The Agave

Back in 83 or 84 when a bunch of us went to Corfu on holiday, I was amazed to see a plant springing up everywhere. It was quite exotic looking and I took a few small specimens back to the UK where I planted them in a corner of the garden. Amazingly they grew but then the winter frost got them – all that was left in spring were some soggy, rotten stumps.

Each year, when we returned to Corfu I’d pack a few of these cacti, bring them home and each year they died. Not knowing their proper name, we called them Corfu Cactii.

Then when I moved to France, they were everywhere and they were so big that even the few days of frost we get couldn’t kill them. I found out that they are called Agave, they are not related to the cactus family despite their horrible sharp spines and they are a native of Mexico and are used for two main purposes: the making of tequila and something called Agave Nectar which is rapidly becoming a healthy sugar alternative.

For me however, they were something to plant in the steep slope which was built to support the pool we had built next door. I envisaged a thunderstorm washing away the bank of earth and waking up one morning to see the pool at the bottom of the hill, so I popped into next door’s garden where they, or rather their gardeners, had used Agaves to do the same job and took some of the ‘baby’ plants which spring up from the root.

I took both varieties: the Blue Agave and the Varigated (green and yellow) Agave, planted them all over the slope and just sat back and waited. They don’t need any water, the roots grow at an incredible rate and within a couple of years the slope was a ‘jungle’ of thorny, spiky Agave plants with hundreds of small ‘seedlings’ growing all over the place.

Then the new house was built and when I was landscaping the garden (sorry – I’m just amazed that I’ve stupidly used the words ‘landscaping’ and ‘garden’), I took those little seedlings and planted them for garden architectural purposes (I’ve done it again!). This time however, I shaped them and cut off the spines and they don’t half look good.

But there’s a sad story about the Agave and I’d read this somewhere, that after twenty years, the plant sends up an enormous trunk like shoot, some twenty or thirty feet into the air which branches out into clusters of yellow flowers – and then it dies. Its last act as a living thing is to produce the most spectacular flower. Aaaah.

The Agave in the picture is one of the original plants used by the gardeners when the first three houses were built – and do you know when that was? 1990! Exactly twenty years ago.

Jimmy Reid

You may have read that Jimmy Reid died yesterday. Who was Jimmy Reid? If you’re from Scotland and my era, you wouldn’t ask that question.

Jimmy Reid (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimmy_Reid) was a celebrated shop steward who led his union workers in an infamous fight against the then Prime Minister, Ted Heath. Heath wanted to stop subsidising the Clyde shipyards with government, i.e. public, money and close them down. Instead of going on strike, Reid led a work-in at Upper Clyde Shipbuilders and proved that it was inefficient management, not the workers, who were making the construction and cost of ships, built on the Clyde, prohibitive. Heath backed down and the rest, as they say, is history.

I remember going down to the shipyards when I was a boy. Long before safety smothered everything you do, I would go into the yard with my cousin and watch the men hammer in red hot rivets to hold the plates of steel together. I would stand no more than a couple of feet away, surrounded by manufacturing chaos and watch in awe as the red hot rivets were delivered to the riveters and I would talk and joke with the workers - possibly even Billy Connolly who worked there in those days. Today, that would just not be allowed, no matter how interested you claimed to be.

At the time, Reid was castigated as a Communist and indeed he was a member of the Communist party and so was my pal, Eddie.

Not long after I joined the blue suited, white collared world of IBM, Eddie said he was going out on the Saturday and did I fancy going with him. I turned up at a hall in Springburn, Glasgow to find that it was a meeting of the Communist Party! I sat in the gallery watching the meeting desperately worried that on that particular day, MI5, who regularly attended and secretly filmed the meetings, would ignore me – the thought of my bosses in the ultra-capitalist IBM, finding out I was attending Communist party meetings was just too difficult to comprehend.

After the meeting finished, off they all trooped off to the Trades Union Halls just over the Clyde and had a real shindig running well into the evening. I never met Jimmy Reid but I was introduced to  Mick McGahey the infamous union official who made Reid seem like a pussycat. As I shook his hand somebody took a photo and for the second time that day, I thought my hoped-for career in IBM would be doomed before it had even started.

Maybe I am in an MI5 file somewhere but if I am, it didn’t seem to do me any harm.

Jimmy Reid – R.I.P.   

French Kissing

No, I don’t mean with tongues and all that unhygienic stuff, I mean the French type of greeting whereby you kiss someone when you meet them. It’s all very friendly and civilised and I think it’s great - now that I’ve got the hang of it.

When I first arrived in France, I’d kiss the cheeks of all the women I met and got some strange looks in the process, especially from those I was meeting for the first time, and then one day when I was out with my French mate and he introduced me to this lady and I kissed her, Mark took me aside and advised me that one should never kiss on the first meeting – after that it was fine but never on a first meeting.

Since then, I’ve always observed that piece of advice but of course many other Brits don’t know about the etiquette of ‘French kissing’ and when I’m introduced to a British female now, it’s quite awkward as they assume they’re going to get a couple of pecks on the cheek and seem quite disappointed or even embarrassed when I just hold my hand out.

Of course my reticence to engage in ‘light snogging’ sometimes doesn’t work as the lady grabs you and kisses you before you can keep her at arm’s length and then it’s embarrassing as you struggle to grab her hand when all she’s interested in is a return peck on each cheek.

But overall it’s quite a nice custom, although I’m not too sure about the male on male bit. My mate Mark now kisses me when we meet and depending on where I am, e.g. in the village square, I get a bit uncomfortable, especially as I notice that when Guy and Kitty arrive at the bus stop each morning, the guys kiss the girls and the girls kiss the girls, but the guys just shake each other’s hands. All very manly. Maybe I should have a word with Mark? Maybe he just fancies me?

So remember, according to Mark (who should know), unless you’re a letch you only kiss after the first meeting and then try and restrain yourself from the custom of some other countries where there can be three, four or even five kisses, which I personally think is a bit over the top. I mean why stop at five? Why not just go into a corner and do it until you’re missed?

Of course, that diminutive letch Sarkozy had to keep up the French custom even when being presented to Angela Merkel, The German Chancellor. Maybe he hadn’t been briefed about German customs (absolutely no kissing), whatever, he decided to grab her and stick one on her cheek whilst she vainly tried to fend him off, and despite her obvious reluctance at having a garlic tongue slobber all over her cheeks, he continued to do it at further meetings.

Apparently, fed up with his gropings and slobbering, the German ministry wrote to their counterparts in France and advised that they tell Sarkozy to keep his hands under control, his tongue in his mouth and the kisses for his wife. Spoilsports!   

PS - I have to say that Merkel doesn't look too upset in the picture.

The 'Shady' Italian

I’ve mentioned my dislike of arguing with older Italian men for fear that I’ll find a dead horse’s head on my pillow the following morning and with Italy only 45 minutes away, it’s not as if I can feel safe by having thousands of miles between myself and any Italians following an argument I may have had. And don’t think that I’m an argumentative so and so, starting fights with every Italian I meet, it’s just that the older Italian guys seem so, well, sinister I suppose.

A couple of years ago we were invited to our Italian builder’s birthday lunch and sitting amongst his family’s male members and friends was like being at a mafia dinner. They all wore dark glasses and had ‘Del Boy’ type medallions around their necks. And they all seemed to be whispering to each other.

And then a couple of weeks ago when I took my relatives to San Remo for the day and I went back to the restaurant where I had reserved a specific table only to find a group of ‘Goodfellas’ sitting at it, did I argue? No siree – I went and sat somewhere else. I like my life thank you.

Now I’m sure this illogical fear of ‘the older Italian’ male stems from an experience J and I had when we drove through Italy en-route to somewhere else – it might have been Venice or a ski resort, but we stopped at a hotel just off the motorway.

The place was clearly empty as there were no other cars in the vast underground car park and we were the only family eating in the restaurant.

The next morning I paid the bill, loaded cases and the family into the car and without thinking, slammed it into reverse and went straight into a car parked directly behind me. I don’t know why I didn’t spot it because I’d actually opened the Honda’s boot to load the cases in but I suspect it was because the car park was deserted. Anyway, nobody was about and I couldn’t see any damage to the other car (a Saab) so I restarted the Honda and drove off slowly. I looked in the mirror and the Saab was still behind me. I drove on a bit further (still in the car park) and the Saab was following me. I got out of the car and had a closer look and my tow bar had gone under the Saab’s front suspension and was stuck.

Now to cut a very long story short, I tried everything to free the cars. I got the whole family to stand on the Honda’s back bumper but that didn’t work. I tried to jack up the front of the Saab but that didn’t work – nothing worked.

Eventually, the owner of the Saab, an Italian guy with a long trench coat and dark glasses (in an underground car park !) appeared. I explained the situation to him and suggested various things which I thought would work, one of which was for my family to stand inside his boot, thereby raising the front of his car and hopefully releasing it. ‘You will not go near my trunk’, he said. ‘But it makes sense’, J suggested. ‘You will not go near my boot’, he repeated, without taking his glasses off.

It was then that I lost it a bit and said, ‘why the **** when there’s two hundred spaces in this hotel car park, you park directly behind me?’ He came very close to my face and said in remarkably good English ”don’t even go there – leave it – just get the cars separated.”

In the end with a combination of jacks from a nearby garage and half the family jumping up and down on his rear bumper and the other half jumping up and down on mine, we finally separated the cars. His front grill was by now a bit mashed up and I offered to exchange details. He gave me one last evil look and said, ‘no need – I’m late for a meeting.’

As J and I drove off, about two hours later than we anticipated, we speculated about what might have been in his boot. Was it a body? Was it bits of a body? Was it a chainsaw covered in blood? Was it a stash of guns?

And that’s why I don’t argue with Italian men, especially when they’re wearing dark glasses on a cloudy day.

And The Main Course Is ........

When I awoke on Saturday morning, I knew what the day held for me. A bit of gardening, try and get the blasted debroussaieusse (or whatever it’s called) working, then do some more work on a gate at Tan and Angie’s to stop the kids having access to the pool and then get things ready for that night’s dinner party which we were hosting. All worked out – all set to go, but then as I went through to the kitchen to get my breakfast there was a bloodbath on the floor in a corner of the lounge with the tell-tale sign of a long, rubbery tail indicating what had been massacred – a large rat!

Now J and I have specific duties when it comes to cleaning up unsavoury things – I can’t stand nappies, she can’t stand cleaning up dead rats but as we don’t have any nappy wearing kids and have about six dead rats a week, I reckon I’m the loser.

‘I can’t clean that up’, she wailed and so prior to breakfast I had the unenviable task of clearing up a pile of congealed blood and guts which doesn’t half stick to ceramic floor tiles. I almost had to get down on my hands and knees and scrub it off but I persevered and soon the floor was back to normal. The day progressed and all was well.

The dinner party guests arrived and we had a nice time eating outside, that is until Shadow decided to empty the contents of his stomach all over the terrace floor. I don’t think anybody noticed except me but the ‘pile’ was right in front of the lounge patio doors which some people use as a shortcut when going to the loo. I had visions of one of the two immaculately dressed ladies slipping on Shadow’s gunge and sliding halfway along the terrace but luckily nobody did. In fact, I don’t think anybody noticed it. If they did, nothing was said.

Dinner continued and then the cats started going berserk. I followed Coco into the lounge and there, still warm but quite dead was another large rat with the dissection just having started. Both cats were on their haunches just waiting for me to go and leave them to it but I picked up the body by the tail and then wondered what to do with it. Put it in the kitchen bin? No – I’d forget about it and then all hell would break loose if J discovered it later. Put it down the waste disposal? No – that didn’t bear thinking about. I decided to hold it behind my back, go past the dinner table and throw it over the fence into the rough area of next door’s garden.

Unfortunately, my throw was rather too good (must have something to do with the elasticity of a dead rat’s tail) and the body sailed off into the distance, way beyond where I had hoped it would fall.  Then all hell broke loose next door. The holidaymakers have some sort of terrier and it must have been wandering around when this still-warm dead rat appeared from nowhere. It went ballistic – barking furiously for at least thirty minutes totally disrupting our dinner conversation.

Dinner finished and our guests left about midnight. I went into the lounge to switch off the lights and there in the corner was – yup – blood and guts all over the floor. Coco and Bijou had been at it again and I think I know the reason for their desire to kill every moving thing they find outside. The last time J and I went grocery shopping, they didn’t have the cat’s favourite food and we had to buy the cheap own-brand stuff which they can’t stand. I reckon all these dead rats are a protest.