Colonel Moseley

Colonel Moseley's Restaurant Reviews 2006 to 2009: a foodie time capsule

2011-02-22T12:25:00.013Z

What ho! In a bout of tidying up I recently deleted my Foodieblog of restaurant reviews. With typos, other infelicities and all, here they are for the period 2006 to 2009. The eclectic selection of reviews cover:

Edmunds Fine Dining, Birmingham
Le Champignon Sauvage, Cheltenham
The Plaza, Ama Lur and the Hacienda Encanto del Rio, Ibiza
Mallory Court, Bishops Tachbrook
The Cross, Kenilworth
Scotts, Mayfair
Simpsons, Edgbaston
The Bistro on the Square, Aberdovey
The Forest, Dorridge
The Malt Shovel, Barston
The Penhelig Arms, Aberdovey
The Old Butchers, Stow-on-the-Wold
The Promenade, The Dorchester, Park Lane
The Ivy, Covent Garden
The Grill Room, The Dorchester
Gordon Ramsay at Claridges, London
The Red Lion at Claverdon
Liaison, Hall Green, Birmingham
Lambs of Sheep Street, Stratford-upon-Avon
The Cross, Kenilworth

SUNDAY, 25 OCTOBER 2009

Edmunds Fine Dining

What ho foodies: long time no blog. Well, to be more precise, long time no interesting restaurant visits. This has been due largely to anxiety over a lack of funds following the global financial crisis and the appalling diminution in interest on hard-earned savings so vital to the retired. To cut to the chase, the whole ghastly mess was basically the fault of Messrs Blair and Brown and all those caddish bankers securitising ill-advised over-borrowing by unfortunate folk on trailerparks in Uncle Sam's square states (see http://colonel-moseley.blogspot.com/ passim).

Emerging blinking into the post-apocalyptic landscape outside Moseley Towers after twelve months hiding in the cellar and making substantial inroads into my stocks of wine, I am confronted by a fiscal wasteland. I see the economy of the West Midlands yet again desolate and ravaged with the highest unemployment rates in the country. The shell-shocked populace wander aimlessly about our High Streets looking for a shop that isn't boarded up or selling things for a pound.

The BBC used to ban apocalyptic post-nuclear TV plays featuring sights such as this on the basis that they would be too disturbing for the viewer and provoke civil unrest. Now it's on Midlands Today every night before the weather forecast direct from a flower show somewhere picturesque such as Shrewsbury. Funny how the weather forecast never comes from Tipton, but I digress...

Retreating from the smoking economic Armageddon to Moseley Towers for tea and a Mr Kipling Country Slice, I asked the Mem what the most responsible reaction to these disastrous times might be; in short what would Clemmie and Winston do?

Always inclined towards a Keynesian view, the Mem advocated doing our bit to prime the pumps of economic regeneration in our fair second city. Echoing the hapless Messrs Brown and Darling it was, she argued, simply the right thing to do.

When I pressed her to explain what this might entail, she suggested going out for a decent meal. She pointed out that we hadn't eaten out for months and couldn't just skulk in the bunker for much longer. In any event, her old school friend Bunty Papadopalous (nee Pargeter) was due over from Skiathos at the end of her taverna's summer season and would be staying with us the following week. Apparently we could hardly expect her to hide in the cellar (even though she would be able to sample several very decent clarets laid down ages ago and now in need of drinking up.)

In short, the Mem wanted to go out for supper and suggested that we make up a jolly party to dine at Edmunds in Brindleysquare in the centre of Birmingham.

For those that don't know the area, Brindleysquare is a relatively newly-developed quarter of offices and restaurants close to the centre of Birmingham bordered by the strip of clubs and pubs of Broad Street, the Repertory Theatre and Symphony Hall and sundry walkways, Cafe Rouges (or it Cafes Rouge?), canals, carparks and the odd gallery.

Despite its good intentions its central square (or perhaps one must say centralsquare to correspond with the jolly alloneworddevice dreamt up upon its conception by the creatives in some Covent Garden PR consultancy) contrives to convey Speer's Hitlerian civic grandeur of the Third Reich on a rainy night rather than the elegant yet people-friendly piazzas of Milan or Florence.

On the appointed Friday evening the Mem, Bunty and I headed in the newly-polished Hillman Minx from Oxford Road for what we hoped would be some top-notch cuisine.

Having been glued most week-day evenings over the last couple of months to Masterchef The Professionals, the Mem and I had absorbed much of the vocabulary of co-judge Michel Roux Junior, culinary legend and the holder of two Michelin stars at Le Gavroche.

The Mem and I have eaten at what some flush City chaps persist in calling Gavvers and hold fond memories of its haut bourgeois fare and particularly our very favourite starter, Souffle Suissesse.

Linguistic patterns soon emerged from Mr Roux. Highest praise was accorded by the adjective top-notch. The correct gooey consistency was often conveyed by unctuous and the standard by which all dishes were judged was whether or not it amounted to fine dining. At Moseley Towers this came at all times to be pronounced fane daning.

Glued to our new Samsung LED flat screen with our coffee after dinner through all the heats of Masterchef, we devised a game keeping score of the use of these favourite gastro-terms. After one particularly unctuous-heavy week the Mem commented "If I ate an After Eight mint every time he used that word I'd be the size of a house now."

"Yes, dear" seemed the safest reply.

Having just returned from unspoiled Skiathos and previously lived between the picturesque villages of Wibble and Dibble on the fringe of the leafy Vale of Vaysey, Bunty was rather taken aback by the landscape we passed through on the way to Brindleyplacerialtoprecinctnpiazza.

In the early evening gloom, our old friend was non-plussed when a heavily medicated pedestrian stepped blithely into the road in front of us and wild-eyed beat his fists on the bonnet of the Hillman Minx. She was further surprised when advised to put her handbag out of sight and that it was necessary to lock all passenger doors, particularly when static at traffic lights. Bunty politely said nothing but clearly felt that the Second City had changed since the days when it was a safe and warm Victorian town of which hard-working Brummies were fond and proud.

After a ten minute queue in gridlocked Broad Street we succeeded in parking on the fourth floor of a charming multi-storey car park and made our way to Edmunds across Centralsquaresponsoredbymitsubishi.

Photographs on its website showed tables laid with white linen and smart chairs outside the restaurant, but sadly there was no question of al fresco dining on a rainy Friday night in October.

Passing through an automatic door, we were greeted pleasantly and awaited our guests in the banquette-cum-lounge next to the entrance. The party was completed when our nephew Egbert Snaffle arrived with his fiancee Minty de Vere and her mother Lettice, who had also struggled with the early evening traffic.

Without delay we were shown to our table at the very centre of the room. We sat at the oblong three facing three in quite low slung and heavy but comfortable chairs. We did feel we were something of an obstacle to convenient access and egress in what was basically a small dining room. The decor was elegantly muted with grey and beige tones and the odd sculpture. The effect was smart yet relaxed. Happily there was no muzac.

One minor practical problem stemmed from the modern light fitting positioned just above where the Mem sat. It comprised three sets of pendulous bulbs, the lowest of which the Mem embarassingly seemed unable to avoid every time she rose to her feet. One wondered if it might play The Bells of St Mary or Eidelveiss, but it seemed content to just swing alarmingly and rattle a little. I'm glad the evening wasn't more formal and that the Mem wasn't wearing her tiara or we could have had a health and safety issue and blacked out half of Birmingham.

On being seated we were provided with nibbles of olives and cheese straws with an excellent fresh guacamole dip. There was just one straw each. Most diners appreciate that hefty overheads have to be met and that tight budgetary control is essential in sustaining a profitable restaurant. In establishments holding themselves out to provide fine dining however, it must surely be a mistake to err on the side of restraint in offering such an inexpensive item that should demonstrate welcome and hospitality and get dinner off to a convivial start. Perhaps portion control shouldn't have any part to play when it comes to cheesy nibbles? This was the first - and sadly the only - straw.

White and brown bread rolls were fresh and warm and replenished on request.

Our orders for food and wine were promptly and efficiently taken. We had all opted to try the tasting menu. Both the advertised tasting menu desserts involving respectively varieties of pineapple and melted Valrhona chocolate were unavailable and we were asked to substitute an alternative from the carte.

We began with the Chef patron - Andy Waters' - Amuse Bouche which was a tomato soup topped with aromatic truffle oil served in a miniature cup and saucer. It was bursting with flavour and more-ish and succeeded in amusing our bouches very well.

With taste buds duly stimulated, most of our table moved on to fresh Cornish crab served with a salmon tartare and a deep fried king prawn. Each element worked beautifully with the others and the dry and crispy batter was well executed. It seemed to be a satisfying yellowish English batter rather than a paler and thinner tempura - and all the better for that.

Egbert opted for a carpaccio of beef with ricotta and parmesan cheese with rocket leaves and sweetened red pepper. He reported it was pleasantly savoury, though unfortunately no sample made its way to my plate. All I can vouch for is that it looked attractive and seemed to be consumed with relish rather quickly.

For me the next course was the highlight of the meal. Seared scallops were served with a mouthwateringly creamy almond, sultana and caper butter sauce. The scallops were perfectly cooked with light orange caramelisation which rendered them even sweeter and the judicious saucing completed a perfect dish. As Mr Roux might say, the sauce was unctuous and the whole dish top notch.

The other half of the table didn't fare too badly with this course either. Everyone enjoyed foie gras served with poached pear and a glossy spiced Muscat sauce. I sampled a morsel of the foie gras which again was cooked to perfection and melted in the mouth. The sauce which featured star annise was again spectacular.

For our main course most of the table opted for free range pork with apples, calvados and a confit of savoy cabbage. The meat was apparently sourced from Jimmy Butler, that affable young pig farmer chap on television - not Jamie Oliver, the other one.

The three cuts of pork were served as three discs each the size of a fifty pence piece across the plate. The range of tastes and textures was marked and the meat was lifted even further by a shiny sauce of great depth. The flavoursome pork was accentuated by the cabbage and black pudding and came with a small copper pan which contained two halved new potatoes, three french beans cut in half and two morsels of carrot.

This dish was delicious and pretty as a picture. The trouble is, the picture in question wasn't just small; it was a miniature, albeit an exquisite one.

I appreciate my views probably do not correspond with Michelin orthodoxy, but even in a tasting menu, should not the main course be the highlight of the meal? Should it not leave one excited, but also satisfied? Ideally the portion should also make it possible to discretely sample each other dishes. The may not be everyone's idea of what's done, but that's what some real lovers of food do: they like to share their interest and compare notes about what they are eating and how it is prepared. This dish demonstrated the obvious skills of an accomplished brigade fully but was more like several canapes than the centre-piece of the meal. It was indeed exquisite but a tad meagre.

The other main course was bamboo-steamed monkfish with buttered clams. I managed to sample some monkfish which was topped with smoked salmon and found it moist and unfussy.

There followed a bon bon of creamy deep fried goat's cheese topped with a sliver of truffle and some honey: both fun and delicious.

The parade of dishes continued with Chef's pre-dessert which was a slim shot glass of refreshing passion fruit jelly with an elegantly tiny dice of fruit salad.

For dessert I found my small chocolate sponge lacking in flavour and moisture. The orange bread and butter pudding was similarly too dry for the Mem's taste, although the orange ice cream was delightful.

We finished with teas and coffees and petit fours and made our way across the square to the multi storey to be charged £8 or so for an evening's parking before again braving Broad Street. The inebriated groups strutting from one bar to another, straying onto the road and queuing in the rain to get into clubs verged on the threatening at times and did not resemble the entertainmant quarter of many European cities today. In the light of this, our guest Bunty quietly wondered how Birmingham might have fared if it had been awarded the Olympics.

We enjoyed our dinner at Edmunds. The surroundings and service were pleasant and the cooking fastidious, accomplished and often brilliant. For me however the odd blind spot such as the size of portions and lack-lustre puddings needed to be addressed for the experience to be entirely top notch.

Edmunds Fine Dining, 6 Central Square, Brindleyplace, Birmingham B1 2JB

Telephone 0121 633 4944 info@edmundsbirmingham.com

Tasting menu £55

THURSDAY, 18 DECEMBER 2008

Le Champignon Sauvage

A hairy drive in the Hillman Minx down a frantically busy M5 on a December Thursday morning to make a booking for lunch is not to be recommended for those above a certain age. It is not very "festive" and does not help one’s blood pressure, mood or the digestive system.

The M5 on this cold, grey weekday sums up Mr Brown’s Britain very well; it is uncomfortable, uncivilised and fraught with dangers.

“Why do it then?” you might well ask. The answer is the long-held ambition of a 1 ‘o clock booking at the famous Le Champignon Sauvage in Regency Cheltenham.

The restaurant run since 1987 by David and Helen Everitt-Matthias boasts two Michelin stars and a plethora of other accolades ranging from 8/10 rating in the “Good Food Guide” to “Decanter” Restaurant of the Year and 18/20 from the discerning and relatively sane Matthew Fort in “The Guardian”.

After our white-knuckle ride, parking was also challenging experience to a technophobe, requiring registration over the phone and a credit card payment. How anyone manages without tools, that have recently played such a noble part in bringing the world’s financial system to its knees, is unclear to me.

Naturally the “software” didn’t work properly and necessitated a lengthy telephone conversation with the parking authority, sounding nearer to Mumbai than Tetbury. This was probably recorded as “a protracted customer interface with an unresolved outcome”. Eventually, it was agreed that the car could be left parked. This left a nagging worry until our return to the vehicle, and only means of return to an admittedly less salubrious part of the Midlands on a bleak day, that it would be clamped, towed away or at very least have the early Christmas present of a plastic-wrapped ticket left under the windscreen wiper. Thus does tourist centre Cheltenham warmly greet its visitors.

After a wearing start, on we ploughed to the restaurant. By the skin of out teeth we made the deadline of ordering by 1.15 and began to relax with a glass of champagne as we studied the menu next to a jolly Christmas tree in the small reception area. Our order was quickly taken as we nibbled some warm, cheesy bread-y puffs which went well with our fizz. I know reviewers should have firm handle on such things and identify them clearly and concisely but, after the drive and stress of parking, I was preoccupied with my aperitif and the interesting menu – so, “Sorry about that.”

The dining room is a fresh yellow with draped windows and an interesting selection of modern paintings on the walls. Tables are placed well-apart with crisp white linen and comfortable chairs. It is relaxed and ordered but without the cathedral-like reverential air evident in some other “starred” restaurants.

As a pre-starter we were offered a tall shot glass with a warming sweet parsnip veloute topped with curry foam. Breads were excellent and we particularly enjoyed a very short and crumbly miniature pillar box of savoury brioche.

Starters were varied and intriguing. Each dish included an inventive ingredient, combination or technique that is a trademark of this chef and went a long way to explain his stellar reputation. They included a celeriac lasagne of megrim sole with cockles and sea beet and a pressed terrine of kid, ham hock and watercress, beetroot, land-cress and goat’s milk curd.

Rabbit tortelloni was served with turnip and apple puree, radish and apple, whilst a duck trio of cured breast, rillettes and tartare was accompanied by pickled mushrooms. I would have been more that happy with any of the appetisers, but opted for my personal favourite of seared scallops and belly of pork with a broccoli puree and peanuts.

The dish was prettily served on white china and worked well. The scallop was sweetly caramelised and the pork belly unctuous. Meat and shellfish combined and contrasted richly and were lifted and lubricated by the puree.

The Mem needed no persuasion to begin with roasted native lobster with a miso glaze on a risotto of oat groats and onion and orange spiced bread (£6 supplement). As expected, the lobster was adroitly cooked and came to the table with its delicate flavour intact and enhanced by its glaze. The risotto was well-executed and provided a creamy, chalky background which did not distract from the centrepiece of the dish. Similarly the spiced bread served to accentuate rather than upstage the main element.

Both starters demonstrated the inventiveness and deft touch upon which David Everitt-Mathias’s reputation is founded; this was further confirmed by our main courses.

The Champignon Sauvage is known to present well-sourced seasonal ingredients. Before setting out that day, I had commented that I hoped it would be possible to have some venison. I was not disappointed.

My main course of Winchcombe venison fitted my bill exactly. It was described as “with its bolognese, a chervil tuber puree and liquorice root jus.”

I found the dish a tour de force. The locally sourced venison served pink was full of flavour and tender without dissolving through being over-marinated. The dish was celebratory given the very rich accompanying bolognese. The liquorice root jus lifted the dish and avoided it seeming heavy or cloying as did the intriguing chervil tuber puree with the beautifully al dente "shells" adding visual appeal and texture. The dish worked at several levels and was a delight.

For her main course the Mem chose another seasonal dish in roast grey legged partridge with hazelnuts, pickled pear and salsify caramelised in maple syrup. Whilst the partridge was moist and flavoursome, its accompaniments diverted with varied texture, colour and a caramelised sweetness that amplified the flavours at centre stage.

We accompanied our venison and partridge with a Charles Vienot 2001 Gevry Chambertin, which opened well as the meal progressed and proved fair value at £45.

We were delighted with our main courses, but were tempted by others including Cinderford lamb with its gayette, fillet of zander with carrot and star anise puree, compote of duck hearts and green raisins and stone bass with a white bean cream, cep mushrooms and cep gnocchi.

The accolades achieved by David Everitt-Matthias at the Champignon Sauvage include Egon Ronay Dessert Chef of the Year. His range of desserts reflects the same mindset applied in devising the rest of the carte. I chose a muscavado parfait with bergamot cream and mandarin jelly. To steal an adjective from Michael Winner the parfait was "historic", combining subtle flavour with silky smooth texture delightfully. Part of the secret of its success lay in its not being too sweet. That side of things was more than taken care of by the contrasting bergamot cream and the richly acidic mandarin jelly: a very classy play upon jelly 'n cream.

For her pudding, the Mem selected a warm prune cake with pressed apples and wild cherry stone ice cream. She pronounced the cake a delicately prune-flavoured sponge with overtones of madeleine. The rectangular portion of pressed apples almost deconstructed the festive season with its spicy cinnamon edge. The ice cream was a creamy success which fully captured the sometimes elusive flavour of cherry.

Of the other puddings, I was fascinated and tempted by salted chicory root iced mousse, vanilla rice pudding and a rich chocolate sorbet which again seemed to add up a diverse range of ingredients to make even more than the sum of their considerable parts.

We finished a memorable lunch with coffees and elegant petit fours – although where we found room for them I do not know. Our lunch had been a delight, pleasantly and efficiently served in relaxed surroundings. The restaurant had not been particularly full that day, but at the far side of the room was a party of ten or so enjoying their pre-Christmas lunch. Their paper hats were a give-away. It speaks volumes for the efficiency of the staff that this did not impact on service at all. It also appears that Cheltenham diners are quietly civilised and do not impose themselves and intrude on others, even in largish parties

The food lived up to our considerable expectations. Each of our dishes reflected the very considered house style. This was marked by fresh local and seasonal produce. The central ingredient was invariably complemented and accentuated by supporting elements - and never overshadowed. The selection, combination and treatment of ingredients was inventive and well thought-out. These themes, combined with first class technique, produced sophisticated and at times cutting-edge cooking, well worthy of its two Michelin stars. We look forward to returning.

Le Champignon Sauvage Restaurant, 24-26 Suffolk Road, Cheltenham Gloucestershire GL50 2AQ

Tel: 01242 573449 Fax: 01242 254365

http://www.lechampignonsauvage.co.uk/

A la carte lunch and dinner: two courses £40, three courses £50, four courses (with cheese and dessert) £58.

WEDNESDAY, 2 JULY 2008

Colonel Moseley goes large in Ibiza...again

It was quite a relief when, just after Christmas, the Mem came off the ‘phone following a lengthy conversation with her old friend Brenda Miggins. She reported that her school chum’s gynaecological trials and tribulations continued to baffle the finest brains in Harley Street and that sadly the portals of her dear Braemar in Eastbourne would be closed to even her most loyal patrons for another summer season.

Mercifully liberated from the prospect of Mrs Miggins’ rissoles for yet another year, it was with considerable but carefully disguised glee that I swiftly confirmed our holiday booking. We were returning to the Villa Esplendor at the small Hacienda Encanto del Rio, a short drive from the village of San Carlos on the unspoiled northern side of Ibiza for two weeks in mid-June.

After an uncomfortable two and a quarter hours cattle-class with First Choice we were pleased to land in Ibiza and even happier with the speedy collection of a nippy little VW Polo from Europcar at the airport.

With dizzying speed we headed towards the north of the island past the tight corner of Anita’s Bar in San Carlos and off to our villa just over the road from the beach of Aigua Blanca.

The advantage of leaving home for the airport at the appallingly early hour of 4.30am on a Sunday morning was that we opened the door of our villa at 11.30 am with plenty of time to unpack and enjoy a pleasant lunch by the pool.

Following previous holidays, we had a lengthy list of restaurants to check out including our favourite French-run Plaza in Santa Gertrudis.

This year, changes had been afoot with the central plaza in front of the whitewashed church paved over and pedestrianised. Although not universally popular, I think the change worked making much more room for patrons of the bars to enjoy their drinks and meals al fresco.

The weather in May and June this year had been unusually cool on the island and virtually for the first time we dined inside rather than in the spacious garden at the rear. Our spirits remained un-dampened and we were pleased to find the food as good as ever.

The menu remained short but appealing. Starters ranged from an authentically French fish soup with tuna, white fish and prawns with croutons and rouille, grilled goat’s cheese and salad and a light tempura of sea food and vegetables served with various dipping sauces.

As ever at the Plaza we drank a 2001 Reserva Vicalandia, still at E29.

For mains we focused on a rack of lamb served pink with a honey sauce and rosemary potatoes and succulent fillet of beef on a potato rosti.

As previously, desserts did not quite match the earlier courses but included a crème brulee with red berries and an extraordinary mousse made of the strong local Manchego cheese served with dates and a kind of peanut brittle. The dish was more savoury than sweet and something of an acquired taste.

We also re-visited another old friend in Ama Lur. We were pleased to be remembered and welcomed by the patron and staff.

The establishment was as elegant as ever and we enjoyed complimentary starters of a shot glass of leek and potato soup – in place of the previous gaspacho - and a deep-fried croquette of ham in a creamy sauce.

The menu resembled last year’s with goat’s cheese and fresh scallops outstanding.

Our favourite mains included a succulent rolled leg of lamb with cous cous, hake with clams and entrecote for two served with red peppers and what must be the best chips in Ibiza – crisp on the outside and fluffy within.

Again, desserts did not quite match-up, but we liked the orange soufflé, caramelized pineapple and white chocolate soup with passion fruit.

With Amy Winehouse playing in the background, Ama Lur remained a destination for a discreet special occasion.

By far our biggest and happiest gastronomic discovery on this holiday however was the food served at the Hacienda Encanto del Rio by Jorg Allenbrand ably assisted by his partner Selina Vogel.

Each day began with a dreamy breakfast by the pool. Freshly baked breads, croissant and muffins were accompanied by a range of home-made preserves. As an alternative to cereals, I adored the special muesli with fruits ranging from peach and apple to melon and pineapple.

Most mornings we opted for omelettes made to order with fillings varying from mushroom, asparagus and even avocado to bacon and goat’s cheese. Sipping fruit juice and coffee next to the pool made a very relaxing start to each day – and rather good value at E8 each.

Each evening Jorg prepared a set three course dinner for residents served inside or by the poolside. Prices were very reasonable at about E20 for three courses and E29.50 for the tasting menu.

On Sundays, guests were offered a tapas evening when many the classic tapas dishes were presented with several more. From those on offer I recall boquerones (small white fish in vinegar with parsley), albondigas (spicy meatballs with tomato sauce), goat’s cheese and peppers, Menorcan cheese slices, patatas bravas (spicy fried potato cubes), prawns in garlic, roasted lamb fillet, chickpeas, dorada with leeks and a cream sauce and chicken in sherry sauce. By the time we had enjoyed panna cotta we could hardly move. Each dish had been authentic and appetising and the evening had been relaxing and great fun.

Each Wednesday evening guests were treated to a seven course tasting menu. If my memory serves me right, our first dinner included:

• Hors d’oeuvres of angels on horseback ~ dates wrapped in bacon

• Plump gambas with avocado and a tomato relish

• Chick pea soup laced with a rosemary infused pesto topped by loin of rabbit coated in sesame seeds

• Lamb fillet with an aubergine millefeuille, cous cous and a yoghourt dressing

• Tuna steak with a Pommery mustard dressing

• Goat’s cheese crème brulee with pears in red wine and freshly-baked bread

• And finally a passion fruit panna-cotta

We drank a Bestue red wine (E17) from an interesting and sensibly-priced list and finished dinner with coffee and Jorg’s excellent petit fours. Each course was delicious and perfectly executed and the many elements combined harmoniously.

During our second week we again enjoyed the tasting menu which featured:

• Marinaded salmon on a green salad dressed with a vinaigrette and croutons

• Local gambas fried in garlic oil and served on a creamy asparagus risotto with cherry tomatoes

• Chilled gaspacho - two ways - with tomato cleverly taking one half the glass and cucumber the other in an attractive pattern of red and green

• Roasted quail served on home-made noodles with a sweet sage butter sauce

• Beef fillet in a Pommery mustard sauce with mushrooms, green beans and cheese stuffed new potato

• Light mousse of Manchego cheese served with orange and onion chutney and home made bread. Unlike the version served at the Plaza, this was a savoury cheese course and worked well

• And again finally a New York-style cheesecake of passion fruit with exotic fruits and raspberry coulis.

Both tasting menus demonstrated Jorg’s skills comprehensively. His touch with meat, fish and shellfish was adept and confident and his sauces and seasoning judicious - and just plain delicious.

His desserts including a fine apple tart with vanilla parfait and a perfect chocolate fondant with firm sponge on the outside and gooey chocolate interior put most of the restaurants on the island to shame.

Coupled with Jorg’s cooking were the super table settings and solicitous service of the charming Selina. Together they made quite a team.

We thoroughly enjoyed our stay and meals at the Encanto del Rio and commend it unreservedly!

SUNDAY, 24 FEBRUARY 2008

Colonel Moseley revisits Mallory Court

After our recent return for supper in Kenilworth, it was with some trepidation that we booked for dinner at another old favourite, the Michelin-starred Mallory Court at Bishops Tachbrook.

On arrival we were asked twice who we were and whether we had booked. We were unable to sit in our favourite small drawing room at the rear since it was in use for a private party.

Wondering whether another of those evenings was in store, we sat in the rather congested lounge and ordered glasses of champagne. These arrived quickly with a few canapes in a single line on a piece of grey slate. These weren't quite as delicate or indeed plentiful as previously, but were fine.

We ordered from the a la carte menu, although we were tempted by a main of roast loin and braised leg of rabbit with a meaux mustard sauce on the less expensive table d'hote.

By the time we were called to our table, we had relaxed over the nicely chilled Taittinger and things had quietened down somewhat. One group of guests had departed elsewhere and the large party had gone in to dinner in the lower half of the dining room, which was closed off for the evening. The celebration nearby did not impact on quality or speed of service at all.

I began with lightly curried Torbay crab with lime-marinated scallops - or to be precise one sliced scallop. The dish was elegant, cool and refreshing . The crab with its subtle curry flavour was more-ish and the silky smooth scallop cooked in lime juice like a ceviche was gently delicious. For me it was the perfect cold starter - a hint of summer on a February night.

The Mem was also pleased with her roasted quail with celeriac, bacon and black pudding. The moist quail was almost deconstructed, bringing our its rich flavour which was uplifted by its accompaniments.

After this savoury beginning, we went on to mains of beef and lamb. The Mem's fillet of beef was served with a glossy morel Madeira sauce and crispy braised shoulder. The contrast of textures and flavours worked well.

I enjoyed an assiette of lamb with tapenade jus. The fillet was pink and perfect and the shoulder unctuous and comforting. The dish was attractively Mediterranean with contrasting red tomato, black olives and pale green grey lentils: a mix of spring and autumn tastes on a winter's evening - and none the worse for that.

We drank an excellent 2003 Nuit St Georges (£48) which opened up as the meal progressed. It would have been even better if we had been shown the bottle before dinner to allow for it to be opened in advance and to breathe longer.

Pleasingly, our meal ended with bang rather than a whimper with dessert of blood orange souffles with warm chocolate mousse, chocolate sorbet and spiced blood orange segments. The lofty souffles were of a perfect texture. This pudding was no anticlimax and brought an excellent dinner to an enjoyably dramatic conclusion.

After cappucinos and petits fours we agreed that this happy evening had restored our faith in Warwickshire restaurants.

Mallory Court, Harbury Lane, Leamington sa Warwickshire CV33 9QB

Tel: 01926 330214 Fax: 01926 451714 e-mail reception@mallorycourt.co.uk

A la carte three courses: £55 inclusive of VAT

MONDAY, 21 JANUARY 2008

Colonel Moseley revisits The Cross at Kenilworth

After our initial visit and review of the successful gastro-pub, the Cross at Kenilworth, we returned several times and found the standard consistently high for lunch and dinner.

Last Friday we booked an early table for supper at 7.00. As happened on our previous few visits, we were allocated a small table for two immediately next to the opening to the kitchen area - rather warm and noisy.

Our drinks order was taken promptly. We opted for a glass of champagne. What arrived was remarkably unfizzy and on hearing the pleasant pop of a champagne cork shortly after we had been served our drinks, we guessed that we had received the rather flat remains of the previous bottle. In future when I see so few bubbles in a glass anywhere I will flag it up and ask for a replacement.

To begin I ordered my favourite scallops classically served with cauliflower puree and black pudding. They arrived on an oblong dish having slipped to one end in transit and appeared to be cowering forlornly together in a sadly disorganised group. The scallops and their accompaniments seemed of high quality but unfortunately the centre or core of each was worryingly cold.

The Mem began with goats' cheese on an shallot tarte tatin. The idea seemed fine but the tarte was presented with five or six whole shallots with the grilled goats' cheese resting on-top .The dish was no doubt executed as intended, but the strong predominance of shallots was not to the Mem's taste.

Our main problem came with our main courses. Previously we had particularly enjoyed their excellent rib-eye steak served with all the trimmings. This was no longer on the menu and we substituted a rump steak with fries, egg, mushrooms and onion rings and both ordered our steak, medium. On arrival, the steaks were bloody and we asked for them to be cooked to medium. On their return they were still rare and rather tough but we did the English thing and tried to eat them. The chips and onion rings were coarse and not particularly pleasant. We found our side order of rocket salad with parmesan cloyingly sweet.

When the waiter asked if we had enjoyed our mains, we explained the problem with the undercooked steak and it was suggested that this might have had something to do with sending it back which left us bemused and on which we did not comment.

The Mem enjoyed her sticky toffee pudding and ice cream whilst I had a cappuccino to conclude the meal.

We put this visit down to experience from the unfizzy fizz to the chilly scallops and rare and chewy rump. No reduction was offered in the £75 bill and we paid in full, even leaving a respectable tip since we did not want to penalise the waiting staff. Saddest of all, when we left we almost felt as if this disappointing evening was our fault. We will not trouble them again.

TUESDAY, 30 OCTOBER 2007

Colonel Moseley reviews Scott's

Our recent weekend in London reflected two of our greatest pleasures. On Friday evening we enjoyed a performance of Parade at the Donmar Warehouse in Convent Garden (http//: colonelmoseleysstageblog.blogspot.com) and then popped around the corner for a late supper at the Ivy. The food and ambience at the Ivy were excellent with the scallops as good as ever, although I am sad to report the disappearance from the menu of my particular favourite, calves’ liver.

On Saturday we dined at Scott’s in Mount Street in the heart of Mayfair.

John Scott originally set up an oyster warehouse in Haymarket in 1851. His establishment soon evolved into a popular seafood restaurant and oyster bar. James Bond author, Ian Fleming was a regular of Scott’s in its glamorous heyday in the 1950’s and 1960’s and reputedly discovered the dry martini there – shaken not stirred.

In 1968, Scott’s relocated to Mount Street and in 2005 was acquired by Caprice Holdings - joining The Ivy, J. Sheekey’s, Daphne’s, Bambou and Le Caprice.

Since its re-launch, Scott’s has been universally well-reviewed. Matthew Norman called it “beguilingly good”. The Mem and I very much looked forward to our visit with our nephew Egbert and his fiancée, Minty – the de Vere’s oldest girl.

Scott’s is impressive from the outside with its red brick frontage and smart doorman. Inside one can tell immediately where the millions reputedly spent on refurbishment have gone.

The restaurant lives up to its billing of being part stage set , part Edwardian ocean liner and part gallery. Centre stage is a large and lavish oyster bar. Modish art bedecks the walls.

Arriving twenty minutes or so before our booked time we chose to sit on the smart chrome stools at the bar for a chat and a spot of people-watching over a glass of Theophile Roeder house champagne and a bowl of nuts and upmarket pork scratchings.

I admired the display of crustacea and made a mental note to return one lunch-time for a glass or two of chilled white and a pint of winkles.

From our vantage point we could watch the phalanx managers in their smart dark suits greet the punters and generally direct operations.

The clientele was that usual Saturday night Mayfair mixture of bridges and tunnels folks up for a good night out and louche chaps in Armani whose eyes are never still, accompanied by improbably pneumatic young ladies.

In my youth places like this were frequented by of City or military types up in town with their young nieces. For all I know, the lovelies of today may be aroma-therapists or personal trainers, but their role as trophy and the underlying economics seem about the same.

After a pleasant interlude at the bar, we were shown our table in the room at the rear- rather central and close to the kitchen door for my taste, but otherwise satisfactory.

The extensive menu is not unlike the Ivy with an obvious emphasis on crustacia and fish.

Egbert and I began with oysters – Speciales de Claire Premier Cru. They were served on ice with a good supply of lemon halves bound in muslin with shallots in red vinegar and Tabasco. They were perfectly fresh and delicious.

The Mem started with griddled scallops with pumpkin, chilli and hazelnuts. Again the scallops were in excellent condition and not overcooked. The sweetness of the pumpkin combined well with the slightly caramelised scallops, the punch of the chilli and texture of the hazelnuts.

Minty was also delighted with her potted shrimps which were served plated.

The wine list at Scott's offers something for most tastes and – to be fair – most pockets. I admired a Puligny Montrachet at £110, but soon settled on a Premier Cru Chablis Montmains “Vieille Vignes” Domain Race 2004 at £54. Though probably un-fashionable, I enjoyed its combination of silky, buttery fruitiness. One isn’t always in the mood for tart, grassy sauvignons.

For her main course the Mem chose a 16 oz Dover sole simply grilled. Pleasingly, the dish was brought to the table for inspection when cooked and then taken way to be expertly filleted. It was accompanied by side orders of new potatoes and spinach.

Minty stuck with shellfish and ordered an elegant scampi provencale with fennel pilaff. Egbert enjoyed a meaty fillet of monkfish with Latin accompaniments of white beans, chorizo and padron peppers.

I couldn’t resist a main course portion of the Mem’s starter of scallops and was also very happy with the balance with the sweet pumpkin and hazelnut.

For dessert the Mem had a plain Bramley apple pie with custard. She pronounced it pleasant - without setting the world alight. The rest of us fared better with a delicious tart of figs on puff pastry served with Mascarpone cream.

We rounded off a pleasant meal with coffees and liqueurs.

Scott’s had lived up to its reputation as part of the Caprice group in serving high quality comfort food in sumptuous surroundings.

Service had been slick and prompt. Our waiter had been efficient but had an impatient air of someone not having a good night. It’s unfortunate how that communicates itself to ordinary customers and noticeable how that doesn’t often seem to happen to professional reviewers. That aside, Scott’s is a good destination for a special evening out. It is clearly already yet another successful member of an extremely successful group.

Scott’s, 20 Mount Street, Mayfair, London W1K 2HE

Tel: 0207 7495 7309

Website: www.scotts-restaurant.com

Simpsons in Edgbaston

Every few years the Mem decides it’s time for a reunion with her friends from school. Arrangements were made for lunch with chums Bunty Pargeter and Pandora La Gueriniere at Simpsons in leafy Edgbaston.

Strictly speaking, Bunty is now Mrs. Popadopolous following her marriage to Costas on the island of Skiathos. After many years running of a popular livery yard on the fringe of the picturesque Vale of Vaysey, Bunty now owns a busy bar lapped by the warm Aegean.

Pandora has forged a glittering career in international dressage and is chef d’equipe of a rising team in the Middle East. According to a full-page profile in Dressage Monthly, Pandora has put the kur into Kurdistan, introduced passage to India and invented the Khyber half-pass. Despite her chic name and celebrity lifestyle however, the Mem still thinks of Pandora as she was at school, plain old Phyllis Stackpole.

We convened for lunch on a damp autumn day between fashionable Harborne and Birmingham city centre. Since 2004, Simpsons has been housed in an impressive white-stuccoed early Victorian villa typical of the Calthorpe Estate.

We just about managed to park the Hillman Minx on the driveway at the front, although we felt like poor relations amidst so many smart Jaguars and Mercedes.

We were pleasantly greeted and offered seats in the lounge for pre-lunch drinks. We chose to go straight to our table at the rear of the premises overlooking the terrace and attractive gardens. Linen, glass ware and cutlery were immaculate.

We began with kir royals whilst we looked though the menu and enjoyed delicious canapés including tiny salmon roulades, warm miniature potato cakes and sweet and sour crab beignets – which Pandora enthusiastically affirmed were to die for.

The wine list was stellar reflecting Simpson’s Michelin award. Wines were listed from France, Italy and Spain to the Americas and Antipodes and offered something exceptional for most tastes - if not all pockets. Resisting some truly spectacular white Bergundies, I opted for a crisp Gavi de Gavi at £35 which suited lunchtime. The wine was well-chilled and served.

Our guests and I began with a king prawn and spring onion risotto with ginger foam. This was the perfect lunch dish served on smart white china. The prawns retained their colour and texture as did the spring onions with a hint of lemon grass. The sauce permeating the risotto was deep and more-ish and the dish balanced an array of complementary flavours: a great success.

The Mem began with a seasonal pumpkin soup served on blue cheese, smoked bacon and spinach. She was more than happy with her choice and also praised the delicate palette of tastes.

For our main course we all chose rump of Aberdeen Beef with haggis, garlic and parsley butter. The effect was not unlike a black pepper sauce, but more subtle and savoury. The rump was served with chips but to call them just chips was to undersell them somewhat. These Michelin starred chips had a dry crisp skin and fluffy - almost sweet - interior and were about as far away from the version sold at the local chippie as one could imagine.

As an alternative, the menu offered fillet of Brixham plaice with scallop ravioli, mange tout and herring caviar cream. Appealing though this was, we all enjoyed our upmarket steak and chips.

Before dessert we were served a complimentary pre-pudding from the chef in the form of elegantly spherical cinnamon doughnuts with fig jam and hazelnuts which were tasty and fun.

For dessert the ladies went, in Proustian mode, for a warm madeleine with plum compote and cinnamon ice cream.Chocaholic as ever, I preferred my Vallhrona chocolate mousse and coffee granite with crème chantilly and crispy rice – an interesting mix of flavour and textures. Puddings were served on concave frosted glass squares or, in my case, a rectangle.

We finished with a range of excellent coffees and petit fours before wandering out blinking and replete into the milky sunshine of the autumn afternoon.

Our lunch had been delightful. Surroundings were pristine and the service solicitous and efficient. The range of dishes on offer had been appealing and execution was adroit and accomplished. At £20 for three courses, lunch represented very good value and I look forward to sampling the extensive carte for dinner.

In its brochure Simpsons is called the finest dining rooms in Birmingham. I see no reason to differ.

Written in October 2007

Simpsons, 20, Highfield Road, Edgbaston, Birmingham B15 3DU

Tel: 0121 454 3434 http://www.simpsonsrestaurant.co.uk/

The Bistro on the Square in Aberdovey

After our pleasant visit to Aberdovey last year, the Mem and I were delighted to accept another invitation this September.

We were again to join my nephew Egbert Snaffle and his lovely fiancee Minty De Vere for the weekend at the De Vere’s holiday home Treflan House overlooking the estuary.

To thank our hosts we took them as our guests for supper on Saturday evening in the Bistro on the Square, a stone’s-throw from the front.

We had been encouraged to book by a favourable review by the reliable Charles Campion in which he called the Bistro a friendly old-fashioned restaurant in a world increasingly dominated by gastro-pubs. He commented that the menu stemmed from local ingredients such as fresh fish and Welsh lamb and the standard of cooking is “surprisingly high”. I wasn’t sure how much the word “surprisingly” said about the Bistro, the reputation of Welsh cooking or the presumptions of metropolitan critics, but decided it was appropriate to book and form our own view.

The Bistro has a charming look of Allo, Allo facing a small square with a very Welsh, Methodist chapel nearby. Its front is whitewashed with cheerful green paintwork and colourful troughs and hanging baskets of fuchsias and geraniums. A sign in the window says it is fully booked until well into the evening.

The interior is welcoming and homely but quite dark and warm with a low-ish ceiling.

We were seated opposite a large table occupied by a local family group of adults and children celebrating a birthday. The Bistro is relaxed and child-friendly.

On being seated, we were given bread rolls and green and black olives to nibble and our drinks order was taken promptly. We chose the most expensive white wine on the list, a Chablis premier Cru at £23.50. It was served properly chilled and was the perfect choice for a summer’s evening – soft, smooth and buttery (so much so that we had another bottle).

Unusually, the Mem and I selected the same starter of a tartlet of crisp short pastry filled with smoked haddock in a creamy sauce served on a bed of fresh asparagus. This worked well in sharpening the appetite and could only have been improved by making the sauce even thicker.

Egbert was also pleased with his Thai fishcakes with a chilli plum sauce. Minty began with one of the evening’s specials of home –made liver pate with warm Melba toast. She enjoyed the dish but was rather over-faced by the size of portion which gave the rest of us a chance to sample it. We agreed it was pleasant and appetizing although it lacked punch by way of depth of flavour.

Other starters included twice-baked spinach soufflé, bruschetta of goat’s cheese with Parma ham and sweet peppers, egg linguine, Mediterranean vegetable salad with potted prawns and salmon served on celeriac remoulade.

Main courses ranged from fillet of pork and best end of Welsh lamb, breast of Gressingham duck and guinea fowl to a variety of fresh fish.

The Mem and Minty chose fillet steak served with slightly anaemic dauphinoise potatoes and a side of roasted root vegetables.

Egbert enjoyed a special off the blackboard of sea bass which was moist and flavoursome.

For my main course I ordered Zrazy Nelson, a house speciality consisting of medallions of fillet steak quickly griddled and served with a creamy sauce of mushrooms and tomato topped with onion rings and a side order of fries. I found the dish more-ish and can understand why it is remains popular at the Bistro.

After her large starter Minty could only mange an expresso whilst the Mem enjoyed her ginger and black pepper pudding with coffee sauce and vanilla ice cream. Egbert despatched his tiramisu and I also made short work of my warm treacle and whiskey tart and Cranaghan made of cream honey whiskey and oats.

We enjoyed our evening at the Bistro on the Square. Service was efficient and courteous and the atmosphere pleasant. The menu offered something for most tastes including various daily specials. Prices for food and wine were reasonable with starters and puddings between £5 and £6 and mains mostly between £11 and £13.The Mem and I agreed how nice it would be to have such a family restaurant offering well-prepared local ingredients just around the corner from home. Praise really doesn’t come much higher.

Written in September 2007

Bistro on the Square Aberdovey Gwynedd LL35 0EL

Tel: 01654 767448

Colonel Moseley Abroad: The Colonel and the Mem Go Large in Ibiza

What ho! The Mem and I normally spend a fortnight each summer at The Braemar in Eastbourne with our dear friend Brenda Miggins. This year our plans were torpedoed when Mrs Miggins was incommoded by what the Mem delicately explained was a ladies’ op, but declined to clarify further.

Confronted with a blank canvass, we seized the chance to renew our acquaintance with the Med and decided to find out what had changed in Spain post-Franco. Moseley’s ever-so slightly bohemian edge has lead some to consider it the Birmingham Balearic; accordingly, we agreed to give Ibiza a try.

Ibiza has had an unfair press. It has become journalistic shorthand for depraved, sun-burned yobs living on lager, full Englishes and ecstasy.

That version of Ibiza may be available, but beyond parts of San Antonio towards the middle and north, exists a different island.

In the countryside, quiet roads pass though sleepy hamlets such as San Mateo and San Agnes past fields of red earth and lines of olive trees with sheep and goats grazing.The wet spring meant that the landscape was not grey and dusty but surprisingly green with verges and fields profuse with poppies and wild flowers.

We took a villa beyond the whitewashed village of San Carlos – famed for its hippy hangout, Anita’s Bar - on the way to the beach at Agua Blanca.

We relaxed with books and the odd glass, enjoyed the countryside and pretty beaches and visited places ranging from busy Ibiza Town and Santa Eulalia to laid-back villages in the interior.

Most days we stopped somewhere like Bar Costa in Santa Gertrudis with its hams hanging from the ceiling and superb tapas and tostadas. We drank coffee or freshly-squeezed orange juice on the shady pavement reading the papers and watching the world go by – even more relaxing than the Cross.

Not being quite up to foam parties or all-nighters at Pacha or Space, our main diversion each evening was dinner.

Our favourite restaurants included Ama Lur which serves Basque and Spanish dishes in quite a formal setting. The décor is elegant and relaxing with Ella Fitzgerald playing and pleasant and solicitous staff.

We enjoyed starters of prawn ravioli in a deep lobster sauce, grilled goat’s cheese with rocket and chilled, summery gazpacho. Our main courses were unctuous slow-cooked lamb with minted cous cous and an inventive confit of rabbit. Desserts included hot orange souffle, fine apple tart on a crisp pastry base and caramelised pineapple with pineapple foam and ice cream.

With its accomplished cooking and stellar wine list Ama Lur is expensive, but worth it for a special evening.

A slightly less costly destination was El Pato, a few kilometres in the direction of Ibiza Town. Its location is unpromising, next to a small commercial estate and its sister establishments – a bistro and interior décor store. It is however a pleasant place to eat with a charming pool next to the terrace with rushes and a population of frogs sitting on the lily pads.

This German-run restaurant has a wide range of dishes with specials changing each day. Our meal began with an assiette of Asian starters including Thai soup, tiny spring rolls with dipping sauces, seared tuna and sashimi. I followed with a breast of duck with cassis sauce whilst the Mem opted for stir-fry lobster with asparagus. For dessert we liked the unusual coconut crème brulee with Canarian banana ice cream. Again, service was efficient and courteous and the diverse clientele made for interesting people-watching.

Our favourite destination was the French–run La Plaza in Santa Gertrudis, near to the whitewashed church.

On the evening of our visit the village was celebrating the first communion of a group of youngsters. Scores of locals processed behind the priest carrying an ornate cross under a canopy held aloft by six men. The censor swung and the local silver band followed playing sacred music. The girls looked demure in long white dresses carrying flower baskets whilst the boys wore smart white suits. It was a touching family occasion and demonstrated that his was a living community rather than just a cardboard tourist centre.

After the procession we dined in the canopied garden. It’s always fun to eat al fresco. We enjoyed more-ish starters of coquilles St Jacques and spinach ravioli with goat’s cheese in a tomato sauce. Main courses featured rack of lamb with dauphinoise potatoes and fillet of beef in a truffle sauce. Puddings included a warm chocolate fondant and iced nougat parfait with Cognac cream.

On the wine front, we fell in love with the local Vicalanda rioja which went well with most dishes. We liked it so much that we ordered it wherever possible (at about Euro 29).

We also enjoyed visits to the trendy L’Elephant in San Rafael with its view from the terrace of Ibiza Town and the Cascades at the five star Hacienda at Na Xamena near Port San Miguel: it’s a long drive up the hillside to the hotel but stunning sea view when, and if, you make it.

There’s much more to Ibiza than you might imagine. The Mem and I enjoyed discovering the unspoiled villages, pretty countryside and beaches and agreeable restaurants. I suspect that next year we may miss out on The Braemar and Mrs Miggins’ cream of tomato soup and rissoles. Pip, pip!

Written in June 2007

Ama Lur, Ctra. de San Miguel, Km. 2300 Tel 971 31 45 54

El Pato, Ctra. San Miguel, Km 0.5 Reg. Sta. Eulalia Tel 971 19 13 40

La Plaza, Plaza de la Iglesia, Sta. Gertudis Tel 971 19 70 75

* a version of this article also appeared in Birmingham 13

Mallory Court at Bishops Tachbrook

The Mem and I wanted to dine somewhere special to mark our anniversary. We decided on Mallory Court, a country house hotel and restaurant at Bishops Tachbrook, just outside Leamington Spa.

Mallory Court was built in 1916 and has the look of Lutyens with mellow stonework in ten or so acres of well-tended grounds with flower beds, croquet lawn and herb and vegetable gardens.

After the creation of additional bedrooms, the establishment has recently been further expanded by a new conference wing, including a brasserie, standing to the left of the entrance drive.

I was interested to find out whether the expansion has made the hotel corporate or whether it retains a country house feel.

I admit that I have always been a fan of the old Mallory Court. In its earlier ownership it contrived to have a luxurious air, combining tasteful décor and ambience with high standards of cuisine and service.

I recall the charming note on the menus to the effect that gratuities were neither requested nor expected. It always struck me as impeccable and we often made reservations for Christmas lunch and special family celebrations.

On this evening, arriving at 7.30 for dinner booked at 8.00, we requested our pre-dinner drinks in the smaller rear drawing room overlooking the terrace and gardens.

The room had recently been redecorated and refurnished. The previous striking red wallpaper had been replaced by something more subdued.

Various familiar items of furniture, including wooden corner cupboard, log basket and studded leather armchair had been moved elsewhere and replaced by six large bright settees, which effectively provided the room with three seating areas for six.

There was now no space for the central table with the magnificent arrangement of fresh flowers that always previously graced the room (and contributed to the country house smell of wood-smoke, furniture wax and cut orchids). It was now comfortable and pleasant enough with logs still burning in the open hearth, but was more Trust House Forte, Great Barr than country house.

On arrival, our drinks order was taken promptly and we were given menus. We opted for celebratory kir royales with the house champagne. These were served with canapés including goat’s cheese savoury pastry, salmon roulade and tiny lamb and pepper skewer.

The a la carte menu offered a choice of five or six first and main courses and desserts for £55.

Under the direction of Head Chef, Simon Haigh, the brigade at Mallory Court has retained its Michelin star for the fifth consecutive year in 2007.

The wood-panelled dining room, with its heavy curtains, retained its former charm. Service, on being seated, was as formal and attentive as ever.

To begin, I chose roasted scallops with duck heart, curried lentils and cauliflower. This was presented on a leaf shaped glass dish and looked elegant and appealing. The scallops were sweet, slightly caramelised and succulent.

The Mem selected Torbay crab in an inventive tuna ravioli and savoury soused mouli with the centre-piece of an oyster in its shell. Again, the look of the dish was sophisticated and interesting. The crab, tuna and oyster were fresh and delicious.

Other fishy starters included a bisque of shellfish, crab tortellini with pernod cream and ossobuco of monkfish with oxtail faggot and pearl barley risotto. There was also a roulade of quail with black pudding and celeriac remoulade and a ballotine of foie gras, smoked duck breast and rhubarb. The Mem agreed, we could have enjoyed any of these first courses.

The wine list at Mallory Court is extensive, without being a tome. The new world is well represented as is the old with some impressive Bergundies and Bordeaux. An upmarket Cloudy Bay sauvignon blanc was on offer at an alarming £80.

We found the maitre d’ pleasant and helpful in choosing wine and opted for his recommendation of an Australian red at £40, which had impressed at a recent tasting. This full-bodied Turkey Flat from the Barossa Valley was redolent of red fruit, chocolate and black pepper with a slight chalky edge. It opened up as the meal progressed. We were pleased with our selection.

After a promising start, our meal really took flight with the main courses. The two fish mains that evening were line-caught sea bass with shrimp and cod tortellini and vanilla potatoes and pan-fried red mullet with spinach and parmesan cannelloni and a fish cream sauce. There was also breast of Gressingham duck with creamed sweetcorn and crispy duck confit.

The Mem chose a duo of beef fillet with braised blade in a morel madeira sauce. The contrast between the more homely slow-braised blade and the tender fillet made the dish. Each form of beef melted in the mouth and complimented the other. The sauce also accentuated the wintery flavours.

My main course also reflected Simon Haigh’s penchant for contrasting comfort food with top- notch restaurant fare. In this case, he served the tenderest medium rare loin of venison on top of long-braised pork belly, sandwiching rich red cabbage. The pork was unctuous and lifted by subtle seasoning with a Chinese edge and a peppery port sauce. The dish demonstrated the delicate flavour combinations and slick presentation that must have impressed the Michelin inspectors.

Both main courses were complimented by our Australian red.

Desserts are another strength at Mallory and we knew from past visits that we would probably opt for the hot soufflé.

On this evening, we were tempted by the baked desserts: a crème brulee, black pepper vanilla poached rhubarb with ginger and advocaat ice cream and also lemon cream with cherries and blackcurrant sorbet. We also flirted with the roasted options: a dark chocolate pastilla, banana parfait and roasted bananas or roasted pear with caramel sauce, pain perdu and pear sorbet.

Resisting these distractions, we succumbed to the prune and armagnac soufflé. The soufflé protruded magnificently above the sides of its large white ramekin. It had risen as required and was light, fluffy and full of prune and brandy flavour. It was accompanied by heavenly prune and armagnac ice cream and a glass bottle with a wired top containing a sinful cream and apple concoction.

To our surprise, we were also served an excellent dessert wine with the compliments of the management to celebrate our anniversary: a touching gesture.

We followed dinner with coffee and petits fours in front of the fire in the drawing room. Other diners, ranging between family parties of five and seven celebrating birthdays and couples, appeared to have had an equally enjoyable meal.

The food and service at Mallory Court had been exemplary and our evening had been thoroughly enjoyable, amounting to a special occasion.

Returning to Mallory Court brought to mind our last stay at Chewton Glen. We found Chewton Glen well-run with splendid leisure and spa facilities, accommodation and restaurant. For me, however it did have a corporate edge and too many suits to be fun.

Mallory Court similarly operates on an increasingly large stage. Nowadays, it is more than a country house hotel and restaurant. It hosts conferences, wedding fairs and weddings and promotional gatherings on a grand scale. It is now a sizeable hotel and conference centre and boasts a superb, Michelin-starred restaurant. As it is inevitably obliged by the realities of modern economics to grow more corporate, I hope it continues to retain the personal charm and standards of service that have made it one of our favourite places.

Written in February 2007

Mallory Court, Harbury Lane, Leamington Spa, Warwickshire CV35 9QB

Tel: 01926 330214 Fax: 01926 451714

e-mail: reception@mallorycourt.co.uk

website: http://www.mallory.co.uk/

The Forest in Dorridge

Our nephew, Egbert, the Mem’s sister Bunty’s oldest boy, had called at Moseley Towers with his young lady, Minty with some good news. He had proposed and the delightful Minty, the de Vere’s youngest, had accepted.

We could look forward to the merger of the Snaffle and de Vere clans during the early summer. The date would depend upon the availability of St Brenda’s in Snitterton Parva which has seen the hatching, matching and despatching of generations of Snaffles.

Caught up in the joy of the moment, the Mem decided we should treat the engaged couple to an impromptu dinner to mark the occasion. For a change, we opted for somewhere new to us, The Forest in Dorridge, a fifteen minute drive away.

The Forest, according to some notes on the menu, “was built in 1870, when the train station opposite was opened and has traded as a hotel ever since”. Call me old fashioned (or worse), but I have always assumed stations are for trains; the context usually avoids confusion with those “of the Cross” or for buses. I also enjoy the sound of “an hotel” but nowadays, Fowler only conjures Pauline and Albert Square and not grammatical correctness, so I shall hold my tongue.

We entered The Forest via a large bar area with wooden floors, conventional pub furniture plus sofas in the modern fashion. It was busy with a convivial buzz and quite smoky at 8.00 that evening.

At the risk of being a kill-joy, I do look forward to the restriction on smoking in public places.

We went though to the restaurant at the rear. Only a curtain separated it from the bar and when we were first seated the smoke was evident. The waiter was accommodating when we asked for a table further away in the far corner of the room next to the window.

Our drinks order was taken immediately. This is a good thing. We opted for cheery flutes of celebratory Duval rose house champagne (£6.50) with which to toast the impending nuptials.

We were immersed in conversation enjoying our fizz and it took the waiter three efforts before we were all ready to order. We weren’t being unduly slow and felt a tad rushed.

The menu included attractive lunch and light meal sections. For dinner it offered eight starters and puddings and ten or so mains with a range of side orders.

The wine list was reasonably varied with more from new world than the old. From the two bin ends on offer we couldn’t resist a Louis Jadot Puligny Montrachet 2000 at £29.50. We asked the waiter if he recommended it and, with refreshing honesty, he admitted no-one else had ever ordered it. As it turned out, it was light and mellow but without any real depth.

This was one of the few occasions when we all agreed the wine was just too cold when brought to the table. It was much more palatable when removed from its chilled container for a few minutes.

We also erred on the side of extravagance with our choice of red, another 2000 Louis Jadot Gevrey-Chambertain. Unfortunately the cork was broken on extraction but eventually removed with no harm done. This also proved satisfactory without being stunning.

The best part of our dinner turned out to be our starters. The Mem and Egbert thoroughly enjoyed their salmon and prawn cake topped with a poached egg and hollandaise sauce (£6). This was tasty comfort food par excellence and an auspicious beginning.

Minty also liked her vodka and beetroot cured salmon (£6) which was an unusual take on a conventional smoked salmon starter.

I had no problem at all in making in-roads into my tiger prawn and avocado salad which was also in cake form; it managed to be savoury and refreshing and was further lifted by a parmesan crisp.

Other starters included Forest mushroom soup with gnocchi and mascarpone, home cured “bresola”, chicken liver parfait, moules mariniere and beetroot tomato and parmesan tart.

For mains, Egbert and I selected roasted local Umberslade pheasant with hash brown, braised cabbage and juniper (£15.50). The pheasant was pink and tender but a little bland. The jus in which it was served was delicious.

The ladies both chose Aberdeenshire rump beef with horseradish croquette, wild mushrooms and glazed onions (£15). Ordered medium the beef came closer to rare but was of good quality and flavour and enhanced by it’s accompaniments.

We shared side orders of hand-cut chips and char grilled pumpkin with pine nuts and balsamic (£2.50), which were pleasing.

The Gevrey Chambertain went well with both main courses.

Other main courses included fillet of lamb with minted borlotti beans, halibut, mixed fish grill, sea bass, John Dory, whole wild duck and an open ravioli of butternut squash with baby vegetables, ranging between £11 and £18.50.

To be honest the puddings were an anti-climax. Minty, Egbert and I found the vanilla and fig brulee disappointing: the brulee was too custardy with no real sign of vanilla whilst the layer of figs was watery.

The Mem’s cranberry steamed sponge pudding was surprisingly small and dense.

We finished with good teas and a cappuccino.

On the menu the proprietors refer to their vision of creating a neighbourhood restaurant with good quality food and service. The range of dishes and wines is appealing and most of the cooking is assured with only the odd discordant note. Service is pleasant and energetic but at times a little gauche.

We had an enjoyable celebratory evening and wish The Forest success in achieving its laudable vision.

Written in December 2006

The Forest, Station Approach, Dorridge B93 8JA

Tel: 01564 772120

http://www.forest-hotel.com/ info @forest-hotel.com

Monday-Saturday 12.00 – 2.20 pm 6.30 -10.00pm Sunday 12.00 – 3.00pm

Optional 10% service charge shared equally between the team

The Malt Shovel at Barston

Every few months the Mem and I meet up with our old friend Bunty Pargeter for lunch and a chinwag. The Mem and Bunty were together at Rodean many moons ago and enjoy catching up with each other’s news and, as they put it, “all the goss”.

Bunty has for many years run Lazy Pastures, a livery yard in the leafy Vale of Vaysey and either we drive to her neck of the woods or vice versa.

This time it was to be in our patch and we nominated the Malt Shovel at Barston, which (quite rightly) calls itself “a country pub and restaurant”.

We ate in the bar where bookings aren’t taken. We arrived at 12.30 and had no problem in securing a pleasant table overlooking the garden at the rear.

We all agreed a bottle of the house champagne would hit the spot and enjoyed it throughout the meal.

The winter bar menu was already up and running in early October. It featured eight or so starters and main courses with four others available as either, five puddings, various side orders and five further starters and mains as “specials of the day”. We were spoiled for choice.

To begin, Bunty and I adored our seared scallops on sweet potato puree with carrot crisps (£7.95). The three scallops were fresh and succulent with a sweet caramelised edge that matched the delicious puree perfectly. We agreed it was the perfect starter.

The Mem chose her favourite Malt Shovel dish of salmon fishcakes on wilted spinach with free range poached egg and chive hollandaise. This was another winner. The fishcake was moist and full of flavour and uplifted by the well-executed hollandaise. The runny poached egg on top elevated the dish to true comfort food: a cheery lunchtime classic.

Other starters included toasted crumpet with wild mushrooms and gorgonzola, potato gnocchi on tomato ragout, red onion and goats cheese open tart, Moroccan spiced pork on citrus cous cous and marinated black bean chicken (ranging between £5.95 and £6.50).

The specials starters included seared tuna, breaded whitebait, smoked haddock and salmon on toast and mussel and prawn chowder.

The dishes to be taken in starter or main course portions were asparagus and pecorino ravioli, blackened chicken and smoked bacon Caesar salad plus an all-time savoury favourite of mine, lamb kidneys, bacon and field mushrooms on toast.

For main courses the Mem and Bunty both opted for a slow-braised shoulder of lamb served on a parsnip rosti with a papardelle of English leeks (£15.95). This melted in the mouth and had a satisfying autumnal feel.

I couldn’t resist Gressingham duck breast served on braised red cabbage –to which I am addicted- with potato fondant with juniper jus (£14.95). The duck was pink comme il faut and the cabbage was unctuous and sweet – although I did get a little more than I bargained for when I bit into what appeared to be a large piece of star anise. The potato was not quite as fondant as I would have liked and perhaps creamed potato would have been an improvement, but did not wreck the dish.

The list of mains must have had something to please everyone, including Aberdeen Angus seared liver on creamed swede, pancetta and baby onion jus, Worcestershire free range chicken, Scottish rib eye steak on field mushrooms and fillet of beef with a herb and peppercorn crust, buttered spinach and white truffle oil.

The specials had some outstanding fish such as seared sea bass on pistachio butter linguine, grilled hake on open lasagne, roast cod on butterbean mash and pan-fried sea bream on wild mushroom risotto.

Most of the mains ranged between £15.95 to £16.95, not exactly cheap but featuring quality ingredients handled with skill and flair.

Like good Rodean girls the Mem and Bunty managed dessert. The panettone bread and butter pudding with white chocolate was not excessively heavy. It was served with a vanilla crème anglaise that was subtle and delicate. The dark chocolate mousse with hazelnut crust was sophisticated and set off beautifully by a coconut sorbet.

Other puddings at £5.50 were imaginative and enough to tempt the most jaded of palates; they included a warm stack of Kirsch blinis with plum and apricot chutney and Carmelita ice cream, honey cheesecake with a walnut base and Merlot marinated strawberrries and an Amaretto crème caramel with passion fruit coulis.

We all enjoyed our lunch; they know what they’re doing at the Malt Shovel. Service is pleasant and efficient. The atmosphere is convivial without being hectic and background music is not too intrusive. The menu is diverse and appealing with an outstanding range of fish dishes. Local ingredients are used wherever possible. In an area with several excellent gastro pub restaurants you would be hard pressed to find higher standards than at the Malt Shovel at Barston.

Written in October 2006

The Malt Shovel at Barston, Barston Lane, Barston,Solihull,

West Midlands B92 0JP

Telephone/Fax : 01675 443223

The Penhelig Arms in Aberdovey

Recently the Mem and I were telling some friends about a pleasant weekend we had enjoyed in Aberdovey on the Welsh coast. We grew more confused as they responded with talk of the heat, sand, dress code and flying with Emirates. It was only when they mentioned riding camels that we realised they thought we had been to Abu Dhabi: strange but true!

Anyway, just before we bade farewell to the long hot summer of 2006 (or was it the “long, long hot summer” or perhaps just “long-ish”? No, it was definitely “long”, so as you were.) Where was I? Oh, yes….just before the end of September then, the Mem and I edged the Hillman Minx out of Moseley Towers, pointed west and made our way along the M6 Toll and M54 over the border into Wales and then via Welshpool and Machynlleth to Aberdovey or “Aberdyfi” as they say in these parts.

In doing so we encountered thunderstorms, bi-lingual road signs, disputes over map-reading and convoys of caravans, but like a mini Lord of the Rings overcame every trial and eventually triumphantly caught sight of the sea and a metaphorical haul of Oscars at the Academy Awards.

We had an invitation from our nephew Egbert and his fiancé Minty to join them for the weekend at the de Vere family weekend retreat above Aberdovey, which in terms of charm is to neighbouring caravan-strewn Towyn as sedate Hove is to raffish Brighton, but much more so.

You may recall Egbert is the oldest of the Snaffle boys, the offspring of the Mem’s widowed sister Bunty. Minty is the youngest of the de Vere girls and has been betrothed to lucky young Egbert for six months now.

Treflan House has been the de Vere family holiday home and bolt-hole for several generations and the Mem and I spent a very convivial weekend there. It was a perfect base for walks on the beach and glorious countryside, a spot of golf, general intake of fresh air and relaxation.

To thank our young hosts for their hospitality we took them on Saturday evening to the Penhelig Arms which enjoys a prime location on Aberdovey’s sea front.

The Penhelig Arms is highly thought of locally and a booking is essential at most times of year. Its restaurant is well-reviewed in the various guides and was named UK wine pub of the year by the Good Pub Guide in 2006 and 9th in the Top 100 UK Restaurant wine lists by Neville Blech.

So we arrived at 7.30 with high expectations and sat in the bar for pre-dinner drinks and perusal of the menu.

The wine list was an interesting read and offered something for most palates, both new and old world. Personal favourites such as Cloudy Bay chardonnay and sauvignon blanc featured with a fair mark-up. This list alone was enough to make one want to return. Help was on hand with the recommendation of a reasonably priced white wine to accompany dinner.

The front of house staff were pleasant and welcoming although a family group sitting nearby pointedly switched from English to Welsh as soon as we incomers came in. Chatting happily, we enjoyed our pre-dinner drinks whilst looking through the Bwydlen y nos/Evening menu which stated that who was cooking that night and confirmed Dim ysmygu/No smoking.

On this Saturday evening, the dining room was full and busy. Décor was muted in the modern manner but lifted by many paintings by local artists.

To begin the Mem chose grilled Pantysgawn goat’s cheese with roast peppers and a Mediterranean vegetable chutney. She found the cheese savoury without being too strong and lifted by both accompaniments: a more-ish starter.

Minty's chicken liver parfait with apple and cider chutney was served with melba toast. Again, this was appetising without being too heavy. The parfait was silky smooth and rich but not cloying.

Both Egbert and I pushed the boat out and each enjoyed six Rossmore oysters served on ice (at a £2.50 supplement). The oysters were fresh and tasted of the sea. They were simply accompanied by lemon and bottled tabasco. I would also have liked some chopped shallots in red wine vinegar too, but this did not detract from my enjoyment.

Other starters on an appropriately fish-dominated list included roast pepper and garlic soup, pan fried salmon and sweet potato fishcake, fillets of mullet, dressed crab salad and sardines grilled with dill and lemongrass.

The main courses included a good mix of meat and fish. Minty and I felt like steak and notwithstanding a £6 supplement chose chargrilled Welsh Black fillet served with béarnaise sauce and fries. The steak was of good quality and flavour and cooked as ordered – in my case, medium and bloodily rare for Minty.

From an impressive offering of fish, Egbert chose pan-fried Scottish halibut with a prawn veloute. The halibut was fresh, firm and simply cooked leaving the flavour to speak for itself. The veloute was light and did not distract from the fish.

The Mem has had a weakness for hake after falling for “merluza” in Spain and enjoyed her fillet of Cornish hake grilled with a light and colourful accompaniment of Moroccan spices, peppers and lime.

The only reservation about the main course was the accompanying small panache of rather dull vegetables, which was at odds with the high quality of the fish. Perhaps it was just a busy night.

Other fish dishes included seared scallops and crevettes and whole black sea bream (both at a £6 supplement), roast loin of cod, chargrilled tuna and fried haddock in batter.

Carnivorous options included pan fried pork, the “Pen” burger made from Welsh Black rump steak, lamb’s liver and roast rack of local lamb (esgairgyfela Aberdyfi).

The Moseley’s, Snaffles and De Veres have notoriously healthy appetites and, as ever, we all managed puddings/pwdins. Selecting tarts with locally made vanilla ice-cream, Egbert and I had no difficulty in finding room for treacle, whilst the Mem enjoyed a sharpish caramelised lemon.

We accompanied pudding with a delightful Essencia Orange Muscat from California which tasted deliciously of apricots and bittersweet orange marmalade.

Minty wanted to try the selection of cheeses served with celery, fruit chutney and biscuits (at a supplement of £3.50). These included Cropwell Bishop Stilton, Gorwydd Caerphilly, Ragstone (a goat’s scheese), Pont Gar blue (a soft organic in the style of brie) and Stinking Bishop (as in Wallace & Grommit); a tasty, well-presented and interesting selection.

At the end of an enjoyable evening we tottered back to Treflan House after a good dinner, well-served in pleasant surroundings.

The Penhelig Arms offers a wide selection of excellent wines and dishes using good quality ingredients, sourced as locally as possible. We can well understand why it is so popular and successful.

Written in September 2006
The Penhelig Arms, Aberdovey

Telephone: 01654 767215 Fax: 01654 767690

http://www.penheligarms.com/

Dinner £28

The Old Butchers in Stow-on- the-Wold

After all those years in Poona, the Mem and I normally find the English summer a breeze – although last year, in the vicinity of our own dear Oxford Road, it resembled a tornado…but that’s another story.

I have to admit that we were both finding Moseley Towers a tad stifling in the record heat this July. In view of this, we were delighted to accept an invitation from the Mem’s sister Bunty for a long weekend at the Titterton family home in Snitterton in verdant Warwickshire.

It would be pleasant to potter about the shady gardens and down the odd Pimms whilst the girls caught up on all the gossip – or whatever it is they rattle on about.

So, with me in my best linen jacket and Panama and the Mem, a vision floating in chiffon, we pointed the Hillman Minx post haste in the direction cool and leafy Arden.

Friday and Saturday passed very pleasantly and the Mem and I proposed to take our hostess to lunch on Sunday by way of thank–you. Having read some good reviews, we thought we would cross the county line towards Gloucestershire and the Cotswolds and try The Old Butchers in Stow-on-the-Wold.

A table for five was booked for Sunday at 1.15p.m. The Moseley party would comprise the Mem and myself, sister Bunty, her only son Egbert and his vivacious fiancée, Minty de Vere.

We had always been on good terms with the de Vere’s and had known their youngest, Minty since she was a tot. With a famously good hunting seat and the formidable de Vere child-bearing hips, we all felt Minty was the perfect match for Egbert. Everyone agreed she was a good sort and would be a positive addition to the family.

Our journey through the Sunday drivers pottering around the Cotswolds was slow but uneventful, including the usual crawl through traffic lights before entering Stow-on-the-Wold. The neat centre with its yellow-stone buildings was full of tourist coaches and many visitors from the Far East. On a sunny day pubs and cafes seemed to be doing a roaring trade.

As rather given away by its name, The Old Butchers was exactly that. There is a smallish frontage to Park Street with tables and umbrellas outside which were fully occupied during our visit.

We were shown to a table at the rear of the restaurant with cushions on benches on the wall on two sides. This afforded a good view of the room and helped people watching and was convenient for the loos.

The decor was fresh with a tiled floor and muted painted walls lifted by various food-themed posters, prints and pictures. There were huge white lilies on the bar. Music played unobtrusively in the background – so inoffensive was it that afterwards none of our party could remember what it was.

Our drinks order was taken quickly. This is a very good thing. We thanked our hostess by starting off with a nicely chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot NV (£45), which gave the meal a celebratory edge.

The menu is fairly short – also in a good way - offering a choice of eight or so starters, mains and puddings. We were told that everything was cooked to order and certainly no ping of a microwave was ever heard.

The wine list is impressive and offers something for most palates, including reasonably priced house wines by the glass or bottle.

To begin we selected a Cote du Rhone Viognier Vidal Fleury 2004. At £23.50, this was fair value and did not disappoint. Our chosen red was a Chateau De Gaillat Graves 2000 which accompanied our main courses perfectly and again was not unreasonably priced at £26.

To start the Mem and Egbert ordered duck confit with onion marmalade, which they declared superb with crispy skin and moist, flavoursome flesh. Bunty toyed with a globe artichoke simply presented with a small bowl of vinaigrette. This was a light and summery way to start the meal and suited her perfectly.

Young Minty surprised us by opting for a rather robust pork rillette served in a largish quenelle with pickles and mustard. It tasted of pork – as it should - and was lifted by its accompaniments. She was a little over-faced by the portion. Paradoxically this might have been helped by the addition of Melba toast or bread to eat with the dish.

For the first time, I chanced my arm and ordered steak tartar. It was traditionally constructed, but already had the raw egg yolk incorporated. It was served in a saucer shape topped with chopped onion and anchovies. I was thrilled with my daring choice. It was moist and savoury with a tang of tabasco and cool without being chilled. It made an excellent starter on a warm Sunday.

Other appetisers included potato and foie gras soup, grilled chicken Caesar salad and prosciuttio crudo with Italian melon. Unfortunately the spinach and scallop salad was very popular; supplies had run out by the time we arrived.

Starters were priced between £6.00 and £7.50 and main courses between £11.50 and £13.00. These included seabass, plaice, pork chop, breast of duck and saffron and courgette risotto.

For mains sister–in-law Bunty and I followed the host’s recommendation and went for roast sirloin of beef with Yorkshire pudding. The beef was medium rare but was a quality product, full of flavour and served in delicious gravy. The Yorkshire was large and fluffy and wasn’t just air and crunch as in some restaurants. This was served with a small side dish of carrots, cabbage and roast potatoes, all of which were good.

The Mem and Minty chose calves liver with aged balsamic and sage. This was sweet and tender and thankfully not overcooked. It was served with creamed potatoes and wilted spinach. Egbert enjoyed a slow cooked lamb shank served with red wine and sultanas and a kind of quince jelly. The lamb fell from the bone. This was the kind of comfort food Egbert adores and Minty will need to master.

Merry and unashamed we all wanted dessert which we accompanied with an excellent bottle of De-Bortoli VAT 5 Botrytis Semillon 2002 (£13.50). Bunty and I adored our panna cotta with raspberries, lifted by a splash of grappa. The consistency was just right, beautifully speckled with vanilla seeds.

Chocoholic as ever, the Mem found room for a warm chocolate and polenta cake and was pleasantly surprised by its lightness. Minty had no difficulty in accommodating a raspberry-based Eton mess, whilst Egbert also coped admirably with a simple affogato of vanilla ice cream drenched with an authentic expresso.

After coffees and teas we tottered out blinking into the sunshine disgracefully, some time after 4.00.

We had all enjoyed our visit to the Old Butchers. It is Australian-run and all the better for it - being relaxed, unfussy and pleasant yet professional and good value. The range of dishes and wines is admirable and the cooking accomplished. There is an emphasis on robust flavours and letting good ingredients speak for themselves. The Mem and I wish it was closer to home.

Written on 31 July 2006

The Old Butchers, Park Street, Stow-on-the-Wold, Gloucestershire GL54 1AQ

Telephone: 01451 831700

Tea in the Promenade at The Dorchester

I know I quoted A.A.Gill recently and – after the next paragraph - will try not to do it again.

Despite the case that might be put for several other worthies, anyone interested in the craft of food criticism has to admit that when it comes to opining on victuals, Mr Gill is the head honcho, big cheese or, as they say at Arsenal, le grand saucission.

Even when he’s wrong, which happens occasionally, he has the grace to do it amusingly.

A case in point is an aside in his critique of the sub-Brigadoon makeover of the Grill Room. On his way though The Dorchester on a mission to search and destroy the camp décor of the Grill, he took a side swipe at the innocently by-standing Promenade. He designated it a “lobby…still a dingy archipelago of artificially enhanced sofas and pot plants, with one of the pianists that makes you want to proclaim a fatwa on musical theatre” featuring a “lazy left-hand rendition of Bess, You Is My Woman Now played to a semi comatose, jet lagged family of Kuwaitis come for the new kidney”.

Apart from forever summing up a large part of the clientele of The Dorchester with uncanny accuracy, Mr Gill on this occasion sold the Promenade a tad short. My ten points of difference or praise to put the record straight are:

1. The Promenade is quite attractive with pillars, gilding and quality furnishings. It may not be to everyone’s taste, but “dingy lobby” it ‘aint.

2.The pianist is very accomplished and anything but lazy. During our tea he stopped no less than three times to play happy birthday to guests with evident enthusiasm. It may not be cool, but it made some customers' day - which is what should count.

3.The sofas and chairs are smart and extremely comfortable.

4.The pot plants are perfectly presentable

5.The staff are charming and helpful.

6.Afternoon tea is a real treat, well-served and with quality ingredients, including an excellent range of teas.

7.Scones are fresh and light and the fancy cakes are exactly that.

8.The rhubarb jam served with the scones is memorably good.

9.Tea is served on pristine Limoges china, which adds to enjoyment.

10. Unlike other teas in some of London’s leading hotels, the Promenade is generous in offering “seconds” of sandwiches and cakes and topping-up tea. Guests are treated as adults to be shown hospitality rather than as ravening hordes to be fleeced and seen off the premises

As far as the Mem and I are concerned the Promenade, its staff and pianist deserve high praise - even if many of the customers are jet-lagged and waiting for the kidney.

Written in July 2006

The Ivy

“Life doesn’t get much better than this” I said to the Mem as we sat in the taxi on the short journey from the theatre to the restaurant.

We had just enjoyed Judi Dench give a master class in comedy in “Hay Fever” at the Haymarket and were now off for supper at The Ivy.

We started going to the Ivy many years ago, long before celebrity culture or the Beckhams were born. We were first attracted by its theatrical mystique and the ghost of all those after-rehearsals lunches for Noel Coward and his entourage.

We also enjoyed the food and lively, bohemian atmosphere. Nowadays it has glamour and theatricality in spades and the food is still splendid.

On this Wednesday night we arrived before our table was free and sat in the small bar area for ten minutes or so enjoying a flute of Theophile champagne.

We were then shown to our table in the centre of the room. We understand that the left hand side on entry has most cachet and higher celebrity count and were pleased just to be seated and to enjoy the happy ambiance for the rest of the evening.

In some ways, the menu at the Ivy is a hymn in praise of comfort food. There is something to please even the most jaded.

It is split into eleven or so sections covering hors d’oeuvres, soups, shellfish, egg, pasta and rice, fish, roasts and grills and entrees. Vegetables, potatoes and salads, cheese and savouries, desserts and puddings and coffees and teas bring up the rear.

On sitting down, a further drinks order was taken and we ordered a premier cru Chablis from 2003 at £44.50.

From the hors d’oeuvres we could have dishes such as steak tartare, mixed sashimi or tempura-fried squid (between £7.00 and £11.75). Even more luxuriously there was sevruga or beluga caviar (from £45 to £160) or sautéed foie gras (£15.75).

Late on a warm evening, we chose our starters from the shellfish section, which offered a range of lobster, oyster and prawn dishes. The Mem opted for dressed Dorset crab with celeriac remoulade, which was the epitome of cool freshness and flavour. I was very pleased with my three Orkney scallops served in their shells with garlic and parsley. The scallops were purest white and sweet and one of the most pleasurable dishes for years. The chablis went very well with both crab and scallops.

Our main courses came from the roast and grills section which contained dishes ranging from the Ivy Hamburger with dill pickle and club sauce ( £9.75) up to the Castle Mey rib steak (£26.50) and roast Poulet des Landes with Madeira jus and dauphin potato for two persons (£38.50).

Here the Mem chose her favourite Ivy dish of grilled calf’s liver served on buttery mash with crispy bacon and sage jus (£17.50). She found the liver tender and flavoursome and the bacon so thin and crisp it melted in the mouth.

I couldn’t resist the slow roasted organic pork belly (£14.75) which was presented on fresh peas, orange and smoked bacon. Pork nowadays is so often a bland, cotton-wool, flavour-free zone, but this actually tasted of something.

We shared side orders of creamed spinach and parmesan fried courgette flowers and tomato relish. Both went beautifully with the liver and pork and disappeared all too quickly.

For dessert, I loved my vanilla roasted peaches (£6.50) which were served with amaretto ice cream, whilst the Mem enjoyed gooseberry pie with clotted cream. The pastry on her pie was crisp and light and really made the dish.

From the first bite to the last, our supper at the Ivy was delightful. The place has its own convivial buzz and the service is prompt and helpful. It is a fabulous place for people-watching, whether celebrity or not.

The discretionary service charge of 12.5%, added automatically to the bill seems in order. My only negative is the slightly anachronistic £2 per head cover charge still levied.

As we left well after midnight we noted drivers waiting in Bentley turbos parked along the narrow road and a huddle of four or five expectant photographers on the pavement opposite. I couldn’t resist asking the doorman who they were waiting for. He explained that Jennifer Ellison, formerly of Brookside and Hell’s Kitchen and currently appearing in Chicago, was about to leave. When I looked a bit non-plussed he commented “Well, it sells papers” and bade us good night. A very good night it was, too.

Written in July 2006

The Ivy, 1, West Street, London WC2H 9NQ

Telephone: 020 7836 4751 Fax: 020 7240 9333

The Grill Room at The Dorchester

I’m never frightened to admit I’m a fan. Once an actress has really captured my imagination, I enjoy following her from one role to the next. For me, the sublime Judi Dench wins by short head over feisty Julie Waters and the captivating Joanna Lumley.

As a bit of a foodie, I’m much the same with food writers. Each Saturday morning, the first thing I turn to is Giles Coren’s column in the Times magazine, followed by Jan Moir in the Telegraph.

On Sundays, it’s A.A.Gill in the Style section of the Times followed by Michael Winner on the back of the News Review.

Although, I’m a fan I do have a mind of my own and don’t blindly accept the critic’s verdicts as tablets of stone.

The Mem and I are long-time fans of the Grill Room at the Dorchester. We always considered it one of the dining rooms in London with its lofty gilded ceiling and hangings and furnishings that transported one to a castle in Spain.

Complimenting the impressive décor was a great kitchen and excellent service of the old school, both charming and competent.

No one could deny that the carte at the Grill was expensive, but the daily set lunch was a well-kept secret and a bargain. For £23 it included a choice of three starters, mains and desserts - and featured a lot of trolleys.

The bread trolley was excellent and the stilton bread “historic”.

We always opted for beef served from the trolley.

Dessert also came from a many-tiered trolley, which was truly a thing of almost baroque beauty. Ignoring the sumptuous jellies and flans, we invariably selected the incomparable crème brulee, accompanied by a few Scottish raspberries and a splash of cream. It all combined to make the perfect lunch.

It was with great sadness – no, more like depression - that on Sunday mornings in Moseley Towers, we read Michael Winner’s several accounts of the deterioration in standards at our beloved Grill.

On account of this we put off our usual summer visit, not wanting to tarnish happy memories.This feeling of foreboding was compounded by A.A.Gill’s review of what he described as “the shrieking horror of the newly done-over Grill Room”. This very funny piece concluded that the Grill had, with great panache, been transformed into the most laughably hideous dining room in London, probably Europe, the globe, the galaxy, history, eternity, ever…including Stow on the Wold.

We arrived in London earlier than anticipated and felt like lunch. At such short notice we were unable to obtain a table at The Wolseley- notwithstanding their much-vaunted policy of holding tables back to be released each day.

Holding our breath, we tentatively asked the pleasant grey-suited young lady standing at a lectern outside the Grill Room if they had a table and were seated immediately. We were warmly greeted by staff familiar to us from previous visits and placed centrally with a good view of half the restaurant.

The room seemed to have more subdued lighting than before and the new design by Thierry Despont certainly majored on things Scottish with tartan carpet, chair covers and banquettes and large bright red buttoned velvet settee backs against the principal walls, which were painted in a kind of ochre.

The room’s most striking feature, however, was a series of extremely large murals of lads and lassies being ebullient and Scottish, swathed in yard upon yard of billowing tartan and the odd bonnet and feather. They all seemed very pleased with themselves and, to be honest, the overall effect was a tad unsettling and not exactly an aid to digestion.

The esteemed Mr Gill referred to the "whole glorious catastrophe" variously as "Prestwick airport" , "Brigadoon hell" and “Cally camp”. He was about right.

Trying to ignore the jaw-dropping impact of the décor, we scanned the menu. The a la carte still offered mouth-watering dishes at eye-watering prices.

Appetisers included oak smoked wild Scottish salmon (£18), seared scallops with squid risotto and grilled asparagus (£18.50) and Denham estate venison burger with quail’s egg, griottine cherries, shallot puree and port (£16.50).

Main courses were mostly between £23 and £30 and included roast sea bass fillet, Dover sole, seared tuna and rack of new season lamb.

Being on a fixed income nowadays, we were very pleased to find the menu of the day intact.We drank excellent chardonnay spritzers and bottled water and were offered an interesting range of breads. We were delighted to be able to choose our old favourite, stilton bread. It was still historic, even without a trolley.

To begin, the Mem chose a tart fine of sardines with avocado, tomato and basil. The base was light and crisp. The sardines were fresh, plump and tasty and the accompaniments lifted the dish into a very more-ish starter.I began with what was described as a coarse country terrine. It wasn’t as rustic as it sounds, being quite smooth. It was served with onion marmalade and a large hunk of toasted brioche. This was a fair portion and a delicious way to begin my meal.

The other starter on offer was gazpacho with lemon oil, which would have been suitable on such a warm summer’s day.

Main courses included thinly sliced rump of veal with onion puree, white beans and summer truffles and grilled sea bream with cockles, spaghetti, white wine, chilli and garlic, both of which sounded tempting.

For old time’s sake, however, we couldn’t resist the Angus beef from the trolley. It was offered medium-to-well or rare-to-medium and was accompanied by enormous Yorkshire pudding, gravy, carrots and roast potatoes. Mustards and horse radish sauce came in three ramekins on a plate.

The generous portions of beef were cheerfully carved at the table and were as good as on previous occasions, although the carrots were on the hard side of al dente.

After a happy walk down memory lane with our roast beef, we learned to live without the sweet trolley and chose tarts from the menu: one of Vahlrona chocolate and the other of apple on a crisp pastry base. Both were delicious, if falling short of the legendary crème brulee and raspberries of yore.

We left the Grill Room with mixed feelings. The staff were as attentive and welcoming as ever and the cooking and presentation were still refined and clever.

The menu of the day remained good value and we had enjoyed our meal, all the more for its spontaneity.

We realise sadly however that it is probably no longer economic for establishments like the Grill Room to carry such a large staff as before with each grade demarcated by lounge suit, tail coat or white or dark waiter’s jacket. With such things we now expect to lose marvellous anachronisms like the bread and sweet trolleys.

What really did get under our skins was the sheer folly of scrapping the grand and beautiful old Grill Room and substituting something so entirely ersatz and irrelevant. The new décor is distracting and rather silly. The Grill Room, its staff and long-standing customers deserved better.

Written in July 2006

The Grill Room, The Dorchester, Park Lane, London W1A 2HJ

Telephone 0207 629 8888

Lunch menu of the day:two course £25; three course £27.50

Gordon Ramsay at Claridges - twice

The Mem and I are of a generation for whom coming up to Town meant staying at Claridge's. In our day there was a “Season” and there were “Dances”, held for young people of a similar background to dance and meet their future spouses.

It has always been so central and convenient for shops, theatres and restaurants.Today, Claridge's is more than the favoured base for those venturing up from the country or darkest provinces.

As well as being the epitome of five stars, I gather from newspapers and magazines it is now fashionable or “cool”.The Mem tells me that it is frequented by stylish luminaries such as Madonna and Kate Moss.

Be that as it may, we like Claridge's because it is smart and a cut-above - starting from its art deco foyer and glamorous black and white tiled lobby. They always prompt the Mem to remark in a very Sunset Boulevard-ish kind of way about needing “tiles to tango” and to bustle off coquettishly towards the restaurant.

Unfortunately on the occasion of our visit this week – on one of the hottest evenings in July – Claridge's was not exactly the epitome of cool.

As we entered the hotel, it seemed its usual chic self. The lounge leading to the restaurant, however, set a very different tone. It resembled the club class lounge of Dubai airport during an air traffic controllers' strike. Although the pianist tinkled Gershwin as usual, the room was seemed over-warm and stuffed with ladies in headscarves and plump children leaning over small tables devouring plates of club sandwiches, whilst surrounded by brimming shopping bags.

The feel of this room is usually sparse, cool and elegant. It encourages one to linger over a glass of pink champagne and nibbles before dinner. Tonight, however, it was just the opposite. One hurried through in the hope that things might be more comfortable in the restaurant.

Previous visits had taught us not even to think of asking to be seated beyond the lounge in the small bar area serving the restaurant. As ever, there were several empty tables, but each had a “Reserved” sign. None of these tables appeared to become occupied at any point during the evening, but this is a mysterious apartheid that we have never deciphered and have ceased to worry over.

Once we had checked in with the maitre d’, things started to look up. We were shown across the busy restaurant to a table for two on the wall opposite the entrance. This afforded a view of most of the room so important for people-watching.

Over an aperitif of chilled rose champagne, we conjectured that the larger round tables were occupied by teams of lawyers and accountants celebrating deals or bonuses. The odd table- for-two comprised Japanese merchant bankers with a taste for expensive claret headhunting female analysts or other talent. There was evidently some deal making and a lot of schmoozing on expenses. We felt like the only diners paying for ourselves out of taxed income.

On previous visits to Gordon Ramsay at Claridge's, we have opted for the menu prestige, which enables one to sample a range of signature dishes. Currently this includes a ballotine of foie gras marinated in Beaume de Venise, roasted sea scallops and, for mains, a choice of steamed line-caught sea bass or best end of new season Oxfordshire lamb followed by banana and coconut bavarois and peanut butter parfait with milk mousse.

Tempted though we were by this cornucopia, the evening was far too hot for such excess and we confined ourselves to the a la carte menu…not that this proved to be any hardship.

Our helpful waiter confirmed that Claridge's was experiencing problems with the air conditioning that evening. I confess that I did find it necessary to loosen my tie a little.We enjoyed the complimentary dips served in tiny mini saucepans.

Then, to start the meal we both opted for the chilled Charentais melon soup with tiger prawns and basil vinaigrette, a version of which begins the menu prestige. The soup was colourful, cooling and delicious and the prawns succulent and subtly dressed. It made a perfect start to a summer dinner.

Other starters included combos of braised Gloucester pork belly and langoustines and carpaccio and marinated blue fin tuna. There was also marinated sea bass, Cromer crab salad, bouillon of smoked ham and a risotto of spring truffles.

We found all the main courses appealing. In addition to the items on the menu prestige, there was steamed fillet and roasted cheek of monkfish, lemon sole and black bream with clam provencale.

For carnivores there was Gressingham duck, port roasted pigeon and pork cheeks cooked in honey and cloves.

The Mem chose braised Cornish turbot with Oscietra caviar, sautéed iceberg lettuce, root vegetables and a coriander veloute. This came with a £12 supplement. As might be expected, the kitchen had done justice to the king of fishes. The turbot was meaty yet delicate and enhanced even further by the quenelle of caviar and silky smooth saucing.

I rarely choose chicken when dining out, but on a hot summer’s evening felt like the famous Label anglais chicken en vessie, which had been poached in its own juices. This was served on a citrus braised endive with sautéed potatoes and a Grand Marnier jus. This dish really hit the spot with the chicken full of flavour as I had hoped, lifted even further by the citric sweet and sour of the endive; it really worked for me.

Throughout the meal we found the service slick and professional. Dishes were described fully but not too fulsomely and served with deftness and flair.

For desert, the Mem chose a lime leaf crème brulee with a salad of blackberries and eau de vie sorbet. We questioned whether three blackberries constituted a “salad”, but the dish was pleasant and undemanding. When my spoon cut into my Vahlrona chocolate and hazelnut fondant, the glossy chocolate sauce oozed out very satisfyingly and merged with the delicious accompaniment of feuillante and milk ice cream. The Moseleys do like a good pudding.

We decided against coffees, but enjoyed ice cream and chocolate petit fours which concluded the meal.

It was slightly unfortunate to miss out on the stellar menu prestige, but the carte certainly did not disappoint. With its impeccable cooking and stylish service, Gordon Ramsay at Claridge's is ideal for a special occasion.

One further incident springs to mind. The day before leaving Moseley Towers for London, we received a telephone call to confirm details of our booking.

I’m sure we all agree that this is good practice for both the restaurant and customer. The only discordant note, however was a reminder at the end of the call that dress was required to be smart and that sports clothing was not allowed.

As you might imagine I’m a suit and tie man and the Mem is a vision in chiffon and pearls on such occasions. I had no intention of turning up in my swimming togs, nor did the Mem propose to revisit her netball skirt and blouse. Given the ineffective air conditioning and sweltering heat at Claridge's that evening, perhaps we would have been more comfortable if we had!

Postscript: The Mem and I have just returned from another foray to London, this time to celebrate my birthday and again dined at Gordon Ramsay at Claridges. On this evening the air conditioning seemed to be working well!

We had booked a table for two for 8.45 on a Saturday evening in late September. Arriving early, we enjoyed an aperitif in the fumoir and then moved to the less smoky bar area immediately outside the restaurant.

On time, we were shown to the same table for two on the far wall with an excellent view of the room, perfect for people-watching.

Feeling much more comfortable than last time, we opted for the Menu Prestige which offered six courses.

The meal began well with a delicate bouillon of smoked ham hock with autumn vegatables and a single pease pudding tortelli.

This was followed by a ballotine of foie gras marinated in white port with pickled mushrooms served with a properly warm toasted brioche. The ballotine was silky smooth and savoury and was given an unusual background edge by the white port.

A single roasted sea scallop was sliced into three and served with a sprinkling of nicely dressed carrot, pine nuts and capers. This was fresh take on the dish with the caramelised sweetness of the scallop balanced interestingly by the capers and tangy dressing.

Although the menu featured alternative main courses of steamed line caught sea bass or roast breast of Gressingham duck, we opted for the evening's "special" of roast fillet of venison served with a chocolate sauce.

The chef recommended the venison medium rare and that's how we ordered it. The dish was a complete triumph with the venison a darkish pink and melting in the mouth enhanced by a literally mouthwatering sauce and perfectly executed and balanced acompaniments of wild mushrooms, beetroot and fondant-like potaotoes. To steal a phrase, this dish was double historic.

Puddings included a zingy and refreshing white peach and champagne soup with raspberry sorbet served in a shot glass followed by a super smooth blackberry parfait with a sinful mascarpone ice cream.

Staff, including the helpful somelier, were attentive and pleasant throughout and thoroughly slick and professional.

The evening was made even more interesting by the presence of Gordon Ramsay in his chef's whites visiting the dining room to talk to various customers.

The menu prestige may have been costly but was perfectly conceived, executed and delivered; it made this evening a special occasion too.

Written in July and September 2006

Gordon Ramsay at Claridge's, Brook Street, London W1 2JQ

Telephone: 020 7499 0099 Fax: 020 7592 1213

Menu Prestige Six courses £75

A La Carte Three courses £65

Discretionary 12.5% service charge

The Red Lion at Claverdon

What ho readers! It was a drizzly May morning at Moseley Towers and, over our mid-morning coffee and Mr Kipling bakewell slice, the Mem and I decided we needed perking up.

A few weeks ago we had enjoyed lunch at the refurbished Cross in Kenilworth and promised ourselves then that we would sample the delights of its newly opened sister gastro-pub, The Red Lion at Claverdon. Today seemed opportune to indulge ourselves.

Having booked on the telephone, we pointed the Hillman Minx towards Henley-in-Arden and then turned left through verdant Warwickshire to leafy Claverdon.

We arrived in good time for lunch at the appointed hour of 12.30 and deposited the Minx in the spacious car park.

Once inside, we were shown to our table, given menus and asked for a drinks order. I do like it when the order is taken early and the drinks are served promptly. We could sip our house champagne, nibble fresh onion bread dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar and relax whilst looking through the extensive menu.

The dishes on offer here were diverse and imaginative with something to tempt most palates.

The décor at The Red Lion was not unlike The Cross, with wooden floors, framed prints and silhouettes on the walls and the signature grey paint in evidence.

The room was less spacious and tables were much closer together than at its sister establishment and initially the bass line of the piped music was a tad obtrusive. When the place filled up, however, the sound was absorbed more and was less noticeable.

Starters included roast local goat’s cheese, fig tart with a lemon vinaigrette, a gratin of pan-fried mushrooms, chicken liver pate and Moroccan barbeque lamb with hummus and feta salad.

The Mem enjoyed a salad of Salcombe crab with crème fraiche. This comprised a largish quenelle of crab and a delicate circle of leaves and was a light and refreshing beginning to the meal.

I opted for pan-fried scallops from the daily specials. Three plump and sweet scallops were served with braised lettuce, confit tomato and crisp bacon. I usually choose scallops to begin if available and wasn’t disappointed on this occasion – although it was the most expensive at £7.95.

Other starters from the specials included grilled sardines, goujons of sole, seared smoked salmon and crispy chicken skewers with peanut, white radish and carrot.

We were similarly spoiled for choice as regards the nine main courses. One could opt for Tandoori roasted chicken breast, slow braised lamb shank, Gloucester Old spot pork, free range veal escalope and battered Cornish haddock.

Vegetarian options included a warm salad of wood roasted vegetables and chick pea, red lentil and vegetable lasagne.

The Mem and I both stuck to the main menu this time. My half Gressingham duck with tamarind glaze had a slightly Chinese edge and was served with stir fry bok choi, pickled cucumber and roasted new potatoes. The duck came as a leg and pinkish thick sliced breast; it was delicious.

The Mem pushed the boat out and chose a 16oz. Aberdeen Angus rump steak served with roast vine tomatoes, fresh onion rings and home-made chips served in a paper cornet. The steak resembled a thick and very large rib eye and was served medium as requested. The Mem enjoyed her steak although she found 16 ounces probably too much for lunch!

We shared a side dish of rocket, parmesan and red onion salad in which the parmesan was particularly more-ish.

The day’s specials were also tempting, including pan fried sea bass, roast cod, roasted calamari, whole lemon sole and seared red marsala swordfish. The accompaniments ranged from bocconchini mozzarella, garlic flageolet beans and grilled asparagus and beets to mustard-fried wild mushrooms.

Rather than choose from the list which contained a mix of French and new world wines, we drank another glass of house champagne with our main courses (at £4.75) ; it was cold, dry, fizzy and a great mood enhancer on a gloomy Wednesday.

The self indulgence continued with excellent puddings from a list that included chocolate cheese cake, blackberry and mascarpone mousse, cardamom and mango panacotta and blueberry crème fraiche brulee.

The Mem enjoyed a cinnamon and rhubarb brioche with honey crème anglaise. This “upmarket custard” was delightful with visible black specks of vanilla.

I finished the meal happily with glazed lime tart with honey and ginger ice cream.

We were both cheered up by our lunch and considered it a treat. Service was cheerful and attentive. We noticed that a high chair was promptly brought for a baby at a nearby table without any fuss.

Prices corresponded with the better quality country pub restaurants in the area with starters mainly between £5 and £6.50, mains £13 to £16.50 and sweets mostly at £4.95.

I think the Red Lion will be very popular for al fresco meals. Outside the rear of the restaurant are many tables and sun umbrellas and a stunning view over rolling Warwickshire countryside. The new incarnation of this pub restaurant should be a great success.

Written: 17 May 2006

The Red Lion at ClaverdonStation Road, Claverdon, Near Warwick CV35 8PE

http://www.theredlionatclaverdon.co.uk/

Reservations: 01926 842291

The Gourmet evening at Liaison

What ho, readers! This evening the Mem and I left the trusty old Hillman Minx in its garage at Moseley Towers and invested in a taxi for the relatively short distance from Oxford Road to Liaison in Hall Green.

As ever on Gourmet nights, the restaurant was full and the absence of cars on the limited parking space outside seemed to show that other diners had the same idea.

When we arrived at 8.30 or so the place was fairly buzzing and the hubbub of animated conversation didn’t seem to diminish through the evening.

We began with a glass of excellent house champagne whilst we admired the special menu and decided on our main courses. We later moved on to a crisp Sancerre from the varied wine list.

We began with an appetiser of chilled gazspacho with a bloody Mary crème fraiche. This was refreshing and really stimulated the taste buds; it was perfect for a sultry evening, although it might have been even more interesting with a little more punch – chilli or a little more vodka, perhaps.

Our second course was a skate wing and potato terrine with caper risotto and carrot and orange oil. The terrine had subtle flavours as did the creamy risotto and the whole was lifted by the occasional tang of capers and the unusual and gently citric oil, which also added colour to an otherwise beige plate.

Again one's mind again turned to how the dish might be lifted if one was more inclined towards stronger flavours; suggestions included the substitution of sweet potato for potato - assuming it had the body to support the delicate skate.

Our soup course was cockie leekie with a splash of colour from snipped chives. It was comfort food – a very upmarket version of Jewish penicillin with delicious chicken and a depth of flavour from the underlying stock. The Mem - a great aficionado of soup – declared this perfect.

Before our main course was a very interesting alternative to the usual elderflower or raspberry sorbet, which always seem a little too sweet. Tonight we were served gin’n’tonic sorbet with juniper berry syrup. This was a great success – the epitome of G & T in a chilled shot glass - which was pleasing to eat and cleansed the palate: an unqualified success.

For main course, I chose saddle of wild rabbit wrapped in Parma ham served with bruised baby gems and a honey mustard sauce. This was a delicate dish with the boned and rolled rabbit lifted by the savoury ham. I particularly enjoyed the baby gem lettuce, which had a slightly Chinese edge – probably due to the addition of five spice. The combination was lifted even further by the honey mustard sauce, which brought all the elements together.

The Mem selected tournedos of salmon with foie gras and vanilla and celeriac mash. The salmon was moist and full of flavour. The foie gras made an interesting, if not obviously harmonious, contrast.

Jan Moir of the Telegraph today called vanilla mash "modish"; I don't know about that, but vanilla and celeriac mash certainly did go well with salmon.

It’s always fun for a couple to choose alternative main courses and each to sample both. Tonight the rabbit prevailed.

The “cheese course” was an unusual feta and grape mousse served with a balsamic dressing. Again this was appropriate; it was light and fresh and avoided being too heavy late on in the meal.

The dessert was a summer pudding served with a red berry sorbet accompanied by a crème anglaise, separately served in individual sauce boats. This was an apt end to the meal and was well judged - neither too sweet nor too tart. We accompanied it with a glass of Vouvray, recommended by Ank, which was a revelation – a sophisticated pudding wine which was not at all cloying or over-sweet and with a delicate, slightly floral edge.

To finish we managed coffees and petit fours before our taxi arrived.

The evening had been fun in a convivial atmosphere. As ever, the welcome from Ank van der Tuin and her team had been pleasant and, on a busy night, service had been efficient.

The menu was varied and thoughtful with the clever touches that one has come to expect from Chef Patron, Patricia Plunkett and which have earned Liaison so many admirers.

Liaison Restaurant, 1558 Stratford Road, Hall Green, Birmingham B28 9HA

Telephone: 0121 733 7336 Fax 0121 733 1677

http://www.liaisonrestaurant.co.uk/

Gourmet dinner on 5th May 2006 £39.50 per head

*this article has appeared in Birmingham 13

Lambs of Sheep Street, Stratford Upon Avon

As I may have mentioned, the Mem hails from a proud Warwickshire family, the Tittertons of Snitterton.

Letty and Bunty Titterton were quite the leaders of the younger county set in the years between the wars, before I snapped Letty up and we sailed off to wedded bliss with the Regiment in Poona.

Shortly after her sister was hitched, Bunty married Peabody Snaffle, a local farmer. They had a son, Egbert and lived reasonably happily until Peabody’s fatal heart attack, just after the Germans' winning goal against England in Leon in 1970.

Over the years the Titterton girls remained close. They speak on the ‘phone every day and meet regularly.

This time it was our turn to travel, so we deposited the overnight case in the back of the Hillman Minx and popped over to Snitterton Hall for the weekend.

On the first evening, we thought it would be civil to repay our hosts' hospitality by taking them to dinner at Lambs in nearby Stratford.

Lambs of Sheep Street; now there’s a coincidence.

Our party comprised the Mem, Bunty, Egbert and myself.

We were welcomed cordially and given a round table for four in pole position by the front entrance.
The establishment is deceptively large with only a few tables on the ground floor but many more upstairs.

The menu offered seven or so starters, main courses and puddings with specials chalked up on a blackboard. We were given crisp bread and tapenade as an appetiser and white and brown bread.

We chose a very palatable rioja, Valdelamillo, from a varied and reasonably-priced list.To begin the Mem and the chaps went for a special: seared scallops with a small asparagus tart and beurre blanc. This was delicious and we wished the portion had been even larger.

Other starters included king prawns, crispy duck and watercress, salmon, red mullet and carpaccio of beef; some could be taken as main courses. Hoping to leave room for dessert, Bunty opted for a tomato juice.

Main courses included saddle of lamb, calve's liver, sea bass, cod and halibut. Bunty and I chose grilled rib-eye steak with hand cut chips and peppercorn sauce. The rib-eye was rare but of good quality and flavoursome. The sauce was a tad piquant, but we could have substituted the béarnaise which was served with the fillet.

The Mem enjoyed her fillet steak with rosti potato, Portobello mushroom and vine tomatoes.

Although remaining carnivorous, Egbert departed from steak by ordering roast duck breast with croquette potatoes, savoy cabbage and cassis sauce. The duck was served pink, but not too rare, and was lifted by the cassis sauce.

No-one could resist dessert. Both sisters opted for sticky toffee pudding with vanilla ice cream which was calorific comfort food.

I liked the Eton Mess of meringue and cream with banana rather than the usual strawberries and Egbert quietly polished off his crème brulee.

Decaffeinated cappuccinos were accompanied with little chocolates and made a pleasing finale.

We all enjoyed our meal and the convivial atmosphere. Background music was pleasant rather than irritating and service was efficient and accommodating.

It all added up to a relaxed way to start the weekend. Prices were not unreasonable with starters ranging from £4.50 to £7.50, mains mostly between £15.00 and £18.00 and puddings mainly at £5.95. All the customers seemed to leave smiling, which is a good sign. We too left smiling and look forward to returning to Lambs.

Written: 29 August 2006

Lambs of Sheep Street, Stratford Upon Avon CV37 6EF

Telephone number 01789 292554

The Cross at Kenilworth

T.S Elliot once wrote “April is the cruellest month”. I’m not sure why; compared to February it seems quite benign. It may have had something symbolic to do with Easter and all that, but it’s not something I’m going to ‘phone a friend about.

Whatever the deep psychological motivation, the Mem and I thought we needed cheering up and decided on a spot of lunch out.We duly dusted off the Hillman Minx and set off through leafy Warwickshire towards Kenilworth.

Gastronomically, Kenilworth has always been worth a visit - what with Simpsons before its newer and grander incarnation in Edgbaston and the classic French, Le Bosquet.

For lunch today however, we wanted to sample the fare at a gastro-pub, a breed of eaterie that seems to be flourishing in the county.

The frontage of The Cross, feet from New Street, is unprepossessing, but then again so is the Fat Duck at Bray, which hasn’t done Mr Blumenthal any harm.

There is ample parking to the rear and the entrance is from the car park. Don’t make our mistake and assume the entrance is at the front, find out it’s not and then have to walk sheepishly back pretending one had just been admiring the signage. It doesn’t look cool.

Once inside, we sat in the pleasant bar area for a glass of excellent house champagne. There is nothing more pleasurably extravagant than a glass of fizz before an illicit week-day lunch.

The décor is fresh, bright and neutral with prints and the odd plant; music plays discreetly in the background.

There is a menu of fourteen or so starters, some of which can be taken as main course and six or so mains, side orders of vegetables and salads and puddings. This is supplemented by daily specials with three or four more starters and main courses – mainly fish.

We were served fresh walnut bread, brasserie fashion, but given side plates on request.

I felt unusually fishy and opted for two of the specials – scallops classically served on cauliflower puree and black pudding and roast cod with sweet potato with wild mushrooms. Both dishes were delicious. The scallops sweet and not overcooked and the cod was meaty and complimented perfectly by the sweet potatoes, which were my dish of the day.

The Mem enjoyed a starter of roast field mushrooms on focaccia with melted Fontana cheese followed by calves liver, potato puree, spinach and pancetta. The liver was served medium without consultation, but was moist and full of flavour.

We couldn’t resist puddings and opted for chocolate brioche bread and butter pudding and a Baileys and vanilla cheesecake, both of which were light and a pleasant end to the meal.

The atmosphere at the Cross was relaxed and cheerful as was the prompt and helpful service.

Lunch was not cheap with starters mostly ranging between £4.50 to £6.50 and mains £14 to £16, but quality of ingredients, cooking, and presentation were first class.

The wine list was varied and reasonably priced, with some good new world wines.

As we drove back to Moseley Towers, the Mem and I were pleased with our lunch at the Cross and resolved to return to Arden to try its newly-opened sister gastro-pub, The Red Lion at Claverdon . Bon appetit!

Written: 25 April 2006

The Cross at Kenilworth, 16, New Street, Kenilworth, Warwickshire CV8 2EZ.

http://www.thecrossatkenilworth.co.uk/

Reservations: 01926 853 840

Colonel Moseley on Restaurants

What ho!I had been planning to share with you my thoughts on political correctness, but last night over tiffin at Moseley Towers the Mem vetoed the idea and suggested that I confine myself to what she called "less combustible topics" - whatever that means.

So, not wanting to risk a court martial for insubordination, here are my current top ten gripes and objects of loathing and derision about retaurants:

1. Leaving open the gratuity section on the credit card slip after a hefty service charge has already been added,

2. The automatic addition of a "discretionary 15% service charge" - which isn't really discretionary,

3. Parents who dismally fail to control children in restaurants,

4. Waiters who come up to your table every five minutes pointlessly inquiring "If everything is alright?",
5. Waiters who pour too much wine, too often - just to increase sales,

6. Sommeliers who patronise or intimidate you into ordering a more expensive wine than you intend or can afford,

7. Restaurants requiring credit card details with a booking,

8. Front of house staff who keep you waiting for a table unnecessarily long after the booked time,

9. Front of housde staff who allocate a table next to the lavatories/waiter's station/kitchen door and only smile at you if they think you are Sienna Miller, Madonna or Jude Law, and

10. Chain smokers

Bon appetit! Pip, Pip!

* a version of this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13 - before smoking was prohibited in restaurants

Colonel Moseley on the Betrayal of Savers

2009-08-18T14:15:00.007+01:00

What ho! I think it's about time that someone spoke up for a disgracefully under-represented group in this country.

The people I'm talking about:

try hard to save out of their income

do not borrow, other than a sensible mortgage on their main residence

do not live above their means

manage without something, if they cannot afford to pay for it in cash

obey the law

pay their taxes

rely upon their politicians, professional advisers and government to look after their interests and behave with honesty, and,

have integrity.

If we look at the last decade or so, everyone has been bombarded by banks with invitations to borrow huge sums regardless of the capacity to pay or the adequacy of security. It is hardly surprising therefore that an large number of new borowers found this debt unsustainable. To compound the problem this junk debt was bundled together and securitised and sold into a market which ultimately was built on worse foundations than just before the Crash of 1929. Inevitably the worst happened causing a global financial crisis which nearly saw the collapse of the banking system of the whole world.

As in 1929 a recession if not depression has ensued with economic downturn, massive unemployment and initial deflation.

Where does that leave everyone?

Well.. the borrowers and bankers who caused the problem appear no worse off. The bankers seem to have returned to a bonus culture remarkably quickly and only time will tell if more prudent lending policies will now prevail.

Existing borrowers never seem to have had it so good with interest rates at pretty much an all time low. Many have had their cake and eaten it: a clever trick.

The worst off seem to be the unemployed who lost their job with the recession and small businesses unable to sustain normal levels of working capital on overdraft from myopic and jittery banks.

Hard hit too are the retired, many of whom have saved all their working lives and abstained from extravagance or borrowing. They have done this to build up a nest egg so that interest will supplement such pensions as they have to give the dignity of self-sufficiency into retirement.

Hardly any consideration seems to have been given to the huge impact of reductions in interest rates upon this class of person who is the very backbone of this country. A small and entirely cosmetic increase in the permitted investment in Isa's is all that seems to have been done to recognise the issue.

As demonstrated by his attacks on private pension provision, Mr Brown seems to have some kind of grudge against the person who works hard, saves, does not take on excess debt, pays taxes, obeys the law and tries not to rely upon hand-outs from the state. The interests of this type of valuable citizen have typically been shamefully ignored.

Colonel Moseley in High Anxiety...retired and anxious

2009-08-17T09:16:00.005+01:00

What ho! Having returned to the fray, I feel better for having expressed my dismay over our MP's expenses.

If the phrase that keeps springing to mind in relation to our ruling class nowadays is "They just don't get it, do they?", the word that crops up increasingly in daily life is "anxiety."

I can imagine someone reading this saying "What is he talking about?" and comparing the comforts of 2009 with the last war and the fear of living through the height of the Blitz or the worry of having close ones on military service or otherwise in constant danger. I'm not minimising those instances, it's just that today the imposition of constant, unkind and unnecessary fear and worry on ordinary hardworking people seems to be increasingly the norm.

It's an insidious trend and particularly affects many of those least able to cope with it - the elderly, the lonely, the disadvantaged and those retired on fixed incomes.

What's more, this pressurising, which is a kind of bullying -comes from those who should know better - large companies, utilities, banks, local authorities and bodies which seem to have forgotten they are there to serve the people of this country.

Here are a few examples of the sheer anxiety unnecessarily imposed every day:

Credit and debit cards: many of us were quite happy to use cash or cheques for most transactions. As a gesture towards modernity we then went so far as to use debit cards for payments. Money went straight out of one's bank account. One still didn't have to have an overdraft and could use a cash balance and no borrowing was involved.

The Masters of the Universe at our banks then decreed that we had to have chip and pin and that this would make things much more secure. In reality with cloning and copying devices in use at cashpoints and swipe machines or whatever they are called things are much worse.

Any trip to an unknown pub, restaurant,shop or garage seems now to involve a very real risk that one's card details will be appropriated and used to deduct cash in India, Australia, Russia or Canada.

The first one knows is often a 'phone call from the bank asking "Are you in downtown Mumbai?" or the appearance of large unauthorised cash withdrawals on one's bank statement.

As yet, the banks are reasonably quick in refunding the stolen money, but one wonders how long this will last. There are already signs that more of an onus is being put upon the victim to prove the theft rather than a presumption of innocence.

In consequence I use my debit card less and less. I never ever use it to buy petrol at the garage or in pubs, restaurants or shops I do not know well.

I only ever use it on secure websites and then only those of repute such as Amazon. Every use of a debit and credit card now brings an unnecessary worry.

Utilities: in the last few years the price of gas electricity and petrol had risen exponentially, A good part of this increase has been unfair and caused by the multi-national oil companies or market manipulation by speculators that our rulers are too lazy, stupid or unduly influenced by those with vested interests to prevent.

We are forced to pay for various services by direct debit and billing seems to have become a lottery for the consumer - a perverse lottery with no prizes, only penalties.

We now have the unpleasant task of opening the paper bill (if one is still lucky enough to have one) or to look at one's bank statement to see what surprisingly large sum has been removed from one's account. The opening of every utility bill is now a heart-stopping moment and an unnecessary worry

Bank statements : in consequence of the criminal misuse of the insecure chip and pin system and profiteering by utilities the arrival of each bank statement is now an anxious process. It is almost a surprise when one's account has not been pilfered or a charge for gas, electricity is not double what one budgeted. Unfairly increased bank charges are also making the experience much worse. Instead of being straightforward routine the opening of every statement is now a worry.

Moving supplier: dealings with large companies in telecoms, utilities or retail are increasingly stressful and upsetting. Many seek to tie up their customers in increasingly complex and penal deals with lengthy or expensive termination terms so that it is awkward and costly to extract oneself and move to another provider.

It is also frustrating and time-consuming to speak on the telephone to most suppliers with queuing, automated systems and unhelpful staff making the whole process irritating and often confusing. It is as if they really don't care how appalling the experience is for the customer and how much anxiety they create.

Call centres: it is very difficult to speak to a local branch of a bank or building society about one's account. It is impossible to have anything but a depersonalised call to call centre when dealing with a telecoms or utility provider. Naturally all government departments are depersonalised and formulaic in their dealings on the telephone. Most take a good deal of time. They inform you every time that the line is busy and then lead you through a sequence of menus, options and warnings about recording for training purposes until the final queue is reached which may involve you in sitting there for ten minutes to an hour.

When you ultimately speak to a person you are often transferred and if you have the temerity to ask a question that they are not fully briefed to answer there is no chance of a meaningful reply.

This experience is irritating and demeaning. It indicates plainly the extent to which the companies in question do not have the slightest concern for the shear dreadfulness of the experience of their customers in dealing with them. The experience of the customer is negative and anxious and it is wholly unnecessary .

Hospitals: I still strongly believe in many aspects of our welfare system including the National Health service. However, given direct observation of the experience of those closest to me -not just hearsay or gossip - I am very anxious at the thought of hospitalisation today. I am worried about the ongoing risk of picking up infection such as MRSA or C Difficile. I am worried about the embarrassment of mixed wards. I am anxious about lack of security and personal safety. No-one going into hospital should have any of this anxiety.

Refuse collection: I know I have a bee in my bonnet on this issue, but why do they have to make it so difficult? If the elderly or inefficient make an honest error in for example wrapping potato peelings in a sheet of newspaper and putting it in the organic waste bin, why is the whole bin rejected and left un-emptied and a fine threatened to be levied? Why is it necessary to make the life of the ordinary householder so hard and to impose such unnecessary worry?

So there you have six or so examples. It's basically about ordinary people without power being bullied and made anxious by those who can - large companies, utilities, banks, local authorities, hospitals and "our" government.

The whole experience is made much much worse for me by the hypocritical reassurances one receives from each of these monoliths that customer care matters to them. This is plainly nonsense and adds insult to injury. Instead of pretending to care about customers feelings why not actually do something constructive, such as:

provide paper bills on request and without penalty
allow bill payment by cash or cheque without penalty - or even give a discount for it
allow customers to speak to local branches of banks and building societies
regulate profiteering oil and utility companies
make bank cards safer to use
close call centres, especially those outside the UK,
or at least drastically overhaul the approach adopted towards customers

The point is that many of the the bodies with whom the ordinary person had to deal nowadays are too large and too impersonal. They have lost sight of the need to give a damn how the customer feels. The customer, patient, ratepayer or whoever suffers more pain and anxiety in consequence and is increasingly bullied. Isn't it time to understand this and do something to stop it?

Colonel Moseley: They still don't get it, do they?

2009-08-12T10:47:00.011+01:00

What ho! After a lay-off of several months, I thought it was about time to return and cast a critical eye over recent events.

I don't mean to carp, but don't say I didn't warn you. You turn your back for a while and what happens? We have seen the worst financial crisis since 1929 and a recession that resembles the beginning of the Depression of the 1930's.

In addition, we have a political system in the UK mired in an expenses scandal that has removed whatever lingering respect the citizens of this country had in their ruling class. On top of this, we have accelerating global warming producing climatic extremes that our governments do not say much about and a global pandemic of swine 'flu which may or may not mutate into something much more dangerous in the autumn, as Spanish 'flu did in 1919. Good times or what? Nowadays all problems are referred to as "global" and thus no-one is to blame - a perpetual reusable "Get out of jail free card."

Against this happy backdrop, I have noticed that the one phrase I have kept using over the last year has been: "They just don't get it, do they? They still don't get it". As a starter, here are a few apercus on the recent expenses controversy to illustrate the point:

The recent expose regarding the extravagant claims for expenses by some of our MPs showed a lot of things. It is obvious that in the past the powers-that-be compensated MPs for the failure to grant them larger increases in their headline remuneration by expanding the range of expenses they were entitled to claim to an excessively generous level. Over the past few months, the platinum-plated system of expenses and allowances was found to be wholly out of touch with what was available in their jobs by ordinary voters still lucky enough to be in employment.

It seems clear that the expenses office saw its duty as to facilitate the claiming of expenses properly payable within the rules as they stood. This appears to have included second home allowances of around £22k a year, food allowance of £400 a month and sundry expenses incurred whilst in office, including cash drawings of several hundred pounds a month unsupported by receipts. The "flipping" of the status of properties to ensure that capital gains tax was rarely paid on the sale of residences was also within the rules. The odd MP is alleged to have overstepped even a generous system by claiming for non-existent mortgages and such-like. The difference between this and what would be fraud in the real world escapes me.

Although it appears hardly any of the claims were unlawful, it appalled most electors as wildly over-generous, particularly when it appeared to fuel the greed of some and prompt forays into regular property dealing, funded by the allowances and enhanced by favourable tax treatment.

What the entire political class failed to recognise was that whilst ordinary British tax payers do not object to the reimbursement of reasonable expenses fairly claimed, they resent and do not accept:

MPs looking at the rules and thinking it a fair and proper challenge to devise means of extracting the very maximum level of payment possible,

having a food allowance and spending up to the limit of the food allowance every month

treating the maximum petty cash allowance as a de facto addition to salary and drawing it without substantiation by receipt each month

taking the maximum second home allowance because they can - even some whose main residence is conveniently close to Westminster

flipping homes to maximise the tax-free return on sales, regardless of the reality of its location and use. Electors are not that stupid - back bedrooms in houses in London are not main residences when the MP has a large family residence in the constituency in the sticks

serial buying and selling second homes tax free, partly funded by the allowances as a lucrative side-line of being an member

brazening it out as though just because the rules permit it they should be utilised to the maximum and behaving as though our representatives are better than their constituents and not subject to the same constraints of morality and reasonable behaviour

the delusion that in offering to pay back sums claimed outside the overly generous rules, the slate is wiped clean and the MP need not fear either consequences under the criminal law or condemnation and rejection by their electors

obstructing efforts to bring the issue into the public domain under Freedom of Information using spurious arguments and "redacting " what is published to minimise adverse impact

and finally, the piecemeal approach of party leaders in disciplining those who have made improper claims. It does them no credit. Certain MPs appear to have have been singled out for discipline or deselection whilst others - usually in very high office or senior figures in their party - have escaped any censure. It is a pathetic footnote to a shabby interlude in our political history.

Very many of our MPs have been exposed to be hypocritical. A good number of them boast of a vocation in public life founded on an altruistic desire to work for the benefit of their fellow men and improve society. This scandal has removed any vestige of credibility that there might have been in many such claims.

Given that our nation's problems now seem so very daunting, the confirmation that many of our representatives and legislators are opportunists and charlatans on-the-make is truly chilling.

Colonel Moseley's BROADSIDE

2008-07-27T11:46:00.005+01:00

Times are increasingly difficult. Ordinary citizens feel more threatened by spiralling prices and duties, deteriorating health care and public order and arrogant public authorities and companies. First and most importantly, this needs to be recognised by those at the receiving end and those inflicting the pain. Secondly, intelligent steps are needed to try to rectify a worsening situation.

People are more aware of these difficulties and are angry and concerned that they have been allowed to arise. They are anxious as to what, if anything, is being done to remedy them. They are not to be fobbed of by the formulaic categorisation of every problem as global and outside the remit of our government. Accordingly, thousands of voters have marked their genuine concerns by inflicting three successive massive by-election defeats on the government and sent a loud message to Mr Brown. This broadside is intended to amplify that clear message.

Many more electors are annoyed at being subjected to unreasonable increases in the prices of essentials such as basic foodstuffs, lighting, heating and petrol. They are frustrated at being patronised and treated without consideration or respect by self-serving public authorities and large companies – often powerful bodies which are effectively monopolies and which the consumer cannot avoid by exercise of choice.

Ordinary citizens – we who pay taxes, receive no benefits and obey the law- are becoming more concerned. If we continue to be ignored, other ways of expression will be found, so government and large companies, please listen.

Here are a range of typical issues –some seemingly trivial and others more important. They all combine to frustrate and worry the people our government is supposed to represent. We do not want:-

Profiteering on power, fuel and commodity prices bringing unfair profits for suppliers and unbearable increases to the consumer. Why are increases in this country massively higher than in the rest of Europe? Why are our reserves so much lower than others countries in Europe, making us so much more vulnerable to fluctuations in wholesale markets? What is being done to protect the UK consumer?
Hypocritical politicians manifestly feathering their own (first and second) nests with excessive expenses whilst urging restraint on those they are paid to represent. In other circumstances they advocate freedom of information, yet resist disclosure of their own expenses on the spurious basis of security. Why the obvious double standards?
Fortnightly refuse collection and draconian rules and bins that have to be pushable with one finger. What about the interests of the householder – particularly the elderly or infirm?
Any cold calling for sales on the telephone or at the door. They are often intrusive and bullying and should be prescribed by law. It’s time the rights of the householder came first.
Companies forcing the use of direct debit for payment. It’s no longer good enough to pay a bill promptly. The customer should always be entitled by law to pay a paper bill without any kind of penalty
Utilities refusing to come and read meters and to bill on actual usage. At a time when dramatically rising bills for gas and electricity are the biggest worries in many people’s lives, the anxiety is increased many times over by reliance on estimates. Consumers have an even greater need for certainty over what is an unavoidable expense and regular meter reading should be recommenced immediately. Again, what about the interests of the customer?
To be terrified of seeking treatment in hospital due to fear of infection or humiliation in mixed wards. Why is national health dentistry no longer widely available? Why has our treasured national health service been allowed to disappear or change into something to be feared?
Call centres where staff are insufficiently trained or based outside the UK where we cannot understand what is being said. Call centres have not improved efficiency or service and are infuriating. What about the interests of the customer?
Government to compound problems by ill-considered measures such as the abolition of the 10p tax band, excessively extended licensing hours and inappropriate increases in car tax and petrol duties. Why does the government announce measures so ludicrously ill-judged that they have subsequently to be reversed?
To feel increasingly unsafe in our cities where disorder and the threat of gun and knife crime are manifestly increasing whilst we are infuriatingly told crime rates are diminishing. Why not stop insulting our intelligence with foolish spin? It’s right and easier just to tell the truth – particularly when it is self-evident.

So those in power in government or large companies, please listen. These concerns are valid and considered; they deserve to be listened to and acted upon. They are not rocket science or insoluble, global problems. They can be fixed. Just do it

Colonel Moseley Asks ~ What About Us?

2008-05-17T08:15:00.005+01:00

As I look out from Moseley Towers just now, I increasingly want to pull up the draw bridge and exclude the world. Not exactly John Donne and no man is an island, but there you go.

Since about the time poor Mr Brown became Prime Minister, life for many in this country has become less tolerable. Sadly, many political and economic chickens have well and truly come home to roost. I know I wasn’t the only one concerned about what was on the way; I only wish more of us had spoken up earlier.

As with issues such as the removal of the 10p tax band, once the majority stop being silent – and, more particularly, once MPs become fearful of the likely personal consequences - something is actually done about it.

For what it’s worth this late on, here are some current and very obvious concerns:

The real rate of inflation: The official inflation rate isn’t just something used for scare-mongering in the Daily Mail. It is applied to fix pay and pension levels that directly affect the lives of millions. As I have pointed out before, inflation on food, heat and light and petrol is massively in excess of the official rate which includes various non-essential consumer fripperies. As a direct consequence of this distortion, many pensioners and others spending a greater proportion of their income on such essentials are being massively disadvantaged and pushed further towards poverty. The government seems to be intent on ignoring this unfairness and will do so until more voters show we are concerned – so speak up, write to newspapers, express yourselves in blogs or contact your MP before the situation becomes even more critical

Dustbin Stalinism: like most people without any real say in the matter, I now receive fortnightly refuse collection. First, I don’t want fortnightly collection. It is inconvenient and unhealthy to store rubbish for this period, particularly in the summer. Secondly, rules about contents and lid-closing often appear to have been clumsily, unhelpfully and even officiously enforced. Press stories are only the tip of the ice berg. The collectors complete their rounds speedily yet seem able to find fault with one’s refuse, stick a snotty label on the bin with a few boxes ticked flagging up one’s transgressions and leave the bin un-emptied. The public do need to try to co-operate, but implementation of this regime has been heavy-handed and inconsiderate with hardly any recognition that house holders who obey the law and pay income and council taxes merit a modicum of respect and consideration. This may seem trivial, but it’s a symptom of an insidious trend in the exercise of power - all stick and no carrot.

Petrol prices: over the last six months there has been an significant increase in the price of petrol – particularly diesel. Prices to oil suppliers have risen markedly on world markets. In parallel the profits of the major oil companies have rocketed to record levels. This increase seems unfair and untoward and should give rise at least to consideration of a windfall tax. Similarly, the burden upon consumers in this country is excessive and made worse by penal excise duties. The government should recognise the undue pain being suffered and take action to ease it. No-one is convinced by their hiding behind expressions of environmental concern. They are taxing fuel primarily for revenue.

Gas and electricity prices: similar concerns apply to domestic heating costs. Global markets do show record prices, but our power utilities also show high profits. The weakest in society are hit disproportionately by these price increases for gas and electricity and a one-off winter bonus may capture a few headlines, but does not address the underlying problem of manipulation of volatile markets for the advantage of a few at the cost of the most vulnerable. The first step must be to recognise that there is a problem.

Large companies: dealings with commercial behemoths, particularly the utilities, banks and in telecoms have become an impersonal nightmare whether it be compulsory enforcement of payment by direct debit or Kafkaesque telephone systems that take so much time and rarely lead to a successful outcome. Many companies’ use sugary verbiage to stress their mission and desire to please the customer. In reality nothing could be further from the truth. Unfortunately often the customer has no alternative than to deal with these outfits. Frustration, anger and resentment are building up and one day will find expression. In the meantime, if you feel you are a victim complain vocally – eventually we will all be heard.

Islington detachment: From whatever side of the political fence they stand, we seem to be governed by a breed of callow politicians who simply do not share the life-experience of most people or really recognise their problems and concerns. They are capable, for example, of referring to statistics showing that violent crime is falling when more and more people are frightened to be in certain city centres late at night. Many people now visit their town centres and feel it is no longer theirs; they no longer feel any connection with the people, place or sometimes even the language spoken. Our political class need to re-connect with ordinary people and recognise and hopefully sympathise with the realities of their lives, their hopes and fears. If our democracy means anything, the feelings of the majority need first to be recognised and if valid, catered for.

What about savers? With the credit crunch, market conditions have hardened for many borrowers. Parallel to this, one would expect some increase in rates for savers. Paradoxically returns seem to be diminishing. With even less incentive to save than before, it seems everybody loses. I guess it may be a matter of securing the profits of the major banks who brought about the malaise in the first place by the reckless marketing of loans – but why the paradox and does no-one remember, let alone value, the prudent saver?

What happened to our NHS? Regardless of all the so-called performance statistics, how many people do you know who have waited an unconscionable time for a necessary operation or been forced to endure the embarrassment if a mixed ward? How many people avoid treatment they should properly have because they are terrified of MRSA? Why do we have to fork out for private dental care simply because there aren’t any available NHS dentists? What we treasured as our NHS clearly hasn’t been safe in their hands for some time.

So there you have it. It’s rare if ever that anyone – let alone me - should need to quote Michael Jackson, but “What about us?”

The self-serving politicians and short-sighted and greedy management of large companies seem to have reached a point when they simply do not properly consider or perhaps care about the effect of their decisions.

Statistics such as those on inflation are used to bamboozle and huge groups in society such as pensioners are increasingly sold short. Petty regulation is enforced without due thought or planning and often hides behind the excuse of imposition by the higher power of Brussels. Again, the weakest suffer.

Vested interests secure rocketing prices for essential commodities claiming that it was an inevitable result of market forces and yet coincidentally go on to declare record profits.

Large telecoms and power companies employ billing and call centre systems that are frustrating and ultimately insulting to the customer who has increasingly limited chance to express a viewpoint or obtain redress. The whole charade is compounded by an assertion that the customers call is important to us and that the system is intended to improve service. Nothing could be more false.

Overall, the interests of a substantial part of society are being ignored. The overlooked tend to be the quiet, law-abiding people who pay their taxes and try to save. They are increasingly disregarded, poorer, threatened by crime and worried over the failure of once-cherished institutions, such as the NHS.

This insidious deterioration is presided over by an often shallow metropolitan political class with insufficient understanding of this country and the feelings of its people. This nonsense has gone on too long and it’s time that these widely-held and obvious concerns are recognised and acted upon.

Colonel Moseley takes a Dim View

2008-02-20T14:30:00.015Z

What ho and belated New Year greetings! I don’t know if you feel the same, but haven’t we seen the last few weeks before; I believe the term is déjà vu?

It’s funny how the tawdry lives of a few politicians and 'C'-list celebrities can sum up the state of an entire nation. I couldn’t help noticing how some of the farcical press coverage of the MP who engaged his offspring as paid researchers read like an extract from a novel by Evelyn Waugh. Queen Sloane would not have been entirely out of place in Decline and Fall or Vile Bodies sharing a table at the Old Hundred with Lottie Crump.

We seem to be experiencing a period of decadence. Excess and conspicuous consumption accompany unprincipled behaviour at all levels.

The questionable conduct of those who pompously consider themselves to be in public life, may characterise the death throes of the phase that began with the triumph of New Labour. It certainly heralds an uncertain future. Battered by much eye-watering hypocrisy, the ordinary person – if anyone considers themselves as such when we all see celebrity just around the corner – is ever more cynical.

Following the US sub-prime crisis, the run on Northern Rock, Mr Brown’s fatal wounding of final salary pension schemes and apparent impending recession, if not global depression, possible parallels with the inter-war period are obvious. It is against a background of spectacular mismanagement, greed and cant that I thought I would share with you a few of the incidents and issues that have been on my mind to varying degrees since the turn of the year:

Scotland and Wales: I know I have poked fun at the domination of English politics by Scots, such as the Prime Minister. I still feel that this is wrong and that Scottish MPs should only participate in the government of England to the extent that English MPs have a voice in Scottish affairs. This feeling of injustice is compounded by material differentials now appearing in health- care and education between parts of our United Kingdom. In cannot be fair that whilst certain anti-cancer drugs are prescribed free of charge in Scotland, those suffering from the same condition in England are required to pay the very substantial full cost, which may mean the difference between life and death. This is not a trivial issue: the discrimination is wrong

Pensioners in handcuffs: this morning I read of the imprisonment of former soldier of 76, Richard Fitzmaurice for non-payment of Council Tax. He took his stance for the sake of pensioners affected by an unfair system and was photographed being led away in handcuffs. At a time when the Court finds a thug bailed on assault charges has drunkenly beaten an innocent householder to death and a Jihadist extremist receives £20k a year in benefits whilst plotting the murder of a British soldier, my blood boils. What about Mr Fitzmaurice’s dignity and human rights? That picture brought a tear to my eye.

Taking with the other hand: most people agree that the fuel allowance is a good thing to help vulnerable over 70 year olds to keep warm in the worst of the winter weather. If you are 70 however and wish to continue driving a horse lorry you have to extend your licence and supply a medical certificate. This is fair enough; it’s in the interest of the elderly driver and other road users. Unfortunately, however, an NHS doctor charges over £100 to carry out the brief examination and sign the certificate. Where is the logic in that? Do they assume that anyone who needs to drive a lorry must be able to afford to pay the equivalent of half their winter fuel allowance?

Silver surfers: nowadays a surprising proportion of the elderly are computer-literate and use their PCs daily. Like everyone else, they appreciate the speedy response of Broadband and are inconvenienced when it doesn’t work. It is an interesting experience to get reconnected when your Broadband goes down, suffers an outage - or whatever it’s called. The first step is to go through the self-diagnosis notes on the PC - if it’s still working. These are usually indecipherable and do not match up to the software on one’s machine. This exhausting process will usually also involve disconnecting and reconnecting all telephones in the house and carrying all one's PC equipment (box, screen, mouse and assorted cabling) downstairs to the test socket in the lounge, reassembling it and finding that the Broadband connection doesn’t work there either. Next you telephone BT Broadband on a costly 0845 number to spend ages in a queue and choosing from a menu of options before being connected to a call centre in India. Accent is occasionally difficult but the staff are pleasant and polite. Considerable further time is spent satisfying them that one has gone through all the diagnostic hoops and that the fault lies outside one's house or at the local exchange. An appointment is eventually made for an engineer to call and one foolishly thinks the worst is over. After some delay when no engineer appears, one rings back and has to go through the whole phoning, waiting, menu, and explanatory process again, to be told that the line is at fault and that it is the responsibility of BT. This is annoying since one’s repeated diagnosis and the fact that one is speaking on the line demonstrates that the line is in order. This frustrating process is repeated two or three times with Broadband and BT blaming the other until it is agreed that the fault requires investigation. An appointment is made for an engineer to visit the local exchange and then my property and, sure enough, the night before the visit the connection is miraculously restored. It’s nice to be able to ask what the weather is like in Mumbai, but I would rather not lose my Broadband for days on end and somehow be made to feel it’s my fault. You couldn’t make it up.

Insurance cover notes: do you remember years ago when you used an insurance broker? When you were buying a new car you ‘phoned up to explain and were sent a cover note that day. Nowadays, once you have queued at the call centre, circumnavigated the menu and endured an inordinately long inquisition – which may be recorded for training purposes - you are lucky to have it within a week – subject always to the post. They call it progress.

Strictly Worse: on a lighter note, the Mem and I are addicted to Strictly Come Dancing; it’s compulsive viewing. Why did they have to spoil it by splitting it over Saturday and Sunday? Clearly the actual contest and results elements are recorded on the same evening and split into two to increase ratings. In doing this the drama of a live contest is lost and the show diminished. We do hope they see sense and return to the original format that made Saturday night quite special.

Tough steak, hard cheese: The Mem and I enjoy different types of food and have appreciated the recent proliferation of restaurants and gastro pubs in our area. We note however that, once established, the standards of many fall both as regards the quality of food and service. In what had been a favourite place we were recently served a meal parts of which were barely edible. On pointing this out politely no apology was received and no refund offered. Retauranteurs should be advised: harder times may be coming – even in relatively affluent areas. One of the first sectors to feel it will be the hospitality industry and, when the reckoning comes, the slapdash and surly will suffer earliest.

True inflation: the government has great pride in its achievement of keeping inflation down. It is a vital marker for the government's reputation and in determining the level of public sector wage and pension increases. We have all noted how much petrol, gas, electricity, council tax and food prices have shot up particularly in the last few months, yet the official rate of inflation seems to remain paradoxically low. Is it me or doesn’t it add up?

So there you are, there’s a lot wrong at present - and I haven't even mentioned income tax or plumbers. Our government and many big companies seem to have lost sight of the views and needs of the decent majority. In this country common sense, truth and fairness are increasingly just options, like those on a call centre menu, rather than the foundations of daily life. Life may be a Cabaret but, like Weimar Germany, we should be very wary of what follows such decadent times.

The Mem speaks...again: Surviving Christmas

2007-12-09T09:26:00.001Z

Hello dears and early season’s greetings! I have to admit that the festive season does not seem to bring out the best in my husband, Wilfred. You may think of him as opinionated but jovial Colonel Moseley, but in some ways he resembles Scrooge more and more.

This year, for example, he said that my Christmas present “would be something money can’t buy.” Naturally, I was excited at this prospect and racked my brain as to what it might be.

You can imagine how I felt to be told it was being allowed to write something for the Colonel’s weblog at the start of the festive season. Call me shallow, but try as I might and honoured though I was, I would have preferred something money can buy, such as shoes or some jewellery.

This entirely typical behaviour set me wondering how I manage to get through Yuletide each year. I thought I would use this “special present” to share with you my top ten tips on how to survive Christmas:

Be specific: if you are asked what you would like for Christmas, don’t be coy and disingenuously say “Oh, I don’t know. Just something small” because that’s what you will end up with. Be clear, precise and honest. You may not be surprised, but stand less chance of being disappointed with a toast rack or set of table mats.

Make sure he keeps the receipt: ensure that your other-half or relatives understand that it is absolutely essential that receipts are kept to ensure that any mistakes in size or taste can be rectified by exchange or cash refund very early in January.

Christmas presents are a serious business: gifts are powerful things. They have the capacity to thrill, annoy, disappoint, depress, send messages and cement or wreck relationships. In most families selecting gifts or interpreting their significance requires the insight and understanding of the diplomat. Be casual at your peril. Never forget: it’s the thoughtfulness that counts.

Be realistic about the amount of food and provisions required: honestly, it’s not a siege or competition. No-one will die - or even notice – if you can’t get five packets of Marks & Spencer smoked salmon and blinis to go with drinks on Christmas Eve.

Enjoy the run-up to Christmas Day: I always think the weeks before are the nicest part, when the tree and decorations are up and can be enjoyed and the over-consumption hasn’t started. Christmas Day itself is vastly overrated and seems to be over in a dyspeptic flash.

Avoid Christmas shopping in the January or summer sales: let Christmas take care of itself at the right time. Life is far too short to be shopping for Christmas gifts in frozen January or in a summer heat-wave. Why not enjoy what each season has to bring in its own right?

Avoid Christmas-based clothing: A dog is not just for Christmas, but jingle bells socks are not for Christmas or any other time – nor are festive Yuletide ties, tee shirts, jumpers, reindeer slippers or battery-powered flashing earrings or swivelling bow ties.

Stock up on alcohol: one of the main advantages of the festive season is that one can go to the off-licence or booze warehouse and buy vast quantities of wine and spirits without appearing a lush. With a little forethought, stocks can keep one going well into March. It almost makes Christmas worthwhile.

Keep in touch with friends and family: it has become a cliché to be cynical and criticise cards and gatherings at Christmas. Without this one major reminder in the year, think of all the people with whom you might lose contact. Embarrassingly, in this respect, Christmas serves a constructive purpose, although it’s unfortunate that postage is so ridiculously expensive and some of the family are such hard work.

Enjoy the rest: Christmas does come at that grim time midway between holidays and before the worst winter weather. It is a good time for a rest and to pull up the drawbridge and enjoy Brief Encounter on television with a gin and tonic and box of Milk Tray or, as my nephew Egbert says, “Whatever floats your boat”.

I hope you share some of my views on the festive season. Wilfred joins me in wishing you all a Happy Christmas and whatever floats your boats in the New Year. Bye, dears.

*this piece also appeared in Birmingham 13

HARVEY ANDREWS: Twelve Songs

2007-11-04T18:31:00.004Z

Some time ago, I wrote a profile reviewing the forty year career of Birmingham-born songwriter and performer Harvey Andrews. Constraints of space meant I confined myself to biography and wasn’t able to focus much upon my take on Harvey’s life and beliefs, as reflected in his songs.

With some trepidation, as a fan with no musical background, this is my attempt to explore twelve songs selected as representative of the artist and the man and that I still enjoy listening to in 2007.

Once I had decided to do this, I revisited his albums to decide what criteria to apply to single out just twelve songs. I put the songs into broad categories to establish what he wrote about most and to work from there.

The exercise cast an interesting light on Harvey’s output thus far and helped me decide which songs most fully reflected where he came from and his values.

I didn’t quite go so far as producing a pie chart or even a Venn diagram (remember those from school?) but most of the songs fitted into particular categories. The largest groupings related to social or political issues, emotions, exploration of the past and examination of a performer's life. Subsets included personal dramas, romance, humour and the family.

This exercise led me to appreciate which subjects interested me most by seeing under which heading my favourites fell. Hardly any of my all–time favourites were full-on politics or humour. Virtually all were gentler and more personal; they evoked the past, family or life as an artist.

The first three songs come from Harvey’s debut solo album Writer of Songs which was recorded in 1972.

In some ways it is more interesting to consider why some obvious popular songs from the repertoire were not included in my list. Many would expect well-known and successful compositions such as Hey Sandy and particularly Soldier to be included.

For me however, it’s just matter of personal taste. I admire both songs as skilful examples of the writer’s craft and appreciate the drama each entails. They both tell their story and make a valuable point with integrity but they are quite intense. Sometimes less is more – particularly if you’re devising a small selection of discs to be listened to repeatedly on your metaphorical desert island.

This takes me to my first choice, Boothferry Bridge. Harvey admits that this song was founded on the idea that English place-names don’t have the resonance of those in America –which is why no-one sings of leaving their heart in Catford or being 24 hours from Penge.

Boothferry Bridge has a kind of lilting California coolness about it. It’s a wistful road song. It may be entirely tongue in cheek and its title may make conscious use of assonance, but it does its job perfectly in conveying the feelings of the person on the road whether gigging musician or ball-bearing salesman.

Beautifully arranged and produced, it has brilliant tinkling sub-honky tonk piano accompaniment by Rick Wakeman that embroiders the vocal and a consummately tasteful bass line. It’s a soothing and relaxing song of which I never tire.

Another favourite is Gift of a Brand New Day which Harvey sings to an intricate guitar accompaniment by Ralph McTell. This song encapsulates the joy of a young couple bringing home their first baby. It is song of pure optimism and unfettered hope for the future

The driving, positive melody pushes the song forward without pause right up to its simple, confident final bar. The song is life-affirming and can always be relied on to provide a lift on a bad day.

The 1989 album 25..Years on the Road begins with this song updated for empty nesters who now have time to be on our own now that the kids have grown. So, it’s all good.

The album concludes with its title track, Writer of Songs. I love this song as an unselfconscious hymn to aspiration. Few artists have been prepared to lay out so clearly what first excited them and attracted them to their work.

Nowadays, many youngsters yearn only for wealth and celebrity. Harvey’s aspirational daydreams appeal to me because his role models were writers, artists and great creative men – Picasso, Frank Lloyd Wright and Brunel.

I take pleasure in the admission of being stimulated by examples of brilliance and being inspired to excel too. In these anti-competitive days, some educators have made pursuit of excellence anathema. This song reminds one that the young and gifted can and should aim to fly high. After considering a range of heroes, he concluded with his modest and very English decision just to be a Writer of Songs

And I’ll just hope that someday someone will rate them
And maybe someday investigate them – seriously

- which is basically what this piece is trying to do.

Writer of Songs was followed in 1973 by the well-received, Friends of Mine. This classic album was very much of its time and seems to reflect the new freedoms that marked the new decade. Poignant songs such as The Mallard look back to the isolation of a sensitive only child or have a melancholy introspection, such as Autumn Song. Others such as Sweet Little Fat Girl and the title track capture the heady sense of personal freedom and unbridled opportunities of an exciting time in Harvey’s career.

For me however the stand-out track on this milestone album is For my Father, another autobiographical song. It has a fine vocal and guitar accompaniment with a delicate arrangement of strings and woodwind rather after the manner of Eleanor Rigby.

It’s a track I returned to particularly after reading Harvey’s Gold Star to the Ozarks with its depiction of cycling down quiet Shropshire lanes, farm holidays and shared hours in the countryside.

The narrative covers teenage disaffection and the rapprochement of maturity when father and son spent more time together, came to talk and rarely disagreed.

The song has a balance and reflective quality that makes it a true record of changing relationships and the comforting way these things can run full circle.

For those who have attained that accepting understanding in their closest relationships, it is a reassuring song; for the dysfunctional who have not, it gives an insight as to what might have been

My collection includes the CD Someday Fantasy which combines Fantasies from a Corner Seat made with Graham Cooper and Harvey’s next solo album, Someday. I’m particularly fond of it since it is autographed and inscribed To the Tony Hancock Society. Hancock was the subject of the excellent Mr Homburg Hat. The albums were made for Transatlantic Records in 1975 and 1976 and have recently been re-released under the title I’m Resigning from Today.

The album marks further development in Harvey’s song-writing during a time when he admits “I wanted to write songs about life as it was lived now” and wanted songs that were “short stories about our lives”.

From this fertile period several songs have stood my test of time. They include He played for England a meditation on former glories inspired by the hard times experienced by former England centre forward Tommy Lawton after the cheering had stopped.

The vocal line is accompanied by a hypnotic piano and bass which build dramatic impact and atmosphere. The lyric is sparse and evocative – such as, we saw him on the news-reel, he was talking to the King. It immediately summons up grainy black and white film of a foggy Wembley, baggy white shorts and thousands of supporters in gabardine raincoats and flat caps cheering, smoking Woodbines and waving rattles.

Lines such as He played for England once leave one wondering whether this was on one occasion or many times, long ago. This song is like a good play or painting; it creates a picture, tells a story and stimulates thoughts and emotion. It’s a very good song.

Another favourite from this period is Song for Phil Ochs.

One can review Harvey’s career and work out his obvious influences including Buddy Holly, Harry Chapin and Tom Paxton.

From the early 1960s, folk music tended to involve an earnest interest not only in the roots of English and American song but also radical politics such as the civil rights movement in America and other liberal causes. Bob Dylan and Joan Baez sang after Martin Luther King spoke in Washington and were seen as continuing the tradition of Woodie Guthrie.

One of the leading figures in the field, Phil Ochs appealed particularly to Harvey both for his music and idealistic views. Harvey came to know Phil and put him up for a few days in the mid-1960’s and Song for Phil Ochs laments the passing of both a hero and friend.

The tone, pace and gentle guitar accompaniment remind one of Don Maclean’s homage to Van Gogh, Vincent released in 1971. The song is a simply constructed, sincere expression of grief for the loss of someone who’s talent and values he shared.

For Harvey’s generation, Phil Ochs’ decline and death may also have represented the loss of youthful idealism and the realisation of a necessarily greyer mid-life ahead: the saddest song I’ll ever sing.

One of Harvey’s particular strengths is the ability to recapture the past and sum up our feelings about the effect of time passing. The ultimate song in this sepia-tinted vein is Margarita: to Harvey what Maginot Waltz is to Ralph McTell.

It tells the true story of Harvey’s blind great aunt who used to serve him tea in her perfectly preserved Edwardian house and show him the framed photograph of her fiancé. Nobody ever told her the sad truth that the image had faded and disappeared. The song is not shallow sentimentality; it is a bittersweet evocation of real loss – loss of sight, of a loved one and of the life they might have had together.

Harvey casts further light on his boyhood with Dear Miss Allyson, which I always think of as his original version of Judy Garland’s Dear Mr Gable (..you made me love you).

The song takes the form of a fan letter to June Allyson who he found (and still finds) magical in The Glenn Miller Story. The formal and ingratiating language has all the innocent charm of a child of 1943 - so different from today

The forties-style piano accompaniment and opening and closing reprises from Moonlight Serenade are atmospheric. One is taken back - exactly as Harvey intended.

Harvey uses the same device –I guess it’s now called sampling – on Blue Moon Memories from the 1995 Snaps: The Family Album.

The song begins with the theme of Blue Moon. Accompanied by a lilting piano and gentle dance-band snare drum, Harvey first sings of teenage lovers by the canal with his father singing their song gently in his mother’s ear.

Later in the factory, as sirens sound, his mother hears her name on the wireless in a dedication from her husband fighting abroad and her hips gently sway to Blue Moon. As a piece of writing that line is perfect; it recaptures the rapturous moment when music captivates a person and lifts her out of a grim present to a better place and time.

Their song has been with them through all the key moments of their lives and sums up their love. At the end, after father has died, mother pauses, closes her eyes and remembers her boy singing that song to her and.. Now I’m no longer alone.

Some of the most meaningful art recognises and describes the virtually un-describable moment or feelings that real life involves. This song does just that.

I admire Snaps. It concerns the people and places now passed – childhood, Saturday morning buses into Town, funny uncles at parties, war, peace, but mainly family through happy times and sad.

The song Birthday Boy evokes the world of Saturday morning pictures through a child’s eyes. It’s not one of Harvey’s songs telling a story or making a political or social message, but is a gem.

The insistent guitar accompaniment has the feel of a children’s song or round. The vocal has a wide-eyed quality of wonderment at a world focussed on cheering for Roy Rogers on the screen, choosing sweets and swapping football cards. The breathless enthusiasm of birthday parties and reading with a torch under the sheets speak accurately of more innocent and nicer times - before rap and drive-by shootings.

He admits growing up isn’t easy but has a presentiment of a normal future of falling in love and marrying and going on to a life of domestic bliss with a roast on Sundays. The vision of the future may or may not be realistic, but is founded on a truthful insight into a happy, uncomplicated time in childhood that few songs achieve.

My penultimate choice She Saw him Smile rather surprised me. It’s an understated song. Unlike Birthday Boy, it reflects on the passage of time from later in life rather than its beginning and portrays the last months of his parent’s happy marriage. The loyal wife spends time caring for her husband, who no-longer really knows who she is, save for the odd fleeting smile of recognition, before sadly leaving him and returning home.

It’s an understated song that has a Continental feel of Charles Aznavour or Jacques Brel. It speaks of remembrance of the past and the cruel effect of time that has done its worst. The devoted wife hums their song and they remember happier times as newly-weds. When she leaves, the contrast of yesterday’s happiness with the loneliness of old age is poignant.

Again, the restrained dignity of the lyric makes the song ache with melancholy. Harvey has seen right into the heart of the painful trials that life brings in the ordinary course and crystallised them in a wonderful song.

My final selection is The Journey, the title track that brings Harvey’s 1997 album to a close.

When I first obtained the CD, I focused on the opening track Manet and Monet which immortalises the minutes of the Yardley Arts Club outing to Ludlow in 1949.

Harvey’s cover notes sum up the appeal of this unique, quirky and touching recreation of a special day for a group of innocent dedicated self-educated working class men and women – including his father Victor Andrews -who believed in the power of education and art and used their miserly leisure time to the full.

As with songs such as I’d Rather Read a Book, this track is a significant indicator of what seems to make Harvey tick. With a light touch, it points towards some of the things that matter in life - self improvement, creativity, fellowship, but always being an individual and marching to your own drummer. I’m only able to exclude Manet and Monet from my final list of twelve tracks because I see it as an evocation rather than a song.

When I recently returned to the album, I listened more attentively and realised that the title track was also very special in summing up a view of life that possibly only fully dawns on one at the age of 54.

Over restated piano chords with a tasteful double bass line and with a hypnotic repeated Morse code-like theme on keyboard, the mantra: It’s the journey is repeated - followed each time by the tentative, rhetorical isn’t it: the uneasy question of a small man in a large universe.

This journey is initially presented almost prosaically as where we go in the time we’ve got: the joy we make, the dream we chase, the hope we hold, the chance we take. It’s what we say, do and try to win or lose because that’s what you do on the journey.

It’s at this point that the piece turns into a song about love, support and reassurance: so when you came to me to walk along, you made the stone a garden, made the sea a song for the journey. Touchingly he continues: So here’s my hand...all else above for good or ill for now until…there’s only love. He concludes, love’s the journey.

The Journey addresses big themes. It manages to be a love song and to suggest a meaning for life: not a bad achievement.

So there you have my selection of twelve key Harvey Andrews’ songs. The choice is entirely personal and subjective. I wanted to identify tracks that had stood the test of time for me and would continue to bear repeated listening.

In working out my preferences, I could see I most enjoy strong melodies and well-crafted lyrics that show respect for language and sensitivity and insight on their subject matter.

I still enjoy Harvey’s many songs that tell dramatic stories like Soldier and Lot 204 or use humour to target the bad guys - estate agents, fly-tippers or centre-lane drivers.

Similarly, I admire and agree with his issue-based songs such as Spring Again and PG. Harvey has addressed a long list of ills in songs too numerous to list here; they range from modern planners to Thatcherism to mistreatment of the elderly. I haven’t selected them because of the self-imposed artificial constraint of nominating just twelve songs that meant most to me personally.

Looking at my list they seem mainly to relate to integrity and worthwhile values and an examination of the past from many angles – family, growing up, love, aspiration and the life of an artist through an artist’s eyes.

In my last selection he manages to sum up the only plausible answer to it all with the phrase Love’s the journey – and quite a journey it’s been.

Website: http://www.harveyandrews.com/

Colonel Moseley's MOZQUIZ

2007-10-03T23:44:00.001+01:00

Here's a light-hearted quiz I prepared covering the last year or so on Birmingham 13, Moseley's premier neighbourhood magazine.

Since January, we have covered most things from profiles to haikus to constructive criticism, so for a change and in the spirit of Moseley in Bloom and Mozfest, I give you MOZQUIZ. This is intended to examine your knowledge of what’s gone on in Birmingham 13 this year, combined with a cunning personality test:

Literature: Which famous writer was born locally and based his bestselling books about the quest for an item of jewellery?
(a) J.K. Rowling
(b) J.R.Ewing
(c) A.A.Gill
(d) J.R.R. Tolkien

History: What date was shown on the cover of the August edition of Birmingham 13?
(a) August 2007
(b) Summer solstice… man
(c) Septuagissima
(d) April 2007

Spelling: What is the correct spelling of the name of the famous local man exclusively interviewed in the April issue of Birmingham 13?
(a) Mozzam Begg
(b) Mozambique
(c) Moseley bog
(d) Moazzam Begg

Current affairs: Which anti- social driver did I criticise in my piece Colonel Moseley Returns?
(a) Van Morrison
(b) Vin Diesel
(c) Vin blanc
(d) White Van Man

Celebrity: Who was profiled in the first of my occasional series Brummie Heroes?
(a) Julie Andrews
(b) Eamonn Andrews
(c) St. Andrews
(d) Harvey Andrews

Geography: Which thoroughfares in Moseley past and present have not been contrasted in recent issues of Birmingham 13?
(a) Salisbury Road
(b) Alcester Road
(c) Victoria Parade
(d) Oxford Road (leafy location of our own dear Moseley Towers)

Botany: What is the correct name of the campaign which funds the floral display in the Village and other work?
(a) Moseley in Bloomers
(b) Bloomin’ Moseley
(c) Moseley Shoals
(d) Moseley in Bloom

More celebrity: Who was extensively featured at the Moseley Garden Party in a questionable striped shirt and improbable hat, clutching tongs and fork?
(a) Jamie Oliver
(b) Sylvester McCoy as Dr.Who
(c) Nigella Lawson
(d) The esteemed Editor of B13

How to work out your score: Score one point for (a), two points for (b), three points for (c) and four points for (d). Total your score for all eight questions

How to interpret your points total:

Between 0 and 7: Isn’t possible - but you may have a career as a government statistician or in local politics.

Between 8 and 12: You are either wilfully ill-informed or a bit silly. Alternatively you may be above quizzes and consider your score is ironic in a wry, post-modern sort of way...sadly, we shall never know.

Between 13 and 17: You are moderately knowledgeable and mean well although somewhat inclined towards gullibility. Beware adverts for personal injury lawyers, stair-lifts and debt refinancing on daytime TV and UKIP brochures

Between 18 and 24: You are a worldly-wise Moseleyite with an impressive grounding in history, geography, celebrity-culture and even spelling. Your towering intellect and erudition suit you to write for Birmingham 13. Ever thought of trying? Go on, give it a go!

*this quiz appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley Returns

2007-08-09T19:52:00.001+01:00

What ho! You can’t really win, you know. Over the last few months I have tried to compensate for the lack of summer by showing my softer – some would say, less argumentative – side in this blog.

Accordingly I have profiled Harvey Andrews, reviewed Ibiza and even tried my hand at the exotic haiku. What do I get: thanks, praise for my versatility or what I gather is now called, positive feedback? Not on your life. All I’ve had is one comment that You’ve lost your edge and another You’re mellowing with age, old man.

These misconceptions can’t be allowed to continue, so in an effort to show that the real Colonel Moseley is back and as sharp as ever – well, he never really went away – here are this month’s top ten things that make me seethe – or at least get a bit tetchy:

Advertising on daytime television: many adverts seem to be cynically aimed at those perceived to be weak (at best weak-willed, at worst weak-minded) including overpriced CDs, household manuals and debt consolidation. It pains me to see even the most esteemed presenters peddling debt in this way. I also sympathise with hard-pressed parents whose impressionable children are bombarded with glitzy toy adverts between their programmes.

Volvos with their headlights on all the time: this isn’t Scandinavia. Whether you call them daytime running lights or not - to me they're still headlights. They seem unnecessary and irritating. My compendium of updated sayings and similes would include Smug as a Volvo driver, but that’s another argument for another day.

The length of adverts on Channel 4 and satellite channels: apart from being moronic, dull and irritating, they are far too frequent, too long and too noisy.

Sharp practice on eBay: buying on eBay is a new interest of mine – good fun and an excellent source of bargains with many honest dealers. I notice however that a minority of sellers actually make quite a lot of money by offering goods cheaply but charging an inflated sum for postage and packing. The overkeen novice or the gullible are relied upon to overlook this to their cost - so watch out!

Hazel Blears: what on earth’s that all about?

Personal Service: have you tried recently to make an appointment to see a specific person at the local branch of your building society or bank? When I tried, I had to telephone far away Sheffield and when I turned up at the appointed hour, the branch had no trace of my appointment. When will they realise that this won’t do? If you feel similarly frustrated make a point of complaining and eventually they may get the message

Ingratitude: do those for whom you have opened a door or let into a queue of traffic increasingly take pleasure in ignoring your courtesy? Expressing thanks and acknowledging the kindness of others should be the invariable norm from an early age.

Home information packs: call me cynical, but it seems that HIPs will not materially speed up house sales or tell buyers what they could not easily have found out previously. They may provide employment for hundreds of new inspectors, but I suspect they will make selling property slower and even more expensive. It doesn’t look like progress to me. It makes you tired.

White vandals: I applaud hard graft and individual enterprise, but don’t think anonymous white van drivers should necessarily get away with manic and inconsiderate driving and bad manners. I read sociologists now refer to them as folk devils: good job too.

Telephone selling: I will never ever buy any goods or services offered in a cold telephone call. Unsolicited sales calls at home are an intrusion and waste of time. They should be made unlawful unless you have voluntarily registered to indicate a willingness to receive them - especially during Countdown or Deal or No Deal

So there you are, there’s plenty left to seethe about - even without mentioning the Scots. Fortunately one can always rely upon the therapeutic effect of Countdown and a Country Slice. Pip, pip!

*a version of this article appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley takes a Haiku

2007-07-21T15:29:00.002+01:00

What ho! Earlier this week the Mem said she needed to go into our local bookshop to pick up the latest Delia Smith (or was it Wilbur Smith?): anyway, some book or other. As usual, she bumped into one of her cronies from the Townswomens’ Guild amongst the Danielle Steeles, so I occupied myself browsing for twenty minutes as they put the world to rights, dissected it or whatever it is they do.

I happened upon the poetry section which, as you might imagine, isn’t something I’ve done since the obligatory doses of Wordsworth and Tennyson at the old alma mater of my youth.

One slim tome in the bargain bin caught my eye. On the cover it had a picture of a pagoda in front of Mount Fuji, entitled The Art of Haiku.

It seems a haiku is a poem or epigram that has to have precisely seventeen syllables and be in only three lines of five, seven and five syllables respectively, no more, no less.

As an aficionado of Carol Vorderman and sudoku, this mathematical angle appealed. This was particularly so when it occurred that the haikus didn’t have to be very zen or concern snow slipping off the branches of willow trees or the wistful allure of the geisha.

I bought the little book and took it home. Having learned all that can be realistically expected of a chap of my age of this precise form, here are some first efforts with a contemporary Moseley twist:-

HAIKU: bittersweet

Just like a haiku,
Loving you is short, sweet and
Rather hard to do.

HAIKU: Miss Pargeter’s confessional

In my pew in church
I fancy making love to
Frank - and then Nancy.

HAIKU: end of the affair

An assignation,
For fornication – oft ends
With termination.

HAIKU: adieu syd barrett #1 ~ after e.j.thribb

Farewell then Syd - not
Sid James – the one they called a
Crazy diamond.

HAIKU: adieu syd barrett #2~ after chas 'n dave

Both Chas 'n Dave wave
’n rabbit: Gertcha, crazy
Diamond geezer.

HAIKU: half-century

Though "fifty" rhymed with
"Nifty" on my birthday card -
It was really hard.

HAIKU: redundant

Being told to go
And stubbing your toe hurt -but
You're too proud to show.

HAIKU: confession #1

I'm not a treasure;
I’m broody, moody and quite
Unlike Dame Judi.

HAIKU: confession#2

My only real vice
Is Countdown with a Mister
Kipling Country Slice

So, subjects for haikus can be more Oxford Road than The Road to Mandalay. They can range from daydreams to love and from the bittersweet to the confessional; they aren’t necessarily eastern or epigrammatic. Pip, pip!

*A version of this article has also appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Stereotypes: The Opera Buff

2007-07-20T11:42:00.001+01:00

Barry had been devoted to the opera ever since Aunt Margaret had given him a tiny dansette and box of assorted Puccini for his tenth birthday.

His mother’s sister had been a seminal influence in Barry’s early life, steering him away from the rough and tumble of boy’s games to more refined pastimes of music, painting and the arts.

Indeed, it was on trips with Auntie Mags to the municipal art gallery, at the sight of the rippling muscles, stern expression and mini toga of the young centurion in the pre-Raphaelite room that the first funny warm feelings had manifested themselves below that never really went away.

Whilst other boys collected stamps or train numbers, Barry built up his collection of opera records and books. Rather than footballers he worshipped the great divas from Tebaldi to Callas to Sutherland.

As he grew up, his life was punctuated by the plop of Opera Magazine onto his doormat and the construction of more shelves of racking in the lounge, soon overflowing into the spare room to accommodate his burgeoning collection.

He remembers being taken for the first time as a child by Aunt Margaret to the holy of holies, the Royal Opera House. He adored the formal grandeur of all that red velvet and gilt, the glamorous dresses and frenetic gaiety of the laughter and champagne in the rush at the end of the interval.

Time spent in this wonderland of liveried footmen and sparkling chandeliers influenced Barry’s life. His flat, although modest, was plush-curtained, gilded and chandeliered within an inch of its life.

Barry had more dress suits and white tie ensembles than you could shake an ivory topped cane at - and more silk lined opera capes than was strictly necessary in the wardrobe of a chartered accountant.

The crush bar at Covent Garden was Barry’s most favourite place. He adored the idea of so many attractive and like-minded young chaps crammed together in such high spirits for such a sort space of time. He called it “My kind of scrum” and always seemed to make new friends there. Rarely did a visit end without a supper afterwards or a new phone number tucked into his pocket Letts.

On holiday in Gran Canaria each March, Barry would lie in a nook on the dunes near Maspalomas without a care in the world, catching some rays, whilst revisiting a rare recording of The Ring” on his iPod.

At parties, conversation amongst Barry’s circle of opera-loving aficionados revolved around reviews of the latest performances and the niceties of favourite sopranos, lightened by the occasional funny story of diva-ish excess or rivalry.

By the time Barry reached a solitary middle–age, his flat was a shrine to dear Joanie and the divine Maria. Visits there were enjoyable for those in the know, although fans of the Ink Spots or Alma Cogan struggled.

Colonel Moseley's Stereotypes: The Foodie

2007-07-20T11:40:00.001+01:00

There only thing that Robin liked more than waking up to Giles Coren on a Saturday morning, was breakfast in bed on Sunday with A.A.Gill. Personally devoted though he was to these giants of culinary criticism, however, Robin’s only real passion extended to food.

As a child, Robin’s parents saw nothing unusual in their little boy having no problem eating egg whites, broccoli or liver. What seemed a little strange in a nine year old was a precocious taste so early for organic produce or what he termed “real coffee” and “decent bread”. Although a little unsettled, they sighed and took comfort in the thought that fastidious eating habits were to be preferred to glue-sniffing.

In time, as Robin’s precocity extended to plover’s eggs, artichokes and foie gras, they began to wonder where they had gone wrong. Perhaps if they had insisted on his reading The Bumper Fun Book for Boys rather than Elizabeth David’s “Mediterranean Food”, this unnatural vice would have been nipped in the bud. They recall thinking it was a phase which would soon pass, but came to recognise how wrong they were. Soon, he graduated to even more exotic fare, such as the works of Eliza Acton and even Brillat-Savarin. By the age of fifteen, the die was cast; their Robin was a confirmed and practising foodie.

As a young man a considerable proportion of Robin’s income was spent on his passion. Birthday money and savings were invested in Le Creuset cookware and a full set of Michelin Guides, rather than rap CD’s and trainers.

Day trips were made to the culinary centres – Bray for The Fat Duck, Ludlow and Hibiscus and Anthony’s in Leeds. Foreign travel was also gastro-centric. For Robin, Florence meant Enoteca Pinchiorri rather than the Uffizi. Lyons was synonymous with Paul Bocuse. Rather than MoMA and SAKS, New York meant Balthazar and Gramercy Tavern.

Latterly, Robin’s overriding interest lay in molecular gastronomy. A poster of Heston Blumenthal adorned his kitchen wall. He loved the invention and wit of some of his signature dishes: sensory jokes with hot and cold and confusions of colours, aromas and even noise. It was food where nothing could be taken for granted, where memories could be triggered and games played.

This led him to devour all he could read about his hero, the originator of this gastronomic necromancy, Ferran Adria. Each year Robin planned his prospective holiday around the possibility of securing a booking for dinner at El Bulli, Adria’s legendary restaurant in Roses near Gerona in Spain. Every year along with literally 400,000 other supplicants, he failed.

Invitations to dinner at Robin’s were much sought-after. Guests relished the eclectic mix of dishes and wines, with many a reference to current celebrity chefs: from Heston’s egg and bacon ice cream to Gordon’s peanut butter parfait. Unfortunately, Robin’s exquisite taste and discriminating palate was so well known and intimidating that no-one was ever brave enough to invite him back.

Colonel Moseley's Brummie Heroes: Harvey Andrews

2007-05-18T23:49:00.001+01:00

What ho! Nowadays, people don’t seem to have heroes. Perhaps it’s not cool to admit admiration for anyone else. Years ago, heroes abounded - in sports, the arts and even politics. Today we have celebrity instead. Ordinary folk are interested in the famous simply because they are well-known. They envy glamour and wealth and don’t need to think beyond what they read in Heat or see in Pimp my Crib on MTV. They don’t necessarily admire the person or his or her achievements.

To counterbalance this, I want to flag up some men and women from our area who have succeeded in putting together an impressive body of work and whom we should celebrate for being brilliant rather than just famous.

For a long time one hero of mine has been Harvey Andrews, described as “unquestionably the most influential English songwriter of the past twenty or so years: a consummate entertainer, craftsman and raconteur” (Stables Theatre programme).

Over forty three years, Harvey Andrews has produced fifteen albums and written songs recorded by more than fifty artists, ranging from Christy Moore and Max Boyce to Mary Hopkin. His numerous television appearances include The Old Grey Whistle Test, Rhythm on Two and specials, The Camera and the Song and The Same Old Smile. On BBC Radio 2 he has hosted Folk on Two and on Radio 4 a Kaleidoscope special was devoted to his work. He also performed sessions for John Peel.

As well as appearing at virtually every folk venue throughout the country over decades on the road, Harvey has performed at five Cambridge Folk Festivals and many abroad including Denmark and Canada. He has appeared in North America and throughout Europe and given a solo concert at London’s Queen Elizabeth Hall.

He wrote and sang the theme tune for the TV series Golden Pennies and The Haunted School and the songs for the musical depicting life growing up in Birmingham in the 1940’s and 1950’s, Go and Play up your own End which enjoyed sold-out runs at Birmingham’s Rep, Hippodrome and Alexandra Theatres.

Born in the Sorrento in Moseley during the war, Harvey’s roots are pure Birmingham. From childhood he enjoyed singing and became interested in American folk music whilst at college training to be a school teacher. He emerged onto the scene with his appearance at Ian Campbell’s Jug O’ Punch in 1964 and appeared on an EP with folk revivalist Martin Carthy in1965. Turning full-time professional in 1966, he released his debut solo album Places and Faces in 1970.

After his first appearance at the Cambridge Festival in 1970, his reputation grew with his well-received follow-up Writer of Songs in 1972. This landmark album contained a strong selection of tuneful melodies in varying styles with perceptive lyrics that were to become his trademark. Many star musicians are credited on the album including Ralph Mc Tell and Rick Wakeman.

The most controversial track on Writer of Songs is Soldier. It was written after the renewal of violence in Northern Ireland in response to the death of Sgt Michael Willetts, caught in a bomb blast whilst trying to evacuate a room of civilians. It was reported that the crowd abused his remains as they were later removed. Although Harvey made it unambiguously clear at the time that the song was only about the senselessness of violence, some incorrectly interpreted it as a pro-establishment glorification of military heroism.

When released, the song was banned by the BBC - lest feelings be exacerbated in the nationalist community. I understand that soldiers are still advised not to sing it in pubs where it might cause trouble. A song-writer runs risks when trying to address such moral dilemmas where art and politics necessarily overlap. Soldier provides a salutary warning of how a song intended to transcend sectarianism can be kidnapped and used for the purposes of others. One can only respect Harvey for his humane motives and sympathise with him over the unfair resultant flack.

Also reflecting the politics of the time, Hey, Sandy recollected the shooting of Sandra Scheuer by National Guards at Kent State University in the anti-war demonstration of 1970. These songs of protest contrasted with the lilting domesticity of Gift of a Brand New Day, written to welcome home his wife and new baby and the gently lyrical Boothferry Bridge.

Years later Harvey explained he was driving to a gig in Hull and musing on the fact that Americans had evocative place-names like Wichita that lent themselves to song. Crossing Boothferry Bridge, its name hit him: full of vowels, it sang well, symbolised travel and made a very romantic song. The only problem is it was a rusty old swing bridge near Hull and not the Golden Gate!

In the following year Harvey toured with art rock band Focus and completed his third album Friends of Mine. The critics again reacted positively, recognising the quality of Harvey’s voice and his way of saying things that most of us feel but few are able to explain.

1975 saw Fantasies from a Corner Seat with Graham Cooper and in the following year, Someday. Harvey subsequently formed his own Beeswing label which released his Margarita, Old Mother Earth and PG.

After Brand New Day, 25 Years on the Road was released in 1989 featuring only Harvey and his guitar - like they see on stage - with no backing musicians. The 1990s saw Spring Again whose title track celebrated the newly-won freedom in eastern Europe and Snaps, which Harvey called a Brummie album from top to toe. It is one of my favourites: an absorbing trip into the past with family sketches ranging from his bookie and entrepreneur great grandfather George Pearce of Digbeth to Punch and Judy Man redolent of summer hols in Blackpool and Aberdovey – although Harvey preferred darkest Shropshire – where he now lives!

Snaps deals with diverse topics and emotions ranging from the World Wars, a girl in trouble and the sadness of family separation to the jolly Jowett Javelin and happy family sing-songs. The secure life of the young Harvey is reflected in Birthday Boy authentically evoking Saturday morning children’s pictures and The Old Tin Bath. The enchanting Blue Moon Memories touchingly recaptures his parents’ special song “incorporating Blue Moon” – an early and superior form of sampling.

What really comes through this truly family album is nostalgia for times when a bus to town on Saturday morning meant shops to call at before cakes and tea - whereas now it’s a ghost town with charity shops and boarded windows.

The album is crowned with Fifty Years On dedicated to Harvey’s parents and those who at war’s-end voted for a promise of health and education now being betrayed. It makes for a bitter but truthful ending.

The sounds, faces and places of Harvey’s childhood are also recalled with warmth and insight in his recently-published book, Gold Star to the Ozarks. This beautifully-written musical memoir charts a journey beginning with singing cowboy Roy Rogers through many by-roads such as Gilbert and Sullivan, film musicals and Family Favourites on to rock and roll and folk. The real heart of the book lies not just in music but in its depiction of family life after the war. It explains the importance of education as a means of escape. Harvey and both parents are vividly portrayed in a memoir which is actually about aspiration and fulfilling personal potential.

Since 2000 Harvey has released The Gift, a fond and occasionally wry retrospective of the folk scene. This was followed by The Journey which opens with Manet and Monet, a transcript of the minutes of the Yardley Arts Club's outing to Ludlow in 1949. In his cover notes Harvey refers to the members (which between 1947 and 1977 included his father Victor whose lino cut is on the cover) as innocent, dedicated, self-educated working class men and women who believed in the power of education and art and used their miserly leisure time to the full. As so often in Harvey's work, it is warm, funny and uplifting.

Harvey's most recent album Somewhere in the Stars concludes with his evocative lines about his trips to Shropshire years ago and unusually the American David Mallett's song about lost yesterdays Can't go home Again. He makes the song his own in a wistful understated rendition with a stunning string arrangement.

With his standing as a lyricist firmly established, Harvey’s lyrics have been used in course work for the national GCSE English examination and included in the Oxford University book of English Traditional Verse.

Harvey’s influences from this country and the USA are too numerous to list. I single out Buddy Holly, Phil Ochs and Harry Chapin and also Hoyt Axton and Tom Paxton as Harvey did, perhaps because they rhyme. It was only recently that I realised Harvey was a close friend of the sadly-missed Jake Thackray, the French-influenced, Yorkshire Noel Coward, whose work I have also long admired and enjoyed. Jake called his friend Harv the Marv. By your friends are you known and if the great Jake Thackray said he’s Harv the Marv, that’s more than good enough for me.

By any standards Harvey Andrews has an impressive body of work covering many themes and styles. They range from the social and political to the artistic, from the domestic and romantic to the humorous and nostalgic. He is recognised as one of the most powerful song-smiths England has produced. In live performance he creates real intimacy with his audience with impeccable delivery, accomplished musicianship and engaging humour.

One columnist observed that since his first gig in October 1964 Harvey has been using his native wit and clear insight to lay bare the English soul with songs having the ability to strike right at the core of the matter. Another remarked that he examines our lives and reminds us what it’s all about. Tuneful melodies and intelligent lyrics will never go out of fashion and Harvey Andrews was and still is a master of both.

Born in 1943, Harvey was a pre-Baby Boomer. His formative years as a performer were in the Sixties – which, as Joe Boyd said in the Prologue of White Bicycles, began in the summer of 1957 and ended in October of 1973. Many of his early songs reflect the idealistic mind-set of those changing times. For me, his most lyrical work points to the values and integrity of better times. It has been a pleasure to observe his journey. To his credit, Harvey has continued to reflect his values without succumbing to cynicism. He has honoured his origins without becoming, as others have, a professional Brummie.

Back in 1972, the title track of Harvey’s second album spoke of his ambitions as an artist. Tellingly, he admits his ultimate contentment just to be a writer of songs and modestly concludes with the understated hope that someone will rate them and maybe some day, investigate them - seriously.

Surely it’s now long overdue to do exactly that and give even more serious recognition to an all-time great writer and performer of songs: a worthy Brummie hero.

“Gold Star to the Ozarks ~ a musical memoir” by Harvey Andrews (Haska Books 2007)

Website: http://www.harveyandrews.com/

*a version of this profile has appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Modern Fallacies

2007-04-30T15:37:00.001+01:00

What ho! I was just looking through my weblog. As well as reviews and horse-related items, a good proportion of my posts do seem to consist of sharing my grumbles. Despite this, I was proud that I criticised Mr Brown’s removal of reliefs for pension funds months before the story really took off.

Today, there’s quite an industry of grumpy senior citizens. Richard Wilson, Germaine Greer and a few others seem to have cornered the market in stating the irritably obvious. I suppose it pays for holidays in Tuscany or suppers at the Ivy or whatever it is media folk of a certain age spend their grey pounds on nowadays.

Despite appearances, I don’t get much satisfaction from mere cynicism. What’s needed is a willingness to test accepted misconceptions. Anyone can be curmudgeonly or sarcastic. It’s much more useful to challenge perceived truths, especially those promoted by spin by our government, public authorities, media and large companies. Each seems to want us to continue to accept a tawdry and deteriorating status quo.

So, in the spirit of the innocent child who pointed out that the emperor was somewhat unclothed, here is my take on ten widespread modern fallacies. In my opinion, all the following statements are simply untrue:

Unemployment levels are historically low. No, they’re not. How many people do you know who were made redundant or “retired early” and find tiny savings or small occupational pensions debar them from any benefit, so they just don’t register? How many disappear into the black economy? How many opt for the disability allowance route? None show-up in the employment statistics.

Global tourism is a pleasure: Not to me it isn’t. To move such numbers, air passengers are now treated like cattle. Airports are overcrowded and unpleasant and, in economy, airplanes uncomfortably cramped with poor food. The destination may be worthwhile, but the demoralising journey makes the whole exercise questionable.

Violent crime is reducing: Stop the spin. Many folk simply do not feel safe enough to go out at night, particularly into city centres for fear of drunks and muggings. Many incidents go un-reported. Any sane observer can see drug-related crime and use of guns have increased.

Customer care is important. Pull the other one. How easy is it to obtain help in some shops compared to a decade ago? How long do you wait and how much does it cost to use a help-line? How many consumers are overcharged by banks and utility-providers? Nowadays, the customer is always…bullied and it’s getting worse.

Female equality exists: Tosh. If there was no longer a glass ceiling, a greater proportion of CEO’s and main board directors would be women.

Standards of food have improved: Not so! Many more people are interested in what they eat and value fresh ingredients with fewer food miles. There is a huge demand for local produce and farmers’ markets, but not enough of them. The domination of major supermarkets is increasing together with the tasteless, mass-produced product often transported unnecessarily from the other side of the world. Frustratingly, the more we understand the problem, the worse it gets.

Being gay is no longer a disadvantage. Get real. How many openly gay men or women hold senior positions in mainstream industry or commerce? In reality, the majority of our companies are still bloke-ish. Go to any business dinner or golf day; conventional orientation is still presumed and required. At work normal stereotypes prevail: it’s competitive and a stable family man is still ruthlessly preferred. Even after the Civil Partnership Act, it’s not compulsory for surviving civil partners to be treated equally with spouses as regards occupational pension rights accrued before the Act.

Standards in the health service are improving: ‘Fraid not! The government may have thrown more money at the health service. It seems that doctors’ salaries have increased, but for patients and nurses morale has fallen whilst levels of infection have risen. Statistics on shorter waiting times for operations don’t correspond with the experience of anyone I know.

English regions are important: Says who? There’s no denying that Scotland and Wales are deemed significant. Each has devolution and its own legislature in which the English do not participate, whilst Scottish and Welsh MPs continue to play a leading role in Parliament. In politics and the media the English regions have no real voice. All that counts is London – oh yes, and Cardiff and Edinburgh

Birmingham is a global tourist destination: Que? I yield to no-one in my admiration of our second city. It is a great business and commercial centre with fine galleries, theatres and restaurants. It hosts exhibitions and conferences brilliantly and has some fascinating parts such as the Jewellery Quarter and Bourneville. It may have more canals than Venice but isn’t yet a must-see holiday destination like Barcelona or even Amsterdam.

There’s nothing like a little de-bunking for giving one an appetite: time for tea, a Country Slice and Countdown with the Mem. At least there are some things one can still rely on. In tribute to automatic promotion, Keep right on! Pip, pip!

*this article also appeared in Birmingham 13.

Colonel Moseley on the Joys of Summer

2007-04-29T23:18:00.001+01:00

What ho! After Countdown today, I was reflecting on the summer ahead and how hard it is now to distinguish between the seasons. Mild wet winters merge into hot dry summers, interspersed with sporadic alarming extremes including high winds.

As well as orderly and predictable weather, seasonal events seem to be a thing of the past too. In the High Street, if there is such a thing now, sales happen all the time and aren’t confined to January or mid-summer. Holidays are taken throughout the year, especially during the myriad of half terms, not just two weeks at the beginning of August.

In place of these landmarks on the calendar, the only fixed points in the year now seem to be the monoliths of celebrity and reality TV. The summer is dominated by thirteen weeks of Big Brother, the autumn is the X Factor, the winter sees Ant and Dec flying off to Australia for I’m Celebrity Get Me Out of Here and the Celebrity Big Brother and the springs means Dancing on Ice. I guess they may be our modern fertility rituals marking the passage of time and placating the gods of “OK” and “Hello”.

Anyway, enough ironic social observation: in no particular order, the constants that seem to feature every summer are:

Sporting disappointment: most years our summer is punctuated by the punctured dreams of the great British public. Last year it was the anti-climax of the World Cup. Previously we have underachieved in everything from the Olympics to the Davis Cup. Annually we have the traumas of Test cricket and trials of our tennis players in SW16, alleviated tantalisingly by occasional brilliance. When, once every so often, it does go right and we win the Ashes or Rugby World Cup, the whole country is lifted sufficiently to face the gloom for the next few years.

Queues at airports: Industrial action by French air traffic controllers or baggage handlers, security scares, inclement weather or just sheer volume of traffic all conspire to ensure the holiday has a miserable delayed start and uncomfortable finish.

Silly season stories: with Parliament in recess and our rulers in Tuscany or in Cliff Richard’s mansion, there’s not much to spin and the newspapers are left to dig up stories about the golden weddings of large groups of siblings, musical animals and rudely shaped vegetables.

Extremes of weather: with drought, floods, whirlwinds and lightning, our summer weather seems to grow more biblical every year

Big Brother: sadly, forget dear Johnners on Radio Three from Lords or Dan Maskell’s “Oh, I says” from Wimbledon; the sound of summer is now the theme music from Big Brother and that booming Geordie voice reminding us that “You decide…” The producers decide a lot, but that’s another story.

The Edinburgh Festival: in August a good proportion of our arts commentators disappear up to Edinburgh and report on the festival. They obviously enjoy the trip, meeting old friends and having some excellent dinners on expenses. Hordes of foreign tourists are attracted. The trouble is that it happens in Scotland. Also, even for someone with a good general interest in the arts, much of the programme isn’t that relevant and the coverage is surprisingly dreary. It’s a jolly for the media types and a shame they don’t just keep it to themselves: end of.

The Birthday Honours List: leaving aside issues under police investigation, as each year passes the Honours List seems to become more laughable and discredited with minor gongs for weather girls and ageing footballers and knighthoods for various luvvies and the odd captain of industry who has kept his nose clean. It gets more tawdry with every passing year

The Proms: despite the populist ending and the TV relay to the masses in various parks, I still find that the Proms cater mainly for the musical establishment. If they have a mission to bring the joy of music to a wider audience, why not broaden the repertoire even further to include even more diversity with much more popular and modern material? With ingenuity, this need not mean dumbing down. Why not focus even more on entertainment and accessibility?

Plagues: we have endured Old Testament quantities of house flies, ladybirds, crane-flies, wasps and sand from the Sahara. Maybe it’s to stop us getting complacent.

Exam results: I’m not going to rant about standards and exams getting easier: good luck and congrats to all who pass. I am, however, very bored with the clichéd ritual of the staged outside broadcasts where four or five nervous students open their results live on air on breakfast or local TV and are simply thrilled.

It’s enough to make you look forward to the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, but with global warming that may soon be in February. Pip, pip!!

* a version of this piece appeared in Birmingham 13

The Mem reviews "Nella Last's War", "Birmingham at War" and "Moseley, Balsall Heath and Highgate"

2007-03-10T09:12:00.001Z

Hello dears! My husband Wilfred – you probably know him better as Colonel Moseley - thought it best if I wrote this weblog. His piece about his Ten Ultimate Gripes seems to have upset more people than usual. This time, the disaffected are an unlikely grouping: they include teachers and social workers riding motor cycles, fans of local television and Alan Titchmarsh, wearers of hoodies and the entire Scottish nation. This implausible alliance wasn’t quite enough to make him feel a pariah, but a little uncomfortable in the queue at the supermarket; so he's lowering his profile which I think means the same as keeping his head down, so here I am.

At Moseley Towers it’s my husband who watches most of the television. As you may know, each afternoon in the week he is glued to Countdown. Only occasionally do I wrest control of the remote. Last year I managed this feat for a splendid one-off drama, Housewife, 49 by Victoria Wood. This was based on the wartime diaries of Nella Last from Barrow-in-Furness, written for Mass Observation. I admired its sense of period and performances of David Threlfall, Stephanie Cole and Ms Wood herself.

The program prompted me to read Nella Last’s War edited by Richard Broad and Suzie Fleming (Profile Books ISBN-10: 84668 000 X). Like the drama, the diaries involve and move from the outset. Apart from recreating the events, atmosphere and attitudes of wartime, one is given an intimate insight into the viewpoint and emotions of a middle-aged wife and mother struggling in the Blitz to cope with her own nerves, a withdrawn and repressive husband and sons leaving home. Through all this, Mrs. Last was determined to cope and do her bit in volunteer services.

As well as following the war and Nella’s work at home and for the WVS, the reader can look between the lines and decipher her relationships with her gloomy husband and much-loved sons. One can’t help but wonder, for example, if Nella ever came near to understanding the truth of her son Cliff’s relationship with a navy flier, tragically to be lost in the war. Her integrity, fears, joys and sadness, insight, loyalty and sheer hard work are vividly portrayed in what might be regarded as an early form of blog. I found it compelling and thoroughly recommend it.

Nearer to home than Barrow in Furness, I also enjoyed Birmingham at War, a pictorial account by Alton Douglas (Brewin Books ISBN 0 947731 93 8). In his preface the author talks of thinking, when researching the book, of marching men and women, devastation, mugs of tea, comradeship, heroism and above all of wonderment that the human spirit could survive and triumph over anything (even some of those mugs of tea!).

Birmingham at War captures the spirit of the time from the preparations for war through to victory. All the paraphernalia of war is shown from gas masks and sandbagged buildings to barrage balloons and shelters, the evacuation of children, rationing and endless queues. There are many photographs of the city’s industry making aircraft, engines, vehicles and munitions. The continuous and real threat is literally brought home by German military target maps showing Saltley Railway Carriage & Wagon Works and the Austin at Longbridge together with extensive bomb damage, including Oxford Road in Moseley. Other aspects of life are featured from entertainment and sport to victory celebrations. Birmingham at War evokes perhaps the most important years in the last century.

Finally, I commend Moseley, Balsall Heath and Highgate, one of the Images of England series by Marion Baxter and Peter Drake (Tempus Publishing ISBN 0 7524 0680 9). The book presents previously unpublished photographs from the Birmingham Central Library collection, ranging from houses of the great and good, rich and poor to street scenes, churches, transport, art and leisure.

In bringing these pictures together, the history over two centuries of a relatively small but diverse and vibrant area is presented. The photographs of Moseley Village and St Mary’s Row in the late nineteenth century are fascinating and show scenes little changed from today - apart from heavier traffic!

The unique character of Moseley, described in Kelly’s Directory in 1896 as a pleasant suburb, is emphasised with over twenty five listed buildings, a private park created from the Moseley Hall Estate, the Chamberlains’ family home, Highbury and even the Moseley Bog. As well as images, the book contains insights into what made Moseley different from its neighbours. Apparently, the refusal to put workmen’s trains on the Birmingham to Gloucester line and the absence of third class tickets on the trams helped to maintain Moseley’s exclusivity. Its sporting, literary and musical heritage is touched on together with the proximity of Birmingham University which has given a decidedly student and cosmopolitan flavour to the streets and pubs of Moseley.

I found that the photographs and their interesting and quirky captions illuminated Moseley’s history. These images linked the past and present in a real and recognisable way and were an excellent introduction to the subject.

I hope you might enjoy some of these books as much as I did. Bye, dears!

* a version of this review appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Ten Ultimate Gripes

2007-01-13T00:25:00.001Z

What ho! I had been fairly mellow over Christmas enjoying a plentiful supply of decent claret and white burgundy and hardly any distracting visitors. However, no sooner had Jools Holland officially ushered in 2007, than the dyspeptic void of January and February stretched before me. This was made worse by the lingering memory of the cricket Down Under and the vapid nonsense of Celebrity Big Brother at home.

This was not the ideal mood in which to write a piece, but trying to make a positive out of a negative, I decided to turn my morose New Year sentiments to constructive use. It’s time to say what’s too often unsaid and blow a raspberry or two. Here are this year’s top ten gripes and objects of loathing:

1. Renta Presentas: it may be sacrilege, but a few presenters seem to have cornered the market on television and are invariably called upon to front-up coverage on most issues. I have no problem when they are in their own special fields, but not where they have no particular knowledge or experience. It is done because producers think the public will only be comfortable with familiar voices. Thus we are often blessed with Alan Titchmarsh or Tess ‘n Vern. Please give us a break.
2. Dull local television: with rare exceptions, local television features are uninspiring. They tend to be token efforts demonstrating non-existent regional autonomy and are used by local TV journalists for self-promotion and to get to London, which sadly is still the only place that really matters.
3. The Chancellor: Gordon Brown’s stealthy removal of various reliefs did enormous damage to final salary pension schemes and helped undermine a system of provision that really worked. Although few seemed to notice this apparently technical change, its effects were profound and deplorable
4. Personal stereos and mobile ‘phones: a whole generation walks around obliviously with earphones or apparently holding loud conversations with themselves. They are saying “Don’t enter my world”. These gadgets are more anti-social and isolating than hoodies.
5. Expensive telephone lines: companies remove opportunities to obtain information or do business in person and force customers to use costly 08.. ‘phone lines to do something which should be free. It is an insult to one’s intelligence; so complain or check out the SAYNOTO0870.COM website.
6. The son also rises: anyone who has tried to build a career in the media will have noticed the early starts some way up the ladder of many of the progeny of the famous: the Corens, Schulmans, Geldofs - say no more.
7. Help-lines: I don’t object to call centres being in India or Aberdeen. Wherever they are, I loathe having to listen to long lists of options before being held in limbo subjected to irritating musak, informed that “You are in a queue” and being made to wait far too long. I particularly hate being told that “Your call is important to us” whilst self-evidently it is not. They should remember that they owe their living to customers and treat them with respect.
8. Naff celebrity advertising: ever since Dennis Compton and Brylcream one has come to expect some star endorsements. We can live with glamorous campaigns for perfume by Nicole Kidman but how can any self-respecting celebrity flog loans, sofas or frozen sausage rolls?
9. Motor bikes: in my opinion they are noisy, dangerous and too fast. Although many may be responsibly driven by off-duty teachers and social workers, they should be as thoroughly policed as motor cars.
10. The Scots: why should we accept the fact that the Scots fervently support any opponent of England in any sport whilst we wish Scottish football teams, tennis players or racing drivers well? Why do the English have no say in the deliberations of the Scottish parliament whilst Scottish MPs play such a prominent part in the House of Commons? Why must so many leading figures in English politics be Scots? Could they please have Messrs. Brown, Reid, Campbell, Kennedy and others back and give England its independence?

Remember to voice your views or the baddies will think they’ve won. I think I’ll finish off that claret now. Pip, pip!

* a version of this piece appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Power and Spin

2006-10-03T00:30:00.001+01:00

What ho! Recently I have been mulling over some of life's more daunting questions. Is Countdown quite the same with Carol talking more and doing less tricky sums? Now that we have become accustomed to Des, rather than dear old Richard, how will we cope with yet another new host?

I tend to dwell on these escapist issues and seek solace in a Mr Kipling Country Slice when I'm depressed about the state of the nation.

As you might imagine, as a former Guards Officer and MD of Moseley Engineering, I have no problem with authority. It's just that at the moment, if one believes the Daily Mail, we seem to be governed by an assortment of freeloaders, adulterers, caravanners and as if that wasn't enough - Scots.

None of this makes one inclined to trust those in charge or to have any faith in their view of the world. A lot of my concerns stem from the blind self-confidence of our leaders whether in politics or business. Ever since Reagan and Thatcher, our rulers have tried to show they have what they call "conviction" and "vision". These are very dangerous words when not constrained by common sense or humility.

Today, power is concentrated in fewer hands, is subject to less control and is camouflaged by clever PR. This empowerment of the few is reflected at work as much as in politics and is often obscured by perception management, otherwise known as "spin".

Whether in government or business, many leaders exhibit a range of fads and prejudices which are concealed or made more acceptable by spin; beneath the PR, however, they are often:

1. Fattist: the chief trains and runs marathons. His ambitious lieutenants do so too. The flabby or unfit need not apply for jobs or expect promotion; they are lethargic, self-indulgent, undisciplined and to be despised,

2. Ageist: whilst he is under 50, the boss considers anyone older is a burnt out and exhausted husk, lacking in drive and energy

3. Sports-mad: the captain of the team firmly believes in a healthy mind in a healthy body and the value of team sports. Any male who does not play or demonstrate a detailed knowledge of cricket, football or rugby is suspect and unlikely to progress. An ability to discuss the merits of a flat back four is essential.

4. Ascetic: our leader dislikes food and alcohol. Meals waste time and are an unnecessary interruption of work. Hunger reflects weakness.

5. Upholders of family values: the big cheese has a feisty wife and lovely children whom he adores. He relates best to others with offspring and hardly at all to those who have none or do not loudly espouse what he considers "family values". A "normal" church-going family background conclusively demonstrates the suitability of any individual for virtually any senior or managerial post.

6. Worshippers of youth: until he passes 50, the man at the top is hugely impressed by the vitality of those under 30. Any lack of experience, or judgment is to be ignored and any criticism of younger colleagues dismissed as unduly cautious, defensive and retrograde.

7. Subject to mood swings: the gaffer may shout, bang the table, kick furniture, throw small objects, humiliate and abuse. His apologists point to overtiredness resulting from overwork and dedication. This may be so, but he's also a bully.

8. Prone to tokenism: to counterbalance his capricious dislikes, the supremo likes to adopt and advance the career of the odd unlikely candidate. This demonstrates his originality of thought and brilliant hunches. It often results in an under-qualified individual with no experience being over-promoted. This person is secure whilst in favour, since no sane colleague will wish to be seen to contradict the view of the boss. The consequences may not emerge until the person eventually falls from grace. This can take years and cost a fortune.

9. Sexist: the PR-conscious leader wants to be seen advancing the careers of a few selected women. They are normally the ones who see things his way and do not make waves. In reality though, the proportion of women who climb the greasy political pole or management ladder remains small.

10. Conventional: the head honcho does not approve of attitudes or ideas he does not share or understand. The key to advancement is emulating the mindset and lifestyle of the boss, whatever they may be. Conformity is still the key to the corridors of power and the executive washroom.

So now you know how some of our ruling and managing elite operate. I need another Country Slice. Pip, pip!!

* this article also appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on.... My Favourite Things

2006-08-10T23:23:00.001+01:00

What ho! I hope you enjoyed the Mem’s guest blog. During my mini-sabbatical, I looked back through my contributions. As I read, I began to suspect that readers might regard me as grumpy, possibly curmudgeonly and, almost certainly, cynical. I asked the Mem if that was how I was perceived and she diplomatically commented that it was possible that people who didn’t know me very well might consider me “a tad brusque”.

To be honest I was shocked at this, since I’ve always considered myself a generous-minded sort of chap. Still, if that’s the perception of my readers, it’s down to me to put my image straight. I may not have a PR guru like Max Clifford or Alistair Campbell, but I have this blog, so here we go.

The trouble is: how do you demonstrate convincingly that you’re a good egg and a cheerful one in less than 900 words? Previously I have highlighted my view of the failings of motorists, restaurants, families, bosses and the like. I have even stated my Ten Least Favourite Things. Although I’m no Maria in the Sound of Music, perhaps I can list my favourite things, which incidentally don’t include brown paper packages tied up with string, which always sound to me like consignments of illicit drugs. Also, when the dog bites or the bee stings or you’re feeling sad, I would recommend a visit to the doctor’s or the off-licence rather than relying on this list. Subject to these caveats, here are my ten favourites (after the Mem, of course):

1. Countdown: not surprisingly, nothing lifts the spirits on a rainy afternoon at Moseley Towers more than Carol Vorderman providing a brilliant solution to 987 using four large and two small, whilst one enjoys a Mr Kipling Country slice and a cup of tea.
2. Divas: another of my weaknesses is great women singers with soul. Some have sad stories, but all are glamorous and gifted. Starting with Judy Garland and Edith Piaf, my favourites include Billie Holliday and Dusty Springfield.
3. Eating out: whether it’s a balti house, gastro pub or the Ivy, I still get a kick out of eating out with the Mem and friends. The food should be fresh and robust and the experience should be fun and an event.
4. Paintings: I’ve never been one for the Old Masters, but can be transported by the work of Stanley Spencer, Van Gogh, Bacon and Matisse. For me the best art strikes a chord and prompts an emotion.
5. Alcohol: a chilled white burgundy on a hot afternoon is one of God’s more inspired creations. I would also take this moment to thank Him for gin.
6. National Hunt racing: what was more uplifting than Desert Orchid or the sadly missed Best Mate in their prime? My favourite kind of sport involves great performances, real characters and true sportsmanship. Give me Henrietta Knight or Jenny Pitman over Jose Mourinho, any day.
7. Theatre: I believe theatre should entertain or move. Say it very quietly, but I know all Stephen Sondheim’s shows backwards; they are brilliant, literate and undervalued. I have been lucky enough to have seen a few actors who capture you entirely: Maggie Smith, Ian McKellen and the incomparable Judi Dench. They are national treasures and add to our quality of life.
8. New York: only a few destinations have something for everyone. My favourite is the Big Apple, specifically Manhattan. I have a romantic view of it with Gershwin playing in my head as I walk around. I love catching glimpses of the Chrysler building and doing all the touristy stuff from 5th Avenue, Tiffany’s, Central Park, great museums and delis, SAKS, Bloomingdales, the Rockerfeller Centre, shows on Broadway; the list is endless. If you are fortunate enough to get the chance, please do it.
9. Trashy TV: I don’t like soaps but am embarrassed to admit that as well as the football on Sky, I quite like relaxing with junk TV like Celebrity Big Brother and Strictly Come Dancing. It’s a harmless diversion and occasionally casts a light on human nature and modern preoccupations (or that’s my excuse).
10. Birmingham City FC: this is another one to mention quietly. It’s not something I shout about, but once you really support a club, you are put in a good mood if they win and downcast if they lose. I know it's also in my list of Least Favourite Things, but life is complex. It’s in the blood I’m afraid and that's that.

So there you are; so many words and not a negative one amongst them. I shall have to go and lie down in a darkened room. Hopefully normal cynical service will be resumed shortly. Pip, pip!

*a version of this piece also appeared in Birmingham 13

The Mem Speaks: Surviving Retirement

2006-08-05T20:18:00.001+01:00

Hello dears! You may not know who I am, but my name is Letty Moseley. I live in Moseley Towers in Oxford Road with my husband Wilfred, retired MD of Moseley Engineering and formerly of the Queen’s Hussars. Wilfred writes pieces for this weblog and sometimes for Birmingham 13. You may know him as Colonel Moseley and me as “the Mem”.

Last week we had just watched Countdown and were having tea and some of Wilfred’s favourite Mr Kipling Country Slices, when I happened to comment on how that Des Lynam with the moustache and twinkling eyes was appealing to ladies of a certain age.

Given the adulation lavished on Carol Vorderman by Wilfred most afternoons, this seemed entirely reasonable. Surprisingly, however, my innocent remark seemed to unleash the green-eyed monster in Wilfred – for the first time since a young subaltern had asked for one valeta too many in a dance in the officers mess in Poona all those years before the war.

I may be flattering myself, but whatever the cause, this put Wilfred in a jolly bad mood. Trying to change the subject, I made what I thought was a constructive comment on his last piece. But like the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo, one thing led to another and Wilfred flounced out proclaiming “Well, old girl, if you can do better, have a go yourself” and I said “Alright then, if that’s how you feel, I will!” So here I am.

The trouble is, unlike my Wilfred, I don’t really hold myself out as an expert on anything in particular. After racking my brain, I suppose there is one thing I am qualified to advise on more than anyone else. So here are my top ten tips on how to survive retirement:

1. Make sure he has a hobby: after all those years of concentration at work, he needs something interesting to occupy and absorb him, whether it’s pigeons, fretwork or brass-rubbing.
2. Get him out from under your feet: try to find him some activity that’s extra-mural. Golf, walking or bowls mean you have some free time in the house again.
3. Get a dog: dogs provide companionship and require exercising to varying degrees out of the house.
4. Take holidays: if you are fortunate enough to be able to afford it, get away occasionally. A change of scene and some sunshine does wonders.
5. Allow him friends: retirement shouldn’t be a prison sentence or solitary confinement. Try not to lose contact with all the friends from your working days and hopefully make some new ones together in retirement.
6. Stay well: the key to everything is good health, so try to keep agile in mind and body and keep off the sherry until after six
7. Have fun: if you are healthy, solvent and together, celebrate it and look on the bright side. A good laugh is most definitely the best medicine
8. Do some things together: it’s good to have some “us” time as well as “me” time, so make a point of doing what you both enjoy at the same time. This doesn’t mean twin bob sleighing down the Cresta Run, but could include ballroom dancing, whist or bridge
9. Break the routine: you’ve got this far together, so don’t make the mistake of getting into a boring rut. From time to time do something new or off-the-wall. Keep trying new things: food, books, films, clothes, trips...whatever. Just because you’ve reached a certain age doesn’t mean your mind is closed.
10. Keep romance alive: much as they pretend it is, love is not the sole preserve of the young. The odd compliment, bunch of flowers or candle-lit supper for two alone can do wonders for morale.

Remember you’re a person, not just a pensioner! I had better go and give Wilfred a large gin and tonic before supper. Bye, dears

* a version of this article has appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Summer Awards

2006-07-02T08:28:00.001+01:00

What ho, readers: cor what a scorcher! By the time you read this, I hope the summer weather has remained temperate with none of the vulgar extremes of last year. The Wizard of Oz doesn’t play well in Oxford Road or Stoney Lane.

Referring, however obliquely, to unleashing powerful forces of nature, did you notice the prescience of my piece on my least favourite things? Written some weeks before, I had no idea that immediately on publication Birmingham would sadly be relegated and Mr Prescott so entertainingly exposed. With some trepidation over the apparent power of my Parker fountain pen, I thought this month I would share with you my Top Ten Silly Season Awards for this summer to date:

Most apparently reluctant hostess: did you see the Queen’s expression at all those children making the pristine garden of Buckingham Palace look so terribly untidy? There goes my chance of an MBE; the Mem will not be pleased.

Most plastic: A tie between Sezer and Grace from Big Brother for their behaviour towards those labelled “freaks”. Sadly, even now they don’t understand why the great British public loathed them.

Person you would least like to sit next to on the ‘plane to Ibiza: It’s the rotund and sexist John Mc Crirrick, by a short head from Cherie Blair.

Best Big Brother housemate: it has to be Pete for his tolerance and the remark about loving people for their differences. Hopefully, he has also managed to improve understanding of Tourette’s Syndrome without losing his dignity.

Dreariest World Cup TV commentator: Mick McCarthy, by a short header from David Pleat. One begins to understand why Roy Keane was so cross.

Saddest retirement: Michael Owen. Life can bring disappointment, even when you seem to have everything

Best Wimbledon commentator: John McEnroe by a street. You cannot be serious if you think there’s any other contender.

Best TV moment: when Sir Cliff grandly rubbished his own wine. Nice one, Gordon!

Undiscovered day-time reality TV gem: Coach Party on Channel 4. It was a mobile big Brother featuring thirty days of backbiting, pettiness, bickering and tantrums: the essence of the triviality of the modern British summer.

Most deserving of retirement: you guessed it, still John Prescott…please!

My commiserations to those of you unlucky enough not to win an award this summer: to paraphrase Andy Warhol, in the future we shall all have an award for fifteen minutes, so it might be your turn next! Pip, pip!

* this piece also appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Book Reviews: Memories of Childhood

2006-05-01T23:22:00.001+01:00

What ho, readers! It has been a sad year for aficionados of the blessed Countdown, that stimulating stop-gap between lunch and the first snorter of the evening. I am sure I speak for many people who will miss the genial and quirky Richard Whiteley, who gave the programme much of its unique spirit. Of course, La Vorderman is as appealing as ever and the Mem speaks highly of that new presenter chap with a moustache, but our afternoons will no longer have the same charming Englishness and slightly eccentric edge.

On a more positive note, the Mem decided we should make constructive use of the extra time in mid-afternoon, when Countdown was off our screen. Decorating and gardening were to be avoided, so I opted to catch up on my reading, which normally doesn't extend much beyond the latest Alan Bennett or Bill Bryson.

It's funny, but when I put together a list of my favourites during this period, a theme emerged: all the books were biographies, but a good proportion of them described childhood. They also demonstrated the sad truth that this time of life is not invariably happy and depicted how problems or conflicts were tolerated or overcome .

I hadn't consciously decided to look out books of this type, but whatever the deep psychological motives for my selection, here are five of the biographies I have enjoyed reading most over the past six months.

Having been fascinated by Hong Kong since my first visit, I was immediately interested in Gweilo by Martin Booth (Doubleday). The book is subtitled, "Memories of a Hong Kong Childhood" and paints a realistic picture of the author's life as a bright and inquisitive seven-year old around the vibrant streets of the colony in the early 1950's . The licence given to the boy due to his blond hair, which signified good luck to the Chinese, enabled him to experience a local world normally hidden to foreigners.

There is a dual backdrop to the story: the exotic location and Martin's warring parents. His mother was broad-minded and interested in Chinese culture, whilst his bitter and bigoted father was preoccupied with preventing his wife and son from "going native".

The book recreates the boy's wanderings around the bustling streets, shops and stalls. He visits parts normally closed to a gweilo, or pale fellow, such as the forbidden Walled City and encounters incredibly colourful people, with names such as Nagasaki Jim and the Queen of Kowloon.

"Gweilo" is a remarkable evocation of both place and emotion: one can almost taste and smell Hong Kong and empathise with the discomfort of a child with a father at odds with both his wife and son. It also implicitly advocates open-mindedness and receptivity to new experiences. I found it engrossing.

The Road to Nab End by William Woodruff (Abacus) is a bestselling autobiography and is subtitled "an extraordinary northern childhood". It evokes a life of extreme poverty from Woodruff's birth in 1916 in a Lancashire cotton mill until he broke free to find work in London.

This beautifully written book recreates the author's childhood and key figures such as his grandmother, parents, siblings and a range of characters from a deprived community in Blackburn. Woodruff's stories ensure that no one has a sentimental vision of working class life, the truly tragic impact of poverty and the absence of any effective welfare safety net.

The Woodruff family history and William's own story is lucidly and absorbingly told in a way that amounts to social history. Anecdotes depicting experiences at home with the family, in the neighbourhood, at school and at work help one understand the development of the mindset that led him to leave for the South to pursue a chance of self improvement and a better life.

The sequel to The Road to Nab End is Beyond Nab End (Abacus) which picks up the story in 1933. Sixteen year old William Woodruff leaves Lancashire in the depth of the depression to seek a job in a foundry in London. The un-glamorous way of life in the East End in seedy digs and with seedier fellow tenants is described with an almost photographic clarity, enabling one to empathise with his determination to progress and seize upon education as the route to progress. The events of the time are effectively evoked from street fights with the Blackshirts to the War and ultimately to Oxford University. This story of success against the odds is vividly told in a way that avoids sentimentality and is ultimately inspiring. It is a book to encourage vision, determination and hard work and to shame the lazy or complacent.

My next recommendation is Keeping Mum by Brian Thompson (Atlantic books). On the cover Michael Frayn comments "A wonderful book that brings vividly to life one of the oddest childhoods I've ever read about". I agree entirely; this description of wartime childhood is both vivid and odd. It is also compelling since, just as in Gweilo and the Nab End books, the reader is fascinated to learn how a child from this unpromising background could grow up to become a successful author.

Brian Thompson's childhood features two huge characters: his outrageous depressive mother who ranges between going out with GIs and being the belle of the school dance to a chainsmoking recluse and a talented, driven but ultimately bitter, father, absent in the war and afterwards pursuing his career. A boy's-eye view of a strange adult world growing up in Cambridge and London is funny and touching and graphically depicts the winding road to adulthood. Again, the picture isn't rose tinted and one wonders how, after so many hard knocks, a successful author emerged. One also wonders how damaged the adult may have been by the process - but most autobiographers tend not to share this with us. "Keeping Mum" is lively, refreshing and entertaining and just a little bit strange.

Finally, I want to recomend to you my favourite book of the past year, Bertie, May & Mrs Fish by Xandra Bingley (Harper Collins) . I praised this book highly in a review of horsey books elsewhere, but make no apology for doing so again. I still agree with Jilly Cooper, who described it as "utterly enchanting and quite unputdownable". It is subtitled as "Country Memories of Wartime", but is much more than a simple memoir.

I can best describe the style as impressionistic; without self consciousness, the author often uses a stream of impressions, sounds, sights and feelings to convey her experience in a way that is almost like cutting in film. The book evokes country life through the eyes and ears of a pony-mad, young girl. Without ever being cosy, it depicts the wonder of childhood along with a sometimes complicated and harsh post-war, adult world. The evocation of rural pastimes, conversations, smells and tastes is sensual, authentic and remarkable.

Like the other books Xandra Bingley's early life has a darker edge, stemming, in particular from her father's infidelity. This is conveyed with a light touch appropriate to a child's perspective. The book reflects acute powers of observation and a strong sense of time, place and mores; it is writen with genuine panache and is a remarkable first publication.

I hope you enjoy my recommendations and come to share my enthusiasm for each book. They are all different, but are well written in a way which depicts time, place and people authentically. In each case the author was strong and individualistic and underwent some form of struggle to become successful. Each, in a different way, demonstrates the truth of Wordsworth's line that "The child is father of the man". Pip, pip!

*this article has appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley's Least Favourite Things

2006-04-08T21:00:00.001+01:00

What ho! Yesterday I was enjoying a Mr Kipling bakewell slice after Countdown and idly thumbing through a few back editions of Birmingham 13. Although I had been trying hard to eschew cynicism and giving constructive advice on topics ranging from weddings to problems at work, I noted that the by-line of my column had descended from an encouraging “Moseley Musings” to “Moseley Moaner” and even “Blah, Blah, Blah”. As Kenneth Williams once said “Charming!” – or was it “Ooooh, matron”?

Anyway, I drew this to the attention of the Mem who advised that I should write something in keeping with my feisty by-line. Although I couldn’t stretch to the vituperation of Julie Birchell, I must admit I rather fancied myself as the iconoclastic Will Self of Oxford Road, so here are my current ten least favourite things:

Smoking: I’m in favour of personal freedom, so do what you please unless it harms somebody else or frightens the horses. For the life of me, however, I can’t see why anyone should be forced to breathe in someone else’s smoke against their will.
Metro-sexuals: I first noticed this when the Mem kept going on about that wonderful David Beckham and AA Gill and remarking on their immaculate grooming and “lovely skin”. For some reason, it seems that ladies of a certain age are impressed and attracted by the sight of straight chaps in a sarong with a working knowledge of moisturisers or able to wax wittily about molecular gastronomy at the Fat Duck at Bray. It’s all very unsettling.
The Deputy Prime Minister: I don’t want to comment about easy targets like the Blairs, so what about this man? Leaving inarticulacy and fisticuffs aside, can anyone tell me what The Office of the Deputy Prime Minister has achieved or any good stemming from policies on regional assemblies in England or building on the green belt?
Supporting Birmingham City: if you are a genuine football fan, once you have a team, it’s yours for life. However hard you try, Saturday nights are made better or worse by that day’s result. In the case of the Blues, it’s always been tricky, but so far this season it’s been misery with no remission. Can anything be done about that gypsy curse?
Smug cyclists: some cyclists do it for environmental reasons, some for fitness… but some because it’s really cheap.
Winterbreak - political correctness gone mad: I believe that a wider knowledge of diverse cultures and beliefs will increase understanding and prospects of peace. Multi-culturalism, however, doesn’t require the renaming or deletion from the public calendar of festivals, such as Christmas. All faiths should be celebrated authentically with offence to no-one.
Middle-aged trendies : men past 45 should avoid brightly coloured waistcoats, cheeky-chappie bow ties, small ethnic woollen hats, novelty socks, ties and tee shirts and all Lycra, especially cycling shorts.
Wrapping – not Eminem, packaging: I don’t think it’s just advancing years, but should it really be so hard to open a milk carton, vacuum-packed 13 amp plug or container of soup?
Manic mothers: assertiveness on the school run in very large 4 x 4's is a worry to lesser mortals : I know it’s tough, but please slow down.
Close votes: in every viewer’s vote on TV, whether it’s Big Brother, Strictly Come Dancing or Dancing on Ice, it’s invariably “too close to call”. We all know it’s actually about maximising income, so come off it, Davina, Brucie or whoever….

I’m afraid whiskers on kittens didn’t make the list, but then I’m not exactly Julie Andrews. Pip, pip!

*this piece also appeared in Birmingham 13

Profile: who is Colonel Moseley?

2006-04-07T00:13:00.001+01:00

Colonel Moseley – retired and daring to give advice

Until recently, Wilfred Moseley was Managing Director of Moseley Engineering. He now lives comfortably in retirement with his long-suffering wife Letty – affectionately called “The Mem” - at Moseley Towers just off Oxford Road in the leafy and multicultural suburb of Moseley in Britain’s proud second city of Birmingham.

Letty and her twin Bunty came from a good Warwickshire county family – the Tittertons of Snitterton - and were well versed in a range of country pursuits, particularly riding.

A shared love of horses gave Wilfred and Letty something in common on meeting at a tennis party between the wars. After marrying in Birmingham, the young Subaltern Moseley took his pretty bride back to his Cavalry Regiment in Poona for many happy years.

Now making the most of his retirement after promotion to Colonel and a lucrative subsequent career in component engineering, Wilfred fills his days at Moseley Towers. He is found useful tasks by the Mem and enjoys simple pleasures ranging from avoiding family gatherings to eating Mr Kipling country slices whilst watching Countdown most afternoons.

Keen to give something back to the community, the Colonel also submits helpful articles on a range of issues to local neighbourhood magazines and equestrian publications. His extensive body of work includes the insightful portrait of life in livery in a yard in the leafy Vale of Vaysey owned by an old school-friend of the Mem's, snappily entitled, "Bunty Pargeter's Lazy Pastures".

Colonel Moseley on Motoring

2006-04-06T22:45:00.001+01:00

Today, I want to share with you my thoughts on some of the things on the road that really increase my blood pressure. My current top ten objects of irritation, if not loathing and derision are:

1. Suburban mum on a weekday morning causing traffic congestion by chauffeuring Angelica-Louise and Tristan to school in an enormous Edgbaston tractor, aka a 4 x4.

2. The same suburban mama causing more mayhem on Saturday morning in the same huge gas guzzler, frantically late, taking Angelica-Louise and Tristan from mini-rugby and jazz-tap to riding lessons,

3. Salesmen in the outside lane, mobile glued to the ear, with three shirts hanging up in the back, suddenly appearing close-up in your rear view mirror and flashing their headlights to overtake,

4. HGV drivers who never signal before pulling out and spend forever in the centre lane overtaking,

5. Motor bikes with engines tuned to be painfully loud,

6. Any car or lorry driver, motor biker or cyclist who is rude or inconsiderate to horses or pedestrians using the road responsibly,

7. Drivers who stay in the outside lane after road narrowing signs and force their way in at the very last minute, thus increasing the delay for those politely getting into lane earlier

8. All caravanners, with or without trilby or flat cap

9. Mile after mile of coned-off motorways with no work going on, and

10. Absolutely anyone driving a Nissan Micra, anywhere at any time!

Anyway, safe driving, peddling, riding, walking or whatever. Pip. pip!

* a version of this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Christmas

2006-04-06T22:04:00.001+01:00

Here is a Yuletide piece....bah, humbug!

What ho, ho, ho ! Festive Greetings to one and all. I'm not sure whether in this day and age, I am permitted to single out Christmas or whether I should greet you inter-denominationally and include additional felicitations for Divali and Hanukkah. Alternatively, perhaps I should substitute secular greetings, in which case "Festive impending Winterbreak" to all readers.

The Mem is up to her armpits in tinsel and stuffing and has sent me out of the way to the study with a mulled pink gin. I thought I would use the time to share with you my thoughts on the impending annual ritual: so here are my top ten gripes and objects of derision on Christmas:

1. It starts too early - just after the shelves at Sainsbury's are cleared of Easter eggs,

2. Exchanging Christmas cards with scores of people with whom you never have any contact is mindless and expensive,

3. Most Christmas gifts are pointless and costly; the process epitomizes precisely the opposite of the values that Christmas is supposed to promote,

4. Family Christmas newsletters are formulaic, boastful and yet another unfortunate import from America; they should be sent back together with Halloween, Father's Day, sleepovers, family values and therapy,

5. Supermarkets in the week before Christmas are a zoo - and that's being unfair to zoos,

6. Christmas facilitates family get-togethers; these events are unnecessary and stressful. Lubricated by resentment and drink, they usually end in tears and often in breakdown or divorce,

7. Similarly office parties promote unnatural proximity, familiarity and even abandon with objects of loathing, fear or lust; they amount to a heady cocktail of anger, alcohol and lechery and frequently end in tears, a brawl or redundancy,

8. Too many people nowadays seem to aspire to the vacuous celebrity/Hello magazine version of Christmas, where Cilla, Dale and Michael Winner exchange gifts in diamante by the pool at Sandy Lane; they are sad and deluded,

9. Christmas is overrated and fattening. Like the Titanic, it's too costly and too long, but still holds a morbid fascination, and

10. To risk stating the obvious, most of us have lost sight of the whole point of Christmas.

I hope you survive it and enjoy the Happiest of New Years. Pip, pip!!

*this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Holiday Airflights

2006-04-06T17:27:00.001+01:00

What ho! Gloomy old time of year, what? These cold grey winter days are rather depressing with only Carol Vorderman to brighten up that dull period between lunch and the first snorter of the evening.

The Mem and I spend a lot of time just now poring over the seed catalogues and loads of brochures from Damart, Thingies of Stow and Saga. They seem to be the only things, other than brown envelopes, to come through the letterbox each morning.

To counteract the black dog or seasonal affected disorder or whatever it’s now called, the Mem and I debate where to holiday in the coming year. I call it a debate; it’s actually a chat before we agree to go where and when the Mem wants.

Everyone must agree that holiday brochures lie. Sea and skies are never that blue, views are never that perfect and one’s fellow revellers are never that attractive. My absolute bete noir on the subject of holidays, however, is holiday airlines; here are my top ten gripes:

1. At the best of times air travel is tiresome and debilitating. On package holidays the problems are compounded many times over and it takes forever. It may take less than two hours to fly to the Balearics but you have to deal with the motorway system to get to the airport and check in several hours before take off,
2. At the worst of times air travel is impossible. Assuming you can get to the airport on time, check- in queues may be monstrous and flight delays interminable, especially when the French air traffic controllers or baggage handlers strike, as they seem to do every summer. The discomfort of delays on the way back in sticky foreign holiday airports with insufficient seating and dubious sanitation is infinitely worse,
3. If you do succeed in pre-booking and paying extra for a seat at the front with additional legroom and reassuring proximity to the exit, you are subjected to muttering and malevolent stares from less far-sighted passengers boarding and throughout the flight,
4. Aircraft lavatories are disgusting fairly soon after takeoff and the queues are humiliating,
5. Without extra legroom, seating on holiday flights is cramped, uncomfortable and, with the threat of DVT, potentially life-threatening. This discomfort is augmented by knees in the back from behind and concussion when the tired and emotional passenger in front reclines violently to the fullest extent as soon as possible after takeoff,
6. The charm of the staccato drumming of children’s sharp little feet in the small of the back throughout the flight and their constant screaming escapes me,
7. Holiday aircraft food – beef or salmon – is utterly revolting,
8. Many of one’s fellow passengers, modelling shell suits, ear-rings and tattoos (including the men) appear to be able to take the whole extended family on holiday in the Mediterranean several times a year on benefit, child allowance, the fruits of the black economy or crime. To put it politely, not a great deal of taxed income appears to be spent,
9. Cabin crew are, at best, disinterested and, at worst, downright rude. They are only concerned to get through the “service” of food and drink quickly so as to get onto the more profitable business of selling overpriced perfume, pens and inflatables and then gossiping in the galley,
10. Luggage is often misdirected, delayed, damaged, pilfered or just lost. There is a special final humiliation at the very end of your holiday in waiting at the carousel until everyone else has collected their luggage and gone. You then watch the carousel go round and round empty apart from a solitary beach umbrella and cardboard box tied with string, wearily knowing that out of three hundred cases only yours has been lost. You must queue up yet again to persuade someone to speak to you. You are then permitted to fill up a form on the off-chance that the case containing a fortnight’s washing may turn up: a fitting end to the holiday flight experience

It looks like Eastbourne again this year. I think I just have time to write to Mrs Miggins at the Braemar before Countdown starts. Pip, pip!!

*this article first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Family Gatherings

2006-04-06T17:24:00.001+01:00

What ho! Funny time of year, December. The approaching festivities seem to give rise to perverse desires and practices. They range from drinking advocaat, not normally to be touched with a very long (and appropriately Dutch) barge pole, to an implausible wish to “see more of the family”.

I guess I should have seen it coming. Yesterday afternoon, just after Countdown, the Mem decided it was opportune to dust off the Christmas card list. Understandably, my resistance was at its most feeble after my weekday dose of the lovely Ms Vorderman. She had coyly shared a particularly brilliant solution to 931 using six small ones, but I digress.

I really ought to have known better. As the Mem, apparently casually, ran through the list with suggestions for inclusion and exclusion, in my reverie I distractedly said “Yes” and “No, M’ dear” in what I thought were the right places. Before I knew it, I had negligently agreed to entertain the Mem’s sister Bunty, her dull husband and their brood for the whole of Christmas Day and Boxing Day.

Thus was a prospectively pleasant, relaxed and solitary Yuletide converted to tribal misery. Let this be a warning to all, of the heavy price to be paid for too deep an absorption in even the most attractive and numerate of daytime TV presenters.

This also leads me to share with you my top ten insights into the use of mild deception at family gatherings and how to make more effective use of your status as “elderly”:

1. Like cold-sores and Morris dancing, family gatherings are best avoided if at all possible. To do so full use can be made of excuses and white-ish lies. Favourites include: illness, simulated or exaggerated, bereavement, distant and unverifiable, urgent business afar, broken-down cars, inclement weather and acts of God. It is important that the option selected is plausible. It is sensible to keep a list of those used to avoid repetition giving rise to suspicion,
2. If attendance is unavoidable, it should be limited to the shortest time possible. This may be flagged up in advance, on arrival or more dramatically by a prearranged ‘phone call requiring one’s immediate attendance elsewhere. Again, it is prudent to keep a record of circumstances used to avoid any duplication another time,
3. Cover up your complete inability to remember the names of family members by using your own mode of address for everyone. In my case it’s “my dear” for the ladies and “old boy” for the chaps. Done correctly, this manages to be practical and yet endearing at the same time,
4. Sleep is a great comfort during long days en famille. Whether genuine or feigned, it provides a break from the interminable conversation. With advancing years this refuge of the terminally bored is tolerated and even expected,
5. Tedious tasks such as looking through family photo albums or playing board games can be avoided by “accidentally” leaving one’s spectacles at home. In extremis, they can be broken in situ, but this is an expensive final resort and to be saved for cases of desperate need,
6. Watch out for the “nephew and niece promoters”. They are ruthless, devious and persistent. If you are childless and reasonably solvent, even if not actually well-heeled, you are likely to be targeted by the cash poor and child rich and encouraged to bond with tiny Torquil or Petunia. This is done in the hope that the little beasts will feature in your will, or at least, that you will fund their gap years abroad. Such predators should be avoided or put off with protestations of poverty and, if necessary, hints of prior claims from a string of illegitimate heirs in Torquay,
7. Family bores can safely be ignored by faking deafness. Certain large national health hearing aids give added authenticity to this deception and can be converted to radio reception, enabling one to tune into the cricket instead of the family,
8. Only regular practice will enable one not to cause embarrassment by compulsively mentioning any of the one’s relatives’ afflictions, ranging from hare lips and lazy eyes to flatulence and obesity. Happily, occasional faux pas are allowed by the elderly and even considered quaint,
9. Feigned infirmity can be used to avoid tiresome family rituals such as the birdie song, conga, charades, karaoke and long country walks to build up an appetite. Any mention of a hip replacement or flash of a surgical boot is as good as a note from mother to get off PE, and
10. Above all, truth has very little part to play at family gatherings. Like Christmas newsletters, the role of conversations with relatives is to perpetuate comforting myths and give the deluded the strength to carry on. Topics where it is acceptable to blur the truth beyond recognition include fidelity, wealth, career prospects, weight, looks, age, sexual prowess and, most particularly, happiness.

I hope that helps. If you have to grow old, do it disgracefully. Pip, pip!

*this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Weddings

2006-04-06T17:21:00.001+01:00

What ho! Spring seems to be on its way, judging by the snowdrops in the garden and the slap of wedding invitations onto the mat when postie calls each morning – or rather early afternoon most days, but that’s another issue altogether. Presently the mantelpiece in the morning room at Moseley Towers is awash with stiffies. The Mem and I seem to be invited to the impending nuptials of half of South Birmingham and surrounding counties.

It takes me back to my younger days – a time before Carol Vorderman took Maths “O” level. I remember being a young subaltern, back on leave from India and first catching sight of the Mem at a tennis party somewhere off Oxford Road. Letty Titterfield, of the Snitterfeld Titterfields, was a beauty and quite a catch. She caught my eye playing doubles with her sister Bunty. Later she offered me seed cake at tea and that was that: there followed courting for six months, a year’s engagement, three dinner services, several toast-racks, marriage in St Mary’s and a sit-down wedding breakfast for one hundred and fifty at the Plough and Harrow. Then off we went to start wedded bliss in married quarters with the Regiment in Poona.

Sadly, wedding planning seems to involve as much forward planning, stress and sheer terror for all concerned as the D Day Landings. It seems unfair that no campaign medals are awarded in recognition. Although my views on its logistics and consequences may have tarnished somewhat since my own Great Day, I still feel able to share with you my top ten tips and pointers on weddings:

1. Always look at the prospective bride’s mother. It may not be conclusive, but it’s often a good indicator of what’s in store as regards looks and attitude,
2. Try to hold the stag or hen night at least a week before the big day. This should allow enough time for cuts and bruises to heal, hangovers or even alcoholic poisoning to be treated, bail to be arranged and groom, or perhaps the bride, to be shipped back from Tierra del Fuego,
3. Avoid little-known hymns at the service. Fewer folk go to church nowadays and an unknown, tuneless dirge or embarrassing, happy-clappy, folk-rap hymn only adds to the discomfort and feeling of desperate unfamiliarity,
4. Clapping in church when the knot has been tied is not very English,
5. Get a professional photographer or video maker. Do not entrust Uncle Norman to create your record for posterity. Unless you are very lucky, he will screw it up,
6. Make a conservative choice of best man. Better a dull but competent best man’s speech than an amusing but controversial account of premarital sex and other lurid, past dalliances,
7. On the whole brides should avoid crinolines, ra-ra skirts, Doc Martens, exposed mid-drifts, fluffy mules, piercings, tattoos and anything resembling or that could be described as a “meringue” or “blancmange”,
8. Couples should be dissuaded from writing their own vows. Such expressions of intent are usually nauseatingly sentimental and recklessly optimistic. Just because they say such things on “Friends” does not mean they play well in Birmingham 13,
9. Avoid serving or drinking cheap and nasty sherry, wine or champagne at the Reception. It only ends in tears, nasty stains and probably a fight. It’s better to supply or consume less of something decent and, beyond that, to have a pay bar, and
10. Consider avoiding the whole grisly business, saving the money to use as a deposit on a house and eloping to Gretna Green or St Lucia.

The Mem instructs me to express the hope that this should not put you off the fine institution of matrimony. I need a drink. Chin, chin!!

*this piece first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Leaving Do's and Don'ts

2006-04-06T15:21:00.001+01:00

What ho! After my concerted effort to be constructive about trouble at work in my previous article, I seem to be in the Mem’s good books. Last night I was allowed three glasses of red with dinner. This pro bono approach clearly has its advantages. Hopefully this month’s even more helpful advice might be worth a few glasses of port and perhaps a cigar.

Leaving jobs can take many forms. In my day you tended to join a firm and stay until you retired with a few promotions in between. Leaving do’s tended to be a finger buffet in the boardroom marked by a speech from the Chairman and the presentation of a clock from the company and garden furniture paid for by a whip round amongst soon-to-be-former colleagues. This was followed by a tentative and emotional speech in response by the tearful but relieved retiree. In some cases the retiree’s good lady was wheeled to partake of the sausage rolls and sherry and to be given a bouquet.

Nowadays employees seem to be more mobile and companies are much more ruthless about chopping off dead wood. As a rule, staff leaving due to dismissal or naked ambition to move on after twelve months to get a Mondeo instead of a Clio, don’t merit a leaving do.

Redundancy or other culling at any age over 50 is generally masked as “early retirement” and is usually further camouflaged by a do. Such occasions always generate a myriad of conflicting emotions, unspoken anger and seething angst. Here are my top ten tips to cope with the termination process, including the “leaving do”:

1. Always take the precaution of saying what leaving present you would prefer before the collection is completed. If you want a Mont Blanc and there’s only enough in the kitty for a Platignum, hopefully the company will feel honour-bound to make up the considerable shortfall,
2. Be careful how much you drink; you know what they say about “in vino veritas”. The leaving do is a place for many things, but veritas is not one of them,
3. Always try to get someone who likes you to make the speech about you. Like the vicar officiating at your funeral, that person may not know you but should preferably at least get your name right,
4. Accept the fact the majority of people attending your do will be from accounts and completely unknown to you. Always remember, they have given to your collection and are entitled to as many sausages on sticks and glasses of Jacobs Creek as they can sink,
5. Take great care in preparing your farewell speech. Do not make jokes unless you are good at it,
6. Try to avoid most of the following: foul language, slander, break dancing, tears, conjuring tricks, any threat of violence, and group hugs,
7. Remember that what you do not say can be just as potent as what you do say. A thoughtful tribute to colleagues who have been kind and helpful will magnify the impact of failure to thank or even mention a line manager who has made your life a misery. Most of your audience are well versed in what has been going on and will get the message,
8. Do not do anything which will impact on any outstanding reference or compensation,
9. If you do know where the bodies are buried, try not to forget; corporate memory may come in useful one day,
10. Once you have left, leave. There’s nothing sadder or more humiliating than someone who just has to keep coming back.

I hope that equips you to cope with the trauma of leaving; should be worth a port or two! Pip, pip!!

*this advice first appeared in Birmingham 13

Colonel Moseley on Trouble at Work

2006-04-06T14:11:00.001+01:00

What ho! Enjoying a cup of tea and a Mr Kipling country slice after Countdown yesterday, I was telling the Mem that I thought it was about time I explored political correctness.

She used the word “combustible” again, and went on to comment that my views were “ a tad grumpy”. “Couldn’t you try to be a little more constructive?” she said. Not being the sort of cove to resist a challenge, I thought I would dip into the wealth of experience gained from those years leading the troops in the Regiment and then at Moseley Engineering.

I appreciate that the world of work is now more and more a jungle. The days of a pleasant chat over the tea trolley and jobs for life are over. Now it’s all bullying in the workplace, stress induced illness and tribunals. So this month here are ten ways to know you’re in trouble at work. It’s probably time to take the hint, move on and change your job when your boss:

1. Never lets you finish a sentence,
2. Looks six inches above your head, never at your face,
3. Rejects all suggestions you make,
4. Forgets to invite you to any company functions,
5. Throws things at you,
6. Contradicts any statement you manage to make,
7. Removes the best parts of your job,
8. Kicks your desk and/ or filing cabinet,
9. Belittles any part of the job or achievement you consider important, and
10. Prefers anyone else to do your job, including the Chairman’s niece.

I hope that helps: even more constructive advice follows next time. Pip, pip!!

*this advice first appeared in Birmingham 13