Further to the tweet about The Trip To Jerusalem, a memory from years ago.
I'd been dumped, and the heartbreaker got on her train and out of my life. Forlorn, I did what any choked-up young man would do. I went to the pub. The Trip, of course.
250 million years before that, it rained hard in the Variscan mountains, a vast range that formed the Triassic uplands. The storm dislodged a bit of rock from the peaks, and rather than run down towards the PaleoTythus ocean, washed North into the river system (not actual photo)
Into the Trip, which was thankfully quiet, dipping my head under the low beams. I ordered a pint, possibly Kimberley Dark, possible a cider, and went to find a seat that where I could be lonesome and morose.
The rock made its way gradually North, into the land that is now the British Isles, each fresh deluge sending it a little further along. Around it, the Permian extinction, ending 95% of life. It inched along, as the dinosaurs rose up and ruled. A much larger rock ended all that.
I found the ideal place: upstairs in one of the small rooms. Here I could be alone and reflect on a lost love. I sparked up an Embassy - this was a while ago- and smoked it hoping I looked like a melancholy French writer.
Soon, the rock, now greatly eroded, settled into a giant Oxbow lake, and sank, being crushed under extreme pressure. Deeper it went, as mammals scampered around and started to take prominence, eventually finding two feet to walk on, leaving their arms free to swing a club.
I looked around the pub, the oldest in the world. Probably. The Haunted Galleon, which would strike dead anyone who dared clean it, hung ragged with cobweb and dust. I contemplated giving it a going over with Mr Sheen and testing this curse.
The rock pressed deeper down into the ground, as above it many metres of sediment accumulated. Over time, tectonic forces pushed it back up, and as hominids went from grunting brutes to sophisticated agrarians, it found itself elevated half way up inside a cliff face
Cigarette smoked, it was time to drown my considerable self-pitying sorrows, as thousands had done in this exact spot over the years over lost loves long dead.
The first light in quarter of a billion years struck the rock, as those hominids lit it with tallow candles as they burrowed into the rock. It found itself the ceiling of a cave. The hominids came, and they drank, and reverted to those grunting brutes from not so long ago.
I lifted my pint, and
The rock, after this brief life in the light after darkness, found that its neighbours, who it had been compressed against for so so long, were losing a battle against gravity. They fell, and the rock, after all these years, was once again free, and falling
a bastard pebble dropped from the bastard cave roof that this bastard bit of the pub was built into, and splashed into my pint, causing a tiny splash that nonetheless extinguished my half-smoked ciggie.
I looked at the pebble, now settled into my pint, and felt a sudden urge to cry at my utter misfortune. Instead I started giggling manically, and the day was instantly saved by this meeting with geology.
So vote for the Trip. Except I spent so long writing this thing it's most likely too late.
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Lord Byron died exactly 200 years ago today, after falling ill in Greece while gathering an army to fight the Ottoman Empire.
Raise your game, Simon Armitage.
There is plenty to be said about his death, and you will not struggle to find that.
I, however, want to talk about..
...something that happened long after he died, which proves that you can't keep a good heroic poet down, even if they've been dead for ages.
Let us look at one of the most bizarre stories in Byron's death, when a vicar decided to see how Byron was doing under his church.
The year is 1938. We are in Hucknall, north of Nottingham, where Byron's corpse lies in a crypt beneath Mary Magdalen Church, with ancient family members (and his daughter, the computer genius Ada Lovelace)
A while back I was contacted by the English Department at the University of Milan, who were studying Saturday Night, Sunday Morning and were planning a trip to Nottingham to see where it is set. Could I guide them? Yeah, Ok. I assumed I'd walk them to Canning Circus...
...and possibly Ilkeston Road.
They turn up, on a Sunday Morning exactly seven years ago today, 25 stylish Italian young people fascinated with the urban decay that is that part of Nottingham.
And they want to walk. Canning Circus won't cut it.
The book opens in the White Horse Pub down Ilkeston Road, as Arthur Seaton falls drunk down the stairs.
"We have to go there" they tell me, about a pub I've passed a thousand times without a glance
"Ok, fair enough".
Down Ilkeston Road we go, grimy from a Saturday Night
Tomorrow is the 45th Anniversary of the death of Richard Beckinsale, a hero of British comedy, and, to those who knew him (and I've met many) a kind, gentle, loving man.
He was also a poet with a scary sense of his own sudden death...
He grew up in Beeston and attended College House school, where a few years ago a blue plaque was unveiled. A bizarre day where a suburban East Midlands school had @davidwalliams , @michaelsheen , Kate Beckinsale and others appear for a glass of Schloer prior to the unveiling.
I was the only journo at the pre-unveiling reception, and mistook Michael Sheen for a waiter. We later talked about brogues (his were a bit pricier than mine).
Anyhow, was a lovely event, if not downright weirdly starry.
Before we get local, let's look at Wiltshire's most useless MP ( unless the metric is expense claims)
Darren Henry is toast. His one hope to buck the trend is local popularity on account of being able to detach from the government and show he'sa free thinker
Our MP, @DarrenG_Henry , is famously useless in doing anything.
Yet he is top of the charts on one measure: how much he claims in expenses! Last year he claimed a staggering £280,936, despite not having to form out huge amounts commuting from Scotland (usually such MPs...
...dominate the top spot.
So, what has Darren been spending our money on? He's apparently not much in his Stapleford office.
He doesn't do anything, apart from vote on whatever he is told, from dumping shit in rivers to exonerating Owen Patterson.
Broxtowe is only 100 miles from Westminster.
Wiltshire is only 100 miles from Nottingham. Can't be that then, unless he is claiming to move between the three.
You may have heard /seen the news. A few points to add
1. Carl Husted claimed the police 'accepted his reasonings for visiting me. This is a lie. The police gave him a harrassment warning that if he approached me again, he would be arrested.
2. Carl Husted claimed in text messages that he didn't work for @DarrenG_Henry He clearly does. This is another lie .
3. Carl Husted visited my house and in doing so breached Covid regulations. He was not wearing a mask. I have a clinically vulnerable person in my household As I have this on video, I will be asking @nottspolice to fine Carl Husted.