Is The Hoff a Hof?

"You," the Brunette said to me as she came in from work yesterday evening, "are a Hof". I was a little discombobulated by this. I thought she'd said that I was 'The Hoff', a nonsensical notion as my 1999 Land Rover Discovery has never, to date, spoken a word to me and I am yet to be hailed as a schlagersänger in Germany...or anywhere else for that matter (though I'm still working on it).

No, apparently a Hof is a 'Hotter Over Fifty' male who, according to Shane Watson - I hope that's the female Times journalist rather than the male Australian cricketer - has to, "have lived a full and bumpy life and come out the other side with their humour intact, confidence in fifth gear, ready to have fun". Her prime examples of Hofdom are Alec Baldwin (the King Hof), Bill Murray and Hugh Laurie so I'm quite flattered to be lumped in with such an august group, in the Brunette's eyes if no-one else's (not bad after more than seventeen years of marriage).

Shane didn't mention George Clooney but as he's only forty nine he has a year to wait before he can join me, Alec, Bill and Hugh in Hofdom. It's all a bit confusing though. Apparently Jack Nicholson hasn't achieved Hofdom, which is a surprise. Perhaps he's too much over fifty to qualify. Steve Martin, Kenneth Branagh and Harrison Ford also fail to make Shane's list, which I sort of understand. It's all a bit subjective though, innit? I mean, you're on pretty safe ground with a WAG as it doesn't matter if she's less fun than a prostate exam and looks like the back of a bus - if she's the wife or girlfriend of a footballer then she's de facto a WAG.

What about The Hoff though? He's fifty eight so he qualifies on age grounds. He's certainly lived a full and bumpy life - just look him up on the ever-accurate Wikipedia - and I don't get the impression that he's lacking in confidence. Ready to have fun? Well, he likes a drink, allegedly. It's not really for me to say though, is it? What do you think, girls?

I'm just going to wallow in the knowledge that at least one person thinks that I'm a Hof. It's a nice thing to be told just after your fiftysomething birthday.

Looking fifty is great...if you're sixty (Joan Rivers),
oldblodger

And Age Shall Not Weary Him...

It's my birthday. I'm fifty-blah today. I knew it was coming around again but I'd sort of forgotten. Any spring chicken stripling reading this probably won't understand it, but as I get older my birthdays become less and less important. Only the ones with a zero at the end seem to be worth acknowledging these days.

The Brunette reminded me as soon as I awoke by presenting me with a card and an acoustic guitar. I'd mentioned to her in passing that at some indeterminate time in the future I might consider the possibility of thinking about perhaps attempting to become an axe-shredding rock god, and she's now taken me at my word. The phrase, 'be careful what you wish for', springs to mind.

The guitar is lovely though. It's black and shiny and to my untutored ear it sounds wonderful but I am now obliged to sit down and learn how to play the bloody thing. I'm not entirely tin-eared and I do have a long, undistinguished history of playing in bands, but that's as a drummer. We don't do notes and scales and quavers and semi-tones and all that musical stuff. We just bash things. Well, if my elderly, salami-like fingers can stave off arthritis for long enough to allow me to form a chord or two then I'll give it a go.

As I was getting dressed I said to the Brunette, "what was it that I needed to go into town for today?" to which she wittily responded without missing a beat, "dunno, to pick up your pension maybe?". It's good to know that her faculties haven't yet been withered by age!

Advancing years do weird things to you. Any middle aged person will know about the physical changes that passing time wreaks upon the body, such as losing or gaining hair in innapropriate places (as I noted in an earlier post), skin losing its elasticity (in other words, getting saggy) and the act of mere bending causing loud, inarticulate exclamations of pain even though it doesn't really hurt. But there are other, unexpected though not necessarily unwelcome, mutations.

For example, I can now wear hats. I tried this in my younger days and I looked like a complete berk but I now find that a jauntily tipped flat cap or pork pie jazz hat makes me look damn cool...in my opinion. I think my recently adopted Hulk Hogan moustache has something to do with it but cool is definitely the word. Mind you, I do have to remind myself to remove the headgear when I'm indoors or driving. I used to blow a gasket every time I was stuck behind some trilby wearing little old man doing twenty miles an hour on a bendy single carriageway and I really don't want to turn into him.

Still on the subject of going gently into that good night, we watched 'Calendar Girls' for the first time last night. What a cracking film. I knew a little about the story - a bunch of valiant middle aged Women's Institute gals from Yorkshire strip off for their annual fund-raising calendar - but I didn't realise how big it became. Fair play to both the original gals and to the actresses who played them in the movie. It must have taken some serious 'hwyl' to voluntarily display the lumps, bumps and humps that age bestows (hwyl - pronounced 'hoil' - is a Welsh word that doesn't translate exactly into English but I like to think of it as meaning 'bollocks' - perhaps not the most apt word to use in the circumstances now that I think about it). Absolutely gorgeous, one and all (I'm trying not to single out Helen Mirren or Celia Imrie, but I still have one or two red corpuscles floating around in me).

Finally, I recently read an article about men's waistlines and whereabouts on their bodies they wear their trouser waistbands, depending on their age (the men's, not the trousers). If I remember rightly, it appears that the average teenage lad leaves a gap of five inches between his waistband and his actual waist. By the age of twenty seven it has crept up to the actual waist and at fifty seven, which I am not that far away from, it will migrate northwards to around seven inches below the armpit. The punchline to this article was that, rather than admitting to middle age spread, men in their late fifties and above convince themselves that the increasing gap between their trouser cuffs and their shoes is due to their legs getting longer! I have so much to look forward to.

I'm actually feeling quite positive about Life though. I sense a period of creativity looming during which I'll finally make a decent recording of a song that I wrote many years ago, along with an accompanying video. I'll also complete the screenplay for my side-splittingly jocular, blackly comedic movie starring Rhys Ifans, Ricky Gervais, Martin Freeman, Stephen Mangan, Simon Pegg and James Corden as a group of mates who fly to Las Vegas to celebrate their birthdays, which all happen to fall on the same day. I'd tell you more but you may be tempted to steal my genius.

Then again, I may just fall asleep in the armchair for a few hours.

As Chili Davis (who he?) once said, "growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional",
oldblodger

What's the Point of Sundays Without The Sunday Times?

Is there anything more glorious in this gloriously bonkers world than waking up on a Sunday morning (preferably without the aid of an alarm clock), propping yourself up in bed with a pair of plumpy pillows and tucking into a plateful of hot, buttered toast, washed down with a huge mug of coffee whilst poring over the umpteen sections that make up The Sunday Times?

To those of you who live in a region where you can't buy this newspaper I apologise, for you live a life of abject deprivation.

Apart from a couple of monthly magazines devoted to all things classic rock-esque it's the only periodical that I regularly read and what's really great about it is that I can share it with the Brunette. We each have our favourite sections and there is no crossover in terms of who reads what first. This is important as I have to read certain columnists in a specific order. So far, so OCD.

The Brunette always goes straight for the Home supplement whereas I have to get my AA Gill 'Table Talk' fix in the Style magazine before I even contemplate anything else. Not that I'm a fan of restaurant reviews per se. Gill tends to review London restaurants almost exclusively and since we left London over twelve years ago we're unlikely to ever visit the establishments he rapes, pillages and generally puts to the pen (it being mightier than the sword and all that).

I just love his preambles about...whatever he bloody well feels like waffling on about that week. When he finally meanders towards the eaterie in question, usually two-thirds of his column in at the earliest, I always find myself hoping against hope that he hated it as this is when his awesome (in the proper sense of the word) descriptive powers are at their most vitriolic, imaginative and hilarious, though he probably wouldn't thank me for saying so.

I always experience a little shudder of disappointment when I turn to his column and see the phrase 'AA Gill is away' at the end of it as I know that whoever has taken on the restaurant reviewer role that week - excellent yeoman journalists all - just isn't, well, him. But I understand that Gill needs a break now and again so I can forgive him his absences. However, God help the Brunette when it's time for the annual Style fashion edition as the whole magazine is dedicated solely to clothes, cosmetics and other girly stuff of no interest to me and Table Talk is nowhere to be found. She never hears the end of it for the rest of the day.

After I've read Gill and the tears of laughter and frustrated admiration have dried on my cheeks I next turn to the News Review section. For some reason I start with the back page (OCD again?). I scan the 'Nick Newman's Week' cartoons (always on the mark) first, followed by the 'Weird But Wonderful' snippets from around the world and 'People of the Week' before tackling Michael 'Winner's Dinners'.

I know, I know. Michael Winner is a name-dropping, ex-bad-film-directing, pretentious arse who spends most of his column telling his readers about how wealthy he is, was or will be (I'm never quite sure which it is as he always seems to be massively in debt and yet can afford to spend the GDP of a small African nation on private jets). But, either because of this or in spite of it, you just have to love him. Anyone who can laugh at themselves the way he does is fine in my book (if you're reading this Michael, a night out for the Brunette and I with yourself, Geraldine, Michael and Shakira would be lovely - on you, of course).

I then work my way backwards through the News Review, stopping off at any headlines that catch my eye, until I get to page 4 and India Knight. India is a fairly recent addiction of mine. I only started reading her column as she's on the same page as Jeremy Clarkson. She's fun. I don't always agree with what she writes (though I usually do) but I always like the way she writes it. And she's sexy (and, unlike a lot of feminists, I don't think she'd mind me saying that).

Which is more than I'd be prepared to say about Jeremy (again, I don't think he'd mind me saying that). I occasionally read his articles in the ST 'Ingear' section but I'm not a major petrolhead so I prefer his more generalist rants in the News Review. He never fails to make me laugh and - rightly or wrongly depending on your age, gender, politics, social standing and education etc - I find myself agreeing with almost everything he writes. In 2008 an internet petition sought to elect him Prime Minister. It attracted nearly 50,000 signatures so I'm obviously not alone in my views.

Gill and Clarkson are apparently good mates and they have both mentioned in their scribblings that they have dined together. I have a secret (not any more, obviously) desire to join them over a meal involving seasonal truffles, a bottle or two of something red and pricey (Gill can watch) and a packet of Woodbines. The thing is though, I worry that they'd think I was a bit of a twat. I'm Welsh for a start. I didn't go to public school and I still love Greenslade. Ah well, they say that you should never meet your heroes.

Now, once Gill, Winner, Knight and Clarkson have been devoured - in that precise order - the rest of the ST is a veritable tombola of pick 'n' mix articles. During the footie season I'll take a peek at the 'Sport' section to read the latest Everton obituary (they're creeping up the table now though - a top four place beckons, mark my words). I'll scan the ST Magazine and its often phenomenal 'Spectrum' photography section and I'll read the film, music and book reviews in the 'Culture' supplement.

Incidentally, is the reviewer suddenly more important than what's being reviewed? Has anyone else noticed the recent trend of putting the reviewer's name above that of the author being reviewed and in a bigger font size? What's that about?  Hey, Mr or Mrs Editor, put them back at the end of the review, where they belong!

And on the seventh day I rest...just like every other day really,
oldblodger

Stieg Larsson - 20,000,000 People Can't Be Wrong - Can They?

I'm aware that I run the risk of committing literary heresy, and it's early days yet, but I have to say that my dip into Stieg Larsson's ouevre has thus far been somewhat underwhelming. The mere act of typing that sentence makes me feel as though I'm stamping on the head of a beloved family pet, but there you go.

This whole 'publishing sensation' crept up on me only recently. I wasn't really aware of it until a friend bought me a copy of 'The Girl Who Played with Fire' a couple of months ago and it joined the pile of other books on my bedside locker. When I finally picked it up I realised that it was the second in the Millenium Trilogy and I couldn't bring myself to start it until I'd read the first, 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' (yes, I'm that anal - so sue me!).

I bought 'Dragon Tattoo' earlier this week and I started it this morning. I was really looking forward to it as Stieg's own story seems to be such an enigma.

For those not in the know (if there are any at this stage), Stieg, a Swedish journalist, delivered the manuscripts of three crime novels to his Swedish publisher in 2004, only to die of a heart attack shortly afterwards at the age of 50, never to know of his subsequent massive international success. The trilogy has since gone on to sell an estimated twenty million copies...yes, that's TWENTY MILLION!...earning his estate, well, it's hotly disputed but it's safe to assume that it's a shedload of dosh. As far as I can tell from the many websites devoted to his story, he'd never had a work of fiction published prior to the trilogy. How amazing is that?

Anyway, it was with this back story in mind that I began 'Dragon Tattoo', anticipating being blown away. The prologue lived up to expectations with an intriguing little tale about a guy receiving a framed pressed flower on his eighty second birthday. He'd received similar floral birthday tributes on over forty previous occasions and the intrigue lay in the fact that he didn't know who'd sent them or why - a tasty hors d'oeuvre to whet the appetite.

Then I started on the meat of the novel. I'm now on page 28 and I'm not sure if I want to continue. My problem with it is that, so far, it's too polite, too formal and too bloody slow. Perhaps the fact that it's a translation into English from the original Swedish is partly to blame, particularly for the overly-formal dialogue sections.

The translator's name is Reg Keeland. A-ha, I thought, 'Keeland' sounds vaguely Scandinavian so maybe Reg is from that neck of the woods and maybe English isn't his first language. Nope! When I googled his name it turns out that it's a pseudonym for an American guy called Steven T. Murray so that excuse doesn't work. Whatever the reason, I find myself re-reading sentences to make sure that I've understood them, which hardly helps with the 'flow'.

I feel that I should put my cards on the table here. I don't consider myself to be an intellectual and my reading tastes are usually pretty mainstream, if not low-rent (John Irving is about as cerebral as I get). I've read my fair share of crime novels over the years - police procedurals, whodunnits, pathology-based, hard-boiled etc - and if forced to choose my favourite crime genre author I'd go for Michael Connelly, particularly his Harry Bosch novels. For me, the pace of a novel is equally as important as the plot and Connelly's pacing is superb. As I  completed the first chapter of 'Dragon Tattoo' (on page 28, remember?) I couldn't help thinking that Connelly would have reached the same stage of the story by page 5.

To be fair, it's probably just me. I've never liked wading through what I consider to be extraneous information. I tried several times to watch an entire episode of Inspector Morse but I found it so slow that I just didn't care what happened. If they'd crammed the 'action' into one hour rather than two I might have stayed with it but I decided to stick to watching paint dry for entertainment instead.

To discover if it is just me I took a look at the reader reviews of 'Dragon Tattoo' on Amazon. I was surprised to find, amidst all the hyperbole, that a sizeable minority of reviewers had the same reaction to the pace of the book, some to such an extent that they didn't even finish it. Other naysayers stated that the book improves after the first 200 pages!

So, where do I go from here? Do I plod on in the hope that I see the light? Or do I concede defeat now, give away both of my Larsson novels and instead buy Connelly's latest Harry Bosch potboiler (I mean that in a good way), 'Nine Dragons'?

I've rarely left a novel unfinished. It took me several years to complete James Clavell's 'Shogun', but complete it I did (and thoroughly enjoyed it). I've even forced myself to continue with books I loathe to the bitter end, for example; Bret Easton Ellis' 'American Psycho' (not terrible, just truly disturbing), Mark Mason's 'What Men Think About Sex' (or, as I prefer to think of it, 'What Women Hope Men Think About Sex But In Reality Men Are Much More Base Than That') and one of Robin Cook's medical 'thrillers', the single-word title of which I couldn't possibly remember even if you offered me GlaxoSmithKline's annual gross turnover.

In other words, I'll probably do the plodding thing.

Watch this space,

oldblodger

Lost in Space

So, it's been a while since my last post.

"Why, Old Blodger, why?" I hear you scream in dismay.

Well, Christmas intervened, obviously, with all of its myriad distractions...booze mainly (a very belated happy season's greetings to you all, by the way). Also, since party time officially ended on the first of January until a couple of days ago I've been pretty much iced in at our County Leitrim abode. The main roads weren't too bad but our gaff is one and a half miles off the beaten track - one and a half miles of sheer driving-on-glass terror. No water (apart from regular deliveries of milk churns full of adam's ale by our wonderful farmer neighbours), no access to the Interweb (my p.c. has blown up altogether now) and a fierce cough resulting in several days of laryngitis (no point in phoning anyone when you can't speak).

Imagine how glad I am now that the ice has gone, the water's back, I can use the Interweb in our Galway gaff and I can speak again.

I spent most of my enforced rest period in Leitrim reading books, watching DVDs and generally lazing about, totally detached from the outside world and reality. Whilst in this rarified frame of mind I got to thinking about the previous year, a mini-review of my personal life if you will. A lot of things went wrong in 2009:

• As already mentioned, my p.c. crashed and burned with a catastrophic hardware meltdown.
• My laptop did very much the same thing.
• Ditto my external hard drive.
• The t.v. aerial died.
• My lovely shiny silver toaster blew up.
• My 1999 Land Rover Freelander (my baby) has an engine-related problem which requires a visit to the nearest Land Rover agent for a bit of computer diagnosis. Awkward and probably bloody expensive.
• The Brunette's 1997 VW Polo cuts out at every junction/traffic light/roundabout etc (but at least it's still in the land of the living).
• The DAB radio that the Brunette bought me as a 2008 Christmas pressie doesn't work, even though we're less than twenty miles from the border with the UK.
• FM radio reception is extremely iffy in Leitrim, especially at night when every non-English speaking radio station in Europe chooses to do battle with the dulcet tones of the Radio 5 Live presenters.
• Broadband is non-existant in our Leitrim gaff. We're about 100 yards away from the last house that can receive it via land line. We're in a dip just low enough to stop us getting it via line-of-sight and satellite is still too expensive. Besides which, my p.c. and laptop are, as previously mentioned, fucked so even if broadband were available I have nothing on which to avail of it!
• Mobile phone reception is...shite. If someone phones me whilst I'm in the house I have to hang, just so, out of one of the living room windows to have any hope of getting reception. 
• Our Leitrim washing machine has, in addition to making our clothes clean and sparkly, decided that each t-shirt, pair of jeans, set of underwear would look immeasurably better with a million creases un-iron-ably infused into them. 
• Our Leitrim tumble drier has decided, probably in cahoots with the washing machine - they are both Candy after all - to blow one of the fuses on our main fuse board every time we try to use it.   

In short, every mechanical, electrical or electronic piece of hardware that we own seems to have taken a look at our worthiness as owners and has found us wanting. I'm sure that I could dredge up a few more technological implosions if I thought a bit harder but believe it or not this is not meant to be a rant against consumerism or some kind of pro-luddite treatise.

When I first looked at my list of destruction my initial reaction was one of outraged victimhood. This was swiftly followed by resigned acceptance which finally dissolved into helpless laughter. It's only stuff, innit? Money is admittedly too tight to mention at present, but what it once bought will one day be buyable again...if we decide that we want to replace all this crud, that is. Technological breakdown is great for making you think about what's important.

There was a short period during my enforced solitude in Leitrim when the electricity went. I therefore had no power and very few working gadgets to play with even if I did. I couldn't speak to anyone, I couldn't drive anywhere, I had enough water for a cup or two of coffee, a corned beef and pickle sandwich and a calor gas heater. What did I do? I read a book via candlelight and I couldn't have been happier.

True, I'm glad that Ireland is thawing out at last as I prefer to live in the 21st century rather than the middle ages, but I'm also glad to have had that short time for reflection. I'm actually looking forward to 2010 with a bit of positivity now. I hope you are too.

Don't let the bastards grind you down,
oldblodger