How to make gravy

We're holding on to this bout of summer which arrived in the second half of last week, which is great.  In truth, it is probably going to be the case that our full ration was just the three really nice days over the weekend, but we should be grateful for small mercies.  At least we had those.  And it's still nice enough now: maybe low 20s today, with quite a lot of sun and blue sky in the morning.  Still, it would have been a really special day even if we hadn't had the lovely conditions, a few pictures of which will illustrate this chapter.

Why is today so special?  Well, for a start it's Juddmonte International day, that race finally erasing its ghost of Brigadier Gerard with the magnificent win of Frankel, who now surely has to be regarded as the best horse we have ever seen (or ever will see) bar none.  He'll surely go for the Arc now, won't he?  It is Europe's biggest weight-for-age race and is his obvious target, with the only reason for not running in it being a fear of defeat.  But after today's magnficent win over a distance only 300m short of that of the Arc (and with Frankel hitting the line still full of running) nobody could seriously feel that Frankel wouldn't be as close to a certainty in it as you could ever get.  Not running him in it would be like not running Arkle in the Gold Cup, or not running Kingston Town in the Cox Plate.

Second thrill of the day came courtesy of Aisling and Gemma, who have treated me to a trip to Celik's Mensroom, which is surely the most metrosexual barber's shop in East Anglia, not to mention the most Turkish barber's shop in Newmarket.  I usually cut my own hair, so to have one of Celik's minions perform the task was a rare pleasure.  I am, by coincidence, reading Les Carlyon's book about Gallipoli, which either is or isn't ideal timing - and as Celik's man advanced with a pristine raser blade, I made sure to remind myself that that was all a long time ago.  And, happily, all was well which ended well.

And now we have the third thrill of the day to look foward to: the great Paul Kelly is playing in the Portland Arms in Cambridge this evening.  I am anticipating a really good show.  I have seen him once previously (in the Spiegel Tent in Princes Street Gardens in Edinburgh in 1999) and that was really good, and I am daring to hope that, great though that show was, I will enjoy this one even more.  I hope that I shall be as inspired as was the Brisbane poet Rupert McCall, who came up with this great poem after going to a Paul Kelly concert in The Gig in Brisbane sometime towards the end of the last century.

It's a lovely poem which gives you an example of the talent of Rupert McCall, who used to knock up such verses in double quick time to fill his slot on the radio.  (He describes it as having been "whipped up as a dedication to a great night and a great Australian for radio the next morning).  It takes true genius to do that - but the poem also gives a clue to just how special Paul Kelly is, to have inspired someone to write thus.  And if, by the way, you find some of the metaphors rather strange, they are borrowed from phrases from Paul Kelly's songs.

THE NIGHT OF THE KELLY  FIRE
If you made it to The Gig last night
I reckon you would know
That as far as Aussie music legend poet gurus go

The man who held the stage

With his harmonica and axe

With a voice that told its story

Like a train on haunted tracks

Like a man whose made some gravy

Like a love song to her door

Like a dog who's had his day

But like a dog who'll bark some more

Is a man who'll be remembered

Through the analog of time

Not for complicated feelings

But for passions sung in rhyme

Not for million dollar contracts

But for stories told in tune

Not for technotronic earaches

But for howlin' at the moon

Dancing like The Don

The music filters through my head

Fills me with the spirit

Of his boldest brother, Ned

No, we won't forget Paul Kelly

When the last has been recited

I won't forget Paul Kelly

Nor the fire he ignited