About Steve Morgan

Occupational Therapist since 1986, Case Manager since 1990, Author since 1993, Consultancy since 2001. Launched a blog from 2013, a podcast in 2014, and YouTube videos from 2017.

Tales from Dumbfuckistan

Posted on September 24, 2013 by Steve Morgan

I seem to recall one George W Bush referring to many of the Eurasian countries as ‘the Stans’, which served well to demonstrate his expansive knowledge of world geography. While it came across to me as a simple way of grouping together totally separate countries, such as Pakistan, Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and others, he was clearly overlooking his own backyard… Dumbfuckistan.

I mention this because, being a cat for a stat, I was completely blown away (excuse the advanced pun) by a couple of articles about life in the US recently. The first was all about my cuddly cousins, with an all out assault on our favourite pass-time of baiting and killing other dumb creatures.

According to academic sources we kill ‘billions’ of other creatures in the US each year. Not to be outdone, we clock up millions each year in the UK apparently, though my resident protector of the environment doesn’t allow me to join in, I just get to exercise vivid imagination, particularly where ‘dwaugs’ are concerned……. So, somehow we are the villains of the peace, when all we are trying to do is rid you lot of vermin and bring you warm gifts. At least we are doing our bit to keep researchers in jobs for obscure biology conservation institutes.

Did I mention ‘a couple’ of articles? Well it was the more recent one by Henry Porter in the Observer newspaper on 22nd September 2013 that had me nearly falling off my cushion… ‘American gun use is out of control. Shouldn’t the world intervene?‘

With all the uproar about cats killing other creatures it seems to me that we have nothing to learn from you folk; at least we rarely go around randomly killing each other. These stories from the US about yet another gun massacre is one thing, but when you see all the statistics lined up end-to-end it blows your brains out (sorry!).

Total number of Americans killed in all wars from Lexington 1775 up to Afghanistan today is officially recorded as 1,171,177. Total number of civilians killed by guns (including suicides) from the killing of Edward Kennedy in 1968 to today is 1,384,171. Almost a quarter of a million more in 45 years than in the last 238 years of warfare. And still they demand their rights to an outdated second amendment to keep and bears arms, drawn up in days when the wild west was in vogue and coffee (or is that corrfee?) came in only one option, hot and wet.

Henry Porter reminds us that since 9/11, when just under 3000 people died in that atrocity, there have been 20 terror-related deaths and 364,000 caused by privately owned firearms. Apparently, if the US witnessed that sort of carnage taking place in another country they would be hurtling down the United Nations by-pass on a mission to restore sanity, introduce democracy, and relieve the locals of their richer natural resources. For a nation notorious for its lack of passports and ambition for travel, perhaps the rest of us cats should be thankful… the less of their culture they export the better! If the obesity doesn’t get you the bullet probably will.

If Syrians had any humanity they would threaten to invade the US; after all, any country where over 32,000 of its own are being killed by its own every year has some serious anger issues, and probably needs some externally sourced mediation!

Then there is the advertising and accessorising of guns for little kids… a truly remarkable statement of a sick culture.

[All cartoons accessed from ‘images of…’ sites on the internet].

The style of entertainment has been slightly different this week, but I am still Juno, mainly because I don’t live in America. For those of you who do… stay indoors, lock all your doors, and listen out for the sound of the safety clip being released.

It’s only money!

Posted on September 22, 2013 by Steve Morgan

My appointed football watcher tells me occasionally of a time when T.V. was only in black and white, how strange is that? They also say these were the days when football was cheap with little else to do in your spare time. So loads of people crammed into dilapidated stadiums for a regular fix of having their dreams and hopes crushed by the failings of their local team. Happiness is a strange concept in the minds of these sports enthusiasts. I hear that times have certainly changed, with this Premier League thing bringing in the big bucks. It reminds me of a song I keep hearing on the noise box inconveniently located near my favourite throne… It’s Only Money, which seems to be an anthem for all those ordinary people who can no longer afford the inflated prices charged for their regular torture sessions.

Whatever you happen to think about money-driven changes the reality is that the biggest recent spenders, Tottenham Hotspur, are parking their gold-plated limo’s in town this weekend. Oscar Wilde once said “When I was young I thought that money was the most important thing in life; now that I am old I know that it is.” And just to prove a point, in terms of recent spending, today’s contest just happens to be a £33.5 million v. £107 million match. If there are a lot of boxes of Monopoly games around missing all the money, it might well have been syphoned off by a few of the Premier League teams, as the previously poor debt-burdened Cardiff City have a squad transfer cost of £46.8 million, against the mighty Spurs weighing in at £192.1 million.

Its kick-off, and it is customary in these games to name the respective line-ups of the teams facing each other:

Cardiff City Tottenham Hotspur

1. Free £8.0m

2. £2.2m Free

3. £8.0m £4.0m

4. £0.75m £12.0m

5. Free Free

6. £0.35m Free

7. Free £6.8m

8. £11.5m £17.3m

9. £2.0m £26.4m

10. Free £11.8m

11. £0.65m £15.0m

Spurs even had the luxury of selling-on a Cardiff-born player for a mere £86m to recoup some of their recent massive expenses. And I haven’t even started talking about the multi-millionaire status of some of these young folk… delicate thoroughbreds who quickly come to believe the hype that they get tired after a few weeks of playing two football matches a week. This is why teams now need big squads to cope with such incredible demands… just don’t tell that to the older guys who used to play 65 games a season for mere wages, rather than the instant wealth of today.

So, what does kicking off with £25.45m v £101.3m of ‘talent’ serve up for the punters… the majority who pay the riches of the few? Entertainment, passion and drama I am told by the deluded one representing me at the match. Isn’t that what all football supporters say? I wanted more detail, and being a cat for a stat I got more than I bargained for (all the following figures are in MILLIONS!):

The first real chance of the game falls to the home team as 0.65 breaks through on goal only to be thwarted by 8.0. Spurs dominate the half with strong runs by Free & Free (so much for all the dosh then). But it is Cardiff who get the ball in the net just before half-time as 0.35 takes a corner and 0.75 heads into the net, only the referee (usually the blindest person in the stadium) sees a foul by Cardiff’s Free on Spurs 8.0. Half-time arrives and the all-important stat is Cardiff City 0 Spurs 0.

The second half kicks off, and within the first minute Free for Cardiff requires a good save from Spurs goalkeeper 8.0. Within minutes 6.8 for Spurs hits the bar. This half sees a slightly more balanced game with both sides having chances. The usual substitutions take place for each team, with Cardiff replacing 0.65 and Free by 2.5 and Free. Meanwhile Spurs replace 6.8, Free and 11.8 by bringing on 26.4, Free and 1.5. Cardiff’s goalkeeper, Free, certainly earns his money with a string of outstanding saves throughout the match, only for 17.3 to back-heel the only goal passed him in the 93rd minute.

Final score is Bluebirds 0 Cockerels 1 (with the local parrots left feeling somewhat under the weather).

It’s only money, but Spike Milligan once said “All I ask is the chance to prove that money can’t make me happy.” Would he have retracted this request if he knew he might have to stroll around a field or even sit on a heated padded seat for 90 minutes to ‘earn’ his riches? As for me, I have been Juno, and no amount of money is going to shift me from another stressful 90 minutes on my favourite cushion…

… unless that bloody football comes on my colour T.V. yet again! See you again, before the next match.

Fat cat bankers

Posted on September 15, 2013 by Steve Morgan

Some of my superior species seem to have attracted bad press in recent years. I was just telling my human credit card that I couldn’t understand why, when they drew my attention to a few uncomfortable truths, that some unsavoury characters leading the financial industry have been frequently referred to as fat cats… clearly not eating out of my bowl!!

[Pictures downloaded from internet search ‘images of fat cat bankers’]:

Economic disaster, casino banking, double-dip recession… the language of our day-to-day transactions has been transformed by a few people doing something to a mouse that hardly seems worth getting out of bed for:

The majority of the reasonable population goes into spasms of indignation, demanding these cats be cut down to size. Yet they even seize on our well-known sense of nonchalance, claiming that any threat to their power and wealth will be met with the wholesale departure of talent overseas.

Talent! Talent? Seems to me that anyone whose main talent is to screw everything up for everyone else is better off overseas… any contributions to the one-way tickets should be sent to my accountant for payment into the ‘I wouldn’t mind becoming a fat cat‘ account.

I do smile each time I hear a government representative boasting about all they have done to get our slick-suited armageddon merchants helping the honest trades-folk of Broke PLC, when the usual response received to a cap-in-hand request goes something like this:

Even more impressive was the recent tactic in the City of London of creating buildings that can set fire to the ordinary peoples’ attempts to scrape a livelihood. While the casino bankers relax in the richest sun-belts of the world, they have found something they are happy to share with the proletariat… spreading the heat!

So, it was with great delight, as I slinked around the local city centre, that I came upon a vision of divine retribution… a Barclays Bank building now occupied by Poundland!

Could it be true, that representatives of the once almighty financial institution of ‘total disrespect for the ordinary punter’, where numbers only mattered if they were interrupted by several commas, are now in the business of selling goods to the proletariat for numbers that don’t even need a decimal point!? Or will I wake up and find it was all just a lovely impossible dream? I have been your intrepid financial correspondent, Juno, until we meet again soon.

Searching for Lebanon

Posted on September 13, 2013 by Steve Morgan

This week my global food navigator set the dial for Lebanon; we are eating Lebanese they said, without any further explanation as to how or when this event was going to occur. After all, we are in Cardiff; this isn’t exactly the multicultural banqueting feast that a London or a New York could boast of. Quick as a flash I jokingly replied… what breed of dog is that again? But my humour-deprived, equal opportunities promoting, sage of political correctness only threw me a look of disdain.

This search wasn’t going to be easy. So I consulted my world music collection for some background inspiration. Alphabetically pawing my way through, I arrive at Kyrgyzstan (top 10 crooners of the 1950’s)… Latvia (Elvis thrash metal tribute)… ah, Lebanon (Middle Eastern Motown Soul). Purring to the rhythmic sounds of a Beirut night, I try out the computer gizmo in search of the place they locally call ‘Naroush’. They are supposed to have a website, but the first part of the difficult search failed to locate it. Thanks to TripAdvisor the internet delivers again; and the reviews suggest a real treat is in store. ‘In store’ is an interesting phrase regarding this particular culinary delight; from the outside you get the picture that you have arrived, but… how do you get in?

The entrance looks like it is a clothes shop rather than a restaurant. Good observation, because it is a clothes shop! This suddenly brings back fearful memories of old American movies where you always have to go through some kind of a laundry at the street shopfront, and there would be some gangster types operating out back. Is this going to be the Hezbollah Kebab Shop? I wondered. Am I going to be the hors d’oeuvre?

All fears are laid to rest as we turn at the top of the stairs. We walk into a brightly lit all-white decor restaurant. It turns out to be a good omen, being blinded by the decor was a prelude to being blinded by the cuisine. Fortunately, my personal food taster had the ingenuity to have booked a veranda table in advance, so there was less need for me to continue using the shades while eating.

620 × 414 – kittentoob.com [Picture from images of cats in sunglasses].

Don’t eat much before coming to this place, as the quality is great and the portions fit for a fat-cat. We tried the Mixed Mezza and a Fatoush Salad to share as starters:

Chicken Musahab and the Sea Bass rapidly followed (even before we had completely digested the starter):

There is no alcohol license here, but never fear you don’t need the ‘falling down juice’ when you have the best selection of mixed fruit cocktails and boosters we have seen. They more than compliment the food. Just for a change from my usual water bowl I tried the Mango, Strawberry, Kiwi & Mint combo… delicious. My fellow cat tried the Fig, Strawberry and Papaya. The only shame was the other 14 options of cocktails we didn’t get to try out. We left ‘pleasantly stuffed’, and with the feeling this is definitely somewhere to come back to again soon.

The staff were friendly and welcoming, but we did need to chase up the order of drinks a couple of times. But it was certainly great value for money; which just goes to show how much gets spent on the alcohol so often in restaurants.

That is it from Beirut in downtown Cardiff. Until I get the chance to spin that globe again and put a paw on another country, I have been Juno your good food finder, and I hope to speak with you again soon.

Going nowhere

Posted on September 8, 2013 by Steve Morgan

So there I was gazing out across all I could survey in this idyllic place I call home, when my appointed journey planner suddenly asked if I was going somewhere. Well, I said in contemplative mood, to go somewhere you need to be sure about something and saddle up a means of somehow. Which only served to confuse my poor food fetcher, so I made do with a simple it’s a know-nothing going nowhere kind of day.

Much to my surprise this seemed to produce one of those butterfly-effect moments, and somewhere on the far side of ‘journey planners’ brain a couple of stray cells briefly rubbed together, and out tumbled all sorts of reminiscences about a long-distant past where a nationalised British Rail used to provide entertainment for the masses by organising ‘mystery trips’ by trains out of Cardiff Central station; or ‘Cardiff General’ as it was then, bearing in mind my groomer-in-chief is what I can only refer to as an ‘old git’, who seems to be thriving on my presence and attention.

Mystery trips, I thought. Seems to me that with all this privatisation malarkey one constant remains… go to Cardiff Central station these days, and the place is one big mystery trip in its own right!

If you are planning on going ‘somewhere’ just hope that nobody looking for a reason to play a practical joke suggests your train goes from Platform 5. On the other hand, if you are going ‘nowhere’ this is just the right place for you… go straight to Platform 0! Yes, you are right first time, I said zero.

Research on this computer contraption tells me this rather strange option for non-travel, or possibly even time-travel, is not just the preserve of the good people of Cardiff… the good, and in the interests of equality all other types of people, in Stockport (Cheshire), Preston (Lancashire) and Haymarket (Edinburgh), can all share in the global pursuit of going nowhere.

However, in Cardiff, we are talking about a mystery trip of a journey in the station itself.

You might have been planning on a straight-forward visit to the M&S Food emporium, stocking up for your journey to who-knows-where. But, who can resist the message that blocks your advance… Platform 0 even has a staircase of its own. If this doesn’t convince you of its elevated status (excuse the pun), what will? So, you make the understandable decision… London can wait, Swansea has lost its appeal (if it ever had any), Manchester and the North (wherever that place is) will have to wait. We are off on what might just prove to be the experience that knocks Harry Potter’s Platform 9 and 3/4 at Kings Cross station into a minor footnote in the history of rail travel.

As you overcome your initial trepidation, you climb the stairs. Ever the informative types, the railway company have even expanded your knowledge of Welsh, with what must be one of the most useful signs you are ever likely to come across in the whole Principality. But, at least you know you are on the right track (ok, produce your own puns then!). Then they really excel themselves… remember, you are on a mystery journey going nowhere. For this, the most vital guide should be ‘no information at all’; and wow, do they come through. To top off your mysterious journey they have even provided a customer information kiosk… closed and shuttered!

Armed with nothing, you are now fully geared up to go nowhere… the train company wish you a relaxing and pleasant journey; if you have any further questions, just don’t ask.

For those readers who use this rail equivalent of a black hole, on your way to all stations to Ebbw Vale, I am Juno you mobile DJ offering you a little bit of Going Nowhere by Oasis, or alternatively for you ‘valleys’ go-getters here is Somewhere by Tom Waits. See you at the end of your journey, where ever that may be.

Great Expectations

Posted on September 1, 2013 by Steve Morgan

Charles Dickens once said “I’m a Bluebird until I die”. That was Charlie ‘whatshisname’ (aka who the dickens is that?) sat somewhere in the Ninian Stand rather than the bard of London, Portsmouth and Rochester. At least that is what my nominated football watcher tells me, in a continuing state of delirium since Malcky’s Army downed the Manchester City juggernaut 3-2 last week. But perhaps the real Charles Dickens has already written the story of this season in the Premier League for the locals; as that most unlikely of results has now given rise to ‘Great Expectations’… if they can beat some of the richest, most overpaid of players, then just bring on the rest!

On the way to the ground for the next instalment, I am reliably informed that a scene reminiscent of the capture of the convict, Abel Magwitch, on the marshes was taking place, as Police vans, cars, horses and constables on foot escorted a relatively small group of the visiting fans to the ground. Greatly outnumbered, they offered nothing more than passive acquiescence. Cardiff City Stadium again provided an atmosphere as cauldron-like as Joe Gargery’s forge, with the locals open to accepting every lucky horseshoe coming their way. After all, this successful Everton team are not going to resemble any fading grandeur of Miss Havisham’s life.

In the book, the lawyer Mr Jaggers is the bringer of news of wealth from an anonymous benefactor. What is it that Phil Jagielka, the Everton captain, is saying to his manager Roberto Martinez, with a couple of days of the transfer window still open? There are other players on this team who may be contemplating Pip’s journey from the Kent marshes to the city of London, by moving away from the safety of their familiar Goodison home to a place in a more glaring spotlight. As for the home team, there would be more than a few hopes that a wealthy benefactor incarcerated in New South Wales would emerge to add to the Malaysian riches already decorating this part of old South Wales.

And so to another Saturday 3.00p.m. and the match kick-off, and one fan seems too overwhelmed by the tension of watching one man kick a ball a few inches to a colleague:

3.45p.m. 0-0… 4.05p.m. and it’s time to kick-off the second of this game of two halves. For those of you cats who have no interest in the intriguing story that unfolds as a back-drop to a tense 0-0 draw, but who hold a particular interest in the more colourful elements of life, the reds and the blues in the two pictures have completely turned around (or has my trusty photographer just walked around to the other stand?).

4.53p.m. 0-0… unless you are a supporter of either team that’s the summary of all the main action. The atmosphere generated by these passionate newcomers to the big-boys league was kept to a level of tension equaling that fabled return by the convict Magwitch as he is recaptured on the Thames.

The talking point of the game, as with so many, emerges in the post-match interviews. One side saw a nailed-on penalty and enough evidence that they should have finished with deserved victory; and the other side saw a good tackle and an even game that finished with a fair result. One thing seems very certain in the partisan world of football… a true fan sees what they want to see, not necessarily what really happened!

My nominated eyes on the game may be slightly biased, but they said Cardiff are fully deserving of four points at home against two teams from the top six last season. All of these numbers are doing my under-nourished sensibilities no good. To me the most significant numbers are 0-0… Charles Dickens would have to re-write his ending between Pip and Estella (again) if he was to equal the intensity of the story that had just unfolded on the pitch, according to my personally deluded reporter. Perhaps it is a score like this that cries out to be described in the gilded oratory of Stuart Hall, only without the heinous sex offences. I have been Juno, your Dickensian reminiscence benefactor, hoping to speak with you again soon.

Bluebirds 3 Blue Moon 2

Posted on August 25, 2013 by Steve Morgan

I kind of forgot to comment last week when my local team went to my old haunt in East London and lost, but today I was amazed by the sight of a jubilant Cardiff City fan coming down the road:

Seems that being the richest team in the world doesn’t count for much when you come up against a bunch of Bluebirds who haven’t had a home match in the top league to shout about for 51 years. And so it came to pass, that the collection of multi-millionaires (aka Manchester City) were the first to come to town for a stroll in the park against the newly promoted (Champions, may I add) minnows of Cardiff City.

And there was me thinking they were big men… it seems like Cardiff had a sneaky tactic of bringing in a supporter large enough to scoop up most of the Manchester City team.

After a tense first half, with Cardiff keeping their illustrious visitors to 0-0, the half-time buzz was all about daring to dream, whilst trying to suppress the thoughts of what the men from everywhere except Manchester could do (well at least we had one from Cardiff!).

The whistle blows for the second half… its all Manchester City. They take an early lead, but it only spurs on the locals to even greater noise, getting behind their team, transmitting the belief as only football can… a bunch of overweight folks sat on their arses telling a bunch of fit blokes how to play (strange how these humans think when they get passionate).

Without any help from a Hollywood make-over merchant the miraculous happens, the dreams are answered, Martin Scorsese need look no further for the plot of his next film. An equaliser, Cardiff take the lead, then go further into the lead.

Fraizer Campbell scores the third goal for Cardiff

The Cardiff fans are in dreamland, expecting the fourth and fifth to arrive like London buses. Then the officials add on 6 minutes of injury time… the old traditional Fergie-time has transferred across Manchester. Time for Manchester City to pull back a second; could they find a further finish to bring the local hopes and dreams crashing down? Kiss my furry rump could they. The final whistle blows… its time for many a Cardiff person to pinch themselves. Yes, it really did happen, the world is a changed place from what it was at the 4.00p.m. kick-off… and normal football cliches will resume on all sports channels and in pubs across the land. Just don’t interrupt a Cardiff fan at the moment with silly questions about ‘Bluebirds’ playing in red and black:

I have been Juno, your intrepid sports reporter, see you again the other side of disbelief!

Extreme Sailing

Posted on August 24, 2013 by Steve Morgan

What have Muscat (Oman), Singapore (S.E. Asia), Qingdao (China), Istanbul (Turkey), Porto (Portugal), Nice (France), Rio (Brazil) and Cardiff all got in common? No, its nothing to do with eating cats or dogs… they are the eight venues for the World Series of Extreme Sailing. Yes, take that NY Yankees… a real World Series!

In the interests of self preservation this cool cat considers a few planks of wood topped off with a tablecloth to be extreme enough, but these things are great big catamarans with sails up to sixty feet in height.

So it’s the August Bank Holiday, and a number of Olympic sailors have descended on Cardiff Bay, the largest bay in Europe, for the sixth leg of the 2013 World Series, with the Land Rover sponsored Team Wales representing the UK in the event. All the action is on the water, and us cats can watch water all day long, but I sure as hell am not getting too close to the stuff… in my world it is for drinking, so I am going to stick to the safety of dry land.

On the subject of ‘extreme’, my surrogate daredevil started talking about their experiences with parachutes, gliders and motorbikes when they were young (a lot younger I must add). “Nothing“, I said, “try doing what I did with mice and other stupid creatures when I was allowed out!” There are all kinds of images of extreme sports around (though nothing involving my ideas about mice), but my favourite just has to be Extreme Ironing… what’s that all about? Didn’t you just know that such an idea had to originate in England!

On the subject of smooth… this fabulous coat of mine takes some looking after, but if my personal groomer was to come anywhere near me with an iron there would be some extreme consequences for their health and well-being. Here is a link to help those of you who don’t understand the joy of ironing, and another link to things you could do with a bicycle other than let a fish ride it (did I tell you about my ideas on things to do with fish…).

If only things happened at a more leisurely pace… perhaps I will establish the new sport of extreme sleeping:

In the meantime, to all those of you who believe in your extreme ways, may all of your injuries be minor and your rewards come with the maximum rush. I am still Juno, and I will speak with you again soon, but not until I have had a lie down and a good sleep.

Diplomatic incidents

Posted on August 18, 2013 by Steve Morgan

It always starts with my staff being wrong and me being right, but each time I need to manage the situation as if we are trying to avert some full blown diplomatic incident. On this occasion it was simply triggered when I looked at my nearly full bowl of food and just happened to throw a glance of expectation to my personal chef, all the while thinking ‘are you seriously expecting me to eat this stuff?’ I usually start with the cute look, something like ‘look, no eyes’:

Much to my amazement, on this occasion they say ‘your bowl is full and your not getting anything else until you are eating what is already there.’ Now, I don’t know about you, but for me the recipe for a stand-off has just been triggered… the question is: how to play these deluded humans along, so they think they have made a point, while I still win. At this stage cute is too easy on them, it is time to try a bit of cunning, and also offer the threat of a right hook to show I mean business:

The first tactic is what is commonly known as the snub… I deliberately brush against their legs, and just as they are bending down to stroke my head I walk away a few paces and throw the disgruntled look:

This is designed to deliver a psychological blow to the snubbee; but to my surprise they step back and look at me in some kind of accusing way… is this the counter-snub in play I wonder?

I could respond by walking further away, but that could easily be interpreted as the sulk, and sulking would be a surefire admission of defeat. How do I retaliate in this situation? I remind myself that inevitably there can only be one winner here, we can’t have humans thinking they are in control.

The second tactic, to escalate from the snub, is what we call the break from protocol; so I jump up onto the coffee table and deliberately sprawl out across the newspaper. This will show them who is boss around here. But once again, to my utter amazement they reply with the unprecedented break from protocol by trying to shoo me off the coffee table… shoo?… me? what’s going on?

By this stage I had calculated on receiving some gentle strokes, but instead I believe the situation has reached the level of an affront. However, the intensity of the atmosphere deepens as my accuser replies to my affront with their declaration of an outrage. I do what any self-respecting cool cat would do in this situation, and adopt the frosty look:

It seems that what started out as a difference of opinion has now become a full blown incident. I slump to the ground on my side and flex my claws, to which the now disgruntled human retrieves the claw-clippers from the dark mysterious cupboard that I am not allowed in… sabres are being rattled!

Clearly different tactics are required in order for me to regain the upper hand. If the first line of cute did’t work it is time to put the second level of cute into practice… I lie on my back with legs in the air as the offer of the olive branch.

At first, the indignant one seems to rebuff my olive branch; but once it is accepted with a tummy stroke it is time I went to the next tactic of putting out feelers. Perhaps if I dazzle them with my x-ray eyes it might just win them over:

At this stage I purr loudly for effect, and they respond with the suggestion that poached salmon is on their menu… and I might just get some for a treat. This is their way of making the necessary overtures.

At this delicate stage the diplomatic thaw is under way, and I resist from reminding them that I am clearly winning. It is necessary to maintain the thaw until the salmon has been delivered and consumed… at which point I will be ready to start the next snub!

[This post has been developed around a column in the Observer newspaper written by Raphael Behr on 11th August 2013].

Great place for a litter tray

Posted on August 14, 2013 by Steve Morgan

Ok, before the health and safety ayatollahs get onto me, I am not really going to use the sand of the new artificial beach down at Cardiff Bay as a litter tray (at least not during the day!). But it did come as surprise to me as I was strutting around the bay to suddenly be confronted by a mix of sand, water, funfair rides and the usual trappings of a bona fide beach where there used to be an open space in front of the Millenium Centre. It seems Cardiff is not the first, as European cities as well as London, Liverpool, Nottingham and Birmingham have already stumbled upon similar ideas… though I never thought of a day by the beach when I was in East or South-East London.

Well, I suppose if the United Arab Emirates can build cities in the desert, then why shouldn’t Cardiff bring sand to the city? If I was being ungenerous, I might suggest a sand-pit has been placed next to a paddling pool. But judging from the crowds, and other good reviews, this seems like a great idea that should become an annual event:

Get those handkerchiefs knotted at the four corners, get the trouser legs rolled up, there is a deck chair with your name on it if you beat the crowds… well it isn’t quite St.Tropez yet. We even have another British summer quirk to set the right scene… a ‘scorchio’ of a July with temperatures into the 30’s bode well for a summer at the beach, but no sooner does the attraction open on 27th July (until 1st September) and we get clouds, lower temperatures and showers! Still, pack your shades and brollies, beachwear and plastic macs; its time to do what the Brits do best, and stoically hope that your few hours on the sand will be the few that get the sun.

It doesn’t seem to have dampened too many spirits so far… and as I was strolling under the boardwalk I reflected back on days spent up the pool, to times spent on the dunes, and like a stranger on the shore there was nothing quite like being on the beach. I have been Juno your bayside DJ, see you again soon.

	David on Searching for Lebanon
	Kirt on NOLA: UK-style
	Wanda Rusiecki on Frohe Weihnachten
	Steve Morgan on Turkish delight
	Wanda Rusiecki on Turkish delight

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