Watts Happening

Those of you that know me, know that I like to do things properly, so it won't surprise you to hear that I organised a Royal Flypast to mark my Goddaughter's first visit. Matilda and Dennis arrived in time for a nice cup of tea and unwind after the journey. Then they helped prepare for lunch and the arrival of Mr and Mrs Watts. Lunch was a relaxed affair with Matilda at the head of the table, Mum regaling stories of brain tumours and toe operations and Dad in charge of the cutting and chopping duties:
"Please could you slice me some of that Wensleydale and blueberry (limited edition) cheese Alex?"

"Please could I have another slice of the tiger bread (freshly baked) Alex?"

"Ooh, I'll have some of that cheese please Dad."

Of course, none of my guests had any idea about what was to come.



Dad had retired to the sofa with his strawberries and cream. Dennis was enjoying her fruit cake (Marks and Sparks' special) and Matilda was tucking into a strawberry (healthy option without the cream) when I heard the rumblings. Not of food poisoned stomachs, but low flying aircraft. I grabbed Matilda and ran outside, Mum hot on our heels. And there they were, graceful and fearsome all at the same time, fighter jets, a Lancaster Bomber and the Red Arrows all flying over my house.

We waved at all of the pilots, warming them up for Betty on her Balcony. I think we did a good job because when we ran inside and turned the TV on (it takes 5 minutes to warm up because it's on eco setting) the Queen looked jolly happy as the Flypast continued over Buckingham Palace.

Have you ever wanted to know what Love looks like? I can show you. It looks like this:



Congratulations to my two wonderful friends M + H on their Wedding Day. It marked the end of the longest winter ever with the sun finally making an appearance and giving those of us that are solar powered, much needed energy and warmth. So, Watts Where is officially out of hibernation. There's been a lot of work going on behind the scenes and thanks to the patient, creative, tolerant and beautiful Ladies Who... Natalie and Janina, there are some lovely new images in the Ladies Who... gallery.



I feel the need to apologise publicly for asking Janina to wear a snorkel with her evening gown before getting in the water, but if I'm honest, I'm only apologising so that I can actually include this photo in watts happening:



In a quantum leap, or should I say quackum leap, meet Derek. He's a Woolly Purls creation of Chief Knitwit Lydia. His friends are currently occupying my sofa waiting for their photoshoots.



So far, Derek's the only one who's had the Watts Where treatment, rest assured, I will share the images of Rodney, Rarebit and Geoffrey when they're done. I just need the sun to shine again, so you may be waiting some time.

I was enjoying my nutty muesli this morning when there was a loud bang at the back door. As I looked up I saw feathers flying and a dove sliding down the glass and landing motionless on the gravel. Bang, splat, what on earth? Just as I was thinking “stupid bird” I saw the reason that the dove was distracted and not looking where it was flying. A Bird of Prey was chasing it.



As the dove sat motionless at my back door with stars whizzing round it's head, I looked around for the BoP and there it was, sitting on the fence, just a metre away from me. The dove's concussion and immobilised state clearly saved it as the BoP lost interest. Good news then for the dove. Not such good news for the blackbird that was happily hopping around my neighbour's garden looking for worms. Happily hopping that is, until the hungry BoP spotted it, took off, caught and killed the blackbird in seconds. Amazing to see but it did put me off my muesli.



The dove was on my mind while I was at work today. My main concern being: what would I do (or rather who could I call) if the dove was dead at the back door. I'm really not very good with dead things. When Laura was here she had to put a dead sparrow in the bin for me. As it happens, the dove from above was gone when I got home, but for future reference, and in anticipation of further drama, please let me know if you're available for dead bird removal duties. I really don't like spiders either.

Update: My friend Sue (she who knows everything there is to know about these things) tells me the BoP in question is a Sparrow Hawk. She also says they're common in urban and rural areas, although I prefer to think of it as rather an unusual event that one turned up in my garden.

After 3.5 hours of laughter and tears with Moyles, I jumped in the car for a 100 minute drive to visit my Goddaughter Matilda. I told her I was keeping the Chris Moyles Show free downloads for her and she was very happy.

Who do you think was more surprised when I opened the recycling wheelie bin and dropped a banana skin in it? The mouse that's lodging in the bottom of the bin or me when the mouse moved eversoquickly at the shock of something yellow flying in and landing on its head?

My first thought after assessing the situation and realising that it wasn't going to jump four feet and lock it's tiny but powerful jaws on my jugular vein, me only to be found lying dead in the garden on Friday when Laura visits was: "Seriously?"
My second thought was: "How on earth did it get in there?"
My third thought was: I must take a photo.



So, how did it get in there? More importantly, how do I get it out? I couldn't leave it in the bin knowing what fate awaited it on Monday (the bin men) so I called Dad. After initial chit chat about the Brownlee brothers' epic gold and bronze medal winning efforts in the triathlon (yes, the Olympics goes on even when you've got a mouse lodging in your wheelie bin) I posed the question: how do I get the mouse out?

The answer: Take the wheelie bin down the garden, lie it on its side and it'll run out.

So the mouse endured a bumpy ride over gravel, patio slabs and grass to the bottom of the garden, where I gently tipped the bin over onto its side, left the lid open and out it shot. Quickasaflash.

The problem is, and now you'll realise why my first thought was "Seriously", some rats took up residence under the shed in mine and my neighbour's garden a few weeks ago. They were feasting on the bird seed that, because of Chris Packham, I felt obliged to provide for my feathered friends. The rats aren't there anymore because of the poison that the rat man put under the shed. The very same shed that my little wheelie bin mouse shot under to take cover after its dramatic encounter with a banana skin. I hope it wasn't hungry. I also hope that it dodges the cats that have been loitering in my garden terrorising the birds that have been enjoying the bird seed and fat balls.

I'm seriously over unwanted visitors of the rodent kind. On reflection, as I don't want the mouse to take up residence and move its family in, I probably should have left it in the bin. I'm no longer feeding the birds.

How did it get in there?

For the first time since 1994 I entered a sporting stadium with a ticket, not accreditation. I joined the queues for security rather than flash my pass to the fast track entry and I huddled under an umbrella when it poured because I didn't have an IBC (International Broadcast Centre) to shelter in.

After meeting up with friends who are working at the Olympics and showing signs of mid-Games fatigue, I entered the London 2012 Olympic Stadium and was immediately overwhelmed by the noise of the crowd. It wasn't as if anything was even happening, the announcer was just introducing the competition schedule on the big screen. Little did I know that this was just a murmur in comparison to what would come later.

I sat halfway down the back straight, three rows from the track, directly behind the long jump coaches. I was next to a woman who unpacked a four pack of muffins and began eating the first one before competition even started. Despite this, it turned out to be the perfect spot to watch the story of Britain's second gold unfold. (I haven't forgotten the first, it's coming later.)



As Greg Rutherford and Chris Tomlinson battled it out, their coaches suggested minor tweaks accompanied with arm waving and nodding. The crowd did their bit, clapping in unison helping the competitors with rhythm, momentum and drive.



There can only be one winner and as Rutherford leapt to victory, it was disappointing not to see Tomlinson hang onto silver. As for the woman v food sideshow, I probably don't need to tell you who was winning at this stage (2.5 down, 1.5 to go.)



The long jump competition was interrupted by track events. Not any old track events, but the Heptathlon 800m and the Men's 10,000m Final. As Jess Ennis began the first of her two laps, the crowd exploded into a roar like I've never heard before. Each stride she took was accompanied by a wave of sound that picked her up and lifted her, like a surfer riding a wave. Gold medal number one. I've never experienced anything like it.



And he did. Another Brit surfing that wave of sound that every one of the competitors mentions when they speak to the best reporter on the best night ever, Phil Jones. Gold medal 3 safely in the bank. Oh, and 3 down, 1 to go for those of you still interested in the muffins.



I don't think Jess or Mo really had a choice about winning gold. The crowd wouldn't have allowed them to finish anywhere but first. Greg's victory was an unexpected bonus that made the night. With the muffins gone and Jess' medal safely round her neck it was time to leave the stadium, still buzzing and knowing how privileged I am to have been at the greatest night of athletics ever. Thanks to my brilliant friend who made it happen. 2 hours after leaving the Olympic Stadium my ears were still ringing. If it's possible to give a sound a colour, I'd say it was golden.

How do you think we fit this?
Not sure, we’d better do it now before going to get Dennis.
Does the seatbelt go through here?
Looks like it.
Pass the strap through.
Have you got it?
Yes, now pull that strap back towards you.
That’s it. We’ve done it!

You’d think a Gadget Guru and her able assistant would have no trouble fitting a baby seat in a car wouldn’t you? I have to confess though, it did initially challenge Suzi and I, but we managed to fit the baby seat that was to transport Matilda from the airport to our weekend retreat in France without too many dramas. And after initial protestations, Matilda gave the seat her seal of approval.


She and the largest suitcase in the world (packed with food, toys and furniture) were bundled into the car after hugs and hellos at the airport. Then we were off, pootling along while singing the tune to the Renault Clio advert which featured Nicole? Papa! You know the one: doo doo doo doo do do do do, do do do do doooo dooo. Do do do do dooo, etc and apologies for overseas readers who have no idea what I'm talking about. Because of course, everyone else recognizes this tune!

We survived the hairpin bends and my singing and arrived at our perfect holiday home. The next challenge was for Dennis and Suzi to erect the bouncing baby seat. That done (it took a while) we rewarded ourselves with some French hospitality. Suzi having found a bottle of wine with Dennis' name on it.


I woke up to see the sun shining through the white linen curtains. Do those of you who live in the UK remember what that looks and feels like? I'll tell you. It feels amazing. Especially if you're solar powered like me. Of course, the heat would have been unbearable without a pool, but lucky for us, Chez Perry has everything.


So thanks for a great weekend Suzi, Dennis and Matilda. The sunshine and surroundings were beautiful but catching up and chatting for 3 days was priceless.

Well burst my banks, I've never seen anything like it (in Witham.) The river is usually about two feet deep and three metres wide. Not today, oh no. The ducks have spread their wings, they're cruising the fields, the bowling green and generally hanging out where people usually stroll to feed them.



Granted, it's not on the scale of the Queensland floods that washed away houses, bridges and people. It's big news though. Thinking about it, the UK's in drought too, so Witham is like Australia. Hmmm, why on earth would I consider living anywhere else?!

Not really sure what happened to November, it just disappeared in a flurry of feathers, photos and friends. Specifically, Sue and her amazing family of owls. I was in raptures about these raptors (still am in fact) and can't wait to photograph them again.

Between filming men and women who have a penchant for lycra, I've been lucky enough to hear the Welsh songstress, Jodie Marie perform in London and Wales recently. She never fails to move her audience with her beautiful voice and poignant lyrics.

The gold trail continued this week, with 1992 Olympic Gold medallist Linford Christie sharing his memories of life in the fast lane. He's still giving the youngsters a run for their money, as he coaches British medal hopefuls MLF and Laura Turner for London 2012.

It's been a golden week in the world of Watts Where, with late summer rays glinting on numerous Olympic gold medals. I'm filming a series for ESPN and it's with the elite of British sport: Olympic and Paralympic gold medal winners.

I first filmed James De Gale in the run up to the Beijing Olympics. Then, he was one of eight boxers preparing to take on the world. He's the only one that came home with gold.



James turned professional after Beijing and is preparing for a fight on the 15th October, under the watchful eye of Jim his trainer. *Latest news... James won his fight and is now European Super-Middleweight Champion.*

Rower, Greg Searle won his gold in Barcelona in 1992. With the support of his wife (who allows him to row in front of the TV) and his children, he's now preparing for his 4th Olympic Games, 20 years after first being crowned Champion.



Sarah Storey also won her first Gold medal in 1992, she was a swimmer back then. She switched to cycling six years ago and has continued her winning ways. London 2012 will be Sarah's 6th Paralympic Games.



Jody Cundy also started life as a swimmer, winning golds in two Paralympic Games before switching to cycling. He's the fastest solo paralympian on a bike.



I also filmed Adrian Moorhouse who won gold in 1988, Sydney 2000's Modern Pentathlon Champion, Stephanie Cook and Athens' 800m champion Danny Crates this week, but was too busy working to get any photos. (I hate it when that happens!) It's a real privilege that these champions share their stories and motivational too. Best of all, they're all lovely people who are just cool to hang out with for a day!

This trip to Colorado has been a masterclass in all things Shed for Kieran The Shed Apprentice. Travelling is about learning and he’s taken every opportunity to tap into the expertise of the Shed Guru, from vehicles to toy planes and milkshakes to barbecues, he’s hung on every word.

Keen to share more of his knowledge and satisfied that his apprentice was ready for the next step, the Shed Guru unveiled his prize possession, his Honda ST1300 (prospective students note: colour coordinated vehicles are a must for all Shed Wannabes.) Gary started her up and let her purr gently, oblivious to the fumes while discussing RPM, Torque and shiny paint.



Not to be outdone, Patsy the Quilt Queen (patchworking as opposed to putting duvet covers on uncooperative duvets) got her hands on Kieran for an afternoon and revealed the secrets of button sewing. Kieran’s neither left nor right handed, he is in fact, cack-handed.


Unperturbed Patsy persevered with the needle threading, knot tying and the science of sewing up through one hole and down through another. You’ll be pleased to hear, the button’s now safely attached.

How better to reward that hard work than with a Shed Guru barbecue lesson?

Rodeo has to be one of the craziest ways that I've witnessed to make a living. Even if you've seen it in the movies, nothing prepares you for the madness of it all.



These cowboys ride 8 seconds (at most) on a bucking bronco or bull. The animals are bred for rodeo, so they're not 'broken' plus they buck to get the straps you see around the back of the horse or bull off them.



As soon as the cowboy is despatched, the outriders release the strap and the horse bolts for the gate as the cowboy stumbles his way out of the arena. This is rodeo reality. It's a lifestyle and runs through the generations. There are 5 year old kids on horseback without... shock, horror... riding hats, showing off their riding skills in the barrel races. For me, the closest I'll get to being a Cowgirl is these:



There are more photos of the rodeo in the Men Who... and People and Places Galleries.

If you’re a man and you crave a big shed, a haven from the house, a place to organize your tools, listen to music, polish your vehicles, then I have to warn you that this Watts Happening may upset you. It may even lead to Shed Envy.

When it comes to sheds (or garages), Gary seems to be living the American Dream. He has everything he needs here: a fridge with soda (I know beer would be preferable for some of you, but the infrastructure’s in place,) Western music playing on the stereo, cars, motorbikes and boy stuff to admire, stroke or tinker with. This is it. The ultimate. He could run master classes and become the Shed Guru.



While Gary’s in his shed, Patsy looks after the home; she makes amazing patchwork quilts, cooks fab food and knocks up the tastiest milkshakes in America (possibly the world.) Her particular specialty seems to be Rocky Road milkshakes. They should really be called Slippery Slope milkshakes; just one will get you hooked and then nothing will save your waistline.



MFN seems to have merged both worlds remarkably well in the short time he’s been here. Gary will have a milkshake if Kieran’s having one, so, of course, it would be rude of Kieran not to.



Here he is, tucking into his RRM while taking lessons from the Shed Guru as the sun goes down over Denver.

Our cultural tour of Colorado started where any quality tour starts, Walmart. Our mission: to obtain a fishing license for MFN, in preparation for his trip to the mountains (and river) on Sunday. Having handed over his 9 dollars and pocketed his day pass, we had a wander around what is, a very big store. And then we saw them, the first highlight of my trip. Orange and proud, a stack of jars at least 18 inches tall, and 12 inches wide, the Cheese Puffs. Not any old cheese puffs you understand. These are cheese puffs that could take over the world if they all escaped from their jars at the same time. Kieran and I debated how we’d transport a jar home, but thought they might break out in the hold and the first we’d know about it is when the luggage came out on the carousel at Heathrow, covered in orange puff.



The sky is bigger out here and everywhere we drive we can see the Rocky mountains. The space is calming, the houses are huge but some of the older buildings remain, with ambivalent dog in doorway.



On the way home we stopped at the car yard to find MFN a motor. It’s a shame that most vehicles now don’t have the character that the classic cars have. Look at them, just think how much fun I could have with a Ladies Who… shoot and these cars. Kieran has a favourite, which one do you think?



As if that isn’t enough fun for one day, Patsy and Gary have taken their brief to find me a cowboy very seriously and organized a night at the Flying W ranch in Colorado Springs. By the time we hit the road, the thunderstorms and lightning had changed the colour of the landscape, but that didn’t stop us scaling the dizzy heights for this view.



The Flying W dinner is based on traditional cowboy fayre: amazing barbecue beef or chicken, jacket potatoes, apple sauce and beans. Not just any old beans you understand, if these beans teamed up with the cheese puffs, there’d be no stopping them.



After dinner, clad in denim, boots and Stetsons, the cowboys entertained with their fiddling, strumming and singing. They were actually really good and according to Patsy ‘the one in the black hat’ was real cute and had dimples when he smiled. Thanks Ben, your gorgeous voice was the second highlight of my day.

“Carol says we’ll be unlucky if we get caught in a shower” Dennis tells me on the phone.
“Ok, well I’m going to pack my waterproof anyway” I inform her.
“I’ll bring a golf brolly, just in case.”
“I won’t, because I haven’t got one.”

The Carol Dennis is referring to is the Carol who does the weather on the BBC. So, a reliable source then. Fast forward 24 hours and you’ll find Dennis and I standing in Hyde Park, waterproofs on, hats up and sheltering under a brolly.

We weren’t just standing in the middle of Hyde Park for no reason, you understand. We were there to see The Killers who were headlining at the Hard Rock Calling festival. The added bonus for us was the news that James were playing. Their Best Of album was one of our soundtracks when we were travelling Europe with the MotoGP, so we were very excited. As James told us all to Sit Down, the hoods went up and a light shower ensued.

It didn’t last long, so on Carol’s scale of luck; I guess we were a 1 or 2. We didn’t dwell on it and managed to jig, sing-a-long and admire Tim Booth’s dancing for the rest of James' set without any weather incidents.

It didn't stay rain free for long though, oh no. It appears that the earlier shower, was just the warm up act. The real rain started as we were sitting on our plastic bags waiting for the Kaiser Chiefs and it didn’t stop. We couldn’t shelter under the brolly because of the abuse we were getting from fellow festival goers, so we had to make do with our hoods and the hope that taller people would soak up the rain before it got to us.

They didn't.

Even though we’d definitely score a 10 on Carol’s unlucky chart, our pre-gig planning paid dividends. We stayed dry (thanks to Berghaus) and warm (thanks to North Face) and The Killers were far from a washout. They looked and sounded fantastic. We sang along, oohed at the fireworks (you can’t beat a good firework) and were generally amazed at how much fun you can have standing in the rain in Hyde Park for 3 hours.


All in all it was a great day. It started with a rendez-vous in Selfridges where I browsed the photography books, and moved onto Ping Pong for Dennis to refuel on dumplings and dim sum before hitting Hyde Park. Plans are now afoot for Glastonbury in 2013.

In this day and age, you’d expect the next word to be mobile followed by phones. Especially given the context: the O2 arena for a performance of the Royal Ballet’s Romeo and Juliet. Indeed, the PA did make that announcement, along with the “flash photography is prohibited” (which of course, was ignored by numerous people and is a separate rant.)

Twenty minutes into the first act, I had (in my head) altered the phrase to: Please switch off your babies. Yes. Really. Someone in their wisdom thought it was a good idea to take a babe in arms to the Royal Ballet. In the baby’s defence, it didn’t scream, but it did have a cold so couldn’t breathe easily and sounded like a little pig snuffling, grunting and whimpering about two feet from my head.

It added a new dimension to Prokofiev’s score, percussion of a piggy kind that had probably never been heard before in its 76 years. However, I wouldn’t recommend it. By the time Romeo had set eyes on Juliet after gatecrashing the Capulet’s house, I’d scanned available seating for a move at the end of the act. As Juliet fell in love with Romeo, I’d located my seat for the post interval performance.

As the lights went down for Act II, the orchestra whisked me away, piggy free and powerful. The lack of intimacy at the O2 diluted the visual impact massively, but it was still a great production and I’ll never cease to be amazed at the ability of top ballet dancers. Perhaps the snuffling baby will grow up to be one after its early exposure to dance, or maybe it should have been at home with a babysitter.

How did you sleep? Asked Anita as I bumbled my way up the stairs from the guest quarters to the family home.

"Ok", I replied. "Not bad."

I'd woken up a couple of times but got back to sleep fairly quickly and, overall, was very happy with my night's rest. Anita obviously wasn't. "So you didn't hear Chilli barking at the stray dog wandering up and down the street?" Nope.

"What about Asher, did you hear him when he woke up at 1.30 and 4?" Well, vague recollections of child crying, but not my problem so rolled over and went back to sleep, so nope.

"And the possum, did you hear the chaos that ensued when the possum was on the verandah?" Nope, definitely didn't hear the possum. Now I'm starting to feel like I missed out.

"Well Kai woke up at 5.30, that didn't bother you either?" No, it really didn't. Hmmm, maybe this is what it's like to be a man, you know, that "not my problem I'll just zone out and let someone else deal with it" attitude. Possibly.

To make up for my good night's sleep I embarked upon playtime in Kai's room, camera in hand. There's something special about family time: the laughter, tears, violence and death defying antics all add up for a wonderful photography session. This is Real Life, none of your groomed, clean children, wearing white, shot against white, false and angelic.

This is reality, snot and all.



After what seemed like hours of fun and frolics I retired to the sofa, looked at my watch, then at Anita in horror: "It's only 9.15" I exclaimed. She grinned in a manic way, and in that brief second I got the message: this is payback, welcome to my world!

I enjoyed the most glamorous pick up ever on Sunday. I got the bus into Sydney Central, travelled on the top deck of the double decker train to Hawkesbury river and then wandered to the pontoon and waited.

Five minutes later my lift emerged from around the headland and there was Dennis waving and calling “Watts!” In response I waved my thongs (flip flops), one in each hand, above my head and grinned.

It always feels more special when I meet up with friends from home somewhere else in the world. Sunday was even better than that, as I clambered aboard the good ship Cox and cruised up the Hawkesbury river to a restaurant that was only accessible by boat: Peat’s Bite.

We had an afternoon of tasty food and good company. The evening entertainment is detailed in 'the boat that rocks', but it began with Dennis and I watching the diners who’d consumed too much alcohol, trying to board their vessels home. Much to our disappointment, no-one fell in.