Super Fly-Tipping

Let's say you find yourself strolling through the greater metropolitan region of southeast London. Perhaps your eye is caught by a small sculpture of what is no doubt supposed to be a lion, but due to its rotund, slightly porcine facial features, has actually begun to resemble a seal more than anything else.

Now, casting the eye down from this crowning glory, we see one of the distinctive blue signs of the borough of Lewisham with the following stern warning: "Fly tipping will not be tolerated." But was is "fly tipping" and why should it be so brusquely refused service?



Well, the Oxford English Dictionary defines fly-tipping as "the unauthorized dumping of building rubble, household refuse, or other waste, esp. while in the process of transporting it." So, therefore, as we consider the aforementioned sign in its broader context, we find that fly tipping is indeed being tolerated if not encouraged.



But why these two words, fly and tip? Well, in British English a "tip" designates what Americans would call a "heap"; thus, one hears the Brits talking about a house being "one big rubbish tip." Thus, by extension, fly tipping would seem to mean making a tip on the fly, as it were. And indeed, the fine borough of Lewisham—home to the Quaggy and the frightening overlord Optal-Max Shreek, as we have learned from past entries—seems to have no shortage of tip and run incidents.




While Old Ken will neither analyze their contents nor remark on their aesthetic configurations as presented in the photos above and below, I would like to use what one famous French person called "the rustle of language" to get at a possible motivation behind the fly-tipping phenomenon. It is this: when I have spent time in large urban centers, I have often heard the ground—the exposed earth, the green grass of a park or the pavement underfoot—as "the floor." To my mind, this seems like a horrible conceptual error, a kind of ontological corruption of the natural world born of an overly domesticated, depleted existence. Now, having taken that ill-fitting Heideggerian hat off, I continue. Ah, yes! So, if the ground is conceived as being "the floor," then—to extend the metaphor—the city as such might be thought of as the interior contents of one's house; in the words of Modest Mouse "I just bought a t-shirt that says 'The World is my Ashtray.'" So, to follow illogic with more, one can begin to see how fly-tipping and littering in general gets rationalized, as people seem to conceptualize it as the ethical equivalent of throwing their old newspaper on the floor at home.




I offer you that when confronted with their littering, many such people are hardly able to satisfactorily acquit their behavior. Old Ken recently had the pleasure of watching a particular assclown seated in a car at a stop light in front of a major research library in north London throw a banana peel out of his car window and onto a traffic island. Old people and absent-minded scholars use this island all the time. Had this man seen no cartoons? Was he just demonstrating profound sociopathic desires? Anyway, Old Ken picked up said banana peel and offered it back to this thug, who said he no longer was interested in having it. When asked to explain what exactly it was that gave him the right to through his litter on the ground in a public place, the best he could offer was a mumbled "I don't know." Indeed, he probably does not; but, the linguistic work that enables him to lazily describe the surface onto which he casts his peel as the floor had most likely already taken its insidious conceptual hold enabling such brutishness. Harumph!

The Quaggy Cup: On Fire!

Where there's smoke, there's fire. Words to live by, those. And such wisdom is particularly appropriate when one is wondering where to spend a glorious sunny August Sunday afternoon while in the greater metropolitan region of South London. Well, Old Ken has got two words that I'd like you to pronounce with true feeling. Please say them out loud as you read them, summoning up all the "intenstinal fortitude" (to quote Gorilla Monsoon) of the Macho Man Randy Savage when going against the wily likes of the upstart Koko "The Birdman" B. Ware. The words are these: Quaggy Cup!

Now, you may recall that Old Ken has something of a fondness for the Quaggy, one of the most important tributaries to the Ravensbourne River (itself a meaningful player in the formation of the greater Thames estuary). Indeed, the Quaggy helped me overcome a bout of projectile vomiting back in the spring. Well, when I heard that an entire day of fun and frivolity was going to be devoted to this majestic waterway, I made my preparations.

Was it appropriate, I wondered, to take it upon myself to dress as the spirit of the Quaggy—a kind of irrepressible water sprite whose antics could charm one and all? Well, upon arrival it became readily evident that conventional dress (specifically, shirts) was hardly to be observed.



Blessedly, this free and loose spirit caught hold of all and sundry, making no discrimination of age as the ivory-haired gent in the photograph above so deftly displays.



But look! What's that up in the air? Is it some sort of strange bird—perhaps, the dreaded Raven Spirits of the Ravensbourne River come to terrorize the small village festival of the peaceful Quaggy tribe, taking us down, down deep into the mines where we will be forced to dig for precious ores for all eternity to feed to the power-mad schemes of the mighty raven overlord, Optal-Max Schreek!



No, thank goodness, no. Instead, we realized, that it was raining men. Hallelujah!



In what actually turned out to be a pretty impressive spectacle, these four intrepid parachutists landed on a cordoned off patch of the field. Unfortunately, their landing was not accompanied by "Eye of the Tiger," which was reserved for a later exhibition football match.



Now, when you think about a summer festival of this kind, what springs to mind? Greased pole climb? Dunking booth? Tractor pulls? Rummage sale? Hot dogs and burgers on the grill? Corn on the cob? Well, Old Ken can honestly say that none of those mentioned above made it to the first annual Quaggy Cup. That said, we did get quite a show from a truly unusual and, with some luck, endangered species in the British Isles: English Cheerleaders!



Yes! Big Win!



Of all people, Old Ken realizes that human bodies come in different colors, shapes and sizes, all of which can be beautiful and it is only small-mindedness that makes us think otherwise. But what about tattoos? Is this not the sort of willful intervention into personal appearance that—more often than not—simply begs for critical scrutiny?



While you mull over those tasty ethical queries, feast your eyes on but a few of the awful tattoos on display at Quaggy Cup. As you may perceive from the images above, this devilish morsel was coyly concealed beneath a startling platinum mane—and might well have remained there, had Old Ken anything to say in the matter.



Now, it's one thing to take a photo of a terrible tattoo on a woman's back when she is engaged in conversation. It is something quite different, I submit to you, to try to get a photograph of what has to be Old Ken's entry for the worst tattoo ever, while the proud owner is male, with two thuggish friends, and looking your way. (If you have evidence of a worse tattoo, by the by, I challenge you to post it on the comment section with your description).



Nonetheless, this tattoo struck me as being so bad as to be worth the risk. Cast your eyes, if you will, upon the oh-so-delicate shading and the clever trompe l'oeil technique of affixing those bellicose gloves to a pictorial tack, which is presumably embedded in the dude's calf (which only begs the question of why it is there rather than on a more logical locale like a shoulder or bicep). Finally, note the attention to iconographic detail: on the upper wrist band of each glove is a minute ensign of St. George—the flag of England upon which the design of the more familiar British "Union Jack" is based. In other words, this is English boxing—none of that namby-pamby British stuff! RRAR!

A Tribute to Davey

As old friend Davey (who you may see in silhouette above) is soon coming to live in the Old Country (Buffet), I thought now might be a good time to share a little something I've had on the docket for sometime.

Have you ever been to Appleby's or other similar "casual dining" establishments? Well, those places seem to practically define themselves on the ridiculous names they give their food. The pattern Old Ken has found most absurd is that based upon "Surf n' Turf" formula; that is, a pairing of two dissimilar foods that are meant to conjoin through a play of words. Well, while on an extended lost weekend with Davey a few years back, we began to meditate on this formula, and develop a few of our own novel variations.



As you'll see from the page of drawings above, the first efforts Old Ken made in formalizing our inventions were humble. Simple lines intertwining, as a great musician once said.



Yet, soon the dream came into greater clarity and a whole menu itself materialized. As you scroll down through the next few images, please feast your eyes upon these scrumptious "Sweet Appeteazers." Then, don't hesitate to follow the advice of the laughing, jolly pig and "Get your trotters wet!"





Because the text of the menu is a little difficult to read on the web, I thought I'd provide a transcript here as captions to the tempting morsels. As Davey is very keen to expand the menu, please feel free to post any further dish suggestions in the comment section—and do include recipes!



"Whale Tail, Snail & Flail: 'Call me Delicious!' So begins our seafood lover's voyage, a veritable odyssey of marine flavors. Savory whale tail blend with our finest escargot. $14.99"



"Foxes' Noses, Oxes' Toeses: Succulent poach fox noses served with the most tender ox toes we can find. For your pleasure, we garnish these little guys with our special hollandaise sauce. $12.50"



"Cheese and Sneeze Platter: Here it is! Piled high with a melange of exotic cheeses and fresh, meaty noses, the Cheese and Sneeze is the dish that put us one the map! Noses vary by season but the cheese is always great—and that's nothing to sneeze at. $12.99"

Big Rock at Ragley Hall

Do you like to go to new places? Well, Old Ken has been to lots of places of late, some new, some old. Needless to say, the whole thing has been such a business that, well, by jing, I just haven't been quite able to keep up with all things blog-wise. But, here I am, back talkin' at you in crystal-clear hi-fi.

The story I want to tell you about at the moment is a little visit I might have made to one of the few remaining private residences built by Robert Hooke, a famous experimental philosopher of the later seventeenth century and—so I'd like to think—someone close to the heart of my admirable namesake, the Right Honorable Sir Kenelm Digby. So my guide book tells me, Bob (as I like to think of Señor Hooke) built Ragley Hall for Lord Conway ca. 1680. As you may discern from the photograph above, Bob is still remembered on the gorgeous site with an appropriate monument: a coffee shop named in his honor. As you'll no doubt recall, Bob was a big fan of the coffee shop, which was something of a novelty in his day; his famous diary is packed with tales of meeting both intellectual luminaries and "friends in low places" at such places as Jonathan's or Garraways and enjoying a good chin-wag over a cup of coffee, chocolate, and even the inestimable cock ale. (Please tune back in for a subsequent blog entry for Sir Kenelm's cock ale recipe, which is soon to be a gift. Wink!)


But, let us not allow such digressions to take us away from Ragley Hall itself, which truly is a stunning building. Now, the photograph above shows the eastern face of the house—a view that requires a little imaginative intervention if we want to see it the way that it would have been built in Hooke's day. For, the portico and the twin ceremonial staircases leading into the Great Hall, which you see at the very center of the photograph above, were mid-eighteenth century additions.


Similarly, the loggia attached to the western face of the house (visible as the recessed, shadowed space in the photos above and below) seems to the Old Ken's mind to have been a subsequent addition. Upon what grounds would such an assessment have been ventured? Well, more qualified as an experimental philosopher than an architectural historian as I know myself to be, the loggia seems to give the house something of an edentate look. When in shade, as seen here, the open space of the loggia compromises the verticality of the house and makes it almost look as though it could be levitating.


Comparing with the dark, heavy decoration surviving from Hooke's period inside the house, which I was sadly unable to photograph, one wonders whether this lighter, airy effect might have been closer in spirit to the wonderfully bizarre rococo fantasies played out across the Great Hall than Bob's baroque inclinations.

But enough of such fancies. I'd like you to appreciate the beauty of the house from a distance, which really did feel like a kind of island amidst the rolling farmland of Warwickshire. Baroque or not baroque, I think we can all agree that this is some seriously big rockin' from Mr. Bob!