Wonderful Whitby



I love Whitby. I love those North East seaside towns where the houses look like they are about to tumble down to the sea; where the streets are narrow and cobbled with a pub on each corner; where the fish and chips (and mushy peas) are substantial; where the winds are brisk; the cliff-tops walks 'refreshing'; where colourful boats bob in the harbour; where the people are weather-lined but not beaten; and where the sunshine is a gift.



A few years ago, I had a fantastic day out in Whitby with my parents and Scarey Sis, and I always think of it as a special place. This week on Lakeland Cam (a website I look at frequently to make myself homesick) Tony Richards took his camera to town and captured these evocative images. He posted lots of Whitby during the daytime too, which are also worth a look, but I thought I'd share these night-time reflections. Thanks to my mum for reminding me to take a look.

In My Red Heaven



What a fantastic result from an excellent game. I know it's just one game, and one for which we were always going to make a considerable effort, and you can't use it as a barometer for the rest of the season, and yet I can't help but allow myself a glimmer of hope that my team are back. We didn't even miss Master Sulky-chops as Suarez played to near perfection. The goals were all tapped in by Kuyt, but the brilliance belonged to Suarez, and maybe to King Kenny for some judicious transfer moves. Andy Carroll is yet to prove himself, but it was good to see him come off the bench for 16 minutes of play.



The mighty reds were absolute angels, darting nimbly around the pitch (even Carragher wasn't caught out of position too often - bless his Liver cotton socks) while the washed out whites (appalling kit from the red shite) were either totally ineffective (Berbatov was their only decent player - Rooney was so annonymous I only knew he was on the pitch when I heard the swearing) or dirty, cheating bastards. Him Outdoors says, 'They don't like it up them!' (It's true - half of his vocabulary comes from Dad's Army which is made only sadder when you realise the rest comes from Bull's Eye).

I'd have handed out at least three red cards for foul play (Van Der Sar - you can't elbow people in the neck just because you didn't realise you can't be off-side when the ball is played back to you; Rafael - attacking the ref in petulant display of temper tantrums is not a good look for anyone over the age of three; Nani - just because you're not getting your own way, kicking people is still wrong and if you can leap up and sprint to the ref in Rumplestilstkin rage, why do you need to be carried off on a stretcher?) and I'm hardly biased at all. In fact, I conceed that Carrager deserved his yellow for a fairly nasty foul on Nani although the latter's miraculous 'recovery dash' did nothing to further his cause.

SKY's halftime commentary featured the question - who has hit the goalposts the most in this season's premier league? Answer: Steven Gerrard. For what he lacks in subtlety, the man certainly has passion and whether the ball is sailing high, wide and none-too handsome into the stands or sinking sweetly into the back of the net, there is no question that 'he twatted that' as my friend Jersey Girl used to say. He blasted a few inches wide in the second half - I read a ridiculous comment that we might not need him any more at Anfield - just behave yourselves!

Kenny Dalglish responded with a smile and a wave as the Kop sang Happy Birthday to him - how cool would that be? Fergie the red-nosed w@#%er was in somewhat lesser spirits - he'll be off to blame the ref and his side's injuries - they hadn't got Vidic and Ferdinand; we didn't have Kelly, Agger or Aurelio after 24 minutes - and I'd be very surprised if he actually gives credit to the opposition (I'll bet he supports the All Blacks).

Of course I don't want the wrong side of Manchester (i.e. Salford) to win their 19th league title and hence one more than us - even my optimism has bounds; I know this is out of our grasp this season. I may even have to support Arsenal in the upcoming crucial games, and so might the red half of Mersyside. But this game wasn't about the title; it was about football, and we just played it better. End of.

'Credibility is in the details'

I had a lecturer at university who used to tell me (among other things) that, 'credibility is in the details'. As his own credentials were impeccable, I took him at his word, and it is a lesson I remember in all my own writings.

When writing poetry or fiction it is important to supply specific details rather than generics. From Victoria Wood to the Coronation Street team of script-writers, this is proven to add pathos and humour in equal measure. Even Hemingway understood the value of the minutiae and, although I tire of his shopping-list prose, earnest (and Ernest) fans of The Sun Also Rises thrill to the knowledge that Bill and Jake bought eggs, bread, ripe tomatoes, soft cheese and white wine rather than 'stuff for a picnic'

Some years ago I read Rose Tremain's fantastic The Colour which I loved, not least because it is set in my new back yard, but mainly because Rose Tremain is a powerful wordsmith. Considering Kiwis generally love all things related to themselves, I was surprised that the book did not find more favour in these parts. One of the main criticisms levelled against it was that her research was insufficient.

The characters were well-drawn, the themes were grand, the writing was compelling, and the emotion was both subtle and palpable. Readers, however, could not forgive her inclusion of a vole in a river scene as such rodents do not inhabit New Zealand. This miniscule slip lead to significant ridicule and doubtless harmed book sales as well as public enjoyment.

One can be too hasty to make such pronouncements, however. I recently read Robert Harris' The Ghost, which was an entertaining political thriller. As it may or may not be (i.e. patently but not libelously) based on Tony Blair, many details are specific. Harris was a respected political commentator before becoming an author so you expect veracity, and it's easy to become swept up in his version of events.

At one point, before irrevocably setting out on a trail that can only lead to death and destruction, the narrator tries to calm his nerves by sitting in a car in a Martha's Vineyard forest where he observes a red squirrel. As a child I was fond of red squirrels (Sciurus vulgaris); natives of Europe and Northern Asia. Their habitat was greatly reduced by the chopping down of trees and the introduction of the more aggressive American grey squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis). So I was disappointed to read this error in a book I was otherwise prepared to trust in order to submit to the story.

I was surprised that Robert Harris, so accurate in other directions, would make this faunal faux-pas, so before rushing to condemn, I checked my facts, as he had obviously done before me. There are red squirrels in North America wherever conifers are common apart from the Pacific Coast. They are also referred to as Pine Squirrels, North American Red Squirrels, Chickarees, and, officially, Tamiasciurus hudsonicus. They may not be my red squirrels, but they are red squirrels nonetheless.

So, if there is a moral to the story, perhaps it should be that although credibility is indeed in the details, you shouldn't let a little fact get in the way of a good tale.

You've got to be yolking!

This morning as I cracked my egg into the boiling water, I saw that there were two yolks inside the shell. I've never seen that before so I was mometarily diverted (yep, that's the kind of life I lead) until I looked it up on the interwebisation device and discovered that apparently one in a thousand eggs has a double yolk so it 'isn't all that rare' - well thanks for crushing my excitement.

So then I wondered whether this would produce chicken twins, but apparently not because there is not enough egg white to feed two yolks, so they/it wouldn't hatch at all. That makes me feel less guilty for eating it poached on toast with baked beans.

And then I wondered whether there is lore or legend surrounding the double-yolked egg and whether superstition decrees it is lucky or unlucky. As I said, it's a fine life... According to one site I looked at, "Throughout history and in different cultures, finding a double yolk has been considered to mean anything from an impending wedding to a financial windfall to a death in the family." Do I get to choose? If so, let's hope it's a financial windfall. I may let you know, or I may disappear to South America for a while!

Christchurch Earthquake

Thank you everyone who has asked; I am fine. The earthquake that has devastated Christchurch was felt here in Queenstown but there was no damage. So far as I know, all my friends in Christchurch are okay, although obviously severly shaken and traumatised. Some have lost their homes and their belongings but none have lost their lives. My thoughts and love are with all those affected by the earthquake.

With reservations

Can someone please tell me when the word invite became a noun? I could have sworn it was a verb of which the nominal form is invitation. I realise that English is an ever-developing language, but this usage is just plain laziness or possibly ignorance; which is worse?

I have heard and read it a lot of late in the (Kiwi) media due to the forthcoming royal wedding between His Royal Highness Prince William of Wales and Miss Catherine Middleton. There is a perfectly good word for that thing in the buff envelope with the Queen's seal: it's an invitation. So why are people unable to use the correct word?

You can bet that the Her Majesty the Queen, Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith did not command the Lord Chamberlain to send out 'invites' to her grandson's wedding.

Fifties Icons

My latest directing project is for a local community group, The Arrowtown Entertainers. One of their number, Dave Dustan, has written a play called Cribbies set in 1959 in Arrowtown. The swinging sixties had not yet arrived and folk arrived in Arrowtown from Invercargill, Dunedin and various places roundabout with the sole intention of relaxing.

They stayed in 'cribs' (baches in the North Island; holiday homes to the English) during their holidays. The kids played down by the river all day, the dads dreamed about building shacks without planning permission, and the mums just dreamed in the warm Central Otago sun. There was apparently no crime or stress, but plenty of socialising and rock 'n' roll (and binge drinking actually, but we'll overlook that for now).

To get myself in the mood for the era, I visited the excellent Lakes District Museum and spoke to the lovely Angela Verry (the exceptionally helpful education officer). She shared her research with me including some fantastic interviews with the original 'cribbies' and some artefacts. You'll recognise the furniture and the decor from your grandma's houses.

The flying ducks on the wall are something of which every collector seems to be proud. They remind me of Vera Duckworth on Coronation Street and were always shorthand for 'completely lacking in class'. A lot of the items such as formica tables, velvet pictures, chrome and vinyl chairs, plastic thermos flasks etc, are utterly ghastly.

Although I realise that everyone's taste is different (although less and less these days as we are all dictated to by the Internet arbitrator - controlled by petulant and precocious teenagers, apparently), I would like to know when does something stop being naff and ugly, and become retro and chic, if ever?