Foxes and Parrots - English Suburban Wildlife

This is the last re-post f0r a while and is rather long. It is a re-posting of two of my favourite pieces dealing with Southern England's Suburban wildlife.

Seems foxes are really settling into the suburban lifestyle; even bringing into the well tempered gardens of Surrey the kind of behaviour that normally is reserved for behind the white patterned net curtains of suburbia.

Let me explain, just before Christmas 2007 I was in England, staying at my sister’s house in Surrey, I was very intrigued when one morning I opened the curtains and noticed a black object sat in the middle of her, otherwise blemish free, lawn. The object looked about eight inches long and a couple of inches across; it was a glossy wet from the morning dew.

Over breakfast I mentioned the object to my bother-in-law.
“It’s a fox.” he said.
I peered out of the French windows at the black thing; prominent and obvious on the lawn.
“No it’s not,” I said, “it looks like a kid’s training shoe.”
“I know it’s a shoe,” said my brother-in-law, rolling his eyes at my sister as she entered the room and sat down, “The shoe was put there by the fox.”
“What, a real fox?” I asked “Like Basil Brush or Foxy Loxy from Chicken Little?”
My brother-in-law looked momentarily confused. He leaned a little closer into me.
“You do know Basil Brush isn’t real don’t you?” He paused. He seemed to be waiting to see if this was a significant revelation. You know, like the Santa thing. Eventually he continued
“But yes a real fox.”
He went on to explain that on a pretty regular basis a fox, who lives somewhere at the end of the garden, leaves shoes on the lawn, sometimes even digging holes to try and bury the stolen footwear.
“… we are not only the house ‘round here with the problem either.” He finished.

I sipped my tea, my head full of images of foxes moving through the suburban London night like Ninjas stealing shoes from beneath the noses of their owners.

“What happens to the shoes?” I asked.
“We throw them away” He said.
“Why doesn’t the neighborhood get together every few months and have a kinda reverse jumble sale. A chance to repatriate the shoes?” I asked.
“The foxes seem to like the shoes a lot, they lick and chew them like maniacs; I don’t think the owners want them back after that.”

Suddenly the ninja fox view disappeared and was replaced with an image of gangs of foxes roaming the deserted Surrey streets looking for a shoe fix.

“Come on pal I need something! Just a tongue, a lace! Can’t you see I’m in cold Nike!”

Do you think there are fox rehab clinics? Maybe they would be put on insoles which are like shoes but not as strong. Maybe there is a reality show in there? “The real cubs of KT17”

But then a different thought occurred to me, what if it’s not an addiction? What if it is a fetish? Perhaps other foxes looked on those with the shoe fetish as being weird, outcasts. Maybe there were Fox dens where a dog could meet a vixen in a safe environment surrounded by the beautiful heels of Surrey. An underground foxclub scene …..

I was startled from my musing on Vulpes.vulpes retifism by a loud chattering and I watched bemused as a thirty strong flock of Green Parrots rose from the trees at the end of the garden. Parrots! In Surrey? But that is next week’s blog.

= = = = = = = = = = = = =

I watched as the beautiful Green birds rose as one body from the end of the garden. Given that the fox conversation was still hanging over the breakfast table, I wasn’t about to start another fauna discussion. I excused myself and headed back upstairs. Once in the back bedroom I grabbed my camera phone and looked out into the garden for the second time that morning. Sure enough, in one of the trees that flank the garden were four green parrots. I snapped this rather bad picture just to prove to myself that I wasn’t insane.

Later, when everyone had gone out, I tried a little ‘twitching’ on the web. If parrots have established themselves in Surrey then surely it must be all over the news? Not exactly. I did, however, discover that the birds I had seen were Ring Neck Parakeets and one of the more colorful theories for how they come to be in the UK. Namely the assertion that the birds escaped from the film set of The African Queen while it was being filmed at Shepperton Studios in West London. The most informative piece was this four and half year old article on the BBC. The most startling thing in this piece is the estimate that the population is growing at 30% per year – that’s a lot of parrots.

Later that day I caught the bus to Kingston (there’s some wildlife right there). Once there I met up with my kids and took the opportunity to ask my youngest about the parrots.

“Spud, do you ever see Parrots?” I asked, over a coffee in Starbucks. Spud looked up from playing a game on his cell phone, creased his brow and shot me a sideways glance. He seemed annoyed that I had interrupted him.

“Parrots?” he asked and he turned back to his text messaging.

“Yes parrots. Do you ever see parrots?” I had the beginnings of a horrible feeling of déjà vu., “Parrots, here in Surrey. Do you ever see ‘em?” My only response was the silent movement of his fingers on his cell phone keypad.

“Spud,” I said, a little louder this time causing a few of the other coffee shop patrons to look in our direction, “parrots? Anywhere?”
Spud snapped his cell phone shut and put it on the table between us.

“What is it with you and bloody parrots?” asked the twelve year old.

“Don’t swear,” I said, “I‘m just asking, in case you didn’t hear me the first three times, if you ever see parrots round here?”
His look changed from tired indulgence (I think he learned that from his mother) to one of, well, contempt (also probably from his mother).

“Of course I see parrots. They’re everywhere. And anyway they’re not parrots they’re parakeets”

“Parakeets? What’s the difference?”

“Parakeet is African for small.” He said, but I think he was making that up. “They live in the Oak tree outside our house and in the trees near the football pitch; they make a lot of noise when the ball hits one of their perches. And sometimes I watch them in my geography lesson”

“When you're doing things about Africa?”

“No, in the tree outside the window of the geography hall, they live there too.”

“Well Spud, maybe you should concentrate on your lesson …” I started to say. I was going to explain to him that when I was a boy there were no parrots, sorry parakeets, in England. But I realised that his attention was back with his cell phone.

So I guess there are now parakeets in living in Surrey. I wonder if parakeets can talk. Bet they say more than a twelve year old boy says.

Later, when I was back in the States, I was telling my mate Jim about the parrots and that they may have escaped from The African Queen. He pointed out it was lucky they weren’t using elephants in that film. I agree. If Pachyderms got into trees by the football pitch god knows how you'd get them out.

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Bazza

Fox Info

For a more sensible explanation of urban and suburban foxes see & Here:
And proof that foxes even steal the shoes of the nobility

The Soft-dying Day

*This post was originally published in October 2008 (I was alluding to more than winter BTW). I have slightly changed some of the wording this time. It's still my personal favourite. One for the Fall lovers.


I awoke this morning in my southern New England home to the sound of the wind pushing against the house. Outside the sky was a crisp blue. The multi-colour leaves of autumn were lining up like golden sky-divers; waiting for their cue to leap from the trees and then tumble and dance down the hilly road.

The wind breathed excitement and animation outside my window. Until recently the heavy foliage of summer had stopped it from reaching the green frog that hangs, unspinning, over my deck. But now that the fall has come you can see patches of sky again and the frog spins madly throwing off spirals of reflected light. Speedy, Sparky and their friends that inhabit the grassy bank, are nervous. The sweet smelling autumn wind moves everything and drowns out the normal sounds of safety. The change of air is tangible to them as they stand on their hind legs, twitching and sniffing. The small mammals are obvious now because they are the only stationary things. Ironic that they should be so exposed by the very act that has hitherto kept them safe.

In the front of the house, the verdant green canopy is transformed into boney black fingers that point skywards accusingly. “The sky took the leaves, the sky took the leaves.” they say and the sky is guilty as charged.

Later, as I leave the house, the wind pushes me urgently from behind as I walk, “Move along, move along. No time to hang around, it is coming.”

And later still, I’m in the car and the radio tells me that indeed, snow has fallen in the north already. I am dismayed to realise that it is dark at both the 6.30s that occur in any given day.

The wind excites us with its news but it will be gone tomorrow leaving the horrible realisation that the better parts of the year are beyond reach now and soon the heavy cold grey blanket will replace the blue. We will retreat to our homes and burrows. The spiraling green frog will be taken down and stored along with the cheery summer lanterns that line the paths around us. Collect your firewood and admire the last few stubborn leaves then hunker down. Winter isn’t long now.




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Bazza

Title from 'To Autumn' by John Keats

“I say goodbye, you (still) say Hello…“

Another piece originally published under the same title at The Spartan Opinion in 2009.

Prologue – Nine years! You’d get less for manslaughter in some states. But nine years is how long I have lived in this great country. During those nine years whenever I meet somebody new and they work out I am English, the conversation moves to one of the same group of topics. Typically the topics are either, The Beatles, Benny Hill, Monty Python, Fish and Chips or Princess Diana. Over the next few pieces I will try and shine my own little spotlight onto these areas.
Before I start though I’d like to it clear I do not claim to represent all 61 million British people. I don’t even claim to represent a majority; I’ve yet to talk to even a fraction of all Brits and whilst many of those I have spoken to I did like a lot, there are also some that, quite frankly, I don’t think I liked at all.
The first piece is on the impact The Beatles have had on my life and my confusion about why the American populace is still so obsessed with them …

The Beatles, be-suited mop-tops or Kaftan clad hippies, whichever incarnation, why are the Americans so obsessed with them? The rest of the world tipped its hat, said thanks and moved on. But here you can’t move for them. Major radio stations still dedicate hours of programming each week, there are literally hundreds of Beatles tribute bands and a new cash-in their old hits CD release is a huge news event. Let’s remember that the Beatles first hit was nearly 50 years ago now. How ridiculous would it be if in 1962, when The Beatles exploded on the scene, our parents were listening to music from 1915 (not to mention still shelling out for repackaged songs that they already owned)? Surely pop music has moved on?

But first I must confess I do owe the Beatles one big debt, namely our first telly. In 1968 our little South London flat did not have a TV. This situation was quite normal for our area. In fact, only Mario down the street had one and he wouldn’t shut up bragging about it, how they watched comedies, soap operas, dramas and most annoyingly, kid’s shows. But then one day it all changed. My sister came home from school in tears. The BBC had announced it would air the first ever TV showing of the Beatles film “The Magical Mystery Tour”. She was distraught because the film would be shown and she would miss it. Worst still, all her friends would gather at Mario’s house (with his sister, who was always viewed as rival) to watch it. Our little flat was filled with a black cloud that night.

The next day my dad, who like a lot of fathers hated the thought of either of his daughters being unhappy, was so moved by my sister’s misery, that he went out and rented a big cabinet style black and white TV. Oh boy this was living. Better yet, the tele was nicer than Mario’s. Hah! Who’s bragging now? We had all three channels: BBC1, BBC2 and ITV while Mario could only get BBC1 & ITV. He was crushed. So thanks to the Beatles we got one up on the local rivals plus we got to see the Apollo 11 moon landing, the investiture of Charles, Prince of Wales (big yawn) and best of all, the mighty Chelsea winning the FA cup in 1970!

Sorry, got a bit carried away there, anyway like I say; I have nothing against the Beatles. But as far as I can tell on my occasional visits back to England, people accept that they were great. Maybe once in a while you will hear a song on the radio but even my sister who has several TVs of her own now, doesn’t worry about re-runs of the films. My cousins, most of who are slightly older than us and were smack dab in middle of Beatles mania the sixties, have new bands, singers and music on their iPods.

The danger is if we spend so much time marveling at how great The Beatles were we will miss out on, and in some cases close our ears to, much of the new music around. Nearly all of the current brand of pop singers still use the three and a half minute, bright catchy song with hooks format, which The Beatles help cement into pop radio. These new pop songs are no more relevant or irrelevant than any Beatles song. I’m always amused when some of my American friends heaps criticism on people like Kelly Clarkson, Beyonce or Justin Timberlake and yet treat Please Please me like it’s high art (let alone Octopus’s Garden or Yellow Submarine!).

My last concern is simple, if The Beatles are your musical safe haven, great. But a safe haven can only be truly appreciated when you have been to somewhere, different, dangerous and exciting. Remember, Columbus may not have intended to discover America but he would have found nothing new if he had just continued sailing around the familiar Mediterranean.

So come on America! They were awesome but unless you let go you’ll never find anything else – it’s time to move on. You know when Paul sang “will you still need me, will you still feed me – when I’m sixty four?” It wasn’t meant to be a binding contract.



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Bazza

Benny and me

This piece was one of two pieces originally published in 2009 at The Spartan Opinion as 'Benny “down” Hill all the way'

In the late eighties I was a support guy working from a narrow closet. It was just wide enough for a desk and chair and long enough for the desk and 4 or 5 floor standing computer systems which kept the room very warm. The building did have high ceilings and at one end of support room was a slender but tall, window that looked out over Teddington High Street. Teddington is an average, small suburban London town, ten miles west of the city along the River Thames. The High street had the usual assortment of pubs, small supermarkets, fast food shops and banks. Our building was next to the Barclays Bank

The sun arced from morning through noon and onto dusk. People, buses and cars all passed by the tall window and the changing leaves on the trees across the road marked the seasons passing. Not much happened day to day in Teddington but there were little distractions. Sometimes the ‘shouting’ man would appear. He’d stand on the corner with a big placard and yell at startled passers by to repent; at least until the local policeman turned up to move him along. Sometimes, though, I would see a different man. A gentlemen in his sixties and dressed in a rather scruffy raincoat, no matter the weather. The old man was about 5ft 10in high (I know because that’s the same height as me) and generally he’d be carrying his groceries in plastic supermarket bags. Some people said hello as they passed him but most ignored or didn’t recognize him. I myself bought him a glass of red wine one Christmas (and got ridiculed for it by my mates). The man in the raincoat was Benny Hill.

Here he was ignored by the people in the very town where he wrote his most famous comedy sketches. A man who less than ten years earlier was voted as ‘The Funniest Man in The World’ by Britain’s TV Times readers.

And yet few years later, in 1992, Benny Hill died aged 68, alone and unnoticed. We don’t even know the exact day he died we just know he was last seen the Thursday before Easter and he was found the following week. He was in a chair in front of his TV. After his death there was no resurgence of love for him or his art. His passing was not even accompanied by the tabloids every-ready buckets of crocodile tears. He just warranted a short obit’ on an inside page.

So how did Benny, lovable buffoon with the funny side kicks and very tall women, become such a non-entity in his home country?

Put simply two things: The fickle nature of the British and a top class assassination job by a handful of new, aggressive young comics.

In the UK in the early to mid-eighties comedy was undergoing it’s version of the punk rock revolution. An aggressive breed of comics often pictured as led by a man called Ben Elton burst onto the scene; arriving with the fourth British TV station, Channel 4. These new comics blew a breath of fresh air through a comedy scene that honestly, had become rather stale. The new comics were irreverent, coarse and trendy. Responsible for great new comedy (Black Adder, The Comic Strip) and some terrible crap (so bad I’ve blanked it out) they took the establishment to task. A lot of us had long been uneasy with the clumsy and sexist nature of some of Benny Hill’s material and the new comics picked up on that sentiment. Although other established comedians were picked on too, Benny was an easy target and he bore the brunt of their attack. Barrage after barrage of anti Benny Hill material exploded around him. The tabloid newspapers picked up on the theme and suddenly there were enough people calling him sexist (as well drawing criticism of his treatment and portrayal of old people) that the country pretty quickly turned away from him. Some even felt the comedian was an embarrassment to Britain. Soon after the uproar started Teddington based Thames TV canceled Benny's show and his contract. Benny Hill had gone from loved to loathed virtually overnight.

That was nearly 25 years ago and one could reasonably expect perspective and time to soften our views but in my narrow poll of British friends I discovered that not much has changed in the way people think of Benny. I was surprised at this but then even I still have no desire to watch him chased across a garden by 10 bikini clad woman. I don’t think that any of the major UK stations ever re-run any of his series and when I asked my sons (13 & 15) only one had actually heard of him but he had never seen any of his comedy.

Is it fair? The more I think about it the less I’m not sure either way. Truth be told, if you take out the childish slapstick, and the semi naked ladies, a lot of if what is left was very clever and funny. Was it sexist? Well yeah, clearly it was and long after attitudes had started changing. Someone should have explained it to Benny. But then again, if the Americans and Germans are still laughing with him, shouldn’t the British re-visit too?

He seemed a nice enough old bloke, in the pub that Christmas. My mates might have given me shit when I bought him that glass of wine but even then I just felt bad for him. He’d been a superstar and now he was hated and he hadn’t changed, everyone else did. Perhaps my country does owe him a bit more than a glass of red wine, maybe we should clean up his act, issue some DVDs without the slapstick and Alfred ‘Benny’ Hill should get some respect.

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Bazza

The End is Nigh

I have some sad news for you all but to aid my mental health, I am formally ending this blog.

Basically with all the life changes recently I just haven't had a chance to stay up to speed with the blog. But, fair reader, make no mistake I do feel guilty.

It is not for lack of ideas (I have loads of ideas many started but never finished) it's just lack of time. I may continue to submit articles to the new and revitalised Spartan Opinion as well as post the occasional note to Facebook but that's about it.

So why end? Why not just repost that stuff every few months? Well it's to do with my spiritual health. I strongly believe in a personal bit of co-opted & perverted Eastern philosophy. Namely, having something constantly nagging at you because it is unfinished or plain needs attention, but ignoring that nag, is bad for you. It's that elephant in the room thing. So before I have to start shoveling I'm done.

Thanks for reading for the last three years and thanks for your support and care - have fun.

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Bazza

Getting Ready For The Showing

Before I can try and settle down somewhere we have to get rid of the house in Connecticut. Bought as the bubble was bursting we know we will lose money but even so we can’t just list it. We gotta make it desirable first.

There’s a lot of nonsense spoken about making houses look good for showing (referred to as staging here in the US). In fact there are whole cable TV shows dedicated to the alleged art. Reality is that it is not that hard.

Overall, you must allow nothing to distract your viewers from the positive experience. You want them to leave discussing where they could put their bookcase and where to drink their morning coffee; not the clothes that were on the floor or the smell by the sink.

The Bazza rules to house staging are:

1. Above all – Clean your house inside and out! All buyers will be put off by a grimy, tired or spider web laden house

2. Find the cool features of your house that others will like and emphasis these. Also consider a little guide book or some well placed notes (don’t over do it) to point out the unique or positive aspects. Most rooms have an area or part where the eye is automatically drawn to. If you can get a friend to walk into each room and tell you the first thing they see, that will tell you what that focal point is and you can decide if it is what you want it to be.

3. Make the most of the space (applies to the external part of the house too)
--- De-clutter
--- Move furniture to allow most floor space to show
--- Allow walls to show but not totally bare (see item 7 below)

4. Make the most of the light – even spacious houses look small when dark.
--- Ensure windows can let in the natural light
--- Make sure all light switches and bulbs work
--- Consider putting in brighter bulbs were safe to so

5. Fix those little annoyances – the house inspector is going find them anyway.
--- Dripping taps
--- Wall dents
--- cabinet door knobs missing trim

6. Ambience: Make the house feel home like with smells and possibly some music

7. If you are the kind of person who covers every inch of wall with photographs of loved ones. Remember the point about no distractions and making the most of space. You don’t have to take down every picture but let the wall area be seen. Beware those sporting or other cultural displays too. For instance if you are a Yankees fan - you don't want to turn off an itinerant Red Sox or Mets fan - think I'm joking? I'm not. Remember you want people to leave talking about how pleasant your place was not the Jeter poster on the ceiling.

8. Take some sensible steps to make your house child safe, if it isn’t already.

9. Find a secure place to put valuables.

10. When people come – go out! I know it’s scary but every time I view a place with the residents there the visit is much shorter and I never feel good about the house.

In the next blog I’ll explain how we implemented those rules.


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Bazza

Looking for the Man Who Can't Moved

We’re moving again. Three years rolled by and it will soon be time to leave Connecticut. As we drove around the North Suburbs of Chicago looking at the outside of affordable houses I got to thinking how often I’ve moved. For the purposes of this article I will define ‘home’ as ‘the place you go to when you don’t have to be anywhere else’. That would mean that since leaving my parent’s house in 1984, I have called 11 places home. More startling I realised I hadn’t managed more than a few months over three years in any of them.

I guess I don’t mind it or else I wouldn’t do it but it does affect those around me. Before meeting me my wife had only called three places home. Now she is up to seven (and likely to be eight before 2010 is over). She has only spent about 20% of her life with me. And although not entirely due to me, my eldest son (15) has lived in eight places.

Some of the houses or flats I lived in were only intended to be quick steps along the way but others, notably the flat on the Surbiton/Kingston boarder and the townhouse in Elk Grove Village, were definitely intended to be more permanent.

And the next place? I want it built to last – out of brick, on a solid concrete foundation and I wanna be able to decorate to taste and not to sell. In the words of The Script I want to be ‘The Man Who can’t Be Moved’.

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Bazza