me with a conundrum. What does one do with two-thirds of a pot of cream? There I was, gazing dolefully at the contents of the fridge, searching for inspiration. My eye lit upon a jar of anchovies that had been sitting there for a while, bought when I was on a puttanesca jag. A lightbulb flickered dimly in the recesses of my cooking head. I suddenly knew what to make for dinner.

Janssen's Temptation is one of those odd dishes that sounds a bit weird until you try it. A mix of potatoes, onion, anchovies and cream, it's a kind of Scandinavian dauphinoise. It's one of those dishes that I've always wanted to try, and on a quiet day off with a cold-ridden TLC to feed, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to try comfort food with a decent wallop of flavour to punch through to her lurgified tastebuds.

A couple of thoughts before we begin. Technically speaking, Janssen's Tempation is made with sprats, not anchovies. Something worth bearing in mind if you really can't bear the salty little buggers (I love 'em). You get less of a saline kick, but also something that seems more fishy, somehow. The great thing about anchovies is that they melt in the heat of your pan, leaving nothing but sea-salt flavours.

I've seen many recipes that call for the potatoes to be finely sliced, in the same way you'd do a classic gratin. I'm with the Scandi school of thought that for this dish, they're better off cut into matchsticks, which gives a slightly less dense result.

So, let's get to it. To ease the pain of prepping this dish, you really need a mandolin with a julienne attachment. I've had mine for years. Perfect for those really skinny frites to go with a steak, and it whips through a kilo of spuds in moments. Watch your fingers, though. I'm sure mine aren't as long as they used to be. When they're done, pop the spuds in a bowl of water while you get on with the rest.

Onions. Lots. A couple of big ones. If you have banana shallots, which are brilliant in this, you'll need a good double handful. Finely sliced. Hey, your mandolin's out. Put the thin slicing plate on and the chopping's a breeze. Melt a knob of butter in a deep, wide pan then tip in the onions and let them mellow and gold up for a good 10-15 minutes. Preheat your oven at this point–180 fan, and oil the dish you normally make shepherd's pie in.

Once your onions are soft, tip in half a jar of anchovies, along with some of the salty oil, and give it a stir. You'll notice the colour will deepen as the fish starts to break up. Season, if you like–no more salt at this point, of course, but some black pepper would be nice. Give it another five minutes or so, then you're ready to build.

Spread a layer of the matchstick spuds in the bottom of the tray. Top them with about half of the onion-anchovy mix, and two or three anchovies. Then repeat, finishing with a layer of spuds. A final grate of pepper over the top.

Now for the cream. I had about 200 ml left of a 300 ml tub, so I topped it up with milk, then poured the lot over the spuds, onions and anchovies. You can see now why the juliennes are a better idea than slices–the cream goes all the way through the dish, distributing smoothly through the dish. If you have any anchovies left over, rip them up and scatter them over the top.

Dot the top with a little extra butter, then into the hot oven for around 45 minutes. You're looking for a deep brown crust, with thickened cream bubbling up around the edges.

The end result is creamy and salty, with a hint of smoke and sweetness from the onions. It's moist without being sloppy, and there's a lovely contrast between the crunchy top and the soft, tender interior. We had our Temptation with sausages, but it'll work equally well with any grilled meat, a sturdy hunk of white fish (hake would be perfect) or even just on its own with some salad leaves and bread to mop up the creamy leavings.

It's not health food, of course–not with this much butter and cream. And it's not the quickest of meals to put together. But let's face it. On a rainy Friday night when you're not budging from the sofa, you could do much worse.

The Soldier In Winter: Thoughts On Captain America

Something in the manner of a disordered opinion-dump, but there’s a lot to unpack in this movie.

Captain America: The Winter Soldier is out today in the US. Spoiler Alerts are in operation from here on in.

 

The prevailing wisdom is that CA:TWS is the Marvelverse’s attempt at a 70′s style thriller. That’s a fair comparison, I think. Many of the essential elements are there. The sense of moral ambiguity that’s so familiar from Le Carre and Deighton is front and centre, of course, but there are a ton of other signifiers. The friend as enemy, the enemy as friend. The brainwashed operative. The network of moles at the heart of a secret organisation that considered itself inviolable. The casting of Robert Redford is a smart nod to this era. The muted, slightly desaturated cinematography is a clear visual clue. The world of The First Avenger with its bright clean colourspace is a long way away.

 

2. Of course, Marvel, and cape comics in general, have been here before. The 70s was a strange place to be a man in a mask, as many of the certainties of the previous decades came crashing down. DC seemed obsessed with the drugs problem, to the point of making Green Arrow’s sidekick Speedy into a junkie. As for Cap? Well, he took it hardest of all. Breaking a crime syndicate only to discover that the boss of the whole thing was the President (it’s never made clear, but the general consensus is that it’s supposed to be Nixon) was enough to tip Steve Rogers over the edge, abandon his shield and become the roving dispenser of justice known as Nomad. He no longer saw America as a place that deserved a Sentinal Of Liberty. That’s a harsh judgement.

3. But let’s consider Captain America as a character–or rather, as an avatar for a set of ideals. That is, after all, why he was created in the first place: an instrument of propaganda, a symbol of what G.I. Joe was fighting for. The guy that could run up to Hitler and give him a sock in the jaw. Joe Johnston’s original Captain America movie both satirises and celebrates this era, as Steve Rogers salutes stiffly behind a line of showgirls after knocking out a guy in a stick-on Hitler moustache. In the new film, he has become a man out of time, fighting a war with no clear boundaries or endgames. He’s lonely, unable to engage with anyone outside his immediate bubble of hardcore military types and intellegence operatives. A flip exchange between Steve and Natasha Romanoff, The Black Widow, at the start of the movie speaks volumes:

NATASHA: “Do much on Saturday night?”

STEVE: “Well, all the guys in my barbershop quartet are dead, so no.”

In the movie, it comes across as a throw-away joke. But written down it becomes a far blunter, much less funny line. You could argue that Steve is still playing the role of America’s avatar–isolated, unsure of his part in the wider world. He’s a soldier. All he knows is war. But the war SHIELD, Nick Fury and Alexander Pearce have given him is a slippery thing, filled with ugly choices, compromises and doubt.

4. Although the comparison to 70′s spy thrillers is apt, CA:TWS deals with modern concerns in a fluid and thoughtful way. The surveilllance culture and whistle-blowing are both touched upon, as is the notion of freedom, and how much sacrifice is required to keep it. Could we say that the Hydra argument that Pearce supports–freedom is an illusion that the populace doesn’t really want or need–is close to the state the opponants of the Obama administration argue is already happening in the US? Perhaps. A nuanced discussion on the nature of freedom in the modern era is not the kind of thing you expect to see in the middle of a cape movie, and although it does get lost a bit in the middle of the sturm und drang of the final third of the film, the fact that it’s there at all is both refreshing and welcome.

5. Superhero and spy films are both heavy on the notion of identity, so it’s no surprise to see it explored in CA:TWS. The thing is, Captain America is the one character that doesn’t have issues with the dual nature of the secret identity. He knows who he is and what he stands for. It’s his friends and collegues that seem to struggle with that simple notion. Black Widow, in particular, is taunted by Pearce as she prepares to spill the beans on SHIELD’s activities: she’s hidden behind so many masks that she’s forgotten which face is hers when she looks in a mirror. It’s almost as if she needs to tear the whole thing down to rediscover herself. Then, of course, there’s the conceit at the heart of the movie. Hydra is part of SHIELD. The villain’s secret identity is that of the ostensible good guy. Two faces of the same coin.

6. We should talk a little about Natasha Romanoff who, as she did in Avengers Assemble, is both motor of the plot and saviour of the whole situation. It’s her discovery of the secret files on board the Latverian frieghter that kicks the story into life. She saves Cap’s life, and pulls off a brilliant switcheroo just when it seems all is lost. Many reviews have marginalised both the character and Scarlett Johannsen’s portrayal of her to sexy sidekick status, neither of which are fair. Johannsen plays Romanoff as tough, capable, but tortured by a life of deception. In a post-SHIELD world, there’s room for a Black Widow movie. Played right, she’d be a contender to take on the tired Bond/Bourne franchises. That’s a movie I’d pay for.

 

Conclusions. Captain America: The Winter Soldier packs a lot into its running time. It references and honours the best in espionage drama, while also showing respect to the character and history of one of the more iconic Marvel figures. It’s not afraid to take on big themes and discuss issues that affect us all in an era when war, freedom and democracy are no longer what they seem. Not bad for a film that has a guy in a mask on the posters.

 

The Weaver’s Arms: Mother’s Day Done Right

Mother's Day is one of those notoriously tough dates in the catering calender.

It's a massive money-spinner, for sure. A sure-fire way of getting big groups in through the door, and spending like crazy to make sure that dear old mum is well fed and watered, (and while you're at it, assuaging some of the guilt for the shit that you put her through for the other 364 days of the year). Get the balance right, and you're guaranteed return business for years. Get it wrong and…, well, let's put it this way. Would you want to get on the wrong side of your mum? There you go then.

TLC and I had taken the car up to the sunny Midlands to visit her mum. The Nuneaton area is famous for its fine array of eating pubs, and I was very happy to see that a family trip out had been arranged to one of mother's favourites. She's got a keen eye for good places to eat and a bargain, does our Pam. And this time around, she did us proud.

 

The Weaver's Arms in Fillongley, perhaps fifteen minutes drive from Nuneaton, is one of those places that you just know is going to be good as soon as you step inside. It had been recently refurbished, but without any concessions to trendiness. It feels clean, inviting, and instantly familiar.

We were quickly seated, and drinks orders were taken and served up in moments. A decent range of beer on tap (always my focus) included Old Speckled Hen and a local favourite, Bank's. The Weaver's were running a cut-down menu for Mother's Day: understandable as they were slammed. We'd barely squeezed in with a mid-day booking. However, the “limited” choice included a roast with a choice of four meats, steaks, two kinds of fish, cajun chicken and a kid's menu. Not too shabby, although there was no sign of a vegetarian option. I have a feeling they'd have something in reserve, though.

Food service was a bit on the slow side–again, understandable on Mother's Day. Perhaps it was just that, as the clocks had gone forward and we were lunching so early, I'd had hardly any breakfast and was bug-eyed ravenous. The grub, when it arrived, was spot on. The roasts were piled high with goodies, and they'd somehow even managed to make Pam's turkey moist and flavoursome. The steaks were solid, locally sourced and cooked to perfection. I'd had a sudden urge for fish and chips, which was done to a turn in a home-made beer batter.

We all finished off with a pud. Syrup roly-poly, spotted dick, treacle or chocolate sponge: now was not the time to be faint-hearted. All with custard, of course. Utter heaven. At the end of the meal, all the ladies in the party were presented with flowers–which especially amused the one that wasn't a mum.

We rolled out of the Weaver's into soft sunshine feeling very much at one with the world. Our feed, for three couples and a pair of hungry boys, came to less than £100. Service throughout had been unflappable, friendly and unfussy, much like the pub itself. It's heartening that there are places like this around, in an era when more and more local pubs are closing every week. Pam tells me that their normal menu is chock full of wonders, which makes me very keen to go back.

If the Weaver's can nail one of the trickiest days on the calender and make it feel easy and light, then that bodes well for their everyday service. I think I'll be back next time we're in the Midlands. The steaks looked delicious.

 

For more, check out the website: http://www.theweaversarms.co.uk/

 

Movies Unwrapped: SILENT BLOODNIGHT

Aah, a night at home alone. The perfect excuse for a curry and a horror movie. To me, my Unwrap stack!

Without TLC to roll her eyes at an outré movie choice, I plumped for the cheesiest slasher I could dig up. What I found exceeded every expectation. Readership, I’ve seen some dodgy films in my times, but I’ve never seen anything quite like…

Night Of The Silent Blood? Bloody Silent Night?

SILENT BLOODNIGHT (2006)

dir/scr: Stefan Peczelt & Elmar Weihsmann

starring: Vanessa Vee, Robert Cleaner, Mike Vega

 

Local TV journalist Sabrina Meyers has stumbled onto the case of her life. Her home, the sleepy lakeside town of Forrester, is suddenly home to a spate of murders. Her father, the police chief, has no leads. As the murders become more elaborate, it’s down to Sabrina to track down the link between the victims and a missing mentally handicapped girl before the killer strikes again…

Coming up at eleven…

Filmed in rural Austria with a bunch of actors for whom English is a second language, Silent Bloodnight is an exercise in enthusiasm over competence. There’s clearly little money in the budget, but the director/actor team of Peczelt and Weihsmann make up for it by throwing in tons of cheap gore and scantily-clad actors. Sabrina delivers most of her on-air reports in a tiny bikini, and there’s plenty of male nudity in a fine example of equal opportunity sleaze. The gore, meanwhile is plastic and gloopy, with the accent on evisceration by gardening implement. The murder by jar of bees, on the other hand, is just plain stoopid.

But hey, I got a buzz out of it…

The whole film has the air of gleeful amateurism to it. The plot makes zero sense, particularly in the opening fifteen minutes which seems to bear no relation to the rest of the film. There’s a revenge angle (the missing girl was murdered years before) which is cheerfully ditched in favour of a second-half killing spree. The lack of clarity isn’t helped by the fact that the cast deliver their lines in a heavy Austrian accented English – think Arnie-level thickness. The dialogue seems to have been run through Google Translate too, and the general sense of dissociation from the English language even extends to the end credits.

Laugh now, but we’ll all be using the term this time next year.

Shot on murky pixelvision, with performances that veer from solid wood to wildly over-perky (Sabrina has a way of squawking “Daddee!” at her put-upon policeman pater that will set your back teeth ringing), Silent Bloodnight is a film that just doesn’t work. It’s shoddy, ad hoc, and yet somehow snagged €350 grand in EU funding – none of which is on screen. I’ve seen student films with more coherent scripts and convincing acting.

So, I shouldn’t have Unwrapped Silent Bloodnight, right?

Well, here’s the thing. Silent Bloodnight is, there’s no denying it, wildly, blitheringly incompetent. But it’s so goofy, so eager to please, that I found myself warming to the darn thing. It keeps throwing skewed moments at you. People keep taking their clothes off at the most unlikely times. Sabrina gets spanked at one point. Proper, John Wayne-style, over-the-knee spanked.

From the bizarre horror-Madlib title to the heavy accents to the hosepiping gore, Silent Bloodnight is a film that knows exactly what it is, and how it should be approached. It would be dynamite at a Frightfest all-nighter. If you like your horrors to be completely unscary and front-loaded with boobs and unconvincing blood effects, then get some beers and mates in and settle back. If you’re in the right frame of mind, you might just find yourself enjoying this one.

 

The Writeasy: Let’s Talk About Writing

Download: march-fiction.m4a

Just the two of us this month, as Clive and Rob talk about writing. We cast an eye over the fast-changing world of self-publishing, look at some short fiction mags and answer that all important question: just what does Nanowrimo stand for?

(as I mention at the top of the ‘cast, Script Frenzy has now become open-remit challenge Camp Nanowrimo. It’s well worth a look, especially if you like the idea of a more collaborative environment. Check out www.campnanowrimo.org for more info, and to sign up for some writing fun in April!)

Leftover Love: Sausage casserole and colcannon

A spin round the supermarket yesterday brought me face to face with Jack Monroe.

Not the girl herself, although I'd be delighted to meet the face of smart, frugal cooking. Her book was on offer, so how could I resist? Into the trolley it went, along with a ton of other food. In my defence, it was the monthly stockup. There was a lot of grub for two people, though. We're a greedy pair. Worse yet, the cat don't eat supermarket food. Yes, she's spoilt. She's also plump, healthy and affectionate. We apologise for nothing.

The monthly shop means that there has to be a clear out of the old to make way for the new. If I'm smart, then I've organised it so that I can make something half-decent with the leftovers and little goes to waste. Taking a cue from Ms. Monroe, I'd hit the reduced sections and found a pack of veg for soups and stews at half price. That, teamed with a few bits and bobs, and a little inspiration from my new cookbook, meant that we ate very well last night.

The aforementioned stew pack (leeks, carrots, parsnip and swede, in dice so I didn't have to chop anything) went into a hot pan with some oil and butter to sweat. While those little beauties were filling the kitchen with good smells, I sliced an onion and set that to cook gently in another pan, with a lid. Juuuuust a touch of oil on this.

The last of the week's sausages went under the grill to brown and mellow, and a good half kilo of spuds went into the rice cooker to steam (yes, really). Half hour on the timer. Now we have a deadline.

After about fifteen minutes, the stew veg were sweet and golden. They were joined by the half jar of pasta sauce TLC had started earlier in the week, the remains of a bottle of red wine that I'd started the day before (about a glass full) and some fresh thyme. Top tip: I always put the wine in the empty jar, lid it and schoosh it about, getting all the bits of sauce off the sides before dumping it into the pan. That way, you get every bit of flavour and value out of a pricy food item.

Time check. The spuds needed another ten minutes, and I kept a careful eye on the bangers. As soon as they were golden, they went into the sauce to bubble and gloss. The onion, ticking away in its own juices and steam, was doing fine–soft and sweet.

Once the spuds were done, it was time to build the meal. They stayed warm in the steamer while I dumped the remains of a pack of kale in with the onion, and clapped the lid back on. It took five minutes to cook down. Just enough time to rice the potatoes with a bit of butter, milk, salt and pepper. The kale and onion mix went in, everything had a stir about and vwallah, colcannon, bitches.

Then it was just a case of piling it onto plates, propping sausages attractively on there and topping with a generous spoonful of the sauce. Oh how we filled our traps, Readership. Oh, how we hoovered it up.

 

And here's the thing. There is enough colcannon left to make potato cakes or farls. There's enough sauce left over to dump onto pasta, maybe with the cheeky addition of some bacon. Actually, throw in some lentils and that's a full meal with some warm bread.

Cooking with an eye on the leftovers in your fridge, or with a plan to make something with tonight's leavings, makes you a more thoughtful and frugal cook. The meal I've just outlined was made exclusively with cheap ingredients and the stuff I had to clear out of the fridge. It was healthy and full of flavour, and gave us the makings of at least two other meals. I like to think that Jack Monroe would approve of that.

 

 

Spin The Black Circle

Sometimes you forget how much you’ve missed something until you get it back.We have a Dual turntable in the house. It belonged to TLC’s dad, so it’s something of an heirloom. It’s always been a pleasure to use. Solid, dependable, sturdy. Until last year when it suddenly, inexplicably stopped working.

It would power up, and rubbing the pad of my thumb over the stylus gave a pleasing scrapey noise through the speakers. But the platter wouldn’t turn. The belt was in place, and that was the extent of my engineering knowhow. When teamed with an old Sherwood amp that would suddenly, inexplicably drop out, the idea of getting the old player back up and running seemed a bit… well, onerous.

It was thanks to docoDom that the situation changed. He’s always been a vinyl junkie, and kept going on at me to either fix the Dual or buy a new turntable. A nice idea, but as I’ve said, it had a bucketful of sentimental value attached. I needed to get it fixed, but it would be an expensive pain to sort out.

The boot up the patoot that got me moving was the vintage Realistic receiver that Dom bought back from the States. Hooked up to his Technics deck, it looked great, sounded great and dammit, I wanted one. I had been well and truly outgeeked, and it would not stand. Gadget greed kicked in. To me, my eBay.

The Realistics, I discovered, were outside my price range. If nothing else, the cost of getting them shipped over from the US was (haha) unrealistic. But I found a lovely little Sony receiver in Kent, up for peanuts. I put on an acceptable bid, and waited to win.

With one minute to go on the auction, I was outbid. By a pound. Oh, how I swore, Readership. Oh, how the heavens shook that day. There was major-league pouting, I can tell you.

The following week, I was contacted by the seller of the Sony. The joker that had outbid me had refused to pay the asking price. Did I still want the amp?

Did I? Does the Pope defecate in the woods? Hell, yes, I wanted it. The deal was done. I cackled with glee. We were in a pub at the time and I was eBaying on my phone. TLC was underimpressed.

But now the onus was on my actually getting the turntable working. Turns out there’s a renowned specialist a five minute walk from work. Amazing what you can find out when you spend five minutes in a focussed fashion on the internets. I took the Dual to the doctors. Poor thing was unwell. A new motor and a belt for the speed control were needed. I bit the bullet, paid the tithe and three days later, on the day that the new receiver arrived, the fix was in. After a year of prevarication, a week of effort had provided us with a working vinyl setup.

Brought to you in sparking hi-fidelity and rich, wide stereo.

Listening to music on vinyl is, of course, a very different experience to firing up Spotify and hitting play. It’s vaguely ritualistic, and forces you to concentrate on the music in unexpected ways. The process of taking the record out of the sleeve, gently cleaning it, spinning the platter up, the soft kathunk as the needle drops…it’s almost kinky.

The hiss and crackle, however minor, somehow draw you into the music. And of course, you have to get up and turn the darn thing over every twenty minutes or so. It’s realer, more apparent. There’s a sense of ownership that comes from playing a record–because of course, I own it. I’ve gone to a shop and bought it. Much as I love Spotify, I don’t own any of the music. If I have an internet outage, or if I chose to stop paying the membership, all the music is gone. The vinyl will always be there.

Clive and I recorded a podcast on the concept album last night (you’ll hear it in April, Listenership) and we touched on the subject of the value of music. It was easy to pluck the music we needed for the discussion legally from the internet (hell, most of it was on YouTube). Does music have value when it’s so easy to find and play? Does it simply become a soundtrack, holding music, noise in the background to stop us from sitting in silence? Well, clearly not, as so many of us spend our time with earbuds jammed into our listening holes. But in an era when the notion of side one and sde two are as quaint as the cinema intermission, it’s nice to be reminded of the differences in musical dynamics that vinyl offers. Sometimes, it’s good to think a little about what to pull out of the rack to play next, or to listen to the silence after the needle lifts.