So, the results of my escapade with Ben

A heavy cold, an extra stone in weight, and a lot more books.

Stratford on Avon - birthplace of Shakespeare apparently, though they're very reluctant to make a song and dance about it - is slightly odd: half ancient beauty beloved of coach tour brochures, half run-down trap. It has an awful lot of charity shops, and we visited all of them, plus one bona-fide secondhand book shop.

We bought Dan the 3-DVD John Lydon's Mega Bugs (yes, the Sex Pistols' John Lydon), and I bought a few books: Julian Barnes's England, England; Kevin Crossley-Holland's Arthur: The Seeing Stone, Emma Donoghue's Stir-Fry, Frederick Buechner's The Return of Ansel Gibbs (lovely 1950s Penguin), Thomas Disch's The Genocides, a classic Panther SF title with a stunning cover (Disch managed to write both the children's book The Brave Little Toaster and The Businessman, in which a man gets his murdered wife pregnant with a hideous foetus ghost), and Robertson Davies's philosophical/historical What's Bred in the Bone.

After that, we lunched at the revitalised Swan Theatre: deep-fried breaded strips of pig's ear for starter then a quality steak, washed down with a non-alcoholic mojito for me, a fine Riesling for Ben, who also found room for pudding. No wonder they treated us like a couple. Then it was off to Paxton and Whitfield, where we both purchased ridiculous quantities of fine cheeses, before meeting the Map Twats in Brum for even more food and a stupid pub quiz. The evening was rounded off with - yes - a cheese-eating marathon. At this stage, liposuction is the only thing that will save me.

Ben didn't arrive empty-handed: he brought me a huge stack of politics books (mostly Readers Union reprints from the 50s and 60s, and a Millennium Falcon, which Ewar claims is for his brother.

Farewell to England?

Overseas visitors may not know about England's oldest and most popular sport, an activity which attracts thousands of rabid fans to its showcase events.

Yet, thanks to the ELFNSAFETY FASCISTS of the NANNY STATE, the ancient art of CHEESE-ROLLING has been BANNED.

OK, that's how the Daily Mail will no doubt present today's news (this is the paper that campaigned to REVOLT! ROBBED OF THEIR RIGHT TO BUY OUR TRADITIONAL LIGHT BULBS, as though Shakespeare, Hotspur and King Arthur were all fans of the carbon filament), but it's still a little bit sad.

Chasing a Double Gloucester cheese down a very steep hill has happened for 'a few hundred years', by which they probably mean that some people recently revived an old lark. It's a bit of fun, but the event's temporarily on hold because Cooper's Hill and its surrounding tiny country lanes can't handle the 15,000 people who come to watch. The organisers, police and local authorities all seem keen to find a way to keep the cheese rolling, local drunks can continue to break limbs in pursuit of milk solids, and we can all breathe easy.

I envisage a cheese-rolling league, hosted in a network of specially-built stadia, in which the 'hill' can - in winter months - double as a ski slope. That way, we can test the cheese-rolling skills of the regions. Though I suspect that Wales (too soft) and Cheshire (too crumbly) will fare badly.

Lughnasadh Friday conundrum

Tomorrow's Lughnasadh, the Irish festival of harvest, horse-racing and handfasting (trial year-and-day marriages), so you have a choice of conundrums (conundra?) today. A little more light-hearted after the previous couple…

1. With whom, given the sweep of history, would you have contracted a handfasting? I'm torn between Lauren Bacall (stunning actor, fiercely intelligent, independent and strongly left-liberal), Katharine Hepburn (ditto), Rosa Luxemburg (martyr of the German left) and Madame de Staël, intellectual, radical and bon viveuse. Or Ingrid Bergman just because.

2. Who's the unsung hero/heroine you'd bring to public attention? I'd go for 'Freeborn' John Lilburne, the real lefty radical of the English Civil War period, or Lewis Jones - author, communist, councillor, lover, syndicalist, prisoner, a man who went to Moscow during the purges and alone refused to join in with the compulsory standing ovation when Stalin walked in - all this before dying at 41 years old. Part of my PhD was on Jones's novels.

3. What cheese are you? Obviously this will change by mood and day. I'm tending towards an organic unpasteurised Stilton - not flashy, an acquired taste, may kill you.

Here's a clip from Hepburn's Bringing Up Baby (1938)

To boldly go(rgonzola)

Thanks to Christine, who sent me this article about space cheese! Somerset cheesemakers launched a cheddar cheese 30km up, to the edge of space, on a weather balloon. The idea was for the balloon to burst and the cheese to plummet to earth (surely it would melt on re-entry?) - but their GPS has failed so nobody knows where it is.

So, readers, look out for a massive block of cheese embedded with meteorites. Christine suggests this is a mission for the Map Twats, and I agree. Look to the skies, people, look to the skies!

Of cheese and plagiarism

Anita presented me with two of the finest Irish cheeses available, in thanks for wandering around Stoke with her. One of them was a lovely unpasteurised soft cheese from Gubbeen, a West Cork dairy and meat producer.

However - I'd seen their logo somewhere before (I can't copy it from their website, but have a look). As you know, I recently read a biography of Eric Gill - typographer, sculptor, child abuser - and saw this engraving, done on commission for a bakery's bags (wood engraving 1915, published 1929):

Gubbeen - you thieving swine.

Morning all!

You won't be hearing from me much today - meetings, across two campuses - will take up my time. Should be fun though: one's on research strategies and the other one is the union Negotiating Committee. Beer, sandwiches and subversion. Pretty much my ideal lifestyle.

Talking of which, Neal and I had a perfect summer evening last night. We made an effete salad (mint, olives, mozzarella, chorizo, rocket, pine nuts etc.), bought fine local beers (Staffordshire Brewing Company and Wood's of Shropshire) and sat in the evening sun doing pretty much nothing. Then this morning, we ate the finest croissants outside Paris (from Snape's of Woore) before setting off to work. I'm still in immense pain from fencing though. It's a young man's game, I tell you.

Which oddly enough, seems to be the case for Speaker of the Commons. Well, young by their standards. Bercow's made a surprising move from the extreme right to liberal centre, to the displeasure of his own party, and I wouldn't be surprised if there's a backlash from the Tories and their friends in medialand. For all the hype though, I distrust these people who go into politics supposedly to represent their electorate, then become dazzled by the machinery or the pomp of the institution. There's no way that politics can return to the ethic of service if its practitioners are fixated on ceremony, precedent, wigs and heritage - it becomes a game for the ruling elite rather than a tool to effect social change.

Labour are saying that Bercow's improved through marrying a Labour supporter. I cannot imagine forming a relationship with somebody with an opposing ideology. What's wrong with her? How can one love a Tory, let alone a Tory MP? There can't be any respect between two people, of whom one is right and the other so mentally and emotionally misguided that they support greed, selfishness and spite? OK, he's got better taste than she has, but how can this fundamental divide be bridged? He must be amazing in bed…

Down with the kids, for a weekend

I went to see Doves in a forest this weekend. Not the birds, but a popular beat combo named after a type of ecstasy pill distributed in the 1990s. Which is odd really, because beyond the occasional post-euphoric number, they're quite downbeat.

Being an idiot, I assumed a few things - like cold weather and a campsite near the venue. So I took along woolly t-shirts and my newish red DMs (which earned an accusation of National Front membership from Cynical Ben, because mentally he lives in the West Midlands circa 1981). It turned out that the campsite (populated by students and refugees from the early 90s) was a good 5 miles away.

Despite John's ability to break his new tent and lose tentpegs, he proved a genial tentmate for a Manchester United fan. He neither tried to 'tap me up' or 'unsettle' me in any way. We ate fine steaks and then took the hour and a half trek with good humour, despite the hilarious drive-by abuse from people in SUVs. Amazing that possession of a dangerous, poisonous lump of metal gives these morons a sense of superiority.

Obviously we missed the support band, Delphic, which was a shame. But Doves were just right for the occasion - the sun set gently as their melancholic notes wafted over the Cheshire countryside. The beer was no more expensive than a trendy pub of the kind I tend not to frequent, and the mellow aroma of cheap grass filled the air. The weather was balmy - I wore only a t-shirt (on my torso) and didn't feel at all cold. I've put a few pictures here. Meanwhile, a taster including Cynical Ben's bottom - being a ground-dwelling mammal, my view is rather limited at these events.

The journey back was equally lovely, though everybody's feet ached, and we weren't overly pleased to be greeted at 1.30 by the drunken voices of public school students comparing A-levels or whatever they do - I jammed in my headphones and listened to some John Adams until they lapsed into sullen silence, about 2 hours later.

Sunday brought a large breakfast, some quality cheese purchases in Chester, a sweaty journey home, and blissful unconsciousness for twelve hours. All in all, the perfect weekend.

Chigloo

On another post, Neal and Christine have been debating the merits of cheese-based Arctic scenes. This is a picture from the site to which Christine left a link:

The site recommends adding blue cubes of gelatine for added icy authenticity.

The taste test

Time to discover whether this is a quality event: the buffet. Mmmmmmmm cheese

Update. Distinctly lacking on the caws front (that's Welsh for cheese), but very superior all round - olives, artichokes, beautiful pork in redcurrant sauce. I resisted the booze though, as we're all sportspeople whose bodies are temples (ahem).

Plenty of opportunities for bullshit bingo though.

I don't think we're in Wolverhampton any more, Toto

I promised photos of Bridgnorth, where the Map Twats descended on Christine and James, ate their Stinking Bishop (a phrase their ecclesiastical neighbours might misinterpret), drank their Pimms and left. I've added a couple of the conference I was at today. Please note that we borrowed the beer cans to add comedy value when I sent the photo to my boss. More pictures here, or click on the images for larger versions.

Yet more Stilton

Things are looking up - interesting colleagues, excellent cheeses for lunch. Simultaneously battling the dark forces of IT services, who've managed to do something debilitating to my e-mail access. The gits.

Of Cheese and Indie

I won't go on about politics today - it's too hot, which is something I don't deal with very well. I will just mention that the Daily Mail, of all rightwing racist papers, is going after David Cameron for his mortgage dealings - and a good thing too. I presume that they've decided that they need to keep their bitter, jealous Poujadist readers even if that means turning against their natural leaders.

I've had an action-packed weekend. Well, not exactly active, but varied. For Dan's birthday, we planned a walk along the Severn around Bridgnorth, and then to Birmingham for some fine lo-fi. So we all met at 11.45 to get the bus, except for Phil, who turned up an hour early, then wandered the streets of Wolverhampton in his disreputable shorts and beer-logo t-shirt. We sort of missed that bus - Dan's train was delayed, but it was filled to capacity anyway. So we wandered, and some of us decided to buy tickets for Mark Steel tonight. (Dan seemed to like his presents: I gave him a bottle of excellent Islay single malt and 7 CDs themed around birds and walking, Neal made him a bee nesting box which impressed us all mightily, and we presented him with a vintage mixing desk acquired perfectly legally).

Off to lovely Bridgnorth, where I had hopes of storming Bill Cash's mansion in Upton Cressett, but instead, Christine and her bloke bravely invited us for 'bread and cheese', even though Christine only knew Mark and I, and her husband had never heard of us. 'Bread and cheese' turned out to be Stinking Bishop, brilliant stilton, salads and jugs of Pimms, served in their beautiful English cottage garden overlooking the Severn valley. Needless to say, we couldn't tear ourselves away from fine company and gourmet food: the walk was cancelled. I'll stick some photographs up when I get into the office on Tuesday (no, I'm not having Monday off - I'm going to a conference on how to turn my job into a career. It's the New Deal for academics).

Later on, we took advantage of subsidised fares to get 4 train tickets to Brum for £4 and hit the coolest bars - we may not have enhanced this coolness. The Sunflower Lounge loses points for having one screen showing Celebrity Mr and Mrs Starring Morten Harket (is that right?), and wins some back for presenting Repo Man - in French. From there, off to the Victoria, where some of our party unsubtly admired the human form, chatted to Mark's ex's brother, drank fine ales, met another Bangor graduate, Mary, who has the required robust humour to cope with us, and then headed off to The Island, which was most stylish. I temporarily switched to margaritas because I don't think that it demeans my undoubted masculinity at all. No doubt the student I met there and in the next place we went will post the photo in Facebook to my enduring shame… Should have worn my Melt Banana shirt.

From there, we went to Snobs, the legendary Birmingham indie club. I went about 9 years ago and had a wonderful time. This time, it's fair to say, we didn't. Despite dosing ourselves regularly with gin and tonic, we couldn't help noticing that the music was rubbish - an incredibly uninventive dependence on mainstream sixties soul worn out by over-repetition. It was, frankly, reminiscent of 'Sound of Summer' CDs given out by middle market tabloids, leavened only by the most obvious Smiths or Stone Roses track: no inventiveness, no innovation, just deeply conservative choices.

I love a lot of 60s music - Velvet Underground, Ligeti, Reich, Northern Soul - but dancing for hours to music by dead people is a form of cultural suicide. It betrays a total lack of confidence in one's own generation, whether it's the musicians or the revellers you insult with assumptions about their unadventurousness. Dropping the occasional Curtis Mayfield track into a finely crafted set is one thing: serving up constant Stones songs with sporadic chunks of Paul Weller and (ugh) Ocean Colour Scene is the equivalent of going to a UKIP rally, the pop version of Classic FM (exclusively playing Classical Music From The Adverts).

What would I play? Northern Soul, Mogwai, Belle and Sebastian, Sons and Daughters, Magnetic Fields, G0-Betweens, Hydroplane, The Paradise Motel, Stereolab, Super Furries, Kraftwerk, Beulah, Tindersticks, Gil Scott Heron - lots of upbeat, interesting, danceable stuff which surprises and delights. Music for the brain and music for the groin. Music for the indie kids who carry library cards and make their own style.

So that was Saturday night. We returned by taxi, taking in every godforsaken urban sprawl between the Bullring and Beatties, arguing about whether dawn was breaking or just light pollution - both, I suspect. I got to sleep on my floor, thanks to my kind nature, and woke too early, feeling less than human. Lunch at the Newhampton Inn, reading newspapers under the fruit trees, then an ice cream in West Park restored my balance and here I am. Marking done, comedy to attend later, ironing not calling me for a change. I like ironing. There's a Zen-like calm which comes with achieving the perfect crease.

(Looking at the Bridgnorth tourism pages, reminds me to plug the Much Wenlock Olympian Games (10th-13th July) - I help run the fencing event, and compete too, and the Shropshire Biggest Liar Competition. Neal suggests that Bill Cash be given a clear run at this year's event).

So - you may not hear from me tomorrow - I'll be 'networking' (even typing the word makes me nauseous). Have a good day or so.

Recipe time

Neal and I wondered about cheese and chocolate last week. So we tried it. We put really dark, chilli chocolate with Welsh cheddar flavoured with ginger. It's delicious. It also reminded me of an occasional treat from my student days in the mid-90s. Boil up some well-salted spaghetti. Then put a bar of Dairy Milk on top, and microwave it. I like to think that it inspired Chef's Chocolate Salty Balls.

Feel free to suggest your own recipes.

Sunday Sunday

Today is another marathon marking session, while I cower inside from the relentless searing heat. I don't have the words to describe how much I abhor hot weather. Give me driving rain and blustery storms any day. The only upside of today's weather is that I can dry my clothes on the line, which is much more civilised and environmentally friendly than using a tumble dryer.

The other excitement of the day is that clash of the titans, Stoke City versus Arsenal. We beat them 2-1 at the Britannia Stadium, their goal coming in the 93rd minute, so I've high hopes. Whatever happens, we've been vindicated and we're here to stay.

I did some marking yesterday, and feel quite optimistic based on those results - some good projects, some convincing arguments. Or had I had too much to drink at the sophisticated Euro-barbecue I attended yesterday? Fine wines, cooked (rather than burned) lamb and chicken, excellent taboulleh. Mmmm. Must go swimming tomorrow!

Neal and I were thinking about chocolate and cheese today: a dark, bitter chocolate and an acidic Cheshire would make a fantastic soufflé. Your thoughts?