View allAll Photos Tagged ,Retching
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
From the castle it was all down hill. Down the old main road into the city, the old Great North Road, which is now Pedestrian only, but cobbled, and showing how even the main roads were so very narrow.
As we walked down, the various bridges over the river tower above us, and the city huddles under their arches.
My only thought was how tough it was going to be walking back up!
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Friday 18th July 2014
My sister Hattie managed to buy the series 3 Zelfs playset that comes with the bee Zelf, "Beetrice". She loves bees so she had to get this one first.
Unfortunately, the "honey scent" of this figure smells VILE. Like, retch-inducing. I have tried to get rid of the smell by coating the figure (plastic parts only, not the hair) in human hair conditioner and leaving it to soak overnight. It hasn't made much of a difference though.
I'm quite disappointed in Moose for releasing such an awful-swelling toy, to be honest. I adore Zelfs, and want to support the line as much as I can, but I can't handle that horrible "scent". I like the look of the other 6 scented Zelfs, but now I am hesitant to buy them in case they reek, too.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
From the castle it was all down hill. Down the old main road into the city, the old Great North Road, which is now Pedestrian only, but cobbled, and showing how even the main roads were so very narrow.
As we walked down, the various bridges over the river tower above us, and the city huddles under their arches.
My only thought was how tough it was going to be walking back up!
Skarr the Barbarian - Vampires
Yolande Fireheart walked in the light undergrowth of the woods just outside the Imperial city, her black wool cape and hood trailing behind her. She normally loved the smell of the early morning dew, and the sounds of the waking animals and birds. Reminded her of home in the Northlands, where her father would already be awakened hours before and working at his blades at the Fireheart Forge. She was supposedly looking for fresh mineral deposits, for her own forge, right here in the city, but her mind was elsewhere. Ever since she had met the Countess….
Not that Yolande was swung that way, but when she had first met the Countess of Richtenburg for the sale of a hundred swords for La Comtessa’s men, she had been struck with the woman. Countess Gabriella of Richtenburg was almost hypnotic and sensual, and tickled Yolande’s nerves beyond what the young Norther woman had thought possible. And, in their subsequent meetings, when Gabriella had admitted to being a vampire, a fiend, the very demon her father had warned her against, she still could not take the courage to shout for the watch. The way the Countess explained the advantages of undeath, Yolande longed for blood kiss, the caress that would turn her vampire . The feeling did not fade when she was alone, the petty squabbles of city life, jealousies and rivalries, all Yolande saw or felt were those delicious fangs sinking into her flesh…
…and so, she had come to look for mineral deposits. Normally, the job of kneeling in the earth and tearing her fingernails on the rocks till they bled reminded her of her own mortality, and of home. But not today. She thought only of Gabriella.
And so it became fitting when the small, raven haired Countess silently appeared behind her.
“Where…where did you….”, spluttered Yolande Fireheart, reaching for her blade, with which to attack the vampire.
Gabriella ignored the blade, and walked closer to Yolande,
“Shhhh now, sweetness, it’ all going to be fine”, she murmured.
Yolande stood there, in the morning air, shaking as Gabriella approached her, clad in the “Gabby the fisher girl” disguise she had been affecting recently. Gabriella stroked Yolande’s hair gently, cradling the blonde Norther’s head in her arms. Instinctively, Yolande tilted her head on one side and bared her neck for the vampire,
“Shhhh”, reassured Gabriella, “it won’t hurt. It’ll all be over soon, my darling.”
Yolande closed her eyes as Gabriella’s long fangs emerged from her mouth. Gripping Yolande’s head in her emerging claws, she bit deep into the jugular vein in Yolande’s neck, sinking her sharp fangs in. Gabriella held the Norther woman in her strong grasp as her body spasmed and instinctively tried to get away. Then, as Gabriella drunk deep of the delicious rich blood, she felt Yolande’s body relax into warm ecstasy.
Yolande’s vision became hazy. She remembered parts, not all. She remembered her vision fading in the harsh heat of the suddenly burning sun. How did Gabriella stand to be outside in such heat? The morning sun made her skin feel like it was almost on fire. She remembered the revolting smells coming from the sellers of cooked meats in the market, horrible retching smells of dead flesh.
And the delicious throb of the veins on their necks as the rich blood pumped in their warm bodies…
Yolande woke with a start. It was darkness outside, the middle of the night. Had the meeting with Gabriella all been a dream???
- Vanilla and orange peel handcream
- Sweet Orange, cedarwood and sage handwash
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Thursday, 11 September 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 22: 1989-1990
When I returned to school for my senior year, I moved out of the sorority house and into an apartment with friends. Technically, I was a 4th year junior. I would not have enough credits to graduate on time the following June, but would finish up in December, instead. Jared (a 5th year senior) and I picked up where we left off.
We started jokingly discussing marriage, and then gradually the jokes became less joking. We never discussed it with any specificity, but we hinted at it unceasingly. When Valentine's Day came, and he proposed, it was not really much of a surprise. It was, however, comically timed. I'd had a bad case of the stomach flu, and when he returned to his room with ring in hand, asking me to marry him, I was on my hands and knees, retching into his garbage pail. I suppose we should have packed it in right there, but sometimes when the universe gives you a sign, you just keep hurtling right past it.
Word spread, and Jared's fraternity brothers, who weren't cruel enough to toss him into the lake in the middle of February, tossed him into a cold shower instead. My sorority held a candle passing ceremony. We sang the sorority sweetheart song while a candle was passed from sister to sister. The sister who had the big secret announcement was to blow out the candle when it came to her. Once around the circle meant you were going steady with some guy (nobody ever held a candle passing ceremony for something so inane), twice around the circle meant you had been pinned (wearing a guy's fraternity pin was akin to pre-engagement), and three times meant you were engaged. In the four years I was there, the candle had never gone around the circle three times. This time, when the candle began its third trip around, an audible gasp went through the room, and people who had been crowded into the foyer jostled to get into the room for a better look. I felt like an idiot for taking part in the silly ceremony, but I was giddy. My hands were shaking, and as I blew out the candle, the room erupted into such screaming and carrying on that you would have thought they'd all won the lottery.
My best friend, Mark, was supportive but skeptical. He asked if I was really sure this was what I wanted. I said I was, and he looked at me for awhile, then smiled and gave me a hug. He would be there for me no matter what, and I was grateful for his concern and friendship.
In June, almost a year to the day before Jared and I were to be married, most of my friends - the people who had come in with me as freshmen - graduated and moved away. I continued taking classes throughout the summer and into the fall, studiously procrastinating on anything wedding-related.
Who am I?
I am not comfortable with rituals and ceremonies.
There are rituals that deserve to be laughed at. Sorority candle passing, and the screaming which ensues, is one such ritual. But, I'm uncomfortable with all manner of rituals. I can't help it. While I appreciate their meaning, and their place in our lives, I just find a comical arbitrariness in a room full of people all doing and saying the same thing. It's funny to me. This is OK at sorority ritual. It's not as OK at a funeral. I wore a white blouse and a bright green scarf to my grandmother's funeral, because I wanted to celebrate my grandmother's life. I wanted to be happy thinking about her that day. Everyone else in the room walked around in a fog, dressed head to toe in respectable black. Sitting in the church, I wanted to push down the walls and burst out into the open air, where the sun was shining. I fidgeted and fretted as the crowd around me plodded through its motions. I did not begrudge them their ritual, but I did not particularly want to be a part of it, either. When the service was over, I went outside and stood in the breeze, smiling at the sun.
[ view previous | view next ]
Photo by Paul Sever.
From left to right: Donald Barclay, Paul Spillers, Gene Stone.
Gene Stone is a favorite from my fire days. A distance runner from Portland, Oregon who attended Boise State University on a full-ride track scholarship, Gene was quick thinking, athletic, confident, competent, and irresistible to women. That is to say, he was (and is) pretty much everything I never was. And never will be. Gene went on to work as an Alaska smokejumper for many years. He taught school in Alaska for years and, as of 2020, is a school administrator up there.
One time, when the crew was on a Bureau of Land Management brush fire near Emmett, Idaho, Gene and I were sent off with some BLM wanker who was supposed to lead us to a hot spot that needed knocking down. There turned out to be nothing to the hot spot, so eventually the BLM guy wandered off, leaving Gene and me alone and out of radio contact. The wind started to pick up, and soon the two of us had more fire than we could handle. We dug a quick scratch line and tried to burn out, but the main fire came right over our line. There wasn't so much fire that it was likely to kill us, but there was enough to make us not want to stand around and find out. We had the choice of 1) deploying our fire shelters, 2) trying to dash through the oncoming fire into the black, or 3) running for the ridge. The latter it was. Off we went. When you are running (possibly) for your life, there is little that is more discouraging than running with a gifted track athlete who happens to be in top condition. I was in decent shape, but Gene left me so far in the dust that I felt like I was barely moving, that the fire must be burning the covers off my canteens. When I finally caught up with Gene at the top of the ridge, the son of a bitch wasn't even breathing hard. I looked back to see that I had left the fire far below me.
About the time I was done panting and retching, the BLM wanker came moseying up. Then the helicopter with the fire boss on board flew over. Over the wanker's radio we could hear the fire boss saying, "We could put this thing out if we can get those hotshots to keep their hands off their fusees and quit leaning on their shovels." When the helicopter came closer, Gene gave the fire boss the finger. Later on, the fire boss told our foreman about Gene's love gesture. Neither boss was any too happy with Gene. We always referred to that fire as the "Stonefinger Incident."
At the time of the Stonefinger Incident, my sister was taking an entomology course at Boise State. She had learned that there was some question about whether walking sticks (a type of insect) were found in Idaho. I told her that I thought they were, as I was sure I'd seen them on fires in Idaho. Towards the end of the Stonefinger Fire, I was sitting on the ground, waiting for a ride back to fire camp, when I felt something crawling on my hand. Sure enough, it was a walking stick. I collected it in a plastic bag and gave it to my sister when I got back home. She gave it to her professor, who was impressed enough that he later lead an expedition to the hills north of Emmett to find more genuine Idaho walking sticks.
Paul Spillers was our squad boss in 1981. Originally from Kansas, Paul had fought fire in Arizona for several years before coming to the Boise Hotshots. Paul was smart, hardworking, and woods wise. I always enjoyed being on his squad. Paul eventually got a geology degree from Boise State University and was working as a geologist in Boise the last time I saw him.
There I am in all my Nomex glory. Nomex is the fire-resistant material used to make the yellow shirts and green pants you see in these photos. The shirts Paul and I wear are typically filthy. The dark black marks on our shoulders are from the straps of the web gear we wore on the fire line. Gene's shirt is suspiciously clean. He must have traded in his dirty shirt for a clean one at the fire-camp supply tent. We always wore bandanas because they offered some protection from smoke and dust. Plus they are great for robbing stagecoaches. In Southern California they discourage firefighters from wearing red or blue bandanas because of the gang associations. They use a lot of prison crews in Southern California, so I guess it could be a problem. I never worried about it the few times I fought fire in that part of the world.
You might notice that Gene, Paul, and I have label-maker labels on the front of our hard hats; these labels give our names, weights (for figuring helicopter loads), and the name of our crew. The intense heat of fires regularly melts the labels off hard hats. We wore fiberglass hard hats because plastic hard hats melt and metal hard hats get too hot. At times we worked in extremely intense heat. I've had the water in my canteens become too hot to drink. Some guys claimed that their canteen water actually boiled, though I can't swear to that personally.
The Boise Hotshots wore green hard hats, while our sister crew, the Sawtooth, wore blue. Back in the days when the Boise still wore metal hard hats, the crew was known as "The Pickles," a nickname suggested by both the color and pickle-slice ridge of their hard hats. The Sawtooth Hotshots held on to their metal hard hats for years after everyone else had gone to fiberglass. I guess they liked the retro look. You can usually spot a hotshot crew on a fire because everyone on the crew wears the same color hard hat. No mix and match like regular crews.
The Sawtooth Hotshot Crew was known as both "the Saw Dogs" and the "Saw Chucks." Their foreman was more of a disciplinarian than ours, and so the Sawtooth was always more of a military style crew than the Boise. For example, when traveling home from a fire bust the Boise Hotshots wore whatever clothes they wanted, while the Sawtooth Hotshots had to wear their crew t-shirts and caps. The Sawtooth were good at marching, and they sang a lot. The Boise Hotshots did a lot of bad things, but we never sang.
Unused.
A soldier's gasmask is adjusted by his officer, ensuring it's correct fit when it's needed. Their black shoulder straps and Swedish cuffs lead me to believe these fellows might be Pioniere.
Wikipedia
Death by gas was often slow and painful. According to Denis Winter (Death's Men, 1978), a fatal dose of phosgene eventually led to "shallow breathing and retching, pulse up to 120, an ashen face and the discharge of four pints (2 litres) of yellow liquid from the lungs each hour for the 48 of the drowning spasms."
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
As Ginny and I were walking into McDonald's today, I was thinking about how little tolerance I have for anything annoying, when I'm with her. I'm already at a heightened state of annoyance. One more thing will just send me over the edge. Somebody cuts me off in traffic? I want to shout, "You moron! Can't you see I'm dealing with my mother?!?"
That's the mood I was in when a man dropped his Coke on the floor right behind us, splattering Ginny's clean pants and shoes. Now, here's what I wish I had done. I wish I had given him a sympathetic smile and said, "That's OK. Accidents happen." Because if I had, the rest of my day would have gone better.
But I didn't. I shot him a Look of Death and made a big deal out of cleaning her up. Then she couldn't get her shoe back on, and wanted to hop on one foot over the slippery floor to be able to sit down. "NO," I said loudly, "Just put your WET shoe back on."
The man was so embarrassed he ran out of the restaurant, almost colliding with the skinny clean-up kid and his mop.
After lunch, we drove across town to go shoe-shopping. When we reached the store and Ginny got out of the car, a look of horror crossed her face.
"Oh no!" she wailed. "I'm pooping!!"
Was she ever. It was as if she hadn't pooped in a couple of weeks, and that chicken sandwich just shoved everything out of the way.
I covered the car seat with a paper bag and took her to my house, driving with all the windows down. Got her into the bathroom where she exploded. I started to retch which made it all worse. Eventually, when things calmed down, I helped her into the bathtub. Since I'd already showered her this morning, I thought I'd use this hand-held adaptor thing so that I could just wash her body and not get her hair wet. I hooked it up to the sink where it immediately backfired and flooded the countertop. That's when I began to say what was on my mind... and what was on my toilet, my rug and my floor.
"Shit." I said. "Shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit."
Poor Ginny. She was a hundred times more embarrassed than McDonald's Man. She finished cleaning herself up while I threw her clothes into a trash bag. Luckily I had just done the laundry and had another outfit. While she changed I disinfected the bathroom and my car.
Back to the shoe store. Then to the drugstore. Things were starting to get back on track, until I decided to stop and get a soda. I left her in the car with the engine off but the keys in the ignition, the radio on and the windows down.
How long does it take to get a soda - 5 minutes? As I'm coming out of 7-11, I see her ten feet away from my car, sliding down a hill, about to fall into a busy street. I call out her name, she doesn't respond. She's heading for a patch of flowers and nothing is going to stop her. I run, I catch her, and I give her hell. I scold her like she's a three-year-old. That just makes her mad, and we get into a terrible fight. At one point, I consider stopping the car, making her get out, and driving off without her. But of course she has her "Safe Return" bracelet with my name on it. Not to mention there would be witnesses.
Suddenly I realize just how angry I am, and that actually calms me down. I tell her I'm sorry, and that I yelled at her because I was both angry and afraid. She doesn't really accept my apology and sulks all the way home. I drop her off, I hug her, I tell her I'm sorry again.
Then I drive home (21 miles, remember)... and realize I've left my purse at her place.
By the time I get back, she's had dinner and is in bed asleep. She wakes up, completely forgetting that we'd spent the day together. Completely forgetting the poop, the shoes, the fight. She gives me a sweet smile and a hug and tells me she loves me.
Start again, clean slate.
It is with a still broken heart that I say this... around 4am on the 31st of July I unfortunately had to put my sweet blue boy Kosmo to sleep. The hardest thing I have ever had to do... he was only 2.5 yrs old. Way too young.
Around 2 am that morning he started to bloat. Not sure how many are familiar but what happens is the stomach fills with gas and fluid and then distends. It rotates, called torsion, twisting the stomach and pinching off the esophagus and upper intestine and trapping air, food, water etc. ... once that happens, their stomach lining starts to become necrotic and they don't have long to live. It's a horrible disease that can strike at any time with no warning at all.
I fed him late, usually 8 pm is his last meal, but that night... for whatever reason I fed him around 12-ish. About an hour later he started throwing white foamy mucus, his food and bile four or five times about every 5-10 minutes. Bloat is a reality with this breed so owners are always aware but he had done this before and I passed it off to an upset stomach or something he had eaten. It quickly escalated after that to unproductive vomiting, retching, restlessness and shallow breathing... my heart sank and I rushed him to the e-vet and the x-ray confirmed my worst fear.
Had an option of spending $6000 on surgery to save him but they give him a generous 25% chance of survival. I couldn't put him through it with such low odds... wouldn't have been fair. No matter how many times you go through it, saying goodbye is never easy. Comforting a family member as they take their last breath is something I wouldn't wish on anybody.
I had Boots in the room with him during his final moments and after he passed, they put his body on a gurney to wheel him out. She blocked the door, growling and mournfully wailing, refusing to let them take her best friend away.
Life is not fair.
Skarr the Barbarian - Vampires
Yolande Fireheart walked in the light undergrowth of the woods just outside the Imperial city, her black wool cape and hood trailing behind her. She normally loved the smell of the early morning dew, and the sounds of the waking animals and birds. Reminded her of home in the Northlands, where her father would already be awakened hours before and working at his blades at the Fireheart Forge. She was supposedly looking for fresh mineral deposits, for her own forge, right here in the city, but her mind was elsewhere. Ever since she had met the Countess….
Not that Yolande was swung that way, but when she had first met the Countess of Richtenburg for the sale of a hundred swords for La Comtessa’s men, she had been struck with the woman. Countess Gabriella of Richtenburg was almost hypnotic and sensual, and tickled Yolande’s nerves beyond what the young Norther woman had thought possible. And, in their subsequent meetings, when Gabriella had admitted to being a vampire, a fiend, the very demon her father had warned her against, she still could not take the courage to shout for the watch. The way the Countess explained the advantages of undeath, Yolande longed for blood kiss, the caress that would turn her vampire . The feeling did not fade when she was alone, the petty squabbles of city life, jealousies and rivalries, all Yolande saw or felt were those delicious fangs sinking into her flesh…
…and so, she had come to look for mineral deposits. Normally, the job of kneeling in the earth and tearing her fingernails on the rocks till they bled reminded her of her own mortality, and of home. But not today. She thought only of Gabriella.
And so it became fitting when the small, raven haired Countess silently appeared behind her.
“Where…where did you….”, spluttered Yolande Fireheart, reaching for her blade, with which to attack the vampire.
Gabriella ignored the blade, and walked closer to Yolande,
“Shhhh now, sweetness, it’ all going to be fine”, she murmured.
Yolande stood there, in the morning air, shaking as Gabriella approached her, clad in the “Gabby the fisher girl” disguise she had been affecting recently. Gabriella stroked Yolande’s hair gently, cradling the blonde Norther’s head in her arms. Instinctively, Yolande tilted her head on one side and bared her neck for the vampire,
“Shhhh”, reassured Gabriella, “it won’t hurt. It’ll all be over soon, my darling.”
Yolande closed her eyes as Gabriella’s long fangs emerged from her mouth. Gripping Yolande’s head in her emerging claws, she bit deep into the jugular vein in Yolande’s neck, sinking her sharp fangs in. Gabriella held the Norther woman in her strong grasp as her body spasmed and instinctively tried to get away. Then, as Gabriella drunk deep of the delicious rich blood, she felt Yolande’s body relax into warm ecstasy.
Yolande’s vision became hazy. She remembered parts, not all. She remembered her vision fading in the harsh heat of the suddenly burning sun. How did Gabriella stand to be outside in such heat? The morning sun made her skin feel like it was almost on fire. She remembered the revolting smells coming from the sellers of cooked meats in the market, horrible retching smells of dead flesh.
And the delicious throb of the veins on their necks as the rich blood pumped in their warm bodies…
Yolande woke with a start. It was darkness outside, the middle of the night. Had the meeting with Gabriella all been a dream???
So there it was over, thirteen years. And the short trek down the beach, the hobo and the stink of the absences of booze that only a particularly fetid individual can give off not like a real tramp and the sterile sweetness that only cheep alcohol can supply, he had been following him a while not that he minded it he supposed that some people would be intimidated but he just welcomed it, fuckit he said there is not much I have to lose.
Shadows he thought back then though why bother? So what was he doing here? If he was honest? Did he feel at home like he told everyone no home was up in the spires and the monkeys on the ground adding to the grist it's not like the air was better here, the stinking of the rot of a hundred thousand years.
He stopped to take a piss his knob shrunk to the size of a maggot, just managed to petrude from his flies, a shot trickle of urine splashed to the stones and across his feet then stopped abruptly, not managing to feel like any sort of relief he trudged on hunching deeper into his slim jacket.
By the time he reached the point, the hobo’s mumbling could be heard the tramp was closing in on him. Fuckit he thought and hunched down behind a groin to cut off most of the wind.
Of course the hobo hunched down next to him,
Least this demon has the balls to face me he thought, he pulled the vodka out of his pocket and took a pull, so I’m just a blind fool what’s your problem? proffering the bottle expecting a vampiric grasp at the bottle but getting nothing more than a sneer and a child like battering of the bottle he consoled himself with an other deep pull causing him to gag and splutter leading to a cough and the evacuation of his guts, retching he turned over to brace himself against the cold wet wood of the groin sucking, trying for air until he was too winded to puke and curled up.
You know this one right? He managed to spit through the stream of saliva emanating from his lips
“No never drunk never will” the hobo spat.
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
Grey Wethers
In the ice-gouged grazing place
A water trough, glazed with ice,
Stands among the sarsens thrust
From soil embalmed in frost:
Wethers of gaunt stone, their backs
Hunched against the wind. A bleak
Sun scours a humped horizon,
The clover stalks frozen
And brittle underfoot. Crows
Retch syllables, the stone rows
Echoing: a plainchant mass:
Altar girt by rimed grass.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2012. The pictures show sarsen stones on Ashdown Estate, Lambourne Downs.
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
Skarr the Barbarian - Vampires
Yolande Fireheart walked in the light undergrowth of the woods just outside the Imperial city, her black wool cape and hood trailing behind her. She normally loved the smell of the early morning dew, and the sounds of the waking animals and birds. Reminded her of home in the Northlands, where her father would already be awakened hours before and working at his blades at the Fireheart Forge. She was supposedly looking for fresh mineral deposits, for her own forge, right here in the city, but her mind was elsewhere. Ever since she had met the Countess….
Not that Yolande was swung that way, but when she had first met the Countess of Richtenburg for the sale of a hundred swords for La Comtessa’s men, she had been struck with the woman. Countess Gabriella of Richtenburg was almost hypnotic and sensual, and tickled Yolande’s nerves beyond what the young Norther woman had thought possible. And, in their subsequent meetings, when Gabriella had admitted to being a vampire, a fiend, the very demon her father had warned her against, she still could not take the courage to shout for the watch. The way the Countess explained the advantages of undeath, Yolande longed for blood kiss, the caress that would turn her vampire . The feeling did not fade when she was alone, the petty squabbles of city life, jealousies and rivalries, all Yolande saw or felt were those delicious fangs sinking into her flesh…
…and so, she had come to look for mineral deposits. Normally, the job of kneeling in the earth and tearing her fingernails on the rocks till they bled reminded her of her own mortality, and of home. But not today. She thought only of Gabriella.
And so it became fitting when the small, raven haired Countess silently appeared behind her.
“Where…where did you….”, spluttered Yolande Fireheart, reaching for her blade, with which to attack the vampire.
Gabriella ignored the blade, and walked closer to Yolande,
“Shhhh now, sweetness, it’ all going to be fine”, she murmured.
Yolande stood there, in the morning air, shaking as Gabriella approached her, clad in the “Gabby the fisher girl” disguise she had been affecting recently. Gabriella stroked Yolande’s hair gently, cradling the blonde Norther’s head in her arms. Instinctively, Yolande tilted her head on one side and bared her neck for the vampire,
“Shhhh”, reassured Gabriella, “it won’t hurt. It’ll all be over soon, my darling.”
Yolande closed her eyes as Gabriella’s long fangs emerged from her mouth. Gripping Yolande’s head in her emerging claws, she bit deep into the jugular vein in Yolande’s neck, sinking her sharp fangs in. Gabriella held the Norther woman in her strong grasp as her body spasmed and instinctively tried to get away. Then, as Gabriella drunk deep of the delicious rich blood, she felt Yolande’s body relax into warm ecstasy.
Yolande’s vision became hazy. She remembered parts, not all. She remembered her vision fading in the harsh heat of the suddenly burning sun. How did Gabriella stand to be outside in such heat? The morning sun made her skin feel like it was almost on fire. She remembered the revolting smells coming from the sellers of cooked meats in the market, horrible retching smells of dead flesh.
And the delicious throb of the veins on their necks as the rich blood pumped in their warm bodies…
Yolande woke with a start. It was darkness outside, the middle of the night. Had the meeting with Gabriella all been a dream???
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
From the castle it was all down hill. Down the old main road into the city, the old Great North Road, which is now Pedestrian only, but cobbled, and showing how even the main roads were so very narrow.
As we walked down, the various bridges over the river tower above us, and the city huddles under their arches.
My only thought was how tough it was going to be walking back up!
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
From the castle it was all down hill. Down the old main road into the city, the old Great North Road, which is now Pedestrian only, but cobbled, and showing how even the main roads were so very narrow.
As we walked down, the various bridges over the river tower above us, and the city huddles under their arches.
My only thought was how tough it was going to be walking back up!
Skarr the Barbarian - Vampires
Yolande Fireheart walked in the light undergrowth of the woods just outside the Imperial city, her black wool cape and hood trailing behind her. She normally loved the smell of the early morning dew, and the sounds of the waking animals and birds. Reminded her of home in the Northlands, where her father would already be awakened hours before and working at his blades at the Fireheart Forge. She was supposedly looking for fresh mineral deposits, for her own forge, right here in the city, but her mind was elsewhere. Ever since she had met the Countess….
Not that Yolande was swung that way, but when she had first met the Countess of Richtenburg for the sale of a hundred swords for La Comtessa’s men, she had been struck with the woman. Countess Gabriella of Richtenburg was almost hypnotic and sensual, and tickled Yolande’s nerves beyond what the young Norther woman had thought possible. And, in their subsequent meetings, when Gabriella had admitted to being a vampire, a fiend, the very demon her father had warned her against, she still could not take the courage to shout for the watch. The way the Countess explained the advantages of undeath, Yolande longed for blood kiss, the caress that would turn her vampire . The feeling did not fade when she was alone, the petty squabbles of city life, jealousies and rivalries, all Yolande saw or felt were those delicious fangs sinking into her flesh…
…and so, she had come to look for mineral deposits. Normally, the job of kneeling in the earth and tearing her fingernails on the rocks till they bled reminded her of her own mortality, and of home. But not today. She thought only of Gabriella.
And so it became fitting when the small, raven haired Countess silently appeared behind her.
“Where…where did you….”, spluttered Yolande Fireheart, reaching for her blade, with which to attack the vampire.
Gabriella ignored the blade, and walked closer to Yolande,
“Shhhh now, sweetness, it’ all going to be fine”, she murmured.
Yolande stood there, in the morning air, shaking as Gabriella approached her, clad in the “Gabby the fisher girl” disguise she had been affecting recently. Gabriella stroked Yolande’s hair gently, cradling the blonde Norther’s head in her arms. Instinctively, Yolande tilted her head on one side and bared her neck for the vampire,
“Shhhh”, reassured Gabriella, “it won’t hurt. It’ll all be over soon, my darling.”
Yolande closed her eyes as Gabriella’s long fangs emerged from her mouth. Gripping Yolande’s head in her emerging claws, she bit deep into the jugular vein in Yolande’s neck, sinking her sharp fangs in. Gabriella held the Norther woman in her strong grasp as her body spasmed and instinctively tried to get away. Then, as Gabriella drunk deep of the delicious rich blood, she felt Yolande’s body relax into warm ecstasy.
Yolande’s vision became hazy. She remembered parts, not all. She remembered her vision fading in the harsh heat of the suddenly burning sun. How did Gabriella stand to be outside in such heat? The morning sun made her skin feel like it was almost on fire. She remembered the revolting smells coming from the sellers of cooked meats in the market, horrible retching smells of dead flesh.
And the delicious throb of the veins on their necks as the rich blood pumped in their warm bodies…
Yolande woke with a start. It was darkness outside, the middle of the night. Had the meeting with Gabriella all been a dream???
Male: Black plumage, white outertail-tips, plain yellowish-white bill and casque, blackish facial skin. Male variant: Broad white/greyish supercilium. Female: Bill/casque
smaller and blackish, orbital skin and submoustachial patch
pinkish. Juvenile: Bill pale greenish-yellow (darker when very
young), casque undeveloped, facial skin dull yellowish with
orange around eye, white tail-tips flecked black. VOICE Distinctive loud harsh retching sounds and grating growls. HABITAT &
BEHAVIOUR Broadleaved evergreen forest; up to 215 m. Usually
found in pairs or small flocks, occasionally up to 30 or more.
RANGE Ra/lfc R S Thailand, Peninsular Malaysia.
Well this was just the uplifting sight I needed after yesterday's bad news, hmmmppphhh....
This is the kind of ' professional marksmanship ' I would expect from DEFRA's hired goon-killers, a nice clean kill huh. Don't worry though kiddies, he or she ( can't tell ) was already dead before it exploded ( by a vehicle presumably ), I saw the body still intact late last night. I've seen some horrible things but this is just about the worst, I nearly puked, I sat there in the car for 10 minutes not wanting to get out and look closer. I've no idea how it died, I'm gonna have nightmares about this now, especially the second picture where it looks like it's crawling towards me. I know people don't like me putting pictures like this on but this is the reality for tens of thousands of badgers every year and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
Pumphrey's was a temperance bar, anmed after it's founder. Needless to say, despite keeping the name, it is now a wine Bar.
Balmbras is where the song, Blaydon Races' was written, a song my Grandad learned whilst in the army, and taught me when I was a child. It is to be knocked down.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
This painting was created around 1881 by Joseph Hereto Retch of London from a watercolour drawing made about 1780 which was long in the possession of Mrs Daniel McKirdy, Millport, whose father, Charles Castello was the cutter's Steward and who died in Cumbrae 1804. The whereabouts of the original painting is not known.
The painting shows a ketch rigged sailing ship with her sails set. A Union Jack is flying from her bowsprit and an ensign from her rear. A long streamer is flying from the top of her main mast. The ship is towing behind it a small dinghy. An inscription in the top left hand corner reads The Royal George Cutter, (illegible), Commander.
The revenue cutter Royal George was the customs boat that served the Clyde from around 1780 to around 1820. It was based at Milepost on the island of Great Cumbrae. Its Commander was James Crawford and its Mate was Archibald Retch. The cutter was about 250 Tons, carried 16 guns and was manned by a crew of about 60 men, mostly natives of Cumbrae.
For more information on the Yesterd@ys project, please visit Our Website, or email us at NAHeritage@North-Ayrshire.gov.uk
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All archival images on this website have been made available by The North Ayrshire Council in good faith for reference and/or educational purposes only and without intent to breach any proprietary rights which may subsist in the work. Images may not be printed, copied, distributed, published or used for any commercial purposes without the prior written consent of the individual or body which holds such rights. Should any alleged breach of proprietary rights be brought to the attention of The North Ayrshire Council, relevant material will be removed from the website with immediate effect.
The North Ayrshire Council is not responsible for the content, reliability or availability of external websites and cannot be held liable for any loss or damage to the user, of whatever kind, arising either directly or indirectly from use of same. Listing should not be taken as an endorsement of any kind and in particular, of views expressed within any such site.
After retching at those hands, I was pleasantly surprised at her cute feet! There's no lack of detail here. Though the nails are just as well-carved on the hands, they don't look out of place here.
While I do feel the Doll Leaves body makes a few beauty sacrifices for posing ability, it's not all or nothing. The sculptor definitely had artistic intention. Care was taken to make her distinctly feminine, and I particularly appreciate this in the shaping of her arms and legs. The choice of bust size is nice, especially since it's more of a choice of shape.
Thanks for looking! :)
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
Pumphrey's was a temperance bar, anmed after it's founder. Needless to say, despite keeping the name, it is now a wine Bar.
Balmbras is where the song, Blaydon Races' was written, a song my Grandad learned whilst in the army, and taught me when I was a child. It is to be knocked down.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
--
It went straight through him.
His body responding with an
animalistic loss of control.
He could see and feel the reactions,
powerless to stop the scene.
A crowd was gathering now,
small at first, but growing with the steady
assurance of a spectacle.
He saw this and willed them away.
Unable to communicate,
they stayed, waited, watched.
Some brave souls lurched forth to help him
before turning, heads down and walking
back to the waiting audience.
There was no hope for him now.
The spasms and contusions had
reached a fever pitch, his unearthly
screams sending shivers through those watching.
After one particularly hoarse yell, there was silence
He lay on the ground, retching, turning,
but the noise had gone out. Gradually
the spasms slowed, and the spectacle
was reduced to little more than a quivering wreck.
The crowd dispersed,
gossiping in astonished whispers
that grew louder with each step away.
He lay there. Unable to move,
unable to escape.
As morning's disc rose,
He found new strength,
Moved off the street and into the alley.
It would all happen again,
He knew it, but for now
He had to leave this place,
Another on a long list.
"Detached Retina or the best photograph you have ever seen!"
Photography has afforded me the opportunity to travel to some of the most sought-after destinations in the world. Green Cay, Wakodahatchee Wetlands, and even the aromatic solid waste authority in West Palm Beach where I am always sure to find a weeks supply of sundries.
I was feeling adventurous last weekend and decided on Green Cay. Men & women, amateurs, surrounded me! They were there with $10,000 400mm 2.8 Canon lenses. You know those white lenses which look as if a bird had a bout of the squirty dumplings and unleashed its bowels all over their retched equipment.
They were dumbfounded by my advanced homemade optics. They were whispering and some appeared to be laughing! I WILL HAVE THE LAST LAUGH! I will make sure that I charge each and every last one of you $10,000 per shutterclick of the purple gallinule that all of you were shooting! Spraying the beast with your pathetic rapid fire equipment. Last time I shot that many frames was in the brothel after this attractive {ERASE...BACKSPACE} war when I shoved my camera deep into a man's mouth and shot his tonsils as he lay helpless begging for his life! I estimate that in the 2 minutes I observed the half dozen individuals shooting this bird there were approximately 7,000 frames shot. Unfortunately they only had 7 photos that were usable after their miserable attempt!
I on the other hand was there with my latest creation. Five paper towel holders bonded together with used chewing gum and some high quality glass from several pairs of +6 reading glasses I purchased from the little general 30 some-odd years earlier.
Towards the end of my adventure at Green Cay I ran into a man... or perhaps he ran into me? He was moving at a very rapid pace as I was trying to track the movement of the rare ibis as it slowly walked inches from me along the hand railing. Was this deja vu? Was this the Prince of Monaco who grabbed me by the testes several years ago?
"Excuse me - Sir! It is I - Rusty Shackleford! You still owe me $20,000 from our last interaction. You also rendered me impotent and sterile from your man-handling of my privates and I am no longer able to donate my love liquid to the local bank. You have done a great disservice to the community by not allowing my good looks to flourish in a world void of any real beauty outside of my ultra-masculine physique!
The man said his name is Irving Gould and he explained he didn't purposely run into me... He said he has a detached retina and the guard rails provide him a safe environment to exercise without worrying about falling into the water and becoming food for the local alligators. This gentleman, in his 90s, is so industrious that he even drove himself to Green Cay! He said if he squints his eyes to the point where they are almost closed he has vision that ray Charles would be jealous of.
He said he enjoys going to Joseph's market, squinting, and then unabashedly running into younger woman in their 80s and gropes them and then gives them his detached retina story in hopes of garnering support for sympathy love making. This man would be my idol if I were not the most amazing photographer in the world.
This photo is my recreation of what it looks like to have a detached retina as told by Irvin Gould. Some would argue this looks like one of my typical masterpieces'. I beg to differ sir! This is much too clear...