Marinara Ontology

Here, from the BBC News website (where would we be without it?), is an account of a bracing encounter with a curious ontological conundrum - a pizza that can indeed be made, if the right ingredients are put together, but doesn't exist. My sympathies are entirely with the pizzaiola, and I only wish UK baristas would follow her example and insist that, by the same principle, there is no such thing as an Americano with milk. Instead of which, an order for an Americano is invariably met with 'Do you want milk with that?' No - because such a drink does not exist.

Drinking with Kingsley Amis

A signed Kingsely Amis first edition for £7? Naturally, when I spotted it on the shelves of a local charity shop, I wasn't going to let that go. Not a first-rank Amis, for sure - nor even second-rank - but a slim volume titled Every Day Drinking, nicely illustrated by Merrily Harpur, with a fine Marc caricature of the great man on the cover and, on the title page, a commendably legible, sober signature: Kingsley Amis.
 Every Day Drinking is a compilation of Amis's newspaper columns on drink and drinking - which is fine by Kingsley: 'Being paid twice for the same basic work is always agreeable, and in my case not as frequent as I should like. More than that, you have the chance of correcting your mistakes of fact and style[...] and righting the wrongs done you by the copy editor and printer[...] It would be nice if everybody who saw the newspaper columns were to buy and read this book, but no, and all over the place some people will continue to think that I think that 'anymore' and 'forever' are single words and[...] that 'alright in it's way' is all right in some way or other.' (Odd that the book's title commits the same error in reverse: Every Day Drinking might describe how Kingsley spent his time, but does not denote the subject of the book - Everyday Drinking, i.e. quotidian imbibing. Also, by the way, 'forever' as a single word is quite correct if used to mean 'all the time' rather than 'for all time'.)
 Amis makes no bones about his limitations as an expert: he's a beer and spirits man - gin and malts his staples - not a wine buff (though he has useful tips on how to pass yourself off as one). These pieces date from the early Eighties - a time when decent beer had returned to English pubs but decent wine was hard to find, fads and novelty drinks abounded, and serious drinking was to a large extent a matter of getting the best drinkable hit for the least outlay. Hence the popularity - not least with Amis - of all kinds of potent mixed drinks, for many of which Kingsley provides recipes, some of them jaw-dropping. Take (or rather don't) the Swagger Sling - one bottle champagne, one bottle claret, one glass brandy, one glass Grand Marnier, lemon and sugar. Chilled, no ice. 'Calculated to put young ladies completely at their ease,' says Amis. Or how about Evelyn Waugh's idea of a nice light shandy? 'Put into a silver tankard, or failing that a pint glass, some ice cubes, one or two double gins according to mood, and a bottle of Guinness. Fill up with ginger beer.' Or not.
 The decline of the English pub is a theme that crops up early, and Amis vigorously expresses his loathing of piped music, trendy decor, useless staff and - horror of horrors - Space Invaders machines (themselves the subject of an early work by young Martin). Kingsley's prejudices and, er, strong opinions are, as you'd expect, well to the fore and provide a large part of the entertainment, but these columns are also quite informative about a range of drinks you might never have heard of (and are unlikely ever to want to try). Amis is a big fan of a dangerous potion I remember all too well - Carlsberg Special Brew: 'a wonderful drink,' he declares, 'but after a certain amount of it you do tend to fall over.' He recommends diluting it half and half with regular Carlsberg; this mixture, drunk from a silver tankard, 'produces as much goodwill as anything I know'.
 Sometimes Amis flirts with objectivity, as in a piece on Rioja wines: 'Regular readers of this column will know,' he writes, 'that I have my likes and dislikes, even my weaknesses and prejudices. Nevertheless I always try to be scrupulously objective. As in the present case. Everything I've said here to the advantage of Rioja wines is true and verifiable. Now comes the moment for me to state my own opinion of them, which is that they are quite vile.'
 What will he make of grappa (one of my own favourites), I wondered? My curiosity was soon satisfied: 'Not to take a glass of grappa after an Italian meal strikes me as the grossest folly.' Well, quite.
 This book is great fun for anyone with an interest in drink and/or Kingsley and his views on a subject with which he had, as he puts it, a 'close personal involvement' over many years. Also available, I gather, is Everyday Drinking: The Distilled Kingsley Amis, a single volume that brings together what might be called Amis's Booze Trilogy: On Drink, Every Day Drinking and How's Your Glass?
 Time for a drink, I think...

Favourite Insect, First Frits

I see there's a poll to find Britain's Favourite Insect - and it looks rather more interesting and unpredictable than the recent 'quest' for Britain's Favourite Bird (the robin, inevitably). The insect shortlist is well chosen (from a vast field), and it's hard to spot the winner: probably not shield bug, bee fly or ant, more likely ladybird, bumble bee or, indeed, tortoiseshell butterfly. No prizes for guessing where my vote would go.
 Meanwhile, I'm happy to report that yesterday, on a warm but overcast afternoon on Bookham Common, I saw my first silver-washed fritillaries of the year. Most were flying along the margins of the rides at speed, as is their way, but the first I saw was nectaring quietly on a clump of burdock and was in no hurry to move, continuing to feed, an arm's length from me, for several minutes before at length flying off into the trees.

Pigeon Crack and Parting Swifts

I know birds like to take a peck at building mortar from time to time - they need a bit of grit in their diet, and a little help in forming the shells of their eggs - but lately the pigeons down my way have gone crazy for mortar. They're pecking away like crazy, leaving stretches of walls practically mortarless and in need of radical repointing. Suddenly mortar is pigeon crack - they can't get enough of the stuff. I suspect this is because much of the village is a conservation area, so limestone-rich 'heritage' mortars are widely used, offering plenty of calcium carbonate for mortar-crazed pigeons. Where will it all end? Crumbling walls, pigeons too heavy to fly away, paying the price for their addiction...
 Meanwhile, I hate to say it, but it looks as if the swifts have flown - and it's not even August yet. There will be stragglers of course - I heard, but didn't see, a couple this morning - and I certainly hope I haven't seen my last swift of the year; that would be ridiculously early. But the great suburban air show is over, having peaked a couple of weeks ago with some glorious screaming flypasts at street level and soaring aerobatics high overhead. After a shaky start with that long spell of unseasonal cold, things really took off as soon as the temperature rose, and a hot sunny July made for a vintage swift season - and probably enabled the young birds to feed up fast and be on their way south. It's always sad to see them go - or rather to realise they're gone - but the sadness is nothing to the heart-lifting joy of their return.

Swarm

David Cameron's use of the word 'swarm' in relation to the large numbers of people crossing Europe in the hope of reaching the gold-paved streets of England has caused some to profess loud vicarious outrage on behalf of refugees. Meanwhile the representative body Voice of the Swarm (motto 'Strength in Numbers') has released the following statement:
 'We protest in the strongest possible terms at the implication that swarming is in any way undesirable or deleterious, or that the word 'swarm' can carry any derogatory meaning. This denormalisation of their behaviour can only cause profound offence to swarming organisms everywhere.'

Et ici repose... qui sait?

Pictorial postscript to Locked Church Country. This jolly village baroque headstone is in the isolated churchyard of Tonge.

Anniversary

Vincent Van Gogh died on this day 125 years ago, having survived an attempt to shoot himself, only to fall victim to an infection of the wound. His brother Theo (who is buried beside him) recorded his last words as 'The sadness will last for ever.' What seems to be lasting for ever is, rather, Vincent's posthumous artistic fame, which continues to grow and grow.