The Think It's All Over...It Is Now (15/10/06)

Oh well. I guess that's it, then. No sooner have we seen the signs of autumn's late arrival when winter decides to come a little early. I'm sure I saw frost on the windows of some cars, and I'm glad I wore a scarf today. It seems that my taking my hat wasn't too silly an idea, either. It's getting darker earlier. When the sun dares to come out, it's low in the sky, and a little dangerous. It's not a good time to drive, not that it matters anymore.

So it seems that the long, hot summer of '06 has finally come to an end. What better time than now to reminisce about those halcyon days of August and September. Stay tuned for a short series of blogs (too many photos for one giant blog) about nothing in particular. No change there, then.

No, nay, never, no nay never no more (30/5/06)

 ...will I play the wild rover

no, never, no more...until the next time(*).

It's no secret that I don't travel well. I rarely sleep, my dietary habits are worse than normal and I am cursed with a mild form of OCD brought on by the stresses of packing, navigating and timekeeping. I prefer to avoid anxiety, so I tend to stay at home and listen to the traditional sounds of the weekend: lawnmowers, trail bikes and drunks roaming the streets at all hours of the day and night. This way, the ironing gets done, the cupboards and fridge are fully-stocked and I'm up to date with my favourite TV and radio programmes. God's in his heaven, all's right with the world.

Apart from financial considerations, there is a definite downside to my having been away 12 times in the last 53 weeks, and the closer one trip is to another, the worse it all becomes. When I set out last Friday, I hadn't tidied up after Brighton, I was ill, I was two hours behind schedule and had to call in at the local supermarket to buy some items I'd forgotten about the night before. The last thing I needed was to be confronted by a queue of traffic on the M8 that took 45 minutes to clear. Oh well, no harm done. On to Southwaite, and don't spare the horses!

I've always believed that it's best to live with reduced expectations then you'll never be disappointed. Sadly, life always finds a way of slapping you in the chops, even when you think that things can't get any worse. Someone, I don't know who (probably some big corporate fat cat), had, since my last visit, replaced the Little Chef at Southwaite with a Marks and Spencer Simply Food! As much as I love M&S, what use is a shop selling uncooked food at a motorway service station? I had to settle for a piece of Burger King corrugated cardboard masquerading as chicken. It's not good enough, I tell you! This country is going to the dogs!

I trudged back to my car and set off down the road at full pelt. I was running a little late, but why worry? I was on holiday, and the car was still working. One has to be thankful for small mercies. Cumbria soon gave way to Lancashire and the sun poked its head out from behind some ominous black clouds. Things were looking good...until I passed the sign for Haigh Hall. The overhead warning lights were flashing "40" and the traffic came to a standstill. For the next 25 miles and 90 minutes, I didn't seem to get above 5mph and noticed that, for the first time in its 10-year life, the car was in grave danger of overheating. I passed numerous vehicles that had met the same fate, their drivers and passengers on the verge, awaiting the knights of the road. It was getting late, and I had to modify my route to the Peak District. By hook or by crook (and a lot of luck), I reached Junction 17 and headed for Congleton. The temperature gauge returned to normal and I continued, tired and hungry and resigned to the fact that I was only going to see the National Park through a car windscreen.

Of course, tiredness and hunger make me do silly things. When I looked at the map, I decided that I didn't like the idea of the A54, as it was steep in places, but it seemed like the most direct route to Buxton, so I followed it. Again, the car performed heroically, in spite of a couple of nervous moments (including a near miss with a slow-moving furniture removal van). Buxton was negotiated without incident and it proved to be easier to find Miller's Dale than I had anticipated. I arrived at the hostel, a former mill owner's house, just before 8, with barely enough energy to unpack and eat. I forced myself to consume the mini pork pies I had brought with me (what a strain!) then I sat in the lounge until bedtime.

I got up early and decided to spend the morning in Buxton. I'd not been there for a long time and wanted to see the Pavilion again and wander round the gardens. I discovered a wonderful record shop specialising in vinyl but the owner told me he would soon be shutting up shop to sell solely on-line. I walked up past the opera house and into the Pavilion Gardens. I saw some ducks and geese and a miniature train and, to kill time, went to family history fair. I ate ice cream. The rigours of the previous day's journey were all but forgotten, but soon it was time to get back on the road and find my way to South Yorkshire.

Sheffield, the place where knives and forks came from before they invented Taiwan, looks like a bomb has hit it and, when the bomb fell, it must have destroyed all of the road signs. The city, which I am assured will look nice when it's finished, only has one railway station, and it's undergoing modernisation and looks lovely, so you think they'd be proud of it and provide visitors with directions. After what seemed like an eternity, I came to a halt in the station's multi-storey car park (free for the first 40 minutes!) and collected my associates. The journey to the Travelodge was relatively trouble-free, which is more than can be said for a night in an hotel with those two (only joking!). If you're going to throw stones at my bedroom window, the least you can do is serenade me afterwards!

Supporting at the Plug (Live, Earth and Neutral, geddit?) were those three nice young men from Sunderland who go by the name of Field Music. I have all their singles and, one day, will get around to buying their album, but I hope never to see them live ever again. They are so boring on stage that I am compelled to do what I never do at a gig - talk to someone! I wish that were not the case. I feel so guilty about not enjoying their performances that I may have to subject myself to public flogging with a wet copy of the Radio Times.

Speaking of public flogging, British Sea Power aren't quite ready to be dragged out into the Market Square on a Bank Holiday Monday to be pelted with coconuts but, if they have another night like Saturday night, they may have to consider a career change, perhaps into comedy improv? I am blessed to have a friend who is capable of both forming and expressing an objective opinion and equally blessed that we both attended this event. Although our after-match analyses were somewhat different, particularly in respect of the bands new material, it's refreshing to know that, as neither of us has a hidden agenda (which may or may not involve trademark blue underpants) or delusions of elitism, we needn't worry about having to rely on second-hand hyperbole and sycophancy. I can't recall the last time I saw a band so beset by technical problems on stage (and that includes the Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks "hey, is that amp on fire?" incident from last year), or so seemingly incapable of reading set lists and starting and ending songs together. It was like a bad hair day only with musical instruments. I'd have been tempted to do a Townshend and Moon and destroy everything in sight, but not BSP. They're kind to animals and malfunctioning equipment. They carried on regardless with their mammoth 17-song extravaganza which, at times, resembled amateur hour at the local pub and the rest of the time, [private joke alert] a dream involving cheese and a whoopee cushion. There was even a crazy guy in the audience playing an harmonica! I couldn't stop laughing (on the inside). I know I was watching the same band I'd seen 7 days previously, and know exactly what they're capable of, so I wasn't too bothered by it. Shit happens. Its only pop music. I wasnt in Glasgow, so I was having a great time. Some people threw their toys out of their prams (some of which were retrieved later), some gushed like the entire future of the world as we know it depended upon such responses and some danced like loons. Different strokes for different folks, eh, Jimmy? As if that weren't surreal enough, I found myself being talked into going to some club in a dangerous building, during which time I saw a friend of mine and one of my heroes conduct a conversation in a chimney; I tried to promote the merits of GBH with a cricket bat; I saw a great man held aloft for the second time in one evening; I went a bit deaf and I played pat-a-cake with a guitarist of great repute who later slapped me on the ear. Of course, none of this happened. It says so on the Internet, and everything on the web is gospel.

I actually slept, though only for about 4 hours. Sunday was shaping up to be as crazy as Saturday. I saw someone have their first ever cup of coffee (!) and I stood idly by whilst two budding bass players pretended to trash an hotel room. Their efforts at hiding from me were pathetic, though (I thought I heard the door close at one point!). After this bout of high jinks, we headed to the Little Chef, where one of the party obtained his sizeable breakfast at no cost to any of us. Result! We set sail for Nottingham and arrived in plenty of time for the evening's entertainment. I had nearly 90 minutes to spare before I could get into my accommodation, so I walked to the local supermarket to acquire more junk food before settling into my room and falling asleep during "Sister Act 2". That's what I call a Sunday afternoon.

I only went to Dot-To-Dot for BSP so it was a bonus to find out that Mystery Jets were also playing. They always seem so joyful on stage, and that joy can't help find its way into the hearts of the audience. Well, into my heart, such as it is. Having staked out a location from which to watch BSP, I had to leave Mystery Jets for a brief period to use the facilities. I had forgotten that there was a strange woman in the Rock City toilets who was, effectively, selling toilet paper, soap and paper towels. As each customer entered the room, she greeted them with the cry "freshen up sexy ladies". I added this to the weekend's "bizarre" list.

Thankfully, BSP had a better night of it, which was just as well, as they were following the band that has supplanted them as great British indie eccentrics. Considerably tighter than in Sheffield, and lacking that cursed Hohner semi-acoustic, they played most of the same songs as the night before (but not necessarily in the same order). Near the end of the set, Nobby disappeared. After a short interval, the Harold Lloyd of rock emerged looking like a demented Frank Sidebottom in a duffle coat. Climbing, swinging from the rafters, mock physical violence - I guess it's not really about the music, after all. I just go to see what that man is going to do next. All hail BSP! Huzzah! As the night drew to a close, I was invited to spend the early hours in the company of total strangers and slide downstairs on a mattress, but I wimped out and returned to my hotel to try and get some sleep.

I took things a little easier in the morning and left at noon to go back to the supermarket for provisions for the journey then I headed for the M1. I'd wanted to visit Chatsworth on this trip so, when the rain came, followed by hail and a thunderstorm, I thought I was going to have to give in and make for home. In the end, I decided to continue with my original plan, against my better judgement, as there was more bad weather, an horrendous admission fee and grumpy staff waiting for me at the end of my journey from Nottingham. I took a few obligatory photos in the grounds, looked round the building with my "oh, that's nice" look on my face then got back in my car. I drove up via Stockport, the M60 and M61. I stopped off at Annandale Water to see how the ducks were getting along, and found two of them asleep in the middle of the car park. I did not bat an eyelid. Six and a half hours after leaving Derbyshire, I was in my own bed. It was like I'd never been away.

Things I learned this weekend:

-If you want Pizza Hut in Sheffield, turn right, not left.

-Some people are unaware of what the phrase "in the scud" means.

-Every bed in the world is more comfortable than mine.

-Cheap props can be put to good use.

-Wildfowl will sleep anywhere.

Happy Birthday Baldy Bob 39 today (12/5/06)

The latest Ned (tr: Chav) fashion accessory is the very public birthday greeting. It appears that life is not complete unless friends and relatives deface a bedsheet or a large piece of cardboard and hang it from a bridge over a motorway or tie it to a fence at a set of traffic lights.Whatever next?

(Apologies for the formatting. I can't get rid of it.)

Fings ain't wot they used t'be (27/4/06)

Greenock has a bad reputation. It's not so much a one-horse town, as a no-horse town. If you tether your steed to a lamp-post, you're likely to come back and find that its shoes have been stolen, its hair has been cut off and there's someone waiting to fight you for what's left of it. Greenock Town Hall, a late-Victorian building famous for its 250-feet high tower, is only a couple of miles from where some of my lot landed at the end of the 1850s. They liked it so much that they decided to go back to a life of poverty in Ireland for a few years, then try their luck further up the Clyde. I'd not been in the building for about 20 years, and I'd never been in the hall, proper. The bar had been set up in a room I recognised from a past life and, thankfully, the noise and general confusion prevented me from seeing any ghosts of people long dead and much missed.

I'd not seen Morrissey on a stage for a similar length of time, back in the days when not just he, but everyone was thinner, lighter on their feet and had fewer grey hairs. Of course, tickets cost a lot less back then, too, and you almost always got value for money. About 10 minutes before he and his band of merry men emerged, I heard a song I'd not heard for an even longer time, one I used to play from my mother's collection; Max Bygraves' version of Lionel Bart's "Fings ain't wot they used t'be". I sang along to it, and wondered how many others in the audience not only knew all the words, but felt that it was highly appropriate, under the circumstances. I also wondered how many of the skinheads, fat-heads, no-necks and general ne'er-do-wells in the crowd felt that The Smiths spoke to them back in the day.

The lights went out, the crowd sang "Morrissey, Morrissey, Morrissey" more passionately than Greenock Morton supporters would shout for the team at Cappielow, and on he came, shaking hands with people at the front and trying hard to be a jolly fellow. I'd not been able to get "The First Of The Gang To Die" out of my head for days, so it was great to hear that as the opener. Then came "Still Ill". The crowd went wild, and he asked how the audience could still be pleased to hear such songs. Don't be silly! Off came his jacket.

I've never been a fan of his solo material, so many of the songs meant nothing, but I recognised some from the last album and the current one. Put it this way, he didn't do "Every Day Is Like Sunday". He did "Girlfriend in A Coma", not one of my favourites, but I sang along, anyway. He changed his shirt from a rather tight brown one, which matched those of his band, to a black one with a more flattering fit, to match mine, I hope. There was an obvious lull in the set around the 40-minute mark, with a few dull and boring slower songs, then the pace picked up, before a blistering version of "How Soon Is Now". Off came the shirt, off went the band. A measly one-song encore ("Irish Blood, English Heart") followed, with Moz in a canary-yellow number, then he flew away, around an hour and 20 minutes after he started.

Was it worth 32 quid? No, of course not, but it WAS Morrissey, and I justified it by telling myself I'd not seen him before, and I'd never see him again. A few drunks at the back grumbled on their way out of the hall, deflated, perhaps, by the sudden ending but, all in all, he stole their hearts away.

Oh my God, they're all werewolves (25/4/06)

Dr. Who. At last, a reason to turn on the TV on a Saturday evening.

Questions:

1. How could Queen Victoria pass the "Royal Disease" on to her children, so that the disease could be passed on to further generations? Did she go around biting all of them?

2. Did I miss something, or was there no explanation for the Doctor's transformation into a Scotsman? Is that what DT meant when he said there was a surprise in this series?

3. Again, did I miss something? I thought that Torchwood was (at one point, anyway) on the Doctor's side (in the first episode that the Slitheen appeared in).

Still, it was hilarious. I WAS amused.

Asda vs Morrisons (22/4/06)

When Morrisons took over Safeway, I was gutted. Safeway in Anniesland was the best supermarket within miles of my house, and had almost everything I wanted. Morrisons came in and stocked up with a lot of low-quality produce (meat, fruit, veg, cheese. etc.), so I was forced to go to my local Asda, a shop I have avoided for years. This arrangement suited me for a while, as I had become lazy and didn't want to stray too far from home but, one night on the way home from work, I stopped at the Partick branch of Morrisons, which had just completed its transformation from an old Safeway. I detected a change for the better, not just in quality, but in price. The two-for-one offers are very tempting and, importantly, the pies are good! Asda, by comparison, is no longer good value for money, their produce is far from fresh (or, in the case of the apples and some of the cooked meats, far from edible) and they always seem to have empty shelves. In my opinion, Morrisons is in the lead in terms of local stores. I have never found Tesco to be to my taste (though that may just be the Maryhill branch) and Sainsbury is too far away for a quick trip to the shops.

This is what supermarkets rely on, a captive clientele. They can sell any old rubbish because they know that most people in an area like mine don't have the time, money or transport to go elsewhere. The remaining corner shops sell even lower-quality goods at ludicrously high prices (though one still sells Penguins at a price that equates to over 20p cheaper for one biscuit than my work's canteen!). I have been toying with the idea of shopping in the West End, even visiting the farmer's market, though I fear I may become accustomed to fare that I may not always be able to afford.

What's wrong with the world today? (19/4/06)

Almost exactly a week ago, I emerged, blinking, into a bright London morning, and a railways station concourse buzzing with equally bleary-eyed tourists and that day's competitors in the heats of the rat race. I was met by a man in a Michelle Of The Resistance raincoat who, rather than tell me to "leesen very carefully, I shall say zees only wance", thrust a packet of crisps into my hand. A few paces on, a compatriot, in similar garb, but sporting what I later realised was a fake Zapata moustache, did likewise. I stuffed the contraband into my pockets and continued on my merry way.

Now, I don't fancy chicken balti at the best of times, and certainly not in potato crisp form, so what was I to do? Every available square centimetre of rucksack and pocket space would be required for my accoutrements, so it was imperative that I offload the superfluous comestibles, but could I find a citizen in need of sustenance, a fellow human down on his or her luck? Could I billy-o! Where can you find a good tramp when you need one (apart from Sutton Walk, near the South Bank Centre, but I didn't have the crisps with me at that time)? I trudged around Londinium for nearly two days before I got rid of them.

I was left wondering if Ken had hidden all the tramps, possibly in shelters paid for by profits from the Congestion Charge. I also wondered what Ralph McTell would write about, if he were alive and well. "Have you seen the Big Issue Sellers, out on the streets of London, wearing designer trainers and Berghaus anoraks...". What's that you say? Ralph IS alive and well and coming to a folk club or theatre near you? Never!

LISTENING TO: Rob Cowan on Radio 3.

Who are these people???????? (17/3/06)

Do I know you?

Have we met?

Have I seen your band?

Have I bought your records?

If the answer to any, or all, of these is no, why the hell do you want to be my "friend"? Do you get extra money from your record company, or do you base your chances of getting a deal, on the number of "friends" you have on MySpace?

Do I look like someone who likes hip-hop??? (or death metal or AOR?)

Go away and leave me alone.

Listening to: Last week's "Mint".

Sausage and Mash (4/3/06)

I found a Marks and Spencer food outlet in Bothwell Street today, and was compelled to buy something. Due to my having to go out early, I thought that sausage and mash would be a good idea, a quick, but filling dinner. I was somewhat dismayed to discover that the mash was not as fluffy or creamy as it used to be, and the sausages were not as nice. What has gone wrong with M&S? I do hope the Four Cheese And Red Onion crisps have not suffered a similar fate.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO: The wireless.

What's next? (22/2/06)

OK, I've got a nice page, a great tune, 12 photos (some of which, mercifully, aren't of me), a few friends (real or imaginary) and I've nearly finished with the content. Is that it? Do I have to find something more productive to do with my time, like knit mittens for kittens or discover a cure for James Blunt? Stuff that, I'm off down the park to bag me a squirrel.

Currently listening to: Marc Riley sitting in for Vic McGlynn on BBC 6Music. She's got her own MySpace page, y'know.

Make Stupidity History (15/1/06)

Here we are in the 21st century. Towards the end of the 20th century, rapid advances in technology allowed us to experience a world of instant communication, and the amount of gadgetry we amass in order to make our lives more convenient and more entertaining would shock the great inventors from bygone ages. Sadly, this over-reliance on electronics has rendered many members of the human race unable to do the simplest things, like read and write. I freely admit to having a slight reading problem, but I can still comprehend the basics.

What is it about people who can't follow elementary instructions, whether represented graphically or in short, succinct phrases? No smoking means just that. You're not meant to drive on the wrong side of the road, and that's what those white dashes signify. You're only supposed to park in one parking bay at a time, and so on.

Come on, chaps. Make a stand against this drop in standards, unless you're not imbeciles and are simply ill-mannered!

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO: Mark Radcliffe's show from Wednesday (featuring Julian Cope).

Oh, purleeeeeeeeese! (12/1/06)

I've just had an e-mail from Ticketmaster, with the subject line "Don't miss James Blunt". Believe me, I don't want to miss James Blunt but, sadly, I'm not a good shot.

Typical. My first ever blog, in the whole world, ever, and it has to be about this!