Saturday, 14 June 2008

Weeton's, a park bench and Viva La Vida

1. Weeton's in Harrogate is somewhere I've wanted to visit for a while. Its a farm shop in the heart of Harrogate, frequented no doubt by the affluent queens and families of that pretty little village. I bought a couple of simple cheeses: Old Amsterdam and Quicks Vintage Cheddar and then in another shop proper Orkney oatcakes. Weeton's is lovely and also so incredibly indulgent as to be very slightly obscene. They have a range of vegetables (some not so very locally produced, I don't think Brazilian figs count), meat, all manor of lovely breads and deli stuff. Its a fantastical little place that I imagine is much loved. I was struck but the cognitive dissonance required to cope with my conscience on this one. That is to say the sheer indulgent luxury of it all. I could have filled several shopping baskets with special and unusual ingredients but I stuck with the cheeses. Perhaps another time. Just a note to myself to add Andrew Loftus to the list of fabulous human beings I would like to interact with.

2. I visited Harrogate with a friend I made very recently. He had never been to Weeton's so I was there to burst his virgin shopper bubble. I was very gentle with him and he was incredibly kind to me for which I am very grateful. We spent a very happy and unstructured afternoon in the town, cruising the pretty men and scoring them like cattle at an auction. Its a disgusting little game some gay men play but its fun and relatively harmless. We sat on a bench beside Betty's Tearoom, clutching bags of recently purchased loose tea (I got Betty's Traditional English Breakfast for Allan and my friend went for Imperial Gunpowder) and gazed at the passing totty like two naughty old gentleman (well that certainly could describe me, he's a much younger bloke). It was lovely and playful and pretty innocent joyful moment or two. Thanks to Scrumptious T (and I promise from now on I'll never refer to you by that name, it's just the once and said with love).

3. OK that bloody new record Viva La Vida or Death And All His Friends by Coldplay is on my iPod now. On the journey to and from the spa town I listened to it yet again. On Friday Lil Phil texted me to see if I had bought it yet and to gloat that he had and that he'd been listening to it all night. Yer, whatever. I have all their other records damn them so it felt churlish to ignore this one. But I had trouble finding a copy locally and found myself reduced (that's patronising, but effectively how it feels) to visiting the local ASBO (aka ASDA) where I got a copy for £7. Feeling suitably pleased with myself I started to listen to the first instrumental track. With some pieces of popular music you can get a feeling right away whether or not you are going to enjoy it. This record has had some pretty varied reviews. Chris Martin has an annoying voice that I get used to. Its like one of those annoying little habits that Allan has, lets not be specific, but that I've grown accustomed to. You know like the song Professor Higgins sings about Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. After two or three plays of the CD, and very like after a couple of glasses of wine, it begins to sound (and taste) good. Popular music seems to touch some addiction button in me. The joy of repetition must be some kind of chemical action going on in my addled brain. This one is a grower. Lil Phil described it as the best record he's listened to this year. Whoa! there canoe boy. There have been a few gooduns. Of course we no longer mention the lost week with Alphabeat...my new friend from Harrogate likes Allison Moyet and Vince Clarke separately and together as the recently reformed Yazoo. I think I do too. I'm happy to say I have what I think is a very catholic taste in music. Like the people I meet, I fall in love constantly with pieces of music and songs and pop memes. I never get over anything, I might try to store them to the deep parts of my heart (people who don't love me back) or on the shelf with the other CD's until I cannot bear the separation any longer. Coldplay's record is going to be with me for a while, all bed wetting and middle class angst about death and loss that it is. It's a relatively harmless beauty and joy.

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