April 2004 Archives

I managed to let the London Marathon slip by with nary a word in passing; a couple of kind inquiries on, I realise that I should have announced more widely my last-minute decision to withdraw from the event on account of the problems I've been having with my right knee. It wasn't an easy decision, not least because a heck of a lot of pride was invested in getting there, running, and maybe even surviving to the finish line alongside my faithful running partner.

Fate's intentions differed, of course, which saw my GP and I agreeing that attempting the run with my leg in its current state might permanently screw things up in the longterm. Too proud to ignore that? Hmm, let me think. The rationalist within recognises that there's always next year, the one after that, and the one after that, and in a dozen different cities to boot. So why was it so hard to watch without feeling intensely sad whilst thrilled beyond words? Rhetorical of course; I understand at least something of human nature.

Travelling down to London to support my partner in masochism through to the finish was no hardship by any stretch; I was deeply moved by the sheer joviality of the event, not to mention its magnitude. The atmosphere was truly electric, and neither blustery showers nor chilling winds were enough to dampen the spirits of any spectator, and we were out in the tens of thousands. I felt immensely proud of him, and every other person who ran, or tried their best to run, the distance, whether for themselves or for their greater causes.

People you'd never expect to see running a marathon were, well, running a marathon, and it was an inspiring, uplifting thing to see. It made me feel stronger just cheering them on.

Congratulations to everybody - here's to your next, or first..!

The title is a mildly obscure homage to Peaches fans... let's fuck the pain away

Sometimes, when he stared hard at the horizon, he could see clear across to the other side. The dark shapes that smudged the even line of the ocean were mountains, or perhaps promontories, riding high and magnificent upon the vastness of the water. On cloudless days, when the sky seemed so blue, so clear, as to seem implausible but through the musters of artifice, the shapes on the far edge of the sea even took on colour; deep, verdant green; the kind that births notions of mammoth trees, tangled masses of man-sized roots, scrambling lianas decked crazily in blooms that only really exist in botanical gardens, or glossy magazines, picture-perfect; the works of a rampant biology.

When the skies were angry, these far-aways were something else entirely; bare, granitic cliffs exploding upward from feral waters, quartz and orthoclase glistening like charred metal, thrown into sudden relief by occasional flashes of lighting. All said, wet, unforgiving, cold, but as with all things subjective, brimming with their own brand of harsh beauty. When the weather was calmer, a powerful telescope could probably catch the climbing guy, typically clinging to the rock face with one arm whilst feeling for purchase with the other, pitons and carabiners dangling heavily from his belt clip. He sweats profusely with effort, is rather gratuitously only half-dressed, and doesn't seem to be having an easy time of it. Maybe that's why he comes back again and again - no challenge, no value - or maybe he comes back because it's just so damned beautiful.

When it was dark, he couldn't really make anything out for sure; the maps showed nothing more than open water in any case, but it didn't stop him imagining. Alone, in the night, limbs buried in the cool sand, he looked to the open horizon, heard only the wind in his ears, and saw everything.

The world is a wonderful place. I suppose that I often tell myself this, perhaps not consciously, but I feel it in a roundabout way when I gaze at the sky, listen to friends and co-workers animatedly engaged in conversation, when I walk down the street and see fathers hold their kids, legs a-waggling, high above their heads; smiles, good natured sighs, gurgles, chuckles, occasional laughter, levity.

And then there is the darkness.

As with all things metaphysical, the one is subtended by the other; black and white, fresh and stale, good and evil, and indeed, light and dark. It's all cliché, but what is cliché if not something that draws heavily upon common truths?

Almost everything has more than one dimension, but it seems to be in human nature to fixate upon the negative; we love the good bits, oh yes we do, but when the bad comes, it consumes everything, even when generally outweighed by the other, day to day. It doesn't make sense that we so readily dispense with peace and happiness, so pleasantly tolerated, for sorrow or melancholy, which all in all, takes far more to endure. Is it borne out of guilt? A need to feel suffering of some kind in a world that seems to hurt many times more than we do in our relatively privileged lives?

In the face of everything, some of us really have very little right to pity ourselves so indulgently; there are some fantastically strong and courageous people out there who just live. It is deeply humbling.

No, no, nothing supernatural, or for that matter, gay, especially insightful or even fascinating - we certainly don't aim for that here - but excitement... excitement is subjective, so for the fiends who emailed me about it, well...

Remember that cake? Yes? Me too, and now you can enjoy it in the pleasure of your own home provided you can interpret Klingon units of measurement. Oui, my dames and messrs, je te presente:

Ginormous Chocolate Demon Orange Cake, a creation of über harlot, Cathy Moore
NB: Contains neither a chocolate demon nor a demon orange.

8 oz. butter or margarine (yes, yes, wtf is an ounce?)
8 oz. sugar
6 eggs (chicken ideal, duck too rich, for quail, use 32)
~ 2 oz. cocoa powder (this comes from Theobroma cacao)
~ 5 oz. pulverised wheat (Triticum) endosperm (often sold as flour)
~ some baking powder - this is the only iffy ingredient as far as amount goes; I'd suggest three level teaspoons or so, but haven't tried the recipe yet
~ rind of 2 oranges (Citrus sinensis), seville sized (the cultivar, not the city), and their juice
200 g dark chocolate (finally a real quantity), melt in a double boiler and stir into batter. You can eat some of it too.

Either bake one large cake and carry out a transverse dissection, or bake two smaller ones and glue them together with killer icing.

Killer icing

Melt a stupid amount of chocolate (3-400 g), and mash in an equivalent volume of tart, orange marmalade. Very subjective, so adjust as you see fit, then use to glue the layers together, and subsequently to mudpack the outside. No need to rinse off; thicker layers are tastier layers. Oh, and if you hate oranges near your chocolate, omit them - just remember to add a quarter volume of thick cream to your icing or it'll set too hard. And yes, this isn't technically icing; that's what makes it nice.

This cake is fattening and may cause HDL/LDL cholesterol imbalance. There, I am indemnified and can't be sued, lives saved.

It was at about this time last year when the heavy rains and localised floods of March came to subside, leaving us with a rather conspicuously dry April. This year, things are seemingly back to normal, with traditional April showers running riot. There has been sunshine, hail, rain, sleet, wind and calm all within minutes of each other, but more often at the same time; a tangible oxymoron.

Dressing appropriately for your day is the stuff of nightmares, but the overall effect on the world outside can be so beautiful; a play on light, and shadow, wet and dry; it is the season for rainbows.

In more than one of the former colonies, they say that when the sun shines and the heavens pour, the monkeys are getting married.

This year, April in the United Kingdom is a simian honeymoon orgy.