Nicholas Colasanto behind bars

Not a lot of good stuff on TV nowadays so it is nice to have an opportunity to re-visit the classic comedy from the past .

I have returned to my listening habits of the 1960's with the BBC 4 Extra broadcasts of The Navy Lark and early Steptoe and Son, the 1970's with Dad's Army and The Likely Lads and some great satirical humour from the most political of decades, the 1980's. You cannot however beat the visual entertainment of the episodes of Cheers currently on most early evenings on E4 and in particular the memorable quotes from Nicholas Colasanto who played Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso until his untimely death after only three seasons.

Here is a brief snap-shot of the impact lines of a great comedian.

Coach: "Yeah, a beautiful school teacher." Diane: "And Sam is her favorite?" Coach: "Well, I can't say that, but Sam's the only one I ever saw her kiss." Diane: "They kissed?!?" Coach: "Yeah, I saw them smooching in the parking lot. I was putting up a notice here on the bulletin board." Diane: "With probing tongues?" Coach: "No Diane, with a thumbtack and my thumb.

 Coach: "Damn this thing, I've been shivering all the way over here." Diane: "Well, Coach, you don't have a coat on, it's 30 degrees outside." Coach: "Oh, thank God, I thought I had malaria."

Diane: "Coach, what do you do when you are so furious you have to do something?" Coach: "Well, I know you'll think it's kinda crazy, but, I, uh, I bang my head on the bar." Diane: "Doesn't sound crazy to me, might do me lots of good right now." Coach: "Well, Ok" {Bangs head on bar} Diane: "No, no"

　
 Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: Norm. Normie, you want to hear a crazy, hopeless dream? I wanted to play baseball, and uh, maybe coach a little you know, and then afterward tend bar in a nice place. And look what happened to me?
Sam Malone: Coach, that's exactly what happened to you.
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: Oh yeah. No wonder I'm such a happy guy.




 Cliff Clavin: When I was a lad, I went to see the movie Trapeze with Burt Lancaster and Tony Curtis. Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: No kidding Cliffy, did you sit between them?



 
 Diane: Excuse me. Where is your bathroom?
Coach: Uh, next to my bedroom.

Coach: [answers the ringing telephone] Cheers... Yeah, just a sec.
Coach: [to everyone in the bar] Is there an Ernie Pantusso here?
Sam: That's you, Coach.
Coach: [to the person on the phone] Speaking.

Coach: I'm working on a novel. Going on six years now. I think I might finish it tonight.
Diane: You're writing a novel?
Coach: No, reading it.





　
Norm Peterson: Coach, you've had kids. Does a baby change you?
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: Are you kidding Normie, it can't even change itself.


Diane Chambers: [about Sam's story] Coach, I think there's something rotten in the State of Denmark.
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: It's all that cheese


 Sam Malone: Coach, I'm having blackouts.
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: It's kind of a nice break in the day, isn't it Sam?



Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: Diane, if you're looking for a place to stay, there's a lovely little inn up in Vermont my wife and I used to drive to all the time.
Diane Chambers: What inn?
Ernie 'Coach' Pantusso: In our station wagon

and many, many more.....................................

Pod

 

 

Some strange objects are to be found behind the hedgerows in the East of Yorkshire.

 

They are within just a few feet of a very busy coastal road which ,at weekends ,even in the winter months still carries a lot of visitors doing the tourist and picturesque route that takes in the remoteness of Spurn Point, the wilderness that is Withernsea, the quiet retired demeanour of Hornsea and the brashness of Leeds on Sea (Bridlington).

 

This collection of three wooden pods, or tripods, is part of an enterprise by a local business to generate income from seasonal trade. They are as simple in format as they appear in structure, just one small compartment but sufficient to sleep 2 persons. Electric light and power is provided .

 

The pod resembling a travellers traditional covered horse drawn caravan does present an interesting internal dimension and its designers are giving further thought on how to maximise the curvy oval minimal space. 

 

The three examples of what can be built from ethically sourced timber and other renewable materials are available to book for short breaks or a longer period in situ for £45 a night. For those of you south of Watford this may seem extraordinarily cheap but in the immediate local area this tariff would be the equivalent of a better three star bed and breakfast establishment.

 

You have to bring all of your own bedding and, oh yes, a bed.

 

There is no catering. It cannot therefore be called a gastropod. Alternatively, the pods can be purchased outright and then transported to a location of your choice, whether used as a home office in the back garden or secreted away in the woods as an escapist refuge.

 

Some interest has been expressed by hobbyists and enthusiasts. Watertight characteristics, warm and insulated they would be ideal to keep valuable and perishable goods and collections. I could see some use for storing a cherished motorbike or memorabilia of , for example, motor sport, a bit of a Sennapod.

 

At a retail price of close to £6000 each there may be a sharp inhalation of breath but consider the building to be on an equal footing, less wheels, to a cheap and small touring caravan or a very expensive summerhouse or Loggia and the figures do make some sense.

The requirement to house an elderly relative or a fledgling independent teenager could be satisfied by one of these cosy buildings, a monopod.

The natural composition and organic appearance would compliment a lakeside setting as a fishing shelter , an Anglepod.

Set in dense undergrowth or the shade of a wooded copse the buildings would be able to assume a unique camouflage to permit hour upon hour of bird watching, an Ornithopod or aside a championship tennis court as a place of refreshment between games, a Seedpod.

On the theme of the approaching Festive Season I would be more than happy to visit a snow covered grotto with one of these structures centre stage. Yes, a Santapod.

 

Bipod? or not to Bipod. It is not really that difficult a choice given the charm and quality on offer. But beware of imitations. Hodgepodges.

 

There are some perceived limitations and a need for essential guidance for ease of habitation and use, however, such as no excessively tall persons or newly courting couples not yet really on familiar terms in such a confined space. Slim and trim occupants are encouraged, so no one podgy.

Of course there is no internal sanitation and any siting would have to be close to communal facilities.

I am assured that development is well under way to provide private facilities but this may be some years away. Cross your fingers and anything else in the meantime in anticipation of the Peapod.

'ull with an H

The final presentations are being made this week ahead of the announcement of the UK City of Culture for 2017.

The original list of candidates has been whittled down to four, Dundee in Scotland, Swansea Bay in Wales, Leicester and Hull in England.

Each and every one has its merits and worthy claims to the title and the bids have been hard fought and in the best spirit.

I admit to harbouring a special interest in the Yorkshire representative having lived in the East Riding for the past 34 years, therefore 64% of my life to date.

True, I admit, I have only lived in Hull itself since 5th September this year and so in the hierarchy of laying a claim to residency I am a bit like a refugee seeking asylum.

I nevertheless feel very much at ease and at home in the city and it has been a welcome return for my wife, Hull born and bred although as I continue to remind her, she comes from east of the river whereas we now live centrally but, importantly, just to the west of that wet divide. At one time and perhaps still in the perception of some good citizens that narrow muddy tidal watercourse is as much a physical barrier as the Wall was to the occupants of Berlin.

My own family moved to Beverley, some 9 miles north of Hull in 1979. The town is one of those picturesque ones found through Yorkshire, a market square, narrow lane like streets, a cathedral-like edifice, Marks and Spencers Simply Food and the Edinburgh Wool Shop dominating the high street.

It is as far detached from the character and identity of Hull as you could get. From just about every point in Beverley the big bad city, about 10 miles across and 5 miles deep gives an artificial glow to the southern night sky. Its worst excesses and follies have been tut-tutted at by the Beverley folk but there is actually a grudging admiration and pride for the place because Hull has proven to be a resilient and resurgent neighbour, the sort you would really like to live next to although you might not want to admit it in public.

All of the four shortlisted cities have had a momentous past but a rather uncertain and shaky time in the last few decades. There are high hopes and expectations for the multitude of benefits in being successful in the process. Most hope for a renaissance, a kick start and an arrest to decline and dereliction.

There are valid claims to fame from all of the candidates be it on behalf of notable sons and daughters, world beating commercial products, architectural wonders and attractions for visitors.

I can only speak for my eight week old adoptive home town in endorsing that Hull has all of these things but arguably trumps them all with its quiet and unassuming ways. The city has been an easy target over the years for ridicule and criticism but generally by those who have never bothered to set foot within its boundaries.

You may judge the cultural value of a city by its galleries, museums and theatres, and the usual benchmarks of what it has offered to its population and the wider world but there has to be an indomitable spirit behind it or else it stands for just window dressing.

The result comes out next week.

The campaign, even if not ultimately victorious in the eyes of the adjudicators, has served to remind the people of Hull of their heritage and diversity just in case these attributes had been forgotten in the everyday pressures of getting on with a busy life and not being a burden to anyone else.

Revenge of The Donkey Rhubarb

England. 1825. The Scene; A large commercial glasshouse of a well known importer of exotic flora and fauna.

Temple Lushington 'not very capable' Brown, of that well known dynasty of Landscape Gardeners, but much removed from the genetic stream by a few forays by his illustrious ancestors behind the potting shed with female assistants, sat nervously in the lobby of the Horticultural Emporium.

His career was in tatters after some disastrous attempts to remodel parts of Berkshire and Hampshire for their Gentry Landowners. His Ha-Ha's were considered laughable, Follys percieved as foolish, Gazebo's not worth a second look.

He was desperate to steal a march on his competition by securing the next best thing before it became known as the next best thing.

There had been a whisper in the grass that this establishment had taken delivery of an exotic shipment from the Orient. Tatler Magazine , that must for the Victorian Parlour, had run a feature on all things Japanese in the home and garden and the response from the well-to do in the Home Counties had been phenomenal. Large landed estates, smaller country manors and town house gardens had sprouted with the ephemera of Japan in statues, water features and coloured gravels interspersed with coarse but colourful grasses and miniature shrubs.

The Importer of Plants looked a bit flustered. He had been called down to the delivery bay of the Glasshouses to witness a disturbing sight. A sole crate of plants from the far East had exploded under the pressure of a gargantuam growth only minutes after being delivered by the horse drawn dray from the Docks. The manifest had listed only one species, fallopia japonica, supposedly an ornamental plant likened to bamboo but not closely related. Given the likely packaging of the crate during the Japanese Spring and the passage aboard the Peninsular and Oriental freighter from east to west ,this pointed to a phenomenal growth rate of, on the basis of a rough calculation, 3 imperial inches a day, even allowing for the inhospitable and inhibiting growth conditons inside a dark crate.

Perhaps the arrival of Temple Lushington Brown was fortuitous for the rapid sale and removal from his premises of the crate.

It was.

A deal was done to the distinct advantage of the Importer emphasising indeed the reputation widely held in the realms of Horticulture that  T.L Brown Esq was rather stupid.

The unique selling point as far as Temple was concerned was the range of wonderfully evocative colloquial names for the newly acquired plant. He could see good mileage in his catalogue for the marketing of the Pea Shooters, Elephant Ears, Monkey Weed and the comic sounding Donkey Rhubarb. His self adjudged shrewdness in business would elevate his plant product to a level of frenzied interest which would knock Common Ragwort, Giant Hogweed and Himalayan Balsam into the compost heaps of the well to do, as if, that is they knew what a compost heap was given the levels of domestic servitude in the period.

Heady expectations for the species were more than outstripped by subsequent sales and the plant soon graced many a garden in the Home Counties as both an attractive, tall and late autumn flowering clump and a talking point on it's prolific growth and spread through one's grounds from the initial planted border.

T L Brown had made his fortune and gratefully retired from the high pressure world of horticultural engineering.

Meanwhile, gardeners were instructed to keep an eye on the Donkey Rhubarb and cut it back if it appeared to be out of control. They enthusiastically did this but any machete'd stems or foliage just germinated willy nilly wherever the offcuts were deposited.

The next request from worried owners was to pull the whole plant out altogether. This proved difficult as the roots were found to stretch some ten feet below the surface and with a sub-terranean spider-web spread of around twenty five feet. Removal by naked flame in a scorched earth approach, conventional poisoning by herbicide and frantic pulverising by hand did not really solve the growth problem.

Rumours that the young spring shoots could be cultivated and eaten and therefore marketed as a potential income stream fell on deaf Elephant Ears.

Overnight the plant took on the image of a demon. Groundskeepers and custodians of gardens, once proud professions , resorted to nightime tactics of mass excavations of roots and self germinating stems. Carts and wagons groaned under the sheer weight of vegetation and accompanying soils and debris.

Under cover of darkness the transports wound their way to remote areas on the edges of the developing towns and cities to return empty but with a tell tale trail of dry earth marking their sorry journeys.

The Fallopia Japonica,when not actually in annoying view left the consciousness of the public. New fashions emerged in the form of pampas grass, eucaplyptus, domestic rhododendron and every miniature of fruits trees. Things Japanese became jaded and a bit nouveau riche. It was as if the eradication of the plant had been wholly successful.

Footnote;  The World Conservation Union has listed Fallopia Japonica as amongst one of the world's most invasive plant species. In the 1981 Wildlife and Countryside Act in the UK it became illegal to intentionally spread the plant beyond a controllable extent. The plant, whilst hardy enough to grow through building foundations, concrete paths, floors and emerge triumphantly in auditoriums and living rooms has been susceptible to herbicides and recent trials have indicated that spraying with seawater can also serve as an inhibitor. The presence of the plant on building sites, most notably the London Olympic complex, has cost millions to tackle. Imagine the diplomatic backlash and sheer embarassment to the UK, as a nation, if Usain Bolt, on sprinting clear to the line in the 100m final became entangled in and legged up by Japanese Knotweed forcing its way up through the tartan running track. In its native country, Knotweed is not a problem mainly because it has natural predators in the insect world. There are proposals for the introduction of the small Aphalara itadori insect into the UK to directly attack the Japanese Knotweed as a non-native bio-control. This is all very well but what uproar there would be when the first crate of the insects arrives on these shores only to burst open from the pressure of a gargantuan growth and with the freakishly large creatures scuttling away carrying anything and anyone away in their oversized sap sucking mandibles.

(first published as Weed Science on 11.11.11)

Bombay Doors Open

I am bemused and confused by that very English saying of "a little of what you fancy does you good" or the rather black humour version of "what won't kill you makes you stronger".

In simple terms ,for the simple man that I am, it is nice on that rare occasion when time, mood and finances come together to treat yourself to that something special.

My "little bit of fancy" in this context is a particular food snack item.

I can easily consume huge amounts of the stuff in a single sitting or eke a supply out over an evening, at a push, even with the best intentions of trying to make it last for a few days.

Those who know me well are already guessing at Sherbet Fountains, true, a delicacy and luxury item but not a food snack in any respects.

I am referring to Bombay Mix.

I love it but it is not a mutual feeling.

I should really abstain from eating such a spicy mixture as it does not always agree with my digestive system but the temptation to devour copious amounts of it is just too great.

The typical scenario for a Bombay Mix session is as an evening snack, just after my tea has settled down and I am looking for an easily managed foodstuff to compliment a TV schedule. You know the sort, reasonably dry, capable of being poured into a cup or bowl, finger suited and not of any real potential for damage if spilt down your front or onto the furnishings.

Crisps may suffice but when compared to the range of flavours , textures and sensations in a typical Bombay Mix they are very much pale offerings.

My first experience of this taste of the East was in a roundabout way down to the influence of Idi Amin, former dictator and despotic ruler of Uganda.

No, he did not endorse it on a celebrity cooking programme but indirectly promoted it in a more sinister way through his expulsion of the indigenous Asian population to the UK in the 1970's.

It was through our befriending of a family of Ugandan Asian refugees that I had my first taste of a Bombay mix.

I was of course too English and ignorant to enquire about its authentic name when it was kindly offered upon our visits to the old RAF Base where temporary and cramped accommodation had been provided to newly arrived families prior to re-settlement nationwide.

It was many years later that the anglicised name of Bombay Mix became commonplace to describe the delicacy , amongst other names, Chevda and Chanachur.

Our Asian friends had been forced at gunpoint out of their homes and with no opportunity to salvage any meaningful possessions other than what they could wear or carry. Yet, their hospitality was far beyond what would be expected following the traumatic and harrowing circumstances of their forcible expulsion.

That first taste of authentic spices remains as strong a memory to my 50 year old palate as it did all those years ago. It was a technicolour explosion of exotica on an otherwise black and white staple food diet (No disrespect to you, Mother). There are now as many variations of Bombay Mix available as its constituent ingredients and the choice within the ethnic food aisles of our largest super and hypermarkets is extensive and mouthwatering.

The question I pose to myself is could I make my own version taking on board all of those that I have sampled in more recent years?

All of the ingredients are can be readily sourced from within a few hundred metres of my front door with the proliferation of continental and Asian foodstores as has taken place in the majority of UK cities and larger towns.

I do not anticipate any difficulties in obtaining and assembling the basics such as red lentils, Moong dahl, sunflower seeds, almonds, shelled pistachios, cashews and peanuts and the spices for the pungent and aromatic seasoning. These include cumin, dry powdered coriander, turmeric, chilli powder and salt. Schwartz can easily cope with such an order on their herb and spice displays in aisle 5 of my nearest Tesco. I may even include a few sultanas from a Bangladeshi version I once tried.

The most difficult task facing my culinary project is likely to be the production of an authentic dough to be deep fried and to form the distinctive crunchy strands that are the inherent characteristic of the snack. These are the elusive chickpea flour noodles.

Again, the elements are easy to source; the flour itself and yet more chilli powder, turmeric, salt, oil and lemon juice all formed into a malleable dough.

Panic, then what!

I do not have anything to hand in the kitchen to create the stringy lines for immersion in the boiling hot fat. This is the stumbling block because I need a Sev Maker. This is a cylinder with shaped interchangeable nozzles, a sort of stainless steel piping bag into which the dough is placed and then forced out straight over the deep fat fryer.

I will have to put that item of equipment on my Christmas List but in the meantime I have a secret stash of shop bought Bombay Mix just to tide me over until my production line comes on stream. Yep, they make and sell them in 10kg bags just for that type of emergency situation.

Goggle Box

I still live in fear that one day, whilst casually watching some inane game show or property programme on my television, the images on the screen will flicker, fall in on themselves in a sort of vacuum induced movement, reduce to a whirling red dot and then re-focus with the ugly mug of Emperor Fu Manchu in full 1970's technicolour demanding we become his minions in his new World Order.

The original image from a feature film 40 years ago made quite an impression on me at the time.

It was, to my 10 year old brain, inconceivable that anyone or anything other than the BBC or ITV through the massive choice on the three channels could infiltrate and exert any influence, let alone use it as a platform to dominate the known world.

Of course, by the 1980's and later with the surge in technology it would be comparatively easy to take over the broadcast channels and exploit the TV in pride of place in UK homes in order to spread propaganda, subliminal messages, encourage rebellion or arouse disquiet and anxiety amongst the wider population.

Replace Emperor Fu Manchu with say, an intelligent alien race such as Kang and Kodos from the Simpsons and you can appreciate the potential for chaos and havoc.

The advertising industry has of course known about and manipulated the power of the small screen for a good few decades now.

In this country we have quite a sophisticated, high-brow and humorous approach to the marketing of goods and services hence the fact that the high points in any one hours transmission are the advert breaks.

Viewing figures, jealously sought and coveted by TV companies were, to my knowledge, part based upon the level of power surge demanded from the National Grid that commenced with an interval in between or after episodes of major drama productions or momentous programmes such as the Queen's Christmas Speech.

However, such is the interest in slick and witty or thought provoking adverts that we find ourselves passing over on the brief opportunity to dash into the kitchen to prepare a hot beverage.

I think the public fascination with the inherent drama of a TV advert started with those tantalising Gold Blend coffee shorts with the posh couple chatting each other up in clever wordplay and restrained etiquette. I expect that there is a degree course at a minor league University on the whole sexual politics theme centred on that long running series.

I may be doing a dis-service to the likes of Bisto who also had an extended run with their nuclear sized family and even the Milky Bar Kid or Flash cleaning fluid Grandma much further back in time.

There have also been some very long campaigns and in recent years the austerity faced by many large Corporate manufacturers has seen a revival of those old adverts but then again Retro stuff is very much back in fashion. Even the Tetley Tea Folk have been encouraged to return from exile to attempt to appeal to a new generation.

On this very day I am in a fevered state of anticipation over all things TV advertising.

The insidious marketing methods employed by Advertisers have worked their way into my psyche.

The Social media networks have been a-buzz with planted stories, hype and invention about what will emerge into our living rooms from our TV screens this evening.

The hysteria is similar to that produced by the Orson Welles drama of War of The Worlds in that people are not sure whether to believe or discount the rumours of what will intrude into our lives.

I am not sure what to expect but must admit that I did glimpse a photographic still of what looked like Baloo the Bear from Jungle Book.

Spoiler Alert, Spoiler Alert.

He is no Fu Manchu or alien insurrectionist in my book but I will still be glued to the box for the first screening of the John Lewis Christmas Campaign Ad sometime during that annoying and inconvenient interval thing called the X-Factor.

Calling all Colleagues

I am a big fan of grumpy shopkeepers. In fact, the grumpier the better.

I am not one to demand or expect a stimulating conversation in return for bringing a bit of income and patronage to a business.

I have no preconceptions that ,upon opening a shop door to the resounding clang of a bell or an electronic beep, it will be a magical and life affirming experience and yet, it appears that many consumers do.

So much so that the internet is awash with the documented complaints of customers who feel that they have been harshly or rudely treated.

I emphasise that there are no allegations of unfair or unscrupulous behaviour on the part of proprietors, far from it. Reputations for running a good and well stocked shop remain gloriously unsullied. There are never any claims of profiteering, short measures, tampering or selling out of date or unsuitable merchandise. It all comes down to how welcoming, warm and ingratiating a shop keeper is to those who have shown favour to his offerings over the likes of Tesco, Sainsbury's, Asda, Waitrose and Morrisons.

Granted, in the dreamy, always sunny and halcyon days of yesteryear a local shop was everything to its local patrons.

Established residents in the older inner city housing areas recounted tales of how the corner shop, one of countless on just about every street corner in the country, provided a tab or credit facility to tide hard pressed families over until pay day as well as a whole range of functions that would now come under the normal workload of Social Services.

There was a certain image portrayed by such establishments.

Open all hours, boxes of fresh produce out on the pavement, an alluring window display with a seasonal theme,  loose weighed goods dispensed in brown paper twist top bags, all manner of goods from everyday items to those special purchases for a birthday or anniversary, small beer, bespoke orders taken, a Christmas Savings Club and no questions asked when little Johnny came to collect the Woodbines for his Dad before his expected return home from a long shift in some heavy and unhealthy industrial process.

The shop was a focal and meeting point to catch up on the gossip and to rally around those fallen upon hardship.

You can appreciate that today's shop keeper has a very hard act to follow.

Consider the view from the behind the cash register and Cadbury chocolate display.

There is little loyalty left as consumers are lured in and seduced by unbelievable three for two offers by the National Retailers, money off fuel, points and vouchers, cash back and even telephone and banking services. Stack them high and sell them cheap is a mantra that the true British shop keeper has never condoned and they have had to pay the ultimate price in being driven out of business in their many tens of thousands.

A rearguard action has been attempted by Independent Traders through adopting a Corporate identity which is plastered over the old traditional shop frontages,  mimicking the Multiples in own brand and budget lines and with some evident success in retaining a market share, albeit dwindling every time a Tesco Express or Sainsbury Local appears in the same postcode area.

So, those local shopkeepers who are still behind their counters, peeping out behind the Lottery machine ,scratch card and chewing gum dispensers are true survivors. They deserve respect and not a bit of a rant by a mystery shopper who feels violated and offended by the absence of a cheery welcome, exemplary assistance and a hearty but humble thanks for, lets face it, the handing over of mere pennies or at best a counterfeit twenty pound note.

So, the absence of any conversation, interaction or friendliness is perfectly fine in my frequent forays into village shops, neighbourhood sole proprietor general stores or those retail outlets at rural petrol stations.

If I want startlingly lively, witty and engaging banter I just need to get down to the nearest Tesco Hypermarket and seek out the appropriately badged and briefed Customer Jollity Colleague or whoever has drawn the short straw for that mindless and meaningless function.