This is the End

Having only recently entered the Blogging fraternity (what can I say? I'm a late starter), this particular entry marks the end of the February Blog Olympics, whereby the Athletes(?) are required to Blog every day throught the month of February. What you mean you 've never heard of it? Sure, there are only 2 contestants, Masher and my good self, but, Man, What a contest! Blood, Sweat and Tears - none of these apply, well not to me at least. It has however been quite enjoyable watching the quality control dip even further than usual and being "up against the clock" as it were. Going forward, I'm not sure what the output rate will be from yours truly and maybe it is the end, but, I would like to think that, as Richard and Karen put it, "We've only just begun".

I don't give a Sh*t

Finally, the "Greens" have found something more inherently evil than driving a Devil's Chariot (a 4x4 to you and I) around town and you are ALL guilty of this crime. Forget about beating the humble, Gas Guzzling, automobile driver about the head with a lead pipe and project your hatred inwardly. Your predilection for Soft Toilet paper is more environmentally damaging than your daily battle with the speed bumps in your "Chelsea Tractor". Given, that this article only refers to the American Booty, but, surely, it can only be a matter of time before the English Rump receives a good caning.

As for me, I will be using nothing, but, leftover copies of the "Metro" newspaper, when it is "Time to make Toilet". Right, I'm off to make some totally unnecessary journeys in my 4x4......

The Task at Hand

Returning home, later than usual, after my open mic night gig, the reason for this lateness became rather obvious - Mr. M was not there? You see, we tend to take for granted the things that certain friends always do and only when they are not present do we realise what they "bring to the table", as it were. At the end of evening, we said our goodbyes to our gracious host, Kendall, and walked outside to go home. Now, normally at this point, there would be a taxi waiting to whisk us off into the cold night air, bound for Home Sweet 'H', but, after standing outside for 20 mins, shooting the breeze, we all looked at each other and said "You know, we really should get a Taxi". None of us had number for a local firm and why should we? That is Mr.M's job! So, who rose to the challenge, who was the best man for the job, who was to be hailed as our Saviour? Why Miss F, of course! The fact that Miss F is actually Mr. M's wife is a point not entirely lost on the author.

Smile Please, Miss Leibovitz

Credit crunch getting to you? Threat of Redundancy looming? Take comfort in the news that Uber Photographer, Annie Leibovitz has pawned the copyright to her entire canon of work, so that she can raise $16 million to pay of her debts. $16 million! Not a figure to be sniffed at (Cocaine is so '80's?) and one that you will definitely not find stuffed down the back of the sofa (or Settee, for our older viewers). As if that isn't bad enough, the interest rates on these Art - as collateral, loans range from 6% to 16%. It may be a while before the "F's" stop in Casa Leibovitz.

"Start every day with a smile and get it over with" ~W.C. Fields

Dude looks like a Lady

Whoa, stop the press! In a Karma-like reversal of "Life of Brian" and, in particular, the "Are there any Women here today?" scene, check out Mr Cleese's Daughter. I think this requires some serious investigation into the absence/presence of an Adam's Apple? I am also reminded of the "Flight of the Conchords" and their hilarious "Ladies of the World" track;

J: Hermaphrodite
B: Lady-man-ladies
J: Oh you sexy hermaphrodite lady-man-ladies
"With your sexy lady bits
And your sexy man bits too
Even you must be in to you ooo ooo"

I feel a Top Ten " Chicks who look like Dudes" list coming on.

Martin

With the sound of Gulls in our ears, the early afternoon light was gently diffused by the huge stained glass windows. Stood side by side, we said our goodbyes to "The Big Fella". Martin passed away on the last day of January and, today, Family, Friends and Colleagues, headed towards the Sea to say Au Revoir. Afterwards, stories, both tall and small, were told in his honour. We laughed, raised glasses to his memory and watched the ships, rather poignantly, leaving the harbour. In fact, there was only one thing missing - Martin.

Sail on, Big Fella. x

"Dust, Wind, Dude"

Put out an A.P.B. on Patrick Duffy. They have found Atlantis. Yes, the mythical, Utopian paradise, championed by ol' Plato, has been discovered, not by Jacques Cousteau's offspring, but, by Google Ocean, the new Google in town - Google Earth is so last season! Yes, an underwater grid like, network has been discovered on the bottom of the Atlantic, near the Canary Islands. Atlantis trainspotters, sorry, Experts have confirmed that this is one of the possible resting places for the "City that done sank". However, the best observation came from Bernie Bamford, 38, of Chester, who compared it to a plan of that magnificent example of civil engineering "Milton Keynes". "Milton Keynes?" The most talked about lost city of all time and this dufus compares it to soddin' Milton Keynes! When Plato was describing the beauty and wonder of Poseidon's domain, I don't,for one second, believe that he saw a little kid sitting in the back of a chariot, holding a red balloon, and uttering that immortal phrase " Oh no, not another F*ckin' Roundabout"

The Kids are Alright

Take a look at this picture. Where's the Health and Safety aspect here? The Adult to Child ratio is non existent! How dare they have such unsupervised fun.

My son is a member of a Beaver Scouts troop and, during a recent visit to the UK Scout Association's National Headquarters in Gilwell Park, I struck up a conversation with one of the Scout leaders regarding Health and Safety. Now, this young man has been lighting camp fires since the age of 8 and he is now the ripe old age of 19, but, recently he had to attend a Health and Safety course on - yes, you guessed it - Lighting Campfires. There is a place for Health and Safety within every organisation, but, sometimes it just goes too far and sucks the lifeblood out of everything within range.

I watched these kids having fun, the old fashioned way, with not a DS or X-Box in site. They were perfectly well behaved throughout the magic show laid on for them and had all made their own Harry Potter -style, Hats and Wands to wear and wave at the banquet dinner that evening. When I say Banquet, I mean a few tables pushed together, some paintings on the wall and lots and lots of imagination. I came away that evening realising that Kids just want to be Kids and all that they really need is the opportunity to do so - namely, in the middle of a forest, miles away from a TV screen.

Sign of the Times

I was born and raised on a Council estate, sorry, Social Housing development (Arse!). I did not excel at school and neither did I attend a University or College. I do, however, have a great respect for Academia. "Knowledge is Power" said Sir Francis Bacon (I am positive that you cannot get to Kevin Bacon from him in 7 steps) and this is something that has always stuck in my head and, is probably, the main reason for my utter hatred of "Dumbing Down". That constant need to dilute everything until it is almost transparent, until it bears no resemblance to it's original form. Whether it is the Tabloids or Hollywood (Dumbing up?), it just sucks the very essence out of it's subject matter. I am no "Straight A"student, but, I do, in the words of that other famous English philosopher, Jarvis Cocker, have "a thirst for Knowledge". So, it was with a deep sigh of resignation that I read the following headline in Wednesday's Times; "Violent end for the celebrity chimp who savaged handler in drug-fuelled rampage" WTF? I realise that it is no longer a Broadsheet in size, but, did they carry out the same reduction in the hack's brain capacity? Maybe, they did it for a bet or the guest editor was from Viz magazine? If this is the future of serious Journalism, then, we are, to put it in Council Estate parlance - "Fucked".

Alfie

Alfie by Name, Alfie by Nature. I love this picture of my old drinking buddy, Alfie. It's almost as if he is looking right into the camera and, for that split second, with a knowing smile, saying
"Are you ready me, World?"

Alfie was always a very dapper fellow and, still to this day, is the only bloke I know who wore a pink bow tie and got away with it. Well, that's not strictly true, as there was some smashing of glass, followed by a scene straight out the of a wild west saloon, but, that's another story.

Alfie's hobby is Women. Always has been and, probably, always will be. If I didn't already know that the Alfie novel by Bill Naughton had been written in the '60's, I would have sworn that Alfie was the inspiration for it. I guess that we all know someone like Alfie.

Tomorrow, Alfie is off to Brazil for the Carnival. Sun, Sea, Birds and Booze!
In the immortal words of Jimmy Cooper in Quadrophenia; "Get in there, my Son"

Let's Groove

The open mic night that I have recently started performing at, has, as previously mentioned, a very diverse range of acts. The audience consists of people from every walk of life and would keep several marketing firms in business for a few years, should they wish to undertake some market research. One particular lady is always accompanied by her wheeled shopping bag/trolley. Not that strange, I guess, apart from the fact that she has to cart the blessed thing up a fairly substantial flight of stairs to get to the room where the event is held. She must, truly LOVE the music!

My favourite character, it has to be said, is Nigel. Our Nige' is a proper Rock 'n' Roll casualty, who looks like a cross between Ned Flanders and Beavis and Butthead's Hippy Teacher, David Van Driessen. I am not one to judge a tome by it's cover, but, my guess is that Nige' and Drugs had a little meeting of the minds somewhere along the cosmic highway and part of his mind is still on the roadside, trying to thumb a lift back to the Nigel Neuron Central. He has, what can only be described as, a permanent Bogle-Bogle, groove going on. This groove state is kind of like the piss poor special effect that they would use in bad (all?) '70's TV shows, to signify a flashback - you know, the one where the character starts to sway, palm-like, from side to side, followed by some rather crappy zig-zig lines across the screen. During conversation with him, the word "Man" was trotted out, almost mantra-like. He is, as they say, from the old world. I am immediately reminded of James Earl Jones delivering his "You're from the '60's, are'nt you?" line in "Field of Dreams". If he is not on the stage, as part of the jam session, blasting out his blues-rock lead lines, he is to be found smack bang in front of the stage, grooving his ass off and trying to entice anyone within reach to join him. In fact, the only thing missing from this scene is a load of naked chicks and a bonfire! All things considered, I have to admit to having a sneaking admiration for the Man, "Man".

As the wise sage Nige', himself, put it "I can't really remember what happens most of the time, but, I remember the Music, Man" Amen to that , Brother Nigel.

Postscript: I almost forgot about the best record review, ever. It was in Smash Hits Magazine (the pre Take-That, numb-nut version, complete with "Zitty Ben" comic strip) and the 45 in question was Earth, Wind and Fire's, 1981 track "Lets Groove"
The review? "Let's Not"

Slam and Dunk, indeed!

10 Songs that make you want to play the Drums

In no particular order, 10 songs that make you grasp a pair of imaginary drumsticks and give it some Ringo......

1: ELT ~ Wilco.
A full on, four to the floor. slice of Power Pop.

2: Tomorrow Never Knows ~ The Beatles.
Sampled by the world, his wife and the Pope, probably.

3: Teenage Wasteland ~ The Who.
2 for the price of 1. A Rock belter with a Hoe -Down to finish.

4: She Sells Sanctuary/Times like these ~ The Cult/Foo Fighters.
Basically the same song, but, Grohl is let off the hook because it's impossible not to love the man.

5: Dreamin' ~ Blondie.
Apart from being one of the hardest hitting drummers ever, Clem Burke was/is also as cool as Fuck.

6:Beginning to Get to Me ~ Snow Patrol.
Say what you want about Lightbody and the boys, but, this track just makes me want to destroy anything with the name Remo on it.

7: Here comes your Man ~ Pixies.
A '50's - esque, bop along dressed up in a Alt. Rock skin

8: Ring your Bell ~ The Band.
If you have lost your Groove - Enquire within.

9: Don't lie to Me ~ Big Star.
If this doesn't get you flailing about, then buy a wooden box - because you're already dead.

10: DrumBattle ~ Buddy Rich and Animal from The Muppets.
Not a song per se, but, a great piece of '70's TV all the same. "When I play a Theatre, I PLAY the Theatre".

Arthur Dentistry

My eldest son, Finn, is a biter. It doesn't matter what it is, he will have a gnaw at it. Fingernails, Pens, Books and many, many, many articles of clothing have all met their untimely end at the hands (?) of his molars. The last item on this list , clothing, gives Mrs T the greatest cause for concern. What starts the day as a fresh out of the cellophane packaging, school uniform attire, V-neck sweater, more often than not, ends up resembling something that Albert Steptoe would have cheerfully paraded up and down Oil Drum Lane in. She has tried everything to stop the "Attack of the Incisors", but, to no avail. I'm sure that Freud (Sigmund, not shameless "Minced Morsels" advocate, Clement) would blame it on my unhealthy affection for Reggie Perrin's alter ego, Donald Potts. It's obviously just a nervous thing, that we guess (hope, Pray....) will pass in time.

The latest attempt to "Tame the beast" took the form of the removal of a certain number of Finn's privileges, namely the writing of his daily Football Blog. So, with the Sweater stock reduced to one singular non-savaged, item, the warning was put in to place on Friday morning. When Mrs T collected Finn from school that afternoon, he ran out into the freezing temperatures proclaiming "I didn't bite it Mum". Great news, tainted, only, by one tiny fact - he was not, nor had he been, wearing the bloody jumper at all.

The Devil, as they say, is in the detail.

Here is the News, I mean Muse (Reprise)

I am, no doubt about it, in the middle of a purple patch, The songwriting is burning up with "the fever of purple prose" (© P. McAloon). 2 new songs written in less than a week - Bring it on Costello! (Elvis, that is, not Lou). The latest song, "Puzzle Girl", was inspired by a girl in the audience at last thursday's open mic night at King Eddie's. After my little slot, at the very late, but, very rock 'n' roll time of 11:30, she came up to me to say how much she enjoyed my songs. She also said that she considered herself a very harsh critic, where music was concerned, and that I had impressed her so much that she actually put her pen down and ceased trying to solve her Sudoku puzzle for the duration of my 4 songs! So, for all the Marketing folk out there, forget about the Nintendo DS's, the Wi's and the X-Box's, the key to winning over the hearts and minds of the todays fickle teenagers, is to tear them away from Sudoku.

From one "Puzzle Girl" to another;

"An endless puzzle without any solution" ~ Billy Wilder

Mould in the Marriage

Free thinkers: stand up and be counted. Are you struggling to put your finger on the reason for the decline of Marital longevity? Are you still pondering If the answer is no, then, perhaps, your lateral think tank requires some assistance. The good people at the BFI have put together a DVD of some of the educational films, dating back to 1917, that were created to explain the mysteries of Sex and Marriage to teenagers. Sex and Marriage - together?
Reminds me of that old Rock 'n' Roll joke:
Mother: "What do want to be when you grow up, Johnny?"
Johnny: "I wanna be a Rock and Roll star"
Mother: "Now, Now, Johnny, You can't be both"

In this 1932 clip, the reason for the nuclear family's demise is staggeringly obvious - Mould! Yes, mould not only teaches us how to attain our soul mate, but, also, that incest should be avoided and a "cousinly embrace" is the appropriate behaviour, should you find yourself tempted by the allure of your own bloodline.

Forget Music. If Mould be the Food of Love; Grow on....

"Go Ahead Caller, I'm Listening"

Now that I'm back on the live circuit, (okay I know I'm only one gig to the good, but, I need all the bolstering I can get) I am reminded of that regular occurrence in the live musician's calendar - The Gig Day Ritual. When I played in the covers band, this consisted of making sure that I had every lead, connector, fuse and screwdriver known to man. We always supplied the PA at our gigs, as, 9 times out of 10, the venue was a pub. You see, most publicans have very little in the way of a musical ear and are only interested in how many punters you can drag along to their sticky carpet emporiums. Oh, how we used to chortle during a sound check when said landlord would shout "Three, Four" after each of our "Testing One, Two's". I once shouted "Testing, One plus Two" and still the reply was a hearty "Three, Four". Contrary to what those THX people on every sodding DVD would have you believe, the audience is not listening.

The Solo acoustic gig is different. The PA is usually provided and the only two essential items I need to remember are; my Guitar and, Me. It's sort of like the Musician's equivalent of "Wash and Go". Goodbye set lists - Hello spontaneity! I'm heading out for another slot at the open mic tomorrow night and I have no idea what I'm going to play, and, more to the point, I don't want to know. That's not to say that I'm not nervous. I am, but, it's a " I can't wait to get up there" nervousness and, that, for me, is nothing short of a miracle. Unfortunately, for my old sparring partner, it's also the sound of someone shouting "Taxi for Mr Low Self Esteem".

Fight the Power

First, there was light. Then, there was no light, nor TV, nor Radio and no Internet - Oh, the Horror. We had a power cut this morning, 06:45 to be precise. After venturing into the cellar to check that it wasn't just a fuse, it was time to break out the torches. The boys thought it was great, running around with mini mag-lights, like a couple of Darth Vader/Luke Skywalker Mini-Me's. Kids Rock!

I was tasked with unenviable job of calling EDF Energy to report the fault. Now, normally when you call these places, you sit in a queue listening to "Muzak" versions of "Lady in Red" or "I will always love you", which, if endured for more than 15 minutes, would have Nelson Mandela strapping on his Uzi and heading for the nearest call centre. So, what a pleasant surpise I had whenI discovered that EDF's on-hold music, was a very Morcheeba - esque, rare groove. That groove did begin to grate, ever so slightly, after 45 minutes. After an hour and a half, I was ready to give the chill-out room a wide berth and head straight for the Psyche ward.

When I finally got through, the call centre patter was exactly as you'd expect - "Due to the cold weather, blah, blah, - Engineers are very busy, waffle, waffle, - no ETA yet, yawn, yawn. The lovely girl at the other end of the phone signed off with a cheery "Please wrap up warm". Even more bizarrely, she informed that the Red Cross were on hand with Heaters, should the power not be restored within 4 hours! I suddenly felt quite guilty - I am not a Senior Citizen (yet!) and, last time I checked, there was no requirement for Humanitarian aid in my little row of terraced houses. Yes, it was quite cold and, yes, my little boy is not very well and the central heating would make him feel a bit more comfortable, but, in reality, there is very little danger of any household members being Cryonics patients anytime soon. This is not a "How crap is Britain" type diatribe, but, more of an indication of how utterly reliant we have become on our creature comforts. If it were a rant on "Crap Britain" (copyright - The Sun), I would take great joy in telling you that when I called back, to inform them that loss of service was also affecting the rest of the road, their call centre had gone into meltdown!

"Britain, Britain, Britain, a bloody lovely place to live. Discovered in 1972, lost in 1974. Then found a few years later hiding under Belgium. But what makes Britain so fan dabby dozey? Why it's the great British public. Ahhh, push it, push it good, ahhh, push it, push it real good! l"

Out of Character

For those of you who may have missed it last week, the audio footage of Christian Bale's entry for the World Swearing Olympics is available here. It's not really the amount of profanity or pure vitriol directed towards the hapless Director of Photograpy that caught my interest, but, more the hilarious way that Batman's, or should that be Bateman's, accent drifts backwards and forwards across the Atlantic throughout the whole rant. Nothing is more funny than hearing an English man inform you that he is, in no uncertain terms, going to "Kick your F*ckin' Ass", especially when delivered in a cod - californian accent.

In a fitting Life imitates Art moment, Robert Downey Jr's character, Kirk Lazarus, delivers this killer line in the film Tropic Thunder;

"Man, I don't drop character 'till I done the DVD commentary"

I'll have what She's having.

Rocking the iPod this afternoon, whilst simultaneously cooking the Sunday Roast (who said Men can't multi-task?), I gave Bleu's debut album, Redhead, the full "Eleven. Exactly, One louder" treatment. My son, Finn, listened to a few tracks and then said "Is this Paul McCartney?". When I informed him who it was, quick as a flash, he replied "But, they all sound like Paul McCartney". I'll admit that I have been on something of a McCartney-esque singer/songwriter buzz for a few weeks now, but, jeez, was this true? Am I that tightly locked into that Genre? Do they all really sound the same? I hope that this phase will pass and I can get back to spinning some Iggy and the Stooges, followed by some Marvin Gaye and all washed down with a nice glass of Calexico.

I must point out that Finn does not have your average 7 year old's musical taste - for 2 weeks solid on the school run, we had to have The Band's Stage Fright album on constant rotation on the car stereo and, in particular, "Ring your Bell" followed by "Ophelia" . Now, I love Levon Helm and the boys, as much as the next man, MAN!, but, at the end of the fortnight, I was seriously considering doing a "Manuel" myself!

Perhaps my current musical mood is best explained by a comment my wife made a few years back, during a shopping expedition in New York. I had offered to help her find some shoes and when I asked her what kind of shoes it was she was looking for, she replied, pointing at her own shoes, "Exactly the same as these, but, different"

Mick's Tape

Back in my youth, the mix tape was the ultimate display of affection for someone. Whether the relationship was based on pure, lust fuelled, teenage-angst or strictly platonic, the mix tape showed that you had invested some serious time and effort on the recipients behalf. Sitting with a massive pair of Ross Headphones atop my head and two fingers poised above the play & record buttons, is probably how I spent most of my teenage years and, undoubtedly, the main reason why my back is so completely and utterly shagged now. There were, of course, rules:

1: Both Artist's and Song names must be written on the cassette inlay card

2: The tape must have a title. i.e. "Summer Mix", "60's Mix" or "_ _ _ _ _ _'s Mix" (insert name of the person you were trying to kop off with).

3:The front cover must contain your own artwork.

Rules 1 & 2 were a breeze, but, Rule 3 was always a stumbling block for me. For, although I do consider myself an Artist (in the musical sense), my work upon canvas has always been, well, rather shite. So much so, that when I was assigned the task of capturing a classmates likeness during a Secondary School Art lesson, the end result was the best portrait of Peter Shilton that the school had ever seen. Suffice to say, that the classmate did not affect the bastion of all things tonsorial, circa 1979 - the "Man Perm" nor, to the best of my knowledge, did he endorse Sondico Goalkeeper's gloves! I guess now is as good a time as ever to apologise to anyone who received one of my photo-collage, adorned mix tapes - I am truly sorry and hope that the nightmares have now stopped.

I would like to think that I am neither a Luddite or a technophobe, indeed, my unhealthy love for my iPod should serve as testament to this. Nevertheless, when compiling a CD for someone recently, I was struck by how far removed from compiling a Mix Tape the burning process actually is. Gone are the agonising choices of what song should follow the previous one or the worry that half the song will be lost when the tape runs out. Instead, we can click on random playlists or music by genre, year, smell, or size of the lead singers boots.

So which one did I choose? None of the above, I just dragged as many folders as I could fit onto a DVD and burned the little f*cker....

Beatles for Sale

No. 3 Saville Row, London, W1 is up for sale. The former headquarters of the Fab Four's Apple Corps. is to be sold off as office space by it's current owners. Originally bought by The Beatles for £500,000 it is now expected to fetch £25 million - nice! I have always hated working in offices, but, if there's any jobs going here - put me down for one.

My guess is that Lunch-times would go something like this:

Co-Worker: "What are you doing for Lunch?"

Me: "I'm just off to the roof for a quick gig"

Moments later, following a few crackles and pops of guitar leads being plugged in:

"A 1,2,3,4 - Jo-Jo was a man who thought he was a loner.............."

Taking the Biscuit

Money goes to Money, as the old saying goes. Today, Marks and Spencer were victorious in a 13 year, yes, 13 year legal battle with HM Revenue & Customs. From what I can gather the whole argument is whether their "Chocolate covered Tea Cake" is, indeed,a cake and not a chocolate covered biscuit. VAT rules are such that most food attracts a zero rate of tax and this includes Cakes and, wait for it, Dry Biscuits. Chocolate covered Biscuits, however, are considered a luxury item and attract the dreaded VAT. The case actually goes back 20 or so years, but, M&S are set to claw back £3.5 million in VAT originally paid on the Biscuits, sorry, I mean Cakes, as well as interest and legal fees and whatever else they can screw "The Man" for. I wonder if M&S will be giving a rebate to the now- amalgam encrusted poor saps who bought the sodding Bis-cakes in the first place?

So, Chocolate Biscuits = Luxury. If that's true, then I've got my childhood memories all wrong. You see, we ate nothing, but, chocolate covered biscuits in my house throughout the 1970's. I just wish that somebody would have told my Dad that we were living the good life, as I'm sure he would have told most of his employers to, and I quote (from Withnail and I), "Shove it up your arse for nothing and F*ck off while you're doing it".

Who would have thought that the humble McVitie's chocolate digestive biscuit, the epitome of working class sustenance (along with a two-sugared cup of Tea, of course) would turn out to be such a symbol of wanton decadence.

It just goes to show; You can have your Cake and make the Taxman eat it....

Movers & Shakers

During a recent night out, the cab drivers radio was blaring out the Doctor Hook classic " A little bit more". The cheesy appeal of the good Doctor seemed lost on our humble cab driver and he looked at us rather non-plussed when asked if the tune was , indeed, "floating his boat". The "Hook", as they shall be known from now on, seemed omnipresent on Top of the Pops during the 70's and were always memorable due to their one-eyed, eye patch-wearing, Maraca - shaking, member Ray Sawyer (and, yes I am aware of the duality of the phrase - one eyed member). Now , given that he did offer up some vocals, the subject of conversation then turned to Bands /Artists who had a non-musical member/sidekick.

Next up, and for your delight, - Jed. You remember him, don't you? The little mime friend of 1980's electronic pop troubadour, Howard Jones (Who said the '80's was a shite time for music?). Now, Jed was truly awful. I can only describe his dancing as that of some old, crusty hippy dancing around a campfire offering thanks to the Sun and/or the Moon or your father trying to breakdance at a wedding. I have a personal hatred of all things Mime and feel that they are, in fact, the only thing on this planet that I would never tire of kicking. This also reminds me of a story from the days of 1970's Football Hooliganism, whereby an old friend of mine used to sing "Leather, Leather, Leather - All together" as he introduced members of the opposing team's fan club to his own good Doctor - "Dr. Marten". Now, where was I?

Ah, yes. Those who do not bring a lot to the musical table. I have saved the best for last. So, without further ado;

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you - Bez".

Permanently whacked off of his gourd on disco biscuits, Bez was another fine exponent of the mighty Maraca and was to be found shakin' 'n' a struttin' his way around the stage with the Happy Mondays. The Mondays drug intake is legendary, almost a UK version of Aerosmith, although I'm not sure if Mr (Going down?) Tyler & Co. ever fed amphetamines to a flock of pigeons. At one point, Bez even held the world record for Maraca shaking, when he, along with 406 other Maraca-equipped dudes, climbed onto a stage in Manchester and shook his stuff along to the Mondays' version of "Step On". He also, bizarrely, won Celebrity Big Brother in 2005, all of which goes to prove that Mr Warhol's 15 minutes of Fame theory has always been a complete load of arse.

"I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more.” ~ Dorothy Parker

The Ice Man Cometh

I always used to be a good sleeper. When I lived in the heart of the city, no poilce siren, domestic disturbance or constant traffic drone could stir me from my blissful repose. These days, (nights?) I wake at all hours throughout the night. I no longer experience work related stressed and my kids now sleep through the night 95% of the time, so what gives? It's not so much the waking I object to, but, to the not being able to get back to sleep. My brain seems to whizz around faster than Chorlton and/or the Wheelies. The end result is that lie awake for roughly 2 hours, before I finally drop off to sleep. The problem here is that at that point I am ready to admit defeat and actually get up and go downstairs. My moment of martydom snatched from me at the last gasp (or snore in this case). All of which begs the question: "Sopor Interuptus - Why me?"

Last night, at least, I found a reason. Around 2 in the morning I was stirred from my slumber by a sound reminiscent of a scene from Ang Lee's "The Ice Storm". A loud, cracking noise was coming from outside and when I looked out of the window, I saw that all the snow on the road had turned to ice and it was cracking under the weight of the cars as they travelled over it. Now, I'll admit it would have been way cooler (get it?), when I peered out of the window, if I had seen a young Elijah Wood being electrocuted on a guard rail, but, at least I knew what had awoken me this time. So what happened next? Bingo! - I went back to my ritual of tossing and turning for another 2 hours, of course.


Here's 3 for the road (or bed, if you prefer)

When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep, and you're never really
awake. ~Chuck Palahniuk

Don't try to solve serious matters in the middle of the night. ~ Phillip K. Dick

Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep. ~Fran Lebowitz

That's Snow Business, Folks

We sometimes the forget the simple pleasures in life, getting sucked in by the consumerism monster or the Cathode Ray Tube (sorry, LCD just doesn't sound as poignant) instead. Yesterday, I sat in the Kitchen with my 2 boys, watching the first of what turned out to be a very heavy snowfall, transform the empty, winter greenery of our garden into a scene straight out of a Snowglobe. The look of wonder and excitement on their faces was absolutely priceless and one I will always remember.

At about 11:45 pm, just before I went to bed, I sat in the Kitchen again and marvelled at the simple beauty of the Snow. Although it was close to midnight, the entire garden and surrounding skyline was bathed in a cool white glow. For 10 minutes I sat, watching the snow fall and I'd like to think that the look on my face was every bit as happy as the one I had witnessed on my son's faces, earlier in the day.

I love Snow.....

The Big Fella

I awoke bolt upright at 4:30 am on Saturday morning, convinced that I had heard my youngest son, Kian, shouting out. When I checked on him, he was sleeping like the proverbial baby that he is. I could not get back to sleep, tossing and turning, until I finally got up with the boys around 7 o'clock. When I got downstairs there was text message on my mobile, informing me that my good friend, Martin, had passed away peacefully in his sleep during the early hours of Saturday morning. He had been battling with his illness for over 5 years and throughout this time he continued to be the same funny, warm and larger than life character he had always been. He never once affected the "Poor Me" expression , but, instead, carried himself with both dignity and grace and a genuine lust for life.

When I saw him last, just prior to Christmas, he looked fantastic and was still to be found mercilessly ripping the piss out of all and sundry. It was a hard day, everyone present that afternoon knew that it was probably the last time they would see him alive. As the evening drew in, he quickly became tired and it was if all his strength had disappeared in an instant. As we waited outside for his wife to collect him, I gave the Big Fella a hug and told him that I loved him and quickly made some stupid joke about him not forgetting to let me know when he was dead. He disappeared into the cold sea air of Dover and, on our return to the bar, the room had lost all of it's warmth. We all quickly went our separate ways, vowing to keep in touch. That evening, I made the long journey back to London with a very heavy heart.

I don't believe in all that beyond the grave, Derek Acorah claptrap, but, it did make me wonder why I had woken up so early that morning. As I sat at the bottom of the stairs, scrolling through the contacts on my mobile phone and sending text messages to friends and colleagues of Martin's, I came across his mobile number and almost included him on the send-to list. He was, and, still is, very much alive in my head. I will miss him greatly and there is a rather large hole in my little world today.

Rest in Peace, Big Fella x