Avalanches breezeblock torrent

All were perfectly edible and quite delicious; just not very plate-filling. The result might not be as cute but it might fill my belly a bit better. Labels: Gardening , Vegetables. Sour cream and avocado are the bomb on a pizza and so, surprisingly, is balsamic vinegar and mushrooms. La di da me… There is no replacement for cheese and tomato toasties after a hang over. Clearly cheese had permeated my system to such an extent that every nook and cranny had been filled to overflowing.

These nooks now cry out into the night for their dairy cavity insulation Pasta without parmesan is rubbish. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. I declare April to be cheese-only month… Must go, my belly is rumbling again…. Friday, 6 March Play and Record. The novelty of indulging in nerdy pastimes whilst wandering around the house instead of being stuck in our cold spare room has yet to wear off. I dumped most of my pre-recorded cassettes when I moved. I was a reasonably obsessive compilation maker in the day.

I still have most of them. Some songs are forever welded together, one always destined to follow another. The songs still have life in isolation, but strung together on these tapes they form an aural tapestry, dragging places and events back to life from somewhere in my head.

Listening to them recently, my favourite is still the Enormous Sigh , a compilation of songs that are so sad they never fail to make me feel happy. I have a nice collection of tapes given away free with various magazines through the ages, especially the NME and Select. Most magazines these days seem incomplete without a free CD, but free music on magazines was a relatively rare occurrence in the nineties. Many of them were terrible; a couple of live tracks or remixes by big name acts, a couple of up and comers and a few that were never to be.

However, short of cash and devoid of decent record shops, these tapes would occasionally offer up gems that I would tape to tape onto one of my own compilations where they would breathe new life. It was all downhill for the Fannies from there… Another notable was Beat up the NME , a Fatboy Slim mix tape that heralded a whole new era in genre hopping and spawned hundreds of cash-ins from the likes of Ministry of Sound. I literally wore this tape out listening to it, because at the time it was guaranteed to bring a smile to my face.

But I digress. Beat up the NME was a nice and digestible reflection of a world being broadcast nightly on late night BBC Radio 1, and specifically on the shows hosted by Annie Nightingale and Mary Anne Hobbs, and whose shows make up the remainder of my tape collection. Hobbs seamlessly mixed hip hop, rap, rock, big beat, electronica, funk, dub, soul, space rock, krautrock, post rock, jungle, drum and bass and punk.

It opened up the old to the young and the new to the old. On the radio. I treasure the shows that I still have on tape. Even when there was no special guest the music was ace. When I realised that GarageBand could convert my record my tapes to MP3, this was the first tape that went in the machine.

I begged her for a tape to use and she managed to find one for me but the tabs were snapped off so we had to fold up some paper and fill the holes so it would be recordable again. Every other version I heard of those songs seemed watered down afterwards. Despite this nostalgia tapes were, of course, shite. Mix tapes were a cute thing to get — I think I still have every tape that anyone ever made me and they mean far more than the CDs that people have ripped me from i-tunes.

Labels: Lo Fidelity Allstars , Radio. Three years of this, and still the climatologists could only shrug their shoulders and say, "We haven't a clue what's happening or why. Others claimed it was obviously the onset of a new ice age.

Ice ages came along every eleven thousand years, and seeing as the last one was eleven thousand years ago, the next was due, even overdue. Most, though, were pointing the finger at the recent spate of volcanic eruptions worldwide. Etna, Mount St Helens, Stromboli, Kilauea, Piton de la Fournaise on La Runion, Eyjafjallajkull and its bum-chum Katla - all of them had blown their tops big-time during the past decade, shoving up billions of tons of soot and ash into the atmosphere and increasing the earth's albedo, whatever that was, creating a haze of cloud that reflected away the sun's rays.

Result: bit of a nip in the air. Whatever the cause, people were worried, no two ways about it. Not only had the crop harvests had been consistently poor three years running, meaning food shortages, but the old folk were dropping off their perches by the thousand.

Most hospitals, you couldn't move for the sick and dying elderly that were clogging up the corridors, stricken with pneumonia and hypothermia, rattling their last. Everywhere, the wheels of industry were grinding slower and slower. Economies were suffering. Not to mention the infrastructure of certain nations, including our dear own United Kingdom, was falling to pieces. Prime Minister Clasen had been trying to keep a lid on it all and failing significantly.

The more the plummy-voiced, baby-faced buffoon insisted in his cod-statesmanlike way that everything was under control, the less anyone believed him. All those floggings, fagging and buggery at public school hadn't moulded a man capable of coping with a nation in crisis.

Daddy couldn't open the chequebook and get him out of this one. He was going to have to handle it himself. Or not, as the case may be. Clasen said how much he was looking forward to putting heads together with America's President Keener in a few weeks' time and having a full and frank exchange of ideas about the crisis, and it just so happened that the very next item on the programme featured the luscious Mrs Keener herself.

It was coverage of her State of the Union address which she'd given the previous evening and which she claimed was directed not just at Congress or even the American people but at "all the citizens of the world. The usual bromides from the First Lady, delivered in that honeydew Deep South accent of hers. God, though, she could always make it sound good. Like there was no reason why you shouldn't trust every word she said. No reason to doubt her. Helped that she was so fit, too.

Before I came to Washington, I had no idea what cold was. But I got used to it once I was here, and learned to bundle up on those days when the Potomac turned white. And if I can do that, we all can. This ain't no ice age, that's just fool talk. No global warming neither.

This is just some funny old weather cycle, a little jape the Good Lord has seen fit to play on us, and it'll pass. Long as we wrap up warm and look out for each other, we'll be fine. Wouldn't you? Those cheekbones. Those lips. That voice. That figure, which her tailored suit did nothing to disguise and everything to emphasise. Happily married mothers of two don't get any at home. She'd be gagging for it. For use later. I was knackered. Been driving all day, without let-up, and on my mettle every inch of the way.

I didn't want to ask him - it went against every instinct I had - but I couldn't see a way out of it. But I need to get my head down, and we need to get back on the road while there's still a road to get back on. Just be careful, don't go fast, don't get fancy. Half an hour's shuteye, that's all I want, then we'll swap back over. Honestly, it was like being with a kid, not a grown man the wrong side of thirty.

Which reminded me. As Abortion got the car in motion, I fished out my mobile. Shouldn't be calling Gen's but wanted to.

Wanted to speak to Cody, just hear his voice, make contact before Abortion and I disappeared into whatever it was we were about to disappear into.

One bar of signal, flickering. I gave it a shot. How you doing? Where are you? Somewhere way north. Just passed a sign saying 'Beware - Wild Haggises Ahead. Are you mad? Have you not heard the Met Office warnings? It's going to hit minus twenty in some parts tonight. Gen's voice went rigid. I could imagine her eyebrows puckering, that way they did when she was annoyed. What's up?

Make a snowman? I'm twelve, you know. Roz bought me this awesome new game. Bushido Midnight. Roz's cool. She played it with me for hours. She's better at being a samurai but I kick her arse when I'm playing as a good vampire.

Dad, I can hardly hear you. Never mind. It's great that you had a nice time with Roz. She's a good bloke. But I'd meant it as a compliment. Sort of. You there? Just because I don't ever see you doesn't mean I don't love you. I'm still your dad, for fuck's sake. Slumped disconsolately into my seat. Can you imagine what it's like when the pair of them are on the blob?

A normal household, the dad's there to balance things out and take the flak when it's rag week, but -" "Abortion," I growled, "shut the fuck up. At least the Astra was chugging along all right now. We had plenty of petrol, and according to the directions Abortion had downloaded we weren't a million miles from our destination.

I felt the vibration of the engine through the cold window glass. The muffled crunch of snow under our tyres was oddly soothing. One thing I knew how to do, one really useful trick I'd picked up in the army, was being able to nod off in any circumstances.

In the belly of a roaring Chinook, in the back of a jolting troop transport, in a bivvy bag, basha or bedroll, on bare ground under starry skies, it didn't matter. I was never bothered by insomnia, never lay awake wishing I was asleep. I could just shut myself down like switching off a computer.

And then a tremendous bounce, a brief throat-filling sensation of weightlessness, followed by an immense thundering kerrrump that shook the entire car. My eyes snapped open in time to see the landscape veering in the windscreen, then bands of white and black switching places, ground and sky pivoting over each other like tumbling clowns, and glass shattered, shards sprayed, and Abortion was pleading-screaming, and there was a series of awesome concussions as though the Astra were a drum someone kept beating, and then we were upside down, and there was snow coming in through holes, and I was aware of blood trickling from my brow up into my hairline, and white faded to black.

Two Coming to was a case of admitting unpleasant truths, one by one. First, I was freezing cold. Skin numb in places. Second, I hurt. Pain spiking outward from several sources, mainly my chest. Third, I was suspended from the seatbelt with my head angled against the underside of the car roof, neck cricked horribly, boxed in, unable to move. Fourth, it was pitch dark.

Fifth, help wasn't coming. Because I must have been unconscious for several minutes, maybe as much as half an hour, and if help had been coming it would have got here by now. We'd crashed. Come off the road. Rolled down a hillside. Fetched up in a snowdrift at the bottom. That much I could figure out. And if anyone had witnessed the accident they would be down here trying to see what they could do for us.

And there was no one out there, no voices, no footfalls. Outside the car there was only silence. Dead silence. So, all in all, not good. But I was awake, I was coherent, I'd assessed the situation.

Now to do something about it. Carl Hill. It's Gideon. Speak to me. Jesus, what happened? What's the last thing you remember? It didn't matter. Wasn't relevant right this moment. We're upside down in a crashed vehicle. I don't think there's a danger of explosion. I can't smell fuel or smoke.

Still, we need to get out. I'm kind of stuck. My seatbelt's locked and I'm squashed in on all sides and can't reach the buckle. Can you? Because this was his fault. I'd no idea what he'd done, but he'd done something. Something stupid. Something that validated his nickname. Here goes. I heard him fumbling. Grunting with effort. Then there was a click, and a thump, and an "owww! Done something to my shoulder. And I've banged and gashed my head - don't think it's any worse than a cut, don't think there's skull fracture, but even so, it throbs like a bitch.

My side window's gone. There's snow filling the gap but it can't be too thick. I reckon I can dig through and crawl out. Then I'll phone for help. As he burrowed his way out, a dim gleam of light crept in, revealing just how badly trashed the Astra was. My side had taken the worst of it. That was why I was all banged up and Abortion was unscathed, and why I had so little room to manoeuvre. The roof was dented down at an angle, to the extent that the passenger-side windows were crushed flat, almost nonexistent.

The glove compartment door stuck out like a tongue from a shut mouth. The dashboard was cracked wide open, instruments popping out like eyeballs. The steering column was twisted almost to vertical, the airbag which had saved Abortion from serious harm dangling off it like a used condom. I didn't think we'd be getting our insurance deposit back. It was agony to laugh, so I stopped. Abortion's ugly face appeared at the end of the snow tunnel. Fucking Orange. Future's bright?

Future's shite, more like. I'll head off and find help. There must be someone living nearby, and they'll have a landline. In these temperatures, I won't last long. Pull me out and I'll come with you. As long as I'm moving, I stand a chance. If I just lie here, by the time the emergency services reach me I'll be a freezer pop.

It was ten times worse than the worst pain I'd ever known. And I'd known pain. At the end of it I was mewling like a distressed kitten. I felt like a human-shaped bag of toxic waste. I just wanted to curl up in the snow and die.

But of course, with my reputation for pigheadedness, that wasn't about to happen. While sat up gathering my strength, getting ready to rise, I dug out my phone to see if I could obtain a signal even if Abortion couldn't. But my poor little Nokia wasn't going to be calling anyone ever again.

It had snapped along the hinge, and the screen was split in two by a zigzagging fissure. Nothing more pathetic than a piece of dead technology. I sent the phone, both bits of it, cartwheeling off into the snow. Abortion then helped me to my feet. Or rather, foot. My left ankle was like splintered celery. It could barely take any weight on it.

If he supported me, though, I was able to limp along. And we set off. We laboured upslope, following the trail of huge gouges and scrapes the Astra had left in the snow during its bouncing somersault descent. There was debris: a wing mirror here, a taillight there, sprinkles of glass. The contents of our overnight bags had been tossed out of the boot of the car and burst open, all our clothes and toiletries strewn down the hillside, soaked by the snow and beyond salvaging.

Finally we reached the top, and the road. Tyre tracks showed where we and the public highway had parted company, the Astra punching through the flimsy wire fence that ran along the verge. I blinked snowflakes off my eyelashes. They don't swerve suddenly. They're almost straight. They look more to me like someone either didn't read the road properly, or someone's mind was on something other than driving. You were skinning up, weren't you? I've done it a million times before.

Mostly I use just the one hand, but for crumbling the grass into the paper you need both, and I waited for a straight stretch to do it, and what you do is you hold the wheel steady with your knees But until that glorious moment comes you're the person I need most in all the world. Without you, I'm dead. Do you understand?

I keep you alive so that you can kill me later. Your soul is all out of alignment. To be precise, Abortion walked, I stumbled alongside him. No cars passed. That would have been asking too much, to have someone drive by for us to flag down and cadge a lift from. It wasn't likely anyway, not on an evening like this, so far off the beaten track. Even a farmer on a tractor would be too much to expect. Two things we had going for us.

One: we had warm clothing on. We were dressed for the weather, just about. That was a lucky break. And two: we had Abortion's directions. They'd been in his pocket. And they informed us that two or three miles up the road, perhaps a little more, was the place we were aiming for. Asgard Hall. All we had to do was keep our eyes peeled for certain landmarks. Specifically, a set of black rocks which were supposed to resemble a sleeping giant.

What I didn't want to consider right then was that, with nearly a foot and a half of snow freshly fallen and more coming down by the second, a set of rocks was going to be hard if not impossible to make out, however big they were.

That was a thought I had no wish to address, or share with Abortion. Us not being able to find Asgard Hall simply wasn't an issue. We had to find it. Otherwise we were screwed. Instead of contemplating future unknowns, I directed my mind onto past knowns. To keep me from dwelling on the pain as much as anything. Every lurching step I took jarred my ribcage and made it feel as though talons were digging into my side.

Rather than wallow in the misery of that, I decided to wallow in the misery of rehashing the conversation Abortion and I had had that led us, ultimately, to the SNAFU we were now in.

We'd been down the pub. It was neutral territory for both of us. Nearer Abortion's flat than mine, but then I'd been barred from almost every drinking establishment in my area owing to, ahem, past infractions, so it wasn't as if I had much choice but to board the bus from Wandsworth and head Battersea way.

Abortion himself was a regular sight at most of his local boozers but The Seven Bells was the only one he didn't do any work in. He'd reserved it as recreation only, so he always kept his mobile off when he was there, and he wasn't pestered by a constant stream of scabby teenagers coming up to him to score.

It was an old man's pub, traditional, a relic: no jukebox or fruitie, snug, dark, with flock wallpaper and horse brasses, the air still retaining a faint whiff of tobacco even though nobody was allowed to smoke there any more.

Above all it was quiet, the background conversation seldom rising above a murmur. A lot of the clientele just sat on their own, nursing beers and bitter memories. We'd been silent ourselves for a while, eyes not meeting, two blokes who had less in common than they'd care to admit but very few others to call friend. This the one about Beyonc and Prince William again?

Heard it off a man who knows someone who works at the palace. Apparently the guy, he's a valet or something, and he's got the condom to prove it, and he's going to flog it on eBay. What's the reserve on that going to be? Twenty pence I'd guess. No, I'm talking about another rumour. A whole new one. One that's got to do with people like you and me. Looking for work. I have work. I have a job selling reconditioned printer toner cartridges and it pays handsomely, thank you very much.

I can barely makes ends meet. So what? Anyway, you have work too, so why would you be looking around for something else? That's not work. That's a hobby with benefits. And the money's shit, actually. There's hardly any product coming in right now, what with the crops getting hammered by the bad weather, but people still aren't prepared to pay more than they're used to. Never mind that I tell them about supply and demand, they just won't wear it.

So who's getting squeezed? Who's barely able to turn a profit? The middle man, that's who. No great shakes as a businessman, Abortion, bless him. A solid gold opportunity to make some serious coinage. That's what I've heard. They're after blokes like us, you and me. Former servicemen. Still got all the skills, all the moves, but surplus to requirements. Old soldiers but still young enough to fight. Some people. But like I said, and this is the main point: for a lot of money.

Hated myself for feeling a scintilla of interest in what Abortion. Not just interest. Stronger than that. Not a regular. Don't see him often. But he's ex-army too. The Regiment. Well, not so much says as hints. You don't say 'The Regiment' unless you're referring to The Regiment, do you? The SAS I've met don't speak about it at all. That's how you know they're SAS. He acts like an SAS guy acts, all hard and gruff and a bit psycho.

And the other day he came round to my place to buy an ounce of black, and we were just having a little test of it, you see, a little sample taste, and he let slip about these people, the Valhalla Mission.

He read about them in a comment posted on some ex-servicemen's forum, which linked to a blog entry. It's a word of mouth thing, apparently. The blogger didn't put down much more than I've told you, a few lines about the job offer plus a location, how to get to wherever it is they're recruiting. Somewhere way up north, some castle or what-have-you. SAS guy said he was thinking about going there himself.

Bit short of the readies, he said. How's that possible? My heart bleeds. Another one? My second pint of the night, and my last. I never took it further than the two, not any more. That was my limit. Exceeding it led to trouble.

Holding cells. I'd been down that road too many times. I'd even done a short stint at Her Majesty's pleasure. Never again. The pleasure had been all hers. He was Devon born and after a drink or two his West Country burr always got thicker. The "r" of his "reckon" dragged while the "ck" in the middle all but vanished. Two grand a week?

For washed-up non-coms like us? I mean, there's me with eighty per cent hearing loss in one ear and a titanium. We're hardly what you'd call prime soldiering material. They'd have to be pretty desperate to take us on, and if their standards are that low then what sane person would want to sign up with them anyway? It sounded like a non sequitur but wasn't. What's to miss? Low pay. Appalling housing. Getting shouted at all the time.

Getting shot at. Going round the world to visit the dingiest shitholes there are, putting your life on the line fighting a war some nob-end in Whitehall thinks is a good idea but no one else does, saddled with shoddy uniforms and shonky kit that doesn't work properly half the time Every fucking day. I'd give anything to pull on a uniform again, pick up an assault rifle and get out there again, mixing it up with the bad guys.

Having your mates around you the whole time. Ripping the piss out of each other at every opportunity but knowing you trust these people with your life. Being part of a unit, feeling part of something that's big and strong and organised. Like being a member of the best gang ever and no one's going to mess with you. You don't have that in civvy street, that sense of belonging.

Here, everyone fucks everyone else over. It's all about yourself. Me, me, me. What can I get? What can I grab? Never happens in the army. Rules and regulations that keep things in line but don't interfere with you having a good time. And even the combat Shit, you don't get a rush like that anywhere else. Fucking hairy-arse scary while it's happening, but afterwards - woo-hoo! And I speak as someone who got blown up by a fucking IED.

If you can't take a joke Aborted teetered his hand in the air. Suck it and see. But two grand a week's nothing to sneeze at. And the minimum contract term is three months. Twenty-five-thousand-odd quid. What could I do with that? Actually, the question was what couldn't I do?

Clear the backlog I owed Gen, for starters. The Child Support Agency was chasing me up for arrears of near on ten K, the total sum I'd "neglected" to hand over during my more difficult periods after the divorce, plus interest.

I'd have my rent on the flat sorted for a few months in advance. I'd even have enough left over to take a decent holiday, go somewhere nice, find one of the few warm spots on the planet down near the equator and catch some rays.

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